Growing Up Dead Read online

  Growing Up Dead

  Chelsea M. Campbell

  1st edition published by Golden City Publishing, 2014

  Copyright © 2014 Chelsea M. Campbell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  Cover art by Annie Rodrigue

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Growing Up Dead

  Dedication

  Growing Up Dead

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Books by Chelsea M. Campbell

  Renegade X

  The Rise of Renegade X

  The Trials of Renegade X

  Harper Madigan: Junior High Private Eye

  Growing Up Dead

  Dedication

  To all my p-s-or-fs.

  Growing Up Dead

  Chapter One

  YOU ASK ME WHAT my biggest wish right now is, and I'd say it's a toss up between three things. One, get my mother off my back. She thinks I'm a picky eater. I tell her I'm just conscientious. She's looking at me right now, across the dinner table, with her lips pursed and her teeth clenched. It doesn't take a telepath to know what she's thinking. She's thinking we come from a long line of "proper" vampires, that she won't stand for this, and if I roll my eyes at her one more time, she's going to send me to my room, and won't I regret it when I get hungry later.

  There are four glasses of different kinds of blood on the table in front of me. If someone walked in, they'd think I was doing one of those taste tests. I'd put on a blindfold and take a drink, then say, "I can't believe it's not pig's blood!"

  I refuse to try any of them. We've been sitting here for over an hour. You'd think she'd give in. But you didn't see the look on her face when I told her I was a vegetarian. You didn't see how her nostrils twitched when she watched me eat a tomato.

  It was horrible, the worst thing I've ever tasted. Maybe I should go into acting, though, because she bought it. And it was worth it. Every nasty bite.

  You see, I'm not really a vegetarian. I just told her that after she said I couldn't play my guitar in the house anymore. How are we supposed to win the junior high Battle of the Bands this Friday if I can't practice?

  And that brings us to number two on my wish list. My band makes it big, our name in lights. Nox and the Daybreakers. I can picture it. People lining up around the building, screaming to get in. Some of them have had their tickets for months. Some of them don't have any because they're just teenagers, like me, and they're eternally broke. They're trying to sneak in. They're hoping they can buy tickets cheap off a scalper. And then there are the other kids—even more like me—who couldn't go even if they had the money, because their parents would never let them out of the suburbs alone and on a school night. That and because their parents, like mine, think all music written after the 1500s is loud and obnoxious.

  It'll happen. Even if my mom has put a serious dent in my practicing time. And when it does, I'll finally have the guts to ask Lila out. And if she says no, I'll just shrug and turn to one of the hundreds of other girls who will no doubt be part of my entourage. Even though I'll be hurting on the inside.

  My wish list doesn't go in any particular order, but you can probably guess that Lila's number three. She's a werewolf and she wears these over-sized pink movie-star glasses covered in silver sparkles with green feathers sticking off the end. She's not afraid to have people stare at her. She can wear what she wants, while I'm too chicken and will have to wait until I'm a rock star to become, as my father would put it, eccentric.

  My mother is still staring at me from across the table. "Nox," she says, "you know I'm not leaving here until you at least take a sip. You know I work hard for you. You know this meal didn't just magic itself onto the table."

  Like she didn't just buy it at the store and open the package. I'd call her on it, but then she'd say I have an attitude, and even worse than that, she'd go into a big spiel about how in the old days you had to hunt your own food. And about how much fresher it was back then. Before they started processing it and filling it with preservatives. Like Mom is above getting the low-fat kind with extra vitamins packed in. The kind that leaves much to be desired in the taste department.

  She glances over her shoulder, into the living room. We can hear the sounds of the TV and Dad laughing at his sitcoms. He laughs like one of those vampires in the movies. Like The Count on Sesame Street. Mom frowns, her hands clasped together in front of her. She'd like to be there and not here, relaxing on the couch with him, curled up with one of her fantasy novels. She likes anything where the girl ends up with the hot vampire. I'm going to have to try and find one where the vampire has a band. Then maybe she'll change her mind about music.

  Finally, Mom sighs. I can recognize the signs that mean I'm winning. "It's not right," she says. "It's unhealthy. You'll get sick."

  If she cared about my health, she wouldn't try to stop me from playing. She'd know it's in my blood, that I'd go insane without it.

  She gets up, frowning at the untouched glasses on the table. "This is a phase."

  My mom likes to think saying something out loud like that will make it true. It doesn't.

  "A phase. It's perfectly normal."

  I'm going to write a song called "Perfectly Normal," and it's going to be bittersweet and tragic, about a girl named Perfect and a boy named Normal who realize they can never be together.

  I ask Mom if she can spare two dollars so I can go to the store and buy a head of lettuce. I don't even have time to politely remind her, like she always does me, that you shouldn't roll your eyes because they might get stuck that way. That's how quickly she sends me to my room.

  ***

  It’s the next morning, and Chug the Thug is lumbering down the street. Collision is imminent.

  I'm not even halfway to school. I'm late, and even if I cared about getting there on time—which I don't—there's nowhere to hide.

