(Find the full story in WHERE THE GRASS DON’T GROW AND VULTURES SING)

 

The person—I couldn't tell their gender—stood on the corner under a flickering yellow streetlight on the next block in our downriver Detroit neighborhood. They stood about six and a half feet tall with skinny shoulders, wore a navy-blue petticoat, and had on a bright orange pumpkin pull-over face mask, with large, black jagged teeth and two  slits for nostrils. They were wearing sunglasses with lens so dark I couldn't see the person's eyes, and a top hat that seemed a size too small. Probably a meth head with tweaker eyes, bloodshot and dilated as big as saucers, needing to wear sunglasses day and night.

"C'mon, Annie, we need to go down one more block!"  My annoying seven-year-old brother, Brandon, pulled on my hand. He wore a bright purple Mr. Power-Bear costume, the latest fad pushed on the stupid, video-addicted kids of America.

"I think we've had enough trick or treating," I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. In a fair world, I would have been at Shanaya's holiday party for all cool tenth graders of our school. Not that I was considered one of the cool kids, but I did have the immense hots for Shanaya and better yet, she had them for me. But my mom just had to go over to her new boyfriend's crib, so I was stuck with taking my brother out on Halloween.

"Nobody goes begging for candy anymore," I told my mom earlier that evening as she was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, obsessing over her make-up. "People will probably think we're druggies and call the po-pos, or pull a shotgun and splatter our asses all—"

For an out of shape, fifty-year old woman, my mother was surprisingly fast. Her backhand slap caught me in the lower lip, and I tasted blood.

"I will not have my daughter talking back to me and I will not have her swearing in this house," she said before turning back to the mirror. "I know what you want to do tonight—go to that Shanaya Washington's house to be with boys—" (no, I want to be with Shanaya but no reason for you to know that mommy dear)— "but that is not how I'm raising my daughter."

A cold northerly wind blew bunches of yellow and red leaves across the deserted sidewalk, leaving me wishing I had worn my winter jacket instead of a pullover hoodie. As far as I could see, Brandon and I were the only two left trick or treating.

Not including the person under the streetlight.

"You said we could go for another half hour!" Brandon whined, in that high-pitching, nails-on-chalkboard voice only seven-year-old boys possess.

"I know, but— "

"Are you two having fun tonight?"

I almost screamed when the person wearing the pumpkin mask was suddenly by our side.

"We're doing great!" Brandon said, opening up his Halloween bag to show off all his candy. "Hey—why are you wearing sunglasses?"

"I don't like the light," the person cheerily said in an androgynous voice. "I have very sensitive eyes."

"Oh," Brandon said, still too damn young to know not to talk to strangers. "Then Happy Halloween to you!"

"Samhain." The person's voice had changed, almost imperceptible but real. A lower tone. A sharper edge.

"Samhain," I said, getting the immediate vibe that this person was not someone to play with. "Our mistake."

"That's okay." Back to giddy and flippant. A switch turned on and off. "Can I interest you two in some tricks or treats or everything neat's?"

Tricks or treats or everything neat's? It has to be a guy. No chick could be this weird.