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“That makes no sense.”
“He doesn’t have an in, so he’s making one.”
“By cutting her roses?”
“She’s interested, isn’t she?”
I opened my mouth to debate his point, but he actually had one. “I guess.”
He linked his fingers behind his head. He always did that when he’d won an argument. “By Christmas, they’ll be...” He wiggled his brows.
I smacked him in the arm. “They’re old.”
“Old people still get it on.”
That wasn’t a visual I wanted in my head. Mrs. Astor and Mr. Bennett, her cats watching the show. Yep, there it was. Burned into my brain. “Thanks for the image.”
He chuckled. “Anytime. Let’s go. You owe me pancakes.”
Brock sat atthe table with my mom as she sewed. He was trying not to laugh, but he wasn’t trying hard enough. It was Halloween. Last year, we went to a party; this year, I wanted to trick or treat because, next year, I’d be thirteen and too old. Brock had never been trick or treating and didn’t really want to go now, but he sucked it up. We decided to do something together with our costumes. I wasn’t sure who suggested salt and pepper, but, for my last Halloween, getting all decked out worked for me. Mom was finishing my silver hat that would be the cap to my saltshaker. What did Brock wear? All black.
“Okay. Here you go, Cedar.” Mom stood and handed me my cap.
“How do I look?” I asked, walking the length of the dining room like I was a super model.
“You look like salt.” Dad said from behind me. He was dressed like a vampire, a black cape, slicked back hair vampire. He looked great. Mom was dressed like his meal: white gown, blood down the front, and puncture marks on her throat. Maybe I wouldn’t outgrow Halloween.
“Thanks for making my costume, Mom.”
She winked then turned to Brock and held up another silver cap. He looked at it like it was a snake, he even took a step back, but Mom had a way about her. He even let her put it on his head. “Thanks,” he muttered, quietly but sincerely.
Mom responded by kissing his cheek. “You two have fun.”
“You too. Don’t drink too much blood, Dad.”
We walked down the path to the sight of Dad throwing his arm over his face, covering most of it with the cape and calling after us in a terrible impression of Bela Lugosi. “I vant to suck your blood.”
We were down the street from my house, and I thought for sure Brock would take off the cap, but he didn’t. And when I glanced over, he looked thoughtful.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
His head tilted to me, and he said softly, “Really glad you stepped into the fort that day.”
He didn’t let it show often, but there were times when I was reminded that his home life wasn’t good. This was one of those times. Holding his stare, I answered sincerely, “Me too.”
Seconds passed, and then he snapped out of it, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward a house. “Let’s get some candy.”
“You got thewire cutters?” I asked, as Brock and I belly crawled toward the cage on the Millman property.
“Yeah, and the burlap bag.”
We both heard the sound and stopped. I did a hand motion, like I’d seen in that war movie we watched the other night. Brock lowered his head to muffle his laughter. “You’re a dope,” he whispered.
Silence followed, we continued.
“He’s going to make noise.” He warned.
“I know. That’s why I’ve got the walnuts and grapes.”
