by Pat Cummings
“Theo . . . um, I mean, Trace, my man,” Dawoud said with a wink. “Your aunt’s getting dressed; she’ll be down in a minute.” He gave Dallas a pat on the back, and, based on the kiss Dallas planted on Brenda’s cheek, Trace realized that they had all met already.
“Meet my nephews,” Dawoud continued. “I can call ’em Terrence and Jerome ’cause I changed their diapers. But the last time someone called ’em Terry and Jerry we needed bandages and a fire extinguisher, so let me introduce you to Mr. Big Time Trax over there on frosting and his pardner, the Infamous Jinx, on engraving.” Dawoud turned back to the pots on the stove, his shoulders shaking and his head bobbing. He had clearly cracked himself up, but his twin nephews merely sighed.
The two multiplatinum recording artists stopped what they were doing, got up to shake Trace’s hand, and rolled their eyes in the direction of their uncle. Then they returned to slathering gray icing and writing cryptic messages on Auntie Lea’s gravestone cupcakes. Trace shook his head. If he snapped a picture of this scene, it would break Instagram.
“Good to meet you guys,” was all he said. “I’m gonna go get . . . um, get ready for . . . uh . . .” Trace trailed off. It wasn’t like he had a costume. But he could definitely use a minute alone in his room. He still felt pretty weird. Strange. Or what would Presley call it? Pixified? Discombobulated? Rattled? Trace took the stairs to his room two at a time. Any word but rattle.
Maybe he should pull together a costume—at least make it look like he was trying to—Trace stopped cold. Celeste, the petite lead singer of the Vacationers, was leaning over Auntie Lea’s table, strings of beads in her hand, her massive pink Afro framed by a halo of golden light that poured through the bedroom window. Her silver jumpsuit was catching and throwing off flashes of the Technicolor sunset as it unfolded behind her.
Of course there were three of them. Of course he knew that she was part of the group. But he had totally forgotten about her. Clearly, the sight of two celebrities decorating cupcakes in his aunt’s kitchen was as much as his brain had been able to absorb.
“’Ello, sweetness,” the girl purred. “I am Celeste, yes? And you are?” Trace swallowed. Okay. He knew that Trax and Jinx had met her on a vacation in Martinique. He knew that she was the lead vocalist on their song “Rocket.” He even knew from E! News that her first movie, a sci-fi thriller called Qasar, was opening next month. But what was his name?
Celeste studied him, an easy smile spreading across her face. Wobbling slightly on a pair of silver platform heels, she came over to Trace and delivered three kisses to his cheeks: left, right, and left again. The silver jumpsuit, Trace noticed, definitely looked better on her than on Trax and Jinx.
“I, uh, I’m . . . ,” he mumbled. His room was an unholy mess. He had never cleaned up after knocking over Aunt Frenchy’s basket. The bedcovers were sloppily pulled across his bed and his desk was littered with the books and index cards he had been using for his report. The room smelled like old socks and mustard. Not good. Trace glared at Aunt Frenchy’s basket and the strings of beads that Auntie Lea had left all over the table. The girl must think he was a total slob.
“Oh, hey, no,” Celeste said quickly, catching his eye. “Ees okay. Your aunt, she says I can borrow zees jewelry for my costume, yes? You are zinking zat I am a zief?” The girl grinned slyly.
“T . . . Tr . . . Trace,” he coughed out, hoping that what he was actually thinking was not written all over his face. “Um, that’s my name,” he added. “And, no, no, no . . . I wasn’t zinking . . . uh, thinking anything like that.” Trace gave her a smile that he hoped looked charming and confident.
“Ah, well, I leave you now, okay?” Celeste carefully lifted strands of silver and green glass beads that she had chosen over her gigantic wig. “Pli ta, sweetness,” she crooned. “See you later . . . meester Trace.” She blew him a kiss, then closed the door gently behind her.
Trace had wanted privacy. But while he couldn’t put his finger on just what the difference was, after Celeste left, his room felt more empty than private. Being alone usually made him feel stronger and more solid. He was wondering why it now felt like something had gone missing when he noticed that Aunt Frenchy’s basket had been thoroughly picked through; her things were spread all over the table.
