Virgin Pie

Maybe it was just the hunger. She clutched at her stomach, which was screaming at her like a bitch in heat, and went back to the kitchen to scrounge up a cup of tea. Not very satisfying, but it would have to do. Filling the stainless steel kettle on the stove, she saw the kitchen table reflected in it, the pantry, and nothing else. No Mr. Vamp body or blood-they'd already evaporated. And . . . no Brittany. It had finally happened, this rite of passage thing. Her reflection was finally, completely gone; she would live forever, probably, but would never see her own face again. It was so unfair. How would she do her makeup? Her hair? She thought of the wrinkly old lady on the bus, heard her wooly, wizened voice like a curse in her brain: Bye bye little girl.

Pity pounced on her a second time-pity for herself. She'd reached vampire maturity and there was no one to share the moment with, no one to congratulate her. She suddenly regretted helping Mr. Vamp; he could have consoled her, maybe. But it was too late to reanimate him. Shit.

And she was still so goddamn hungry!

She took the whining kettle off the burner and brewed her tea. Then she spotted it again: the grocery bag.

Score! Inside was a virgin pie from the gourmet vampire bakery hidden beneath 9th and Main. It was the extra yummy kind, with a ground bone and sugar crust and a layer of spongy marrow meringue-pure junk food, you know. But at least it was made with 100 percent adults, guaranteed. (She always read the labels.)

"No wonder you got so chubby, buster," she scolded to the head, which now resembled a blanched, desiccated prune. Then she pinched her own waist.

Ah, what the hell. She found a big spoon on the counter, opened the plastic lid, and ate the entire thing. ;-)