Alexander and I entered the restaurant dressed as usual—or, in our case, unusual—me in my combat boots, pleated rayon skirt, and tri-layered Morbid Monkey tank tops, and Alexander in studded black cargo pants and a Mindfreak T-shirt. Naturally, we got stares from the preppy patrons, as if we had arrived at a cocktail party without an invitation.

My dad was standing at the bar in a white oxford shirt and khakis, his tie loosened, with a soda in one hand. He closed out his tab and came over to us.

"Hello, Alexander," he said, shaking my boyfriend's hand as if they were football players at a coin toss.

"Hi, Mr. Madison," Alexander managed to say.

"Call me Paul," my dad said, patting him on the shoulder.

"Okay…Paul," Alexander mumbled awkwardly.

"Hi, sweetheart," my dad said, hugging me, then greeted my mom with a kiss on the cheek.

"Your table is ready, Mr. Madison," an über-tan college-aged hostess said, holding menus in the shape of cricket bats.

For a moment, I paused. I was proud to have my hippie-turned-conservative parents embrace Alexander's and my unconventional ways. Maybe this meant my mom was finally ready to buy me black fishnet stockings and torn mesh tops instead of J.Crew sweaters. My dad might invite Alexander and me to a Nightshade concert instead of a game of tennis. But they were a long way off from really accepting the situation. I was dying to tell them our secret— that they were about to have dinner with a vampire!

The conservative patrons with their perfect haircuts and impeccably groomed children gazed at us as if Alexander and I were Swamp Thing 1 and Swamp Thing 2. I could see the horror in their crystal blue eyes as they prayed that their coiffed kids wouldn’t grow up and put purple streaks in their blond hair.