Chapter 01

night into a dream

Clark Woodford is speaking to me.

Outside of school. Without any reason to.

I might be having a heart attack.

I hope Jake remembers what I want on my headstone:

Gale Maxwell Hoffman

2/4/2001 – 10/31/2019

too gay to function

Sometimes I wish there were more than one grocery in town.

---

My town goes all out for Halloween.

Maybe it has something to do with being surrounded on three compass points by a forest, and on the fourth by a river.

Maybe it’s more about the local legend that the place was founded by a real life witch who spent the last of her power to protect the town from any nefarious, otherworldly invaders.

(Now, did she mean extraterrestrials? Foreigners? Something else entirely? Well, that answer changes depending on whom you ask.)

Maybe it’s that other places around the county do every other major holiday bigger, bolder, and better than we can, but we’ve got local legend on our side, plus a long, unbroken streak of years spent perfecting the pageantry.

It isn’t exactly frowned upon to not dress up for Halloween, but because our welcome sign boasts that we’re ‘the town that Halloween built’ (though, of course, my mom remembers when that sign first went up, so it hasn’t always been known as that), it’s pretty uncommon to get any of the crowd who claim that Halloween is… the devil’s birthday, or a slippery slope to becoming evil, damned pagans, or… whatever.

Most people who don’t like Halloween don’t even pass through, since, well, we’re a detour. A dead end. You have to go through the next town to get to any state routes, highways, freeways, or even a road with more than two lanes: one going this way, one going that way.

The nearest 24-hour anything is in the next town, along with the nearest movie theatre, the nearest major chain restaurant, the nearest hospital… And due to geography, we can’t exactly sprawl out and expand our town limits. Only so far you can go before you have to start chopping down trees or building on the far side of the river, and everyone in Hallodale knows that everyone else in Hallodale would object strongly to such ideas.

On the plus side, Hallodale was originally founded and zoned for farmland, most of which has become cute, suburban neighborhoods. There are a few apartment buildings, but nothing over three floors tall. And we have a hobby shop ampersand comic book store, so that’s something.

Needless to say, the nightlife around here is pretty much, horror pun intended, dead. Except for about a week surrounding Halloween: what we call Witching Week.

The shops around the town center only stay open later than about eight in the evening during Witching Week. Every year, from the twenty-eighth of October through the third of November, shops are open from around four in the morning until midnight or one o’clock.

High schoolers are often hired on for Witching Week because the schools treat it as a holiday, and, if a new hire does well, they’re kept on for the Holiday season. That was how I got my first job as a busser at a diner called Fran’s. For most of the people who live here, Fran’s is about as international as you can get. Kids make jokes about wanting to take someone to France—sorry, Fran’s.

But we can practice some french kissing if you want!

Haw, ha-ha, hee hoo.

Yeah, not a lot of highbrow humor when it comes to small-town teenagers with limited options.

Witching Week is full of local culture stuff: a play the elementary school puts on in town hall about Hallodale’s founding; booths and stands around the town center that sell handmade trinkets or specialty foods, like a farmer’s market on steroids; tailors setting up shop to alter whatever you need for your costume; makeup artists and hairstylists working commissions; menus changing to have themed names and, maybe, occasionally, a genuinely new dish or two; and so on.

The biggest Witching Week event is, naturally, on Halloween: a town-wide celebration that starts at sundown and ends generally around sunrise, if you’re willing to stay out that long.

Once the shadows of the forest start skirting across the river, people start gathering in the town center. When the tops of the trees are no longer lit by direct sunlight, the bonfire is lit. And, on the occasions when the sun is completely hidden by storm clouds, we use apps. Ah, the wonders of technology. I don’t know how things worked before reliable sunset calculators, but I don’t really care, either.

Aside from the play, no one really dresses up until the thirty-first. And that’s the one day of the year when the people you would usually recognize from seeing them in the grocer’s or at the library or walking their dog in the park become practical strangers.

Halloween is the one day that our little town, where everyone seems to know everyone else, or at least knows someone who knows them, feels like something much bigger than it really is.

Then, of course, there’s the people who visit for Halloween. Mostly, anyone who used to live here or are friends or family of someone who moved here will show up a day or two beforehand, set up camp or stay with a friend or get a room at the inn, and leave the morning after the bonfire. They’re the ones in the know. Like the people who know what they’re talking about when they tell you how to avoid the longest lines at Disneyland.

The ones who don’t know the secret are the folks from nearby towns who will drive in for the bonfire only, arriving a little before sundown and leaving around midnight, or early the next morning at the latest. Locals with extra space can make some money by selling parking for a few dollars, since the library and town hall parking lots fill up so quickly, sometimes a day or two in advance.

The few days after the bonfire, after the visitors who didn’t have any connections beforehand are gone, are when folks reconnect, when friendships and relationships born under guise and in costume are revealed to the light of day and responsibility and reputation. It’s also, consequently, the peak of gossip spreading.

And wouldn’t you know it? These gossipping old biddies, bless their crocheted tea cozies, absolutely love to dish the dirt to anyone who will listen. Including the grocery baggers, table bussers, hairstylists, makeup artists, tailors…

Did you hear that…

…Sandre James—you know, Anthony’s widow (bless his soul)—was seen going home with Charles Delamonte? I wonder what’s happening there. Ever since Mariella—you know, Charlie’s youngest daughter?—well, ever since she went away for college, he’s been acting like quite the peacock around town.

…Someone saw the sheriff laying into the fire chief? Saying something that sounded to them—the someone who saw it? Not me, of course, but a reliable source—sounded to them like the chief had been carousing with the sheriff’s wife, and things got a bit hot, if you follow my meaning.

…Ms. Groves was seen kissing another woman? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you. No, there’s nothing at all shameful about being homosexual, or whatever words you teenagers are using nowadays. In my day, you wouldn’t dream of calling someone… you know… the Q-word? But my granddaughter in Washington—the state, mind you, not the district—she says it’s the more inclusive term! Imagine that! I remember when it was a slur to call someone a queer!

Yeah. “A queer,” as a noun instead of an adjective. Yeah, I winced so hard when I heard that, I hurt my neck. Luckily, she was talking to the checkout clerk, not me, so I was able to play it off like I had a cramp in my shoulder.

I probably know about eighty-five percent of Hallodale’s populace by name, around ninety by reputation, and maybe… fifteen percent by both face and name. And that includes most of the people who run for some local elected office and real estate agents.

I know that George Donaldson, who works at the gas station out past the river, got a puppy last month, but I don’t know what said puppy looks like, or even what breed it is, because “it was the cutest little thing! Short, sort of brownish fur—but not too short, not like when you go to the groomers—and ears that sort of bounced a little, but not too droopy.”

Honestly, I don’t even know which person who works at the gas station is George Donaldson. Could be the manager, could be a high schooler, could be the guy I never see doing anything, but is always smoking by the side door, his uniform my only indication that he works there at all.

So I know of a lot of the people in town. I know of the histories, or legends, or whatever you feel like calling them. But I don’t know the people. I don’t know the town. But it’s home, and nightlife or no, I love it.

I love the autumn foliage; I love the fact that you can walk from one end of town to the other in an hour, tops; I love the way everyone, from toddlers to senior citizens, gets so excited for Witching Week; I love the parades before Halloween and the memorial services in the days after; I love going out into the forest and climbing up as high as I can and tracing the path of the river as far as the trees will let me; I love that if I end up going away to college, Hallodale will likely be exactly the same when I come back as when I leave.

But despite all the things I love about my town… I haven’t found anyone that I can say I love. Romantically, I mean. The whole thing: cuddling on the couch, watching movies and eating popcorn; sending each other cute texts throughout the day for no more reason than because we’re thinking about each other; going on dates for no important reason; falling asleep in their arms.

I suppose I can be honest with you. The reason I think I haven’t found it yet? Everyone thinks I’m straight.

I’m not.

I’m not entirely sure what exactly I am, as far as sexuality labels go, but I know I haven’t met any girls that I wanted to hold, kiss, fall asleep beside… wake up with, our limbs tangled, our eyes still full of sleep, our hair messy and our breath nasty…

But there have been some guys that I’ve looked at with more than admiration. I wouldn’t have gone to any of my school’s football games otherwise. I have no understanding of football, but I am a master at picking Clark Woodford out of a huddle.

I have no school pride for our football team as a football team, but as a collection of fit, athletic guys who seem to have a penchant for playfully smacking each other on the rump, I support them one hundred percent.

