benefits,” says Ash, her voice low so my parents can’t hear it. “Anyone for tongue sushi?”
I smile but don’t answer. This is Ash, the girl whose name is always mentioned in the same breath as mine: AshandAudrey, AudreyandAsh. But there’s so much I haven’t told her and now I don’t even know where to start. What I do know: me and Luke aren’t friends, me and Luke aren’t anything. I had decided I would tell him this tonight, if the subject ever came up. But we never did do much talking.
“There will be lots of guys at the party,” I say. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll branch out a little.”
“Really?” Ash says. “Well, well. I guess someone’s got a brain in her head after all.”
Her phone bleats like a sheep and she grabs for it, looks at the screen. “Picture mail,” she says. She presses a few buttons and the image pops up. “My baby brother in his Spider-Man costume.”
I look over her shoulder. “Cute.”
“Please. The boy’s a demon from hell. Last week, he actually peed in one of the houseplants.” Ash tosses the phone back on the sink and shakes her head in the mirror. “The spray looks great on you, but it makes my hair look like ramen noodles.”
That makes me laugh a little. “Squid-ink ramen noodles,” I say.
“You have to get your parents to take you to normal restaurants once in a while. Pizza, anyone?”
“We go out for pizza. Of course, it’s the kind with a cornmeal crust and gobs of goat cheese.”
“Goats!” says Ash.
My not-quite-normal parents are waiting for us in the living room with two glasses of wine and a digital camera—the wine for them, the camera for us. Usually, I hate all the pictures. I don’t need anyone documenting my awkward teenage years. Tonight my dad insists and for once I’m OK with it, maybe because I don’t look much like me any more. My dad has us pose on the antique church pew against the yellow wall. He backs up and almost falls over the coffee table. My mom laughs and takes a sip of wine, shining and velvet in the light. They love this part, the part when I’m getting ready to go out but I haven’t left yet. I wonder if it will be hard for them when I’m off at college. Besides Cat Stevens, I’m all they’ve got.
“OK, girls,” my dad says. “Look Gothic!”
“Goth, Dad,” I say. “Not Gothic.”
“Sorry,” he says. “Ready? Say, ‘Goat cheese!’”
Because it’s my dad, we both yell, “Goat cheese!” In the picture, we’ve got the black hair, the white skin and the bruise-coloured lips, but we’re both grinning like five-year-olds. Ash takes one look at the picture and says, “We’ve got to work on our attitudes, girl. We’ve got to think dark thoughts.”
“Oh?” says my mom, intrigued. “What kind of dark thoughts?” She writes mystery novels, but the cosy kind with sweet old ladies, little baby kitties and lots of homemade cookies. Oh, and a murder or two. Death by knitting needles. Dark thoughts in sunshiny places.
Ash is doing her best to look creepy. “Madness,” she says. “Mayhem. Malice.”
I try to think of a dark thought, but the best I can come up with is mixed-up, sad stuff—Luke stuff, our-last-Halloween-ever stuff. I don’t mention it, though. I’m already an Empress of the Undead. I don’t need to kill everything else off, too.
After the pictures, my mom makes me promise to take my cell phone, which she seems to think will protect me from car accidents and evil, drunken boys bent on stealing my virtue. Yes, I’ll take the cell. Yes, I’ll call if I need anything. We say goodbye and we’re out the door. Ash has to drive because I’m still too young. I skipped a grade in grammar school and now I’m the only senior without a licence. Doesn’t help that the driving age in New Jersey is seventeen, probably the oldest in the country. At least my parents let me stay out as late as everyone else. I might be sixteen and three quarters, but my mom says I’m an old soul. Lately, I’ve been feeling like one. As we get closer to Joelle’s, I start to get this nervous flutter in my stomach that gets more fluttery with each block. I cross my fingers and whisper a teeny little prayer in my head: Please, God, do not let me make an idiot of myself tonight. Let me have a little fun.
It takes a while to find a parking spot, because everyone goes to Joelle’s Halloween parties. She’s had them every year since the seventh grade. Only strangers or losers show up without costumes, because they’ll be forced to wear one of Joelle’s tutus from her dancing days. When Ash and I walk in the door, I see only one guy with a tutu, a big fluffy pink one. He looks totally stupid, but that’s the point.
Joelle runs up to us, almost tripping over her long white dress. “Look at you guys!” Joelle shrieks.
“You’re so scary!” Joelle is dressed up as a goddess or whatever, with the gauzy dress and the gold armbands, shimmer powder on her face and these long curls in front of her ears. Ash says that Joelle always wears something that will make her look pretty rather than freaky. Joelle would never dress up as a mummy or a monster, or even a Goth chick. Joelle likes to look like Joelle, only more sparkly.
“So who are you?” Ash says.
“What do you mean, who am I?” Joelle shrieks. She’s a shrieker, especially when there’s a crowd. “I’m that tragic Greek heroine, Antigone!”
“Anti what?” says Ash.
Joelle puts her hands on her hips and stamps her foot. “Antigone!”
“Antifreeze?” says Ash.
“Antacid,” I say. “Ant spray.”
“Get thee to a theatre,” Joelle says. Joelle wants to be an actress. Joelle is an actress. Her mother has already pulled her out of school a bunch of times to do commercials, an off-off-off Broadway play and a spot on Law & Order.
Ash raises eyebrows that we’d darkened with pencil. “You guys spend enough time at the theatre, OK? Besides, you don’t look like a tragic Greek heroine as much as you look like an extra from Lord of the Rings.”
“You suck,” says Joelle, punching her in the arm.
“Who sucks?” Luke says. He walks over to where we’re standing in the hallway. He’s wearing black pants and a black shirt with a white paper collar. I suddenly feel like there’s not enough oxygen to go around.
“What’s up, Father?” I say.
He puts a hand on the top of my head. “My child, you are a sinner.”
Ash snorts. “You should know.”
“Hey,” says Luke. “I’m not a priest, I’m a pastor. Pastors are allowed.”
“Allowed what?” I say. Luke grins and my face goes hot. I’m glad that it’s dark and that I’m wearing the white make-up. But Luke can tell anyway. He grins even wider before he drifts off into the crowd again. My head feels warm where his hand was, like he’s excited my hair follicles. This is how I am around him. My brains dribble right out of my ear and I’m left with nothing but a body I can barely control. I’m actually a little surprised when
