I was 15 years old, bored, and lonely.  It was the middle of a cold snowy January and most of my friends preferred going out with each other, to drink late at night, than bother picking up a non-drinking “prude” like myself.

          No, I didn’t drink and I didn’t take drugs.  I didn’t smoke cigarettes, swear, have my drivers’ license, get bad grades, or even belch.  I did, however, sit at home and wonder where they all were at that moment.  If they were in the graveyard smoking up, or hanging out in the basement of one of their parent’s houses watching TV or just having fun.

          “We talk about you all the time,” they would easily tell me the day after one of their late night gallivants which often involved drugs, liquor and cable television.

          “Just last night Marty was saying how much she liked you.  We were wondering what kind of boyfriend you would have and she said you should be a nun.  She said, ‘I think Dreama should be a nun; she should stay pure and never date.  It just wouldn’t be Dreama.’”

          My friends enjoyed lying to themselves and often, innocently, tried to protect me from their immoral behavior and self-destructive acts by refusing to even imagine an impure thought could enter my head.  I, however, practically begged them at times to take me away from the insidious Hell of my parent’s house, willing to accept the thick clouds of cigarette smoke billowing out of their cars or the sweet stench of Wine Coolers, sticky, on the vinyl car seats.  But they rarely indulged my muse.

          However, like some bizarre affliction, they each had an impending curiosity to find out what I did with my lonely evenings.

          It was half past eleven on a Saturday night and my parents, having gone to bed around nine as usual, left me to roam the silent house alone.  It was a habit of mine to stay up late; I could go all night if I wanted to, watching Bowie videos till early hours of the morning. 

          This particular night it was just me and Ziggy Stardust.  The mind-penetrating buzz of Mick Ronson’s electric guitar, the elation I felt as they ripped the shining white cape from either side of Bowie’s skinny pale frame, his eyes circled in black, his hair blazing orange; it was enough to keep me occupied the entire weekend. 

          About three quarters into the concert, my wild imagination and teenage interests were more than I could deny.  Quickly, I switched off the television and glided into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.  I took out three shades of red lipstick, a tray of dark gray eye shadow, and a tube of very, pale concealer.  After propping in front of me a full color glossy picture The Chameleon himself, I began covering my eyebrows with the thick white putty, then continued over my naturally pale face. 

          As I completed the last touches of the raccoon like gray circles around my eyes, I heard a light knock on the outside pane of my bedroom window.  Immediately, I switched off the light and flung open the glass barrier that kept me protected from the outside world.

          There was a hushed giggle of familiar girlish voices in the distance then a rustling in the gravel of my neighbor’s driveway.

          “I know you’re out there!”  I hissed then watched, contented, as the two girls scurried down the street and jumped into a little white Chevette.

          My thoughts raced. 

          I knew these girls, they were my hang out friends from school, and the red head had mistakenly mentioned earlier in the week that they had stopped by the previous Saturday around the same time.

          So I knew…I knew well.

          I switched on the light again and looked in the mirror, the rings around my eyes were black as soot; my long stringy brown hair was slicked back against my head, and my lips beet red against my face that was as pale as a sheet of notebook paper.  I grabbed my ankle length black Mary Poppin's coat and charged into the winter night.

          The cold smell of snow and burning fireplaces rushed into my lungs as I stood on the steps of my parent’s front porch. The blue glow from the moon reflecting off three inches of soft white fluff gave me all the light I needed to pass by my parent’s window without waking them.  Carefully, I stepped over a shovel, several broken cinderblocks and, finally, a small fence before I was positioned neatly among the slumbering tree branches that guarded my dark chamber of dreams. 

          I would wait all night if I had to.

          Five whole minutes ticked by before the white Chevette, containing three unsuspecting victims, coasted down the road stopping about three houses from mine.  It released one of the passengers then turned around in the nearest driveway. 

          I stood very still. 

