My One and Only Halloween Story

“No,” my father replied simply. “You know we don’t celebrate Halloween.”

I sat on the dryer, watching him casually destroy what was surely my last chance for happiness ever. I had been rooting through the endless laundry baskets in search of a goofy hat or a funky scarf that I could somehow transform into a costume that would impress all of my new friends. I knew tears always helped, so I began to ease each droplet downward, one by one.

“But Dad, I have to go. I’m-- the middle angel,” I lied. “Kate and Ali will hate me. I already promised them.” He was right; we didn’t celebrate Halloween, at least not like most of the general public. The idea of celebrating “the devil’s day,” as my mother always called it, was appalling; so instead, whenever the 31^st of October came around, she would invite over some family friends from church. The kids would spend the evening playing games and devouring bowl after bowl of candy; our parents’ peace offering for not allowing us to participate in the sacred trick-or-treating ritual.

I don’t remember ever begging my parents to let me go. Halloween was always something that I told myself was stupid, maybe even scary. I put it out of my mind. It wasn’t until that year that I had any interest in the supposed holiday.

Somewhere in the mix of pulling me out of the school system I had attended for most of my life with the only friends I had and throwing me into our rival school, a private institution in the wealthy part of town, my mom became rather lenient when it came to me. I think an ounce of her believed all my threats that she was ruining my life and that I would hate her forever for it. She figured, if she let me do what it took to finally fit in at the new school, some of the bitterness I harbored for her would evaporate in my newfound happiness.

“Ariel, I don’t see why we can’t make an exception,” she said slowly. “She’s been through a lot this year.” He didn’t want to budge, but somehow, I got him to. And so, I fell into place as the third, middle and tallest of Charlie’s Angels that year. “You’re definitely Jaclyn Smith,” my mom kept repeating as she made the final adjustments to my all-white ensemble and continued to drench my dark ringlets in hair-spray. My jacket resembled an eighties-favorite, Members Only jacket with an array of crooked, gold puff-painted letters spelling out Charlie’s Angels across my back. My friends and I had decided to go door-to-door in Ali’s neighborhood because all the houses were huge; her dad was a local urologist.

Sitting in the backseat, I was so excited and nervous that I was drenched in sweat as we made our way to the mouth of the cul-de-sac. We stepped out of the maroon suburban and into the cool night, each of us glad that the Angel’s had worn jackets. “Bye girls,” Ali’s mom called after us frantically. “I’ll be back to pick you up, right here, at nine o’clock.” She had one of those motherly voices that told you “I love you so much. Please be careful!” with every word she spoke. The three of us set off down the side-walk as the seven-thirty sun slid down the sky, disappearing behind the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I found that the bigger the house, the larger the candy-bar. After the twelfth house or so, the weight of our pillow-cases started to impede our progress and our already wind-burned cheeks stung like our frozen fingers. Finding a deserted patch of grass, we plopped down and began an anything but thorough investigation of our treats. I, being the fruit-candy lover that I am, eyed the miniature yellow box of JuJy-Fruits and decided that it would be the first real piece of Halloween candy I would ever eat. As I slid my fingernail between the cardboard flaps I could hear my teacher’s voice lovingly reminding each of us to be sure to have a grown-up check our candy before we ate any of it. But, she would understand. This was my first glorious, trick-or-treating earned piece! I tossed the green gummy into my mouth and upon the first meeting of my upper and lower teeth, knew something was horribly wrong.

The small shard of glass was the length of a staple and felt very much like one being projected out of a staple-gun as it dug into the inside of my cheek.