A Taste for Red Read online

  A Taste for Red

  Lewis Harris

  * * *

  Clarion Books

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Boston New York

  2009

  Many thanks to my awesome agent, Erin Murphy, my excellent editor,

  Jennifer Wingertzahn, and all the folks at Clarion Books who have

  made Svetlana Grimm come to life. And to Lisa Gordon, without

  whose support and encouragement none of it would be possible.

  Clarion Books

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10003

  Copyright © 2009 by Lewis Harris

  The text was set in 12-point Bembo.

  All rights reserved.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,

  write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10003.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.clarionbooks.com

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Harris, Lewis, 1964—

  A taste for red / by Lewis Harris.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When some of her classmates disappear, sixth-grader Svetlana, along with

  her new friends, goes in search of the missing students using her newfound ability as an

  Olfactive, one who has heightened smell, hearing, and the ability to detect vampires.

  ISBN 978-0-547-14462-7

  [1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. Missing children—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H24217Tas 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008025318

  QUM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  For Albert Lewis Harris Sr. and Mary Ann Carrico

  One

  Being a vampire is a solitary business—or had been, until now. For months I lived in seclusion behind the walls of Grimm Manor. I secretly watched the world from the shadows of Morgloom Woods. I spied on unsuspecting neighbors, studied the comings and goings of innocent children at play up and down the tree-lined sidewalks of Cherry Street. Unseen and protected within the walls of my hidden lair high atop the Oak of Doom, I saw it all. I knew every inch of the family grounds, every twisted tree and blade of grass. I knew where my dog, Razor, had buried every bone. Unfortunately, I was unable to remain hidden forever. I was compelled to leave my secret world and venture into the unknown. On orders from my parents, and against my deepest wishes, I was forced to attend sixth grade at Sunny Hill Middle School.

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  Mr. Dumloch, horrible and fat, stood at the front of the classroom and whacked his ruler against the top of his desk. It was my first morning. The mob of kids ceased shouting, brought their annoying laughter to an abrupt halt, and turned a roomful of curious eyes to stare. How ridiculous they looked. I stood alongside the cologne-soaked teacher and tried my best not to breathe. What did he do, bathe in the stuff?

  "All right, everyone, be quiet," Dumloch began, grumbling, his drooping jowls quivering like Jell-O. His cheap scent made me dizzy. "We have a new student joining us today. This is Stephanie—"

  "Svetlana," I corrected, cringing. I despised the name Stephanie! How could my parents have been so cruel?

  "What's that?" Dumloch peered down at me through round spectacles; his wiry eyebrows clutched like kissing caterpillars.

  "Sss-vet-LAH-nah," I repeated, looking up at the poor man's silly face. "It's Romanian."

  "Oh, you're Romanian?" he asked, feigning interest. He pasted a cardboard smile across his chubby face. His teeth were stained an awful yellow and in desperate need of a cleaning ASAP—as soon as possible.

  Call the dentist, Dumloch, I thought, smiling my own false smile as I sent him the thought. I said, "I'm from Texas, actually." His smile waned. Could this sad specimen of an instructor possibly teach me anything? I doubted it; I was certain the man didn't even floss.

  "Well, anyway." He cleared his throat. "Let's everybody welcome ... Svetlana Grimm."

  "Welcome, Svetlana!" the kids sang in unison.

  Ugh. It was the opposite of music to my ears.

  I followed Dumloch's pointing finger to the only empty seat in the classroom—as if I couldn't have figured that one out for myself. I passed through the whispers and stares and slid my stack of newly issued textbooks beneath the desk, all but world history, which I needed for this, the first class of what was certain to be a very, very long day.

  The girl seated at the desk in front of me turned and told me her name was Sandy Cross. "I've seen you," she said. "You live on Cherry Street next to the Bone Lady."

