"Stay away from Valentine," I commanded to Billy Boy when we walked through our front door. "He's trouble."

Billy Boy rolled his eyes. "Just because he didn't show? Something must have come up," he surmised. "Besides, I'm sure he's just lonely. I've never seen him at school, so he probably needs a friend," he said, stopping at the foot of the stairs.

"It doesn't matter; you have a friend already."

"You're not my boss."

"Running around with him can lead to all sorts of mess."

"How do you know? You don't even know him."

"I can just tell."

"Why, because he has tattoos and wears black? You're judging Valentine, just like everyone judges you. Just because he has black fingernails doesn't mean he's a monster--that's how you've defended yourself for years. And now look at you, behaving just like the town reacts to you."

Billy Boy would've had a point if Valentine wasn't a vampire. Even so, maybe my brother was right. Maybe Valentine was more like Alexander than Jagger. Maybe I was making assumptions that weren't fair.

"The day you start listening to others is the day I start listening to you," he said, and stormed up the stairs to his room.

"What's going on?" my mom asked as I entered the kitchen to find her wiping off the countertop. "I heard you two shouting."

"Nothing," I replied, opening the refrigerator.

"One minute you're insisting we include your brother at dinner, the next you're yelling at each other."

"I thought that was normal," I said, grabbing a soda.

"I guess it is...," she admitted.

I closed the refrigerator door. "I have some news," I said. "I'm going to prom."

My mother's face lit up as if I were a twenty-five-year-old woman announcing my engagement.

"Congratulations!" she exclaimed, hugging me hard. "We'll have to buy you a dress and shoes."

"That's not necessary," I said, twisting off the plastic bottlecap. "I'll find something at the thrift store."

My mother wrinkled her nose. "You'll be attending prom, not a nightclub. We'll get you something beautiful to wear that isn't torn, adorned with staples, or riddled with safety pins."

That's exactly what I was afraid of. I'd finally seen Valentine--even if it was only for a moment through a telescope. As I tried to finish my language arts essay, my mind was distracted by the eleven-year-old vampire. I imagined what he wanted at the treehouse--a hidden treasure, Jagger's leftover blood supply, a place to lay his coffin? I also envisioned all the places he could be speeding off to on his skateboard--Dullsville's cemetery, a hidden sewer, or an abandoned church. And most important, I wondered when I'd see him again.