Absolutely Almost (10 page)

T
here was a storm on Halloween. A big one. So big that Erlan's family couldn't go to the Halloween Parade in the Village like they'd been planning, because all the camera equipment might get soaked.

“Too bad,” Erlan said. But I could tell he wasn't really upset about it.

So that was the good part—that Erlan couldn't go to the Halloween Parade and instead got to go trick-or-treating with me and Betsy.

The bad part was that the storm was so terrible that Mom called from work and said she was going to be late getting home, because of the subway being flooded. She also said that she didn't think we should go out trick-or-treating on Columbus Avenue like we always did.

“Buh they hah the bess candy!” I shouted into the phone. I was already dressed up in my zombie costume—Calista had even put some gross scabby makeup on my face before she went home—and I knew I sounded like a baby, but I didn't care. I popped my zombie fangs out of my mouth so I could talk better. “That's where we go every year.”

On the couch, Betsy looked down at her boots. She was dressed like a rock climber, with a rope around her waist and a headlamp and everything. She was pretending not to listen to me on the phone, but I knew she really heard. Erlan was listening too. He was dressed like a pirate, with an eye patch and a fake stuffed parrot elasticked to his arm.

“Your father can take you trick-or-treating in the building,” Mom said. “Plenty of our neighbors will be handing out candy. Put your dad on, okay?”

I didn't want to, but I did.

• • •

After that, I was sure Halloween was going to be awful, but it turned out it wasn't. I was sure Dad wouldn't wear a costume to help us trick-or-treat, but it turned out I was wrong about that too. Even if I didn't get what it was he was supposed to be.

“I'm a pencil pusher,” he told us, stretching out the cup of pencils in his hand in front of him again, like that would make it make more sense.

Betsy giggled, but Erlan just said, “Huh?” which was what I was thinking. I didn't really care what Dad's costume was, though, as long as I got candy.

We went trick-or-treating all over our building, starting on the first floor and going door to door, to every apartment with a pumpkin sticker outside. We zoomed up the stairs because that was faster than the elevator.
Tons
of people had candy. There were tons of other kids too, from all over the building. Some of them I'd never even seen before. Everyone loved my zombie costume and said how great and scary it was.
“Brains!”
I told them, which meant “thank you” in Zombie. Erlan started shouting
“brains!”
too, even though that's not what pirates say. And Betsy said “trick or treat” twice with no stuttering. I heard her.

We trick-or-treated for over an hour, even after the lights went out when we were on the ninth floor. Betsy lit the way with her rock-climbing headlamp, and people opened their doors holding candles. And one guy said he didn't figure he'd see any more kids the whole rest of the night because of the power, so he dumped his whole bowl of candy between our three bags and told us, “Enjoy!”

The whole bowl!

After the trick-or-treating, we went back to our apartment, and we sat on the floor with candles all around and split up our candy. Betsy and me loved loved loved chocolate, but Erlan wanted mostly fruit candies, so that was good for splitting. There were lots of Smarties, and Erlan got a record-high
nine
-Smarties tower on his tongue before Betsy made him laugh and they all spilled on the carpet. Dad couldn't do any work on his computer because of the power being out, so he stayed in the living room, not in his office. And when Mom finally got home, dripping and soaking from having to walk the whole way from her office in the storm, she let us eat on the floor, on a blanket, like a picnic. We had macaroni and cheese—the kind from the box that was only for weekends—and Mom put some peas in it because “at least we can
pretend
to be healthy.” And when we were done with dinner, we told ghost stories, even Dad, and Betsy kept screaming and hiding her face in her sweatshirt, but she was laughing too, so I think she was having fun.

• • •

Betsy had to spend the night, since her parents couldn't come get her because of the subway. Erlan could've gone home, obviously, since he was right across the hall, but his parents said he could spend the night if he wanted. I'd never had a Tuesday-night sleepover before. This was turning into the best Halloween ever.

We were rolling out the sleeping bags and blankets on the floor in the living room when Betsy whispered to me, “Hey, Alb-Albie?”

“Yeah?” I said. Erlan was in the bathroom changing into his pajamas, so it was just me and Betsy in the living room. I tossed a pillow up at the top of the sleeping bag, where my head would go.

