Dance With a Vampire by Ellen Schreiber Read Free Book Online

finished.
    Becky nodded eagerly.
    I held out my valentine—next to King I’d written “Matt Wells,” and next to Queen I’d written “Becky Miller.” A huge smile lit up my best friend’s face.

    Becky showed me her ballot. Next to King she’d written with perfect penmanship
    “Alexander Sterling.” Next to Queen it read “Raven Madison.”
    “I like the sound of it,” I announced. “But Alexander doesn’t attend our school.”
    We folded our ballots and as the treasurer walked back up the row we stuck them in a homemade aluminum-foil-covered box resembling something children make in elementary school.
    “We each got one vote,” I said proudly. “Now we just need three hundred ninety-nine more!”

    My mom was so overjoyed that I’d be attending prom, she ducked out of work early, picked me up from school in her SUV, and drove me to Jack’s department store.
    Jack’s department store was originally owned by Jack Patterson’s father and was now run by Jack, a handsome crush-worthy guy five years my senior. When I was twelve, I’d snuck into the Mansion for him so he could pass an initiation for his high school buddies. He remembered me ever since and always wore a smile for me when I visited the department store.
    Jack’s sold everything from socks to scooters, Fiestaware to Waterford crystal, and generic wallets to Prada purses.
    My mom and I entered the store, breezing past the linen department. Designer towels in every color on an artist’s palette were neatly stacked on white shelves.
    Focused on a fashion mission, my mom headed straight for the escalators.
    “Juniors are on this floor,” I instructed, pointing past Bedding.
    “We’re going to Juniors Boutique,” she said.
    I’d hardly been in the Juniors, much less Juniors Boutique. We rode the ascending escalator, peering down on shoppers perusing fine jewelry.
    We reached the second floor, walked past Designer Women’s Petites, and arrived at Juniors Boutique. Cashmere sweaters, designer blouses, and jeans were perfectly displayed.
    Anorexic mannequins flaunted size zero skirts and hundred-dollar tank tops.

    About a dozen or so girls and their mothers were picking through the rows of dresses—
    pink, purple, violet, gray, red, green, lavender, black, some with rhinestones or lace, plunging necklines or conservative ones, sleeveless or strapless, floor-length or knee-length hems.
    Each daughter was a Xerox copy of her mom. Except for our brunette hair, which my mother regularly colored, my mom and I appeared to be polar opposites.
    One by one, my mother pulled dresses off the racks until she had two armfuls. One by one, I glanced over dresses and moved to another rack, empty-handed.
    A seasoned sales manager, wearing a name tag that read MADGE and exuding the confidence of a sea captain effortlessly managing a vessel on the high seas, approached my mom.
    “Here, let me take those,” she said. This obviously wasn’t her first prom season and it wasn’t going to be her last. “I’ll start a dressing room for you.”
    We followed the woman into the dressing room already flooded with prom babes strutting their gowns like they were on a Paris catwalk.
    I disrobed, taking off my wide-bottom black jeans and Hello Batty T-shirt, and stepped into a pink satin number.
    I stared into the full-length mirror. I didn’t even recognize my own reflection.
    “Let me see!” I heard my mother say.
    Reluctantly, I opened the dressing-room door.
    “Take off those boots!” she scolded. “This isn’t a heavy metal concert.”
    As I untied my laces, Madge appeared and within moments she was back with pink rhinestone stilettos, size seven.
    I stepped before the three-way dressing-room mirror.
    I felt like a bridesmaid, but to my mother, I must have looked like the bride.

    “You are beautiful!” she gushed.
    Even Madge agreed. “You look like a model,” she declared, and waited for my reaction.

    I could see myself reflected in my mother’s