Trace collected photo albums that were still on the floor and scooped up handkerchiefs and a fan from the table. None of this stuff would work for any costume that he would ever wear. Shoving everything into the basket, he noticed a corner of folded paper peeking out of a pocket sewn into the lining. He had never rummaged through the basket, had never been the least bit curious about its contents until now. The paper was yellowed and, though folded, thin enough to reveal that there was handwriting on it.
Gingerly, he slipped the paper out and carefully unfolded it. Creases darkened with dust and age crisscrossed the fragile page, and the ink had faded in places. Dearest Charles, it began.
Trace paused. It looked like a love letter: too private and too personal. Reading it would be like sneaking a peek into someone’s diary, and that seemed wrong. He would simply fold it up, put it back in the pocket, and tell Auntie Lea about it later. And he meant to. But something at the bottom of the page caught his eye: a pair of pale, ragged-edged splotches, teardrops that had all but washed away the words written there. Trace read what remained: F_ rgive me, your Me _ iss_ .
Carefully folding the letter, he returned it to the basket. Downstairs, a bass line began thumping and Celeste’s voice came floating up the stairs as she tested the microphone. Trace was making a halfhearted effort to find something, anything, that might work as a costume when there was a soft knock at his door.
“Uhhhhh, lemme guess,” he said, swinging the door open. Good thing that Presley had warned him. “Mr. Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of the telephone, I believe?”
“And so much more,” Ty added, grinning out from behind a confusion of matted gray hair. “Got a minute?” He genuinely looked as though he thought Trace might not let him in.
“Got a leash for that thing?” Trace laughed.
With one tug, Tiberius pulled off the wig, mustache, and beard he had been wearing. “My own puh . . . puh . . . creation,” he said proudly, sputtering to shake off the loose hairs that were clinging to his lips. “Made it myself, all one piece, see? Fits like a ski mask.”
“Brilliant,” Trace conceded. “Glad you could make it, man.”
Downstairs, the doorbell rang repeatedly. Auntie Lea’s voice, her laughter, rang out above Celeste’s random notes. The party was starting.
“Yeah, well . . . I wanted to talk to you about, well, that whole thing at the library, you know, with . . . ,” Ty said, screwing up his face. He ran a hand through his spiky black hair, then scratched his chin. “That thing itches like crazy,” he said, laughing.
Trace only smiled.
“So, I was pretty pissed, okay? I thought you had bailed on me. Kali went total diva the nanosecond you were late, like we had some fiendish plan to waste her Saturday. She performed. Seriously. Like she was auditioning for a reality show, man. And Little Miss Pippi Longstocking? Geesh.” Ty shook his head, his shoulders shuddering at the memory.
“Do not go into a library with her, okay? Ever. I knew that Kali could be explosive. I mean, she might rip into anyone handy, but Presley? Geeeesh, I mean . . . that girl hyperventilates words.” Ty looked wild-eyed, as though he was reliving being tortured by enemy combatants. “Man. I thought you were just leaving me there with those . . . those . . .” Ty trailed off. “Those girls.”
Trace nodded. He had thought Presley had been exaggerating about that scene in the library. But now Trace really understood just how awkward and uncomfortable Ty must have felt. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” he could hear his dad say. Trace bit his lip, sparing Ty that piece of wisdom. Technically, Kali and Presley weren’t killers.
“No sweat, man,” he said, softly landing a punch on Ty’s shoulder. “We’re cool.
Those two could make Gandhi curse, you know?” Trace laughed at the thought. “But check it out . . . they may each be on their own planets, but the nanosecond you took charge, they both chilled out. Least, you looked like the man with the plan when we met after class.” Trace studied his friend’s face. “You really stepped up, man. For real.”
“Yeah, well . . . ,” Ty said, smiling shyly. “Gotta stick to the Prime Directive when dealing with alien life-forms, right?” He flashed Spock’s hand signal for “live long and prosper.” They were good.
“A’ight, then.” Trace said. “Now, will you wrestle that hair-hat of yours back on, please? We’ve got a party to go to.”
