Chapter 43

a/n: a pointless little halloween romp for your viewing pleasure ;)))​​

Raindrops roll off the sleeves of my faux leather jacket. The black loafers I stole from my dad are probably on the brink of flooding, and my carefully slicked-back hair is likely ruined. Next to me, Alyssa tugs up her slouchy flared jeans and hops over a puddle. Her feet hit the wet pavement at the end of Jace’s driveway with a splash.

“It’s usually freezing in Woodbury for Halloween,” she says. She offered me her umbrella, but I figured her impeccable Rose Tyler makeup was a little more important than my Ninth Doctor nose contouring, so I told her to keep it. It’s funny, because now I can’t see her face at all. She’s completely hidden by the black umbrella.

I know she looks adorable, though. “Oh yeah? No frigid rain?”

“Nah, just cold, frost-bitten grass, if not snow.”

“Snow? That doesn’t sound Halloween spirity at all.”

We’ve reached Jace’s doorway now. There’s a dull thumping on the other side, and now that the Westerfeld’s stoop covers us from the rain, Alyssa lowers her umbrella and looks up at me with round, bright eyes.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Meh,” she says, and swings open the front door. AJR pulses inside, and a girl I recognise from Alyssa’s art club waves from her spot against the mudroom wall. Alyssa waves back and the girl stumbles off back into the living room, where Duncan stands on one of the plush couches, just in our view.

He’s dressed in a giant Clifford the Big Red Dog jumpsuit, with this stupid plush head that bobs over his actual head as he Gangam Style dances on the Westerfeld’s sofa. The clump of costumed-up teens bouncing about him howls, coincidentally in sorta-key with the AJR song.

But it’s no AJR song that Duncan is singing. “LET’S GET PHYSICAL,” he screams, dropping into a squat. His hips swivel in a low, rhythmic motion, the Clifford head following suit. “PHYSICAL.”

I don’t know where Neema is, but she’s here somewhere, dressed as Emily Elizabeth and probably rolling her eyes so hard that they’re now somewhere back in her skull. Couples costumes are fun. Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor and Rose Tyler for me and Alyssa, a girl and her dog for Neema and Duncan. One is arguably less kinky than the other, but whatever—if my best friends want to turn a giant dog into a couples costume, then I totally will not make furry and/or bestiality jokes. Will not. Won’t.

“MAKE SPACE, MAKE SPACE,” shouts Duncan, flailing his arms wildly. The crowd parts for him, screaming. Duncan’s dog head waggles excitedly, and onto the living room floor he soars. It’s his party staple; the crowd is quick to start chanting his name as he worms. I can’t see it. I just know. He’s worming.

It’s playing a newish Still Woozy song when the crowd parts, still hollering for Duncan. After a strong salute, he weaves his way towards the bathroom and spots me and Alyssa, still standing in the doorway, holding hands and laughing. It feels good. Nice. Chill. What I would have wished high school to be like if I had known it could be. The last time I was at one of Jace’s big parties, I was happy, but stressed. I still don’t like thinking about the night that wound up becoming. But this? This is already so much better.

Duncan departs with a simple salute. Alyssa gives my hand a strong tug and leads me over to the kitchen. Apparently, this is where our new group has decided to settle down. Norm in Captain America gear pours Neema a red solo cup of fruit punch straight from the plastic jug, while Jace and Tanner take mindless selfies on their phones, dressed as Marshall Lee and Prince Gumball. I know there had been an attempt on Tanner’s end to feed his Dan Stevens obsession with a Beauty and the Beast same-sex costume, but this setup is a lot better, in my opinion. Tanner can seriously rock pink hair.

“Eyyyy!” Norm says. Fruit punch spills onto the counter and Neema yelps, then smiles when it doesn’t splash up on her. “It’s Doctor number nine and his lovely leading lady!”

“I carried the show,” Alyssa says with a sniff.

I roll my eyes. “Um, no, my leather jacket and stellar slow-dancing capabilities did.”

“Do you see how ahead of their time my eyebrows were?”

“Are you my mummy? No. So you can sonic-screw-off.”

There’s a crash from the living room. Jace winces mid-selfie. “Ohhh, fun,” he murmurs, standing up to deal with the carnage.

“HEY GUYS?” he shouts, disappearing from the kitchen door frame. With a sigh, The Captain Formerly Known As Norm follows behind him.