         As the red headed girl approached my bedroom window, she carefully placed one foot in front of the other, as if she were a child sneaking up on an unsuspecting adult.  I moved my right lace-up granny boot slightly along the ground and her body froze, facing in my direction, but her puzzled expression assured me that she saw nothing.  Regaining her courage, she stepped closer to the window and I purposely shifted my body, crunching the week old frozen snow beneath my feet.  The red head squinted her eyes hard and I was certain she spotted my blackened hollows set deep within a white glowing face peering through the branches of the tree.  Confidently, I stepped out from my hiding place and for a split second she stood paralyzed in the January moonlight.

          Then she screamed and screamed again.

          I laughed as she ran hysterically down the driveway, her arms flailing in the air as she tried to keep her balance on the ice. 

          “Wait!”  I shouted, running after her, “It’s me!”  In the excitement I had left my Mary Poppin's coat unbuttoned and the skirt of it flapped vampyrically behind me. 

          Crazily, yanking at the door handle of the white car the red head lost her balance and her slippery brown flats wrenched out from under her and she toppled to the ground.  Her fluttery flowered mini skirt twisted upward to reveal a fresh tear in her black tights then she grabbed the handle again and scrambled into the car.

          Disappointed, I watched the three girls disappear up the road.

          I wanted to go with them; I wanted to have fun too.

          Sadly, I turned to go back inside.

          But wait, I thought, they were afflicted with The Curiosity Disease; they had to come back.

          And a smile stretched across my white skeletal face.

          I found a comfortable place in my parent’s driveway and crouched down behind my mother’s car.  They would go back to my window and expect me to be there, I concluded.

          They were so predictable. 

          Within a couple of minutes, I could see the little white Chevette approaching through the white smoke of my hot breathe.  My heart began to pound and I smiled manically.  I was as still as my twitching enthusiasm would allow when the second victim exited the car with the red head trailing behind her.  They walked slowly up my neighbor’s driveway, headed straight for my bedroom window.  When they were out of sight, I slipped onto the porch and listened to their whispers.

          “She was right there.”  The red head whispered.

          “Hello?” The blonde’s voice carried across the night. “Dreama?”

          “Where did she go?”  The red head’s voice was quivery while the blonde’s was tough and bold.

          Footsteps shuffled through the gravel and I could see the blonde’s shadow on the house next to mine.  I took my stance on the opposite end of the long rectangular porch then waited until I saw the red of her chilled nose.

          Bounding toward them, I took three long strides before leaping into the air.  As I landed at their feet, gravel shot up like popcorn hitting the sides of the house.  The two let out a bloodcurdling scream as they stumbled over each other, running to the white Chevette. 

          “Oh, my Golly!  Oh, my Golly!  Oh, my Golly!”  The red head yelled over and over.

          I did not chase after them, but walked slowly toward the car.

          It did not speed away this time; it remained there, idling.

          “Hello?” I said as I approached the window of the driver’s side.

          “What are you doing out here?”  The driver asked.  Chris’s short black hair appeared highlighted metallic blue in the bright moonlight.

          “Oh, nothing,” I answered, calmly, as if I had not just flew through the air like a bat out of Hell.  “You?”

          “Nothing.”  She responded, “Well, we have to go now.”

          “Okay,” I said, backing away from the window.

          The little white car rolled out of the driveway but something compelled me to follow it.  Very swiftly, I paced along and the car sped up.  Chris stuck her head out of the window again and tried to sound sincere, “Bye!”

          “Bye!”  I yelled, knowing they would be back.

          I returned to the front porch of my house and gazed up the street, the car had already turned around and was headed toward the house. 

          Did they think I was that stupid or were they now addicted to my frivolous antics?

          In my original hiding place, behind the trees at my bedroom window, I waited for them to re-enter my trap.  The car pulled into the same drive down the street and, quickly, I glided across the gravel and pressed myself against my neighbor’s house.