  What! How did this mischievous minx know me? The Bone Lady? She must have meant Lenora Bones, the skeletal old woman who had recently moved into the brick house next door. I'd read the name on the mailbox in front of the house during one of my clandestine explorations of the neighborhood. I wrinkled my nose at the annoying girl's bubblegum breath. Did she chew gum for breakfast? And what was with her crazy hair? It looked as if someone had replaced her real hair with a wig of blond yarn and then jammed her fingers into an electrical outlet. I could hardly see beyond the mass of frizz to Dumpy Dumloch sitting before the classroom, following his finger as he read down the roll.

  Sandy Cross went on, "You live in the house with the mean dog and your dad drives a green car, am I right? The big house with the tall fence, right? My dad hates that fence. He wants to know why your dad painted it black."

  Who was this girl? Had she been spying on me? And what did she mean by "mean dog"? My lovable Razor was a perfect dog, a pure angel—unless you messed with me, of course, and then you were dog food. "How do you know all this?" I asked, trying not to reveal my displeasure.

  "I live in the corner house—the one with the trampoline. I'm sure you've seen it."

  Of course! One of the trampoline kids! Now I recognized that big bush of yellow hair. I'd seen Little Miss Bubblegum plenty of times, bouncing like a lunatic in her front yard.

  "Why don't you ever come outside?" Sandy Cross asked. She threw a thumb to her left and said, "This is Dwight Foote. He lives two streets over on Mango Court."

  The kid next to her, I'm not kidding, had a head as big as a basketball. He wore moonpie-thick glasses that magnified his eyeballs into giant blinking blueberries.

  "Yeah, I've seen you, too," he chimed in. "You're always up in that tree house."

  The Oak of Doom! Did everyone in this crummy school know my business?

  "You're the girl with the binoculars."

  This last remark came from the boy seated behind me, an Asian kid with a mouthful of braces.

  I was surrounded by hostiles!

  "I'm a bird watcher," I explained.

  "Yeah? Me, too," Dwight Foote said excitedly, his blueberry eyes widening. "Me and my dad keep an alphabetical and numerical record of all the types of birds that visit the feeders in our yard. Do you have any bird feeders? We have two in the front yard and one in the back. We mostly get bluejays in the—"

  "Can it, Foote," Sandy ordered. "This girl isn't a bird watcher, she's a spy."

  A spy! What a vile accusation! True, but extremely rude. I could, however, easily handle the situation. I said, "It's a scientific fact that bird feeders upset a bird's natural ability to fend for itself in the wild. I choose to enjoy birds in an undisturbed habitat, especially the playful games of the red-breasted robin. I also appreciate the majestic cardinal, whose—"

  "Uh-huh," Sandy interrupted. "Sure you do ... spy."

  "Why haven't you come to school before now?" the Asian kid asked. He raised his hand and answered "Here" after Dumlo
ch called the name Fumio Chen.

  "I'm home-schooled," I answered. "Or I was home-schooled. My mom started a new job today." As a substitute teacher—of all things! Now she'd be teaching mobs of strange kids just like Dumpy Dumloch did. How could that be more rewarding than teaching brilliant me?

  "You'll like it here," Fumio predicted.

  "Sunny Hill is an awesome school," Foote promised.

  But despite assurances, the day began poorly. Not only did Dumloch smell like a puddle of cheap perfume, he was also a terrible teacher. History class was boring. My mom could teach circles around Mr. Dumloch. All he did was read from the book—blah, blah, blah. Very lame. He didn't incorporate any funny voices or act out any stories or make any portion of the class the least bit interesting. How was I going to remain awake in his classroom day after day? It was total torture. After history came math—predictably awful, definitely not the subject where my fancy takes flight. I think the teacher had a glass eye, though, so that was somewhat cool. Then gym class, which was gross—I'm never happy in shorts.

  Never.

  After that, it was time to head to the cafeteria for lunch. Since I eat only red foods, I'd brought my lunch along with me. In vampire movies, Hollywood hacks perpetuate the myth that a vampire must drink blood in order to survive, which is simply not true. Think about it: How can anyone live by drinking blood? That might work for a mosquito, but it's not fit food for an advanced specimen lording over the top of the food chain, is it? I'm a vampire, not a tick. The truth is, real vampires can eat any food—so long as it's red. For lunch I had packed a box of cranberry juice, sliced strawberries, a ham sandwich (white foods are neutral, so removing the crust from white bread makes it perfectly edible), and a wedge of red velvet cake.