22
Trace’s party history was pretty lightweight. He had wet his pants at his third birthday party when a clown, red-lipped with blacked-out teeth, burst into the dining room. On his tenth birthday, most of the kids he had invited went to Ollie Scheiner’s party at the National Aquarium instead. Ollie had promised everyone that they would get to pet a killer whale. Even Trace had wanted to go. But his birthday cake had been ordered and his dad, clueless about what they were up against, had actually set out bowls of Goldfish for the three kids who did show up. Unless and until Ollie Scheiner left town, Trace had sworn off birthday parties. Other than that, the only parties at his house that he remembered were the ones his mom had given for her book club . . . and those were not remotely party-like.
Auntie Lea’s party, Trace noted as they hit the bottom steps, was a whole other animal. A pulse seemed to be rippling through the apartment, and costumed bodies were bobbing to the music that thumped out of the front room.
“Ya said ya loved me, ya’d never leave me . . . and I believed ya, but ya li-li-lied. Ya called me ‘Baby,’ ya told me maybe . . . and I believed ya, but ya li-li-lied.” Ty was grinning so widely that the edges of his beard and mustache had abandoned their position and were flapping to the beat of the music as he nodded. Trace watched in amazement as his friend turned sharply to follow his nose toward the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. The new, take-charge Ty was singing “You li-li-lied” as his bobbing gray wig disappeared between a mermaid and a pharaoh.
The hallway was packed. Bathed in wavering orange light from above, the small crowd before him, in their masks and helmets, fur and feathers, took on a fairy-tale quality. The line If you go out in the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise popped into his mind. What was the name of that bedtime song? It had always given him chills.
Easing his way into the front room, Trace found a spot against the wall from which he could observe but stay out of the fray. “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic.” That was it. And it did feel like he had stumbled upon a scene in some strange woods. No dunking for apples or candy-corn-filled gift bags at this Halloween party. Auntie Lea was in a black catsuit, polka-dotted with glittery white spots that seemed to form constellations: yep, she had fit both the Big and Little Dipper across her back. She was dancing with Dallas, who still wore the faded denim shirt and pants that he’d had on earlier. Both of them sported headbands: a row of silver stars for Auntie Lea and a wobbling yellow Styrofoam ball atop Dallas’s head. Trace grimaced. Was he a wounded bee? A Martian? Then it hit him: Night and Day. Got it. Cute.
A photographer’s lamp had been hooked up to give the Vacationers a spotlight and Celeste was up on a milk crate, her pink Afro undulating with every beat of the song. She was stomping in her silver platform shoes on the tiny surface of the box like she was onstage at the Barclays Center. She looked happy. Trace felt himself smiling, nodding, and moving with the music. Celeste looked his way and—was that a wink? Trace laughed. This was crazy.
If he had to record what happened next or when or where or who did or said what, he would never be able to do it. Before his eyes, the night was blurring into a steady drone of music and voices, the air becoming liquid. The whole place was humming. One minute, he was in the kitchen with Ty, popping sweet potato fritters into his mouth and gulping orange-colored lemonade, and the next he was being pulled back toward the music by Angel. She had arrived wearing small silk wings, of course, and a halo that kept slipping to the side of her head. Roman came as a ninja, wearing all black and looking very mysterious. They had brought along their neighbor, Rico, who was eleven or twelve at most and claimed to be a Minion. But there was not a speck of yellow on him.
And then Trace was dancing. The floorboards seemed to dip as the entire room bounced to the music. Angel was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t hear her until she leaned in to yell, “I think Rico’s in love!” Raising her hands over her head, she pumped the air and shouted out the refrain that Trax and Jinx were singing: “Drop it! Drop it! Gotta drop it! You can’t stop it, you can’t top it. Better drop it.”
Trace turned to look. Rico was grinning giddily as he spun, then tried to dip his dance partner: none other than Abe Lincoln herself. The deep plunge sent Presley’s stovepipe hat soundlessly to the floor, and she scooped it up before it could get trampled. Her face was glowing and she was one eyebrow short of a pair. Trace grinned. Across the room, Ty was giggling with a tall girl dressed as a rabbit. He had ditched his wig and, as far as Trace could tell, was either having a seizure or dancing. Trace laughed out loud.
Vesper and Talia danced by, each wearing glitter in their hair and hula skirts, and each attached to guys Trace had never met. The doorbell rang periodically and new faces arrived. The room filled up, the room thinned out. Following the scent of fried chicken, Trace wove his way into the kitchen, only to interrupt a cupcake moment between Presley and Rico. He listened to them chattering away for a few minutes until she paused, looked at him like the eavesdropper he was, and said dismissively, “Oh, hello, Trace.”