I loop an arm around Alyssa’s shoulders and press her against my side. She smiles up at me, her Rose Tyler eyebrows unusually dark on her face. “Hi,” she says.

I give her a squeeze. “Hi back.”

“You’re adorable as Rose Tyler, did you know that?”

“No, no, I didn’t.”

“Well, I’m glad someone said something.”

Neema circles around the kitchen island, lifting her red solo cup in salute. A tiny drop of punch lands on her pink button-up sweater. It’s a hella cute Emily Elizabeth costume, honestly—pink sweater, Peter Pan collar, a tight black miniskirt, and knee-high black and pink striped socks paired with chunky Doc Martens. Her makeup is on point, too, with rosy pink cheeks and a shiny, berry pink lip.

“Heyyyy,” she says, bumping my hip with her own. “Wassuuup, ladies?”

Alyssa leans against the countertop and smiles from my other side. “Nothing much. Your costume is insanely cute.”

“For real.” Chlo appears from seemingly nowhere and reaches around the jug of punch on the other side of the counter. Her sparkling teal acrylics shine in the island’s overhead lights as her fingers wrap around a fresh red solo cup. Next to the fruit punch are a few bottles of hard liquor, vodka and Fireballs and plenty of other things I wouldn’t want to feel burning my throat.

Chlo pours herself some pink drink. It seems more than a shot’s worth, but I know Chlo has a scary high tolerance and will probably be one of many kids spending the night here. She and Jace worked everything out, he said, so we’re chilling. All of us. (Well, most of us. Obviously.)

“Your costume is cute too,” Alyssa offers. She’s still not the biggest Chlo fan, for which I don’t exactly blame her. But she says she’s over it if I am, and I appreciate her trying. “Are you doing a Monster High moment?”

Chlo, her usually bright eyes darkened with smoky grey eyeshadow and elaborate black eyeliner, smiles. She tucks a strand of her straight dark hair behind one ear. “Hell yeah I am. I’m doing Cleo. Did you see Kyle Simon’s outfit?”

“I have no idea who Kyle Simon is,” Alyssa says.

“Poofy hair,” I tell her.

“The poofiest,” Chlo says with a nod. “Also dastardly good-looking. He’s going to have boys falling over him for his freaking Clawdeen outfit.”

I try to picture it in my head—poofy-haired, climbable, breedable (not my opinion) Kyle Simon, dressed as a Monster High character.

Hm. You learn something new every day.

There’s another loud crash from the living room area. “HEY GUYS I AM REALLY REALLY NOT JOKING HERE.” Jace’s voice cuts above The Rare Occasions thrumming through the speaker system.

Noelle, with a very well-done Raven from Teen Titans, stumbles through the kitchen doorway. There’s a random Fred Flintstone leaning on her shoulder. His red, sweaty face and the hair stuck to his forehead provide very little mystery as to his condition. He makes a very good Fred Flintstone at least; he has a distinctly Nathan Lane vibe about him.

“I’m seriously fine,” he says, then breaks out in breathy giggles.

“How much has he had?” Neema asks, pushing away from the counter and walking around to drag a stool towards the corner of the island. Noelle helps him sit down.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Hey, Monty, how much have you had?”

Monty gives her a blank expression before giggling more. “Ask Rye!”

“Oh my god Monty we talked about this—”

“I watched them pour it! Rye is good people.” He adds in a harsh whisper, “I had nine shots in like twenty minutes! I am so good at this.”

This kid’s BAC is decidedly not where it should be. I’m already at the sink, pouring tap water straight into a fresh solo cup. “Dude, that’s wayyyy too much.” I walk the cup over to him and press it firmly into his hands. He stares at it for a moment, like he’s unsure of what it is he’s looking at.

“You need to drink,” Neema says.

Fred Flintstone obliges her, gulping the water straight down. It’s more concerning than impressive. He sticks his tongue out after, gagging, and says, “It’s too dusty.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I tell him, reaching for the cup to get him more. “You need water, food, and no more drinks for tonight.”

“But I feel fine,” Monty insists. Then he coughs.

And then he pukes.

I stare down in disbelief at my faux leather jacket, now covered with sad, yellow projectile vomit. It runs down onto my pants, my shoes. Some of it landed on my collarbone and, with a sickly warm feeling, I feel it drip down into my bra. My fancy bra, the one that I was wearing for later when Alyssa and I—nope.

