For the record, Bobby—and Indira, and I, and even Fox—had all performed the obligatory chorus ofDon’t ever do that again. It had taken the wind out of Keme’s sails for about an hour, especially when no one seemed particularly impressed by his and Millie’s display of initiative. (They had apparently overheard Bobby and me leaving and assumed that I would somehow manage to get myself killed if they didn’t tag along. I mean, they weren’t wrong, but I didn’t feel like they needed to say it out loud.) All our hard work had gone out the window, though, when Millie had posted a long—and LOUD—video on social media explaining howmy boyfriend, Keme, did the most amazing thing. After that, Keme looked like he had enough testosterone pumping through him to pick a fight with a bullet train.
Oh, and by the way: they didn’t even have the decency to tell us. Keme and Millie, I mean. We all would have gone on wondering and guessing and hoping if we hadn’t heard those magical words—my boyfriend, Keme. There was no elaborate courting ritual. They didn’t sit us down and gently explain it to us. Millie didn’t even ask me for Keme’s hand in, uh, boyfriendship? They acted like they always had. With way more kissing.
(I was starting to understand how Keme felt about me and Bobby. I was also starting to knock—loudly—every time I entered a room.)
Hemlock House was always busy on Halloween—not only because it was the only fully operational Class V hauntedmansion on the entire Oregon Coast (don’t quote me on that), but also because over the years, Vivienne had created something of a tradition, which could be boiled down to: full-sized candy bars, and plenty of them. This year, with money tight, we’d had to resort to fun-size options, but honestly, the kids didn’t seem to mind (aside from one little cowlicked runt out of the Archer clan whoclamoredfor his full-sized Snickers—his mom had to drag him away, vamping off-stage to her own embarrassed laughter).
Eventually, it was time for me and Bobby to head upstairs and help Keme get ready for the dance.
“And maybe change into your own costume while you’re up there,” Fox said, giving me an appraising look. “Or are you going as a disheveled stoat?”
“I’m alreadyinmy costume, thank you very much. And I’m not going to engage with this—with thisabuse. My costume is cute and clever and cute and—”
“Clever?” Fox said drily.
“Bobby!”
“Here we go,” Bobby said with a squeeze to my shoulder that I was sure was supposed to convey his boundless support and his wholehearted agreement that my costume was, in fact, cute and clever. Bobby, for his part, wasdefinitelycute—the Marty McFly getup had made a second appearance, and the word of the night wasyum. (When he’d cuffed the sleeves of the denim jacket, something had happened inside me, and I’m not ready to describe it.)
“We shan’t let you down,” Fox informed me as they opened yet another fun-sized Kit Kat. Tonight, Fox’s ensemble included a knee-length dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves; a white pinafore; and ankle-strap shoes. They’d added a featureless metallic mask that made their voice boom oddly, and they’d tripped over the hassock twice, going, uh, ankle-straps overpinafore. The whole effect wasBattlestar Galacticameets Alice in Wonderland, and when I’d wondered aloud to Bobby (a little too loudly, it turned out) if it was a costume or an ordinary outfit, Fox had let out an indignant huff and walked straight into the fireplace.
Indira, in a version of her hippie costume she’d worn on Sunday, gave me a small smile. She was good at controlling her expression, but I knew her well enough to see the worry and hope battling in her features.
“He’s going to want you to give him your seal of approval when we’re done,” I told her. “You know he will.”
Her smile got a little bigger, and Bobby and I headed upstairs.
In keeping with all the other recent developments, I’d finally put my foot down about Keme’s “secret” (notice the liberal use of air quotes) bedroom. I’d been willing to play along and let Keme sleep in one of the secret passages while his own living situation was…well, unstable, to put it politely. But now that his mom had been evicted, and since Keme was eighteen and a legal adult, I’d decided it was time to put an end to the charade. He hadn’t liked it. And it had almost threatened to tip over into a fight—if you can fight with somebody who just hunches his shoulders and won’t make eye contact and keeps trying to sneak past you so he can slip out of the house.
And then Bobby had looked around the secret turret, scanning Keme’s dirty clothes and his half-empty boxes of breakfast cereal and the jumble of mismatched furniture Keme had pilfered, and said in his usual I’m-Bobby-so-I-actually-am-honestly-asking-this tone, “Are you going to bring Millie up here?”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was that.
We found Keme in his new bedroom. He was dressed in black trousers, a white shirt, black suspenders, and a black bowtie. A pair of Chucks (mine, for your information) rounded out the ensemble. He was staring at himself in a cheval mirror, his face dark.
When Bobby and I stepped through the door, he looked over and said, “I look like a wiener.”
Boy, if you wanted to hear anervouslaugh. “Uh, Keme, Indira isrightdownstairs, and I don’t think you can say—”
“You look handsome,” Bobby said. He moved over to Keme and adjusted the bow tie. Then he tugged on the tight knot of Keme’s hair. He did something with his eyebrows that was apparently the way straight boys asked each other questions. (Bobby was an honorary straight boy.) Keme made a disgruntled sound and nodded, and Bobby set to work undoing Keme’s hair and starting over.
For my part, I flopped on the bed.
“Everyone’s going to be wearing a suit,” Keme said into the silence.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked. “We would have gotten you—”
Bobby gave me a surprisingly stern look.
I shut my yapper.
“You didn’t want a suit,” Bobby said.
“But everybody’s going to be wearing one.”
“Millie doesn’t expect you to wear a suit.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to wear to a dance,” Keme said with surprising stubbornness.