He headed back to the music, shaking his head in wonder. Presley Jackson had not uttered one big word while talking to Rico. And now Ty was slow dancing with the rabbit. This was a weird night. And then, no encouragement needed, he was dancing again. With Brenda, with Vesper, with Brenda again. And singing! He actually heard himself singing out loud along with everyone else in the room. Possibly everyone on the block. In fact, he felt that if he threw open the front door, all of Brooklyn might be singing tonight.
Suddenly, the song ended and there were arms around his shoulders. Auntie Lea, attacking from behind, planted a kiss on his cheek. “Happy Halloween, kiddo. Having fun?” she whispered in his ear.
Trace nodded, surprised to find that he was. He really was. Everyone in the room began chanting “Rocket! Rocket! Rocket!” as if on cue. He wanted to thank Auntie Lea, to tell her how good this all was, how cool her friends were. But just as he turned toward her, his name came blasting out of the speakers.
“Trace, mon! Get on up ’ere!” Celeste commanded. Flanking her, Trax and Jinx were nodding and pointing at him. The chanting in the room changed to “Trace! Trace! Trace!” Auntie Lea gave him the gentlest of pushes and, as though he was being carried by the sound waves themselves, by the hands squeezing his shoulders and patting his back, he was propelled toward the spotlight. He knew he should be embarrassed, but he felt too good. Celeste, with the mike in one hand, swung an arm over his shoulder and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Trace turned to face the room, hamming it up a bit by shaking as though he had just been struck by a bolt of lightning.
“Meester Trace ees going to ’elp us out ’ere with zee last song of the night,” Celeste crooned, pouting prettily at the crowd. Trax ran his fingers over the keyboard and the opening notes to “Rocket” detonated. Anyone who had been in the kitchen was now jockeying for a spot in the doorway. “You got zis,” Celeste whispered in his ear, holding the mike so they could share it.
And then he was leaning in, cheek to cheek with Celeste, singing for all he was worth, matching her note for note, falling back when Trax and Jinx began the refrain, then leaping in to belt out, “. . . rocket, rocket, rocket!” It was insane. It was sweet. And Trace was pretty sure this was as cool as he would ever feel in his entire life. He looked out ov
er the crowd and the whole room was singing. With him. Dallas stood behind Auntie Lea, holding her and rocking to the music. Angel was dancing with her dad, fists pumping the air. Presley and Ty and Rico were together, jumping like tadpoles and cracking themselves up.
And then it was just him and Celeste, their voices pouring out of the speakers: “You threw me over, said you didn’t want me hangin’ around. I lost my way to the stars, but look at the love I just found. You’re too late, baby, too over, too, too earthbound. Can’t hold this rocket, rocket, rocket.”
Now Trax and Jinx were singing with them. “’Cause I’m a rocket, rocket, rocket . . .” Trace looked up. Kali was standing stock-still in the doorway, probably the only person in the room who wasn’t dancing. So she had come. And she was staring at him like he had been dipped in gold. This, Trace thought, must be how it felt to be onstage . . . like everyone was in love with you. Kali was smiling at him now, a bigger, warmer smile than he had ever expected to see from her.
“’Cause I’m a rocket!” the Vacationers blasted. The crescendo that Trax struck on the piano made it clear that the song was over. Celeste hugged him, made him take a bow, and then kissed him full on the lips. Trace did not have to pretend to be electrified as he stumbled into the crowd.
“Merci, gracias, danke, bon nuit, mes chères!” Celeste sang into the mike, then added, “Good night and ’appy ’alloween!” Trax and Jinx had already collapsed the keyboard, and Dawoud was helping them round up the different instruments they had brought.
As Trace worked his way across the room, Presley and Ty clapped him on the back, whooping and congratulating him loudly. Auntie Lea, perched on the arm of the couch, blew him a kiss, and Dallas gave him a thumbs-up. Ahead of him, Kali was working her way straight toward him, smiling coyly. But just as she opened her mouth to say something, Angel filled the space between them and threw her arms around his neck.
