Toil & Trouble: A Know Not Why Halloween (Mis)adventure by Hannah Johnson Page B

really
surprised by that news.)
     
    Now Cora’s stuck playing Dr. Frankenstein, which is
apparently tantamount to having all your hopes and dreams
shattered.
     
    Even Arthur’s capable of some sympathy over that
one.
     
    “Please?” Cora says.
     
    Arthur glances around. His eyes land on a skeleton
propped up in the corner in a pose that can only be called
bootilicious.
     
    Or maybe rumpishly eager.
     
    “Is that really necessary?” Arthur frowns.
     
    “He’s twerking,” Cora says defensively.
     
    “Again, I ask: why ?”
     
    “Fine.” Cora stomps over and readjusts the skeleton
into a less saucy position. “There. Happy?”
     
    Arthur considers it for a moment. Then: “Halloween it
is.”
     
    “Aw yeah!” Cora shimmies triumphantly over to the
stereo.
     
    The strains of a familiar eerie ditty fill the
air.
     
    Howie is immediately catapulted back to
not-exactly-proud memories of scampering around Amber’s family’s
living room.
     
    “What is this?” Arthur asks, bewildered.
     
    “What is this?” Cora repeats, aghast.
“Blasphemer!”
     
    “You haven’t heard The Monster Mash?” Howie says.
     
    “You have?”
     
    “Oh yeah. Amber made me choreograph a dance routine
to it when we were eight. And not to brag or anything, but I was
good. ”
     
    Arthur grins. “Can I request a repeat
performance?”
     
    “I immediately regret telling you about it,” Howie
realizes aloud.
     
    Arthur asks, “What move does the choreography call
for ... right now?”
     
    It’s sad that Howie doesn’t even have to think about
the answer. “Zombie twirl.”
     
    “What’s a zombie twirl?” Arthur asks way too
delightedly.
     
    “Yeah, you’re never finding out.”
     
    “We’ll find out,” Cora says, slinging an arm around
Arthur’s shoulder.
     
    “I expect so,” Arthur agrees, pleased.
     
    “That is never happening,” Howie informs them
sternly.
     
    His sternness does not work on Cora at all. “Whatevs.
Happy Halloween, zombie dancer.”
     
    She reaches a hand down her top and pulls out—why,
look at that!—two tiny bags of candy corn. She tosses one to Howie
and one to Arthur.
     
    “Maybe straight guys are onto something,”
Howie marvels. “Go, boobs.”
     
    Cora winks at him.
     
    “I don’t think I’m comfortable with eating bra candy
corn,” Arthur says, staring down at the little packet in his hand.
“It’s warm .”
     
    “Sucks to be you, man,” Howie says, and pours a
handful of candy corn goodness into his mouth.
     
     
    +
     
     
    Some customers deign to come in a few hours later: a
pair of thirty-something ladies that show up every once in awhile
to rifle through the discount stuff.
     
    Howie and Cora are forced to pretend they aren’t
having a lively debate over a Buzzfeed quiz that tells you what
kind of hipster cat you are.
     
    It’s tough, but duty calls.
     
    “This is cute,” one of the women says halfheartedly,
pointing at a fake raven perched over their discount bin. The raven
is wearing a little wizard’s hat.
     
    “You know,” the other woman says, turning to
acknowledge Howie and Cora, “over at Holly’s they have a perfect
life-sized replica of a Hansel and Gretel candy cottage. There’s
actually candy in the walls that the kids can pull out and
eat. It’s incredible.”
     
    “Totally incredible,” agrees her friend.
     
    “Is there by any chance a giant oven inside this
candy cottage?” Howie asks nonchalantly.
     
    “There is. It’s vintage. So adorable.”
     
    “So, uh, how far are they planning to take this
thing?” Howie says. “Are they gonna go full Modest Proposal?”
     
    “What?”
     
    “You know ... eating babies ... that whole jam ...
Jonathan Swift ... kids today call him JSwizzle ... maybe?”
     
    All he gets is a lot of blank staring.
     
    It’s possible his hip references aren’t always as hip
as he thinks they are.
     
    “ An yway,” one of the ladies says, giving him
some serious Slow