She and Cal put us into position—Ms. Albright calls it “setting the tableau.” They want me lying down propped up by my elbows on a platform, tossing a little coin bag. When Dodger and Oliver enter, all of us are supposed to jump up and make a grab for Oliver’s satchel. I have the idea to stuff it under my shirt and stagger around the stage with my hand on my lower back like I’m pregnant.
Ms. Albright totally loves it.
Everyone laughs, and honest to God, this is the absolute best kind of moment. The auditorium lights are off except for the ones over the stage, and we’re all bright eyed and giggle-drunk. I fall a little bit in love with everyone. Even Taylor.
Even Martin. He smiles at me when he catches my eye, and I really just have to grin back at him. He’s such a freaking asswipe, seriously, but he’s just so gangly and fidgety and ridiculous. It takes some of the passion out of hating him.
So yeah. I’m not going to write a poem in his honor. And I don’t know what he expects me to say to Abby. No clue. But I guess—I’ll think of something.
Rehearsal ends, but Abby and I dangle our feet off the edge of one of the platforms, watching Ms. Albright and Cal make notes in the big blue binder. The south county late bus doesn’t leave for another fifteen minutes, and then it’s another hour until Abby gets home. She and most of the other black kids spend more time commuting to school each day than I do in a week. Atlanta is so weirdly segregated, and no one ever talks about it.
She yawns and leans back flat on the platform with one arm tucked behind her head. She’s wearing tights and one of those short patterned dresses, and her left wrist is loaded with woven friendship bracelets.
Martin sits across the stage, a few feet away, zipping his backpack so slowly it must be deliberate. He seems to be making a point of not looking at us.
Abby’s eyes are closed. She has the kind of mouth that always rests in a faint smile, and she smells a little like French toast. If I were straight. The Abby thing. I do think I get it.
“Hey, Martin,” I say, and my voice sounds strange. He looks up at me. “Are you going to Garrett’s tomorrow?”
“I, uh,” he says. “Like a party?”
“It’s a Halloween party. You should come. I’ll send you the address.”
Just a quick text to Monkey’s Asshole.
“Yeah, maybe,” he says. He leans forward and stands, and immediately trips over his shoelace. Then he tries to play it off like some kind of dance move. Abby laughs, and he grins, and I’m not even kidding: he actually takes a bow. I mean, I don’t even know what to say to that. I guess there’s this hazy middle ground between laughing at someone and laughing with someone.
I’m pretty sure that middle ground is Martin.
Abby turns her head to look at me. “Didn’t know you were friends with Marty,” she says.
Which is just about the most hilarious fucking statement ever.
4
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Oct 30 at 9:56 PM
SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners
Blue,
I guess I never tried to pull off something truly scary. My family is really all about the funny costumes. We used to get competitive about whose costume would make my dad laugh the hardest. My sister was a trash can one year. Not Oscar the Grouch. Just a trash can full of trash. And I was pretty much a one-trick pony. The boy-in-a-dress concept never got old (until it did, I guess—I was in fourth grade and had this amazing flapper costume, but then I looked in the mirror and felt this electric shock of mortification).
Now, I’ll say I aim for the sweet spot of simplicity and badassery. I can’t believe you’re not dressing up. Don’t you realize you’re throwing away the perfect opportunity to be someone else for an evening?
Disappointedly yours,
—Jacques
FROM: bluegreen118@gmail.com
TO: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
DATE: Oct 31 at 8:11 AM
SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners
Jacques,
Sorry to disappoint. I’m not opposed to dressing up, and you make a compelling case for it. I completely see the appeal of being someone else for the evening (or in general). Actually, I was a bit of a one-trick pony myself when I was little. I was always a superhero. I guess I liked to imagine myself having this complicated secret identity. Maybe I still do. Maybe that’s the whole point of these emails.
Anyway, I’m not dressing up this year, because I’m not going out. My mom has some kind of work party, so I’m stuck at home on chocolate duty. I’m sure you understand that there’s nothing sadder than a sixteen-year-old boy home alone on Halloween answering the door in full costume.
Your family sounds interesting. How did you talk your parents into buying you dresses? I bet you were an awesome flapper. Did your parents try to ruin all your costumes by making them weather appropriate? I remember throwing this ridiculous tantrum one year because THE GREEN LANTERN DOES NOT WEAR A TURTLENECK. Though, in retrospect, he actually kind of does. Sorry, Mom!
Anyway, I hope you enjoy your day off from being Jacques. And I hope everyone likes your ninja costume (that has to be it, right? The perfect mix of simple and badass?).
—Blue
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Oct 31 at 8:25 AM
SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners
A ninja? Suck a good guess, but no dice.
—Jacques
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Oct 31 at 8:26 AM
SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners
Aaaah—autocorrect fail. DICK a good guess.
FROM: hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com
TO: bluegreen118@gmail.com
DATE: Oct 31 at 8:28 AM
SUBJECT: Re: hollow wieners
GAHHHHH!!!!!
SUCH a good guess. SUCH. Jesus Christ. This is why I never write you from my phone.
Anyway, I’m going to go die of embarrassment now.
—J
5
HONEST TO GOD, THERE IS nothing better than Halloween on a Friday. All day in school, there’s a kind of charged feeling, and it seems to make the work less boring and the teachers funnier. I’ve got felt cat ears duct taped to my hoodie, and a tail pinned to the butt of my jeans, and kids I don’t know are giving me smiles in the hallways. Laughing in a nice way. It’s just an awesome day.
Abby comes home with me, and we’ll walk over to Nick’s later so Leah can pick us all up. Leah’s already seventeen, which makes a difference in Georgia with your license. I can drive one other person at a time besides Nora right now, and that’s the end of the story. My parents aren’t strict about a lot of things, but they’re evil mad dictators when it comes to driving.
Abby collapses to the floor to cuddle with Bieber as soon as we walk into the kitchen. She and Leah may not have much in common, but they’re both obsessed with my dog. And Bieber is now lying pathetically on his back, belly exposed, staring up at Abby dreamily.
Bieber is a golden retriever, and he has these big, brown, kind of manic eyes. Alice was way too pleased with herself when she came up with his name, but I’m not going to lie. It seriously fits.
“So where is this thing?” Abby asks, looking up at me. She and Bieber are intertwined in an eternity embrace, her headband sliding down over her eyes. A lot of people did the toned-down school version of Halloween today—animal ears and masks and things like that. Abby showed up wearing a full-on, head-to-toe Cleopatra costume.