My son opens the red maple door and there she is, her skin almost blindingly white in the evening sun. Doesn’t the sun turn vampires to ash? I have a sudden urge to slam the door shut, locking her out of our life forever.

“Come on in.” My son’s deep voice is shy as he backs out of the doorway, and she steps gracefully across the threshold, her deep purple evening gown barely touching the ground. It perfectly complements her creamy ivory skin and bloodless smile, and I glance down at my own red blouse and wonder again if I should have gotten it a size larger.

“Good evening, Mrs. Gladstone,” she says, and her voice is mint: smooth and icy. I suppress a shudder at her bright teeth and outdated diction and instead twist my face into what I hope is a smile.

“Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” I say, struggling to keep my voice neutral.

“I’ve heard much about you as well,” she says. “All of it good, of course.” She holds her arms behind her back, and, for a second, she looks demure.  I pause, unsure of how to respond.

“You look beautiful,” my son says. I can hear the quiet sincerity in his voice as he tentatively reaches out for her hand. His heartfelt gesture shreds my soul. Where did I go wrong?

It had all started so well. In fact, when my son told me he was taking a girl to prom, I was relieved because I’d been worrying about his solitude. Wasn’t he lonely?

When I was a girl, I was never lonely. I had many friends; who wouldn’t want to be friends with the pretty, rich girl with the perfect parents who loved her and protected her? I want my son to have the same golden adolescence, surrounded by sunny people leading sunny lives, with a sunny mother who loves him and protects him.

So when my son told me about the girl, I conjured visions of a girl in a yellow dress. She was a blonde-haired beauty who would love him for awhile and leave a taste of strawberry chapstick in his mouth. She’d toss aside her glittery golden heels and dance with him, barefooted, on the gym floor. They’d laugh and spin under the cheap paper lanterns that the other parents and I had hung that morning to add just a little romance to the gray-walled gym, and her hazel eyes would sparkle.

“Isn’t that right, Mom?” my son prompts me. I realize that I’m staring into the vampire’s predatory blue eyes: deep, hypnotizing pools. Don’t vampires have black eyes?

“Yes...lovely.” I try on another half-smile that is not successful. My son shoots me a look. I resolve to try not to ruin the night for him. That’s what a good mother would do. “Why don’t you two go into the living room while I finish up dinner?”

When she turns her back, I can almost imagine that she is the girl my son deserves, but as she leans down to whisper something in his ear, I feel a wave of despair wash over me. Please be safe.

After all, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’s a wonderful girl. Even in my head, my words are empty, and I see her eyes again: unblinking, unflinching, blue. I hear a murmur of laughter from the other room and I picture his arm around her, his body heat warming her lifeless skin.

I look at myself in the large, tarnished mirror in the front hall, trying to avoid my thoughts. I am like an apple tree; from a distance I look inviting and fruitful, but close up I am full of gnarls and imperfections. No wonder my son is embarrassed by me.  I pull my lipstick out of my back pocket and add a few touchups. The crimson distracts from the wrinkles forming around my eyes. More minty laughter comes from the living room. I turn to go into the kitchen, desperate to escape the sound of my failure, but as I spin around, my hand catches the side of the mirror and brings it crashing to the new pine floor.

“Mom! Are you alright? What happened?” My son runs through the the archway but stops short at the sea of silver around me.
The vampire did not run with him. “I’m fine.” I wring my hands, the same way my mother used to. “I can be so clumsy sometimes. Don’t worry about me, though. I’ll get this cleaned up after you two leave. You can just go through the back hall into the dining room. Dinner will be ready any second.”

In the kitchen, I pull the broccoli off of the stove undercooked and pour it into a bright orange bowl. My son and her sit uncomfortably at one corner of the long oak table I bought in case we ever had a large group of people over. We never have. As I place the steaming dishes on the table, I catch the furtive glances they throw at each other, and the slight quirks of my son’s mouth that are the beginning of a fit of laughter. What are they laughing about? Is it me?

I plop into my chair with relief. “Dig in.” I attempt another smile, with little success.

“This looks delicious,” she says as she wraps her slender fingers around the lime green serving plate. It looks so clumsy in her grasp; I wonder if I should have used my better china.

I watch her raise a forkful of broccoli to her mouth, expecting some trick. She chews slowly. “It’s very good,” she says, noticing my stare. Don’t vampires drink blood? I quickly turn my attention to my own food, and the dinner proceeds in a silence punctuated by chewing and clinking silverware.

