“Boo-hoo, Spud. I lost my friends and spent some time in an open grave with a rotting corpse,” I say.
The strobe has stopped, and my eyes gradually adjust to the gloom. We’re in a grand living room with high ceilings, half a dozen mirrors lining the walls, and a large fireplace. In the center is a large, low, circular object. I nudge Mr. Potato Head. “What’s that?”
As if on cue, a couple of spotlights come on to reveal a clear, plastic kids’ pool filled with eighteen inches of green fluid.
“Let’s take a look,” Mr. Potato Head says.
He walks toward the pool, and I clutch at his arm. “Let’s not.”
“Not so brave now, are you, spider?”
“The black widows got all the guts.”
Laughing, he pulls me a few steps closer to the pool until we can see that it’s filled with suspicious white globules and long, twisting fibers.
“Just as I thought,” he says. “Primordial ooze. It’s where we all started.”
There’s a quick movement behind us, and Mr. Potato Head jerks me aside just in time to avoid the long-nailed clutches of another marauding vampire. I give a shriek that sends the vampire reeling.
“Dial it back a little,” Mr. Potato Head says, as the vampire disappears through a doorway. “You nearly blew out my plastic ears.”
One of my false arms is snagged on his oversize fedora, and when he bends to give me better access, he knocks my mask askew.
“Hey, Luisa,” he says, pulling off his hat. “I thought that was you.” It’s Joey Carella, rumpled and grinning.
“So you’re my spud in shining armor,” I say, grinning back at him.
“At your service.” He replaces his hat. “You’ve got a good set of lungs for a spider in distress.”
“She sure does,” Rachel says, coming into the room with Jason in tow. “Izzy and I could hear her three rooms away.”
“You didn’t hurry to my rescue,” I say.
“We had our hands full,” Izzy replies, joining us with a tall, masked executioner.
I introduce Joey to my friends. “And unless I’m much mistaken,” I say, “this is Carson Cota.”
“Great ride at Pimp My Chair,” Joey says, shaking Carson’s hand. “How did you build that motor?”
As the guys launch into an animated discussion, Izzy pulls me aside to whisper, “Who’s the hot potato? He seems familiar.”
“You don’t know he’s hot,” I say.
“I got a look at him before he pulled his hat on,” Rachel says. “He’s hot. And it sounded like you knew him.”
“I’ve served him at the diner,” I say. “He’s a friend of Paz’s.”
Rachel frowns. “You mean he’s a Cocoa grad?”
For the first time I really understand why Grace gets so defensive about comments like that. We are snobs. “No. I mean, yes, he works for Paz, but he also goes to Dunfield.”
Izzy cocks her head to one side. “You like him.”
“Like him? No. Anyway, I’ve sworn off guys. After the run I’ve had, can you blame me?”
“Speaking of which,” Rachel says, “Frankenstein over there looks familiar.”
Another guy has joined Jason, Joey, and Carson. The green makeup and nerdy wig are a clever disguise, but it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Frankenstein wearing cool glasses. It’s Tyler Milano. Having put Arty FB to rest at last, I’m not eager to talk to him now. Fortunately I’m not the one in his sights.
“Carson,” Tyler says, wringing his hand. “That ride got my heart rate up, and I wasn’t even driving.”
“That’s pretty much what Scoop said,” I murmur to the girls.
“So people are quoting him,” Rachel says. “Just like they quote you.”
I need some friends who aren’t always a step ahead of me. They must sense that I almost want Tyler to be Scoop, so I’ll have a reason to hate him. It would be easier than wishing he didn’t hate me.
A well-built demon with ghastly white makeup and red-rimmed eyes claps the executioner on the back. “Hey, Carson. Great ride.”
It’s Mac Landis, and he too is quickly sucked into the discussion of motors and racing. It’s like a black hole.
“Carson is a guy magnet,” I say. “He’s pulled everyone I’ve ever dated out of the woodwork. This is turning into Lu’s Hall of Romantic Horrors.”
There’s a sudden commotion in the doorway as the Wicked Witch of Dunfield blows in with her entourage.
“Speaking of horrors,” Izzy says.
