Me, too. And I’m not altogether sure why.
“My house,” I argue when Nate wants us to hand out candy from his porch. “It’s my first Halloween here.”
“Uh, that might not be such a good idea,” he warns.
“Why?”
“Well, there’s this tradition around here …”
“Oooh, you’re scaring me already.” I pretend to quake. “Forget it, farmer boy.”
“Suit yourself. But you better have some decent candy, see? None of those Nyquil suckers. We like chocolate round these parts, Snickers ’n’ stuff.”
“I got it covered.”
My art project sits proudly on the porch railing, a spicy scent drifting up from the candle I inserted. Two hollowed-out pumpkins, also with candles—Mom’s traditional jack-o’-lantern, and mine more sinister with slanted eyes and a screaming mouth—perch on either side of it.
We drag the glider to the edge of the steps, where we sit and pass out candy to clusters of kids dressed like witches and ghosts and Disney characters. After a time, Nate pops a mini Mounds bar into his mouth, chews, and then states, like he’s been pondering this, “We’ll have fun tomorrow night.”
“I never went to a school dance before,” I confide.
“Why not?”
Simple: because I couldn’t. No dances, no school programs, no plays, nothing. I was too afraid people were watching me, talking about me, possibly following me around with devious intentions. Would they poison my food if I looked the wrong way? Plant a tracking device on me so I could never escape?
I’ve already told Nate so much about me—do I really want to scare him off for good? So I smoothly reply, “Nobody cute ever asked me.”
At that split second, my evil screaming pumpkin flies off the railing and splats on the ground. A dark figure in a sinister mask races through my yard, shrieking, “Can Annaliese come out and play?”
Nate jumps up. “Beat it, you moron!”
The ghoul howls and dashes down the street. I stare, outraged, at the empty space. Why didn’t he pick on Mom’s pumpkin instead?
Nate vaults off the porch steps. “Nice!” He kicks the shattered pumpkin, then hops back up on the porch. “Hey, I forgot. Rumor has it, someone else asked you to Homecoming.”
“Yeah. Dino.” I roll my eyes. “Can no one around here keep their mouths shut?”
“Was it supposed to be a secret?”
“Why? You jealous?”
The glider squeals as he sits back down, much closer to me than he sat before. “Maybe.” The huskiness in his voice transforms my heart into a fluttering moth.
A new group of kids, clearly too old for trick-or-treating, halt in front of us: Leatherface, waving a plastic chainsaw, Michael Myers in his hockey mask, and a Grim Reaper. They stand and stare, saying nothing.
I shake my bowl of candy bars. “No need for violence. I’ve already been warned: no crappy suckers.”
Silence.
“How about a Twix?” I dangle one invitingly.
Nate snickers, joining in. “What’s the capital of Delaware? Who was the last president of the Soviet Union? What is—?”
“—the square root of one thousand, three hundred and seventy-five?” I shout.
Still no answer.
“Weirdos,” I murmur.
“Just wait.”
I do. Eventually Leatherface asks in a spooky voice: “Can Aa-a-ana-liese come out and play?”
“Told ya.” Nate nudges me.
I jump up and plunk down the candy bowl. These dudes are creeping me out! “Why don’t you go harass someone else?” Michael Myers chuckles. “Fine. I’m siccing my dog on you.”
Nate says under his breath, “You don’t have a dog.”
“They don’t know that.” I open the front door, whistle sharply—and screech when a brick crack-lands on the porch, missing me, Nate, and my imaginary dog by inches. “HEY!”
Laughing, the ghouls sprint off, costumes flapping, shoes slapping the sidewalk.
“I’m calling the cops!” I scream. “Willful destruction of property!”
“Don’t bother. Mrs. Gibbons called the cops every Halloween. They never catch ’em.” I stare in disbelief. “I told you, it’s a tradition. People stand outside and ask if Annaliese can come out.” He pulls me down on the glider. “I sort of hoped they’d forget about it this year, seeing as how the old lady’s …” He glances up at the big amber moon. “Dead now.”
I think of that room upstairs, the one with the canopy bed, where, presumably, Annaliese once slept. “They tormented Mrs. Gibbons? After what she went through? You didn’t, did you?”
“If I say yes, would that change your perception of me?”
“I’m not sure I have a perception of you yet.” Other than the fact that I think you’re very, very cute and a whole lot nicer than some people around here. “Losers!” I shout as Nate slides an arm through mine. But now that I know I won’t be slaughtered by a mob of monsters, I laugh outright. “What a hoot! Admit it, Nate. They scared the bejesus out of you, too.”
Nate frowns. “Hoot? Bejesus?”
He deflects my fist. Then, just like in the movies, he leans closer and closer till our lips nearly touch—and whispers to me in the sexiest way imaginable, “Dang, surfer girl. You’re fittin’ in here just fine.”
3 MONTHS + 27 DAYS
Saturday, November 1
Meg and Tasha show up in the morning to take me shopping at Barney’s. It’s so last minute, I doubt I’ll find a thing, and I’m having hideous visions of showing up in Mom’s old prom dress.