And then there’s the spandex uniform shorts that make a good butt look great, the jerseys that show off every bit of muscle definition they’ve gotten in their arms from all those pushups they do after school while I walk home the long way so I can pass the field where they’re practicing, the helmets that give Clark Woodford that sort of roguish, tousled look to his hair when he takes his off…

I support the uniforms, too, is what I’m saying.

But, like I said: everyone knows everyone else here, or knows someone who does. And I know that there are a lot of people who would sooner accept a real life witch than a… a big ol’ queer like me. Forget using it as a noun, there are people around town who still use ‘the Q-word’ as a derogatory epithet, despite it being the twenty-first century, and same-sex marriage being ruled federally legal.

Unfortunately, people like that aren’t concerned with the legality of it, only the so-called immorality of it. Like there aren’t things like domestic violence and cheating and abuse that should be seen as way more immoral than loving someone with the same gender identity as you… Things that exist in straight couples, too! Like, straight couples are not automatically perfectly moral, or else the old biddies wouldn’t have anything to gossip about.

Not that this closet I live in makes me bitter, or anything.

There’s only one person in town who knows I’m not-straight. Other than myself, of course. Plenty of people online know it, but on the internet, nobody knows you’re a dog. Even if someone from Hallodale did see the stuff I write about my confusing, murky sexuality, there’s no way they’d know it was me, the guy who bags their groceries six nights a week.

Online, I can be myself. In day-to-day life, I have to play a role that I often feel I’ve outgrown. But I’m so well-practiced at it, no one seems to suspect anything.

I sort of wish they would realize it, so I could come out and… probably be ridiculed for a while, until they see that literally nothing has changed, because I’m still single and the football team is still kinda crappy and Clark Woodford is still dating Emilie Grayson… But I’m too good at acting ‘normal’ when I’m around people.

That’s why Jake Hoeffer is my best friend. Well, that and that we’re always next to each other in line when sorted alphabetically by last name.

Jakob Dimitri Hoeffer and Gale Maxwell Hoffman. Two peas in a pod. We’re both seniors this year, though I’ve already taken all the classes I need to graduate, so I suppose technically I’m a high school graduate? But I’m still attending, because why not?

Jake has been my best friend since before ‘best friend’ really meant anything. Back when it meant that we knew each other’s middle names and shared food at snack time and had never had a fight.

Now it means that we’re constantly sending each other hilarious pictures and teasing each other and eating food out of each other’s fridges without asking because we’re at each other’s houses frequently enough to practically be considered family. And that we’ve never had a fight we didn’t make up from within a few hours, tops.

Jake’s folks love me—they think I’m a good influence on Jake because I make him do his homework right when we get home from school—and my family loves Jake—I think it’s because he loves playing with my kid sister and has never once made an implication that she’s not allowed to want to spend time with us.

Jake and I call each other Brother. And when we were walking home one afternoon and I told him that I thought I might be gay (not because we were passing the field where the football team was practicing, but because Valentine’s Day was coming up and I still didn’t have a date to the dance) he nodded and waited for me to tell him what ‘the real big problem’ was.

Me being queer, or not-straight, or whatever, was never a problem to him. Even though it had lurked behind my neck like a headsman’s axe ever since the day in middle school when I’d discovered that I didn’t only like the PE teacher’s sense of sportsmanship and fair play, but I liked his arms, too. And his calves. And his hair. And his eyes. And his voice.

I was the most enthusiastic dang student in that entire PE class, I made sure of it. And my fascination with him only grew when he started picking me to run notes to the office or go into the equipment closet to get something for him, because I was his best student.

But I never said anything, and I didn’t do anything that would make anyone suspicious. I was simply a good student who loved PE all of a sudden. Simple as that.

When I got to pick Teaching Assistant as an elective the next year, though, you bet I chose to assist him. I even got better at running a mile because I wanted to impress him.

It was a simple crush, though. I’ve only ever had crushes, and unrequited ones, at that.

Sure, I’ve been asked out before, and I’ve gone on a few dates, but they weren’t anything really serious.

I’ve even been kissed before, but I don’t think spin-the-bottle at a middle school graduation party really counts.

But if Clark Woodford for some reason dumped Emilie Grayson and asked me to go with him to dinner and a movie, you know it would be a big, serious deal. At least to me.

Which is precisely why I get so tongue tied the first time Clark Woodford ever speaks to me outside of school.

---

“So, what are you doing for tonight?” he asks casually as I carefully but efficiently bag his apples and meltable caramels and Halloween-colored skewers.

Clark Woodford.

Clark Woodford, the hands-down dreamiest guy in town, who plays football and sings and is an actor in Drama Club,

is talking

to me!

“You mean aside from the bonfire?” As soon as I say it, I feel like a clod. He knows about the bonfire. Of course he does. He’d have to have woken up this morning with amnesia and ignored all the literal signs, everywhere in town, that advertise the event.

As if it needed any additional advertisement. But at least the signs say exactly what time the lighting is going to be. Down to the second, as read by the clock tower that’s really little more than a glorified light pole in front of town hall.

“Yeah,” Clark Woodford answers, smiling crookedly. It looks good on him. As do most expressions. “What are you dressing as?”

“Well, if I told you that, it would ruin the mystique, wouldn’t it?” I smile at his jug of orange juice as I scan it and place it in the bag.

“Fair enough,” Clark Woodford chuckles. He has one of those names you have to say in its entirety or it doesn’t seem right, you know? Like James Earl Jones or Neil Patrick Harris. I wish I knew his middle name so I could complete the pattern. I think it starts with an A.

“So,” I say. “Let me guess. Making caramel apples?”

“Well, I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” He laughs and brushes his fingertips through his hair, setting it back into place. As if it could ever look bad. “But for real, I’m trying out a recipe my cousin sent me. You melt the caramels in OJ? That’s not all of it, but it sounded good.”

“I’ll have to try it sometime,” I say, scanning and bagging a couple chocolate bars. “It sounds interesting.”

“Well, I’m dressing up as a vampire. So come find me; I’ll give you one. Are you allergic to any foods? Nuts or anything?”

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head and bagging the last item, a package of orange and black sprinkles. “And here you are, Mister Woodford,” I say as I print out his receipt and put it in the last bag. “Would you like some help out today?”

“No, thanks.” He takes his bags. “See you around, Hoffman.”

My stomach does a kind of flip and I nod, smiling. “You have a good day.”

“You too,” he says before he turns and heads to the doors.

I return my focus to my line and see Jake’s face grinning at me.

“Shut up,” I mutter quietly as I start scanning his purchases. A candy bar, a box of popcorn, and some gum crowd together on the conveyor belt.

(He does, surprisingly, shut up. About that topic, anyway. Then again, I’m sure he’ll be waiting in my room to hear everything from my perspective the instant I get home. I’ve no idea how long he was in line, either; an astounding lack of awareness on my part. He could have seen the whole thing! Asking about the bonfire and all! He may support me in my sexuality, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make fun of me for it. We’re Brothers, after all.)

“So, shall we head out from your place around four?” Jake asks. “Should be able to stake out a good spot.”

“I can ask Josie to hold a spot for us when I clock out. Then we can leave around five.” Josie Smith is my manager and she always gets a great spot because she’s on the Hallodale Event Planning Committee. She seems to adore me, since I’m always willing to take on extra shifts. All my teachers know I have this job, and that I don’t really need their classes to graduate, and since most of them are in my mom’s book club, they’re pretty lenient when I need to leave early or just plain not come in.

“Excellent,” Jake says.

I scan his pack of gum and hand it to him, along with the bagged popcorn and chocolate. “No receipt?” I ask.

Jake’s the only customer I’ve ever had who will refuse his receipt. Quite loudly. And whenever a coworker of mine doesn’t know Jake, or know that we’re such close friends, I get a reprimanding. Every time. Nothing serious, since Josie adores me, but enough to make Jake bust a gut laughing when I get home and tell him about the results of his theatricality.

“Nah. I’ll see you when you get home, then,” Jake says.

I give him a high five and he leaves and I can resume my job as normal.

---

After Clark Woodford talking to me, (enthusiastic exclamation marks!) and my best friend potentially witnessing every embarrassing moment of it, the last half hour of my shift goes by with the speed of monotony.

