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Bloodthirsty
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Bloodthirsty

4.4 53
by Flynn Meaney
 

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Some vampires are good. Some are evil. Some are faking it to get girls.

Awkward and allergic to the sun, sixteen-year-old Finbar Frame never gets the girl. But when he notices that all the female students at his school are obsessed with a vampire romance novel called Bloodthirsty, Finbar decides to boldly go where no sane guy has gone before-he

Overview

Some vampires are good. Some are evil. Some are faking it to get girls.

Awkward and allergic to the sun, sixteen-year-old Finbar Frame never gets the girl. But when he notices that all the female students at his school are obsessed with a vampire romance novel called Bloodthirsty, Finbar decides to boldly go where no sane guy has gone before-he becomes a vampire, minus the whole blood sucking part.

With his brooding nature and weirdly pale skin, it's surprisingly easy for Finbar to pretend to be paranormal. But, when he meets the one girl who just might like him for who he really is, he discovers that his life as a pseudo-vampire is more complicated than he expected.

This hilarious debut novel is for anyone who believes that sometimes even nice guys-without sharp teeth or sparkly skin— can get the girl.

Editorial Reviews

School Library Journal
Gr 10 Up—Finbar Frame is a shy, awkward, misunderstood 16-year-old who has spent his life in the shadow of his athletic and popular twin brother. He is tired of being seen as a freak and a loser, so when his family moves from Indiana to New York, Finbar decides it is time for a change. He realizes that with his pale skin and wild eyes he possesses many vampire characteristics—even a severe sun allergy. Armed with a new wardrobe, a silver Volvo, big sunglasses, and some attitude, He becomes something he has never been—popular. But he soon finds that being a player is not everything, a lesson he learns the hard way. Bloodthirsty is witty, laugh-at-loud funny, and real. Readers can easily relate to Finbar's trials and tribulations, and his path to self-discovery. This is an original and enjoyable first novel for older teens.—Donna Rosenblum, Floral Park Memorial High School, NY

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780316102148
Publisher:
Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Publication date:
10/05/2010
Pages:
234
Product dimensions:
5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.80(d)
Age Range:
12 - 17 Years

Read an Excerpt

Bloodthirsty


By Meaney, Flynn

Poppy

Copyright © 2010 Meaney, Flynn
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780316102148

chapter 1

“Turn me,” Jenny demanded, looking up at me, her eyes so intense they could have bored me into the brick wall behind me. “Turn me into a vampire.”

Her neck was milky white, like a blank canvas or first-day-of-school looseleaf. The few freckles near her collarbone jumped out at me like targets. Sink your teeth in, they called. Right here. One vein in particular bulged, full to bursting. The jugular. Two years ago I’d been taught about the jugular vein, how it was the largest vein in the body, holding the most blood. My biology teacher hadn’t predicted that the knowledge would grow dangerous in my hands. But it had in the past few months.

I had to admit—the opportunity was perfect. Jenny was a really little person, an entire foot shorter than me, ninety-eight pounds tops. She was not only a weak and easy victim, she was also a willing one.

The setting, too, was tailor-made, the stuff of low-budget horror movies and Mary Shelley novels. Jenny and I were in a dark alley. At her feet were dead leaves, litter, and a mangled pigeon. Aside from a brief flicker of light from three floors up, nothing and no one interrupted us. There were no witnesses.

But I was really, really wishing someone would come along. Lost tourists with Southern accents, pickpockets, whoever. I prayed for someone to interrupt us. I felt insane for having started this whole thing. This whole lie.

I’ve reached several points in my life at which, no matter what I did, I couldn’t win. Here I was again. So, hoping for inspiration, praying for a miracle, I bared my teeth, tilted my head, and nose-dived for her neck…

Wait, hold on. I must be telling this the wrong way. That whole thing made me sound like one of those bad vampires, one of those horror-movie vampires who goes around sniffing out victims, isolating them, and draining them of their blood, turning them into vampires against their will. In reality, in that alleyway I was just as scared as Jenny was—even more unsure. I was actually hopeful that someone would wander in—a cop, a homeless man, a superhero. I was so unsure in that moment because I’d never turned anyone into a vampire before.

Actually, that’s not true. I was the one who turned me into a vampire.

