One afternoon, after his long drive back from New England, he gave her a maple sugar leaf. On this day, there was an unusual sense of urgency. Ava was coming to the end of her quarantine, and she was afraid they’d never see each other again. Rather than sitting, they stood, facing each other, him towering over her.
She unwrapped the leaf and started self-consciously blushing as she sucked on it while he watched.
“Want some?” She held it out to him. Instead, he pushed her back against the brick wall of the loading dock and kissed her. All other thoughts floated out of her head, including what—or who—she might be leaving behind.
Chapter 12
DAWN EMERGES FROM THE BATHROOM AND GLIDES TOWARD me like an incredibly round and bizarre debutante and twirls in her white boots, pulled up over flimsy fishnets. The prospect of a “slutty green M&M” seems impossible, but there can be miracles when you believe.
“So? How do I look?”
“Like anthropomorphic candy.”
She rolls her eyes. “I mean, obviously. But I mean my hair and makeup.”
“Good.”
Her face flashes that this is the wrong answer, considering she has just spent two hours in the bathroom getting ready.
“No, great!” I say more enthusiastically. “But why don’t you just go out on Halloween proper instead?” I sigh. “I’m worried you’re gonna get Clockwork Oranged.”
It’s October 30—Mischief Night. It is exactly what it sounds like: an excuse for MHS students to truly be the creepy, ultraviolent droogs they are. They smash pumpkins on door-steps, toilet paper people’s houses and cars, and generally act like the stupid, reckless kids the cops always think did it in the first fifteen minutes of Law & Order.
“Scar, it’ll be fine. I won’t be out and about or anything. Brian invited me to his office party!” She beamed. “It’s one of those haunted houses where there’s punch, and you get blindfolded and put your hand in a thing of peeled grapes.”
“Sounds gripping. Use protection.”
Dawn sighs and puts her hands on her (actual) waist, folding her costume from totally circular into a cinched figure eight.
“I realize that it’ll be an awful ordeal for you, sweetie, but you will have to meet him at some point.”
“Really? ’Cause I’m totally comfortable with keeping him a concept.”
“Well, he really wants to meet you-uuuuu,” she says, practically singing the last word.
This is mildly disconcerting because usually they don’t want to meet me. Usually, since she knows I’m a harsher judge of character, she wants me to meet—and evaluate—them. In fact, on one notable occasion, Dawn pretended I did not even exist (which culminated in the Great “I’m Not a Good Mother” Crying Jag of 2012). So I’m briefly at a loss for words.
“Well, I don’t know.” I shrug. “Tell him to bring me an expensive bottle of wine and a sacrificial virgin.”
Then she zings me: “You are a sacrificial virgin.”
I suck in my breath. “Daaaaaaayum, I ought to call CP&P for that one.”
(Child Protection & Permanency plucks New Jersey kids out of “inadequate households” and places them in the state’s care. It is also Dawn’s and my best inside joke, because we’re sick people.)
As she heads for the door, she pulls some money out of God knows where and leaves it a few feet away on the kitchen island.
“Order a pizza or something, okay?”
“Yep.”
I glance down and notice that her legs are practically bare, covered only by the sheer tights.
“Yo, aren’t you gonna wear something over that?” I call after her. “It’s kinda cold out.”
She and the pair of eyes on the green M&M costume both stare haughtily at me. “Chocolate can’t wear jackets,” she says matter-of-factly, as if I am supposed to smack my forehead like, Oh, right, how could I forget that famous old adage, “Chocolate can’t wear jackets”?
“Have fun! Be safe! Say hi to Brian!” I yell after her as she opens the door with a loud gust of wind and slams it abruptly behind her.
I’m not a total shithead. I’ve met a few of her boyfriends, mostly at awkward third-wheel dinners at this one Mediterranean place downtown that we use only for her boyfriends. If she marries one of them, it’ll be kind of fun to yell “YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD!” at him and storm away to my room, although a two-floor house would really make for better storming. Storming in an affordable-housing apartment means you go two loud, impotent stomps away and you’re, like, already in your room. It’s not worth the effort.
I glance outside and watch as she runs to the Taurus, shivering, just to make sure no assholes pop out of the bushes with water guns or eggs.