Every so often, someone comes through with prosthetic fangs, pointed ears, or glittery makeup, but most aren’t in their costumes yet. I suppose it’s part of the ‘mystique’ I mentioned to Clark Woodford; if you see someone’s costume before the festival, you’ll recognize them during the bonfire, and what fun is that?

As I’m clocking out, I ask Josie for a favor and she immediately promises to save a spot for Jake and I near the kettle corn stand.

(Maybe she overheard us talking. Maybe she also heard my talk with Clark Woodford. (More exclamation marks, but stressed this time.) Or maybe she’s used to people asking her for favors like that on Halloween.)

I thank her and walk home. It’s only about twenty minutes, if I’m walking slowly. Which I’m not. Not today. It’s Halloween, and there’s so much on my mind.

Rain greets me as I walk in. Yeah; she’s Rain, I’m Gale. Mom’s kinda New Age when it comes to names. For example, our cat is called Sunset. But she gave us normalish middle names, in case we didn’t want to sound so ‘unique’ growing up.

My sister’s full name is Rain Beatrice Hoffman. Nice flow, I think. Even if I can’t imagine her going by Beatrice. Bee, maybe.

Our parents’ names are Jane Elizabeth and Mark Albert. I suppose I’d prefer a New Age name over one like Albert. No offense to Dad, though, or to any other Alberts; it works for him. Probably works for other Alberts, too. I don’t think I’m an Albert, is all.

Anyway, Rain’s greeting comes from the kitchen, where she’s sitting on one of the barstools. Mom’s tying Rain’s hair into an incredibly intricate updo, braids and strings of plastic crystals going everywhere. “Gale! Galegalegale,” Rain says, practically bouncing off her seat, “are you gonna get ready?”

“On my way to do that now, Rainy,” I say. “Jake here?” I ask Mom.

“I sent him to your room before he ate our entire pantry,” Mom jokes. Jake’s sturdy-looking, but it isn’t like he overeats; he just has a hollow leg. I don’t think he can even get full. He’s had third helpings of both dessert and dinner in the same night, before.

I lean in to give Mom a kiss on her cheek and head off to my room. Jake is lying on my bed, reading my copy of The Hobbit. The one in which I’ve dogeared the pages of every scene that has what some might call not-straight subtext. Or, in other words, most of the interactions between Bilbo and Thorin. Sue me.

I wait for a few seconds. Jake keeps reading. I close my door and wait a bit more. Then I get tired of waiting.

“So you’re not gonna ask me to recount my first real conversation with Clark Woodford?” I ask without preamble.

“Well, I heard all of it.”

I scoff. “Yeah, from a third-party perspective.”

“True,” Jake says, looking over, “my apologies. Let me guess: he said your name and your stomach twisted up, like you miscounted the steps and thought you were on level ground but there was one more stair.”

“Well,” I dawdle.

Jake laughs and looks back to the book. “You’re cute. And not the only person who’s ever had a crush on someone.”

I go to my closet and open the accordion doors. My costume is hanging up in the middle, the hat on the top shelf above it, the boots paired up on the floor, held upright by cut-up pool noodles so the ankles don’t get too creased. The rest of the costume pieces are on top of my dresser, waiting patiently for me to put them on.

“So, are you going to ask if you can get at his booty?” Jake asks as I pick up the fake hook hand.

I sigh dramatically. “Jake? Are you a pants-mounted steering wheel?” I ask as I slip the hook’s base over my hand.

“What?”

I turn to look at him, pointing the hook to the level of my hips. “Ye’re drivin’ me nuts.”

He flings one of my pillows at me. I deflect it with a backhand swipe of the hook, sending it sliding toward my bookshelf.

“Come on,” I say, still chuckling over my own joke, “it’s time to get ready. Didn’t you want Mom to help you with your makeup?”

“Dude, you can at least call it stage blood. Just because I know you wanna lick Woodford’s lollipop doesn’t mean we have to be on a constant camping trip.”

I pick up my pillow and frisbee it at Jake’s face. “Protest more, Jake; you’re not quite at ‘too much’ yet.”

“Fine,” Jake says with a sigh, “I’ll call it makeup, but only if you wear the guyliner.”

“I hate not being able to rub my eyes when they itch, though!” I whine, returning the hook to the dresser top and taking my shirt and sweater off.

“Name one movie pirate who had no guyliner,” Jake says

“Because movies are accurate depictions of pirates,” I say.

“Historical accuracy aside, guyliner makes anyone look hotter, dude. Trust me; you want to trade Woodford to your team? Wear the guyliner.”

“Not gonna happen,” I say, mostly referring to the ‘Woodford’ part of it. Even if I could get him interested in me—I mean—in guys (or get him to tell me he already is?), I doubt it’d be because of some eyeliner smudged around my eyelids.

Although…

It’d only be for one night, and Jake did offer me a deal. If he’s willing to (I guess) compromise his masculinity on this front by calling makeup what it is, shouldn’t I be able to compromise the safety of my closet?

I step into my literal closet and pull the hat down, the costume off the rod, and the boots out of the corner.

“Fine,” I concede with a sigh. “You’ll wear the makeup, and I’ll wear the guyliner.”

“A splendid choice, good sir,” Jake says, returning my book to my nightstand and opening his backpack to pull his outfit from it. He’s going as an undead, so wrinkled clothes are kind of perfect for his look.

I’m really glad Jake doesn’t think I’m some sort of fiend. He’s perfectly willing to change in the same room with me, just like if we were in the locker room or backstage for a Drama production, because he knows that even though I like some guys, that doesn’t mean I like every guy, or that I can’t control myself if I do like a guy. And Jake and I have been friends so long that… it’s like we passed from friendship, right through maybe-crush territory, and directly into platonic soulmate land, with no stops on the journey.

It’s not that I don’t think I could like Jake romantically; it’s that when I think about it, what we have feels like more than romance. I can tell him about nasty deuces I dropped and he can tell me about the time he ralphed up spaghetti, still fully intact, because he ate more than even he could handle. We’re gross, and inseparable, and it’s great. And if he got a great girlfriend, I’d be as happy for him as I know he’d be for me… if I ever found someone I could be in a serious relationship with.

Jake would be my best man if I ever got married, no question. I haven’t asked him about it, but it’d be a sign of the end times if he ever said no.

Besides, even if I wanted to watch him undress, I’m occupied trying to figure out how all my costume pieces are supposed to go on: the belt is two or three times the circumference of my waist; there are no buttons to speak of, only buckles, hooks, and eyelets to lace cord through; and I have no idea how much of my chest is supposed to be exposed by the shirt, because it seems less like a shirt and more like a long-sleeved vest.

So I do my best and wait for Jake to come and fix it all.

“Come on, Gale,” Jake says patiently, “you’re a pirate”—he ruffles my hair into disarray—“not a king’s errand boy. You’re sexy, you’re confident”—he wraps the belt around my waist twice and ties it asymmetrically—“you’re a rock star! Not a law-abiding citizen. You’re”—he undoes hooks from my collar to my sternum—“irascible. Flamboyant. You’re… Here, let me put it in terms I know you’ll resonate with: you need to be more Jareth the Goblin King and less Inspector Javert. Way less.”

I laugh. Using musicals as examples is one of the best ways to get me to understand a concept, and The Labyrinth has always been a favorite of mine. Far more than Les Mis, for certain. The fantasy, the juxtaposition of mundane and magnificent, the glitter, the crotch bulge, the outfits, the set pieces, the hair and makeup, the tragically flawed—but nevertheless earnest—romance Sarah can’t understand because she’s too human to understand how a Goblin King would think, how he would express affection, how he would love.

I love The Labyrinth and everything about it, but Sarah walked away from one hell of a fella.

Jake puts my hat on my head at a jaunty angle and shoves the hook over my hand, straightening my sleeve cuff over it. He steps back and considers the effect. “Do you have any vests that might go with this?” he asks. “Red or black or… maybe grey?”

I hum, thinking back. “There might be the one from Junior year Homecoming,” I say. “With the curly”—I gesture vaguely with the hook and my empty hand—“lacy… teardrop… leafy pattern?”

“You mean paisley?” Jake laughs and enters my closet. “Amazing.”

“I’m not the one going to fashion design school next year!” I defend. “You know, for a Straight Best Friend, you don’t have very straight taste.”

“And you don’t have very gay taste,” Jake replies, “whatever that would even be. Hey, do you suppose gay people taste flavors differently than straight people do?”