“Oh my god,” Alyssa says from behind me. “Did he just—”

“He did.” Neema looks green. “I’m going to vomit if I”—she gags—”if I have to smell that, oh my god, oh my god, why did Jace allow drinking JACE WE HAVE VOMIT.”

She scurries away. No one else says anything.

The air smells almost sweet and entirely acidic. “I am so sorry,” Monty says. At least his eyes look a little clearer now. Not sure if that makes getting vomited on worth it. That was Pitch Perfect level projection.

A tentative hand places itself on my elbow. “Are … are you okay?” Alyssa asks. I slowly turn to look at her. She looks so traumatized that she might as well have been the one to get ralphed all over.

“I’m gonna make him some toast,” Chlo says hesitantly.

“Yeah,” I say. “Good idea.”

I let Alyssa lead me away, in the direction of where I know Jace’s bathroom is. “It’s gonna be alright,” Alyssa says. “Gosh, I would be vomiting so hard right now if I were you.”

“There’s still time,” I tell her. It sounds removed. I honestly could vomit right about now.

The bathroom is miraculously empty. I see myself in the mirror—the Ninth Doctor, covered in yellowish vomit. I peer closely at my shirt. “I’m sorry, are those peas?”

“I will puke, stop, don’t.” Alyssa pulls her hair back into a ponytail and looks for herself. Her darkened brows scrunch up in a mixture of surprise and disgust. “Stop, stop, those are peas.”

I strip out of the jacket and toss it in the bathtub, then carefully peel off my sticky white T-shirt. When I say peel, I mean it. Literally. Peel.

Alyssa wets two towels and we start wiping me down. “I’m gonna need to shower,” I tell her.

“I know. I’m going to tell Tanner to tell Jace to lend you fresh clothes.”

“Thank goodness.” I take in my new appearance: the puke-stained red lace bra, the ruffled hair, the eyeliner smudged beneath my eyes. “I feel like I should be in a Tove Lo music video. The one, what’s it? The drugs and the playgrounds?”

“‘Habits?” Alyssa asks.

“That’s the one. Gosh, I can’t believe he puked on me.”

“I know.” She reaches up on tiptoe to smooth down my hair, so I bend at the knees to oblige her. I look like a stork trying to lay an egg, but I don’t mind.

I fix one of the straps of my bra. “Can’t believe he got projectile vomit on my bra too.”

“What a yabba dabba douche bag,” Alyssa says.

“Wow, how long were you sitting on that one?” I ask her, rewetting my towel and scrubbing my collarbone till it looks red and blotchy.

“Since he came in,” she admits. “Just felt like there was no reason to share it till now.”

I laugh. I hear her snort softly in response. “That makes me getting thrown up on so worth it.”

“Yeah, I’m so glad that an omnipotent higher power made that happen to you, just so the world could hear ‘yabba dabba douche bag.'”

“There you go again with your yabba dabba douchebagging.”

Alyssa turns on the faucet and washes her hands, smiling back at me in the mirror. Her green eyes twinkle. “Look, I’m sure the omnipotent higher power really appreciates us giving ‘yabba dabba douchebag’ more air time. She’s probably really proud of it.”

“You’re assuming the omnipotent higher power, the very one who wants us to keep repeating ‘yabba dabba douchebag,’ is female?”

She shrugs. “I just feel like she is.”

I pretend to ponder it for a moment. “Yeah, makes sense.”

“I always make sense.”

“It’s probably just the omnipotent higher power, speaking through you.”

“Hey man, I’ll take it. Thank you for selecting me as your vessel of rightness, omnipotent higher power.”

“Yabba dabba douchebag.” I snake my arms around her waist and pull her close to me.

“No no, vomit body, vomit body!” Alyssa cries, trying in vain to escape. Her arms grip my forearms, and her hair is soft against my nearly bare chest. She smells like strawberries and vanilla.

“Sorry, am I being a yabba dabba douchebag?”

“You are, you are!”

I tighten my grip and bend so I can plop my chin down on top of her head. We stare at each other in the mirror, and she’s smiling despite herself, hands still locked on my forearms.

“And what are you gonna yabba dabba doo about it?”

She rolls her eyes. “This is why the omnipotent higher power chose you to get vomited on. I hope you know that.”

I give her a gentle squeeze, and she giggles. “Worth it.”

a/n (take 2): HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED AND HAPPY SPOOKY SEASON