HALLOWEEN

At school, we get to wear costumes. I know all the cool kids are going to dress up. So I want to dress up too.

I ask Mom if I can buy a costume. She laughs. “Sure, I’ll buy you one. If you give me the money for it.” She knows I don’t have any.

I’m all upset. It’s not fair. Other kids probably don’t even think about money. They just tell their parents what they want, and they get it. It’s not like that in my house.

Guess I have to do what I always do for Halloween. I have to make my own costume.

Last year, I mixed green paint into Elmer’s glue and coated my whole body with it. When the glue dries, it cracks, looks like skin peeling off. I got some clothes from a penny sale, cut them up, and rubbed them with dirt like I crawled out of a grave. Then I went as a zombie.

Another time, I built a robot costume with cardboard boxes, foil, wire coat hangers, and some flashlights I borrowed. When I was little, I just covered myself in flour, ’cause it makes everything white, like a ghost. You can make all kinds of costumes if you use crap from around your house or from Goodwill.

But I’m not a kid anymore. I’m in middle school now, so I have to make it real good. I start looking around the apartment for stuff. There’s cotton balls and Kleenex, so I could make a cloud costume, but that’s really dumb. (Maybe I’ll do that for Ford. If he asks nicely.) There’s not much in our place, so I go out to the dumpsters. I know that sounds gross, but most stuff is in plastic bags so it’s not as dirty as it sounds. I kind of peek in and look around. I’m not going to hop in unless there’s something really rad.

Sometimes, Benny jumps right in and starts ripping open trash bags. He’s found some neat stuff like old flags and broken furniture that looks like ninja weapons, but mostly he just finds food leftovers, cigarette ashes, and beer bottles. That’s what makes dumpsters stink so bad.

When I don’t spot anything, I check behind the dumpster. There’s some broken electronics, wood scraps, an old coffee table covered in stains, and a bag of clothes. Inside, there’s a pair of jeans, some black boots, and some flannel shirts. One of them has a big stain that looks like blood. It gives me an idea.

In this one horror movie series, Friday the 13th, there’s this guy who wears a hockey mask and uses a machete to go around hacking up sexy teenagers at some kind of summer camp. I’ve never been to a summer camp, but Jason Voorhees would be a cool costume. In middle school, you can’t dress up as a cartoon character or anything kindergarten like that. I need something that other people won’t make fun of.

Plus, Jason is kinda an easy costume to make. Especially now that I have the right clothes. After I wash them, I paint the jeans and shirt in some mud, so it looks like I crawled out of the lake. Then I draw a machete on a cardboard box and cut it out. I wrap the blade part in foil, and the handle in brown packing tape. For the hockey mask, I do the same thing, except I paint it white and black. I skip lunch one day, going to hang out in the art classroom instead, so I can use the paints there. Then I add a strap to the mask, so it stays on my face.

Benny and Brad make about a gallon of fake blood from corn syrup and red dye, and let me have some. So I splash that on my jacket, hands, and the machete. My costume turns out really good.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Mom asks.

“Jason Voorhees. From Friday the 13th.”

“That’s a horror movie,” she says. “How do you even know what that is? You’re not allowed to watch that crap.”

“Yeah, but kids at school talk about it.”

Mom doesn’t let me watch horror movies. She says they’re evil, that I shouldn’t see all that violence. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, coming from her, ’cause she hits me all the time.

It’s a dumb rule. Which is why I ignore it. I watch scary movies, just without permission. Brad’s always renting them. They’re not even that scary. Monsters and vampires and witches and stuff don’t scare me. Not even when they’re killing people. I feel like stuff in real life is way scarier.

Except for zombies. They really freak me out. ’Cause I feel like they could really happen in the real world.

Anyways. I’m glad I made the costume. When I get to school, everyone is dressed up. Some kids look like popular presidents or famous movie people. One girl is dressed as her favorite singer. Some students dress up real funny, like hamburgers or other food and stuff. Others are the usual monsters. My favorite one is this one girl wearing a prom dress and like a ton of blood. She says it’s from a famous movie based on a book by Stephen King. I make a mental note to find the book.

In first period, this one guy has cereal glued all over his clothes, and a plastic knife stabbed through a Froot Loops box on his head. I don’t get it until he tells someone, “I’m a cereal killer.” I can’t stop laughing. That’s really smart.

I think when people wear masks, they’re different. I mean, everyone’s smiling and laughing and trying to guess who’s who behind what mask. No one is sure who I am. People keep asking, “Who are you?” I just shrug and raise my machete like I’m going to kill them. They usually laugh. I kinda like people not knowing who I am. I feel more free or something. Like I’m not me. Like I’m someone else.

At least, that’s how I feel until third period. Mrs. Winstead says, “No masks in my class. Take them off. All of you.”

Then she calls out our names one by one. Our homework was to write a short Halloween story to read in front of the class. Usually I hate speaking, but I wrote a really good story. When it’s my turn, I’m all excited to read it. Mrs. Winstead stops my turn after I read the first paragraph. “You can’t read about killing people, Mr. Ogle.”