I lower my mask over my face in the hope that Mariah won’t recognize me. She’s wearing a tall, pointy black hat, but that’s her only nod to tradition. In fact, two-thirds of her costume is missing completely. There are black stiletto boots, but the scrap of material that passes for a skirt starts well below her hip bones and ends eight inches later. Her sheer blouse covers only a black lace bra.
“Eek,” she says, looking in my direction. “A cockroach! Someone call an exterminator.”
“I’m a spider,” I say, lifting my mask. “I hope you got a discount for the missing parts of your costume.”
“I hope you got yours for free,” she says. “Because it sucks.”
The big-eared, gray troll glued to her side chuckles. It’s a laugh I’ve heard often, against a background of televised sports. “Russ?” I ask.
He raises a hand, and Mariah smirks. “Oh, that’s right. You two know each other.”
“Sure,” I say. “I think Mac knows Russ, too. Let’s ask him.”
Mariah casts her eye on the group of guys who are still so deep in conversation that they haven’t noticed the change of scenery. “Mac is dead to me,” she says, wrapping an arm around Russ’s waist.
“A little louder,” I suggest. “I don’t think he heard you.”
The Understudies, dressed in matching genie outfits, step forward to flank their leader.
“Are you trying to piss me off, Coconut?” Mariah asks.
“Just making an observation. You’re as transparent as your costume.”
Rachel clutches my stuffed thorax as a signal to cease and desist, but I don’t feel like stopping. I may not be into Mac or Russ anymore, but I’m tired of seeing Mariah sweep any guy I’ve liked off his feet with her broom.
Mariah takes a couple of steps toward me. “You’re lucky I’m a literacy leader, Coconut. Because today I’m going to teach you how to spell dead.”
“Go ahead. You’ve already taught me how to spell witch with a B.”
A gasp travels through her entourage—and mine. Mariah takes two quick steps toward me, and I see a flash of her stiletto boot as it lifts off. There’s a thump in my sternum as the boot connects, and suddenly I am staggering backward, arms pinwheeling. I hit the side of the pool and topple into it.
The green fluid, as it turns out, is not primordial ooze but partially-set lime Jell-O. I know that because I get a mouthful as I go under. Hands immediately grab my arms and lift me out of the pool. I scrunch my eyes to keep out the ooze while someone pats my face dry. When I finally open them, Izzy is scraping Jell-O off me with her robe while Rachel glares at Mariah, who is laughing so hard that her false eyelashes have detached. Russ appears to be trying not to laugh, but the same can’t be said of Mac.
Tyler and Joey are hovering nearby, and judging by their ooze-covered sleeves, they were the ones who pulled me out of the pool.
Reaching over, Joey plucks a few strands from my costume and says, “Spaghetti.” This causes Mac to chortle anew, and Joey adds, “Shut your mouth, Jockstrap.” Surprisingly, Mac does.
Mariah is another matter. Her laughter swells until it’s all I can hear. A wave of fury rolls over me, and I start toward her. Seizing my arms, Rachel and Izzy drag me away.
Several monsters jump us on the way out, but Izzy wields her light saber with such deadly force that we’re on the sidewalk in no time.
Tyler calls after us from the porch. “You guys want to come over to my place? It’s not far from here.
”
“I think Lu wants to go home and shower,” Izzy says, knowing I’m too overcome to speak. “Her shift starts in two hours.”
“She can shower at my place,” he says. “I’ll drive her to work later.”
Rachel answers for me. “That sounds like a great idea, Tyler. We’d love to.”
Mac’s head pops over Jason’s shoulder. “Watch your seats, man. Jell-O is hell on upholstery.”
I don’t even want to ask how he knows that.
Tyler turns onto a side street and drives past several large homes with beautiful landscaping.
I’m perched beside him on the blanket Rachel found in Jason’s trunk. She sent me on alone with Tyler, to follow with Izzy and Carson in Jason’s car. My friends are clearly trying to keep me in the game, but I have never felt less attractive than I do right now. My hair is slick, and the smell of lime fills the car. “Sorry to make you leave early,” I say.
