I see second person less as the author telling the reader what she herself is doing than the character internally narrating they own selves.
Like....
TWO
"And that's the other thing," Amy says. "Sunlight. Crosses, stakes, and sunlight, that's all that can hurt us. Today is really overcast but you still can't be sure, so that's why I have these blankets. They're thick, we can walk around under them and be safe. We'll look a little weird, but it's just temporary." Pauses. Makes her voice a little whiner. "Willow, please pay attention."
You don't look up. "What about holy water?" you ask. "Can we cross rivers? If your necklace breaks, will I have to count every little bead?" Now there's an idea. You stop stirring your fingers in the dirt. "Hey, can I break your necklace?"
She makes a little sound of unhappiness.
"Then can we go get new clothes now?" You pick at your sleeve. "You kind of ripped this. And... I don't know. I think I want some different colors."
You remember being pulled into the bushes, on the way to the high school, early morning. You imagine how it might have appeared to any observer: your little kittenish limbs flailing for a moment, her arms tight around your ribs, the desperate shock on your face as she pressed the fangs inexpertly into your throat. It took you a while to die.
You remember waking up. The cool weight of another body on top of yours, someone's tongue against your neck. You'd never admit it, but your first thought was a happy, drowsy *Xander?*. Your second thought was, *This is not my bed.*
Now: your skin is cold. You're sitting under the bower in a neighbor's flower garden, middle of the day, wearing the remnants of your own pink fuzzy sweater. Examining the flowers and listening to Amy talk.
Your throat's still scarred. You can feel it. Rub your fingers over the lines.
You stroke the long stalk of Mrs. Floesen's tulip, slide your fingers down next to the ground and break it off neatly, at the base. Proffer it to Amy, who scoots back imperceptibly. You know she had a crush on you, but really, she should have never chosen a girl who could make her so nervous. You think about telling her this; but you are, after all, sitting in a flower bed with a wooden frame (it's a good thing Mrs. Floesen works mornings), and you're not exactly sure how good Amy is with a makeshift stake.
You think about finding Xander, also. You wonder if Amy'll do him too. You wonder if biting his sweet, pale neck is something you could do yourself.
You maybe think so.
But Amy's looking around, looking like she has some definite ideas about what the two of you are going to do next, and so you don't bring that up. Instead, you look down at the tulip in your hands, consider its smooth green stem, its soft petals. "This is the most poisonous flower in the Western Hemisphere," you tell her. "It's so red. See? That yellow piece is a warning stripe to bees. It says, do not taste this flower or you will be killed. The nectar's so sweet you'll ache when you drink it. It says, if you touch this flower, you will die wanting for more." You show her the velvety petals, the soft red inner parts, then place the tulip's head into your mouth. Sever the stem with your neat, sharp teeth, chew once or twice, and swallow.
She forgets herself, and draws in a quick breath by nothing more than force of habit. "Willow? Is that a lie?"