A series of retorts rise to my lips, but I stop myself. Skunk looks at me self-satisfied as if he’s won a fight; but it’s one I’m not interested in having.

  I retreat to my room and sew and sew and sew. I’m lost in a sea of blue cotton, a fine weave with eyelet holes that challenge me to get the stitches straight. I form a gathered front for a skirt that lets down like a mermaid’s tail. The back, the best part, is open in the center in an oval, but with pointed ends, letting just a sliver of skin show. A band stretches across the belly and joins just above the seat. It’s remarkable and carries me back to the afternoon by the seaside.

  Even returns the Honda with new tires, including a complete tune-up, and just in time for the chilly weather, but now I prefer to walk to school. This also helps me avoid spending any extra time with Skunk, who, after facing the possibility of not graduating, starts going to school in the morning but disappears from the building about midday. Mama doesn’t seem to care, or maybe she just isn’t aware. He doesn’t have his license, so I don’t have to worry about him taking and wrecking the Honda, at least I hope not.

  Even and I meet as usual. On mornings when it’s frigid, he offers to pick me up on his motorcycle, but with Mama’s threat in mind, I tell him that I’ll just walk and he joins me. It’s a few days before Halloween and jack-o’-lanterns, with mouths agape, decorate front stoops as if they’re breathing frost onto the ground. When we’re in front of the school, Will and Hillary approach, but Even doesn’t notice them.

  “Halloween plans?” Even asks me.

  “Nada,” I say.

  “I hear there’s a pumpkin festival. I’ve never been, but the guys at the shop say it’s cool,” he says casually.

  “I haven’t been since I was little. That might be fun,” I say. “I guess we’re too old to trick-or-treat.” As soon as I say these words, I realize Will and Hillary are right beside me. It’s like I’ve got a neon sign over my head that says Fatty with a blinking arrow pointing at my head. Usually on Halloween night, I stay in, under the guise of having to hand out candy. Instead, I eat most of it and watch movies. They can’t know that, but it must be what they’re thinking given their matching smirks.

  “Oh, but I’m sure Sugar still eats plenty of candy,” Hillary says to Even and Will. “I remember when we were in second grade; I caught her in the kitchen stuffing my Halloween candy in her mouth. She said she had to go to the bathroom, but instead she snuck into the kitchen and ate my favorites, Sour Patch Kids. I’ll never forget. I was so upset.” I turn as red as the imaginary neon sign.

  “Yeah, well, that was a long time ago,” Even says.

  “Sticking up for your g—” Hillary starts to say, but Will interrupts her.

  “We’re having a party at my parents’ lake house before they close it up for the winter,” he says. “If you wanna come, you’re welcome to—costumes optional.”

  “Yeah, Even, if you want to come we’d love for you to be there and Allie, too,” says Hillary. “She’d like to see you.”

  For one dreadful moment I’m afraid he is going to say yes because he’s so quiet.

  “I’m actually hanging out with Sugar,” he says.

  I don’t dare look at either of them.

  “I better get in,” I say. “Mr. Hammons will—” but I don’t finish because the stream of students entering the school sweeps me into its midst. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of Hillary or Allie or any of them. Why can’t she just leave me alone? Then I think she did leave me alone when she realized she was friends with the fat girl. She seems to take issue with the fact that I’m not so obviously alone anymore. Or maybe Allie just has a crush on Even and Hillary is trying to play matchmaker.

  Even and I decide to go to the pumpkin festival in costume. We opt for motorcycle-riding pirates, the scourge of the asphalt seas. I promise to come up with a couple of great costumes. Saving my homework for Sunday, I spend all of Friday night and Saturday cutting, stitching, and distressing fabric so we look like authentic pirates for later that night.

  I root through some boxes in the attic and find an eye patch and an old belt that looks like it came straight off a boat in the seventeen hundreds. I’m so absorbed in the project that I don’t hear Mama calling me. I hear her coughing, though, long and hard like she can’t catch her breath. I race down the stairs.

  “You OK, Mama?” I say. Her face is splotchy and purplish.

  “What took you so long?” she demands.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  She calms down, though her chest still heaves. Something rattles in her lungs, but she insists on a cigarette and that I bring her something to eat.