  As I feasted, Dwight Foote plopped down on the bench across the table from me. He had a plate full of spaghetti—which would've been fine for me to eat if I'd picked the green peppers from the sauce.

  "What classes do you have after lunch, Svetlana?" he asked, cramming a mouthful of pasta into his big head, sucking up a wayward strand of noodle, and throwing tomato sauce onto his thick eyeglasses. He swiped the cuff of his shirtsleeve across the lens.

  Charming.

  "English and then science," I said.

  "Cool. I've got Ms. Larch for last-period science, too. She just started teaching here after Mr. Boyd went on the lam."

  "On the lam?" What was this kid talking about?

  "Blew town," he said. "Vanished. Mr. Boyd's class was a cakewalk, but Ms. Larch is a royal pain." He shook his big head, frowning. "Her science class is hard—I'm talking Jeopardy hard." His giant eyes swam like blue fish behind his glasses. Blink. Blink. "But after lunch, I go to gym—which I'm excellent at. I might be the fastest guy in the whole school. Right now my ankles are pretty swollen, though. Too many squat thrusts, I think. Soon as they heal up, I'll probably go out for track or football or basketball or wrestling or golf." A meatball dropped off his fork and fell into his lap.

  Oh, brother. Who was this guy kidding? I tried to probe his mind, but there was nothing there. A vampire has extrasensory perception—ESP, you know? I can sometimes read a person's thoughts or even control the physical body if the victim's brain is sufficiently developed. Apparently, Foote's lame brain was too small for my vampire powers to find purchase.

  From the other side of the cafeteria, the poofy-haired blond, Sandy Cross, approached with two giggling friends in tow. "How's your first day of school going, Stephanie?" she asked sweetly. Her lips curled into a sugary smile that I wanted to wipe off her dimpled face.

  Stephanie! How dare she call me by that horrid name! If I were a bloodsucker, she'd be the first one drained. But I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me ruffled. I wouldn't allow myself to be irritated by her intentional use of that oh-so-boring name. I smiled, thinking that Stephanie was nearly as bland as the name "Sandy"—if that was possible.

  "The name is Svetlana," I corrected.

  "Oh, that's right." She was all dimples, teeth, and hair. She wore a hideous pink belt and a too tacky seashell necklace. She had rhinestones fastened to the pockets of her jeans.

  I'm not kidding.

  Her two friends were obviously sisters and equally fashion challenged—cloned Barbie doll-types wearing identical pink belts and the same dopey seashell necklaces. One was as thin as the spaghetti disappearing off Foote's plate, and the other was even skinnier than that. They clung to either side of Sandy Cross like parentheses.

  "This is Marsha and Madison," Sandy said.

  Of course they were.

  The thinner one, Madison, said, "You shouldn't wear all black. It makes your skin look washed out." Fashion criticism from one-half of the number 11—perfect. I looked down at my favorite black T-shirt, black pants, and black shoes. My fingernails were painted midnight black to match my raven hair.

  "You look kind of like a mime," squeaked the other one, Marsha.

  "My dad thinks mimes are stupid," Sandy added. Her rosy chipmunk cheeks glowed.

  What would blood taste like, I wondered?

  Two

  During lunch I had decided that Sandy Cross and her cronies would become my archenemies, but I was wrong—that distinction went to Ms. Sylvia Larch, my science teacher.

  "Svetlana, please come to the front of the classroom and introduce yourself. Tell us a little bit about who you are." Ms. Larch stabbed a glossy red fingernail at a spot alongside her desk where she wished me to stand and display myself for her and the class's amusement.

