The rain was coming down hard on the second Saturday in October, but Carrie elected that day to walk down to see Mrs. Garrison. The rain was dreary enough as it was, but her mother's cryptic prayers and eerie hymns in the background made the house almost unbearable. Mrs. Garrison, at the ripe old age of eighty-six, was not the most exciting companion, but her soap operas, as well as her frequent commentary and overall cheery attitude, was a much preferable alternative to Margaret White.

Clutching her umbrella, she walked down the street several blocks until she reached the familiar white-painted porch of the Garrison house. The old woman's wind chimes still swung in the autumn breeze, painting the air with their wistful chords. Alongside the porch were several bundles of corn stalks, along with decorative baskets filled with festively colored gourds. She climbed the stairs and folded her umbrella, shaking it out so as not to create a puddle in the old woman's mud room.

She could hear the din of the television inside the house, most likely "You Guessed It," one of the major game shows that she was known to watch between episodes of "The Weary Son" and "Life of the Wealthy." Carrie lifted a pudgy index finger to ring the doorbell and then waited a moment for the door to open. There was no response. She worried a bit. Mrs. Garrison lived alone, having lost her husband to cancer almost a decade ago. She was still sharp and agile, but nonetheless vulnerable. She was also slightly hard of hearing.

Carrie heard the clanking of dishes from the kitchen and let out a sigh of relief. She pressed the doorbell twice in succession, hoping that it would catch her attention over her television. This time, Carrie heard the distinct sound of Mrs. Garrison yelling, "On my way. Hold your horses," as she hurried to the door.

It opened to reveal a small woman dressed in light blue cotton pants with a plain lilac t-shirt. She stood almost half a foot shorter than Carrie, but her presence was enough to push her back a good foot.

"Why, Miss. Carrietta White," she said, jovially, crossing her arms. "What brings you over here in such rotten weather? Doesn't your mom's TV get soaps just like mine?" The corners of her crepe-paper thin lips curled into a smile, which faded at the sight of Carrie's withered posture.

"Mama doesn't watch TV," she said, her eyes flickering downward. "I'm not bothering you, am I?"

"No," said Mrs. Garrison, pausing briefly. "No, not at all. Come in." She motioned for Carrie to follow her as she went back inside. Carrie gave her umbrella a final shake before propping it against the chalk-white painted radiator to dry. The inside of the house was quite warm, and would have been unbearable on a warmer day. However, after walking in the rain, it felt good.

"Want a cup of tea, Carrie," asked Mrs. Garrison from the kitchen.

"No, thank you," she replied, plopping herself down onto the overstuffed couch. She sank into the cushions, and for a moment felt she'd melt straight through the bottom. After a few minutes, Mrs. Garrison joined her, placing her cup of tea down on the coffee table in front of her, along with several small butter cookies.

The credits were still rolling from "You Guessed It," and, unless the channel had changed their schedule, "Life of the Wealthy" would be up next. It wasn't a particularly intelligent show. Most of the characters were shallow and unpleasant. However, Carrie liked watching it, if only to daydream about what she would do if she'd been born into such wealth.

This week's episode featured the family's eldest son nearly killing himself after drunkenly crashing his luxury car. His parents were desperately trying to cover up the accident to avoid a scandal. This attitude was so foreign to Carrie, whose mother demanded that she confess and repent of even the most trivial wrongdoing. Obviously, the characters were excessively permissive with their wayward children, but she couldn't help but feel just a bit jealous.

She sunk a little deeper into the cushion and began eyeing Mrs. Garrison's cookies. Just a few of them couldn't do too much harm, she thought. After all, it would almost be rude not to eat something since the old lady had offered.

Three hours, two sleeves of butter cookies, and one mild stomach ache later, Carrie decided it would be best to call it an afternoon and go home. The rain was just a fine mist now, a stroke of luck that was uncertain to last long. She picked herself up from the couch and drowsily made her way to the door.

As she reached for her umbrella, her eye landed on a wicker basket filled with miniature pumpkins. She picked one up and turned it in her hands. The skin was somewhat lumpy, but vibrantly colored.

