All Good Children - Catherine Austen [51]
“That’s it?” she asks. “S and P? Is that a product?”
“We’re Salt and Pepper!” I whine. “God, Mom. We’re shakers.”
She laughs. “Salt and Pepper. That’s what your dad used to call us when we were first dating. He was so white.” She stares us up and down and shakes her head. “We were real salt and pepper. You two are more like cinnamon and garlic powder. Have you looked in a mirror?”
Dallas and I pose in the bathroom, trying to look cylindrical and spicy. “We look like recalls,” he says at last.
“It’s the hats.”
“We look way too old for trick-or-treating.”
“If we had masks, we could at least act like ourselves.”
“So we’re not just defective salt and pepper shakers, we’re defective zombie salt and pepper shakers.”
We slump out of the bathroom, ready to call off the whole adventure.
Ally hops away from the window and shouts, “Hey! Salt and Pepper! What a great costume!”
And we’re back on the scene, giant candy bags in hand.
We head down the hallway, knocking on doors. “Is Xavier trick-or-treating tonight?” I ask Mrs. Lavigne.
“No, he’s still not feeling well.”
“Still?” I let slip a note of concern. Dallas jabs me. “That’s a shame,” I say. “It’s important to feel well every day. If we don’t feel well we should see a medical practitioner.”
She closes the door in my face.
On the second floor, we run into Lucas. He’s alone, dressed like a box of cereal. Dallas eyes his costume and mutters, “We could have done that.”
“Hello, Maxwell. Hello, Alexandra,” Lucas says. “I like your costumes.” He stares from me to Dallas like he’s trying to figure it out.
“Thank you,” Ally says. “I like yours too. I’m going to trick-or-treat at your house.”
“It’s that one.” Lucas points to the apartment directly under ours. There’s a wreath on the door made of dried vines and pine cones. “I’m going upstairs. Good night.” He doesn’t ask to join us. He’s perfectly happy to walk the halls in a cardboard box without a friend in the world.
After we tap every door in the Spartan, Ally looks in her candy bag and says, “I have enough. It’s heavy.”
We drop her at home, where she dumps a feeble collection of chocolate and candies on the kitchen table.
“Let’s visit the rich houses,” I say.
“Better goodies,” Dallas agrees.
We head outside into the most disturbing Halloween of my life. All the young kids walk in orderly fashion, alone or with parents. They wait their turn to knock on doors. They say, “Thank you,” after every treat. And they never—not once—look inside their bags to see what they got. They are clear and present zombies.
The older teens yell and laugh and push each other around. Six boys dressed as mutilated bodies shout, “Boo!” as they pass us. “What the hell are you two supposed to be?” one asks. “P and S? What’s that?”
“Salt and Pepper,” Dallas mutters.
“What, unit?”
“Salt and Pepper,” Dallas repeats.
“Salt and Pepper?” the kid says. “What have salt and pepper got to do with Halloween?”
They mock us and walk on. They yell “Boo!” at a ten-year-old girl dressed as a giraffe. She pouts and says, “With every year, we should grow more responsible toward ourselves and those around us.”
They roar with laughter and call her names. Feeb. Defect.
Recall. I want to join in.
Dallas sadly surveys their costumes. “We could have done that,” he mutters.
Two teenagers spray-paint a billboard on the corner, covering a pharmacy ad with sloppy tags. I ache to join them, but Dallas holds me back. “They’d spray-paint your face, Pepper.”
The name stabs my heart. I don’t want to be reminded of Pepper. Yet here I am dressed in a pepper costume. The subconscious is cruel.
“I saw Pepper dancing this week,” Dallas says. “She didn’t seem like a zombie.”
I turn on him. “Was she at the dance last night?”
“No. I saw her at lunchtime with her group.”
“Why would you go looking for Pepper?”
“I wasn’t looking for her. I just saw her.”
“And?”
“And she didn’t dance like a zombie.”
“I thought her ankle was busted.”
He shrugs and says,