The Traveling Vampire Show

I was done washing myself, but I decided to keep on showering.

No hurry, I thought.

She’d already had plenty of time to take my jeans out to the garage behind her house, throw them into the washing machine, start the machine, and return to the house. By now, she might be just outside the bathroom door.

On the rim of the tub was a plastic bottle of shampoo. I picked it up, opened it, and poured some of the yellow goo into the palm of my hand.

I’ll be sudsing my hair when she comes in.

I’ll act very surprised.

I won’t have to act, I realized. I really will be surprised. I’ll be shocked.

It would take a miracle to have Slim get in the shower with me.

But she put my hands on her breasts.

Right. And I had an accident like some kind of sex-starved kid.

I am a sex-starved kid.

I rubbed the foamy shampoo into my hair and scalp. The shampoo didn’t smell the same as the soap. Like the soap, however, its aroma reminded me of Slim.

I lathered my hair for a long time, giving Slim plenty of time to show up.

She isn’t going to show up, I finally had to admit.

She’s probably waiting outside the bathroom door—and wondering what’s taking me so long. Maybe she even decided to wait by the washing machine and not come back until my jeans are finished.

I put my head under the hot spray. I spent a fairly long time rinsing away the suds, still hoping for Slim to come in. Finally, I bent down and turned off the water. I rolled the door open. Hanging on to its edge, I leaned out slightly and looked around. The bathroom was aswirl with white steam.

No Slim.

I climbed out of the tub. Dripping, I took a few steps and pulled a pale blue towel off its bar. Slim’s towel. It had to be hers; her mother’s tub was in the master bathroom. The towel was the same powder blue color as Slim’s bikini. The one she was wearing tonight. The one with the top she’d removed in her closet.

Drying myself, I wondered if the towel had been in the wash since the last time she’d used it. I didn’t think so. It seemed clean and fresh, but didn’t smell or feel the way towels do before they’ve been used.

This one had been against Slim, all over.

When I was done drying myself, I wrapped it around my waist and tucked a comer down to hold it in place. It jutted out quite a lot in front, so I didn’t go to the door or call out for Slim.

To pass a little time, I stepped over to the counter. The mirror above it was all fogged up. Even though I couldn’t see myself in the mirror, I combed my hair with a pink comb I found on the counter. Then I sprayed my armpits with Slim’s deodorant. It was Right Guard, and it’s odor reminded me of her.

It seemed that Slim’s special scent was made of many different aromas—her soap, her shampoo, her deodorant. Now those scents were on me. I liked having the same smell as Slim—or almost the same.

She had other aromas, too, at different times. Perfumes. Suntan oil. Foods she’d eaten. Sometimes, she carried outdoor scents: she smelled like wind or rain or grass or sunlight.

The towel was no longer sticking out, so I went to the door.

I expected Slim to be on the other side of it.

She wasn’t.

I stepped out and looked down the hall. Light from her open bedroom door spilled onto the carpet like a yellow fluid.

“Slim?” I called.

No answer came.

Not from her bedroom. Not from downstairs. Not from anywhere.

What if they got her?

The thought made me feel squirmy.

Maybe they were hanging around the house all along, hiding, waiting to get Slim alone….

She’s probably still in the garage, I told myself. Safe and sound. Waiting to take my jeans out of the washer.

I might as well wait in her bedroom, I thought.

As I walked toward the glow from her room, the towel started to come loose. I grabbed it, held it up, and kept on walking—suddenly very aware of being naked except for the towel.

Stepping into the light, turning toward her doorway, I suddenly imagined Slim was waiting for me in her bed. Maybe with a sheet pulled up almost to her shoulders.

Her shoulders bare.

Her face smiling.

That’s why she hadn’t answered when I called out; she didn’t want to ruin the surprise.

Chapter Thirty-four

Wrong.

Slim’s bed was empty. She didn’t seem to be in her room at all.

“Slim?” I asked, just to make sure.

A fluttery feeling in my stomach, I left her room and walked to the head of the stairway.

“Slim!” I called out.

She didn’t answer.

So I trotted down the stairs. Straight ahead of me was the front door. I suddenly imagined it swinging open, Slim’s mother coming into the house and gaping up at me in shock, blurting out, What’re YOU doing here, young man? Where are your clothes?

Something had gone wrong with her overnight plans, and here she was.

It could happen.

Of course, it didn’t.