My son finally breaks the silence. “I’m so happy you’re going with me tonight.”

Her smile is radiant and she moves her hand to his knee, gazing at him adoringly. I stand abruptly, and my chair thunks against the wall. “I’ll be right back.”

I return and sit to the terrible music of ripping flesh. She is daintily tearing the pork chop apart with a steak knife. When she catches me staring again, she flashes her teeth. “The pork is delicious. Really tender.”

“Thank you.” More chewing. The sound grates on me, and I find myself unable to swallow. I sit with a mouth full of broccoli and inhale slowly through my nose, gathering resolve. After a few seconds, I manage to force the mass down. Gasping, I ask, “Can I get you anything?”

My son speaks up. “We really should be going, Mom.”

“Of course. Silly me, you’ll be late.”

He rises and holds out a hand to help her up. She takes it confidently, and stands with an ease and grace I envy. I force myself upright, and walk them to the back door.  I watch them go, her arm wrapped around his, and the last rays of the sun surround them like haloes. “Don’t stay out too late. Have fun at the dance.” She turns, smiling at my words, and tugs him onward; I shudder. That smile can only mean one thing: he is hers.

I decide to take a break before clearing the table, hoping to still my nerves. As I sink into the leather chair in the living room, I remember my own senior prom.

I wore a yellow dress, with glittery golden shoes. I was so proud of those shoes; they were my dad’s gift to me: his baby girl. “Now you can dance with the best of them,” he told me, winking.

That night, it seemed like every boy in the gym wanted to dance with me. I danced with all of them, and it made me feel all warm inside, like a peach cobbler fresh from the oven. I don’t remember most of the boys, but I can still see Gerald Ellensen’s face in my mind. He wanted to slow dance with me, so he walked up to the band and asked if they knew “Love Me Tender.” At the time, I thought it was the most romantic thing, dancing to Elvis in the golden glow of paper lanterns.

I decide to start the dishes. I scrub the vampire’s fork in hot water until my hands are raw and try not to think of her lips on the tines, her teeth closing around a piece of succulent pig flesh. As I soak the knives, I idly wonder if a quick thrust would save my son, then push the thought aside. It would take more than a knife to kill a vampire. Why can’t my son see the monster that she is? Am I a bad mother?

An hour later, I have finished washing the dishes. I hum a little tune to myself as I turn out the kitchen lights. “Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go...” I begin to pick up the broken glass in the dim front hall. The porch light swings in the wind;  its light bounces off of pieces of the mirror, sending golden dancers flitting along the walls. I carefully place the shards in a shoebox, careful not to cut my hand on the ragged glass. The light and my singing fail to distract me from the image in my mind: her teeth caress my son’s fragile neck, pulling the heat and the warmth from his soul. In my imagination, he turns to me, eyes dead with broken pleasure. How can I protect him from a fate he embraces?

A shadow falls across the front hall windows, and I freeze. Rising slowly, I gingerly  take one of the larger mirror pieces from the shoebox to use as a weapon. As I creep to the sidelight of the door, I look regretfully at my red clothing. It’s not very well-suited for stealth. I peer through the thin window and sigh in relief when I recognize my son’s tuxedo. Blood drains from my face when I notice the ivory arms wrapped around him and I realize he is not alone on the porch. I throw the door open and there they are, my son and the vampire, lips locked, embracing in the golden pocket of the porch light. They turn to face me, startled.

“Mom, I...” my son begins.

“Get out.” What am I saying? “Leave my son alone. Get out, you horrible thing, get OUT!” The hunger leaves her eyes and she stands blankly, stunned. Her elegance is gone; her skin is gray and clashes terribly with the gown. I think, for a moment, I see tears in her eyes, but I push the thought aside. Vampires don’t cry.

She flees the porch and rushes into the night. My son looks as though he might rush after her, but he turns to me, worried. “Mom, are you alright? Oh my God!”
I follow his eyes down to my hand; it is covered in blood. It takes me a moment to realize that the blood is mine, and I am gripping the piece of mirror much too tightly. My head spins and I feel cold. So, so cold. My son catches me as I fall, and my face presses into his strong, young neck. I feel his heat against my cold, lifeless skin and smell his apple musk cologne, and I am once again warm and young and loved.