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Halloween
Jem had been extreeeeeeeeeeemly patient. According to the ticket, the Cooper Terrace Halloween party started at 9:00 and he had neither volunteered to help set up nor arrived at 9:01. It was a struggle.
"You can't make an entrance if you're already there," Joy had told him. She had a point.
Instead, Jem had busied himself finessing the details of his costume. The silver-glitter earrings were too heavy and kept slipping from their clips. Jem had briefly considered piercing his ears, but apparently you had to wear dinky little studs for weeks and weeks and he didn't have that sort of time. He resigned himself to losing them on the dance floor. After all, the first impression was the main thing.
That seemed well in hand. Auntie Phil had encouraged him to slash her hideous old bridesmaid's dress to the thigh, claiming she'd have done it herself long ago if she'd had the gumption. With the pink wig and the makeup adorning his own natural height, Jem was confident that he'd draw plenty of eyes. Hopefully the ones he was angling for.
His phone buzzed.
Zach: Do you know if we have any spare stethoscopes?
Jem gritted his teeth. Honestly, Zach was a fully-qualified paramedic and perfectly capable of leading a shift without Jem's input. Still, Halloween was a busy night and a little help never went amiss.
Look in the second cabinet from the door, Jem typed. There should be a plastic container with a blue top behind the extra gloves.
By the time Zach texted Thanks! it was 9:02 and Jem felt as if his apartment were shrinking by the second. He sent a quick selfie to Joy and locked up, glad to be moving at last. It was a relief to launch out into the crisp, cool evening, eating up the few blocks to Jerry's place with long, purposeful strides.
The principal business streets of Kingsport were crowded with people, some in costume, some not, and quite a few not easily sorted into either category. More than a few pointed Jem out to their companions, but he merely saluted them cheerfully and hurried on.*
It had not occurred to Jem that Jerry mightn't be ready a quarter hour before their appointed meeting time. It would have been a worry wasted in any case. A slight, black-clad swordsman was standing by the bushes in front of a shabby rooming house, scanning passersby with an expression of anticipation.
Jem grinned.
"And what are you supposed to be?" he asked before Jerry recognized him.
"Holy cats!" Jerry yelped, clapping one black glove to his chest.
Jem struck a pose. "It's good, right?"
"It's . . . something alright."
"What about you? Some kind of ninja?"
Jerry adjusted his headscarf and tugged a black eyemask into place. "You guessed wrong."**
Jem tumbled that one around in his brain for a bit before the reference slid into place. "I know! You're from that movie with André the Giant . . . no, don't tell me, I know this one . . . The Princess Bride! You're the pirate guy."
Jerry made a sweeping bow. "The Dread Pirate Roberts at your service."
"Oh, man. My mum loves that movie!"
"My step-mother does, too. I think she and Una have watched it a hundred times. Plus, I already had black clothes, so I just had to do the accessories."
Jem agreed that Jerry had done stellar work. The costume suited him, even if it didn't exactly scream "'80s" at first glance. He'd surely explain it to anyone who asked.
All the way to Cooper Hall, the pair of them chatted brightly. Jerry shared a picture of Bruce dressed as what Jem could only assume was the most current version of velociraptor, which had rather more feathers than he remembered.
When they reached the building, they could hear the music four floors up. Not too early, then. Good. The elevator was out of service again, so they climbed the stairs and handed their tickets to Shelby at the ticket table. Jem complimented her vivid aerobic instructor ensemble and she dimpled and asked him to save her a dance.
"Friend of yours?" Jerry asked as they went in through an open common room to the terrace.
"Who? Shelby? No, we just parked next to one another on move-in day. Why?"
Jerry gave him a quizzical look, but Jem didn't really have time to puzzle over it. They were finally here! Colored lights hung from the higher floors overlooking the terrace and music pulsed from the windows of the suite near the dance floor floor. The dancers were still a bit sparse, but obviously enthusiastic. Jem's twitchy leg caught the beat and he couldn't wait a moment longer.
"I'm going to dance. You coming, Roberts?"
"Not likely. Say hi to Faith for me, though."
"Who?" Jem asked innocently.
Jerry snorted. He raised a black-gloved hand and pointed toward the dance floor. As if Jem hadn't seen her right away. Golden and laughing, with bangles clattering on her wrists as she sang along on the top of her lungs, Faith Meredith was having all the fun the singer was wishing for.
Jem checked to make sure his earrings were in place and dove in.
By the time the fifth person asked whether she realized it was supposed to be an '80s party, Nan had formed a sadly diminished opinion of her fellow Redmond students. It wasn't exactly surprising that her peers had never seen Labyrinth, but they were awfully free about expressing their ignorance.