And, actually, I became a vampire under pretty normal circumstances. Not normal like the back-alley bared-neck incident, and not normal like the circumstances in fantasy books or horror films. My wrists weren’t bound by bloody chains. I wasn’t in a basement with the crosses and the windows covered. No one hovered dangerously by my bared throat. No thirsty fangs were at the ready. There were no splintered coffins, no Transylvanian castle, no rabid bats. No one wore a cape. Definitely not me.

I became a vampire in the third car of a train in Westchester County, New York. I was a Catholic schoolboy from the Midwest who was raised on Kool-Aid and overdue library books. And turning myself into a vampire like I did was normal for me, seeing as I’d taught myself how to tie a double Windsor knot, taught myself the lyrics to Tupac Shakur’s “Changes” in Latin, and taught myself that if I wore a double Windsor knot or recited the Latin lyrics to Tupac Shakur’s “Changes” in public, I would get beat up. Okay, those last two may have been taught to me by others, against my will. But becoming a vampire—I chose that.

Characters in books and movies rarely become vampires by choice. They’re usually pinned against a coffin or a castle wall and sucked dry while they writhe in agonizing protest. Becoming a vampire hurts. Or, in my case, is a pain in the ass. To “turn” voluntarily, you’d have to be on the verge of death, or so sick of the pathetic human being you are that you’d throw away your mortality for any kind of change. Looking back, I had definitely reached this brink, this point of desperation and self-disappointment. And now I’m trying to remember how I got there.

Maybe it started with the move to New York.

I grew up in Alexandria, Indiana. Well, I shouldn’t say “grew up.” I lived there until I was sixteen, after which I was hopefully still growing. I was already six-foot-one, but in terms of facial hair, I’m behind the curve, so perhaps I hadn’t reached maturity. Anyway, Alexandria, Indiana. Its claim to fame is being home to the World’s Largest Ball of Paint. What’s a ball of paint, you ask? Fair question. It’s actually a regular-size baseball with more than 21,500 coats of paint. You can check it out on our family Christmas cards from the past twelve years. We pose in front of it every year.

My dad was a regional sales manager for an electronics company. He was like one of those CIA guys who goes to the office and comes home and never speaks of what he does. The only part of his job he brought home was his love of gadgets. This really pisses off my mother, who’s really nervous about things like technology and assumes that anything that plugs into a wall is a carcinogen. Although my dad is clueless, somewhere someone thought he was smart enough to be promoted to a consultant. That’s how he got moved to the New York office. Apparently a consultant is someone who peers over your shoulder as you do your job and tells you how to do it better. I couldn’t picture my dad doing this. My mother, on the other hand…

My brother, Luke, and I had just finished the tenth grade at this Catholic school, St. Luke’s, a few towns over. Luke was a running back on the football team and a point guard on the basketball team. He had played both so well in his sophomore year that the coaches promised he would start as a junior. As for me, I’d been promoted to editor of the literary magazine. Okay, so I’d been promoted from sole contributor to editor. And, okay, the St. Luke’s Lit only had a circulation of five (that would be me, the faculty adviser, my mother, and two anonymous students who had been too embarrassed to include their names in a survey). But “editor of the literary magazine” would look good on my college applications.

But I was pretty sick of St. Luke’s. Despite my powerful position on the Lit, no one really respected me. Especially this kid Johnny Frackas, who was always bugging me. Since everyone called him “Johnny Freckles” (both for his own freckles and for his mother’s full-body freckles, which were the subject of much speculation), he grew embittered and took his anger out on the closest person. Thanks to the school’s obsession with alphabetical order, the closest person was me: Finbar Frame. Every homeroom through ninth grade, Johnny Frackas would hail my arrival in the classroom with “Good morning, Fagbar” and a bout of raucous laughter. In tenth grade, I got upgraded to Admiral Fagbar. In reality, that should have made him a loser, because it was an allusion to Return of the Jedi, but somehow pointing this out didn’t win me any points. And I should have been protected from this torture by my twin brother, who shared my last name and thus should have shared my homeroom. But Luke only showed up in homeroom three times a year, because his football and basketball coaches gave him passes to get him out of everything. I was left to fend for myself.

Monday mornings of sophomore year were the worst. Most guys were starting to get driver’s licenses, girlfriends, and fake IDs that didn’t make store owners laugh in their faces. Other guys now looked forward to the weekends, to house parties and playing beer pong and puking their guts out and kissing girls. (Hopefully not those last two simultaneously, although I’ve heard stories…) None of these things was happening for me, not even the puking.

