I spent the next day in the infirmary, next to a highly contagious giggler. It looked terminal.
The two little puncture wounds on my neck were starting to heal, slowly. My neck was stiff, and my arms were tired. Too much homework, too much vodka, and not enough sleep. I'd also been talking to Lana, who's a lot more talkative in class than after school. We probably shot back and forth for a couple of hours, cracking jokes. She's really funny.
Atlas told me that Drake was probably going to get away with what he did. In times like this, you have to keep evidence, and never change your story unless it's for the better.
More than stiff and sore, I was tired. Of a lot. School was somehow worse this year than the last, and I was starting to consider faking an illness to stay out of class when I was done being sick for real. The nurse said today was the last day of my 'week of suffering'.
So, I complained to Genevieve. Drake had been looking through the window at me, but he ran off when he saw an adult.
"Is that the vampire?" she asked, highly suspicious.
"Unfortunately. He's stalking me, but when I told the Principal, he just said Drake was 'waiting to apologize'."
"I can always stake him, or give him a silver bullet," she suggested very seriously, her arms crossed as she leaned against a wall. She was sporting aviators, a brown flight jacket, and white pants.
"I just want him to leave me alone, I don't need him to die," I replied. "We used to be best friends."
"I was kidding anyway, mostly. I know school can be tough, but it's gonna get easier, okay?"
She said I was 'chronically needy', but that lots of people are, and it's just something to grow out of. Drake took advantage of that, like most vampires do: find the demand, fake the supply, collect the reward. It's like cheap batteries, or fast food: sure, they WORK, but for how long? Real relationships, she said, take effort. Drake is just barely learning to put effort into his appearance, let alone his conduct.
"Anyway, you're not the first person to have problems with space invaders," she laughed.
"Who?" I asked.
"The Canadians, the ones stuck in Missionary Schools. Everyone calls them "Indians", but India is on the other side of the world. You wouldn't believe the awful things the government does to them in there." she stated, matter-of-factly.
"The... Canadians?" I repeated. I heard a floor-screech, and looked over at giggles, who'd decided her hiccups were cured... and left the room. Odd. She looked afraid of the conversation.
"Yeah," she continued, "the Aboriginal Canadians. Not the European Immigrants." she explained. "When people think of 'Canadian Culture', they should think of hunting and nomadic tent towns, instead of cheap imported coffee and red plaid."
"What about us? We're Métis," I asked.
"You could argue it's 'stolen blood', it's a common colonial practice to marry into tribes they want to assimilate. I like to embrace it, but it's tough without a strong community."
It was true, I didn't know a single other person who was Métis. Not in the entire school. But maybe they didn't know, either.
"Speaking of, I heard they're shutting down the French program if they lose any more students or teachers. You know what that means?"
"No more asking to go to the bathroom in like, fifty words?" I tried.
"Non, mon frère. C'est fini, pour moi et tu."
"Porquoi?!"
"If the program shuts down, we have to move. They'll stretch their English staff, and I'll lose my job. That means finding a new house all over again, and you might have to share a room with Todd."
"But Todd snores!" I cried.
"Then I need your help," she said.
"Qu'est-ce que tu as besoin de moi?" I asked, trying to be impressive.
"J'ai besoin que tu trav- I need you to stay in class. Just because someone's making your life difficult, doesn't mean you should remove yourself from where you need to be. You have to fight for your space!" she went on.
"I did that," I said flatly. "He's still here."
Genevieve and I looked at Drake, who was back at the window again. His eyes went wide and he ran off, his face leaving a streak of drool on the glass.
My mom shook her head, and sighed. "You conquer yourself, and you can conquer anything." She shook my shoulder. "You're a survivor, right? Never say never?" She was shaking me up like a milkshake.
"Okay, okay. I won't run away, I'll stay in school!" I yelled, my hands behind my head.
"GREAT!" she exclaimed. She rushed to the door-frame, "If you cut class, we're both screwed. Got it? Okay, au revoir!" and ran off.
I stared at the door, my stomach dropping from the weight of my new mission. She was right – I was just about to run away. Now, there was no way I could let her down.

The library had its own entrance so it could stay open later than the rest of the school, and I was there at seven in the evening. It was snowing outside, the third time this month. Big, fluffy flakes floated downward in gentle ignorance of the world below them.
I'd read some books on French as a second language, and lost at chess to the librarian. That's when something strange happened – my teeth started to hurt, like, REALLY BAD. But they also felt good, and firm. I poked them, and I realized my canines had gotten sharper somehow. Then, the lights flickered, and the power went out. In the shortened daylight of Fall, I'd expected to see nothing – but I could see a little bit of everything, in the darkness. I looked for an open window, but the sky was dark, and so were the streetlights. I had developed some kind of night vision!
Then, to my horror, I realized I had a terrible craving. A pit in my stomach grew and grew, and it felt like an itch that was impossible to scratch. My mouth watered, my breath shortened. I knew what I needed, what I craved...
I took an apple from my backpack, took a bite, and spit it out. Then I took another bite, chewed it until the juices flowed, and sucked them down. I spit out the remains into a trashcan, and they were dry... and pale as the snow.
I'm still thirsty.