Chapter Two
After ten minutes of hyperventilating into the towels, I swallow both my panic and my pride, and call my mom.
My heart drums in my ears as it rings… and rings… and goes to voicemail.
I don’t bother leaving a message. It was a long shot. Mom is doubtlessly off galivanting around the country in her home-slash-van, selling her stupid paintings, forgetting about my existence. I’ve always had to take care of myself, and this is no exception.
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, Sophie is on the couch in our tiny sectioned-off “living room.” So is our other roommate Elaine, who must’ve just gotten home; she’s still in her work clothes, radiating a powerful aroma of coffee.
They look even more contrasting than usual, with Elaine in her black barista outfit and Sophie in her fuzzy pajamas.
Elaine has dark skin, cat-eye glasses, and immaculate braids, while Sophie is chalky white with fading blue hair dye and last night’s eyeliner.
Then there’s me: tall and angular and awkward, with dirty blond hair piled in a messy bun and wire-rimmed glasses.
But despite our differences, we’re a united trio—especially now, in our time of need. Sophie is on her phone, Elaine clicking away determinedly on her laptop. Without a word, I grab my own computer from my sectioned-off space and plop down in my armchair to join them in researching.
We start by looking at legal options. Of course we’re supposed to be due financial compensation for this situation, but given that the landlord is MIA, I don’t have much hope for that.
Even if we eventually get a payout, it could take months or years for the legal system to catch up, and we need someplace to live now.
Which brings us to option two: finding a new place to rent. But we hit a wall quickly. That wall being money, of course. This building has always been a dumpster heap, but that meant it was cheap.
“Oh my God,” Sophie groans, wincing as she scrolls through listings on her phone. “These numbers make me want to hurl. Like, who can afford this?”
“People with real jobs?” Elaine suggests, deadpan.
“Girl, you do realize I make more money than you—”
“Barely, and only since you started—”
“Ladies,” I snap. “Focus.”
They fall silent and continue scrolling. But even after hours of research and depressing discussions about where we can cut our already-paltry budgets, the numbers won’t add up.
Our roommate situation has always sounded like the start of a bad joke. A blogger, a barista, and a tutor-slash-college-student walk into a bar, and…
And walk out again, probably, because they can’t afford to buy a drink in this economy.
I shut my eyes, fingers stilling on my laptop as I fight back a wave of despair.
I thought I was being responsible these last few years.
I’ve scraped and clawed my way through life, working myself to the bone in dead-end jobs.
A college degree in a practical field would change everything for me.
Most people I went to high school with have already graduated, but life took me on a different path.
Working as a private tutor, I’ve pinched pennies and skipped meals so I can finally start at UCLA this fall with minimal loans.
After years of floundering, I’m finally taking steps toward the future I want.
With a degree in engineering, my future will be secure.
It’s at the top of the “degrees that make the most money” list—that’s why I chose it.
But now? I can’t pay for school when I can’t even afford rent.
Elaine is the first to shut her laptop. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
Sophie reluctantly lowers her phone. “Then what do we do?”
I keep scrolling through rentals without looking up. There has to be something. There has to be.
After a beat, Elaine says, “I guess I could go back to living with my parents for a while.”
Sophie groans. “David has been asking about me moving in with him at some point, but…”
An awkward silence falls, broken only by my increasingly desperate scrolling. But when I realize they’re both looking at me, I slam my laptop shut and force a tight-lipped smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “You guys should do that. I’ll figure something out.”
They should explore their options. It’s not their fault I don’t have any.
Because I have no boyfriend. No family. Nobody at all.
“I mean, I don’t want to live with David,” Sophie says quickly. “His roommates suck and I know he’ll just expect me to start doing his laundry and shit.” Her lower lip trembles. “I want to live with you guys.”
“I really don’t want to live with my parents, either,” Elaine says. “They got a cat a couple months ago, and I’m allergic, so…”
“Guys,” I say, hating the fact that I feel like crying. “We’re talking last resorts here. What else can we do? We can’t afford these places.”
“Well…” Sophie’s face scrunches. “I guess we’ll have to come up with more money.”
“Wow,” Elaine says. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I mean, it’s not going to be fun,” she says. “But there are ways.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s find out.”
We all dive back into researching furiously. Ideas get tossed around, each one progressively more outlandish.
“We could donate our eggs,” Elaine suggests. “Or sell drugs.”
“Or sell feet pics!” Sophie contributes. “Or… more than feet pics…”
“None of these are reliable sources of income,” I say, rubbing my temples.
“Nobody’s going to let us sign a lease with feet pics as our main way to pay rent.
” Not to mention that I don’t even want to touch that idea.
Not because of prudishness or pride, but because it could ruin my career.
Not that I’m going to have a career if I can’t figure out how to pay for college…
“Ugh, this is so stupid,” Sophie complains. “Why can’t we go back to the good old days when artists and writers had rich patrons to pay for everything?” She sinks down on the couch, throwing a dramatic arm over her forehead. “Like, come on, rich people. Do something useful for once.”
