Out of His Gourd
by

Beetlejuice was happily carving Jack-o'-lanterns. One of the nearest farmers to the Deetz house had raised an entire acre of pumpkins that year and, once the field was harvested, there were nearly forty left behind. They were too small or too lopsided or too sun-bleached to sell, and the enterprising ghost was using his juice to carve them into a bunch of Jack-o'-lanterns to surprise his best friend after school let out.

The next one to carve was going to be a creepy one. He was making creepy, happy, scary, weird faces, faces that would make Lydia smile. Even make her laugh. She'd go from pumpkin to pumpkin, smiling and telling him how great they were and laughing. And that's all he wanted to do – make Lyds happy. Maybe if she liked the pumpkins enough, she'd give him a hug. Maybe, just for once, he'd open his arms and invite a hug.

No. Beetlejuice cut that thought off immediately. He had to appreciate what he had and not hope for more. He was getting good at terminating thoughts like those.

But he did remember every hug she'd given him. Sometimes, at night when he couldn't sleep, he'd think about them, savor each one, trying to block out the bad thoughts that came to him at night. Maybe that was how he'd gotten so good at cutting off his thoughts. Practice, practice, practice.

The next pumpkin was clearly meant for a happy face. Big toothy grin, triangle for a nose, big eyes. He'd put a thatch of straw on the top later and see if she got the joke. She would. She always got his jokes. She always laughed at his jokes, chuckled along with him at so-called horror movies, smiled at him and spent all her free time with him. He sighed. How long would that last? All he could was try to be the best friend she could have, until –

Nope, don't think that. She was his best friend right now. If that's all he ever got, it's more than he deserved. There. Next one, maybe . . . a scary face. Yeah. Slanted, angry eyebrows and a slit for a nose.

Maybe he could give her a hug if she started it? Hmmm. Maybe, just a little pressure? Nothing she'd notice. Maybe. As long as he remembered it was just until she finished growing up and found somebody else.

Don't! She was almost seventeen and she was still his friend and that was all that mattered. Still his best friend. He was grateful for what he had and shouldn't even want any more. For her sake. For Lyds, he could do anything, endure anything . . . give up anything. That's what friends do – they think of the other person first. Even he knew that. And didn't he always think about her? Yep, all the time, so he was doing it right, even though he didn't really understand this kind of friendship and feelings and stuff. Time for a creepy face. Three eyes, a really long mouth, stretching around to the back of the pumpkin. Yeah.

Maybe they'd always be friends, even when she – nope, start that over again. Maybe they'd always be friends, period. Beetlejuice stepped back from the creepy one and surveyed it judiciously. A tiny nose between all the eyes and the long mouth. Maybe they'd somehow stay friends and she'd still spend time with him even after she . . .

Okay, fine, just think it and be done with it. He had pumpkins to carve. So, maybe even after she had moved away? Found other friends, maybe even one special person? After she'd found out that he wasn't the one she wanted to be with all the time? There. Nose done, bad thoughts done.

This next one was clearly meant to be another happy one; careful with the eyes, though. It was one of the smallest pumpkins in the field. And she was his friend and he was her friend and he would always be her friend. Always, no matter what. And that was what was important. Right? Right. He couldn't wait to show her the Jack-o'-lanterns. To see the surprise and joy and affection in her eyes. To make her happy.

Beetlejuice stood in the harvested field, contentedly carving Jack-o'-lanterns, not realizing he uncovered and offered his heart to Lydia with everything he did. Giving her all he had, carving in a field of pumpkins, a field of dreams.