reality of their texts until they are blue in the face, even though something as recent 
as the Second World War is remembered in a manner that has no feeling for the times, for 
feeling, not events, is to me the essence of history. The majority of people recollect 
World War II as a great adventure against impossible odds, while it was nothing but an 
unceasing parade of suffering. How quickly mortals forget. But I forget nothing. Even I, 
a bloodthirsty harlot if ever there was one, have never witnessed a glorious war.
  Mr. Castro has no feeling for the past. He doesn't even have his facts straight. He 
lectures for thirty minutes, and I grow increasingly bored. The bright sun has me a bit 
sleepy. He catches me peeking out the window.
  "Miss Adams," he says, interrupting my reverie. "Could you give us your thoughts on the 
French nobility?"
  "I think they were very noble," I say;
  Mr. Castro frowns. "You approve of their excesses at the expense of the poor?"
  I glance at Ray before answering, I do not think he wants the typical teenage girl, not 
deep inside, and I have no intention of acting like one. He is watching me, the darling 
boy.
  "I don't approve or disapprove," I say. "I accept it. People in power always take 
advantage of those without power."
  "That sounds like a generalization if I ever heard one," Mr. Castro replies. "What 
school did you go to before moving to Mayfair?"
  "What school I went to doesn't matter"
  "It sounds as if you have a problem with authority," Mr. Castro says.
  "Not always. It depends."
  "On what?"
  "Whether the authority is foolish or not," I say with a smite that leaves no doubt I am 
talking about him. Mr. Castro, wisely, passes me over and goes on to another topic.
  But the teacher asks me to stay behind when the bell rings. This bothers me; I wish to 
use this time to speak to Ray. I watch as he leaves the room with Pat. He glances over 
his shoulder at me just before he goes out of sight. Mr. Castro taps his desk, wanting my 
attention.
  "Is there something wrong?" I ask him.
  "I hope not," Mr. Castro says. "I am concerned, however, that we get off to a good 
start. That each of us understands where the other is coming from."
  I stare at him, not strongly enough to cause him to wilt, but enough to make him 
squirm. "I believe I understand exactly where you're coming from," I say.
  He is annoyed. "Oh, and where is that?"
  I can smell alcohol on his breath, from the previous night, and alcohol from the night 
before that, and the night before that. He is only thirty, but the circles under his eyes 
indicate his liver is close to seventy. His tough stance is only an image; his hands 
shake as he waits for me to respond. His eyes are all over my body. I decide to ignore 
his question.
  "You think I have a bad attitude," I say. "Honestly, I am not what you think. If you 
knew me you would appreciate my understanding of history and ..." I let my voice trail 
off. "Other things."
  "What grade are you hoping to get in this class?"
  His question makes me laugh, it is so ridiculous. I lean over and give his cheek a 
pinch, a hard one that makes him jump. He's lucky I don't do the same to his crotch. 
"Why, Mr. Castro, I'm sure you're going to give little old Lara just about any grade she 
wants, don't you think?"
  He tries to brush my hand away, but of course it is already gone. "Hey! You better 
watch it, miss."
  I giggle. "I'll be watching you, Mr. Castro. Just to make sure you don't die of drink 
before the semester's over. I've got to get that good grade, you know."
  "I don't drink," he protests feebly as I walk away.
  "And I don't give a damn about my grade," I say over my shoulder.
  I fail to catch Ray before my next class starts, which I do not share with him. Seems 
my pseudo guardian was unable to match my schedule exactly to Ray's. I sit through fifty 
minutes of trigonometry, which naturally I know almost as well as history. I manage to 
refrain from alienating the teacher.
  The next period I don't have with Ray either, although I know fourth period we will be 
together in biology. Third is P.E. and I have brought blue shorts and a white T-shirt to 
wear. The girlfriend, Pat McQueen, has the locker beside mine and speaks to me as we 
undress.
  "Why did Castro ask you to stay behind?" she asks.
  "He wanted to ask me out."
  "He likes the girls, that guy. What did you think of Ray?"
  Pat is not excessively paranoid, but she is trying to ascertain where I am coming from. 
"I think he needs lots of love," I say.
  Pat is not sure what to think of that, so she laughs. "I give him more than he can 
handle." She pauses, admiring my momentarily naked body. "You know, you really are 
incredibly beautiful. You must have guys hitting on you all the time."
  I pull on my shorts. "I don't mind. I just hit them back. Hard."
  Pat smiles, a bit nervously.
  Phys ed is currently educating the boys and girls of Mayfair in the rudiments of 
archery. I am intrigued. The class is coed and the bow and arrow in my hands bring back 
old memories. Perhaps, though, the ancient memory of Arjuna, Krishna's best friend and 
the greatest archer of all time, is not one I should stir. For Arjuna killed more 
vampires than any other mortal.
  All with one bow.
  All in one night.
  All because Krishna wished it so.
  Pat follows me out onto the field, but tactfully separates herself from me as we select 
our equipment. I have already spooked her, and I don't think that is bad. I wear strong 
sunglasses, gray tinted. As I gather my bow and arrows, an anemic-looking young man with 
thick glasses and headphones speaks to me.
  "You're new, aren't you?" he asks.
  "Yes. My name is Lara Adams. Who are you?"
  "Seymour Dorsten." He offers his hand. "Pleased to meet you."
  My flesh encloses his, and I know instantly that this young man will be dead in less 
than a year. His blood is sick-how can the rest of his body not be? I hold on to his hand 
a moment too long, and he stares at me quizzically.
  "You are strong," he says.
  I smile and let go of him. "For a girl?"
  He rubs his hand on his side. His illness has startled me. I have bruised him. "I 
suppose," he says.
  "What kind of name is Seymour? It makes you sound like a nerd."
  He likes my forthright manner. "I've always hated it. My mother gave it to me,"
  "Change it when you get out of high school. Change it to Marlboro or Slade or Bubba or 
something like that. And lose those glasses. You should be wearing contacts. I bet your 
mother even buys your clothes."