  Vampires used to not be able to go out during the day. My parents don't talk about that. Just like they don't talk about how vampire children used to not have to go to school. They got to stay inside their coffins and sleep in and play video games, or whatever they had back then to keep them from gouging their eyes out in severe boredom.

  My mother always gets this look when I talk about how lucky they were in the old days. She tilts her head, with her lips pursed and her eyes all disappointed, like this whole mothering thing has been a complete failure. My father says I'm the lucky one and that I'd better not forget the conveniences modern medicine and technology have given us. I say big deal, and my mother says imagine if I actually had to make my curfew on time, and then I think I can see what she's getting at. Bursting into flames every time the sun hit me might make my life's suck-o-meter jump up another notch.

  But still. Nobody asked me if I wanted to take advantage of the modern conveniences open to vampires these days—they didn’t even give me a chance to say no; they didn’t think that, instead of going to school, maybe I’d rather spend my time at home in the dark, avoiding the outside world like the plague that it is. Nowadays, there's a shot for sunlight i
mmunization, doled out at birth. No bursting into flames, but my eyes are still a little sensitive. I'm supposed to wear sunglasses whenever I’m outside if I don't want to become “blind as a bat,” as my mom puts it. She thinks she's so funny. But having to wear sunglasses is one of the few side effects in my life that actually makes me look cooler. Not like the other side effect, which is that, in return for going outside during the day, vampires no longer have super strength.

  Trolls didn’t used to be able to go out in the daylight, either. They used to turn to stone. Unfortunately, trolls and vampires have different inner workings. Meaning Chug the Thug gets to go outside and keep his super strength. Lucky him.

  You’re thinking I’m a vampire, right? You’re thinking I could just bite him? Wrong. If you’d ever seen troll skin, you’d know what I mean, and you wouldn’t want to bite him either. Never mind how greasy and unappetizing he looks. Trolls have thick skin. My fangs would break on contact, I kid you not. That and he’d punch me with fists the size of my head before I got close enough.

  My eyes might be sensitive to sunlight, but Chug doesn’t have that problem. His eyes are beady, and he probably doesn’t even need to use them because he can smell fear and lunch money from three miles away.

  I’m thinking he didn’t see me. I’m thinking I might make it, and my heart is slowing down to a normal rate. I can feel the vibrations in the sidewalk each time Chug’s feet hit. Then they stop. I can’t help it—I look over.

  He’s sniffing the air. His nostrils twitch. I will my heart to stay steady. I’m broke today, and that only leaves fear. If I can suppress it, I’ll be okay.

  I keep walking. Nothing to smell here, just a regular vampire trying to make it to school on time. Is that Chug the Thug over there? Why, I didn’t notice. Maybe I’d stop and say hi if I wasn’t in such a hurry. Because, you know, I’m not afraid of him.

  It’s not working. I’m terrified. I’m about to lose it and start running when I hear his footsteps smash against the ground. Coming toward me.

  My father knows how to turn into a bat, but he won’t teach me. Not until I’m older, he says. Not until I’ve proven my responsibility and learned a few things. I’ve learned plenty, I can tell you that. Like how to smile at people I hate and hope they won’t kill me.

  Chug doesn’t bother with greetings. He grunts and grabs me by the front of my shirt. He sniffs me again, and I can see inside his nose. I’ll spare you the description. Let’s just say it’s not pretty, and the half a radish I forced myself to eat while Mom was watching at breakfast is about to come up. Which is all I need, to throw up right in Chug the Thug’s face.

  “You know the drill,” he says. He sounds bored. His life of petty crime must be in a rut. How sad. “Cough it up.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  He squints at me, and his eyes almost disappear completely. He sniffs again. “I’m never wrong.”

  Not good. Usually by this time, I’ve given him what he wants, he’s dropped me to the ground, and we’ve gone our separate ways. This is all Mom’s fault. She can’t just accept my decisions. She has to do crazy things in retaliation, like refuse to give me lunch money. She says if I’m not going to spend it on anything healthy, then there’s no point in giving it to me, because I’ll just waste it.

  Waste it. Like my life isn’t worth two fifty a day. I’d say it’s a bargain, except that most people don’t have to pay a fee to stay alive. They just get to for free.

  “My mom forgot to give me money today.” I say it as bitterly as I can. Maybe I’ll touch a nerve, something even Chug can relate to. He’s got a mother, after all. ‘Course, she probably doesn’t have to give him lunch money, since he can get plenty on his own.

  Great. Even Chug the Thug is more successful and self-sufficient than me.

  Chug lifts me up higher. I think he’s contemplating turning me upside down and shaking me. He doesn’t, though. Instead he jabs one greasy finger into my chest. I’m glad everyone else I know aspires to get to school on time, so they’re not around to see what a wuss I am for flinching.

  “No money,” he grunts, and I can tell by the pained look on his face that he’s thinking over exactly what that statement means. Then he glares at me, like he’s accusing me of something. “Give it to me.”

  “Give you what? I told you, I—”

  “You’ve got something valuable. Something precious.”

