Last year, she saw a tiny two-man show called, “Get Up” starring Hunter Stone. She was so enamored by his performance, she raved about him for weeks, telling me he was the future of theater and her new dream was to work alongside him. And then he did the unthinkable…
He joined the cast of a television series about vampires.
Which she now watches religiously.
Even though she didn’t have a television until he joined the cast.
So imagine her excitement when she found out the show, which is wildly popular in the fifteen to twenty-five-year-old female demographic, was putting together a convention for fans to meet their favorite members of the cast.
Actually, don’t imagine it. It included a whole lot of screaming, even more sobs of happiness, and general jumping up and down like the fangirl she is. It wasn’t pretty. But it was so very Celeste.
That was close to nine months ago and she’s slept with the printed tickets under her pillow ever since. I suspect that’s where they are right now.
“I’m so sorry, honey.” I try not to breathe heavy from the exertion of climbing under my kitchen table, trying to see if my squirrel is hanging underneath. He’s still on the loose. “I know how much you were looking forward to this.”
“I know you’re trying to make me feel better about the fact that I’m dying without ever meeting the man I’ve been crushing on for so long, but I don’t think you do know how I feel. Have you ever had your dreams shattered and stomped on while you lie in bed and cough up a lung?”
I would argue that we’ve all experienced our fair share of disappointment, but this is her moment of devastation. I need to be supportive of all the dramatics.
Plus I can’t win if my mind is halfway on my runaway squirrel.
Where the hell is he?
“Where is who?” Celeste’s raspy voice answers what I thought was an unspoken question.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes you did. And the fact that you didn’t even realize it means you’re feeling frazzled. Tell me what’s going on. Take my mind off the worst day of my life.”
If missing a con is the worst day of her life, she’s not doing half bad.
Looking around the room, I’m still halfway trying to figure out if I was a squirrel, where I would hide. “I can’t find Luke.”
Another cough. Another sniffle. “How did you lose him? He’s got the longest, bushiest tail ever. It’s probably sticking out from under the couch now.”
“I already looked there,” I say as I hightail it to my bedroom. “At first I thought he was hiding, but now I bet he’s sleeping somewhere.”
“You’re the only person I know who would get stuck housing a squirrel who has narcolepsy.”
I giggle because she’s not wrong. I’m always finding the animals with the weirdest conditions. When I was a kid I had a three-legged dog. Then I had a rabbit that could only run in circles. Animals with life-altering issues always seem to gravitate my direction.
“At least he’s healthy.” I blow out a breath as I get on all fours to look under my bedroom furniture. If I don’t find him soon, I’m going to be late for work. “Doc saw him yesterday and gave him a clean bill of health.”
A garbled noise comes from the other end of the line, followed by an “ow.” I suspect Celeste was trying to snort a laugh and instead got stuck with air in her clogged nose.
“You just better hope that thing doesn’t turn on you when he realizes he’s an adult, male squirrel and should be outside with the other rodents.”
I roll my eyes as I stand up and walk toward the head of my bed. Maybe he decided to hide under the covers. I suppose it would feel nest like to him.
“If he was going to turn feral, he would have done it by now.” I begin tossing my pillows on the floor. “Animals are smart. Some of them just know they’d never survive in the wild so they adapt to living with humans. Oh here he is!”
My furry friend is sound asleep, just as I suspected.
“Where was he?” Celeste asks, more out of curiosity than concern. She doesn’t get my love of animals. But I don’t get her love of vampires, so we’re even.
“From the awkward position he’s lying in, looks like he fell asleep trying to build a nest under my pillow.”
“Eww. Yuck. He’s on your pillow?” I can hear Celeste gagging, but I’m not sure if it’s in response to Luke’s whereabouts or if throwing up is part of whatever ails her.
Lifting him gently, I cradle him to my chest, balance the phone on my shoulder, and stroke his fur while taking him back to his cage. He doesn’t even stir. “He was not on my pillow, he was under it.”
“Suuuure. It took you three hours to find him. I’m sure he was on top of it, rubbing his little squirrel butt all over it before you found him.”
“Yes,” I deadpan. “Because that’s what they do. Rub their butts on things for fun. You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“Says the woman who lives with a rodent with a medical disability.”
Taking one last quick look to make sure the cage is secure and he has everything he needs while I’m gone, I head toward the door.
“Are you sure you can’t go to that con? You’re sounding awfully sarcastic for someone who claims to be sick.”
“My pending death is making me pissy! Leave me alone!” Yelling is apparently too hard on her lungs because she begins yet another coughing fit. I wait patiently while she catches her breath again.
Actually, I put the phone down on the passenger seat of my Honda Civic while I crank the engine and turn the air on. I can still hear her hacking up a lung, even before the Bluetooth connects, but it won’t hurt her to believe I’m being a patient friend.
Finally, I’ve hit the road, and she’s able to speak again.
“I think I need to go lie down. Sitting doesn’t agree with me,” she croaks, and I’m inclined to agree with her.
