“Positive.”
TWENTY-FOUR
About thirty minutes later, Nico shows up at our house in the library’s golf cart, the back row full of pumpkins.
I pat the steering wheel. “Aren’t they going to miss this sweet ride back at the library?”
“Nah. It’s for a good cause.” Nico grins. “Wanna help me unload ’em?”
We haul the pumpkins to the backyard. Poppy is beside herself, literally shivering with excitement. She inspects each one, trying to find the most perfectly round and least marred of the bunch.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” she says, like one long word, when she finds it.
My mom sets up carving tools and a bowl for pumpkin guts on the picnic table. Poppy gets out her sketchbook to revisit her designs. Sequoia grabs a pumpkin and hugs it like it’s one of his stuffed animals.
“This was very sweet of you,” my mom says to Nico. “As you can see, you’ve made two kiddos very happy.” She tries to smooth down Sequoia’s flyaway hair. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem, it was easy. The library has plenty of pumpkins to spare from their Halloween decorations.”
“Well, we are grateful,” my mom says.
I turn to Nico. “Thanks for helping. But you don’t have to stay. I know you want to go to the movies.”
“Juniper, I’ve seen the Halloween movies more times than I can count. I’ll survive.”
“You’re saying you want to carve pumpkins?”
“I’m saying I’d love to carve pumpkins.”
The tip of Poppy’s tongue sticks out of the side of her mouth as she fine-tunes the details of her cat design on her pumpkin before carving. Sequoia is less intense. He’s happy to trace a traditional jack-o’-lantern face for me to cut out, and then he accessorizes it with stickers and glitter and slashes of Sharpie marker to look like a row of stitches.
“It’ll be a monster pumpkin,” he says.
“Ooh,” my mom says. “Frightening.”
Nico knocks his knee against mine under the table. “Which one are you gonna carve?” he asks as I thumb through Poppy’s sketchbook.
“I don’t know. Poppy’s designs are good. There are too many choices.” He leans over my shoulder to check out my sister’s art and a flop of his hair tickles my cheek. I breathe him in and decide I want to bottle the smell of him and spray it on my pillowcase. “What’re you carving?”
“Pennywise. From It.” He holds his pumpkin up for inspection. “Trying to, at least.”
“Didn’t even have to think about it, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Did you read the book and see the movie?”
“I saw Chapter One of the reboot five times.” He shudders like just the thought of it scares him. “What about you?”
I shrug. “I don’t really like scary stuff. Real life is scary enough.”
My mom untangles slimy, wet pumpkin strings from her fingers and tosses them into a bowl. “A natural moisturizer,” she chimes. “Antioxidants. Zinc. I’m going to mix a face mask. Who wants to join me?”
I cringe. Lean into Nico and whisper, “See what I mean?”
“I’ll join,” Poppy says.
“Me too,” says Sequoia.
“Welcome to my weird,” I mutter.
“I like your weird.” He knocks his knee against mine again.
“Good. Because it doesn’t end here.”
My dad collects the pumpkin guts for the compost bin after my mom has fished out all the seeds for roasting and set aside her face mask portion. By the time the sun sets, there’s a bowl of roasted pumpkin seeds on the coffee table and five fantastic pumpkins lined up and lit on our front porch.
Sequoia bounces off the walls, ready for trick-or-treating. We’ve always been allowed to go out and get candy, but we have to drop it off at a collection bin at the fire station that they donate to veterans. Anything that isn’t candy is okay to keep, so Sequoia stakes out houses for stamps and stickers and pennies and bubbles. I’m sure this would lead to a massive meltdown in most households, but when you don’t know another way, I’m not sure you think about it.
My brother is eager to hit the sidewalks as soon as it’s dark out, while Poppy falls back dramatically on the couch, her hands clutching a book.
“I’m too old for trick-or-treating,” she says.
“You can stay home and pass out toothbrushes with us,” my mom tells her.
I feel a prickle in my scalp.