Nan had dressed with more than usual care, wreathing her dark hair with silver and embellishing a white dress with iridescent cellophane until the puffed sleeves threatened to take on a life of their own. Di had offered her ghost-busting services if they didn't behave themselves, but Faith had assured her that she had nailed Sarah's masquerade look down to the chandelier earrings. In thanks, Nan had stuck her tongue out at her sister and helped Faith crimp her hair. She'd done a good job of that, if she did say so herself. No one would doubt that Faith had understood the theme, with her shredded skirts and piled-on beads and careless smears of neon makeup. By the look of things, she was having a blast dancing to the bright, synthy music, rattling her bangles and getting up on a bench even though it was far too early to be properly drunk yet. Jem was over there, too, whooping his appreciation along with the other dancers.
The party seemed to be a great success. The tickets ensured that the crowd remained within the dictates of the fire code while still filling the terrace to a concentration that qualified as revelry. The music was loud enough for dancing, but not so loud that it blotted out conversation.
Nan was not particularly interested in joining the crush herself, but she did love to watch the people and see what they had come up with for costumes. Some were comprehensible at a glance — the Smurfs, the Ninja Turtles, the ambitious soul who had encased herself in a giant cardboard Rubik's Cube — while others required more interpretation. A girl in a stiff-shouldered pastel suit and pearls might be Princess Diana, while a boy in a shaggy wig seemed to going for Generic '80s Dude. Nan found her eye lingering on a blaster-wielding Han Solo and wondering what Nerfherder was up to right now, this very minute. It was silly. For all Nan knew, Nerfherder might not celebrate Halloween at all, or they might be a suburban fifty-year-old waiting for their teenage kids to come home from a party, or they might live in Australia where it was already November. Really, the only concrete thing she knew about Nerfherder was that they were an engaging correspondent.
Nan shook herself out of her reverie. This was a party and she should be enjoying it, not passing on real fun in favor of daydreams. Another look at the roiling dance floor decided her against it for good, but a drink would be alright.
At the drinks table, Nan found that the boys in the suite next door had concocted an orange punch of indeterminate ingredients and asked for a beer instead. At least it been manufactured in a regulated facility and she could get it directly from the keg.
"Hey, Nan!" said a cheerful voice from a lofty height. "You're that girl from that Bowie movie, right?"
Nan looked up to find Ari towering over her in a basketball jersey marked "Harlem Globetrotters." She had a basketball balanced against her hip and teeny red-and-white striped shorts. Nan had always liked Ari, who was a comfortable sort of person with, apparently, better taste in entertainment than the common run of Redmond student.
"I am, thank you," Nan said with satisfaction. "Are the Globetrotters the ones who do all those fancy tricks?"
"Yep. When they're not solving mysteries with Scooby Doo."
Nan didn't know much about Scooby Doo, so she asked after the Redstockings prospects in the upcoming season. It wasn't that she cared a great deal about basketball either, but it was good manners to show interest in other people's hobbies, and they passed a few pleasant minutes catching up. Nan was reminded that though she had never been close with Ari, she had certainly never dreaded the sight of her, which was more than she could say about certain people who would remain nameless.
Speak of the devil, Nan thought as a shriek of familiar laughter announced the imminent arrival of less congenial company.
If she were being uncharitable, Nan would have noted that Delilah's blue ghost getup was technically from the recent Ghostbusters reboot, rather than the '80s. Since she was not, she merely wished that Delilah would end the night trapped in a proton pack.
"So this is the famous Ari," Delilah said over-sweetly when Di had introduced her. "I had no idea you were so tall!"
It was a skill, really, to make such a tiresome observation sound like an insult. Nan fixed a smile on her face and devoted her attention to selecting the precise adjectives to describe Delilah's inimitable simper.
"Nice to meet you," Ari said uncertainly.
"Yes, it is," Delilah agreed.
Di looked Ari up and down appreciatively. "You look great! Show Nan that spinny trick you can do."
Ari obliged her by balancing the basketball on her index finger and spinning it for three full seconds. She might have gone on longer, if Delilah had not grabbed Di's hand and pushed past, knocking Ari's arm.
"So nice to meet you," Delilah smiled as she pulled Di along. "Excuse us, we were on our way to get drinks."
Di gave an apologetic wave but did not resist. Ari caught her ball and stared after them, frowning.
"Don't get me started," Nan said. "I don't know what has got into Di . . . that girl seems to have bewitched her."***
"Is she always like that?"
"Usually worse."