“I think that is a very smart idea. Take a nap, and text me when you get up. I wanna make sure you’re not dead.” Taking a right outside of my neighborhood, I head toward Critter Keepers and Wildlife Rescue, where I work with animals I don’t get to take home.
“If you don’t hear from me, tell my sister she owes my funeral a hundred bucks since she never paid me back for that pogo stick she bought.”
The what?
Never mind. I don’t even want to know.
“Will do. Love ya, friend.”
“Back atcha.”
We disconnect and not a moment too soon. I only have seventeen more minutes until I pull into the parking lot for work. That’s seventeen minutes of the new Donna Moreno audiobook.
Hawk Weaver, here I come.
Fingers crossed he doesn’t whistle again.
Chapter 3
Matthew
I’ve always respected women. Actually I hold them in the highest regard. My mom is one of the greatest people I know. She’s selfless and giving, always putting everyone’s needs above her own while still remaining independent and pursuing her own happiness. I’ll even admit to having a small amount of respect for the woman who gave me the greatest gift in the world. I never thought at twenty-two that a single hookup would have me reevaluating every life plan I had, but it did. Too young and immature to be a mother, she sacrificed her relationship with our daughter to pursue her dreams. I cannot imagine not having Calypso in my life, but her loss is my gain, a hundred times over.
My love for my daughter knows no bounds. This is never more evident than by the monstrosity I am currently trying to squeeze my body into. When my daughter begged me to dress up with her for Halloween, I mistakenly assumed we’d collaborate on the costumes. Maybe a pair of Storm Troopers or even a homage to the great duo of Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World. But no.
Instead, my petite little dictator advised me she had the perfect plan for us. I would be the Elsa to her Anna. This shouldn’t have been a surprise since our dog is affectionately named Olaf and she loves to sing the soun
dtrack when she takes a bath. At the top of her tone-deaf lungs. Since I struggle to say no to her when she bats her long lashes at me and sticks out her bottom lip, I folded like a house of cards and am now trying not to tear the fabric as I tug the shimmery sleeve over my biceps. At least the ink on my shoulder is comprised mostly of blues and teals which matches this . . . outfit.
Once I manage to secure the flimsy mesh into place, I take in the horror show that is my reflection. The pink eye makeup that my mom applied thirty minutes ago seems to be brightening as the minutes tick by. Is that even possible? Does makeup grow? And who thought this itchy material was ever a good idea?
The things we do for our children.
“Daddy! You better hurry or everyone will run out of candy!”
Sighing, I pick up the blonde wig from the counter and secure it on top of my head. Nightmares. I’m going to give the kids in the neighborhood nightmares. Exiting my bedroom, I make my way to the living room where my mom is helping Calypso with the final touches to her Anna costume. My baby is growing up before my eyes and I hate that her mother is missing these moments. I know one day she’ll have regrets and find a way to be a more constant fixture in our lives. Until that time, I’ll do all that I can to be enough for her.
“Oh, Daddy,” she sighs, bringing her hands to her chest dramatically. Good grief, it’s time to monitor her screen time a little more closely. “You look so pretty.”
My mom giggles and I shoot her a glare that clearly tells her to leave the comments to herself. Rising from the couch, she pulls her phone from her pocket and motions for us to stand together.
“Grandma we can’t take a picture without Olaf!”
I let out a string of short whistles to call him inside but he never shows his face. In the distance the rumble of thunder fills the air and a gust of cool wind slices through the room.
“Oh dear, you two need to get a move on if you’re going to get some trick-or-treating in before the rain starts. How about if I take a few pictures of you two now, and then we can do more with Olaf when you get back?” Mom asks, and my small sprite sighs in response.
Scooping Calypso up in my arms, I tickle her sides to draw out my favorite sound in the world. Her giggles are contagious, and I laugh alongside her as my mom orders us to settle down and look her way. After a few quick pictures, we’re out the door, leaving my mom to pass out candy for any of our own trick or treaters.
The best part of living in a neighborhood full of kids is the way the families go all out for every occasion. Halloween is no exception with most homes decked out in spider webs, headstones, and spooky music. Since my daughter is not only sassy but fearless, she isn’t swayed in the least by the efforts to make the homes creepy. Trotting up the steps of each house, she belts out her request for tricks or treats with a huge smile on her face.
Her pure joy at the attention we’re getting is worth me wearing a costume I’m pretty certain is made of material I’m allergic to. Calypso is rambling on and on about how much fun she’s having and the millions of candies she has in her pumpkin when a family of five dressed as The Simpsons steps up next to us. Sure. That lucky dad got to wear pants.
Pretend Lisa Simpson glances in Calypso’s bucket and in perfect character tsks her trick-or-treating skills. “I have three trillion pieces,” she quips with a flip of her hand.
“I bet my candies are better. Everyone loves Anna.” I rest my hand on my daughter’s shoulder, a warning to watch her tone, but there’s no stopping a pair of little girls in a battle over candy.
“Well, my sister is too little for candy so I get hers and that’s why I have more.”
“Yeah well, millions are bigger than trillions so there.” Her little hands cross over her chest as best as they can with her pumpkin in her hand. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s more like thirty pieces and a box of raisins, but I’ll let her have her moment. I also make a note to check her math homework more closely.
