Giggling kids approach, three ballerinas, a cowboy, a Spiderman, and a little lion. No adults. Good. I could have a bit of fun before I leave and crash the Halloween party I haven’t been invited to. I know not to go to parties empty-handed. My hostess’ gift is in the pocket of my robe. Should I share it with these kids?

 

I speak softly as they climb the porch stairs. “Welcome to my home, sweet children.” I pull the pillowcase off my face.

 

The ballerinas gasp. Their eyes bulge. Cowboy and Spiderman freeze. The little lion drops his plastic pumpkin. Candy spills.

 

Little lion screams. The ballerinas scramble back down the stairs. Cowboy and Spiderman tumble back, tripping over the howling lion.

 

“Aw, you big chickens,” I call out. I toss nickels at them, and they all quiet, eyeing the coins landing at their feet.

 

They look from the coins to me.

 

Spiderman speaks first. “Wow! Cool mask!”

 

Cowboy nods. His mouth hangs open.

 

I bow. “Thank you.”

 

The ballerinas begin gathering the nickels.

 

Little lion bounces up the stairs, stands on his tiptoes, and sticks a chubby finger into my thick lower lip. His touch feels light and soft. It tickles. I shiver, remembering the light and soft kisses I’d enjoyed with Mae before the fire turned me monster two weeks before our eighth-grade graduation. We’d passed out on the couch in her family room. We’d both been drinking and smoking. Her parents came home to a burning house and Mae crying under a tree on the front lawn. Somehow, Mae had escaped.

 

She’d be at the party I was crashing tonight, I’d heard through the digital grapevine.

 

“Joey!” scolds one of the ballerinas. “Don’t be poking your fingers into that guy’s mask!”

 

I flick my tongue at the bossy ballerina. Joey giggles.

 

“That’s all right, Joey,” I say. “You’re braver than your friends.” My voice cracks into a higher octave, and the children laugh. Damn puberty. I should have been out of it, but all the medication has messed things up.

 

“Well tootle-loo, kiddies. And watch out for fire-breathing monsters. They hide behind trees on this block every Halloween. I got caught once myself when I was a few years older than you, Joey. And you can see what happened to me.”

 

Bossy ballerina frowns at me. “You’re mean,” she says.

 

She tosses her curly black hair. Soft and bouncy like Mae’s black hair had been the last time I saw her. Probably still is.

 

I’ll find out tonight. I hope.

 

The kids scamper safely away. I slip my hand in my pocket, make sure my hostess’ gift is still there. It’s a little glass spray bottle, rather lovely, filled with sulfuric acid.

​

Marie Anderson is a Chicago area married mother of three millennials. About 120 of her stories have appeared in about 100 publications, including in Twenty-two Twenty-eight, Sudden Flash, MetaStellar, and Mersey Review. She leads and learns from a public library's writing critique group and is a volunteer reader for Flash Fiction Magazine.