BOYS THAT BITE excerpt © Mari Mancusi

Sunshine and Rayne

You know, being bitten by a vampire one week before prom really sucks. On soooo many levels.

Okay, fine. I’m sure it’d be equally sucky at other times of the calendar year as well. Photo day at school, for example. Bad time to sport a two-hole hickey on your neck. Easter would blow too--imagine trying to explain to your mom that you can’t attend sunrise service because, well, you’re allergic to the sun. And then there’s Christmas. Sure you’d sport a good chance of running into Santa, but could you resist the urge to snack on his jolly old jugular?

Now that I think about it, there just ain’t a good time to be bitten by a vampire.

That said, you gotta understand. Three hours, twenty-five minutes and thirty-three seconds ago JAKE WILDER asked me to prom! I mean JAKE WILDER, people! The hottest guy at Oakridge High School. The heartthrob leading man in every school play with soulful, deep brown eyes and drool worthy bod. Every girl I know is officially In Love with him--even Mary Markson and she’s practically married to her boyfriend, Nick.

But, I ask you, who did the Sex God in question ask to the senior class prom? Uh, yeah, that would be moi. Seriously, if you had asked me three hours, twenty-five minutes and thirty-TWO seconds ago whether Jake Wilder even knew my name, I’d have bet my iPod he hadn’t a clue. (And it’s a darn good thing I didn’t make that bet, ‘cause a day without twenty gigs of music at my fingertips is like a day without sunshine.)

That said, I can’t tell you what a total and utter bummer it is to be slowly morphing into a vampire one week before the big event.

I’m getting ahead of myself here. Since you don’t have a clue as to who I am, you’re probably not caring all that much about my imminent Creature of the Night transformation. (Mom always says I have the worst manners known to mankind, so I apologize in advance for my shortcomings.)

So okay, all about me for a moment. My name is Sunshine McDonald. Yes, Sunshine, and if you think that’s bad, I dread to introduce you to my identical twin sister Rayne. I know, I know, Sunshine and Rayne—it makes you a little sick to your stomach, doesn’t it? Well, you can blame our cruel, ex-hippie parents who (hello!?) grew up in the disco era and should have been hanging out at Studio 54, dancing the night away, instead of at the Harvest Co-Op broiling tofu. But, sadly, no. They preferred peace, love and stupid baby names to hot dance tunes and bling.

Of course, these days Dad’s probably driving around in a hot red sports car while picking up honeys in Vegas. He left Mom to “find himself” about four years ago and has remained lost ever since. We occasionally get the guilt-ridden birthday cards with the sincerest apologies and a crisp fifty-dollar bill stuffed inside, but that’s about it. I miss him sometimes, but what can you do?

Anyway, back to me. I’m sixteen years old. Five four, average weight, dirty blonde hair. I’ve got muddy brown eyes that someday I’m going hide with blue contacts and a billion annoying freckles that don’t fade, no matter how much lemon juice I squeeze on them. Mom says I got the freckles from Dad’s Irish side of the family. Dad says I got them from Mom’s Scottish ancestors. In any case, Rayne and I were cursed in the womb by the bad gene fairy and can’t do anything about it.

At school I do okay--an A/B student usually. I like English. Abhor Math. Want to be a journalist when I “grow up.” I play varsity field hockey and have twice tried out for the school play, mostly to be up close and personal with Jake Wilder. I have now twice ended up as Heather Miller’s understudy and the stupid girl is never sick. I’m talking winning-the-perfect–attendance-award-two-years-running never sick. To add insult to injury, she also has big boobs and throws herself at Jake on a daily basis.

But anyway, I’m sure you’re much more interested in the whole vampire thing than Heather Miller’s chest. (Though you should see it--she looks like freaking Pamela Anderson!) Basically, the trouble all started when Rayne decided to drag me to a Goth club.

Now for the record, I’m so not into goth music or that whole scene AT ALL. Not that I’m a boy band/Britney lover, of course. I guess you could consider me a Norah Jones, Liz Phair type of girl. But Rayne, on the other hand, is a full-fledged goth chick. If I ever saw her wear anything but the color black, I would seriously fall over in shock and awe. She listens to all this bizarre music that you’d never hear on the radio and loves dark, twisted movies that make absolutely no sense. For example, she’s seen Donnie Darko fifty times and can quote seventeen Buffy episodes by heart. When a new Anne Rice book comes out, she camps overnight to be first in line. (Even though there are plenty of those sicko books to go around, trust me.)

So anyway, two days ago Rayne tells me she saw this flyer at Newbury Comics for an all-ages goth club up in Nashua, New Hampshire—about twenty-minutes from where we live on the Massachusetts border. It’s called, if you can believe it, “Club Fang” which has seriously got to be the most cheeseball name on the planet. Rayne on the other hand is so excited, I’m half convinced she’s going to pee her pants. (Or her long, black skirt to be exact—the girl wouldn’t be caught dead in pants.) And because, as she reminds me, I’ve known her since birth it’s evidently my twin-sisterly duty to give up any Saturday night plans I might have had to go with her, since all of her friends are too busy.

Lucky me.