Betsy tucked her chin into the T-shirt Mom gave her to wear as a pajama top. She was wearing a pair of my old pajama pants on bottom, the dog ones. She squeezed a pillow to her chest and looked up at me.

“This is f-fun,” she told me. She didn't say anything else, because that was right when Erlan came back into the living room and so she got shy again, but I could tell by the look on her face what she was thinking. I would bet a million dollars that she was thinking that she wished every day could be Halloween.

That was what I was thinking too.

C
alista did have a boyfriend. His name was Gus. I found that out when I asked her about the neon pink streak in her hair, which sometimes you could see if her hair was in braids, but most of the time you couldn't. When I asked her about it, Calista said, “Oh, do you like it? I'm thinking of getting rid of it because Gus says he hates it.” And I said, “Who's Gus?” even though I thought I probably knew already. And she said, “My boyfriend. Didn't I tell you about him?” And I said, “No,” and then she told me all about him, even though I didn't say I wanted to know.

Gus was twenty-four, which was three years older than Calista.

He was from California, just like Calista. They went to high school together. But they didn't start dating till a year ago.

Gus could've been the valedictorian of their school, because he was so smart. But he never was the valedictorian. Calista didn't say why.

She also didn't tell me what a valedictorian was, but lucky for me, I didn't care.

Gus didn't think Calista should've gone to art school. Calista seemed mad about that, even though she laughed when she told me.

Gus moved to New York City to be an actor, because he was very talented. When I asked what movies he had been in, Calista said, “Well, not much yet. But he goes to lots of auditions.”

I had a nanny once who went to lots of auditions. She moved to Michigan to be a kindergarten teacher.

“Do you want to see a picture of him?” Calista asked me. “I'll show you on my phone.”

“No, thanks,” I told her. “I'll wait till he's in a movie.”

Maybe Gus would move to Michigan too.

P
arent-teacher conferences were on Monday. Mom went. Dad too. I had sort of forgotten they were going, but when they came home, I remembered.

Dad did not look happy.

“Albie, these grades are unacceptable,” he said, throwing a stack of papers on the table. My grades or homework or something, I guess. I didn't look.

“Richard, please,” my mom said. But she didn't say please what. She dug some money out of her wallet and handed it to Calista.

“Bye, Albie,” Calista said softly before she snuck out the door.

I wished I could sneak out the door.

“You have a D in spelling,” Dad told me before the door was even closed. “A
D.
How hard is it to spell a couple words?”

“Richard,” Mom said.

“I study every Thursday,” I said. My voice was so soft even I could barely hear it. “Calista helps me. We make flash cards. The problem is Mrs. Rouse picks new words every week.”

“Well, perhaps you should study every
Wednesday
too,” Dad said. “And Tuesday and Monday. D's are not okay in this house, Albie.”

Mom sighed, but she didn't say anything. She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

She didn't take anything out.

“I expect you to get a perfect score on your next spelling test, Albie.”

“Perfect?” I said. “But that's ten whole words!” How could I get ten right when I could barely get four?

“It's not up for debate, Albie. Any son of mine should be able to spell. Do better.”

After Dad left the room, Mom closed the fridge and looked at me sitting at the table.

“Time to get ready for bed, okay, Albie?” she said.

I went to my room and changed into my pajamas, even though I hadn't taken my shower yet. But no one seemed to notice.

I hated parent-teacher conferences.

I
started studying for my spelling test the very next day, Tuesday, which was two days before I normally started.

“Well, aren't you the model student?” Calista said when I told her I wanted to make flash cards early.

Simple. S-I-M-P-L-E.
That one was simple. “Rhymes with
pimple,
” Calista said while we drew pictures on the back of the flash card. That made me laugh.

Brain. B-R-A-I-N.
That one was a little harder, because there were so many ways to make the long-
a
sound. “Albie has good grades on the
b-r-a-i-n,
” Calista said.

Especially. E-S-P-E-C-I-A-L-L-Y.
That one was impossible. “
Especially
is an especially stupid spelling word,” I said.

We studied and studied and studied.

And the more we studied, the more I knew I'd never be able to get all ten right. No matter how hard I tried, I wasn't ever going to be a perfect speller.

I wondered how such a perfect speller like Dad could end up with a son like me.