“They’re not dead-dead. They’re ghosts. Well, demon-ghosts. It’s a Halloween story. It’s supposed to be spooky.”

“Abject foolishness. Not in my class. Have a seat.”

I’m real pissed off. The assignment was only for one page, but I wrote six. Everyone else has some dumb story about trick-or-treating or a cat scared of a pumpkin. Mine has a haunted house, and all these really horrible demons killing people, and only one girl surviving, just like a movie. Mrs. Winstead—a real-life witch—doesn’t let me get to the surprise ending. No one is really dead. It’s all a big prank.

For the rest of class, I just sit there, arms crossed. She’ll probably give me a bad grade, even though my story was better than anyone else’s. I had to handwrite the whole thing twice, just so there were no errors in it. When the bell rings, I’m glad to get out of there and put my mask back on.

On the way to lunch, Liam calls out. “Ogle! Hey, is that you? I heard your costume was awesome. And it is. Holy cow. You made that? So cool. Looks just like the movie.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Do you like my costume?” He’s wearing his red-and-white jersey over his shoulder pads, along with his cleats and helmet—his whole football uniform. He even has a football in one hand.

I say, “I don’t get it.”

“I’m a football player.”

“But you are a football player. That’s not a costume.”

“Sure it is,” he says. I still don’t get it, but he changes the subject. “Sucks that you didn’t join the football team. I never see you. Maybe try out next semester. I can coach you before. Teach you everything I’m learning.”

“Thanks.” That’s really nice of him. I’d like that. But I don’t want to think about what would happen if I asked Mom to play football again.

“We should hang sometime,” he says.

I shake my head. “Sure. When’s good?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m always at football practice. When I’m not, Dad makes me practice with him.”

“Let me know,” I say. I mean it too. I miss hanging out with Liam. Todd too. Even Zach.

This girl walks by. I think her name is Amelia, but I’m not sure. She’s dressed as this yellow slinky alien from a candy commercial. When she sees Liam, she gives him this little wave, the way girls do when they have a crush.

Liam smirks. “Nice costume! You look like a giant condom.”

I don’t really get it, but I laugh anyway. ’Cause Liam is laughing real hard, like whatever he said is hysterical.

But then something awful happens. Amelia’s eyes get this really horrible hurt look, and start to well up. I hope she won’t but she does. She bursts into tears. She runs away, down the hall.

This real bad sick feeling takes hold in my stomach. Like I’m gonna puke. Liam’s still laughing. He even holds up his hand for a high-five. Real slow, I high-five him. I don’t know why.

“Dude, that was hilarious,” he says.

“I guess.” But I didn’t know Amelia was gonna cry. I didn’t know it’d upset her so much, us laughing at her. People have done worse stuff to me, and I didn’t cry. But Amelia and I aren’t the same. I don’t know her life. I hate that I hurt this girl I don’t even know.

Especially ’cause I know how it feels, to have people laugh at you.

It sucks.

Then I see the principal barreling toward us. Everyone knows him cause he’s the tallest person in the school by like six inches. Usually he’s always smiling, but this time he looks real mad, his hands balled into fists. We’ve never met but somehow he knows our names. “Liam! Rex! Did you say something obscene to a young lady just now?”

“No,” Liam says.

I shake my head.

“Did you say her costume looked like a condom?” the principal asks.

Liam shrugs. “Well, it does!”

“You owe that girl an apology,” the principal says. I’m ready to apologize immediately. I feel horrible, the sick feeling still rolling around in my gut like ocean water. With other students gathering around us, whispering, my stomach tightens, a little puke comes up, burning my throat. I swallow it back down.

“I’m not apologizing,” Liam says. “It was just a joke.”

“Do you want detention?” the principal asks.

Liam groans. “No! God! Chill, man.” The principal walks us around the corner to where Amelia is crying.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Liam is about to apologize until he sees his football friends watching. Instead of apologizing, he says, “I’m not.”

The principal grabs Liam’s arm. “Apologize this instant.”

“Fine! I’m sorry, Amelia—” Liam starts. “Sorry your costume’s so ugly.”

The principal loses it, dragging Liam toward his office. Liam’s laughing the whole way, even high-fiving some of his football buddies.

There’s a crowd now, and they’re all left staring at me and Amelia.

“I really am sorry,” I say. I mean it. I honestly do. I hate when people get hurt. No one should hurt. My voice is really low when I add, “It’s a good costume. It is.”

A few fresh tears run down Amelia’s wet cheeks. She chokes out, “It’s all my nana could afford.” Some of the football players are snickering and pointing at her. She breaks through the crowd and disappears into the girls’ bathroom.

Not the football players, but everyone else is looking at me, like I really am a killer, not just dressed like one. They whisper and point and glare at me. I deserve it.

No wonder God hates me. I am awful. Other kids at school are dressed like werewolves and Frankensteins and stuff, but those’re just costumes.

I really am a monster.