“When I grow up, I want a house like this.” I shuffle through the front door of the well-lit, luxurious home. Students line the yard, are scattered up the steps, and on the wrap-around porchin various states of sober. Most of them are dressed for the occasion.
“You don’t want a house like this.” Penelope looks hot as fuck tonight in her costume.
We thought about dressing as Fred and Wilma Flintstone but they’re way too sensible for us. Then we toyed with the Joker and Harley Quinn—they’re a little more our style. But when Penelope found a Penelope Pitstop inspiration pic on the internet, I double clicked a Dick Dastardly costume so quickly she couldn’t change her mind.
She’s kitted out from head to toe in hot pink, with a racing cap pulled on her head. Her hair’s in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, and those knee-high white boots and white gloves just complete the ensemble.
Me on the other hand, I’m frumpy as fuck, but I don’t give a shit. Black shoes, black pants, a light purple trench coat-type-thing, red gloves, a fake porn-stache, and a red and purple top fabric top hat.
We make quite the pair.
Christmas is a close second for me, but Halloween at the de la Peña’s takes the biscuit. The yard is full of fake tombstones, and the house is all but in darkness. Everything’s covered in black, with eerie lighting, jump-scares, and the best fucking food any UCR party has ever seen.
We make our way into the kitchen, the only room in the house where the lights are bright enough to at least see the impressive selection. Scott, Raffi, and Artemis are lingering next to the finger food—literally. There’s a plate of food shaped and decorated like human fingers sitting right in front of them on one of the two kitchen islands.
“Hey, man. How goes it?” Scott, dressed up as Super Mario, points a finger at me before taking a bite. “Finger?” He offers me the plate.
Raffi’s chiseling at the back of what appears to be a cheese ball, except it’s shaped like a human head and covered in prosciutto ham. Fuck. It looks pretty real to me. How can he stomach eating that thing?
“Who’s catering?” Raffi, dressed as Buzz Lightyear, holds up the cracker with a lump of cheesy deliciousness on the edge.
Artemis, looking fly as Jack Skellington, reaches over and grabs his glass, it’s full of something that looks like blood. Like I said, the de la Peñas don’t half-ass their Halloween parties.
“Paddy from Twilight.”
Penelope groans next to me. She fucking loves Twilight. Not sure what they put in their honey chili chicken strips, but damn they’re good.
Pitstop, on the other hand, is obsessed with their pasta. “Did they bring pasta?” The hope in her voice is adorable, and I know whether Twilight brought pasta tonight or not, Penelope and I will be visiting Twilight before the week is up.
“They did.” Artemis gestures across to a giant dish on the counter. “Ravioli is there, and linguine is next to it.”
My girl fist-pumps. “I’m about to make a scene with that pasta. No judgment.” The cold hard stare she gives my friends is next level.
Scott shakes his head. “I’m joining you. If people are lucky, we’ll leave some for them to try.” He offers her his elbow, and she accepts before the two walk away from the island toward the over-sized bowls of pasta.
“Don’t worry about leaving some. Mom’s ordered more than we need, and Siobhan’s here from the restaurant somewhere refilling the dishes.”
They brought the staff from the restaurant into the house? Fuck me. These people have more money than sense.
Artemis points his cup at me. “I saw that eye roll.”
“More money than sense.”
My friend nods. “Can’t take it with you. What’s life without a little splurging on blood and guts once a year?”
“I’ll drink to that.” I ladle out some of the blood punch, and Raffi snickers when a giant eyeball plops into my glass, making the drink slosh over the sides. “Is this concoction Taryn’s doing?”
Artemis nods. “She brought the desserts, too.”
My stomach growls at that. There’s nothing better than a Bitches Brew bake. I have literally died and gone to heaven.
Apollo appears next to us, dressed as the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland, and offers me his hand for a shake. “Glad you could make it. You doing okay?”
His question seems surface level, but I know better. It’s October 31st, and in only a few weeks I face the first anniversary of the loss of my parents. The grief that’s been simmering at a low-bubble for the past eleven months is gathering steam, and I can already tell it’s going to ooze out of me in November.
Therapy has helped. With the advice of my girl, and some of my friends already in therapy, I signed up for grief and trauma counseling. That lasted for a couple months before I graduated to regular old therapy with antidepressants.
We talked about bringing me off them in September, but I’m not sure I can face November and all the memories it brings with it, without some chemical stabilization in my body. So I said no.