“No worries,” he says. “I’d had enough horror for one day.” He grins at me, and with the green makeup and neck bolts, the effect is somewhat alarming. “Mariah’s a treat, isn’t she?”
“You have no idea,” I say. Still, I’m more annoyed with myself right now. After living with combustible Grace, I know better than to bait people like Mariah. Oddly enough, though, Grace has been mellowing lately, and I seem to be picking up the attitude she’s outgrowing. “Thanks for pulling me out.”
He swings his Honda into the wide driveway of his house, puts the car in park, and turns to me. “My pleasure.”
There’s something in his expression that makes me think all prospect of romance might not be gone after all. I don’t see how anyone could find me appealing in this condition, but Tyler seems to.
“This is a beautiful house,” I say, as an excuse to look away.
Opening his door, he says, “Stay there for a minute.”
He jogs around the hood and opens my door for me. It probably has less to do with chivalry than with his not wanting me to touch the car with sticky fingers. But it’s nice just the same.
“Let me,” he says, and leans across me to release the seat belt. He pauses, his face close to mine. “Can I ask you something?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Does green makeup bother you?”
I laugh. “Nope. Does lime Jell-O bother you?”
“Lime is my favorite flavor,” he says, and kisses me. I’m sort of trapped, but even if I could leave, I wouldn’t.
When he pulls away, I ask, “Why didn’t you call me back?”
“I didn’t think you really wanted me to. I thought you were just grateful that I’d saved you from that loser at the dance.”
“I was grateful. But I really wanted you to call.”
Tyler kisses me again. I close my eyes and forget about everything for a moment. He may look like Frankenstein on the outside, but he’s still Mr. Fantastic on the inside. Maybe I should swear back on to guys and give Arty FB another try. After all, the chances of his being Scoop are slim. Even ruling out freshmen, there must be hundreds of guys who could conceivably write that column. What are my chances of kissing any of them?
Jason has pulled up behind us. “Hey, Tyler,” he calls. “Got her resuscitated?”
“She inhaled a lot of Jell-O,” Tyler says. “But I think she’s going to pull through.”
Tyler’s bathroom is the nicest I’ve ever been in. The shower stall alone is bigger than our entire bathroom. It has glass walls and a huge copper showerhead that sprinkles a gentle mist. And the most amazing thing is that it’s not the family bathroom, but the en suite attached to Tyler’s room. I could totally get used to this. My only complaint is that his products are decidedly masculine. I smell like a cedar forest, but it’s better than lime.
After lingering in the shower, I dry myself with a fluffy white towel and pull my gingham work uniform out of my backpack. Rolling up my spider outfit, I stuff it into a plastic bag for later disposal. There’s no sign of a blow dryer, so I comb out my hair and hope for the best.
Tyler is gone when I step back into his bedroom. I left him checking his e-mails, but he must be downstairs now with the rest of the gang.
Crossing to the desk, I notice a stack of Dunfield Bulletins. Oddly, there are multiple copies of each. I have a stack like that at home. Grace says I’m hoarding them to drag out when I’m old and withered, to relive my glory days.
I can’t imagine why Tyler would keep so many, unless he really is Scoop. Maybe a little judicious investigation could put this matter to rest once and for all.
Nudging the computer mouse, I make the screen saver disappear. It’s not really snooping if I barely touch it. It’s practically an accident.
Another accident takes me to Tyler’s e-mail inbox. And that’s all I really need to do, because my eyes immediately land on a string of e-mails from Mr. Sparling bearing the subject lines, “The Bulletin,”
“Revisions,” or most damning, “Scoop.”
As my hand moves to the mouse for one last accident, Tyler calls, “Lu? Are you all right up there?”
I stand upright so quickly that my head spins. “Coming,” I call. And with that, Lu Perez retires to the stands again, determined to keep a safe distance from the arena of love.
Dan’s Diner is packed with Halloween revelers. It’s always a busy night, and I am always on duty because Grace refuses to work. Halloween is the worst night for tips and manners. When people put on a costume they think it grants them a license to misbehave. I’ve had my butt grabbed more on Halloween than the whole year put together. In fact, I’ve learned to wear shorts under my uniform because some guy dressed as an angel or a nun will inevitably flip my crinoline.