I laugh. “Literally how could I ever know that? I’ve never been straight, for all I know. And even if I could know, how would I express it to you in any sort of quantifiable way? That’s like asking someone to explain what ‘red’ is without comparing it to anything red or to any other colors.”

“Don’t you go getting all philosophical on me,” Jake chuckles as he continues searching for my vest.

“Far left side,” I say, since I don’t want to get in his way by reaching for it myself. I look in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door and…

Huh.

I don’t look like myself.

I’m not exactly someone who would normally walk around with my chest exposed, pubescent dusting of chest hair on display for all the world to see. Especially when Clark Woodford is part of the world that will be seeing me. But… somehow, it’s not something I’m embarrassed by? It’s different, for sure. The billowy sleeves and tight pants are not at all what I’d wear to school, for example. But…

“Here,” Jake says as he tosses the vest at me. “Put that on and do the shirt up to the same level as the top button.”

I do as he says and end up doing like nineteen buttons. Jake’s said countless times that you’re never supposed to do up the bottom button on a vest or suit jacket. And, since he cares and I don’t, why not humor him?

“There,” I say as I match the neckline of the shirt with that of the vest, so there’s only a pair of slivers of shirt visible between vest and chest. “How’s that look?”

“Perfect,” Jake says.

I put my hook back on and return my attention to my reflection in the mirror. Not bad. Unusual, for sure, but not bad.

“Come on, now,” Jake continues. “We need to get all made up. The whole pirate look is incomplete without the guyliner.”

Honestly, I can’t really argue. My face looks… woefully under-flamboyant, compared to the rest of me. I suppose I’ll have to try to not rub at my face too much. I doubt pirates typically went for racoon-chic with their eyeliner.

“Why do movie pirates all wear dark eye makeup?” I ask Jake as we walk to the front room, where Rain’s still getting her hair done.

“Theory I think makes the most sense?” Jake says. “To reduce sun glare that bounced off their lower eyelids and into their vision.”

I frown thoughtfully and nod. “You know, that makes at least as much sense as anything I could think of. Okay.”

“Also,” Jake adds, “because piracy is a performance as much as it is literal theft, and eye makeup is aesthetically appealing.”

I laugh.

“You boys ready?” Mom asks. “I’m almost done with Rain, here. What do you want? Grey corpse skin for Jake?”

“Yeah, and,” Jake says, “I was thinking fake wounds, too? I brought some I’ve been messing around with, but locations and such…?”

“Oh, sure!” Mom says with a smile. “I always love doing stage wounds. Liquid latex?”

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Though maybe Gale should go first; he only needs some guyliner and maybe some fake stubble.”

“Oh, sorry I prefer being clean-shaven,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

“Do you even need to shave?” Jake asks with a slight scoff.

“I’ll have you know I shave twice a month!”

Jake manages to keep quiet for about two whole seconds before he bursts into laughter. “Don’t worry, dude. You’ll finish puberty someday.”

“All right, well Rain, your hair is done!” Mom says as she finishes putting pins in and picks up a can of hairspray. “Close your eyes.” Rain closes her eyes and makes a shield with her hands across her forehead, forming a barrier between hairline and brows. Mom sprays a fine, vanilla-scented mist over Rain’s hairdo and pops the cap back onto the can. “Et voila. What do you think?”

“I can’t believe that’s all her real hair,” I say. “Good luck getting that all undone after the bonfire, Sis,” I joke.

Rain’s grinning. “I’m gonna go look in the mirror!” And off she skips to do so. I swear, she likes Halloween even more than I do.

“Okay, Gale, sit,” Mom directs. I take Rain’s place on the barstool and Mom turns me by the shoulders to face her. “You need some jewelry, too,” she says. “I’ve some necklaces and clip-on earrings that might work.”

“Yes!” Jake claps. “That’s what was missing.”

Jake and Mom are as close to being friends as a high schooler and a thirty-something can be. She’s a community volunteer, and always helps with Drama productions at my school. And since he can sing and dance and act, Jake has been a member of Drama Club since Freshman year.

I joined Drama to show Jake some solidarity, and stuck around because Clark Woodford auditioned for a part. Now, I’m a stagehand slash gofer. I’m part of the crew that makes sure the actors are in place for their entrances, the set pieces are moved on and off the stage at the right times, and the props are where they should be. I probably could’ve been Stage Manager, but I didn’t want to. I like being relied on, but not that heavily.

“By the way,” Jake says, “I took the liberty of getting a dark grey crayon pencil for him.”

“Beautiful,” Mom says as Jake pulls it from his costume pocket and hands it to her.

How he kept it secret from me for so long, I don’t know. Nor do I know when he got it. I certainly didn’t ring it up for him when he came through my line today. I would have noticed it. (And made fun of him for it, since he’s still so touchy about makeup, despite being a stage actor.)

Mom pulls the plastic pen-cap lid off of the pencil and moves in. “Look up, Gale?”

And this is another reason why I don’t think I’ll go into theatre as an actor. I’ve never been good at getting made up. Sure, maybe that’s because I only do it for Halloween, but it could, potentially, maybe, also be that I don’t relish the thought of getting stabbed in the eyeball with a bunch of pigmented wax and stuff.

So I try to distract myself. By, say, thinking about what it might be like if Clark Woodford notices (and likes) my guyliner. Maybe he’d say something complimentary. Like it brings out my eye color. Maybe he’d want to figure out what color my eyes really are—not just brown, but what kind of brown. Maybe he’d get in really close and study the rays and freckles and striations that make my eyes look (I think) like cocoa with cream and caramel that isn’t fully stirred in yet.

“And look down,” Mom says.

And speaking of cocoa, maybe he’d dump Emilie Grayson and ask me to meet him for coffee in the morning. Maybe at my place. Where he’d compliment Mom, and flirt charmingly (but not too charmingly) with Sis, and talk with Dad about how their favorite NFL teams are doing.

And I’d sit back and let them talk because about all I know about football as a game is that there are only so many chances a team has in which to get the football past an imaginary line, or they have to give the other team their turn… and that you can get something from as high as six points or as low as one point at a time.

And there’s a Quarterback.

I also know that Clark Woodford isn’t our school’s QB. He’s the Running Back. Or a Running Back? Something.

“And look to the left,” Mom instructs.

Maybe Clark Woodford would teach me the intricacies of his sport. Maybe while we watch some NFL game on TV. Maybe we’re cuddled up together on the couch. Maybe his arm is around my shoulders, or our hands are linked, or my head is in his lap while he plays with my hair.

“…And look to the right.”

I think about maybes a lot when it comes to Clark Woodford. I don’t ever talk about them, though. Not even with Jake. I kind of think of them as like birthday candle wishes. Like if I say it, that’ll make it never come true.

“Okay,” Mom says as she wipes a cotton swab against the edges of the eyeliner. “And… there. Nice and smoky looking.”

“Are you gonna do the stubble thing?” I ask, looking from her to Jake and back.

“You know,” Jake says, “normally I’d say yes, but that works, just like it is.”

“Unless you want to do stubble,” Mom adds. “It’d only take a few minutes.”

“Nah, thanks,” I say. “I’m good. Gonna go check myself out in the mirror, though,” I excuse myself as I stand up.

I find Rain in the bathroom, doing her makeup. She’s clearly going the sparkles route. Our bathroom is gonna look like Jareth showed up until at least New Year’s.

“Finally decided on your costume, then?” I say with a chuckle.

“Well, I’m gonna see if I get more guesses that I’m a sylph or a siren.” She coats her lips in a pale, shimmery lipstick, and presses them together.

“Well, I suppose that depends on if you sing or not.”

Rain takes a cotton ball from the jar on the counter and throws it over her shoulder at me. It hits my shoulder.

“I meant that typically sirens sing and sylphs don’t, right?” I say, laughing as I pick up the fallen projectile.

“You don’t know that sylphs don’t sing. They just don’t use it to lure sailors—and pirates”—she looks over her shoulder at me, doing a once-over like she’s so not at all interested in anything even resembling a pirate, but one is in her presence so she has to deal with it—“into their clutches.”

“Well, sylph or siren, all those sailors better watch out, because you’re looking like an angel.” I kiss the side of her head, getting a noseful of vanilla, and put a hand on her shoulder, giving her a slight hug-shake. She rolls her eyes, but smiles.

“Just come here to compliment me?” Rain asks as she swipes a clear gloss over her lips. “Because you can keep on going.”

