The Impossible Knife of Memory(51)

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“Sexy Cowgirl?” Gracie held up a kid’s holster and six-shooter.

“I’d rather be warm than sexy,” I said, holding up an old shawl. “It’s going down to the twenties tonight.”

She rummaged in another bin. “Feathers!” she shouted triumphantly. “You could be Sexy Big Bird!”

“That’s disgusting,” I said.

Before she could reply, heavy footsteps hurried down the wooden stairs. My gut tightened.

“Dad?” I called.

He stopped in the doorway. “What are you two doing down here?”

“I need a Halloween costume,” I said quickly. “Gracie asked me to help her take her little brother trick or treating.”

“It’ll be supersafe,” Gracie added. “We’ll only go to the houses of people we know and—”

She stopped when my father held up his hand.

“That’s great, sounds like fun,” he said, “but where’s the vacuum cleaner?”

“What?” I asked.

“The vacuum cleaner,” he repeated. “I can’t find it. Or the thing you use to clean the toilet.”

“Toilet brush is in the holder in the garage. Vacuum cleaner is in my closet.”

“Thanks.” He studied the mess we’d made on the floor. “What time are you heading out?”

“I’ll make dinner before I go,” I promised.

“Don’t worry about that, I got it.”

“Remember, I’m spending the night at Gracie’s,” I said.

“I remember!” he called. “Have fun!”

“You can count on that!” Gracie whispered as she danced a few steps.

“Shh!” I warned. Finn’s mother had taken an unplanned trip to Boston because his dad had the flu. She wasn’t going to be home until Sunday night. Maybe Monday. So we had an empty house for the whole weekend.

“Hey!” Dad’s footsteps thudded back down the stairs, and his face poked around the corner. “No parties and you don’t go near the quarry, understood?”

“Of course it is, sir,” Gracie answered super sincerely. “My parents have the exact same rules.”

“Good,” Dad said. “Glad to hear it. You girls leaving soon?”

An alarm bell clanged in my head. Michael.

“I don’t know, Dad,” I said. “Maybe I should come back here. What if a million little kids show up or some idiots egg the house? It’ll drive you nuts. If I stay, you won’t have to deal with any of it.”

“You go,” he said firmly. “I’m having a friend come over for dinner. Between the two of us, we’ll take care of it.”

Definitely Michael. My heart sank. Would it be better to spend the night here to make sure that creep did not cause a catastrophe or go to Finn’s and spend all night worrying?

“Mr. Kincain, do you have a date?” Gracie teased.

Instead of losing his temper or being rude, my father grinned and cleared his throat. “Well, maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. I’ll let you know tomorrow, how’s that?”

Dear gods above. Michael has hooked my father up with a skank piece of trash.





_*_ 54 _*_

It took the rest of the afternoon, a raid on Mrs. Rappaport’s closet, and a cheeseburger (medium rare, spicy mustard, toasted bun), but by the time Finn and Topher got to Gracie’s house, I was costumed.

“Well?” Gracie asked the guys as she spun me around in the driveway. “What do you think?”

“Aaah,” Topher said, incapable of looking at anyone other than his girlfriend. Gracie’s Sexy Nurse costume had robbed him of the power of speech.

“Erm,” said Sherlock Finn, eyes wide. “Do I get three guesses?”

“If you say Sexy Big Bird, I will punch you in the throat,” I warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Finn said.

“Come on!” Iron Man, aka Garrett, grabbed his sister’s hand and pulled her down the driveway. Topher followed, his eyes still on Gracie.

“Come on, you guys,” Gracie called to us.

“In a minute,” I promised.

The wind was picking up, blowing hard enough to send the last of the leaves to the ground and make little tornadoes, the tiny funnels gathering speed and spinning down a street filling with superheroes, witches, and monsters who giggled as they ran from house to house, their bags already drooping with candy.

Finn waited for our friends to get a little farther away, then he drew me into the shadows. “I like the mask.”

I kissed him.

“The wings are cool, too,” he eventually said.

I’d woven an entire bag of feathers into an old shawl of my grandmother’s. Gracie had pinned the most colorful feathers in my hair. She’d also dug into her treasure chest of makeup and painted bold streaks of violet, gray, and turquoise around my eyes. Under the shawl, I was wearing black tights and a black football jersey of her dad’s that went down to my knees. As long as I kept my wings on, no one could see the name and numbers on the back of it.

The wind stirred my feathers. I touched the fat piece of amber-colored glass hanging around my neck. In the bottom of my grandmother’s jewelry box, it had looked like a garage sale leftover. In the half-light, with the wind gusting, it glowed, transforming me.