  How cruel she was—yet beautiful. Her hair was as straight and as black as my own. Her skin, like mine, was as pale as ivory. She was considerably taller than I was, and she stood poised before the chalkboard on spiked high heels that were blood-red and as sharp as daggers. She didn't smell too swell, though. There was a whiff of something slightly rotted about her—a little like a pound of hamburger that has remained outside the refrigerator too long.

  "Don't be shy," she suggested, wiggling me forward with a wormy finger, enjoying my discomfort.

  I loathed having to speak in front of the class! Who wouldn't? What an abuse of power! Heartless woman. I locked my hands together across my waist and stood before the staring mob of mouth-breathers. To my embarrassment, my hands trembled. What did I have to be nervous about? What did I have to fear from these ... these...

  "My name is Svetlana—"

  "Louder, please." Ms. Larch demonstrated, raising her voice while dropping her svelte figure into the chair behind her desk and swiveling around to observe me squirming before the class.

  I stared daggers into her green eyes, boring into her mind with my vampiric control. I willed her to instruct me to return to my seat. I took control of her brain and moved her lips to speak the words I wished to hear.

  "Tell us where you're from, Svetlana," she said instead, brushing aside my psychic efforts.

  She was powerful.

  I turned my gaze back to the roomful of pitiful faces and decided to just get it over with. "I'm Svetlana Grimm, and ... I...um, moved here from, uh, Texas." I stammered, searching for words. "I have a dog named Razor...." What could I say? What did these jellybean-eaters need to know?

  Ms. Larch asked, "Your file says you've always been home-schooled. Is that correct, Svetlana?" Her wire-thin eyebrows were drawn back like tiny mousetraps. "Having the opportunity to engage your peers must be an exciting experience for you."

  So she had a secret file on me. And as far as engaging my peers went, it was about on par with being poked over and over again in the eye. "It's okay," I lied.

  "Well, I hope it will end up being better than okay," she purred, her lips turning upward into a sly smile while her green eyes remained hard as stones.

  I returned to my desk as Ms. Larch moved to the corner of the classroom, where she uncovered a television screen. She inserted an instructional film and asked Fumio Chen to pull down the shades. As Fumio eagerly complied, the science teacher began the movie, then t
urned off the lights and left the room. A few kids whispered and passed notes back and forth while the lesson played, but most watched, glued to the program. The film demonstrated an experiment in which a rodent was trained to navigate a maze by being subjected to an electrical shock whenever it chose the wrong course. The rat eventually succeeded in making its way through the maze, but its rodent expression remained unreadable; it was impossible to say how the rat felt about its sad situation. There was cheese at the end, so I guess that was something; but I couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor creature.

  "No pain, no gain," Ms. Larch pronounced as she re-entered the room, snapping on the overhead lights and dazzling our eyes. She set aside a covered plate she'd brought back with her, stopping the film as it finished. "Can anyone relate to the rat?" she asked with a grin, pulling perfect supermodel lips back over a row of sparkling teeth. "Believe me, that was a life lesson, not just science." She prattled on about negative reinforcement and Pavlovian conditioning and other such scientific gobbledy-gook. Eventually, the bell rang for the end of school, and everyone jumped from their seats, grabbing and shuffling for bags and books.

  "As you leave, please feel free to pop a treat into your mouth!" Ms. Larch uncovered the plate she'd brought back, revealing a mound of chocolate squares. The room erupted with inspired cries of what a wonderful teacher she was and how exciting and fun science could be. What a bunch of suck-ups! As the students passed, they all reached eagerly for the plate, plucking a chocolate.

  "Pop it right into your mouth—we don't want a mess," Larch instructed, waving the rabble of kids along.

  I passed without taking a treat, and Ms. Larch dropped a surprisingly strong hand onto my shoulder, pulling me aside. "Just one moment, please, Svetlana."

  Dwight Foote reached around me and grabbed a square of chocolate, gulping it down and reaching for a second.

  "Help yourself to another chocolate, Dwight," Ms. Larch encouraged. "I don't think Svetlana wants her piece."

  "My dad's picking me—" I started.

  "You can wait a moment," the science teacher interrupted, silencing me with a flash of electric-green eyes.