I take that moment to look at my reflection. The eyeliner… really does quite a lot. I wonder if it’d be weird if I sort of… kept wearing this? Like, every day? Not quite as much as this, but a little. After all, Jake bought it for my use, and you’re not supposed to share makeup, right? It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.

“Absolutely,” I say, looking back at her and grinning. “Big Book of Big Brother Rules, chapter three: Make sure your little sister feels beautiful all the time, no matter what.”

“Even if you only have younger brothers?” Rain asks as she switches the gloss for blush, swiping the fluffy brush over her softly rounded cheekbones, one and then the other.

“Especially if you only have brothers, you should make sure your little sister feels beautiful.”

Rain laughs as she shakes her head. “You’re adorable,” she chuckles.

Jake steps into the doorway behind us, and I look at him in the mirror. “Ready to get fancy?” he asks, holding up a short, silvery chain with something glinting on the end. Earring, I’m guessing, since it’s too short to be a bracelet.

“Sure,” I say. “See you when you’re done, Sis.”

“Later, loser,” she says affectionately.

I follow Jake back into the kitchen and sit on the barstool. Jake hands me the earring.

“Slide the cuff over the rim of your ear, and clip the earring over your lobe,” he instructs.

I only fumble with it a little. As I’m trying to get it on, Mom clips a different earring on my other earlobe and Jake stands behind me and wraps a couple of necklaces around my neck one by one, doing them up easily despite my arms being in the way. Once I’m done, he picks up some costume rings, all faceted plastic gems and silver-painted metal. The best one is a tarnished skull-shaped one that he puts on my thumb.

“There,” Jake says, stepping back to evaluate the results. “Because what’s a pirate without the loot he’s liberated?”

“Liberation is… a way of putting it,” I acquiesce. “So?”

“Absolutely rakish,” Jake says with a nod.

“Oh, look at my handsome man,” Mom says. “Seems like last week you were running around in a grey-painted cardboard box with dryer hoses on your arms, telling everyone you were a ‘bobot’ from ‘outer paith’.”

“There’s an idea for next year,” I tell Jake as I stand from the barstool. “I could revisit that costume. I could even use a trash can instead of a box, to show how much more advanced my home planet is now.”

“You don’t have a planet,” Jake says with a slight chuckle, “didn’t you hear? You’re from outer paith.”

“Right,” I say. “How easily we forget.”

“Downright disrespectful. And to your own culture, no less.” Jake sits where I had been and turns himself to face Mom. I watch as she applies a creamy grey paint to his face, hands, and forearms. He takes his shirt off after they note what holes he put in it, and she paints an area much wider than the original holes, so the shirt can move with some degree of freedom without revealing living skin tone. Then she adds some green to make his skin look rotted, and works some latex-based magic to give him realistic-looking injuries.

Even watching, I’m not really sure how Mom managed to take Jake from ‘handsome lead actor’ to ‘unearthed rotting corpse’ so perfectly. They even put some fake blood and mud in his hair, both chocolate syrup-based, to make it look matted and dirty.

“So, how do I look?” Jake asks as he finishes getting all grossed-up.

I shrug noncommittally. “I dunno. Still handsome.”

“Well, I’m not a miracle-worker,” Mom says.

“Now, now, friends. My ego’s already big enough as it is.” Jake stands and heads to the bathroom to check it out.

“So, Mom. What’re you gonna be tonight?” I ask.

“Oh, I think I’ll reprise my witch outfit from last year. Only this time I’ll have a hag nose and chin. Speaking of, I should go put them on.”

I saw her making them yesterday. She stuck them on with spirit gum and took them off completely intact, so she could spend her time today helping us with our costumes. She’s so great.

I head toward the bathroom and hear Jake and Rain down the hall instead. So I go to find them in Rain’s room, talking and laughing about how gross Jake’s wounds look while she puts on seemingly every sparkly object she owns. Bangle bracelets stacked practically to her elbows, a ring or two on a majority of her fingers, a sequined belt over her flowy, silvery dress, and so on.

“So,” I say, announcing myself, “are you gonna go to the middle of the courtyard and slowly spin while spotlights are aimed at you?”

“You know what? Maybe I will,” she says, laughing.

“I’ll join you,” Jake says and looks at me. “Since loverboy here has some grand plans for tonight.”

“I do not,” I say. Right over the top of Rain asking who I have plans with. “I don’t have any plans, Jake. Don’t worry, Sis, I’ll make sure to find you for the ‘Monster Mash’.”

“It wouldn’t be Halloween without that wonderful dance,” Rain says, chuckling.

We both know exactly how ridiculous our Monster Mash is. We made it up when I was five and Rain was three, though, so I think a bit of ridiculousness is allowed. A lot of the dance is us holding hands, stepping to the beat as we circle each other; preschoolers aren’t known for their choreography skills. It’s the first Halloween I can remember, too, so that adds to the nostalgia.

“Anyway, Gale,” Jake says, “you ready to head out?”

“Boots and wallet are still in my room,” I answer, “but once I have those, then yeah.”

“See you there?” Rain says.

“Yup. Josie’s saving us a spot by the kettle corn. Mom still staking out near the deejay booth?”

“As ever,” Rain confirms. “Dad’s meeting us there after work, I think.”

“Right, then we’ll see you there,” I say. Rain comes over and I give her a big hug, picking her up and twirling her around once before setting her down. I probably stole some of her sparkles, but oh well. Goblin King glitter for everyone!

Jake gives her a one-armed hug and a kiss on the top of her head once I let her go. Then he follows me into my room.

“Probably drop my bag off at home,” Jake says. His place is between mine and the town center. “I’ve spirit gum remover there, so I’ll head straight home after we’re done being festive.”

“Sounds good,” I say as I take the boots to my bed, sit down on the edge of it, and start pulling them on.

“You’ll send me a message if anything interesting happens, right?” Jake says. I look up at him, and he bounces his eyebrows at me.

“I seriously doubt anything will happen.” Maybe… “But yes,” I say, “if anything does happen, I’ll tell you.”

“Best of luck to you, Brother.”

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me to break a leg or something?”

“Not unless you’re going onstage.”

“Ugh, no thanks,”

Jake picks up his backpack and slings one strap over a shoulder. I get my wallet and put it in the side of my boot, between the outer edge of my calf and the brim of the boot, which is basically the only pocket I have. My phone goes in the other one. Unless I start doing handstands for some reason, they should be relatively safe there. Then Jake fixes my tricorne and we head out, saying goodbye to Mom on our way.

---

As we walk, Jake tells me about the ideas he’s had for the play we’re going to do this year, since it’ll be our last and he’s hoping he can get a major role.

Even though he’s one of the captains of Drama Club this year, he’ll have nothing to do with casting. The rule has always been that if you want to be involved in casting, you can’t try out, and vice versa. But anyone in the Club is allowed to bring ideas to the table for what plays we might want to do.

Traditionally, everyone returns after Witching Week with their ideas, and a vote is held during the last Club meeting before Thanksgiving Break. Then the supervisors get the rights and scripts for the winning play, and the casting crew makes a list of all the absolute requirements for each role. Like how much singing each role will have to do, or which bit parts can be played by the same chorus member. Auditions happen through December, casting decisions are made over the Holiday Break, and cast lists are put up when we come back in January.

I’ve been thinking about maybe trying to get on the casting crew this year. Since I’m pretty sure I won’t want to do anything more involved than being a stagehand, and that has zero overlap with casting decisions. Stage crew only starts work after the cast is picked, though Set Designer (this year, it’s Michelle Stirling, a Biology classmate of mine) starts gathering ideas once the play is picked out.

There’s a small chance that being on casting crew would lead to me needing to decide if Clark Woodford or Jake would be a better choice for the same role, but I like to think I’d be able to put personal feelings aside for the sake of the play.

I should really put some thought into my nominations for the final play of my High School career, but… Well, I’m not going to be acting in it, so I feel like I shouldn’t have a say.

Maybe I should try to figure out what roles I’d like to see Jake play? Or what roles I think Clark Woodford would be good for? I know they both can sing. In fact, Jake has Choir with Clark Woodford. And I have stage fright. I can be on a stage, of course, so long as I don’t have to sing or say anything or look at the audience.

So I watch from the wings, literally as well as figuratively. I watch about as often as I think about maybes, if not more.

“So, what do you think?” Jake asks, pulling me from my thoughts. “Will we have the budget to do a big one, or are we gonna stick with small and make it great?”