As I take her hand to cross the street, another rumble of thunder reminds us of the impending storm. Pretend Marge Simpson relays her concern about their animals being afraid of the storm which elicits a shriek of epic proportions from my little faux Anna, literally scaring a fart out of Pretend Bart. Or it was just good timing. Either way, what the hell are they feeding that kid?
“Daddy, what if Olaf is scared? We have to go home.” Her little lip begins to tremble so I kneel down to her eye level and offer her a tentative smile.
“I’m sure he’s fine but we can go home if you want.”
“Excuse me, did you say Olaf?” the Pretend Homer asks.
Standing I nod before his wife interjects. “We saw animal control on the street earlier. Someone said there was a dog running down the street with a snowman costume on. I wasn’t—”
“How long ago was this?” I know it’s rude to cut someone off, but I can’t imagine the level of chaos I’ll be dealing with tonight at bedtime if Olaf is missing.
“Probably about thirty minutes ago? I don’t really know.”
Scooping up Calypso I start walking when I hear the dad shout, “You better hurry, they’re probably closing soon!”
Picking up the pace, I yell, “Thank you!” over my shoulder and take off in a short jog toward the house. When we reach the front door, I wait impatiently for the trio of kids on the porch to move before rushing through the door. Mom looks at me confused as I set Calypso down and whistle for Olaf again. I start rushing through the house calling him while my mom shouts after me.
“Mom, have you seen Olaf?”
“No. I assumed he was hiding from the doorbell and storm. What’s wrong?”
I rush to the kitchen and grab my phone from the charger on the counter and start searching the internet for a telephone number to the local shelter. As the line begins to ring, I turn back to my mom, concern written all over her face.
“Someone said they saw a dog in a snowman costume picked up by Animal Control. Shit—”
“Language,” my mom reminds me as she scoops my visibly distressed daughter up in her arms.
“Sorry. They closed at five. Dangit.”
“What about Critter Keepers and Wildlife Rescue? I think they take animals there too.”
Critter what? Confusion on my face, Mom chuckles and says, “It’s that building down past the high school. They do wonderful things with local wildlife and pet adoptions. Your aunt—”
“Mom! Sorry to shout but I need to see if they have him. What’s it called again?” I start pulling up the search engine on my phone when I note the time. Any business is probably closing within the next twenty minutes.
Picking up my keys and wallet, I turn to tell my mom the plan but she just nods in acknowledgement. I start to walk toward the door when a sweet voice calls me back. Her eyes are sad and the concern for her best friend is written all over her face. I hold my hands out for her and she leaps from my mom into my arms. I hardly hear Mom shouting that she’ll lock up before she leaves as we rush through the garage and to my truck, strapping my now sniffling little girl into her booster seat.
Carefully so I don’t run over any kids, I inch out of the driveway and down the street and hope the storm holds off a little longer and there’s no traffic. Coming to a stop at a light, I look at the clock and send a little prayer up that we make it to our destination before they close. It’s only then that I realize I’m still in costume.
Chapter 4
Carrie
I hate Halloween. Mostly because I’m a weenie and don’t do scary, but also because I think it’s the most pointless holiday.
People spend way too much money on costumes to wear for one night so they can knock on random strangers’ doors, like mine, and beg for candy I spent way too much money buying.
Then the kids all end up on a sugar high, probably puke half of what they ate all over themselves, and the candy and costumes that took so much time and money to pick out are ruined. Exactly what point does all of that serve?
&nb
sp; I’m sure my strong feelings have nothing to do with Old Lady Ghesilin traumatizing my childhood. She lived across the street from my family for the entirety of my elementary school years and always decorated her yard with headstones, creepy mechanical hands that would move on the ground like they were digging their way out of a grave, and let’s not forget the giant, hairy spider. Even the largest huntsman in the outback of Australia has nothing on that thing. I was the smallest in my class, so I just knew it was going to eat me alive.
But of course there was no avoiding the house at trick-or-treat time because some sadistic neighbor kid was always going to triple dog dare you to walk up to her front door. No one wants to lose face over a triple dog dare. Especially when you’re the little one in the bunch.
I can’t be positive, but I think Ghesilin must have found out about the challenge, because as the years went by the house would get scarier and scarier. Eventually you couldn’t just shut your eyes and hope to feel your way back to the road once the challenge was complete. Oh no. You had to do that shit with your eyes wide open. It was almost as if her personal goal was to make me pee in my pants on her front porch.
She may or may not have succeeded in that quest my seventh-grade year when the stuffed scarecrow on her porch was actually her husband sitting really still until I rang the doorbell.
It’s a memory I try not to think about and refuse to discuss.
On a side note, vinegar really does take the urine smell out of clothes.
Instead of putting myself through the misery of my least favorite holiday, I always work until closing on October thirty-first. In the good employee sense, it means I’m a team player. In a personal sense, it means I don’t have to buy any candy and don’t have to suffer through the doorbell ringing eight million times.
Model Behavior Page 3
