Vampire Island by Adele Griffin Page A

elevator. Me, I don’t care for views. I’m more of a burrower.” He demonstrated, clawing into the pavement. Then he spied his tail and started chasing it.
    “Who’s Scrumptilicious?” asked Hudson.
    “Toy poodle.” Sherlock yawned, creating fresh chains of slobber.
    “Did you check out those pink booties Scrump was wearing?” panted Chico, and then he did a flouncy impression. The dogs barked with laughter. Myrtle the corgi laughed so hard, she fell over.
    “Watch it, Myrtle,” said Sherlock, nosing her back onto her feet. “You might look perky, but you’re ninety-one in dog years.”
    “Eighty-four,” snapped Myrtle.
    “Why the long face?” Sherlock asked Hudson.
    “School,” Hudson answered. “Sometimes my differences take up more space than my sameness.”
    “Yeah, we know what that’s like,” said Sherlock.
    “You?” Hudson stared around the pack. “How?”
    “Rrrf, think about it. It’s no picnic walking in one dog pack of seven different breeds,” explained Sherlock. “For example, Bernie’s legs are too short, which slows us all down.”
    “Aw, gimme a break,” said Bernie, who was a dachshund and very self-conscious about his legs. “They get the job done.”
    “And Myrtle’s getting long in the tooth, and Daisy’s missing an eye, and Chico’s a drama queen, and now we’ve got Scrumptilicious,” continued Sherlock, “with her silly name and pink booties. Scrump really lowered our coolness quota.”
    “And you, Sherlock? It’s not like you’re some kinda Best in Show.” Bernie snorted. “Your saliva issues mean a rainy-day forecast every day for the rest of us.”
    Sherlock shook off the insult, sending slobber everywhere. “That’s exactly my point. Admit your differences, and people forgive. A little goodwill goes a long way.”
    Hudson prickled. Admitting was practically the same as apologizing, and apologies made him feel dumb, and he never liked to feel dumb. What if he admit-apologized to the class, and everyone laughed at him? What if they didn’t accept his apology? What if they didn’t give him the Protector respect he deserved? “How do you know if that’ll work?”
    “Trust me,” said Sherlock. “An old hound knows these things.”
    The next day was Friday. All of Mr. Apple’s students’ memoir projects were put up around the room for display. Hudson had assembled his own project with scant enthusiasm. His was the most boring because he hadn’t been able to use his real Old World history or take any photographs. Next to his blah, phony essay, he’d brought in his completed, thawed-out Caspian Sea jigsaw puzzle. Lastly, he had painted a watercolor of his family as seen from an aerial view so they were just little specks.
    Hudson didn’t expect to get a good grade on this project, but in a fruit-vampire-bat hybrid family, it was way more important not to call attention to heritage.
    The girl with the white eyebrows who was from Sweden had brought in a blender and showed the class how to make lingonberry juice. Hudson drank a whole cup and repeated her name so that he was sure he remembered it before he said, “I really like your project, Vendela Sorkin.”
    “Oh, um, thanks, Hudson.” Vendela Sorkin took a cautious step away from him. “And tell your sister I’m bringing my lunch in earth-friendly reusable containers now, okay?”
    Hudson nodded. He didn’t even unplug Vendela’s blender to save energy, though his fingers itched to. Instead, he slowly made his way around the room, praising the projects. It was hard work, and gradually he realized that one nice word for each project was not enough to win the class’s forgiveness.
    One kid, passing by Hudson’s project, whispered very loud, “I vote Hudson’s memoir most recyclable.”
    “Shh,” warned the other kid, “or he’ll send his thug sister to beat you up.”
    Hudson, hearing this, suddenly experienced a terrible burning in his face. He thought this must be blushing—his