I chuckle nervously. If he’d said anything to give me more information about those two choices, I didn’t hear it. “Bro, I’m just a stagehand. I get paint stains on my jeans and a back ache that’s soothed only by seeing a perfect set. I don’t worry about budget stuff. I work with what I have and what I’m given.”

Jake laughs. “Fair enough.” He looks around and lets out a lupine howl, then starts singing “This Is Halloween” from Nightmare Before Christmas. He tries cueing me in a few times, but I laugh and shake my head each time and he gives up and continues on his own. He affects different accents and voices for each part, since I’m not helping him, but he does that whenever he sings anything that isn’t a solo. Even in the shower. I’ve heard it plenty of times through the bathroom door when we sleep over at each other’s houses.

I wonder if Clark Woodford sings in the shower…

And then I stop myself before I wonder anything more.

Jake keeps singing as we reach his house and he jogs up to ditch his bag just inside the front door. When he returns, we set off and I see Camilla Morgan down the street. She’s been the leading lady in the last two years of plays, and the second lady during our freshman year.

And she deserves it. Not only because she’s so dang talented, but because she’s a fricking peach. She helps everyone with their lines, encourages everyone, only laughs at blundered lines when the person who blundered is also laughing, helps out with making set pieces, helps with costuming… She’s amazing.

And she’d be really cute with Jake, only I’ve never heard either of them mention being interested in the other. They have great chemistry, though, onstage and off, so who knows?

Anyway, Camilla joins in while our two groups are still a block away, and she and Jake fall into parts easily, Jake taking the tenor or bass part while Camilla sings the alto or soprano part. I don’t know how they decide who takes the melody and who harmonizes, but they do it perfectly.

Once they finish “This Is Halloween”, they do a few more songs from Nightmare, then a medley from The Phantom of the Opera. Then they do a sort of Greatest Hits of Halloween songs, from “Spooky Scary Skeletons” to “Thriller” by Michael Jackson (complete with Jake doing the dancing from the music video, significantly slowing our progress as we walk toward the town center) to “Poison” by Alice Cooper.

When we reach the sidewalk that rings the town center, they finish with a dramatic harmony, Camilla hitting (and absolutely nailing) a note so high it’s right through the ceiling and into the rafters. When they cut off, Camilla grins and hugs Jake, then hugs me and excuses herself to go find the rest of her group, who didn’t slow down for the dancing dead.

They do this whenever they’re in earshot of each other, I swear. If someone at lunch makes a comment that reminds one of them of a song, they’ll start singing it and the other will join in. I like to believe that most people don’t live in a musical, but I wouldn’t know what that sort of life is even like.

Maybe it would be different if I didn’t eat lunch in the Choir room, since that’s where Jake eats. And Camilla. And Clark Woodford, but most often in another corner of the room, so I can only sneak glances every so often.

“So,” I say once Camilla’s out of sight and Jake’s humming one of the Phantom’s songs. He lifts his eyebrows at me, but doesn’t stop humming. “When are you gonna take her on a date? Or do you consider singing while she plays piano at lunch to be good enough?”

“What do you mean?” Jake asks.

“You should date her,” I rephrase. Simplicity is key.

“Do you know if she’s single?” Jake asks.

“No, but—”

“Do you know if she likes me like that?”

I sigh, slightly frustrated. “No, but—”

“Then why change anything?” Jake says with a shrug. “It’s good how it is.”

“Well, if you’re a well-known thing by the time prom rolls around, you’d have the royalty in the bag. With how well-liked she is, and how many people loved you in the play last year…”

“So I’m not well-liked?” Jake teases.

“Tolerated, at best,” I tease back.

“Touché,” Jake laughs. “But since when do we care about prom?”

I suppose a nice, upstanding, white bread, straight guy like Jake wouldn’t really get how great it would be to be able to be crowned prom royalty with someone you like. But since I’ll never have a shot, I suppose I’m acutely aware of the privilege he has that I don’t. Our school doesn’t have a pair of prom kings. They have a king and his queen. End of story.

“Just saying,” I say with a shrug. “Could be great if you try for it.”

“It’s great now,” he says. And I suppose I can’t argue with that.

We make our way around the rim of the courtyard, checking out the stands that are set up. There’s a face painting kiosk, a stand giving out free hot apple cider and hot cocoa, a photo booth…

I try to rein in all of the maybes that come to mind as Jake and I walk around.

We find the kettle corn stand and Josie, dressed as a doctor in light blue scrubs, waves us down. Her two pugs, Fox and Dana, are on leashes that she has wrapped around her wrist, and they both trot over to Jake and I, curly tails wagging with all the effort their tiny, wrinkly bodies can exert.

Fox, entirely black-coated except for a dusting of white across his chest, has black felt bat wings on his little harness. Dana, fawn-colored, has white felt angel wings. I sit on my haunches to pet them.

Josie compliments Jake on his costume, calling it “absolutely revolting” with a genuine smile on her face. Fox tries gnawing on my hook hand, and Dana sits to allow me to scratch her right above her tail. Pretty soon, Josie excuses herself to go see to the preparations for the bonfire lighting, and Jake and I bid her and her dogs goodbye.

“So, have you found Woodford yet?” Jake asks.

“What?” I look over at him and can tell my eyes are probably pretty wide. “Why?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because he was gonna give you a caramel apple, you ninny. I can’t believe you’re the one with the crush, yet I have to be the one to remember the plans you’ve made with him.”

“If I may have your attention, please?” the amplified voice of Mayor James Albright sounds over the chatter of the courtyard. The noise dies down and the crowd’s attention turns to the raised podium toward the western end of the ring of kiosks, the town hall building in the background.

“Welcome to the three-hundredth annual Witching Week celebration, friends, neighbors, and visitors. I believe I speak for all of us when I say: we are all so glad you could be here!”

A cheer rises up from the crowd and I make a rooster call. Silence settles back in slowly.

“Sure,” Mayor Albright says, “three hundred years sounds impressive. But, in my opinion, every year, we as a community prove to have outdone ourselves; every year is the most impressive Witching Week celebration we’ve ever had. So let’s hear it for our Events Committee, shall we?” A few people wave from the stage while the crowd cheers. “Look at it all!” Mayor Albright says once the clamoring has abated once more. “I think I’m safe in saying this is the most impressive Halloween celebration we’ve ever seen.”

The crowd cheers more, like an enthusiastic child, unable to abstain from expressing its excitement. Every subsequent cheer seems louder than the previous one.

“Now,” Mayor Albright says, lifting his arms to indicate the treetops visible above the buildings all around the town, “as the sun sets, let us light our bonfire and really make this Halloween celebration the best we’ve ever had. Madame Groves, if you would be so kind.”

Annalise Groves, the town treasurer and librarian, walks along a path from the stage to the bonfire setup. It’s in the middle of what is usually a fountain, but it’s shut down and drained so the concrete basin can be used as a fire pit. She accepts a small torch from an assistant and holds the burning end to the base of the bonfire. It catches and begins climbing, and the crowd cheers boisterously as the treetops fade from gold to cool green.

“Maestro!” Mayor Albright calls. “Some music for our festivities, if you will!”

The set of big speakers that the Mayor had been amplified through begins playing some big band music. “That Old Black Magic” as sung by Frank Sinatra starts playing and couples near the bonfire start moving, everything from a slow back-and-forth swaying to a few doing genuine swing dancing.

“Go find that candy apple of yours,” Jake says with an elbow nudge to my arm.

“Caramel apple,” I correct him distractedly, watching the group of dancers steadily increase in numbers.

“Whatever you wanna call him,” Jake says with a teasing laugh. “Go on. I’m gonna go find Camilla and ask her for a dance.”

“Right.” I look around, relying on my huddle-trained skills to see if I can spot Clark Woodford in the crowd. He’d said he was going to be a vampire… Probably slicked his dark hair back, if he’s going for the high-collared, chalky pale, Transylvanian sort of character. There are a lot of people around his height, though, and so many dark wigs that it’s hard to spot him, at least from where I am by the kettle corn stand.

I look over and see that Jake’s already left, so I set off into the crowd, keeping mostly to the edges so I can see the stands and the people who are in line for them or camped out between them. No luck. I see some of my old teachers, some members of Drama Club, some of Mom’s book club…

Then “Thriller” starts playing and a rush of activity closes in around the bonfire. I see Jake and Camilla next to each other as part of the ring around the bonfire that’s starting to dance to the music.