Elaine rolls her eyes from the other end of the couch, her fingers clicking away on her laptop keyboard.
But I sit up, my thoughts catching on that word: patron. “Wait a second.”
Elaine’s fingers go still. So do Sophie’s kicking feet. They both look at me.
“I know that face,” Sophie says, expression brightening. “You’ve thought of something.”
“Maybe.” I stand up and start to pace the length of the room, nibbling on my thumbnail as I think. “It’s a long shot, but…”
My roommates’ eyes follow me back and forth, back and forth.
“Spill!” Sophie says.
“Well, I’m just thinking, there are modern-day patrons. But not for artists. Or… not exclusively for artists, but there’s no reason why they can’t be…”
“Ah,” Elaine says, her eyes widening.
Sophie’s gaze whips back and forth between us, still confused. “Somebody better explain or I’m gonna lose it.”
I pause by the window. “Valentines,” I say. “Valentines have patrons. And the gig pays well… or so I hear, anyway.” I hurry onward, not wanting to be questioned on exactly how much I know about the vampire scene. My roommates would never let me live it down.
The truth is, I’ve always been enamored by vampires and their glamorous human companions, also known as valentines. It’s a practical exchange: valentines donate fresh blood to their fanged patrons, and in return, vampires compensate them generously.
Yet even I can see the romantic side of the lifestyle, too. To live alongside the nocturnal nobility, to attend their lavish, exclusive parties echoing Regency-era decadence…
“Nora, you magnificent bitch,” Sophie says. “You’re so right. That’d be an assload of money.” Her gaze turns dreamy. “Not to mention the perks. The ballgowns, the dancing, the high society life…”
“Getting bitten every day,” Elaine adds, wrinkling her nose.
“Hey, some people are into that,” Sophie says.
I remember a picture from my magazine—a close-up of a vampire lovingly sinking his teeth into a woman’s neck, her face slack with bliss—and flush. “Yeah, I’ve… I’ve heard that too.” I clear my throat. “I’m sure it’s not as glamorous as they make it look. Especially with the social stigma.”
No more needs to be said. We’re all aware of the downsides to such arrangements.
Valentines are alternatively seen as idols and gold diggers, glamorous and debauched.
It’s often a short-lived arrangement, and I’ve heard a lot of sad stories about retired valentines struggling to find work and acceptance in society after getting pushed aside.
Plus there are the horror stories of vampire-blood addiction and the like.
“I’m sure David won’t mind me getting dicked down by the undead as long as I’m getting a valentine salary,” Sophie says, derailing my train of thought.
“Sophie!” My face heats further. “I don’t think they like being called that. And I-I mean… I’m sure not all valentines are hooking up with their patrons, right? That’s probably just a stereotype.”
Sophie lets out an undignified snort of laughter. “Oh, Nora,” she says. “You sweet, innocent baby.”
“Debates about the nature of the career aside…” Elaine says. “What are the chances that one of us would be accepted?” Elaine asks, her brow furrowed. “It’d practically be like winning the lottery.”
I shrug. Nobody knows what vampires look for in their valentines, but I do know that most people are turned away before even getting a chance to attend one of their famous Valentine’s Day balls.
“Like I said, it’s a long shot. But unless somebody has any better ideas…
?” I glance at each of my roommates, who both shake their heads.
“It couldn’t hurt to try out, if one of you wants to. ”
Sophie sits up, a grin slowly spreading across her face. “I’m so in.”
Elaine, after a moment’s consideration, closes her laptop. “Like you said, it can’t hurt.”
I blow out a breath. “Well, let’s figure out how we do this, and I can drive—”
“Oh, hell no,” Sophie says with a wicked grin. “This was your idea. You’re not getting out of joining us.”
I try to fight the blush creeping up the back of my neck. “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Elaine pushes her glasses up her nose, looking at me. “Oh, so it’s not ridiculous for us, but it’s ridiculous for you?”
“That’s not what I mean…” I look away, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m not that kind of person.”
“What kind of person?” Sophie asks, placing her hands on her hips and staring at me.
“Oh, so you’re asking us to do something you think you’re too good for?” Elaine suggests, scowling.
“That’s not it!” I pause, flustered, trying to get a hold of my thoughts.
That’s not what I mean at all. It’s not that I’m too good for being a valentine.
I mean, it could jeopardize my career, but that’s not even the point.
I don’t think I’d make it there in the first place.
It’s just that both of my roommates are so…
unique. Sophie is going to be a famous writer someday; Elaine is just waiting for a break in her acting career.
And I know both of them are going to make it big someday.
They’re the kind of people who become valentines.
Not people like me, who go to bed at nine p.m., choose an engineering path because it’s practical, and carry Tums at all times.
Believing in that kind of hope is dangerous. If I think too hard about all of those pictures I’ve studied in Fangs magazines, try to imagine myself in the place of a valentine… me in a beautiful dress, with a beautiful man, his hand grazing my hip…
My face must be bright red by now. My roommates are still staring at me. “Fine,” I say. “What the hell. I’ll try out too.”