Ari grimaced but did not press for details. She made her excuses, leaving Nan to rustle along through the crowd. It was thicker now, with the party in full swing. Nan did her best not to sweep people with her skirts, but was not notably successful. By the time she reached the railing overlooking the street, Nan was rumpled and jostled and slightly beer-stained. At least it was a quieter here, away from the music.
There was only one spot left at the rail, beside a masked man in black. Black gloves, black boots, black kerchief, a wooden-dowel sword but no hat . . . Nan hoped that she was puzzling this one out correctly. She smiled with secret delight, poised on the brink of discovering a kindred spirit.
"You're the Dread Pirate Roberts," she said. "Admit it."
"With pride," quoted the black-clad figure. He turned to face her, but stopped with a jolt when their eyes met. "Nan?"
Nan recoiled. Oh, perfect.
"Uh . . . you're right," Jerry said, possibly for the first time ever. "I'm the Dread Pirate Roberts. And you're . . ."
"Not Buttercup," Nan said too sharply.
Jerry looked nearly as wrongfooted as Nan felt, and she might have mustered up some pity if it had been anyone else. But this was Jerry Meredith, who had spent their last Law and Society seminar arguing that Bill C-16 was a threat to freedom of speech. He'd even had the gall to say that Jordan Peterson — Jordan Peterson! — had a good point when it came to the alleged dangers of government-compelled speech.
"It's completely unreasonable for the government to force people to speak in a certain way," Jerry had argued. "If Bill C-16 becomes law, people who refuse to use made-up pronouns could prosecuted for hate crimes, even if it's against their deeply held beliefs."
Nan, rigid with outrage, had protested that this wasn't what the bill said at all, but Jerry defended his corner with maddening stubbornness. If the government discovered a right to compel speech in one area, he argued, it would certainly expand its reach. Nan had been coming up with belated retorts to that all week, but too late. By the end of class, Jerry had compounded his offense by winning a few converts to his cause.
"You're not going to tell me who you are?" Jerry asked from behind his mask.
"I think not," Nan sniffed. "Compelled speech and all that."
"You're the one who started talking to me . . ."
"A mistake, I assure you." She turned on her heel to go, but Jerry laid a detaining hand on her arm.
"Wait, Nan," he said. "Can't we be friends?"
Nan shook off his hand and rubbed the place where it had been. If she had been ill-disposed toward him before, she certainly was not persuaded by this intrusion upon her person.
"No," she said coldly.
"Come on, Nan. This is silly. Can't we just agree to disagree in class and be friends otherwise?"
"I'll never be friends with you," she shot back. "Nobody could, knowing all the rubbish you call deeply held beliefs."
The dark eyes flashed behind the mask. "Really? As far as I can tell, you're the only one who has a problem."
Nan saw the opening and took it. "Does that mean you've told Jem your views on deporting undocumented immigrants? How did that go over?"
"Immigrants? What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about your reprehensible politics. You're welcome to your opinions, of course, but don't be surprised if they don't win you any friends."
"I don't understand why you hate me," Jerry flared. "I haven't done anything except have the temerity to disagree with you, and apparently that makes me a villain."
"It's not about disagreeing," Nan said with disdain. "It's about not associating with people who support racist, homophobic, misogynist . . ."
"That's not fair!" Jerry interrupted, the angry color in his cheeks showing beneath his mask.
"Isn't it?"
"No! It's . . . ugh! Just forget it! You can think what you want."
"And you can die slowly, cut into a thousand pieces."
Jerry blinked, evidently not recognizing the quotation. Nan made an exasperated noise in her throat and stalked off, not looking back.
John hated parties. They were so loud. So crowded. Every year, his parents threw a Christmas party that packed Ingleside with sparkle and chatter and toothy laughter, the merry crowd threatening to burst through the walls and onto the lawn. John dreaded the noise and the cheek-pinching aunts and the tedious inquiries about school. No, this can't be Shirley! He's gotten so big! When he was younger, John had retreated to his room as soon as his parents were sufficiently absorbed in their hosting duties; last year, he had just texted Wilkie to pick him up around the corner and split.
But Di had insisted, so here he was, putting in an appearance at the Cooper Terrace Halloween party before he headed over to the Crow's Nest for Wilkie's birthday. No quieter there, John thought with a grimace. The terrace swarmed with people in neon and spandex, their teased hair gathered into side-ponytails or slicked back into pseudo-mullets. All the suites had their doors open, and the one with the best speakers was blasting something with enough bass that John's teeth buzzed. Other people seemed to be enjoying it, though.
"What are you supposed to be?" Di yelled over the throbbing music. She wore khaki coveralls with thin horizontal stripes in a vivid shade of orange, along with fingerless leather gloves and a utility belt. No proton pack, but the Ghostbusters patch on her shoulder was clear enough.
