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Later at my house, Toby and I do the finishing touches to our look for the party. He brought his stage makeup kit, and from its plethora of colors, he gives himself a shadowy fade over his eyes, complete with a spot of glitter here and there that gives his face an ethereal yet sinister glow. He even has prosthetics to give his ears a more pointy, elven look. After fixing up our hair, we’re picture-perfect and ready to brave the crowds. Even my parents are impressed with our look, my mom specifically pointing out the craftsmanship of my armor. “Really, truly remarkable,” she says, then gives a look at my exposed abdomen, “even if a bit revealing.” My dad only chuckles and says, “If he’s got the goods, show ‘em!”
I snort, finding that to be a weird comment coming from my dad. When I glance at Toby for his reaction, I find his elven face tightened as he gives my mom a nod of thanks. Then I’m reminded anew that he’s got reservations about my parents, since they’re more or less working for the mayor now. Even still, he treats them respectfully and maintains the southern charm I know him for. Before we go, he even has the kindness to say, “Have fun handing out candy tonight! Spruce kids always get excited when there’s someone new to trick-or-treat at, especially on this side of town. Hope you have full-size candy bars,” he adds as a joke, and my dad laughs too hard while my mom only smiles, crisp and reserved, and says, “Do remember it’s a school night. Don’t stay out too late.”
I guess that’s as good as we’ll get for now.
The ride out to the Strong ranch is long, but Toby is my guide through these winding, back, poorly-lit farm roads. The sun is set by the time we get there, and the party is well underway. I park my bike on the gravel, then walk with Toby up to the house. It’s about ten times as spacious out here than it is at my house, and their property seems to stretch on and on with no end in sight. A porch wraps around the big two-story house decorated with spiderwebs and glowing orange lights. Carved pumpkins lit up with candles line the pathway to the porch, and when we pass through the front door, a corny Dracula laugh plays from a hidden speaker. I hold Toby’s leash, but he leads the way as we navigate through a thick crowd of costumes, chatter, and general madness. In a few minutes, both of us have some punch and a plate of ghoulish, clever finger foods, all catered by T&S, of course. We’ve also already found some familiar faces hanging out by the glass doors of the kitchen that lead back out onto the porch and the swimming pool beyond, which is covered in creepy mist from a fog machine, its water decorated with giant lily pads. Among the familiar faces we’re now hanging with is a Zombie Kelsey, who just finished up a private chat with a silver-looking Robot Billy Tucker-Strong at the dessert table. She launches straight into a story with Toby about a new idea for the yearbook she thought up in the shower. Frankie, who is some kind of killer doctor complete with a stethoscope and blood running down his front, asks me how Toby and I are doing, why we didn’t audition for the winter show, and then whether we plan to do anything else in the spring, because he might be directing the final play of the school year (as their “star senior”), and he totally has a part in mind for either of us. Tamika, who wears both angel wings and a pair of devil horns, insists that we come to support the winter show even if we’re not in it—especially me—because I’m now part of their big theatre family, and there will always be a seat with my name on it.
The punch runs right through me. I lean into Toby and ask where a bathroom is, and he points me upstairs. After handing off his leash to Frankie, who gives Toby a suggestive look and laughs, I cut across the crowded room (and bump into no less than three different Frankenstein’s monsters on the way) and make my way upstairs. I head down a short hall, the noise of the party fading behind me. Upon reaching the bathroom door, I find it occupied. Resigned to waiting, I lean against the wall nearby, fold my arms over my armored chest, and stare ahead at a picture on the wall. It appears to be one of Mr. and Mrs. Strong, with a high-school-aged Tanner crouched in front of them next to a ten-year-old boy I can only presume is a prepubescent Jimmy. Seeing the family portrait gives me a jumble of mixed feelings I’m not sure what to do with.