It wasn’t like I was never invited anywhere. In fact, my brother, Luke, invited me everywhere. Every Friday afternoon, he’d sprint down the long hallway that separated his room from my room and say, “Hey, Sean O’Connor’s brother gave him three cases of beer. All the cans have dents in them, but he Googled it and said that we probably won’t get botulism. Come drink with us!”

Or: “Maddy Keller’s hot sister got back from Sweden and they’re having a party. With Swedish girls. They’re the hottest girls after Brazilian girls. Finn, you gotta come with. It’s gonna be uh-may-zing.”

Or: “Did you see the commercial for that horror movie where that Disney Channel girl shows her boobs? The team is going, come with!” Pause. “But there’s chain saws, bro.”

To my brother, Luke, a ball of energy and optimism, lots of things were uh-may-zing. That’s because every time Luke walked into a room, there was applause and adoration. For Luke, every high school party was like a red-carpet movie premiere, and he was Vince Chase from Entourage. People were fighting to talk to him and ask him questions. Girls were tugging at his clothes and asking for his autograph. Guys were calling out to him with weird nicknames they’d come up with between Gatorade spits on the football field. Everyone was happy to see him.

I could only imagine how guys like… oh, say, Johnny Frackas, would react to me showing up at a party of Swiss girls and adding to the sausage fest. Or how Sean O’Connor would feel if a random nerd showed up to drink one of his precious cans of dented beer. Or how hard they would laugh if they ever saw me try to do a kegstand (Luke made me do a kegstand once when our parents were away, and I’d since been convinced you have to be a Romanian gymnast to perform one). It wasn’t that I didn’t like Swiss girls or horror movies. And it wasn’t like I didn’t like Luke. I liked Luke, but I didn’t want to hang out with those other St. Luke’s assholes.

I would never ever tell Luke that I was worried his friends would be mean to me. First of all, my brother never worried about social interactions, and he wouldn’t understand. Second, Luke took everything literally and might tell people, “Don’t be mean to my brother.” Which would, of course, have the opposite effect.

So sometimes I would give my brother a legitimate excuse, like, “I’m sick of hanging out with the guys from school.”

Sometimes I would go a little more ridiculous and tell Luke very seriously, “Oh, I can’t drink that beer. I’m really scared of botulism.”

Or, about the movie: “I heard that Disney Channel girl is actually a transvestite.”

Or, about the party: “Too bad all the girls in Sweden take vows of celibacy till they’re twenty-five. No, I read it, the government makes them.”

But Luke did not fear botulism, gender confusion, or the challenge of state-enforced abstinence. So off he went and I sat home while other guys racked up months of sexual experience. Every Monday, those guys would come to school looking all disheveled, like they were exhausted from rounding the bases. And every Monday, Johnny Frackas asked me, “Score any ass this weekend, Fagbar?”

Did I snap back with a clever response? Did I use my wit and mastery of words to craft the mother of all Your-Mom jokes? Did I take advantage of the fact that Johnny “Freckles” Frackas was such an easy target? No. Never. Never once. In fact, I never even answered him. I sat there like a wuss, shrugged my skinny wuss shoulders, or pretended to be really interested in my chemistry textbook all of a sudden. I never said a thing. And I really regret it.

So I was obviously glad to leave St. Luke’s and move to New York. It was definitely an ideal time for a transformation—but New York itself didn’t turn me into a vampire.

Maybe the whole transformation started in New York, with that girl on the train. She spotted me the second I got on and beelined for the seat next to mine. Although she was reading a thick paperback book, she was sneaking sideways glances at me every other paragraph. Her eyes took in the raised red patches on my hands and the bandages on my arms. Then she told me she knew what was wrong with me. And she seemed so certain, so understanding, that I agreed with her. Maybe that’s when I decided my life needed to change.

Or maybe the need for transformation started fifteen years and nine months ago, with the fertilization of two very different eggs by two very different sperm. Sorry to bring up my parents’ sex life, but that’s how Luke and I started. My mother released one egg with her enthusiasm and energy, and another with her social anxieties and cheesy sentimentality. My dad released one sperm with his sports skills and his mild likability, and one with his tendency to hole up in his room for an entire weekend. The cool sperm found the cool egg and they hung out together in the cool part of the uterus. The wallflowers got together by default and made me.

The doctors told my mother she was expecting dizygotic twins, more commonly called fraternal twins. Two different sets of genes. Two different kids. One absorbed all of the nutrition and grew round and healthy. The other was malnourished but too sleepy to put up a fight. To this day, the first still has twenty-five pounds on the second.