“Lacy wanted to come,” Meg says, “but she’s got another migraine and wants to shake it before the game.”
I’m glad Lacy didn’t show. I’m in no mood to be nice to her.
“Chad finally e-mailed her,” Meg adds as we walk toward the square. “He says he’s going to send her a plane ticket to Okinawa.”
“What?” Tasha yelps.
“He wants to marry her. Really! Now she just has to tell her parents.”
“Or elope.”
“She can’t elope to Japan unless she has a passport,” I remind them. “And she needs their permission to get one. To say nothing of getting married.”
“Maybe Japanese laws are different,” Meg says hopefully.
“Who cares, if she can’t get there?”
“Why are you always so negative?”
“I’m not, I …” Fine, forget it. I don’t know how old this Chad dude is, or what the age of consent is, here or Japan. But I suspect he’s in for a buttload of trouble.
We cross the square and walk down Main Street, while Tasha describes the fight she had with Millie. “She pitched a fit! She practically threatened to disown me. But I said, too bad, I’m going to the dance and no way can she stop me.”
Meg pats her back. “Good for you for sticking up for yourself. She pushes you way too hard.”
“Maybe,” Tasha admits halfheartedly. “But, really, she just wants me to be the best. I’m the one who wants to go to the Olympics. My folk have been saving up for it for years. But I’m not missing Homecoming. Now she’s mad as hell.”
We reach Barney’s Consignment Shoppe at the south end of town, between the Lutheran church—Lacy’s dad is the pastor there, Meg informs me; no wonder Lacy’s so nervous about telling her parents she’s pregnant—and the Army Surplus. I roam the cluttered aisles for fifteen minutes, growing more and more desperate. Nothing but halters, spaghetti straps, and plunging necklines!
Then I spot it: black velvet, with long sleeves and a high collar. My friends watch doubtfully as I pull it on over my clothes. Okay, it’s kind of roomy, and too long, and it stinks of mothballs—but other than that, it’s perfect.
I posture in front of the mirror while my friends offer comments:
Meg groans. “It’s ancient. You can’t be serious.”
“What’s that smell?” Tasha fans her nose.
“Didn’t Annie Oakley wear this to a f
uneral once?”
“Yeah. Her own.”
Their hysterics cause some creepy dude in a red bandana to glare at us over a barrel of shoes. Torn, I finger the ruffled collar, soft with age. Do I love it because I love it or because it’ll cover my scar? I stare into the mirror, running my fingertips down the row of pearly buttons. My gray eyes shine back. My black hair blends into the dress. I look … otherworldly. It’s the only word to describe it. “I love it. It’s mine.”
After the elderly clerk, maybe Barney himself, rings up my purchase, Creepy Red Bandana Dude blocks our exit. “You gals gettin’ ready for the shindig tonight?” He reeks of booze and motor oil. “Well, don’t get too friendly with the boys, don’t drink and drive”—drive where?—“and don’t take no chances stirrin’ up old Annaliese, now.”
“We won’t,” Meg says courteously. Then she ducks one way and Tasha ducks the other way, leaving me alone with Creepy Red Bandana Dude.
“Monica Parker’s kid, right?” Recognition sparks in his bloodshot eyes. “Tell’er her old friend Joey Mancini said hey. Joey, from high school. Tell her to come on down and see me sometime.”
Mancini? This drunk, trashy old guy is Dino’s dad? I smile politely, dodge around him, and catch up outside with Tasha and Meg. “Wow, what a freak.”
“Tell me about it.” Tasha fake-shudders as Mr. Mancini stumbles outside. With one long evil leer, he unsteadily heads off. “Weirdo,” she adds, giggling.
“Stop it!” Meg barks.
“What? He didn’t hear me!”
“Not that—this buzzing!” Meg bats at her head. “It’s like a bee flew in my ears.”
“Or maybe a roach,” Tasha says unhelpfully. “I heard they like to do that.”
“It’s not a roach!”
I flash Tasha a look. “Meg, maybe you should go to the emergency room.”
“No! That’ll take hours. I can’t miss the game.” Cupping her ears, she adds irritably, “Come on, let’s go. I’ve got warm-ups in one hour.” She starts off ahead of us, the crisp wind tossing her pale ponytail.
Tasha nudges me. “Something’s not right. I’m worried about her.”
Me, too.
Not being a football fan, I didn’t want to come to this game. Plus it starts at 2:00, the witching hour for my meds. But with Nate marching, the least I could do is show up.
The band crosses the field, playing “Hang on, Sloopy.” Cheerleaders leap, chant, and shriek, threatening the first-row spectators with flying feet and pom-poms. Nate, a big hunk of gorgeous in his scarlet and gold uniform, whacks his drum as the band struts for the sideline. I wave wildly. I doubt he sees me.
Beside me in the stands, Tasha remarks, “I can’t believe Lacy made it.”
Me, either. Only an hour ago, between her migraine and morning sickness, Lacy had her head in a toilet bowl. Now her toes kick to unbelievable heights, and she flips up her pleated skirt every chance she gets. I wonder how much longer she’ll be able to squeeze into that uniform?