          In the distance, I could hear the blonde whispering loudly to Chris.

          “Leave it open! No!  Open it…okay.” 

          The short husky girl sauntered up my neighbor’s driveway, inspecting the trees above her, as she passed them.  She was an over-actor and I, impatient to wait for my prey, stepped out of the shadows to reveal myself.  She didn’t see me right away; so I crouched down to prepare my attack.

          Completing the inspection of the last tree the girl turned around and stopped dead in her tracks.  “Her eyes are black!”  She hissed to the two waiting safely in the car.

          She turned to me again and I stood up then strolled, very slowly, toward her.

          “Oh, shit!”  She yelled, grabbing a handful of snow to use as a weapon against me.  When I did not change my pace, or even flinch, she dropped it then made her getaway.

          As I approached them, the car door slammed, and the blonde shoved down the lock as if she were in a horror flick.

          The red head buried her face into the seat.

          The car slowly rolled backward and I asked innocently, “Where are you going?”

          The passenger’s side window opened slightly, enough to speak through, and Chris spoke past the blonde as if she were not even there, “What are you doing out here so late?”

          “Oh,” I said, feeling playful.  “Looking for victims.”  I gazed, dramatically, down the deserted road.

          “Are you okay?” The blonde asked.

          “Yes, are you?”  I asked her.

          Chris was a year above me in school and, while we shared mutual complaints about life, we were becoming closer friends.  We were in the French Club together and had talked on the phone several times in the past.  She had even come over to borrow my typewriter once and I continued acting suspicious until, finally, she began searching for invisible bats in the night sky.  I grew fond of teasing her, telling her I had a vampire friend who lived in my basement and often implied that “someone just may visit her in the night.”  I kept her on her toes and she feared I would be the one to pop up at her window one dark rainy night, and I supposed she wanted to beat me to it. 

          “Where are your mom and dad?”  Chris asked with her mouth turned in an upward smirk as her eyebrows raised high.  I could tell she was thrilled with my little show, but at the same time wondering if I was really insane.

          “Oh, in there.”  I pointed to our little white house behind the snow-covered bushes.

          “Are they dead?”  The blonde asked, suspiciously.

          So dramatic, that blonde, much more than I.  “No,” I answered, seriously, “they are just sleeping.”

          “Your eyes are black.”  The blonde said.

          “I hadn’t noticed,” I said, reaching for the door handle.  I gave it a hard tug and said, “Let me in.”

          The red head unburied her face and began to shriek in terror.

          “I wasn’t looking in your window, Dreama!”  Chris defended herself in the height of the chaos, “I was right here in the car, I swear!”

          The blonde then lit a match and put it up to the opening of the window. 

          “I’m not afraid of fire.”  I said calmly, blowing a puff of frozen air toward the flame.

          “You missed,” the blonde said, when the flame did not go out. 

          I tried for the target again with no avail.

          “You missed again,” she said smugly.

          Bored with the failed dramatics, I stared at the match, silently, watching as the flame moved down the paper stem.

          “What is she doing?!”  The red head asked frantically. 

          The blonde looked at the match then screamed, shaking out the flame as it burned her fingers.  “She’s making it move down!!”

          Chris laughed out loud then assured them that it was perfectly natural for a match to do that.

          Bravely, the blonde offered me her fingers through the opening of the window, so I grabbed them, for good measure and she screamed once more, yanking them away. 

          I stood there, bored, playing with the door handle. 

          Chris laughed out loud again. “I’m your friend, Dreama!  I’m your friend!”  She begged as the blonde half climbed onto her lap, trying to move away as the door shifted loose. 

          In her hast, the blonde had not closed it properly and the illusion was to my advantage.  

          “She’s getting it open!!”  The blonde screamed and the red head tugged at Chris’s coat sleeve.

          “Let’s leave!  Let’s leave, Chris!!  I have to get home!”

          “Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Chris said, with instant composure.

