Chirp,” Rachel says. “We haven’t even heard
Frankenstein
yet.”
“I want to go home,” I say. “I want to trick-or-treat.” Something feels funny, like they’re all on one team and I’m on the other.
“We have a trick we could show you right here,” a pirate says.
“Hey, good idea,” says a lady with a black witch’s hat. “Do you want to see a trick, Chirp?”
I shake my head, because the only thing I wantis for Rachel to leave this stupid party with me. If we move fast, we can probably trick-or-treat at a few houses before everyone turns their porch lights off.
Mr. Pirate lights up a cigarette. He sucks on it and slowly blows smoke into Miss Witchy’s face. Her eyes are closed. She gulps the smoke in like she’s eating food. Then she opens her eyes and blows a wimpy little ring into the smoky air that’s swirling all around her head. Mr. Sailorman claps, but I think it’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Can we go now?” I ask Rachel.
“We’ll be reading
Frankenstein
really soon,” Miss Witchy says.
“Hang out for a while, Chirp,” Rachel says. “It’s a cool party. We can listen to
Frankenstein
. It’ll be better than trick-or-treating.”
“Much better,” Mr. Sailorman says.
“We can walk home together later,” Rachel says, but I’m already out the door, and I don’t close it like I opened it, carefully, without a sound.
Wham
. I’m not a detective. I’m a girl at a grown-up party on Halloween with only half of a seagull costume on. I go to the kitchen and get my wings from behind the bookshelf. I go to Genevieve’s room and get my mask off of her dresser. Even though the polite thing is to say
Thank you very much for having me
, I don’t feel like talking to the wine-gulping cat woman, so I wave to Genevieve, who’s now dancing with Prince Charming, grab my jacket, and start my around-the-corner-down-Starling-Lane-left-on-Quonset-Neck-Road-right-on-Salt-Marsh-Lane walk home.
It’s cold and dark, and there are hardly any trick-or-treaters still out, only a few older kids with pillowcases and no-good costumes, like just a straw hat or just a blond wig. It’s hard to walk fast when you’re carrying cardboard seagull wings. It’s hard not to think about ghosts and vampires and men with dripping blood when it’s Halloween night and you’re a gull with clipped wings walking home all alone and the moon is glowing green behind a fat cloud. What I really want is to be on Salt Marsh Lane, almost done trick-or-treating, with Rachel next to me and a big bag of loot that I’m schlepping and about to dump out on the living room floor, with Mom and Dad asking me for chocolate and Sugar Babies. If Rachel were here with me instead of at that stupid party, she’d sing
You can’t always get what you waa-ant
, and I’d sing
You can’t always get what you waa-ant
, and we’d sing together to the end of the chorus, finishing with a nice, loud
waaaaahhhh!
and before I knew it I’d be home, instead of on Quonset Neck Road by myself and needing to pee.
It’s not a good night for peeing behind a bush. It’s not a good night for pulling my pants down outside. Mom says it’s important for girls to move through the world with a sense of purpose so that they’re noteasy targets.
Swing your arms. Take up space. Show that you’re a strong girl
. Mrs. Newlon, on the corner, is bringing her pumpkin in off of the porch. I give her a strong wave and a strong shout—“Hello, Mrs. Newlon!”—but I guess she doesn’t hear me, because she closes her door and turns her porch light off.
The Graysons. The Bonazolis. Home. I’m just about home. There are people standing in the road. Joey and his two brothers, lit up by the moonlight.
“What’s up?” Vinnie says, and starts walking toward me. He’s wearing a beat-up leather jacket. He’s got something behind his back.
“What’s shakin’?” Donny says. He’s got something, too. Joey’s following them, looking
Frankenstein
yet.”
“I want to go home,” I say. “I want to trick-or-treat.” Something feels funny, like they’re all on one team and I’m on the other.
“We have a trick we could show you right here,” a pirate says.
“Hey, good idea,” says a lady with a black witch’s hat. “Do you want to see a trick, Chirp?”
I shake my head, because the only thing I wantis for Rachel to leave this stupid party with me. If we move fast, we can probably trick-or-treat at a few houses before everyone turns their porch lights off.
Mr. Pirate lights up a cigarette. He sucks on it and slowly blows smoke into Miss Witchy’s face. Her eyes are closed. She gulps the smoke in like she’s eating food. Then she opens her eyes and blows a wimpy little ring into the smoky air that’s swirling all around her head. Mr. Sailorman claps, but I think it’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Can we go now?” I ask Rachel.
“We’ll be reading
Frankenstein
really soon,” Miss Witchy says.
“Hang out for a while, Chirp,” Rachel says. “It’s a cool party. We can listen to
Frankenstein
. It’ll be better than trick-or-treating.”
“Much better,” Mr. Sailorman says.
“We can walk home together later,” Rachel says, but I’m already out the door, and I don’t close it like I opened it, carefully, without a sound.
Wham
. I’m not a detective. I’m a girl at a grown-up party on Halloween with only half of a seagull costume on. I go to the kitchen and get my wings from behind the bookshelf. I go to Genevieve’s room and get my mask off of her dresser. Even though the polite thing is to say
Thank you very much for having me
, I don’t feel like talking to the wine-gulping cat woman, so I wave to Genevieve, who’s now dancing with Prince Charming, grab my jacket, and start my around-the-corner-down-Starling-Lane-left-on-Quonset-Neck-Road-right-on-Salt-Marsh-Lane walk home.
It’s cold and dark, and there are hardly any trick-or-treaters still out, only a few older kids with pillowcases and no-good costumes, like just a straw hat or just a blond wig. It’s hard to walk fast when you’re carrying cardboard seagull wings. It’s hard not to think about ghosts and vampires and men with dripping blood when it’s Halloween night and you’re a gull with clipped wings walking home all alone and the moon is glowing green behind a fat cloud. What I really want is to be on Salt Marsh Lane, almost done trick-or-treating, with Rachel next to me and a big bag of loot that I’m schlepping and about to dump out on the living room floor, with Mom and Dad asking me for chocolate and Sugar Babies. If Rachel were here with me instead of at that stupid party, she’d sing
You can’t always get what you waa-ant
, and I’d sing
You can’t always get what you waa-ant
, and we’d sing together to the end of the chorus, finishing with a nice, loud
waaaaahhhh!
and before I knew it I’d be home, instead of on Quonset Neck Road by myself and needing to pee.
It’s not a good night for peeing behind a bush. It’s not a good night for pulling my pants down outside. Mom says it’s important for girls to move through the world with a sense of purpose so that they’re noteasy targets.
Swing your arms. Take up space. Show that you’re a strong girl
. Mrs. Newlon, on the corner, is bringing her pumpkin in off of the porch. I give her a strong wave and a strong shout—“Hello, Mrs. Newlon!”—but I guess she doesn’t hear me, because she closes her door and turns her porch light off.
The Graysons. The Bonazolis. Home. I’m just about home. There are people standing in the road. Joey and his two brothers, lit up by the moonlight.
“What’s up?” Vinnie says, and starts walking toward me. He’s wearing a beat-up leather jacket. He’s got something behind his back.
“What’s shakin’?” Donny says. He’s got something, too. Joey’s following them, looking
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