After a few measures, I recognize it as the number the Drama Club put on last year at the Witching Week assembly, as a sort of open invitation to check out the club after Witching Week and maybe join in if anyone was interested in learning how to perform group musical numbers like that. I had, of course, not been part of the dance number then, so I don’t feel much draw to go in and join the flash mob. Plus the whole stage fright thing.

But then I see a vampire with messy, dark hair and eyebrows that could bring a man to his knees, and I suddenly wish I did know all the steps. Even being in the same flash mob with Clark Woodford would make me feel… connected to him. But it’s too late to learn, and certainly too late to join in and fake it. So instead I make my way through the crowd to where I can see the dancers well. I take turns watching Clark Woodford and watching Jake and Camilla.

When the song fades out, Jake jumps up on the outer edge of the fountain. “Thank you, everyone!” he calls, projecting his voice like he does whenever Drama practices don’t have the mics working. “Thanks for joining us, and thanks for supporting the Hallodale High School Drama Club! Happy Halloween!”

Applause and cheering, along with a few responding shouts of ‘Happy Halloween’ usher Jake off the fountain, and the next song starts up.

I look back to where Clark Woodford had been, only to see him moving away from me. I rush forward, begging forgiveness whenever I have to pass through someone’s personal space. “Sorry,” I say. “Pardon me, sorry, can I squeeze past?”

Then I duck through an open space between two bodies that doesn’t remain open. I plow directly into someone, momentarily winding myself.

“I’m so sorry,” I say instantly. “Sorry, I was…” I look up and the words die in my mouth.

Have you ever seen someone so pretty you can only think What the heck? Who allowed this?

The cheekbones were the first thing my brain comprehended. The way they played with the strong, angular jaw had the effect of something out of a superhero comic book, or what the hair and makeup crew would go for to make an actor look like a villain who looks painfully good. I mean I’ve been told I have great cheekbones. But this guy made me look downright baby-faced. He looked like Spike from Buffy, almost. Only younger, and without the eyebrow scar (which I adore, and fits Spike perfectly, but would look out of place on this guy’s face).

And then there were his lips. There’s no way to say this that doesn’t sound like a steamy mass market paperback romance, with a hero who has impossibly good looks. But, well, impossible was a word that was bouncing around my head while I gaped at him. Lips that looked like strawberry-scented pillows, plump and thick. They were quirked in a slight smile.

“Not at all,” he says. Oh, dang, that voice. Did someone figure out how to take a perfect campfire s’more and turn it into a sound? And then give this guy that sound to use as his voice? Ugh, and he has green eyes, too. My weakness, honestly. And his lashes are so long and full, and his eyebrows are swept upward fantastically. Jareth and Spock both come to mind, but without anything looking like it’s missing? Sort of more real?

And that’s when I notice the ears. I’ve seen some amazing prosthetic ears in my time; it comes with living somewhere that gets as into Halloween as we do. But these are… a step above. For one, each is about six inches long, easy. Maybe even longer. Probably the length from my thumb pad to index fingertip, fully extended? But I’m not about to reach up and check.

For another, instead of going up and back, like most prosthetic ears do, they go outward and slightly down. Like someone was inspired to try to combine ‘house elf’ with ‘high elf’. With a touch of faun thrown in, too. They’re so long and droopy, I can’t tell how he got them to stay on. A lot of spirit gum, I’m guessing. Maybe a wire frame?

But then I notice that he has the sides of his head shaved down to maybe a centimeter in length. No wires visible there. The middle section of his hair is long and fluffy-straight, choppy and textured and platinum blonde.

Oh, frick me, I’m staring.

“Sorry, I was…” What was I doing? I can’t remember. Forget speechless, I’m… thoughtless.

“Of course.” He steps aside and bows slightly, letting me pass. I give him a bashful chuckle before leaving as quickly—and carefully—as I can.

Right. Clark Woodford. And caramel apple. And…

Dang, I didn’t even see what ear-guy was dressed as. I was so busy gaping at his entire face that I didn’t once look at anything below his shoulders. But a blonde undercut and six inch ears should be recognizable enough, right? So I can find him again later…

Oh, great. I’m hoping to see him again later.

I finally make my way out of the throng and see Clark Woodford a short distance away, standing in front of a booth with some kids I’ve probably seen in the Choir room or at Drama, since neither of them particularly look like football players. One’s dressed as a dalmatian, black and white face paint, outfit, and wig; another has pinkish cellophane wings and a circle skirt.

“Oh, Hoffman!” Clark Woodford says as he notices me. “I’ve got your apple right here…” He turns away and I look him over respectfully, expecting to feel… something. But it’s like turning a light on inside after you’ve been out in the summer sun. Now that I’ve seen ear-guy, Clark Woodford seems… normal.

I feel sort of terrible, thinking something like that. Why should one ten-second interaction with a stranger shake my entire foundation so thoroughly that Clark Woodford, my crush of four years, is now simply ho-hum?

It’s nothing. I was dazzled, that’s all. A flash in the pan. Sure, ear-guy was good-looking, and his voice pooled in my gut like hot chocolate, and his smile sort of made my knees feel weak…

No, stop it! Look at what you have right here, right in front of you, right now! Clark Woodford, Running Back and theatre star and heartthrob extraordinaire, made a caramel apple especially for you! Thinking specifically of you! Why the heck are you thinking about green eyes and plush lips when Clark Woodford is right there?

I accept the apple and smile. “Thanks,” I say simply.

“My pleasure,” Clark Woodford answers with a smile.

Five hours ago, I would’ve died to be on the receiving end of that smile! Come on, crush feelings, any time now!

“Nice costume,” he continues.

“Thanks,” I say again, holding the hook under my other elbow so I can take it off and peel the wrapping from the apple. I bunch up the plastic wrap and…

“Here,” Clark Woodford says, taking it from my hand. His fingers even brush against mine—nothing. Not even a glimmer.

He turns and drops the wrapper into a little trash can under a table that I now see is spread with baskets full of wrapped candy apples and caramel apples. Some might even be chocolate-covered.

“So, how are you enjoying the festivities so far?” he asks.

“Clark, you haven’t introduced us,” fairy-wings says, playfully scolding. “I’m Mandy Thomas. Pongo here is Anthony Lewis.”

“Gale Hoffman,” I say, switching my apple stick to my sweaty left hand and offering them my much drier right hand. Of course I forget that I’m holding my hook under my right elbow, and as soon as I reach forward, it drops to the ground, bouncing and rolling away. I mutter out an almost-swear and turn, looking for it.

I see it for a moment before it’s hidden by a head of fuzzy, fluffy, platinum blonde hair. Long ears. He stands and offers me the prosthetic hook. “I believe this is yours?” he asks. That fricking voice…!

“Yes,” I stammer, taking it. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he says before turning away.

How rude. First, being so handsomely beautiful that he makes Clark Woodford look plain by comparison; then making Clark Woodford sound plain by comparison by saying the same thing, ‘my pleasure,’ and making it sound so much better; and finally, to walk away? Without even an introduction? What the heck?

I hook the fake prosthetic to the edge of my belt and shake my head slightly. “Sorry about that,” I say, returning my attention to the trio. “Like I said. Gale Hoffman. I’m on stage crew.”

“Oh, right!” Anthony Lewis says, shaking my hand. “You’re Mrs. Hoffman’s son, right? She is a wizard with a sewing needle. I can’t even say how many times she’s saved my skin in the nick of time.”

“Maybe if you didn’t go around putting holes in your costume pieces,” Mandy Thomas says.

“As the son of the seamstress, I have to side with miss Thomas here,” I say with a chuckle. “But I’ll be nice and not tell my mom that you should have to deal with the consequences of your clumsiness.”

“Oh, it’s not clumsiness,” Mandy Thomas says. “It’s fidgeting.” She, too, shakes my hand.

“So,” Clark Woodford interrupts smoothly. “How did you like the flash mob?”

“Perfectly executed,” I say. “The effect of doing it around the bonfire made it much more impressive than in the school gym.”

“See, that’s what I was hoping for,” Clark Woodford says. “It’s like how a strobe light makes things look sort of artificial, like the world is in stop motion? I thought the flickering quality of a fire would give it a sort of ethereal feel.”

“Ethereal it definitely was,” I say before trying the caramel apple. It’s good, but… all I can think of at that moment is how much I’d love to have a big, squishy, melty s’more.

“Gale!” I recognize Rain’s voice and turn to face her. “Gale! There you are!”