"What?"
"Costume!" she asked, gesturing to John's obvious lack of one.
"I can't stay long!"
"Other plans?"
"What?"
"You're going somewhere else?"
"Yes!"
"Somewhere with no costumes?"
John didn't answer. He would rather melt through the floor than show up at Wilkie's party in costume, to be discussed and dissected and no doubt found ridiculous. Better to disappoint Di.
Delilah appeared at Di's shoulder, ethereal in bright blue gauze that suggested a ghost un-busted. She looked John up and down with a pitying little frown.
"Come on," Di said, tugging at his elbow. "I'll find you something." With a quick word of reassurance to Delilah, she steered him off toward her suite. They wove through the press of bodies into the less crowded common room. When Di's bedroom door shut behind them, John exhaled with relief.
"Let me see," Di was muttering as she pawed through the alarming miscellany spilling from her closet. She held up a plaid shirt and muttered, "Cowboy? . . . no . . ."
"I really don't need a costume," John protested.
"Yes, you do. Come on. Would it kill you to participate for once?"
John did feel guilty. Di was always inviting him to Pride House events and he'd never shown his face, not even once. It wasn't that he didn't, you know, support the cause or whatever, but the whole Pride House vibe made him itch. Smiley-face nametags and earnest workshops and consciousness-raising icebreakers . . . no, thanks.
"Alright," he said. "It's just . . . I have to go somewhere else after this . . ."
Di beamed at him, looking for all the world like Mum in spite of the blue hair. "Got it. No makeup, no glitter, and the less fuss the better. Right?"
"Right."
Di considered, eyeing him. "What have you got on under that?"
John grimaced. "I'm not going out there in my underwear."
"I just meant under your shirt!" Di laughed. "Thanks for the mental image, though. Are you wearing an undershirt?"
"Yes . . . ?"
"Good!" Di went up on her toes, feeling around on the top shelf as accessories shifted and fell around her. "Take your shirt off, then."
John complied, shrugging out of his jacket and draping his shirt over the back of Di's desk chair. The white undershirt didn't need smoothing, but he smoothed it anyway.
"Aha!" Di emerged with something clutched in her fist that turned out to be a pair of aviator sunglasses. She handed them over, squeeing with delight when John slipped them onto his face. "You're too tall to be Tom Cruise," she said, "but I don't think anyone will complain."
John stooped to study his reflection in the mirror on the back of her door. He was going to freeze out there in just his undershirt. Good thing he didn't mean to stay long. "What am I supposed to be?"
Di seemed genuinely confused. "You've seen Top Gun."
"Top Gun?"
"Yeah. Tom Cruise? Fighter jets? Kelly McGillis in that leather jacket?"
"Sorry, I don't know."
"That's impossible! It's one of Uncle Davy's favorites. He used to make us watch it every time we went to . . ." Di seemed to realize what she was saying and went a little pink under her freckles. "Anyway, I think you'd like it."
"If you say so."
"I do. Now, do try to have fun before you sneak off, won't you? If anyone calls you Maverick, just call them Goose or say something walkie-talkie-ish."
"Roger."
Back out on the terrace, John headed for a denser patch of crowd near one wall. Getting a drink would give him something to do rather than just standing around waiting for someone to ask him about geese. He sidestepped a Beetlejuice and a Richard Simmons who had obviously been to the drinks table a few times already, pushing through until he was close enough to swipe a red plastic cup.
Wading back into the chaos, John spotted Nan in a dress that reminded him of the good witch from the Wizard of Oz, except in white instead of pink. She was looking pissed about something, but she acknowledged John's raised hand with a wave and kept moving. Excellent. Both of his sisters could testify that he had, in fact, attended their party. All he had to do was finish one beer, catch Jem's eye, and he could be on his way. If he hurried, he might not even be late.
John had just raised the cup to his lips when someone clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to slosh foam up his nose.
"There you are!" grinned Ken. He was wearing a Wayne Gretzky throwback jersey over shoulder pads, though he'd left his skates at home. "Di mentioned you were supposed to show up."
"What?"
Ken waved off the irrelevant small talk. "Having fun?"
John grimaced and wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I can't stay long. Just gotta say hi to Jem."
"He's over there," Ken said, pointing.
John looked over the heads of the dancers. "Where?"
"There!"
Once John found him, there couldn't be any mistake. Tight pink dress, glam rock wig, and was that Faith Meredith matching him jump for jump? The sight surprised an incredulous cough out of John. Well, Jem never did anything by half measures, did he?
"Come on!" Ken shouted, nudging John toward the dancers.