“Where’s your costume?” Dan asks, leaning into the pass-through as I arrive. “You promised to dress as a spider.”
Dan himself has augmented his usual Stetson with chaps, a bandanna, and spurs that jingle when he walks.
“The tarantula came to a bad end,” I say, telling him about the haunted house. “I was going to change into my uniform after you saw the costume anyway. I couldn’t serve very well with eight arms.”
“That Mariah deserves to be lassoed and horsewhipped,” Dan says, “If she ever comes in here—”
“I’ll cast a spell on her,” interrupts Shirley, who is dressed as a real witch in a flowing black dress. A pointy hat sits atop her backcombed hair, tipping perilously to one side, and there’s a very realistic wart on her nose.
I mention that we went to Tyler’s house, skipping the part about my snooping on his computer. That’s something that must stay between my friends and me. Rachel was pretty shocked when I called her after Tyler dropped me off—shocked at what I did, shocked at what I found, and shocked that I was able to hide how I felt while I was still at Tyler’s. Obviously I’ve gained some valuable skills through writing an anonymous column. The old Lu was totally transparent; the new one is a master of obfuscation. Still, I think Tyler suspected something was amiss when he kissed me good-bye. I couldn’t quite rise to the enthusiasm I’d shown earlier.
“You take the mermaids and Abe Lincoln,” Shirley says, handing me a stack of menus. “I’ve got Cleopatra, Elvis, and the swamp monster.”
The rest of the shift passes in a blur, and at midnight I walk out to the bus stop. Someone has already claimed the old, wooden bench, and when I get closer I see that it’s Joey Carella. Like me, he’s traded his costume for his uniform.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me, which makes me wonder if he’s been waiting for me. “You’ve been de-slimed,” he says.
I settle beside him on the bench. “What are you doing here? Didn’t your shift end an hour ago?”
He shrugs. “Buses are slow tonight.”
It’s usually the reverse on Halloween, but I don’t say so.
“Plenty of freaks around, too,” I say. “At least, there were at the diner.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve had better days. There’s a sti
letto mark on my chest.”
He fights a grin and fails. “I don’t suppose you’d care to show it to me?”
“Can’t risk exciting the freaks. What did Mariah do after we left?”
“Danced around as usual and gloated. I didn’t stay long. Someone was covering for me at work.”
There will be even more gloating at school on Monday. “I underestimated Mariah. I didn’t really think she’d follow through.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Either keep a lower profile or bribe Grace to beat her up.”
He laughs. “Was this your first fund-raiser event?”
“I’ve been to a few. But I was surprised to see you there. You don’t seem like the school-spirit type.”
“I’m not. It’s the first year I’ve participated in any school activities, but it’s for a good cause. And a good end: I’d really like the two extra weeks off.”
“I bet you’d just take more shifts. Like I would.”
This sparks a joint lament about how hard it is to work and go to school. It’s a relief to be honest about it for a change. I can’t complain much to Izzy and Rachel because I don’t want them to feel sorry for me, and it’s even harder to talk to my mom.
Joey understands, but I still feel the need to add, “Of course, it could be so much worse. I’m lucky to have what I have.”
He nods. “I know. But it would be nice not to worry sometimes, wouldn’t it?”
That’s it, exactly. I don’t mind wearing Grace’s castoffs, and I actually like working at Dan’s, but it would be nice not to worry—about my mom, our finances, my grades, and everything else.
Joey sees me glance at my worn jacket and reads my mind. “Try wearing your father’s hand-me-downs.” He explains that his mother used to buy clothes for his father that he never wore. They sat untouched for years, and after Joey hit a growth spurt, the clothes started appearing, gift wrapped, at Christmas and birthdays. “I guess Dad didn’t think I’d recognize them,” he concludes. “But it’s hard to forget an acrylic sweater with a snarling wolf on it.”
“Did you wear it?”
“Not that one. A son’s love does have its limits. But I’ve worn some of the other stuff so that he wouldn’t feel bad.”
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