Jay rises amid the rumpled shirts and catches my chin in his hand, inspecting my face. “Hmm. Interesting. Very interesting. I think I have a diagnosis for your sudden mood change. You’re jealous.”

“Put some pants on,” I hiss. “And a shirt.”

“Why? It’s summertime. Maybe I want to walk around without a shirt.”

“And yet women don’t get that option.”

“I’m happy to allow you that freedom, in the spirit of equality and fairness.”

“You wish.” I flounce off the bed and stalk to the door. “I’ll be downstairs researching my weird voice condition, if you care to join me. Oh, and I’ll need a phone charger. I assume you have extras around here?”

“You assume correctly. Check the room you used earlier, top drawer of the nightstand.”

I’m in the Lavender Bedroom, drawer open, reaching for the cable when Jay rushes in, his face tense with worry. “Just got a text from Nick. We need to go to his house, now. Something’s wrong with Cody.”

15

The drive to Nick’s house takes five minutes on a good day—two minutes the way Gatsby drives. He careens into the driveway at breakneck speed and yet somehow manages to park perfectly straight, without bumping into anything.

“Will becoming a vampire make me a better driver?” I climb out of the car, patting my stomach to make sure my insides are all still there and not stranded somewhere along the road.

“Nope. Well, your reaction times will be a bit faster. But you’ll still have to practice to get good at it.” Jay gives me an apologetic wince. “Also, the first rule of vampire club—”

“Don’t talk about it where people might hear. Right. And also, I hated that movie.”

“I know you did. I was there.”

“I can’t believe you made me watch it.”

“Such fun though, right? The two of us, huddled in the closet of your room so your parents wouldn’t see what we were watching, sharing a pair of earbuds between us—good times.” He sighs and slams the car door. “Let’s go see what Cody has done to himself now.”

“Now? You make it sound like he gets in trouble often.”

“Not often, but sporadically.” He raps on Nick’s front door. It pops open almost instantly. Under his freckles, Nick is white as salt.

“We fell asleep by the pool. It was shady at first, and then there was sun—and now Cody won’t stop throwing up, and he won’t”—Nick shoots a cautious look at me—“he won’t drink anything.”

“Where is he?” Jay charges through the living room.

“In the bathroom, the door on the left—”

“How long was he in the sun?”

“Couple of hours, maybe?”

Jay curses, forging into the bathroom. Now that I’ve stepped indoors I can hear the retching—long, horrible sounds, like hollow, drawn-out groans.

Nick’s fingers are twisting together, trembling. “I couldn’t help him. I tried. I didn’t know…”

I collect his fingers in mine and draw him to the couch. “It’s okay. It’ll be all right. Jay’s here now. He’ll know what to do.”

“Cody’s, um, photosensitive,” Nick stammers.

“You don’t have to explain,” I say. “I know about the vampire thing. I found out yesterday.”

Nick presses a shaking hand to his lips. “Gatsby told you?”

“Well, no. Myrtle tied me up and shot him in the chest, and I found out when he came back to life and bit her throat.”

“Oh. Wow. You have to tell me everything. You must be so—” He struggles for the words.

“Hush, Nicky. You don’t have to worry about me, okay? You’re always such a good listener, so supportive, but this time I need to be here for you.”

“I should go see if they need anything.”

“I’ll go. You sit here and try to breathe, okay? I’ll come right back.”

“If he needs blood, I’ll give him blood. As much as he needs. All of it.” Nick’s eyes are brimming with tears.

“Don’t talk like that,” I say. “Never do that, you understand? What would your parents do if you—speaking of which, where are your parents?”

“At an art show in Spartanburg. They have a booth there.”

Another wrenching gag from the bathroom, and Jay calls sharply, “Daisy!”

I run to the doorway. Cody is slumped over the toilet bowl, his skin a sickly gray, his delicate features coated with glimmering sweat. His black hair has lost its usual gloss, and there are open lesions along his arms and across his chest.

“Sun poisoning,” Jay says. “I’m going to need blood in a glass, since I can’t get him calm enough to bite. And I need ice, all the ice they have.”

“Does…does blood type matter?” I squeak.

“Our bodies can use any blood type, but when we’re weak like this, O negative is usually better. Gentler, like chicken soup when you’re sick.”

I nod, my heart pounding. “I’m O negative. I’ll do it.”

“Don’t cut your wrist or your palm,” he warns. “Not too deep. Please be careful.”

His warnings fade as I race to the kitchen, grab a short tumbler, and yank a knife out of the block. Then I stare at my arm.

I can do this. I can do this. I can cut into my own skin and muscle and bleed into a glass for my cousin’s boyfriend.

I can set the blade of the knife to my skin and just press in—until it starts to hurt. Ow, ow, ow!

No. I can’t.

I can’t make myself do it.

On the brink of tears, I run back to the bathroom, carrying the knife and the glass. “I can’t do it, Jay. You have to cut me.”