The Lost Girls || Bbangsaz

I

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       "Welcome to Taco Bell. Order when ready." As I punched in the number of soft and hard tacos the drive-up wanted for their Grande Meal, I cursed every movie that made the life of a vampire look glamorous.

       No one told me immortality was going to be like this. I should've been given a warning. Someone should've pulled me aside and let me know that trying to find a decent job that pays a living wage when you're forever sixteen is a trip to hell in a brown paper sack filled with hot and mild sauce.

       I finished ringing up the total and handed my headset to the night shift manager, Jimmy, so I could take a smoke break. I didn't even smoke. I just liked taking breaks.

      Outside, the last hint of a summer breeze mixed with the crisp air of fall. I flexed my long, pale fingers and tried to appreciate the few minutes I had to myself, but I couldn't stay calm. My heart beat in skips. Thump, silence, thump. The telltale sign that I needed sustenance.

It had been four days since my last kill, and I wasn't used to going so long without feeling the flood of warm blood beneath my teeth. The satisfying metallic scent filling my nostrils. My vision blurred, and I clenched my fist. There were only a few hours left in my shift, but if I stayed, I'd end up dinning on Jimmy.

Things got complicated the last time I drank one of my coworkers.

I pushed open the metal door we used to haul out trash and went back inside, where I tapped Jimmy on his bony shoulder. "I'm going home. Cramps."

He wiped his sweaty forehead, tucking away a greasy lock of hair back into his hat. "Weren't you having cramps last week?"

"They come and go." It had been my birthday, and the idea of spending it with Jimmy on the night shift at Taco Bell depressed me. So instead, I checked out a few books from the library and spent it alone. As a special treat, I fed on a guy who smelled like birthday cake, but I'd been fooled by his vape. He tasted like protein bars. Happy birthday to me.

Once Jimmy gave me permission to leave, with a heavy dose of stick eye, I tossed my hat onto a back counter and scooped my crimped hair into a messy bun. The crimping has been a poorly thought-out but fashionable choice—in 1987. The last time I'd been able to make changes, before I became frozen, both mentally and physically, for all time. Along with my questionable hairstyle, the spot I missed on my knee the last time I shaved would also haunt me for eternity.

The buses stopped running an hour ago, and I had to walk back to my motel after every shift. Most nights, I didn't mind. My route took me downtown and up the street that catered to the local college scene. The perfect feeding ground. I passed a mix of start-up breweries and clubs, where people spilled onto the sidewalk. A girl who smelled like jasmine and honey bumped into me as she teetered on her ice-pick heels. She turned with a smile frozen on her bright face, the apology already forming on her lips, but she faltered and backed away at the sight of me. I had that effect on the living.

When I reached the darkened alley between a macaron shop and a sushi bar, I sized up the space. The dumpster that catered to the apartment units above the shops would provide good cover. Music poured out of the piano bar across the street, a badly sung rendition of "Sweet Caroline" (bum, bum, bum), and I took a step into the shadows to wait.

A group of college guys walked past, fist-bumping and shoving one another. One stumbled into my alley. The burned-out streetlamp above my head cloaked me in darkness, allowing me to observe my dinner for a moment. He wore a U of M shirt that looked like it had been freshly pressed by his mom that morning, the sleeves just short enough to reveal his generic tribal armband. If I had to guess, I'd say it was baby's first tattoo.