"You can have it if you want."

Carrie looked up, startled. How someone of Mrs. Garrison's age could move so quickly was beyond her.

"Oh, uh…Sure," she said with a nervous laugh. She stuffed the pumpkin in her pocket and thanked the old woman, whose response was to "Oh," and wave her hand dismissively.

"It's nothing," she said.

The two exchanged pleasantries before parting company. On her way home, Carrie spent a considerable amount of effort trying to decide the best way to hide the pumpkin on her way to her room. Mama was sure to be in the living room, praying or sewing, or listening to her records, and she'd surely want her to come and join her. The pumpkin made an obvious bulge in her pocket, so Mama would most likely be curious as to what it was.

Perhaps it would be possible, she thought, to pass it off as a gift that she took to avoid being rude, and that she had just been waiting until she got home to throw it away. This would require her to make a beeline to the kitchen in order to sell it. Any hesitation on her part would look suspicious, and she didn't really want to throw it out. She wondered if it might not be possible to go back to the kitchen when Mama was out to retrieve it from the trash. Yes, she thought. This was good.

The next morning found Jerry at her locker. She wiggled her arm out of her book bag straps and slung the heavy mass into it without bothering to hang it up. Instead, she worked herself into a crouch in order to reach comfortably into her bag as it sat on the locker floor, and began to shuffle furiously through the crumpled papers that spilled from its mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two stockinged feet, cut off at the ankles by the blue hem of a long dress.

"How are you doing, Jerry," came Carrie's voice from some five feet above the stocking ankles.

"Fucked upside down," she said without looking up. "You?"

Carrie craned her neck to look into the locker. If Hell had lockers, she thought, they would look like this one. "I'm alright," she said. "What's going on?"

"Can't find my damn English essay," she said, casting aside a handful of crumpled notes. "I swore I put it in here somewhere."

"Well, when you're done looking, I got something for you."

She immediately stopped her search and looked up. "What is it?" She could now see that Carrie was holding something behind her back. She smiled shyly and looked away. "It's nothing big," she said. "I just thought you'd like it."

From behind her back, she pulled a small pumpkin. In its flesh was carved a sloppy but distinct jack o'lantern grin.

Jerry held out her hand to take it. "Did you make this," she asked.

"Yea," she replied. "It's not that good, but I've never made one before. The old lady I visit sometimes let me have one that she'd put out for decoration. It was a bit of a puzzle to get it past Mama, and I had to wait until she went to bed to carve it." She looked down at the lopsided smile and sighed. "I would have liked to have made it a bit nicer, but I didn't want to push my luck going downstairs to grab a knife, and the only thing I had in my room that was any good was a pair of scissors."

Jerry smiled and stood up. "Well, you know what," she said. "That's dedication. Thanks. I shall treasure it."

She took the pumpkin and placed it on the top self so that its face was looking out towards the hallway. However, as she was about to set it in its place, she noticed a piece of lined paper sticking out ever so slightly. She grabbed it and looked it up and down. "Well, ain't that just something," she said. Looking over at Carrie, she held up the paper. "You know what this is," she asked.

"Not really…?"

Jerry pursed her lips until her mouth was just a straight slit across her face. "This," she said. "Is my English essay." She looked down at the page. "And you know what else?"

"It's not done," suggested Carrie.

Jerry nodded. "Bingo," she replied.

Carrie tried to think of something consoleing. "You could do it in the second period," she offered.

"Yea. I'll probably just do it then," said Jerry. "I'm not worried about finishing it or anything. I just could have sworn I did it last night."

"Oh," said Carrie. "That's weird."

"Yea, it's a big old mind fuck, but at least I found it." She looked up at the pumpkin as it grinned sarcastically down at her. "You know, on second thought," she said, reaching for it, "I think I'll bring it with me." She slipped the orange fruit into her jacket pocket. "Moral support, you know."

Carrie didn't understand, but was glad to see that her offering was appreciated. The bell for first period rang, and she turned to wave goodbye. As she walked away, lifted her chin and flashed her another grin just like the one carved into her pumpkin.