  When I return she says, “Don’t get any ideas, Sugar. You ain’t goin’ out this Halloween. You gonna give out candy. Just like always.”

  Last year, without any prospects of going anywhere, I wouldn’t have protested.

  “Actually, I was invited to go up to the pumpkin festival,” I say. “I’m going as a pirate.”

  “Honey, there’s no such thing as a fat pirate. You think they stuff their faces full of what? Stale bread and salt water?”

  I decide not to answer. I don’t know what to do. A killjoy, that’s what she is. Maybe she’s just jealous since she can’t do anything.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  I realize I apologized for my mean thoughts, aloud. “Oh, uh. Nothing. I don’t know why I said that.”

  “Airhead. Why don’t you bring me a bag of candy and put on that clown wig, get ready for visitors?” she says.

  I’m not sure how she knew I might have the idea to leave the confines of our troubled home; maybe Skunk, but I haven’t seen him since the day before. I contemplate climbing out the window, but I’ll be eighteen soon, and she can’t dictate whether I go to a pumpkin festival. It’s not like I’m going out to a raging party or getting drunk, which is exactly what Skunk has been up to. I bring her the candy, but not before sneaking a Tootsie Roll out of the fun mix and putting on the clown wig.

  “Happy Halloween,” I say with hard-won enthusiasm.

  She pops a caramel in her mouth and grunts. I take this as a dismissal.

  I return to my room with a frozen pizza I’d heated and an enormous bowl of fudge-ripple ice cream. I love when it melts and gets creamy. While I put the finishing touches on the costumes, I try to figure out how to get out of the house. It’s not as if she can stop me, but when she discovers I’ve left, she’ll have my head. I decide to call in reinforcements.

  “Brittany,” I say when she answers.

  “I haven’t talked to you in ages,” she replies.

  “No, just in Spanish and English Lit, almost every day,” I say, but I suppose I haven’t called or texted in a while.

  “What’s up?”

  “What are you doing tonight?” I ask gingerly.

  “There’s a party. Mason and I are going,” she says, referring to her boyfriend, whose crusty teeth and buggy eyes make me pretty sure he does meth. “You?”

  “Mama is being a—” I want to say jerk, but instead opt for “difficult . . . and, well, I have plans. I’m wondering if you could provide me with an alibi.”

  “You have plans? What do you mean?”

  I dive right into the out-of-character scheme I’ve hatched. “I forgot we have that huge project due for English, and we’re partners so we have to work on it tonight,” I say. “Tomorrow, you’re too busy, and if we don’t get it in on time we’ll fail.”

  Brittany laughs through her nose at my far-fetched fib.

  “I see. OK,” she says. “What do you want me to do?”

  I’ve never had the sense that Brittany has to lie often, but that’s mostly because she doesn’t have anyone to answer to, since her dad doesn’t really care what she does. Although, when she does lie, she doesn’t appear to experience the sweating, red cheeks, and nervous hands that plague me, and this makes her fibs less like fibs.

  “Call me back in two minutes. I’m going to go to Mama’s room and you’ll ring,” I say. “Exclaim that we just have to get this done and that I have to come over. You can’t get another fail and neither can I. Just be your most convincing. ’K?” I know Mama doesn’t like Brittany, but that’s mostly on the principle that Mama doesn’t like anybody, plus Brittany is all I’ve got to make this work.

  Two minutes later I’m back in Mama’s room with a bowl of the fudge-ripple ice cream, claiming I saved the rest for her so Skunk wouldn’t eat it all.

  “That’s a girl,” she says. “You know what your mama likes.”

  My phone rings in my pocket. I look at the caller ID.

  “Brittany,” I answer.

  She launches into an Academy Award–worthy speech about how vital it is we get our English project done. I’m just close enough that Mama can hear Brittany’s best stage voice.

  “I’ll check. Hang on.” I explain to Mama about the English project, which isn’t necessary, since she heard everything. She looks sleepy and distracted by the ice cream and a show that just started. She seems to buy it.

  “Fine. But don’t you be out late,” she warns.

