The Traveling Vampire Show

“Oh.”

“Forgot all about it.” Looking pained, he said, “There’ll be like a dozen ladies in the living room.”

I nodded.

My mother also belonged to a bridge club, though not the same one as Rusty’s mom. I’d been in our house when she hosted her group. The air was so thick with cigarette smoke you wondered how they could see their cards… or breathe. And the noise! I had no problem with the clinking of glasses and coffee cups that sounded as if you were in a crowded restaurant. The constant chatter wasn’t so bad, either. What I couldn’t stand were the outcries of surprise and delight that kept blasting through the house: ear-splitting whoops and squeals and cackles and shrieks.

“We can’t go in,” Rusty said.

“What about the back door? We could sneak into the kitchen.”

Rusty scowled. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Mom’ll be running in and out… and no telling who else.” He shook his head. “We’d get caught. Then Mom would have to introduce us to everyone.”

I grimaced.

Our mothers always introduced us to company. It’s a horrible, embarrassing experience even when you’re fully dressed. I sure didn’t want to be paraded shirtless in front of all Mrs. Baxter’s lady friends.

It would be even more humiliating for Rusty, since his physique was nothing to brag about.

“But I’ve gotta get some food in me,” he said.

He frowned down at the sidewalk as if pondering his options. Then he said, “We might as well try and sneak into the kitchen. We can grab something to eat and then haul ass.”

“What about shirts?”

“Forget it. How’m I supposed to get to my room?”

I gave him a look.

“It’s not my fault,” he said.

“I know.”

“But at least we can grab some food.”

In case we were being watched from the living room, we kept our eyes away from Rusty’s house until we were past it. On the other side of the driveway, we ducked behind the parked station wagon and made our way to the garage. Then we went around the garage to the back yard and crept up the stairs to the kitchen door.

Rusty bent forward. Hands cupped to the screen, he peered in. Then he eased open the door.

I followed him into the kitchen. Nobody was there except for us. Both doors to the rest of the house were shut—probably to keep the bridge club ladies from noticing the kitchen’s clutter.

The doors kept out most of the smoke, but not the noise. Mrs. Baxter’s group sounded exactly like my mother’s—like a gang of merry female lunatics.

The kitchen counters were littered with dirty glasses, cups, plates and silverware. By the look of things, Mrs. Baxter had served cherry pie a la mode to her friends. On the table in front of us were two pie tins, empty except for crumbs of crust and spilled red filling.

Rusty ran a fingertip across the bottom of a pie tin, came up with a gob of filling and stuck it in his mouth.

I didn’t bother.

Hunched over, head swiveling as he glanced from door to door, Rusty tiptoed around the table and made his way to the refrigerator. He pulled it open. I stepped up beside him. The chilly breath of the refrigerator drifted against my skin. It felt great.

With both of us standing close to the open refrigerator, Rusty found a pack of Oscar Meyer wieners. He pulled out a hot dog, stuck it into his mouth like a somewhat droopy orange cigar, then offered the package to me. I slipped out a wiener and poked it into my mouth.

Rusty, Slim and I often ate cold hot dogs—but only when no adults were around. Put a mother into the picture, and a wiener has to be heated and slipped onto a bun. Like it’s the law. Only problem is, the bun is usually dry. To make the bunned hot dog edible, you need to slather it with mustard or ketchup (and Rusty always needed pickle relish, a disgusting concoction), which killed the taste of the wiener.

I chowed down my cold dog and accepted Rusty’s offer to have another.

While we held them in our mouths, Rusty put the package away and pulled out a big brick of Velveeta cheese.

“Mmm?” he asked.

Nodding, I affirmed. “Mmm.”

We turned away from the refrigerator, I eased its door shut, and we headed across the kitchen. Rusty took a cheese slicer out of a drawer. At a clear place on the counter, he set down the Velveeta and peeled back its shiny silver wrapper. With the taut wire of the slicer, he cut off an inch-thick slab.

He handed it to me. As I sank my teeth into it, he started to cut off another slab.

One of the doors behind us swooshed open.

We both jumped.

Through the swinging door stepped Bitsy.

The actual name of Rusty’s fourteen-year-old sister was Elizabeth. Her nickname used to be Betsy. Like everyone else in Rusty’s family, however, she was on the husky side. So Rusty started calling her Bitsy. She liked it, but her parents didn’t. They seemed to think it drew attention to her size, and not in a flattering way.

When the door swung open, I figured we’d had it.

Rusty gasped and whirled around like a burglar caught in the act.