MOTHER IS IN THE KITCHEN. She leans against the end of the counter smoking a cigarette, watching me. Her blonde hair is a halo against the early morning light, her face a shadow.

“You want pancakes, bucko?” she says, stamping the cigarette out in an ashtray. “You got a couple hours before you gotta be at school.” I nod, and she nods in return, red lips curling into a smile. “All right, then.”

While she starts breakfast, I stumble to the restroom and pee for an eternity. After, I wash my hands, stare at the face in the mirror.

Nearly fifteen.

I study the thick chop of black hair sprung from a head of milk-white skin, pale blue eyes my mother once said reminded her of frozen ponds. I lean in closer, study my cheeks and chin, checking for growth. Luminescent hairs where I’d wish for stubble. I bare my teeth. Strong pearly whites in perfect rows.

I’ve never visited a dentist.

I AM NOT A VAMPIRE.

My father, however, was.

Until he wasn’t.

Caught in the daylight when I was nine years old, he died saving my life.

WE WERE SPENDING A FEW weeks at our summer cabin, deep in the woods north of the city. One night, unable to sleep, I wandered away in the middle of the night with nothing but a flashlight, searching for the creek where I’d seen trout jumping the day before.

I’d made it about a half-mile when a starved-looking mountain lion found me. Not knowing any better, I ran, and it chased. As the dark sky turned a musty blue the cat leaped and I screamed, turning to throw up my arms, waiting for its claws to land on my chest, its open jaws burrowing into my neck. Then there was a blur of motion, and it was as if the cat evaporated in mid-air, the muscular body bent in half like a book being slammed shut. I heard its back snap before it burst into a showering cloud of blood, clumps of fur. A dislodged head rolled past and down a slope into a clump of kudzu.

I blinked and Father was standing before me, looking worried. He kneeled. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, lifted my eyes to the lightening sky. My father’s eyes, normally blue but now a bright gold, looked up as well.

“Too far,” he said, his long, cool hands resting on my shoulders. “Too far.”

There was no panic in his voice. No fear.

Just knowing, and acceptance.

He looked at me and smiled. “Can you find your way back? To the cabin? Your mother is worried.”

I didn’t know if I could or not, but I felt bad, and I was scared. Scared for him. But I nodded again, knowing there was no time. And then the sun broke the horizon.

There was no fire, no screaming and writhing, no last blaze of glory. My dear father was simply there one second, a pile of clothes and ashes the next.

Like a magic trick.

A disappearing act.

I did find the cabin, of course. Marking my way so I could show Mother the way back to what was left of him. Upon our return we both cried, and she carefully scooped up the remains, put the damp ash into a plastic Tupperware container she’d brought with her.

I asked to carry his clothes, wanting the smell of him.

As we walked silently through the lightening trees, I held his ash-dusted clothing close to my chest, my face, in a way I’d never be able to carry the guilt, nor the infinite loss of a father.

AT SCHOOL I FIND PLASTIC vampire teeth hanging against my locker. They’re attached to a string, the string to a large paperclip pushed through the vents of the metal door. I tug the plastic teeth free, open the locker. A piece of yellow legal paper, folded to the size of a postcard, rests on the edge of a shelf.

I stuff the note into my pocket, toss the teeth to the bottom of the locker where they land among other junk: a ball of worn socks, used pencils, empty potato chip snack bags.

I turn my head and see Mr. Jensen, the janitor, standing at the far end of the bustling hallway. He’s leaning on a push broom, watching me. I ignore the old bastard and slam my locker shut.

In homeroom I pull the note from my pocket and read it while Ms. Gilley monologues about Ho Chi Minh.

It’s only one word:

BLOODSUCKER

I raise an eyebrow, then fold the note back the way it was and return it to my pocket.

I WORRY.

So, yeah, I’m a worrier, I guess. Nick always said so. Used to make fun of me about it.

When Jake was born, oh boy, I worried. I worried a lot. Afraid he’d have too much of his father in him. Or not enough.

Because, truly, what would be better for the boy?

More him? Or more me?

I’d rather not answer that.

Now, while he sits across from me eating spaghetti and meatballs, I stare at this damned note he brought home. He acts like he’s not watching me, but I know he is, so I try to keep my face neutral, focus on inhaling the smoke of my cigarette. Focus on keeping my hands from shaking with fear.

I set the note down, look at him. “You think it’s a kid?”

Jake chews, thinks. He has Nick’s strong chin, thistle-thick hair, bright blue eyes. And complexion, of course. White as snow, my boy. I can almost trace the thin blue veins beneath his cheeks, riding down the inside of his neck toward his heart.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, it’s not a kid’s handwriting. Plus, none of them know. If they did…” He shakes his head, laughs. “It’d be chaos.”

I nod because I’m in full agreement. Which makes me worry even more because it must have been an adult who did this, who infiltrated my son’s school, put novelty teeth on his locker. Left a note for him to read.