One of us was named Luke, and one of us was named Finbar. It’s hard to think that my lifelong bad luck wasn’t confirmed by that name choice.

Luke was born into a world full of praise and admiration. And girls. My brother was exiled from the YMCA day camp playground eight times in one summer for being kissed by girls. It was actually unfair. My brother shouldn’t have gotten in trouble; he was the victim. He was the one attacked by girls. He still is, to this day. He was the only sophomore guy at our school who was invited to a prom. This hot Asian girl from All Saints’ Girls School asked him. And believe me, despite the school name, those girls were not all saints. My brother came home with his rented pants on backward.

The differences between us really kicked into gear when we were twelve. Luke came home from a boy-girl party with kids from our parish and announced to our parents that three girls had kissed him that night. Like, kissed him. On the mouth. My mother, who’s a die-hard romantic but also a germaphobe, was torn between horror and curiosity. She solved this dilemma by asking my brother for all the gossipy details while driving him to the doctor for a mononucleosis test.

I also wanted to know more about these kisses (had one been from that girl with the rosary beads and halter top?), but by the time I asked, Luke was distracted by a fervent hunt for Fruit Roll-Ups. Where, you may ask, had I been when all this kissing was going on in the basement of little Mary’s house? I was there. At the same party. But Luke had been in the basement, and I had been upstairs, watching Henry Kim play solitaire. P.S., the only thing more pathetic than playing solitaire at a party, even a seventh-grade party, is watching someone else play solitaire. Plus, I hadn’t even known there was kissing going on in the basement. I always missed all the kissing.

Because telling my parents that I was hanging out alone with another guy while everyone else was kissing girls might have given them the wrong impression, I just shrugged when they asked, “What about you, Finbar?”

It’s not that I’m not interested in girls. Just ask the priest who hears my confession every month. I’m very interested in girls. In fact, I’m interested in girls every morning for about six minutes in the shower. I have the sex drive of Bill Clinton. Even my obsessive love of books may stretch from my overstimulated libido. Specifically, from the children’s librarian at the Alexandria Library. This librarian had really big breasts. Actually, not big. Enormous. Each one was the size of an adult bowling ball. I swear. As a result, from my Once Upon a Potty days onward, I associated reading with all the things the female body represents: comfort, softness, sensuality, motherly bonding, nutrition, a sense of well-being… and boobs.

Because I don’t get out much, in my mind, love and sex are all tangled up in books and movies. I’ve lived vicariously through Heathcliff, Romeo, Rhett Butler, George Clooney, Harrison Ford, and James Bond. From the safety of my bedroom, it’s easy to believe I could be as gallant and brave as any of these old dudes. My mother, too, finds these things in books. Well, not sex. She’s a stringent Catholic. But she loves love stories. Like a bloodhound, she sniffed out that romantic streak I tried to hide. I became her companion, her romantic-comedy buddy, her personal Oprah’s Book Club. Let’s just say I know more about the evolution of Katherine Heigl’s hair color than any man should.

In many ways, the woman ruined me.

My mother’s romantic comedies made me believe girls want guys who are thoughtful, dependable, and romantic. Sure, when the movie starts, the girl’s dating the self-absorbed guy in the Maserati. But slowly she’s drawn to the guy who remembers her favorite flower, picks her up from the costume party where she’s the only one in a costume, and reassures her that her interesting mind makes her far more sexy than her sister, the Playboy model. The whole audience melts when this guy delivers the heartfelt speech of genuine reasons he loves her. His occasional awkwardness and fumbling only make him more dreamy. This is the guy I could be. This is the guy I am.

And yet? High school girls hate me.

Guys who get girls in high school honk their car horns and yell at girls with short skirts; they down tiny hotel bottles of vodka at school dances and work up their nerve as they work their hands up girls’ dresses; they make fun of girls at football games for tucking their jeans into their boots and put girls’ numbers into their phones as “Blonde” because they never asked their names and never cared. Or because they genuinely forgot. That’s how Luke is with girls. That’s why he gets them—and actually, now that we’re talking about girls, it started with one.

So that’s where it started.

Celine.



Continues...

