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time. I hated the idea of anyone ruining that. And I certainly wasn’t going to let some overly polite vampire anthropologist come between us.

CHAPTER FIVE
    The Great Rat Disaster
    N ext day at school, I was on my best behavior. I said not a single snarky thing to, near, or about Francis.
    My ability to say nothing mean to Francis was enhanced by not having many classes with him on Tuesdays.
    Almost all day long I stared straight ahead and kept my mouth shut and nobly resisted the urge to go hide with Anna in the library.
    Cathy looked so happy we were all getting along. Her eyes were like huge dark shining pools—a calm ocean at night.
    Frankly, they made me feel a bit seasick.
    Francis was still there by Cathy’s side at lunchtime and still asking us an insane catalog of questions about the range of our smelling abilities, if we remembered bonding with our mothers, and what were the first stories we had learned. So many questions begging for brilliant retorts. It was painful to stay quiet. Ty even squeezed my hand to show that he could see I was trying hard. I mean, Ty. I love him, but he’s not the most observant guy in the universe.
    The whole thing put me off my lunch. I grabbed an apple and shoved it into my bag for later, when I would inevitably be too hungry to think.
    When we were walking down the stairs toward the first floor, Francis asked me about my allergies, and I thought of so many snappy retorts that I began to feel as if he was torturing me on purpose, but I said firmly, “That’s an awfully personal question, Francis, and I don’t feel comfortable answering it.”
    â€œVery amusing, Melanie,” Francis said, which is not my name, though people always assume that Mel is short for Melanie.
    I will not tell you my full name, but I will tell you that my brother is called Lancelot.
    It’s so unfair that firstborn Kristin got a normal name and then our parents went all experimental on their two youngest children. We were too little and helpless to resist such atrocities. Thus as far as the rest of the world (except for Cathy) knows, my name is simply Mel.
    â€œA true lady would never dream of discussing her health in mixed company,” I told him.
    â€œIs everything humorous to you?” Francis inquired with some asperity.
    That would be Francis-speak for “snippy.”
    â€œNot everything,” I said. “But it’s really the only way to deal with you.”
    Francis’s lip curled. “I deal with you, as you put it, by remaining courteous despite your ill-judged attempts at humor.”
    â€œEveryone else laughs at my jokes,” I said. “Oh sorry, I forgot. You can’t do that, can you?”
    Cathy’s breath hissed in, sharp as if she’d seen someone hurt. Ty took a step away to avoid being contaminated by me. Those were the only sounds in a dead silence.
    I knew I was completely out of line. You can’t say that to a vampire. It’s like mocking kids with glasses for not having twenty-twenty vision.
    Sure, vampires live forever. Yes, they’re (mostly) beautiful, and since they can collect blood at the hospital they don’t have to hurt anyone. But as I may have noted once or twice previously, there are drawbacks—did I mention no chocolate?—and the worst is that they don’t feel things like we do. They don’t cry and they don’t laugh.
    One of the few vampires who let herself be interviewed on the subject described transitioning as being reborn into a shadow world, where nothing is quite as real or could really affect her. She seemed to think that was a good thing. (See? What kind of person would want to be a vampire?)
    I realize that pointing out Francis’s inability to laugh makes me sound like a member of a vampire hate group. I swear I don’t think it’s because vampires have no souls. I believe in the scientific explanation: that it’s an evolutionary protection