  I zip upstairs, shove the costumes in my backpack, and dash out to the car. I drive to Birch Road and park on the street. I worry for a second that Skunk might see the Honda parked here, but he has no reason to be in this part of town. I take a deep breath and head up the wooden stairs to the second-floor apartment. Meeting up with Even, except before and after school, has yet to settle into a comfortable practice. Fiery nerves fill me each time we see each other, doubled tonight since we’re going out together and because I hope he likes the costumes.

  I knock.

  A lined and bearded face appears behind the pane of glass in the door. Nash, Even’s dad, shouts to Even and then opens the door. He turns toward the living room without saying hello. I close the door, but stand as close as possible to the exit.

  Even appears and proffers an apologetic smile. “Not exactly mister personality,” he whispers.

  “I’m used to it,” I say.

  I pull the pair of costumes from my backpack, tucking mine under my arm, and then I hold his up.

  “This rocks. Wow. Where did you find them?”

  “I made them, actually.”

  “Seriously?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “You seemed so enthusiastic about getting dressed up, but I thought you’d head to, like, one of those pop-up Halloween shops at the mall or something,” he says. “Wow. These look so real, like straight off a movie set.”

  I’m wearing clothes that I can put my costume over so I’ll stay warm. Even excuses himself to his bedroom to change and I use the bathroom for privacy. I’m quickly dressed, and I put some makeup on so I look like I have scurvy, but don’t emerge from the bathroom until I hear Even pass by with his clompy boots. I want to avoid Nash.

  “You look fantastic, in a piratey kind of way,” he tells me.

  “Arrgggh,” I reply in my best pirate voice.

  We cruise to the pumpkin fest and, unlike most visitors in their SUVs and minivans, we have no problem finding a parking spot. There are hordes of people and even more pumpkins, stacked on scaffolding as high as the eye can see. They’re all lit up and they look magical and spooky.

  Even and I people-watch as costumed revelers parade through the town. The pumpkins are a remarkable sight. We sing the praises of our favorites; mine is a flying pig and Even’s a detailed motorcycle, also a hog. He laughs at my observation of the similarities. After a time we duck into a café and order sandwiches with enormous homemade dill pickles on the side.

  “Will texted, begging me to go to the party. I promised him I would, later. You know, when we’ve seen enough jack-o’-lanterns to last a few years. Whaddya think?” he asks.

  I think a thousand flaming pumpkins crush me and set my cheeks on fire. I thought Even was on team Sugar. Not team mean girls and their boyfriends.

  “If you think your mom would flip or if you don’t want to go, I’ll just drop you off at your car,” he says.

  “Yeah. I should probably get back anyway. Church in the morning and all that.” I’m quiet the rest of the night. I wonder if he’ll hook up with Allie.

  When I get behind the wheel of the Honda, I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to see Mama, Skunk, or candy for that matter. I just want to be with Even. But the brutal truth is he and I, whatever we’ve been doing for the past couple months, has been too good to be true. He’ll see Allie tonight and her slender body and big boobs. She’ll giggle at all his jokes, they’ll end up in some empty room together making out, and I’ll be the laughingstock of Johnson Regional High School. Oh, wait, I already am.

  I wind through the streets, behind the wheel of the Honda, watching as ghosts and cowgirls, princesses and Luke Skywalkers go door-to-door, asking for sweets. I take the long way back to my house.

  I quickly take off my costume and rub the makeup off my face. Mama’s passed out; I probably didn’t have to come up with such an elaborate ruse to begin with. I feel guilty about lying.

  I close my door and fall backward onto my bed, the springs groaning under my weight. I click on my phone and look at a picture I took of Even and me, dressed up, cheek-to-cheek, the glow of pumpkins illuminating us. I click to a few photos before, a very similar one taken at the beach minus the costumes, and this time the ocean provides the backdrop. There’s one more, just Even, astride his bike. I bring it to my chest and drift to sleep.

  Later, my cell phone, still on my chest, vibrates. The light from the phone is painfully bright. I read a text from Even: Lame party. Home now. Had fun, matey. See you- Mon? I smile. The time is 10:02. He couldn’t have gotten to the party, made out with Allie, and already made it back to his apartment in such a short span of time.

  “Can’t come soon enough,” I say quietly.

