“Oh, okay, cool,” Opal says, smiling at me. “Can’t wait for all of that!”
Says Opal, the person who can barely get through Knott’s Scary Farm, a Halloween experience primarily designed for middle schoolers.
“Seriously, guys,” I say, craning my neck to look toward the bathroom. We’re situated in the back of the restaurant with the bathrooms up near the entrance, so there isn’t even anything to see besides the folks eating with us and the burgers and milkshakes as they go by. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing,” Harlow says. “She went to the bathroom.”
“What are you texting her about?”
For all my bravado, I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.
Harlow’s lips form into a grimace. “You’re being so fucking weird. Would you give it a break? Paisley’s letting me come borrow some clothing after this. We’re texting photos.”
I look down at my wrist, focusing on my bracelet in an effort to ground my brain. Opal bought everyone these outrageous charm bracelets, rose gold with our names on charms and surrounded by little trinkets to represent each of us. The rest of each bracelet contains theother three’s names surrounded by hearts.These are my friends, and I’m being paranoid.
“What about the sleepover?” I ask.
Opal and Harlow’s expressions go kid-whose-hand-got-caught-in-the-cookie-jar in perfect unison. “Oh, shit,” Harlow says.
“I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?” Opal says. “My dad is hosting an Asian American filmmaker mixer tonight and said we can’t use the house. But we’ll be back on track next week.”
I’m the only one who didn’t know.
It shouldn’t mean anything, but I still feel like I’ve shrunk down to an inch tall. I dig my fingernails into my palm, focusing on the bite of pain. Another attempt to stay grounded.
“Okay,” I say. “No problem.”
Paisley slides back into the booth. She looks to me, her blue eyes softening. “Everything okay, Emma?”
She says it like she told Opal to confess the sleepover cancelation while she was out.
“Yeah,” I say.
For what it’s worth, I don’t buy that Opal forgot.
I just don’t know what to do about it. So, as usual, I do nothing but ignore the churning in my gut.
Two
With the sleepover canceled, I find myself concocting a lie of my own. I tell my friends that a coworker at the horror museum I work at part-time asked me to cover a closing shift. I take my food to go and head over to the Mystic Museum. The museum’s situated off Magnolia Boulevard in Burbank, a stretch of mostly mom-and-pop shops featuring an abundance of vintage secondhand stores, movie stores, and horror stores. It’s the kind of street where you wouldn’t blink twice seeing a group of folks dressed head to toe in black despite the temperature always ranging hotter than other parts of Los Angeles.
Ordinarily I’d go home to let the emotional sting settle, but I don’t want to face my family yet. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with them, but they’re…well, they’ve got more typical brains. The Mystic Museum is a haven for the outcasts. Even if my coworkers and the customers aren’t necessarily neurodiverse like I am, there’s more of an empathy to stumbling through social situations. My breathing slows down here. No one ever cares if I hang around here, whether I’m on shift or not.
Tonight, though, I can’t help but feel ill at ease in my own skin as I park my car around back and walk through the front door. As if my own workplace wouldn’t want me here just because of what happened with the sleepover. At least I’ll be able to easily dismiss that feeling after a conversation with my coworkers.
When I walk inside the gift shop section of the museum, I find my coworker Amari refolding novelty horror T-shirts. The store boasts only a handful of customers.
“Hey,” I say to his turned back.
Amari startles, hand on his heart, before turning to me. “Jesus, Emma, you scared me.”
I motion around us. “Part of the job description.”
He blows air out into his cheeks. “There’s something creepy in the air tonight.” He runs a hand through his short green fade. “You’re not working, are you?”
“No,” I motion to my food. “Thought I’d come by.”
Amari usually works Friday nights, so there was a decent shot I’d see him. He’s always talking, and right now I’d love to listen to him explain what creepy vibe has overtaken the museum. Nothing’s better than someone who has so much to say that you only need to nod your head to engage them.