Up at the microphone, Mr. Solomon drones a welcome to the Kellersberg Vikings. “And now our own Cecilia Carpenter will sing the National Anthem for us.”
As Cecilia joins him on the platform, a girl behind me yells, “MOO!” I send shut up to her and her hee-hawing friends, then hold my breath and silently cheer Cecilia on.
Cecilia smiles shyly and opens her mouth: “Oh say can you seeee … by the dawn’s early liiight …” Liiight ends with a guttural note, like she needs to hawk up a loogie. “What so proudly we hail …”
Off-key, off-key, oh, she is sooo off-key!
Tasha nudges me. “Oh, man, what’s with her?”
Snickers and snorts abound from the less mature onlookers. Others exchange sympathetic glances. Baffled, I listen as Cecilia bravely continues, and nothing’s in tune, not one single note. The harder she tries, the worse she sounds.
When a rumble rises, Cecilia cuts off. Silent, she teeters at the microphone as the audience—mostly kids, but plenty of parents, too—grows noisier by the moment. I want to scream Shut up! Can’t you see she’s embarrassed?
Finally Mr. Solomon steps forward. He swings his arm around Cecilia and leads her away. She stumbles once, and Moo Girl behind me announces, “Ya know, if she busts through that stage it’s gonna take a crane to pull her out!”
My instinct is to ignore her; Cecilia’s too far away to hear. Besides, she already made it clear she wants nothing to do with me. Why start a fight on her behalf?
Then I think about all Mom’s antibullying lectures.
I remember how I felt when people made fun of me.
So I turn around. It’s Lindsay McCormick, that girl who works in the school office. “You think that’s funny?”
Laughing too hard to answer, Lindsay buries her face into her tank-sized boyfriend.
“Gotta problem?” Tank inquires without malice.
“No, I think you’ve got the problem,” I reply.
As soon as I turn back, Lindsay toes me in my spine. I manage to resist the impulse to rip off her foot—but if she kicks me again, she’ll be very, very sorry.
Halftime. The home team’s ahead. Jared O’Malley scored four touchdowns already.
After ten minutes of cheers, backflips, and flashes of thigh, the squad springs effortlessly into a human pyramid. I remember reading in Time, or maybe Newsweek, that schools all over the country are banning these dangerous stunts. Guess no one in River Hills reads Time or Newsweek.
I don’t see it happen because Lindsay McCormick takes this opportunity to grind her toe into my kidney. I whirl around. “You do that again and I’ll …!”
Just then a collective gasp of horror rises up from the crowded bleachers.
Tripping down from the stands, Tasha and I make it to the sideline in time to hear Meg protest, “I’m okay, I’m okay!” She wrestles away from the burly medics the school keeps on hand for these games, though normally for the players. “I just lost my balance.”
“Lost your balance?” Lacy shouts. “You creamed me!” Although it was Meg who free-fell from the top of the pyramid, it’s Lacy who received the brunt of the impact: bloody knees, a fat lip, and definitely a bruised ego. “We’ve done that stunt a bazillion times! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know! I, I’ve been dizzy lately, and—”
Coach Koenig towers over Meg. The rest of cheerleaders scamper smartly out of the way. “Dizzy? And you didn’t tell me?”
“It comes and goes,” Meg stammers.
The coach puffs out her cheeks. “You had no business performing today and putting everyone at risk. What were you thinking?” Meg stares at the ground. “That’s it. You’re out.”
Meg’s face jerks up. “You can’t kick me out. I’m captain!”
“Well, I say you’re out for the game. And if you don’t bring me a doctor’s note saying you’re fit to perform, you’re out for good.”
“But I’m fine!”
“It’s not fine to lose your balance in the middle of a stunt. You have one week to bring me that note. Got it?” Meg recoils as Coach Koenig blows her whistle. “Anyone who’s hurt, get back here on the double. The rest of you, back in place!”
“You can’t kick me off!” Meg screams.
Lacy springs over to Tasha and me. “Do you believe this? I’m gonna kill her!”
“Just be glad nobody really got hurt,” I snap.
“She was walking funny, right? And when I asked her about it, she’s all, ‘Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine.’ But she kept messing up. Everyone noticed! Then she blows the pyramid. She landed right on me.”
“Those stunts are dangerous,” I say. “People have been paralyzed, even killed.”
Lacy slams me with a murderous look. “Oh, Rinn. Shut up.”
She bounces off after the second whistle blow. As Coach Koenig propels a tearful Meg away, Tasha worries, “I hope Lacy’s okay. I mean, if Meg fell on her …
Right, the baby. I didn’t think of that.
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Because I’m sick of Lindsay McCormick’s foot, and Nate can’t see me from the field, and Tasha finds football as infinitely boring as I do, we mutually agree to ditch the game altogether. Current score: River Hills 33, Kellersberg 0. It’s a no-brainer anyway.
“Wow,” Nate remarks when I open the front door.
The Unquiet Page 10
