Page 92 of All of You
“Any chance you’re helping me in the greenhouse today?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No can do. Viv has me on counter duty. Apparently it’s a busy evening for Mums and pumpkin sales. Fall and all.”
I can’t help the pout that overtakes my face.
Delia chuckles. “If it gets slow I’ll sneak back to help. I promise.”
“When can I see you?” I ask.
Viv’s head pokes out of her office. “Hey. Lovebirds. There’s shit to do.”
Delia laughs then covers her mouth to stifle it. “Sorry Viv,” she says.
“I’m not,” I say to Viv, “these lovebirds are trying to make plans.”
“Langdon,” Delia squeals. But Viv only laughs at me and goes back into her office.
“I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow after school? Or this weekend?” she offers.
I crack my neck. “Tomorrow it is. Wait. Shit, tomorrow is Halloween, I’m on Anderson trick-or-treating duty. Which, is boring but you can tag along if you want.”
“Do you dress up?” she asks.
I wrinkle my nose at her. “Definitely not.”
“Boring,” she quips. “I’ll text you and let you know tonight.”
She grins at me and heads back to the shop storefront as the overhead bell rings.Freaking Anderson, ruining my Delia time.I head to the greenhouse and go over the extensive list Viv has for me with a sigh.
Forty Five
Delia
Halloween. I am super excited. I love Halloween.
I love scary vibes and costumes and just thinking about the day makes me sad because it’s also my mom’s favorite holiday outside of Christmas. I’ve called her phone every day just to listen to her voice on her voicemail recording.
It’s been two months and literally no one seems concerned that she’s gone. It makes me wonder if Anna or Gramps actually know where she is or have talked to her. But if they have, why can’t I know about it? I’d take an explanation over secrets any day of the week.
I’m supposed to meet Langdon and Anderson to trick or treat at six-thirty tonight and I’m currently at the one and only thrift store in town trying to create a costume. I don’t care ifLangdon thinks it’s lame—Anderson will love that I dressed up. I used an old pillowcase in Gramps linen closet to make me and Anderson sacks for candy with our names written on them.
Gramps pokes around the store waiting for me. Every once in a while he smiles at me and asks how it’s going and I tell him I’m not quite there yet. I end up grabbing a long red sparkling evening gown and then I make Gramps stop at the drug store so I can grab some fake wound and fake blood makeup.
I’m going as Meryl Streep in Death Becomes Her. I’ll have to wear the dress backward and do some funky special effects to my neck to make it look twisted on backward but I think I can pull it off. Again, I wish Mom were here—she’s the best at the gruesome makeup for my crazy costume ideas. It doesn’t help that Death Becomes Her was one of her favorite movies to watch on rainy, cold days.
At home, I painstakingly apply the latex into ropey chunks of skin around my neck until I get the look I want. For fun, I give myself a little extra makeup under the eyes to make myself look more dead and I top off the look with some fake blood dripping from the corner of my mouth. I pull my hair half up and pin it, then loosely curl the parts left down. They fall in glamorous waves around my collarbone. I use mom’s trick of fashion tape to keep the dress covering my breasts because the back of the dress plunges almost to my belly button and I don’t need any accidental nip slips with Anderson in attendance.
I smooth the dress down my body. It fits nearly perfectly. Gramps hollers up the stairs to ask if I’m almost ready.
I holler back, “two minutes,” while I tug on my converse. At least the dress is long enough that you don’t see them.
I hear the front door open and close and wonder why Gramps is so anxious to leave—he said the driveway’s too long to get trick-or-treaters anyway—but I hustle my ass downstairs to meet him regardless. I turn on the landing and scoot down the stairs but stop short two steps from the bottom.
“Delia,” Mom sighs, a dreamy look in her eye.
Contentment. Home. Peace.
I swallow my shock, it slides down thickly as rage bubbles in my gut. “You’ve outdone yourself this year. We need a picture!”
