Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance Read Free

are required to register and receive a free monthly pint of feeding blood instead of biting for it.
    Sounds like a perfect solution, right? Wrong! Many traditional Vampires refuse to drink the government’s synthetic blood . It’s not natural, and not fair to force it on Vampires, they claim. The only other solution is to take the Reds, which suppress your desire and need for blood. Buy real blood on the black market—or just bite for it.
    My ribs are sore from Bao Wang’s abuse. Why does he stalk me so much? It’s not because I’m gay or a Stoner. He beat me because I’m a Goth on the Red pill. I’m not fully human and I’m not fully a Vampire, either. By now, everyone knows that gay people are born gay. It’s not a choice they make. But Goth kids are exploring their Vampire identities. We’re all on the Red pill, fighting our urges to bite, but showing the world that we have a big decision to make—and that’s what frustrates bullies like Bao Wang. He is who he is because his parents cast his genetic dice upon conception. I still hold my dice in my hand. If I stay on the Reds, I can live as a non-Vampire—a Normal. If I choose to stop taking the Reds, I’ll carry on the family legacy as a Vampire.
    Which would you choose?
    I grab my phone and go online to RenRen, where I search for Bao Wang’s profile page. I struggle with reading Chinese, even after three years of studying the language in school. Bao’s photo album is public so I browse through it, sifting through photos of him with his family in China. But then I come across a familiar American face. It’s a Goth kid with a bloody lip and a smirk on his face, flipping his middle finger. I like that photo. I like it so much I download it to my phone and repost it to Facebook.
    The day wasn’t a total loss after all.

    Angel and Weezer show up at my house after nine, both in a peculiar mood. They act as if they’ve been smoking something, but neither of them is a Stoner. Weezer, whose real name is Derek Wincer, got his nickname because he makes a wheezing sound when he laughs, and he laughs often. He’s another Goth struggling with what he’ll be when he grows up. He’s a self-proclaimed anarchist.
    Weezer stumbles in behind Angel, laughing and wheezing. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a wifebeater. “Fuggars it’s cold,” he says.
    “Wear a jacket next time,” Angel says.
    “Not until it snows,” Weezer says. “Darius, what do you got to eat?”
    Weezer pretends to hate everything and he’s always making up his own words, just to confuse people or piss them off. I take the bait. “Fuggars?”
    “Yeah, as in, what you got to eat, mother-fuggar?”
    “Mac and cheese. Why do I always feed you?”
    “Fuggar, please! I’m a starving artist,” Weezer says, as he darts for the kitchen. “Carbs are my best friends.”
    Angel and I head down to the basement where we store our band’s gear. The basement is unfinished, with a low ceiling and exposed pipes. It’s the perfect place for a garage band that doesn’t have an empty garage. I use this space as my room and my personal bat cave, away from my mom and sister.
    Angel takes her seat at the drums and picks her sticks up off the rug. She spins the drumsticks around her fingers. She could’ve been a cheerleader or a baton thrower, but chooses to make music in my basement. How cool is that? I grab my bass and power the amp by flipping a switch with my bare foot.
    “Let’s go, Weezer!” I shout.
    “On my way,” he says from the top of the stairs.
    “Grab your frickin’ guitar,” I call again.
    “Oh, yeah.” He disappears for a few seconds and reappears, bounding down the steps with his guitar case, which is plastered with decals of skulls and his favorite bands: The Misfits, Gene Loves Jezebel and Skinny Puppy, to name a few.
    What most Normals don’t understand about Goths is that we’re not all the same. And our differences are defined by our musical influences. Weezer and I are