Free Night of the Living Dandelion by Kate Collins Page A

the floral arrangement I’d started earlier when Tara and her friends Jamie and Crystal came darting through the curtain in breathless excitement. “Have you heard about the Most Hunkable Vlad abducting a mortal?” Tara asked as her friends climbed on stools.
    “Hunkable?” I asked.
    “That’s Aunt Jillian’s word,” Tara explained. “It’s a mix of hunky and adorable .”
    I should have known. “Tara, Vlad didn’t abduct anyone. Someone is spreading false rumors about him again.”
    “It’s those crazy vigilantes,” Crystal said.
    “So we formed a girl posse to protect his MHVness,” Jamie said proudly.
    All three girls removed their coats to show me their black T-shirts with WE ❤ VLAD inked on the back in puffy, heartshaped red letters, with their Web site URL beneath. Then they held out their hands to show me their black nail polish. “We’ve got black lipstick and eye shadow, too,” Jamie said, “but we’re not allowed to wear it at school.”
    “Aunt Jillian said the Garlic Party believes dressing Goth means we’ve gone to the dark side,” Tara said. “So to show our support of Vlad, we’ve gone Goth.”
    “What do your parents think about that?” I asked.
    The girls glanced at each other; then Tara said, “They’re fine with it.”
    Right.
    “We’re not going to let any vigilantes harm one hair on MHV’s head,” Crystal declared, proving that even young teens were susceptible to his charm.
    “Where did you hear about the Garlic Party?” I asked.
    “Someone posted it on Facebook first,” Tara replied. “Then everyone was tweeting about it, so I asked Aunt Jillian. She’s a vampire expert. She’s read every vampire book out there.”
    “That’s noble of you to want to help Vlad,” I said, “but you can’t stay out all night.”
    “Some of the girls in the posse are older,” Jamie said, “and they’ve volunteered to take over for us at nine o’clock.”
    “We’re going to form a human chain around almost-Uncle Marco’s bar,” Tara said.
    “No one will get to Vlad unless they go through us.”
    “Exactly how many girls are in this posse?” I asked.
    “Six”—Tara stopped to count in her head—“seven dozen.”
    “Seven dozen girls?” I was stunned. “There aren’t that many girls in the entire middle school. Did you have to import them from Maraville?”
    “Okay, not seven dozen,” Tara said. “But a lot. You can do just about anything using Facebook and Twitter.”
    Tara’s phone chirped. She read the message, then motioned for her friends to follow. “Time for action.”
    “Tara, what about the family dinner tonight?” I asked.
    Tara made a face. “Bor- ing . Nothing ever happens at those dinners.”
    Wait until next week, I wanted to say. Things would be happening then.
    “Tara,” I called, wheeling after the girls, “do your parents know what you’re planning?”
    She glanced back at me and put her fingers to her lips.
    “Tara!” I called. “You have to tell them!” But the girls slipped out the door faster than I could get through the shop without tearing down the doorframe on my way.
    I rolled to the bay window and watched as Tara and her friends joined with more girls in Goth clothing and headed up the sidewalk. The crowds across the street watched curiously as at least three dozen girls formed a semicircle around the front of Marco’s bar.
    A news van pulled to a stop across the street, and a reporter and cameraman from the local cable channel got out and walked toward them. Uh-oh. Tara was going to be on the evening news. If my brother and sister-in-law didn’t know what Tara was up to, they would shortly.
    My phone rang again. I checked the caller ID, then answered. “Yes, Marco, I know what Tara and her friends are doing, and I’m sorry about it, but it wasn’t my idea. If you don’t want the girls there, tell them to go away.”
    “I appreciate that, Abby, but it wasn’t why I phoned. Have you had any harassing calls