No words, only a slow shake of his head.
I’m not giving up. “Is the face papier-mâché?”
I half expect him to grunt again, but he doesn’t. He shrugs.
“You don’t know?”
He shakes his head slowly.
“You didn’t make it yourself?”
Another shake.
“Who made it for you?”
Shrug.
“Did you buy it?”
Nod.
“Where?” I don’t know why I want to know that bit of information, but I do. It’s probably because I’m angry about this new development. I feel cheated that it’s store-bought, but there’s no reason to be upset. It’s a free country. He can wear whatever he wants to this party. I just don’t need to vote for him. I’m about to walk away when I feel it—hot breath on my neck.
“What’s it to ya?”
I’m startled by the deep voice. When I look back, Frankenstein’s face is about an inch from mine. “I, uh, just think it’s very creative.”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna win this year.” He chuckles smugly.Yeah, that’s a thing.
“That’s not fair to those of us who worked hard on our costumes, mister.”
Frankenstein shrugs, turns, and just as he’s about to walk away. Kimmy says, “Mattie, come on,” and attempts to pull me away from him, but I’m not ready so I pull her in the other direction which causes a chain reaction. I begin to fall backward; my right arm is the only one I can really use to help me keep my balance. With my free arm flailing around, I reach for Frankenstein. He tries to avoid it, but I’m still able to latch on to the sleeve of his oversized jacket. My momentum isn’t going to save me, or Frankenstein, or Kimmy for that matter. With the loudest thud on the planet, we find ourselves on the floor—Kimmy and me on our backs and Frankenstein on top of me. It reminds me a lot of that bar brawl I was in last summer.
“Oh my God, I’m hurt,” Kimmy says with a moan. “Pitchfork got me.”
Luckily, the thing, like Mrs. Frankenstein’s face, is made of papier-mâché, but it’s still quite pokey.
It takes several bystanders to get us all back on our feet. Kimmy wasn’t kidding when she said she’s hurt. There are red spots caused by the prongs of the pitchfork on her neck and under her chin. On top of that, she’s angry. With me.
“Kimmy, I’m sorry.”
“Let’s just go,” she snaps as she untangles herself from the strap that holds her to the now broken photo of our painting.
With my half of the painting still attached to me, I follow her through the throng of party guests. When I spot Frankenstein’s face above everyone else’s, I see he’s scowling at me. Not wanting to be the bad guy, I mouth “Sorry” to him as well.
Outside, I continue following Kimmy to her car. She drove me to the party, so I’m hoping she’s not so mad she won’t take me home. At the sound of her car unlocking, I quickly slide out of my frame and wait by the trunk. “Just toss it,” she grouses.
“It’s fixable.”
“No, it’s not. Just leave it by that garbage can.”
I do as she asks because she’s scary when she’s like this. Sliding into her car, I pull the seat belt across my shoulder, place my hands in my lap, and keep my trap shut. When my phone chimes with a text, I’m a little afraid to check. I do it anyway.
It’s from Alec.
What the hell is going on?”
I stare down at the phone. Confused. I type:
