We settle on 1950s greasers. Veronica borrows Patrick’s leather biker jacket that he bought at a thrift store in New York City but never wore for fear it made him look like a tool. I own a pink satin jacket, which I pair with a black T-shirt and a pair of horn-rimmed sunglasses, which I pop the lenses out of.
We don’t have much time to get ready before we leave for Kacey’s event, so we’re in the bathroom at the lone sink, wrestling for mirror space. Veronica is going for the wet hair, slicked-back look. I find two black clips in Veronica’s purse, which I fasten into my curls before grabbing for my liquid eyeliner.
“Are we ever going to talk about what’s going to happen with you and Patrick after Christmas? I’ve been giving you your space and I don’t want to pry, but I’m your best friend so I sort of have to.”
“I don’t know what there is to talk about.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“No. Maybe he’s not allowed to contact me. Maybe he doesn’t want to?” That would really throw salt in the gaping wound of our relationship. I know I’m the one that left, but the memory of that night still stings, and I did it for the greater good. That’s hardto remember when it feels like I’m living in a perpetual shock chamber.
Veronica catches my eye in the mirror. “Quinn, Patrick loves you. He built a life with you. Of course he wants to.”
“I don’t know.” I swipe some blush onto my cheeks. “I don’t think he built a lifewithme so much asforme, and I let him.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asks before setting her hair with strong-hold hairspray.
I end up coughing, stepping away so I don’t get any more product in my mouth. My tongue is gummy now, yet the words are anything but stuck. “For starters, he built a house for us in the North Pole without telling me. He assumed I would go along with it because, well, I’ve gone along with almost everything else up until now.”
“Okay, I get that.” Veronica jumps up to sit on the sink counter so she’s facing me. “Do you still love him?”
It’s a big question. I grab her closest hand, needing the grounding support to get this out. “Of course I do”—I take a beat—“butdifferently.”
“Differently doesn’t sound so bad,” she says.
“I spent a good chunk of my adolescence letting my mom fill my head with these negative ideas about men and relationships and romance. Then, I met Patrick, and I fell so hard for him so fast. I tried to unlearn all of those things my mom taught me as quickly as possible, which I think meant I never really learned whoIwas on my own,” I say with a huff. “Before the North Pole, when we were here, in the same house but living these disjointed, separate lives, I begrudged him for not being around more for me. Whether he can’t contact me or he decided not to doesn’t matter so much because this time apart has shown me that I’m not Patrick’s husband or so-and-so’s teacher or the North Pole’s Merriest Mister, I’m Quinn Muller.
“I forgot that I’m not just someone to and for others. I have tobe someone for myself, too. Perhaps we were always meant to separate. Maybe two people can’t grow properly unless they’re apart. Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Not like I had many adults modeling strong relationships for me growing up. Especially queer ones.”
“Damn, that’s a lot,” she says, hopping off the counter and hugging me tightly. She gives great hugs and this one is no exception. “It’ll all work out. I promise. Now let’s finish up so we can make it to the rec hall before the guests get there. I want to show off my look.”
“You mean you want to show off your lookfor Kacey,” I correct.
“I’m not to be shamed, okay? I’m still single and she’s stunning. Let’s go before my hair gets messed up.”
When we arrive at the rec center, a squat brick building whose windows could use a good washing, we’re surprised to see the Halloween decorations are already at risk of blowing away. It’s an overcast night, wispy clouds rolling fast across the bright, round moon, so we rush to save what we can of the garland before going inside and down a flight of steps.
The ceilings are low, the lights are hazy, and the room is the size of a postage stamp.
“This has to be a fire hazard, right?” Veronica asks.
“You made it!” Kacey cries. She’s dressed as a witch, except not a green cartoonish one with warts and a pointy hat. More like she’s about to star in a production ofThe Crucible. A Puritan dress, buckled shoes, a muddy face, and the wordsTRY AND BURN ME. I DARE YOU.embellished on the back.
“This look. I’m obsessed,” Veronica says.
We’re given our posts. Veronica runs check-in. I’m manning the photo booth.
This place is run-down. Stains and cracks as far as the eye can see, much like the house before I began my improvements. Clearly, the township has relegated this queer-centric community group to the bowels of the building, which is awful, or maybe this is allKacey can afford, which is a different kind of awful. No matter, I can see why Patrick’s services were needed.
I can also see why Kacey needs to expand her team. Even with the smattering of volunteers, she has to keep the food separated based on dietary restrictions and allergies, run activities, and ensure nobody snuck in any alcohol since this is an eighteen-and-under event.
Overall, it’s fun, helping the teens pose for Polaroid photos with paper props before they scurry along to other tables. For the next several hours, I say “Happy Halloween” to gaggles of ladybugs and vampires and Super Marios and hand out miniature candy bars. I think about what it would’ve been like to have a space like this when I was this age. I wonder if I would have gone to the same college, fallen for Patrick, married him, ended up here.
There’s no way to say for certain. The only thing I’m certain of is the stab of missing Patrick that has taken up residence in my chest. I pack it down when another group of kids—this time a bunch of zombies—steps in front of the plastic backdrop.
“Say ‘boo!’” I instruct before the flash goes off. It’s then that I realize, the scariest part of this evening has nothing to do with the costumes or the decorations, it’s the bleakness of the uncertain, Patrick-less future rolled out before me.
48MAKING AMENDSPATRICK