I have to pull my parents aside and tell them about the video I saw at the library. About all the comments. And the anger. It’s not safe for us to welcome trick-or-treaters to our home. In fact, we should blow out the candles of our jack-o’-lanterns and bring them inside. They’ll look just as cute on the back porch. Right?
I ask my mom and dad to follow me to the backyard, where Nico pulls up the video and photos on his phone.
My mom’s eyes well up. “Russ,” she says to my dad, grabbing his arm. “This is awful.”
My dad pushes the phone away. “I’ve seen enough.”
“We can’t have trick-or-treaters,” I say.
My dad nods. “You’re right.”
“Maybe Sequoia shouldn’t go out, either,” my mom says.
My brother will be crushed. I can see the meltdown now. “He’ll be in a costume,” I point out. “Nobody will recognize him.”
“That’s true,” my dad says.
“I’ll break the news to Poppy about the toothbrushes,” my mom says.
My dad takes her hand, and Nico and I follow my parents back into the house.
They’re worried, but they put on their game faces for Sequoia because he’s excited to hit the sidewalks with his treat bag.
I turn to Nico. “Do you want to come with Sequoia and me?”
“Sure.” He grabs his backpack and unzips it.
“What’re you doing? Do you carry an emergency costume in there or something?”
“Nah. Just a sweatshirt.” He pulls a hoodie over his head. I laugh when he turns around and I can read the back of it: BIRTH. MOVIES. DEATH.
“Such a film geek,” I say.
“I try.”
My dad helps Sequoia dress up as a detective from a mystery novel. Dun dun dun. The hat and plastic glasses with a mustache attached make him hard to recognize. It’s also for this reason that, in addition to my usual jeans and sweatshirt, I wear one of my grandma’s Mardi Gras masks when we head out the door. It’s gold, purple, and green, with feathers and ribbons hanging down the right side of my head like a ponytail. The mask is big enough to cover my face from my forehead to my upper lip, making me unrecognizable.
“Be safe,” my mom says.
“We’re trusting you’ll keep an eye on your brother,” my dad says.
“I will.”
I shake my head at the treat bowl my mom had set up by the front door.
“Can you believe they were going to pass out biodegradable bamboo toothbrushes?” I mutter to Nico.
He laughs. “Yep. You’re that house.” He presses his hand to my lower back. Leans in. “It’s a good thing, you know. Saving the planet. Preventing cavities.”
“I know it’s a good thing. It’s just … why do they have to make such a statement all the time? Just because they knew kids would be getting boatloads of candy tonight, they wanted to be the house that reminded them how bad that is. Can’t they just take a night off for once?”
“They are taking a night off, aren’t they?”
“Right. By force.”
Nico shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it’s kind of cool in a way. They’re passionate about what they believe in. How’s that any different than me liking movies and you wanting to get vaccinated?”
I let the words sink in, pondering. I know he’s right. My parents do a lot of good things. Biodegradable bamboo toothbrushes are a good thing. But judging kids for eating candy on Halloween is over the top.
Sequoia yanks at my hand impatiently. “Come on,” he groans.
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We head out the front door and my mom turns out the lights. Our house goes dark. Off-limits. Do not enter. I leave it behind me and walk into the cool evening. It feels good to be outside, caught up in the excited energy echoing underneath the moon and stars. The air smells like fall. Like roasting marshmallows and wet leaves and chimney smoke.
Sequoia pulls me along yet insists he’s big enough to go to the doors of houses on his own. Fine. Getting mixed up in a clump of kids will make him stand out even less.
Nico and I hang back on the sidewalk, trying to stay out of the way of wobbly toddlers and their overzealous parents taking videos on their phones.
“What’d you get?” Nico asks Sequoia after he returns breathless from the first house.
“A peanut butter pumpkin thing.”
“Ooh, the good stuff.” Nico takes a step back. “But keep it away from me. I’m allergic.”
Sequoia shoves the candy into the reusable shopping bag my mom gave him. “You’re allergic to candy?”
“Peanuts.”
“I’m allergic to baths,” Sequoia says.
I laugh. “I think that might be true.”
And before I know it, my brother has raced up to the next house, disappearing into the throng of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Wonder Women.
“Halloween, man.” Nico laughs and shakes his head. “I almost want to be a little kid again.”
“What’s the best costume you ever had?”
He twists his face, thinking. “Zombie.”
“A movie zombie?”
“Is there another kind of zombie?”
Sequoia runs past us to the next house, and we move forward a few more steps.
“Right. Silly question.” I bump his hip with mine. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”
“Oh, man, there are so many good ones. Even the ones that are so bad they’re good.”
“Like?”
“Return of the Living Dead, for instance.” Nico’s voice takes on that excited tone it gets whenever he talks about movies. “The title tricks you into thinking it’s related to Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, of course.”
“Oh, of course.” I look at him and grin. “I mean, I totally assumed it.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Here’s what you sounded like to me.” I make air quotes. “‘Blah blah. Blah blah blah blah.’”
“Harsh.” I’d worry I had actually hurt his feelings if it wasn’t obvious that he was trying not to laugh.
I put my hands up in defense, playing along. “My sincerest apologies. I didn’t mean to offend.”
He sticks his arms out and clomps toward me, letting out a bellow. “Bah ha ha! Zombies don’t get offended.”
“You are such a dork.”
He continues his uneven forward stomp. Grabs for my waist. Presses his fingertips into my hips, electrifying every one of my nerve endings. We’re standing in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, but so what? I fall into him. I slide my mask on top of my head, bury my face in the nape of his neck, and inhale. He is campfire smoke and citrus shampoo. And safety. His skin is soft and warm against my nose. His arms tighten around me, hugging me closer.
“I’m really glad you came to the library,” he says softly in my ear. “Before and today.”
“Me too.”
Kids rustle past us, their plastic pumpkins full of candy bumping our legs. My heart skitters in my chest. All I want is for Nico to kiss me. I wait for it.
But then he pulls back. Squints. “Doesn’t your brother know he’s supposed to skip the houses with the lights off?”
I look over my shoulder to find Sequoia pounding furiously against a darkened front door two houses down.
“Ugh. Obviously not.” I break away from Nico and rush to collect my brother as I pull my mask back on. “Sequoia! Come here!”
He gives me a quick glance and pounds again. I grab his hand and pull him away.
“Stop! I’m trick-or-treating! None of these houses have stickers. It’s all candy.”
“You don’t knock on the doors where the lights are off. They don’t have treats.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You didn’t know. But now you do.”
As we make our way back to the sidewalk, the automatic garage door of the darkened house groans open and a forest-green SUV pulls into the driveway.
“They’re home,” Sequoia shouts, and goes rushing to the car. “Trick or treat!”
Taken aback, the woman presses into the driver’s seat.
“Trick or treat,” Sequoia says again as I scramble up behind him.
The woman sits there silently, almost confused, like she didn’t realize it was Halloween until just now.
“Oh, honey. I don’t have any candy,” she says as she cautiously exits the car.
And then I can’t suck in air.
Because I recognize her immediately.
Baby Kat’s mom.
This town is too small.
She doesn’t look bright and vibrant like she did at Mary’s stand at the farmers market, when she showed off her newborn with the little white bow in her hair. When her baby was tucked tight and safe in a ladybug sling, away from people like me. It was her first time out. I remember her saying that. She’d been nervous. Worried. Maybe deep down she knew.
I take a step back, thankful for my Mardi Gras mask.
“That’s okay. I’ll take pennies or stickers,” my brother says.
“Sequoia!” I’m horrified. “He doesn’t know all the rules,” I tell her.
I turn my brother around by the shoulders.
“No. Wait.” Her voice is thin behind me. I turn back. Stand still in front of her.
