"I'm only going because of my little sister," Max grumbled, glaring at their backs. "I'm going to get my gun; this costume looks way cooler with a gun." He stalked off toward the far door, leaving me alone in the dark. I decided to get a drink.
The refreshment table was pretty sparse—a tray of limp vegetables, a couple of half-donuts, and a bowl full of apple juice and Sprite. I poured myself a glass and immediately dropped it when somebody bumped me from behind. The juice fell back into the bowl, along with my cup, splashing up and soaking my wrist and arm. Rob Anders and his buddies snickered as they walked away.
I used to have a list of people I was going to kill one day. It was against my rules now, but sometimes I really missed that list.
"Are you it?" asked a girl's voice. I turned and saw Brooke Watson, a girl from my street. She was dressed a little like my sister had been the other night, in clothes from the eighties, y
"Am I what?" I asked, fishing my cup out of the bowl.
The clown from It, that Stephen King book," said Brooke.
"Nope," I said, wringing out my sleeve into the salvaged cup and sopping it with napkins. "And I think that clown was named Pennywise."
"I don't know, I've never read it," she said, looking down.
"It's on my parents' bookshelf, though, and I've seen the cover, so I thought that was maybe what you were dressed up as—I don't know."
She was acting funny, like she was . . . I couldn't tell. I had trained myself to read visual cues from people I knew well, so that I could tell what they were feeling, but someone like Brooke was illegible to me.
I said the only thing I could think of. "You're a punk?"
"What?"
"What do they call people from the eighties?" I asked.
"Oh," she laughed. It was a beautiful laugh. "I'm my mother, actually—I mean, these are her clothes from high school. I guess I should tell people I'm Cyndi Lauper, though, or something, because dressing up as your mother is pretty lame."
"I almost dressed up as my mother," I said, "but I was worried about what my therapist would say."
She laughed again, and I realized that she thought I was joking.
It was probably for the best, since telling her the second half of my Mom costume — a giant fake butcher knife through the head — would probably freak her out. She was really quite pretty — long blond hair, bright eyes, and a wide, dimpled smile. I smiled back.
"Hey Brooke," said Rob Anders, walking up with a malicious grin. "Why are you talking to that little kid? He still goes trick-or-treating."
"Really?" asked Brooke, looking at me. "I was gonna go, too, but I wasn't sure— it still sounds fun, even if we are in high school now."
I may not understand whatever emotion Brooke was broadcasting, but embarrassment was one I was all too familiar with, and Rob Anders was shedding it now in waves.
"I . . . yeah," said Rob. "I think it does sound kind of fun.
Maybe I'll see you out there."
I felt a sudden urge to stab him.
"But what about this clown getup, John?" he said, turning his attention to me. "You gonna juggle for us, or cram a whole bunch of yourself into a car?" He laughed, and glanced behind him to see if his friends were laughing as well, but they'd wandered off to talk to Marci Jensen — she was dressed as a kitty, in a costume that made it very obvious why Max was obsessed with her bra. Rob stared for a moment, then turned back quickly. "So what's it gonna be, clown? Why ya smiling so big?"
"You're a great guy, Rob," I said. He looked at me oddly.
"What?" he asked.
"You're a great guy," I said. "That's a very good costume, and I especially like the bullet hole in the forehead." I hoped he would leave now. Saying nice things about people I got really mad at was one of my rules, to help keep things from ' escalating, but I didn't know how long I could keep it up.
"Are you making fun of me?" he asked, glaring.
I didn't have a rule for what happened if the person I complimented didn't leave.
"No," I said. I tried to improvise, but I was already off balance. I didn't know what to say.
"I think you're smiling because you're such a retard," he said, stepping closer. " 'Derr, I'm a happy clown.'"
He was really making me mad. "You're..." I needed a compliment. "I heard you did well on that math test yesterday.
Good job." It was all I could think of. I should have walked away, but . . . I wanted to talk to Brooke.
"Listen, you weirdo," said Rob, "this is the party for normal people. The freak party is down the hall, in the restroom with the goths. Why don't you get out of here?"
He was acting tough, but it was still just acting—typical fifteen-year-old macho posturing. I was so mad I could have killed him, right there, but I forced myself to calm down. I was better than this—and I was better than him. He wanted to act scary? I'd give him scary.
"I'm smiling because I'm thinking about what your insides look like."
"What?" asked Rob, and then he laughed. "Oh, big man, trying to threaten me. You think you scare me, you little baby?"
"I've been clinically diagnosed with sociopathy," I said.
" Do you know what that means?"