"No. He's busy!"
"Well then just come dance!"
"No. You go."
Ken shrugged but didn't pester. John watched him shimmy in among the dancers, half a head taller than most. The costumes blurred together as people flowed around one another, visible one minute, gone the next.
A brief gap showed that Ken had sidled up to a long-limbed girl dressed in a bright pink leotard and yellow leggings. Wasn't that what's-her-name? Carl's friend? Yes, John thought so, though her hair was a dozen different colors and her makeup so bright that it was difficult to be sure. Ken appeared to like what he saw. He always made things look easy, John thought ruefully as Ken made an inquiring gesture and was rewarded with the girl's full attention. So smooth, with that ready smile and laughing voice and, quite soon, a hand on the girl's lycra-covered hip. You miss all the shots you don't take, Ken liked to say. Well, maybe that's why John played defense.
Ken pulled the girl — Kylie? Keira? — closer, both of them laughing. As they moved, John caught a glimpse of bright blue behind them and caught his breath.
That couldn't really be Carl dancing, could it?
When John thought of Carl at all, it was as a skittish and slightly awkward presence on the periphery of his daily routine, not as a graceful, laughing swirl of color at the center of an ecstatic crowd. John could not have said whether it was the fluid movement or the unselfconscious expression of joyful abandon that made him forget his drink and gawp, but he was still only half convinced that the captivating dancer moving in and out of sight was his timid, apologetic roommate.
John was still rooted to the spot two songs later, when Carl said something in the rainbow-haired girl's ear — Katie?— and began pushing through the crowd toward the drinks table.
Mayday! Mayday!
John attempted to slink out of the way, but he had stood still so long that packs of revelers had hemmed him in on every side. He had one wild flash of hope that perhaps the glasses were dark enough to disguise him. No dice.
"John?"
Carl's eyes were impossibly huge. Actually impossible. What the . . . ? John stared a beat too long before coughing up an artless, "Hey."
Carl was sweat-damp and flushed under the rainbow makeup, in spite of the breeze that was raising gooseflesh on John's arms. Some sort of cat, John thought, noting the fuzzy ears and leopard spots, though the overall impression was of bright, glowing color.
"I didn't know you were coming to this," Carl said, smiling.
"Just stopping by."
"I'm glad you did. Did you see . . ."
Carl gestured toward the dancers, turning so that John couldn't see the shape of the words anymore. The music throbbed, bodies pressed, and Carl turned back, still smiling, expecting some sort of answer.
John had to say something, so he said, "Sorry, I don't know."
The flicker of confusion across Carl's painted face told John that this was off the mark, but everything was too loud and too close and he couldn't even hear his own thoughts let alone anyone's words. He certainly didn't hear Carl say, "Do you want to dance?" though he did see the request form on purple lips.
Dance? John had no desire to humiliate himself. He'd be stiff and self-conscious, and they'd all look at him, which would be bad enough, or laugh at him, which would be unimaginably worse.
"I don't dance," he said.
"You could start," Carl said, with a bit more backbone than John had expected. Something was definitely different and it wasn't just the eyes.
John groped for a reply and found that there was nothing to hand — no explanation, no excuse, no words at all. He was used to being tongue-tied when called on in class or when he was expected to chime in with his family's patter, but he didn't usually regret it. Plenty of people thought that he was dim-witted or just plain rude, but John mostly just shrugged and kept to himself or sought the company of people who didn't try to make him talk or badger him with chatter.**** He wished he could speak now.
The smile had faded from Carl's face. The makeup made it a bit difficult to read the new expression, but John split his bet between "disappointed" and "annoyed."
"Ok. See you later, I guess," Carl said. If there was any more than that, John didn't catch it because Carl turned toward the refreshments.
Stupid. Stupid.
John was just about to say, "Wait," and would have, if he could have spit it out in time. Too late. He was preempted by a sudden drop in the happy hum of the party. The music still played, but a hush was spreading through the crowd on the quieter end of the terrace. People backed away from something at the center of a widening clearing and John had just enough time to recall junior high school fights — the chanting, the circling, the shocking sensation of crashing through a glass wall — before a sharp shriek resolved itself into sense.
"Liar! Take it back, liar!"
Notes:
*Anne of the Island, chapter 5: "Letters from Home"
**The various Jerry/Nan quotations are either from Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Ingleside, Pride and Prejudice, or The Princess Bride.
***In Anne of Ingleside, the line about Di being bewitched is Anne's and refers to Jenny Penny, but Di's tendency to fall for girls Nan doesn't like applies to both Delilah and Jenny.
****Rilla of Ingleside, chapter 3, "Moonlit Mirth"