I say, “Okay,” even though I really want to leave. Because maybe she recognizes me after all. My voice. My mannerisms. Maybe she wants to grab her husband so he can punch me in the face and wring my neck to get even. So he can leave me in a bloody heap that someone will confuse for gruesome Halloween decor.
But she rummages through her purse instead. Her hands shake. She drops it. Scrambles to pick it up again. She digs around, and I hear keys and spare coins jingling, until she unearths an orange lollipop. She hands it over to Sequoia.
“This is all I have,” she says.
“What do you say?” I ask him.
“Thanks.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I promise to talk to him about skipping the houses with the lights off.”
She sighs. “I don’t like that we’re that house.” She looks at the ground. Shakes her head. “It’s been a rough few weeks. I didn’t have it in me.”
“I understand,” I say.
She looks at me sharply. “Do you, though?”
My face falls, but it’s hidden behind my Mardi Gras mask. I feel like I know everything about her, but she knows nothing about me. To her, I’m anonymous. Just a person in a mask. “I mean…”
She waves her hand. “I’m sorry.” How ironic it is to stand here, listening to Baby Kat’s mom apologize to me when I wish I could apologize to her. “That was so rude of me. I had no right to say that to you.”
“It’s okay.”
“It isn’t.”
But it is. She has every right to go off on me. If she knew who I was, she’d probably have a lot more to say. I study her. The dark circles under her eyes. The way the light has left her face. She’s broken.
I need to go. I steer Sequoia away. I grab the lollipop from my brother, shove it in my pocket, and race to the sidewalk, with him trailing behind me.
“Why the hustle?” Nico says.
“That was Katherine St. Pierre’s mom,” I tell him, taking big strides toward the next house, trying to get away as quickly as I can.
“Oh, man.” He walks faster to keep up with me. “Are you okay?”
“Not really.” Sequoia runs up to another house. I can’t even care where he goes right now, because it won’t be any worse than where h
e just went.
Nico reaches for me and I shake him off. “Juniper.”
I put up my hand. “Don’t.”
Nico looks at me, and his eyes are sad and shiny. “I want to be able to say the right thing, but I don’t know what it is.”
“There’s nothing to say. I have to live with this. But those parents have to live with something far worse because of something my family did.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“No. I want Sequoia to have fun.”
And I do. I’m committed to it. We tromp toward the next house, even though every step feels like a chore. I want to give my brother what I don’t have. A fun night. No worries. Because even with my Mardi Gras mask, I can’t be invisible. Not even to myself.
I know who I am and what I did.
We go house to house for the next hour, and my brother’s candy bag gets heavier and heavier. The weight of it eventually makes him slump to one side. His candy will probably fill the whole donation bin at the fire station.
When he hands his bag to me because he can’t carry it anymore, I say, “I think we’re done.” I turn to Nico. “I really do want to go home now.”
We manage to make it the few blocks back to our house, where Sequoia runs inside to sift through his treats, trying to find the few non-candy items he can keep.
“Thanks for coming with us,” I tell Nico.
“I still had fun,” he says as we stand on the sidewalk in front of my house to say good-bye. “I hope you did, too.”
“It was great until…”
“Yeah.” He kicks at the edge of the grass between the sidewalk and the street. “Wanna try again tomorrow night? There’s a football game. Playa’s in the playoffs.”
“Really?” I do want to go. I want to spend more time with Nico. But I’m also scared of going out in public. Of being recognized.
“I’ve got study group after school. Kickoff’s at five, but I can stop by here a little before. Cool?”
I nod. “Yeah.” Because I’m willing to take the risk for Nico.
But right now, I need a good cry. The tears are already slipping before I’ve shut the door to my room. I throw myself across the bed, and the mini Milky Way bars I swiped from Sequoia’s trick-or-treat bag fall from my sweatshirt pockets and scatter across my quilt, along with the orange lollipop from Baby Kat’s mom.
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