          Repeatedly, I shushed the screaming girls, “You must be quiet,” I begged, putting my finger to my blood red lips, “or else you’ll wake the neighbors.”

          Reaching for the door handle, with a grin on her face, the blonde said she would let me in.

          “No!”   The red head screamed.

          As the blonde’s fingers touched to the knob, the red head swung her fist, hitting the blonde in the arm.

          “Please don’t put a curse on me, Dreama!”  The red head begged me, tears welling in her eyes, “I’m sorry I knocked on your window, I won’t do it again; please don’t put a curse on me.  Cindy made me do it!”

          “I did not!”  The blonde yelled, “If I let you in will you get Marcy and leave me alone?”

          “No, Cindy!  Shut up!”  Marcy yelled and hit her again.  “Please don’t hurt me, Dreama!”

          It was more than I could stand. “I would never hurt you, Marcy,” I said.  She was really afraid of me.  My only intention was to get them at their own game, I never expected anyone to fear me. 

          Continually, Marcy begged Chris to take her home.  “I have to leave,” she said, “please, Chris, let’s go now!”

          When Chris finally agreed, I admit I was disappointed that the fun was to end.

          “Well, we’ll come back.” Chris humored me.

          “Okay.”  I walked into my yard, knowing it was over.  I waved ‘Goodbye’ and, sadly returned to my dark dungeon.

          I went into my room and was changing my clothes when the phone rang.  Not wanting my mom to get to it first, I ran to the kitchen, stepping on my cat along the way.

          “Hello.”  I said, very low and unemotional into the receiver.  If I was Vincent Price, I thought, I would answer the phone like this. 

          The party on the other line hung up and I knew it had to be them. 

          The following Monday I returned to school as usual, my mom dropped me off in front and I walked through the doors of the white box with black windows, confidently, facing crowds of students.  My feet barely even touched the carpet before I heard someone say, “There she is!”

          Marcy whispered to the girl standing next to her, “She had red eyes!”

          I tried to control the smirk that was steadily growing on the corner of my mouth.  Hurrying to my locker as if it was the most important quest yet, I hoped my coat tails had enough speed to lift off the ground. 

          By the end of the day, I learned from Chris, that in the height of terror, Marcy lost all control and urinated on herself somewhere between my window and the little white Chevette.

          I followed Chris, who gave me a ride home nearly every evening, through the hallway and into the counselor’s office to get her books.  The counselor, a former Marine in a sporty skirt, short hair, and generally not one to mess with said hello to me for the first time and then said she heard what I had done.  I cringed inside, but did not allow it to show.  I figured this was the end, she would suggest I talk about my odd activities with her or maybe even refer me to a shrink.  Then they would contact my parents and I would have to explain why I had a jar of blood in my room.  I laughed, half heartedly, and waited for her lecture.

          “Next time,” the former Marine said, leaning close until she was level to my eyes, “get yerself a 12 gauge shot gun, they won’t look in your window again!”

          Tell that to a 15 year old wearing a black trench coat, black fingernails, and a reputation for witchcraft these days and you will be fired immediately then escorted off the premises.

          I laughed in disbelief, and so did Chris, oddly enough they never returned to my bedroom window.

          Looking back on high school, one may revel in being valedictorian, homecoming queen, a cheerleader…I, however, was a teenage vampire.

          And I am proud of that. 

          Though it hindered my dating process and I was often approached by curious young boys whose only experience with girls dealt with simulated black leather, silver studs, and 2 dimensional silicone breasts, I would not change it if I had to.  My lessons of love and friendship are too valuable, more valuable than the experience of false acceptance.  How desperately I wanted to join my friends in their ventures but I was on the outside looking in and that is how it would remain, always. 

          That is how real life is, lonely and dark.

          But I have an advantage over my friends, to this day, when I feel especially bored with my life, I can put on a black cape and wisp around my yard at midnight and feel comfortable with that…can you?