  Chapter Ten

  Halloween initiated the season of eating, leaving me feeling unusually unsettled. Although we don’t own a scale—Skunk broke it weighing “moon rocks” he tried to sell on eBay—I’m sure I’ve lost a little more weight. Minus soda, with all the walking, along with time spent with Even, curbing my appetite, I feel lighter. However, with Thanksgiving just around the corner, followed by Christmas, New Year’s, and eventually the Super Bowl, which I usually just watch for the food, I’m sure to gain it all back. I hurry to get ready for school, skirting panic, trying on three shirts before I settle on a plaid button-down with dark jeans.

  I scuttle to meet Even. The morning is unseasonably warm for mid-November, but it has been ever since the freak snowstorm earlier in the month, which shut everything down for a couple days with heaps of snow and ice, and then this warmer air was ushered in from the south.

  Even is not in his usual spot. I hope he’s just running late. He’s always waiting here for me. There is no sign of him at quarter past, and I have to hustle to get to school on time in order to avoid Mr. Hammons’s wrath. The advent of the holidays seems to have him on edge, too. I missed an assignment last week, a complete mistake on my part, making me eager to get back in his favor.

  Halfway through the day, there’s still no sign of Even. I text during lunch. Just before I’m about to enter English Lit, my phone vibrates, and the message reads: I’m OK. Taking a personal day.

  A personal day? I thought those were necessary for office professionals who do the thankless job of three people, have a tyrant for a boss, and a crappy home life. Well, maybe some of that does apply to Even.

  After school, I hurry home and heat up the oven. I haven’t baked since before Halloween. Volts of excited anticipation shoot through me as I think about vanilla versus chocolate, crispy versus chewy, and gooey versus smooth. My mouth waters as I look at recipes for sugar cookies, oatmeal raisin, magic cookie bars, and peanut butter. I decide on the classic, chocolate chip.

  I mix the dry ingredients. In a separate bowl, I blend sugar and butter. I dip my finger in for a lick. I close my eyes as the gritty sugar electrifies my tongue. Then, I crack two eggs and mix some more. I follow this with vanilla, then combine the wet and dry. Lastly, I add chocolate chips—the perfect treat for someone who needs a personal day.

  After they’ve cooled and I’ve eaten about a half dozen, licking the melted chocolate off my fingers, I root through a cabinet. I find a storage container with Easter eggs—the only one with a lid. I fill it with cookies.

  I bring a small plate of cookies and milk to Mama.

  After she extinguishes her cigarette and coughs, she takes a bite. “Next time add more salt,” she barks.

  They tasted fine to me, but Mama is hard to please. I slouch to the car. When I get in, I lament the fact that it was me, not her, who baked the cookies. That it is me, not her, who cleans the house; that it is me, not her, who takes care of everything, leaving no one to take care of me. Tears bite my eyes, but I wipe them away. I take a shuddering breath, hoping Even is home and doesn’t mind me popping by unannounced. I could really use some Even right now.

  Thankfully, Nash’s truck isn’t in the driveway. The motorcycle is parked in the shed with the door propped open.

  “Even?” I call.

  Metal clangs, like a wrench hitting something, and then I hear scuffling. Moments later, his head appears from behind the bike in the shed, but disappears quickly.

  “Hey,” he says, from under the motorcycle.

  “Hi. I, um, brought you something,” I say. I wait tentatively at the entrance to the shed, feeling something other than welcome.

  “Oh, uh, thanks. Yeah, I had to get a few things fixed on this thing. Now that I’ve ridden it a bunch, I see where the bugs and quirks are. Anything happen today?”

  The Harley still shields him and his voice strains, but I’m not sure if that’s because he’s concentrating, if he’s in an awkward position lying down there, or if it’s something else altogether.

  The thing that I’ve always liked—no, loved—about Even is he offers his full attention. There’s none of the talking over the television like with Mama or the constant self-reflection of Brittany. Never mind Skunk. Lately, I’ve begun to think if I never speak to him again, I’ll live a full and contented life. As for everyone else, I’ve noticed they don’t like to look at me full-on, in the eyes, or really get very close, in proximity or emotionally, for that matter. This isn’t the case with Even. I get the sense he isn’t afraid to see me for who I am.