“Hey, Sis!” I wave her over. “May I introduce my kid sister, Rain. Rain, I think you know these three from Drama? So I’ll spare myself the embarrassment of trying to introduce people I’ve only just been introduced to, myself.”

“Mandy, Anthony, Rain; Rain, Anthony, Mandy,” Clark Woodford says, gesturing to each at the appropriate time.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Rain says as she shakes hands. “I loved your solo at last year’s final Choir performance, by the way,” she says to Mandy. And that’s when I realize that I had seen Mandy around before. She just had longer hair during that performance. Quite a striking difference, going from having elbow-length hair to having a pixie cut. Also the contouring that must be makeup.

Of course, I don’t say anything. She hadn’t recognized me, either. Doesn’t help that I don’t have any classes with any of Jake’s Choir classmates: I’m a teacher-assistant for Mrs. Allan, the Librarian, in first period; Advanced Placement Art History second period; fourth-year French third period; Advanced Computer Technology fourth period; I’m teacher-assistant to the Physics teacher, Mr. Ducharme, during fifth period; and I have Volleyball during sixth period. You’d think, with as small of a school as we have, I’d have some classes with them, but I have a schedule composed entirely of electives, none of which are performance-arts.

While Mandy’s thanking Rain, I take the moment when the attention isn’t focused on me to look around through the crowd. Ear-guy was pretty tall, so it shouldn’t be too hard to spot him… only I’m not very tall and I’m surrounded by people taller than me. And because of how geometry works, that means that I can’t see very far.

“Anyway, Gale,” Rain says, bringing my focus back around to her. “I put in the request for ‘Monster Mash’; deejay said it’ll probably be coming up after ‘Werewolves of London’.”

“Which will be…?” I ask. I’m answered almost immediately by the familiar drum-and-piano intro of the song in question. “Right now, apparently,” I say with a slight chuckle. I turn to Clark Woodford, smiling. “Good talking to you, and thank you for the apple; it’s delicious.”

“Sure thing, Cap’n,” Clark says with a wink. “See you later.”

I smile and nod, wishing the wink had made me feel… anything. “See you then,” I say. I put a hand on Rain’s shoulder and let her lead me away, around the perimeter of the crowd, avoiding the various lines of people waiting for their turns at the stands and kiosks. We reach the deejay booth and Mom waves us down from her picnic blanket, set out a few paces behind the aisle between it and the balloon animal stand.

“Hey, Mom,” I greet once I’m past the line of speakers and everything gets a little quieter. “You tried these caramel apples? They’re pretty great. Also… can I get you to hold mine for me while Rain and I do our dance?”

Mom laughs as she takes the treat from me. “Of course. Though I’m not sure I’ll be able to watch it from way back here if it’s around the bonfire like the ‘Thriller’ flash mob was.”

“You know, we could do our dance here,” Rain suggests. “There’s enough room between the booths… maybe.”

“Aw, come on,” I argue, “part of the experience is making people form a circle around us so we don’t hit them!”

Rain laughs along with me and Mom shakes her head. “Go ahead and have your experience, then,” Mom says. “I’ll just make you two put on an encore for me before I let either of you go home.”

“Hey, I came here on my own with Jake!” I protest with a smile. “Only kidding, Mom, I’d be happy to.” I hear the ‘his hair was perfect’ line and take Rain by the hand, leading her into the crowd, winding through dancing couples and groups. Once the chains start rattling, I start excusing us, and I take the starting position, i.e., facing Rain and taking her hands in my own.

I get through about three full circles of Rain and I walking around each other with our hands linked when I see ear-guy. He has the worst timing, I swear. I try to keep my concentration on the dance, familiar enough from the dozen years I’ve performed it, but still only a once-a-year occurrence.

I try to not notice that he seems to be watching me, so that every time I try to sneak a glance, I instead make direct eye contact. Completely by accident, but… I can’t seem to want it to stop happening, either.

His eyes are incredible. Almost painfully beautiful, especially as they reflect the bonfire that’s behind me when I look at him. The green practically turns golden in the firelight, like he has autumn in his eyes.

I only get a reprieve when the circling stops and Rain and I are facing each other, perpendicular to the line from the bonfire to ear-guy. Even though the bonfire is heating my left side, my entire face feels hot.

Sure, I probably won’t see him after tonight. He definitely doesn’t live here. There’s no way. But for tonight, for once in my life… someone I’m looking at is looking back at me!

I can’t seem to stop smiling. Even as I mime electrocuting Rain with a fist on each side of her head. Even when I let loose a howl with the ‘baying hounds’ line. Even when I turn away from Rain and start encouraging the circle around me to do the sort-of-monkey, sort-of-jerk, one arm up at a time move we end the dance with. And when I see ear-guy hesitantly join in, my smile only gets bigger. He looks way too elegant, like one of those movies with a ballet dancer who is trying to learn how to let loose by taking secret lessons from a hip-hop freestyle dancer.

I don’t know what made me suddenly grow a sense of bravado, but before I turn away from him, I wink at him.

And his smile spears me right through the heart.

Then I see Clark Woodford through the crowd, also doing the dance. He smiles at me.

I look away.

Okay. So. I have a stranger who will probably be long gone in the morning, but who makes me feel electrified, thrilled, alive… and who seems to be interested in me right back. And I have a classmate of my best friend, who I have no reason to believe would ever be interested in me, but maybe could someday become interested…

The song ends and I make a quick decision, quicker than I can argue myself out of it.

“I’ll be back to see Mom in a bit,” I say to Rain as the crowd around us claps and fills in the gap. I kiss her cheek and duck into the crowd.

This time, it’s easy to find him. He’s exactly where I last saw him, in the middle of a swarm of dancing bodies, standing still. He smiles as I approach, but doesn’t say anything.

The bravado continues as I reach up to cup my mouth. He moves down carefully, smiling still, and pauses with my mouth near his jaw.

“Meet me behind the kettle corn stand?” I ask, loud enough to be heard over the music, but not so loudly that it would betray the trust of whisper-distance. I look over in the direction of the stand and point it out to him, and he smiles and nods.

I pull away, sure my face is entirely red, and not from dancing near the fire. I look at him over my shoulder a few times as I leave.

And then I run into Clark Woodford. Not as literally as when I ran into ear-guy, but still. I’m having an awesome night; I swear, when there isn’t literally everyone who lives in Hallodale and then some all crowded into the town center, I’m not as clumsy.

“Cute dance,” Clark Woodford says. “You going somewhere?”

“Oh… getting my apple back from my mom, couldn’t dance with it in my hand, you know.”

“For sure,” Clark Woodford says. “So… Have any plans after that?”

Dear God, or Goddess, or plurals of either or both; whomever you are, whatever you are, if you could tell me this one thing: why? Why me, and also now? He’d not said more than ten words in a single day to me, before today. And now that I’ve found someone else to be interested in, he wants to pay attention to me now? How is this fair?

“Meeting up with someone. Sorry.”

Clark nods and runs a hand through his hair. “Ah, sure. Right on. I’ll see you around, then?” It’s a question, this time.

“Yeah, sure!” I say quickly. I don’t know what to say then, so… I leave. I exit the crowd further away from Mom’s picnic than I’d expected, and I correct my course, ducking through an alley to go around behind the booths. Less chance to run into someone back here.

“Hey, Mom!” I call when I see her. “Sorry, thanks.” I collapse beside her and lie down on my back. She holds the apple in front of me. A peanut threatens to fall on my face. I take it and sit back up.

“You look like you had fun,” Mom says. “Rainy went off with some friends.”

I nod and eat more of my apple. I didn’t tell ear-guy when to meet me back at the kettle corn stand, so he’s probably not going directly there…

Oh man, what am I even going to say? What if I was reading him entirely wrong? What if he asks what I wanted from him and I have nothing to say? What do I want from him? Ugh, I feel like I’m gonna have a full-blown panic attack. How the heck do people… flirt with people and hook up and make things like this work?

It sure would be nice if I could talk to my mom about all of this… But I haven’t told her that, well, that she’s probably not going to be getting any grandkids through me. At least not any that are genetically my offspring. Not that that really matters where I’m concerned. I don’t know anything yet, of course, but…

I sigh and take a big bite of the apple, chewing it like my brain is powered by jaw movement..

Maybe everything will go well if I continue doing things without thinking about anything too hard.

I mean, it’s worked so far.

---

Chapter 2

wide awake

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