Before I say two words, she faces me. “Look, Rinn. I think it’s cool that you’re not so much like other people around here. But I can’t be friends with you if you’re gonna be friends with
them
. I don’t need this crap, and I don’t need to be anybody’s project. No hard feelings, okay?”
I’m stunned by how deeply that hurts. “You weren’t my project.”
“Whatever. If hanging out with the clique bitches is so important, well, more power to you. I feel sorry for you, Rinn,” she adds, walking away. “Really sorry.”
Me, too. And I’m not altogether sure why.
“My house,” I argue when Nate wants us to hand out candy from
his
porch. “It’s my first Halloween here.”
“Uh, that might not be such a good idea,” he warns.
“Why?”
“Well, there’s this tradition around here …”
“Oooh, you’re scaring me already.” I pretend to quake. “Forget it, farmer boy.”
“Suit yourself. But you better have some decent candy, see? None of those Nyquil suckers. We like chocolate round these parts, Snickers ’n’ stuff.”
“I got it covered.”
My art project sits proudly on the porch railing, a spicy scent drifting up from the candle I inserted. Two hollowed-out pumpkins, also with candles—Mom’s traditional jack-o’-lantern, and mine more sinister with slanted eyes and a screaming mouth—perch on either side of it.
We drag the glider to the edge of the steps, where we sit and pass out candy to clusters of kids dressed like witches and ghosts and Disney characters. After a time, Nate pops a mini Mounds bar into his mouth, chews, and then states, like he’s been pondering this, “We’ll have fun tomorrow night.”
“I never went to a school dance before,” I confide.
“Why not?”
Simple: because I couldn’t. No dances, no school programs, no plays, nothing. I was too afraid people were watching me, talking about me, possibly following me around with devious intentions. Would they poison my food if I looked the wrong way? Plant a tracking device on me so I could never escape?
I’ve already told Nate so much about me—do I really want to scare him off for good? So I smoothly reply, “Nobody cute ever asked me.”
At that split second, my evil screaming pumpkin flies off the railing and splats on the ground. A dark figure in a sinister mask races through my yard, shrieking, “Can Annaliese come out and play?”
Nate jumps up. “Beat it, you moron!”
The ghoul howls and dashes down the street. I stare, outraged, at the empty space. Why didn’t he pick on Mom’s pumpkin instead?
Nate vaults off the porch steps. “Nice!” He kicks the shattered pumpkin, then hops back up on the porch. “Hey, I forgot. Rumor has it, someone else asked you to Homecoming.”
“Yeah. Dino.” I roll my eyes. “Can no one around here keep their mouths shut?”
“Was it supposed to be a secret?”
“Why? You jealous?”
The glider squeals as he sits back down,
much
closer to me than he sat before. “Maybe.” The huskiness in his voice transforms my heart into a fluttering moth.
A new group of kids, clearly too old for trick-or-treating, halt in front of us: Leatherface, waving a plastic chainsaw, Michael Myers in his hockey mask, and a Grim Reaper. They stand and stare, saying nothing.
I shake my bowl of candy bars. “No need for violence. I’ve already been warned: no crappy suckers.”
Silence.
“How about a Twix?” I dangle one invitingly.
Nate snickers, joining in. “What’s the capital of Delaware? Who was the last president of the Soviet Union? What is—?”
“—the square root of one thousand, three hundred and seventy-five?” I shout.
Still no answer.
“Weirdos,” I murmur.
“Just wait.”
I do. Eventually Leatherface asks in a spooky voice: “Can
Aa-a-ana
-liese come out and play?”
“Told ya.” Nate nudges me.
I jump up and plunk down the candy bowl. These dudes are creeping me out! “Why don’t you go harass someone
them
. I don’t need this crap, and I don’t need to be anybody’s project. No hard feelings, okay?”
I’m stunned by how deeply that hurts. “You weren’t my project.”
“Whatever. If hanging out with the clique bitches is so important, well, more power to you. I feel sorry for you, Rinn,” she adds, walking away. “Really sorry.”
Me, too. And I’m not altogether sure why.
“My house,” I argue when Nate wants us to hand out candy from
his
porch. “It’s my first Halloween here.”
“Uh, that might not be such a good idea,” he warns.
“Why?”
“Well, there’s this tradition around here …”
“Oooh, you’re scaring me already.” I pretend to quake. “Forget it, farmer boy.”
“Suit yourself. But you better have some decent candy, see? None of those Nyquil suckers. We like chocolate round these parts, Snickers ’n’ stuff.”
“I got it covered.”
My art project sits proudly on the porch railing, a spicy scent drifting up from the candle I inserted. Two hollowed-out pumpkins, also with candles—Mom’s traditional jack-o’-lantern, and mine more sinister with slanted eyes and a screaming mouth—perch on either side of it.
We drag the glider to the edge of the steps, where we sit and pass out candy to clusters of kids dressed like witches and ghosts and Disney characters. After a time, Nate pops a mini Mounds bar into his mouth, chews, and then states, like he’s been pondering this, “We’ll have fun tomorrow night.”
“I never went to a school dance before,” I confide.
“Why not?”
Simple: because I couldn’t. No dances, no school programs, no plays, nothing. I was too afraid people were watching me, talking about me, possibly following me around with devious intentions. Would they poison my food if I looked the wrong way? Plant a tracking device on me so I could never escape?
I’ve already told Nate so much about me—do I really want to scare him off for good? So I smoothly reply, “Nobody cute ever asked me.”
At that split second, my evil screaming pumpkin flies off the railing and splats on the ground. A dark figure in a sinister mask races through my yard, shrieking, “Can Annaliese come out and play?”
Nate jumps up. “Beat it, you moron!”
The ghoul howls and dashes down the street. I stare, outraged, at the empty space. Why didn’t he pick on Mom’s pumpkin instead?
Nate vaults off the porch steps. “Nice!” He kicks the shattered pumpkin, then hops back up on the porch. “Hey, I forgot. Rumor has it, someone else asked you to Homecoming.”
“Yeah. Dino.” I roll my eyes. “Can no one around here keep their mouths shut?”
“Was it supposed to be a secret?”
“Why? You jealous?”
The glider squeals as he sits back down,
much
closer to me than he sat before. “Maybe.” The huskiness in his voice transforms my heart into a fluttering moth.
A new group of kids, clearly too old for trick-or-treating, halt in front of us: Leatherface, waving a plastic chainsaw, Michael Myers in his hockey mask, and a Grim Reaper. They stand and stare, saying nothing.
I shake my bowl of candy bars. “No need for violence. I’ve already been warned: no crappy suckers.”
Silence.
“How about a Twix?” I dangle one invitingly.
Nate snickers, joining in. “What’s the capital of Delaware? Who was the last president of the Soviet Union? What is—?”
“—the square root of one thousand, three hundred and seventy-five?” I shout.
Still no answer.
“Weirdos,” I murmur.
“Just wait.”
I do. Eventually Leatherface asks in a spooky voice: “Can
Aa-a-ana
-liese come out and play?”
“Told ya.” Nate nudges me.
I jump up and plunk down the candy bowl. These dudes are creeping me out! “Why don’t you go harass someone
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