  He’s good.

  “You know what the penalty is for not paying.”

  No, I don’t, because I’m the only sucker at school who’s always given him what he wanted. I’m the only one whose mom never forgot to give them lunch money. “I’m afraid I don’t.” I’d argue that I’ve got a good track record, I’ve been a good client up till this point, but that would just be beyond sad. Right about now, bursting into flames sounds pretty darn good.

  “You don’t pay, I keep something important. You want it back, you give me the money.”

  Simple enough. Chug is one shrewd businessman. He’ll go far in the world, I tell you. He’s on the straight track to fame and fortune. “And if I don’t have anything valuable?” I don’t. I mean, nothing that would be valuable to him. Nothing worth anything to anybody but me.

  Chug grins, and it’s worse than looking up his nose. He’s missing some teeth, and the ones that are still there are beyond yellow, and they’ve got cracks running down them. His tongue looks like it has warts on it. Festering warts. And as for his breath, I think I can guess what he had for breakfast. Month-old fish stuffed with garlic.

  I have to find a more stable food. My half a radish does not want to stay put.

  “You hold out on me, and I might get clumsy. I might break something.” He looks me over as he says it. Like he’s considering whether he should break my knees, or just my face. “Wouldn’t want those pretty fangs to fall out, would you?”

  I shut my eyes. I will myself to turn into a bat. I think bat things. I think about eating bugs and fruit and living in a cave. I open my eyes, but nothing's changed.

  Chug grabs my backpack and lets go of me. I slip out of the straps and land hard on the cement. My palms are all scraped up with bits of gravel in them and my knees hurt. Nothing I won’t get over. In therapy, ten years from now.

  My therapist will suggest I get it all out by finally writing my memoirs that my fans have been begging for for years, and I’ll think it’s not such a bad idea. Doctor’s orders, right?

  Chug rips open one of the side pockets of my bag. And by rip, I don’t mean he unzips it. I mean he rips the material right off. He pulls out one of those key chains, the kind you can put your own picture in, only this one doesn’t have any keys attached. My heart stops. I wonder if I’ll be able to whisper my killer’s name when the paramedics arrive, just before I die.

  Chug smiles. “Very valuable,” he mutters. He’s an idiot, but he knows when he’s got something. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get their hands on it, would you?”

  And I know when I’m defeated. “No.” The universe has it in for me today. My shoulders slump, and I don’t even bother to get the gravel out of my palms, even though it stings. He’s waiting for me to play along. My death isn’t good enough for him—he wants blood, too. And I’m supposed to be the vampire. “I’ll have the money tomorrow.” I’ll have to give up my vegetarianism for a day, tell Mom I’m back on the wagon. If I can trick her and Dad into both giving me lunch money, me and Chug should be all squared up. “My mom won’t forget twice in a row.”

  Chug looks at me like I’m crazy. He dangles the key chain in front of me. It’s got pictures of Lila from last year’s yearbook. One side has Lila in wolf form, carefully cut out of the werewolf club's group photo. The other is her school picture, where she’s only half smiling and one of her eyes is more closed than the other. Her mom made her curl her hair and wear a yellow dress with puffy sleeves for picture day, and it was before she got her braces off. Someone has drawn hearts around the edge of the picture.

>   I bet it would be extremely embarrassing for that someone if a really cool girl who didn’t even know he existed discovered he’d cut out her dorky yearbook picture and drawn hearts around it. And written “Nox and Lila forever” on the back. I can just imagine how mortifying that would be. You know, for that person. Whoever he is.

  Chug stuffs the key chain in his grimy pocket. “Fifty bucks.”

  I mouth the word. Fifty. I’ve never seen fifty bucks in my life. Not all at once. And technically not mine, either. I’ve only seen it in lunch money, and that’s a transaction between my parents and Chug. I’m just the delivery guy.

  My mouth is twitching as I try and come up with something to say. I hold my hands out instead. Here’s me, on my knees on the sidewalk, speechless and holding out my hands to Chug the Thug. Who didn’t get a name like Chug the Thug because of his mercy.

  He licks his lips. “Fifty, by Friday, or I go public.” He turns to leave, not even in the direction of the school. His heavy footsteps kick up a cloud of dust in my face as he goes.

  I start coughing just as I hear the school bell go off in the distance. It’s eight o’clock, and I’m late, broke, and starving. And to top it all off, my life is over.

  Chapter Two

  VEGETARIANISM DOESN'T SUIT ME. Neither does starving to death, which is what's happening now. I can feel my body wasting away a little more with each stomach growl. It’s lunchtime—or just “time,” since I don’t have a lunch—and I’m sitting at our usual table. I'm outside, so I’m wearing my sunglasses. Except it’s hard to look cool when your stomach is gurgling at five times the accepted noise level.

  Jordan elbows me in the ribs. He’s a werewolf—like Lila—and my best friend. He’s also our bass player. I know from experience that he looks cooler in my sunglasses than me. He smiles a lot, and he never has to worry about how he’s going to spend Friday night.

  “You were late this morning.”