We had Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner the other night. I choked it down, the thick, familiar lump in my throat making it difficult to swallow. Every time we have KFC, I think of Halloween.

It had been my best girlfriend, Jamie's, idea. We were sitting on her back porch, puzzling over Algebra, talking about Homecoming Dance, and laughing at our new-found sense of power. We were, afterall, 8th graders. Shoot, the way we figured it, we practically owned the whole middle school. I'd just said something bittersweet about being lost in the crowd again next year -- when we started High School together -- and I suppose it filled old Jamie with a sense of nostalgia because...

"We should do Halloween this year," Jamie said.

I looked over the edge of my math book at her. "Do Halloween?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. "You know...Halloween? Candy? Trick-or-Treat?" Jamie teased me, but there was a dry edge to her voice.

I sighed. "Oh, Jamie, don't you think we're a little old for Halloween?"

"Oh, come on!"

"What? I'm serious. If you want to do Halloween, that's cool, but I'm not into it," I told her.

"But...But...you're my best friend! I can't go without you!" she insisted.

"Then I guess you aren't going at all, because I'm not up for making a fool out of myself." I sighed again, and turned back to my homework.

But Jamie laid her forearms across the book in my lap. She gazed up at me with the sternest, hardest look I'd ever seen on her face. "When I went out last year," she began, her voice hardly more than a whisper, "I never thought it'd be my last time." She straightened when she was sure she had my full attention. "And now, you're telling me that it was the last time, and to get over it."

"Jamie, I never said..."

But she cut me off. "This is important, Gage. We have to make it the official last time. We can't just leave it," she said. "We have to say goodbye."

Oh, that did it. Finally, I had to laugh. "You really need to think about taking Drama next year, Jamie," I told her. But that was all I said.

Over the next few days, Jamie plotted and planned. She enticed some of our other girlfriends into joining us. With that cool even voice of hers, she assured them, "It'll be the best Halloween ever." And she convinced them. Hell, even I was starting to believe her.

Okay, she'd convinced me, too. So much so, that I'd gotten permission to stay out til 11, and even began putting together a costume. I had to admit, Jamie's plan was cool. A 'Farewell to Halloween' dinner party, and trick-or-treating afterward. We'd -- 5 of us girls! -- all hand out black balloons at every door and announce this was our final year trick-or-treating. That sounded pretty mature. Besides, maybe Jamie was right. Maybe I would have a big dead spot in my stomach if I didn't go. Maybe, even years and years later, I would regret missing it.

It was Wednesday, just over a week before Halloween. Mom rarely cooked on Wednesdays, usually leaving it up to Dad to select a place for takeout. That night, he chose Kentucky Fried Chicken.

As he and Mom left to pick up the food, he uttered the fateful command: "Set the table, and put some butter out for the biscuits."

I've played and replayed the next 5 minutes over in my head til I think I'm going insane. And every time, I think there must have been some mistake. I must be remembering it wrong. I must be missing something. But I know I'm not.

I should've paid attention to what I was doing. I pulled out the placemats and set them on the table... I should've looked more carefully. I dug out 3 knives, 3 forks, and a fistful of napkins... I should've thought before I acted. I pulled a stick of butter from the fridge... I should have remembered.

Dad chewed on his biscuit for a moment, paused, grimaced, and chewed again.

"Something wrong..." Mom began.

"Hmm," he mumbled through the mouthful, "butter tastes funny."

I stared at him, feeling chicken grease and gravy catch in my throat and form a knot I couldn't swallow. Oh, God, what now?

Dad got up from the table, crossed to the trash can and peered at something inside. He stooped to retrieve it. "Margarine!" he shrieked, and hurled the wrapper at me.

Dad stomped to me, picked up the plate of butter on the table and held it inches from my nose. "You see that?" he asked. His nails dug into my scalp, fingers ripped out my hair as he forced my head to nod. "What is it?" he asked.

"I...I..." Margarine? Butter? No, it was butter. Wait, it was margarine. I was confused! No, it was butter! It had to be!

"It's margarine, you stupid piece of shit." The plate teetered in his meaty palm. "Margarine! How many times do I have to tell you, I don't like margarine?" he asked.

"Hundreds," I said. I tried to duck, pull away, anything, but he held me firmly by the back of my neck now.

"And you still don't know the difference?"

"I...I..."

"Well, you're going learn, right now." With that, he mashed my face into the plate.

Margarine everywhere. I could taste it in my mouth, feel it in my nose, on my eyelashes. Greasy, disgusting, slimy margarine. I leaned over the toilet and threw up.

Mom came to the bathroom door. "Dad wants you to take out the garbage," she said.

I stepped out into the hallway. "I'm sorry, Mom," I said.

Mom's eyes were blank. "Of course you are, Gage," she said to the wall behind me. "I know you are."

"Mom? What about Jamie's Halloween party?" Come on, Mom, please, just be in yourself for 5 seconds, please.

Dad grabbed me by the elbow and spun me around. "What are you talking to her for?" he asked as he yanked me toward the front door. "There are no parties. You're grounded." He thrust a bag into my hand, opened the door, and kicked me down the steps.

I landed facedown. The bag had burst on impact, showering me with garbage. I got to my knees wondering how the hell I was going to clean up the mess, when I heard him behind me.

He was laughing.

"There," he said between snickers. "You wanted Halloween? Now you've got a costume, Trash Princess."

Jamie was livid when I told her I couldn't go to her party. And, thought it nearly killed me, I just couldn't bring myself to tell her about Dad. I just couldn't burden her with something like that. I knew how much it would have hurt her if I'd told her. So, I didn't.

Instead, I ground my teeth as she lit into me. "You just think I'm immature, don't you?" she cried. "Isn't that what you said? Don't you even care how important this is? We've worked so hard, and..."

And I suppose she eventually forgave me, but things were never like they'd been that day on her back porch. By the time we went to 9th grade Homecoming -- a year later -- Jamie and I were no longer friends.

Archives