Excerpted from Bloodthirsty by Meaney, Flynn Copyright © 2010 by Meaney, Flynn. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Flynn Meaney lives in Mamaroneck, New York. She is an alumna of the University of Notre Dame and is currently a poetry student in the Hunter College MFA Creative Writing program. Bloodthirsty emerged out of Flynn's broad love of pop culture vampires and her friend Lucila's comment: "Now that vampires are so hot, we can stop tanning." Lucila's observation made Flynn think about how the paranormal craze would benefit the pale and thin teens who would have suffered during the Baywatch years.

Flynn is currently working on her second novel, coming Fall 2011.

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Bloodthirsty 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 53 reviews.
lizardsrule More than 1 year ago
only 2 words can discribe dis book :HA-LARIUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OR if you wanna go with 3 : A-MAZ-ING!!!!! =D
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It was okay....but it did talk about sex alot and this guy trying to change. It was kind of a pathic book. I would not read it again but it gave me a lots of laughs but other times i was just weired out. I love vampires and was hoping for a good book. But really it was bout sex and thus guy trying to become a vimpire so he could have the laides....dumb.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
i <3333 this book. The author really had time to write this book. Its 161 pages but a great read, all the characters she made to have personality, si they won't be easily forgotten. I wish she switctched one of her characters names. Either Kate or Kayla. I kept getting confused but other than that its a good read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
- Midnightrise - 10 moons - femme - apprentise [Bloodmoon] - black with white paws and stormy grey eyes - Badgerfang - [ unknown father ] - currently has some broken ribs - no crush - &#9702 - ask -
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Who wants to have some fun?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
160 pages out of 161. Really liked this book. Laugh out loud and snicker to yourself funny. I think its appealing to any age group as i am over 45 and still loved it. Well written and i could remember myself at this age very easily. Light read at its best, go for it!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Its a lovely book a someone just a little insecure living in the shadow of his brother.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book has all the elements. It is hilarious and well writen and all the charactors are relatable. Great read if you're feeling down.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Great
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Best book ever. I read over and over
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book was SO hilarious and I absolutely loved it! I'm nit a big fan of vampire books, but this has a certain twist to it. Definitely buy it!!! It is an excellent read!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It was good. I like how its different from other books and how there are lil hidden jokes in it. However the ending frustrates me. Finbar sir you chose the wrong girl.
ladysaotome More than 1 year ago
The verdict? I liked it! I really enjoyed the tone of the blurbage on the back of the book and the ironic, laid-back feel that was whitty and fun. The book itself ended up being very different from expected - but in an even better way. The story is told in the first-person (which I normally hate but for once was used to perfection here), by Finbar, but in a very snarky way that is just hilarious. The story begins in the midst of his &quot;vampire&quot; days but he quickly rewinds and explains everything about himself and how he gradually found himself in such a position. Finbar is instantly likable as a teenager who feels like the odd one out - at home, at school. (Who hasn't been there, right?) But he is able to laugh at himself and the situations he finds himself in, some of which are cringe-worthy but end up being so funny, too. His fraternal twin is the quintessential jock, his mother a devout Catholic clean-freak, and his father an x-hockey player, electronic salesman. Finbar finds himself in the unique position of being able to reinvent himself when his family moves from Indiana to New York. Pale skin courtesy of a sun allergy, combined with his social awkwardness (hence aloofness) leads to a mistaken identity as a vampire. And when Fin realizes he can use this to his advantage, he sets about perfecting his vampire attitude and in the process becomes a confident, caring young man. The premise is utterly ridiculous but written in such a way that it is fairly believable and so funny. There's a bit of language in the book, probably fairly tame compared to what teens say in real life, but some of the name-calling by bullies was too much. I felt like the author (who is a woman) tried a little too hard sometimes to stress that Fin was, most definitely, a teenage boy - I could have done with a bit less emphasis on boobs, hot librarians, etc. There is some bullying and Finbar learns to stand up for himself (and others) but there's very little consequence to the bullies. Teenage drinking (and drugs) is also taken as a matter of course, though a twist at the end reveals the possible flip-side to placing too much stock in peer pressure and popularity. Any lessons are implied, with no exposition to what is right or wrong, rather than clearly explained. And sadly, all the adults are fairly clueless - to everything. While a good story, I don't think I'd recommend it to middle-grade readers.
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This was a totally aweme book! I heart vampires!!!!!
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MaryT23 More than 1 year ago
This book is HILARIOUS!! Between The Jacobs and the Slayers and his crazy parents, I laughed my way though this one. Cheesey at time, but totally worth it.
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