Four Rubbings

Chapter Three: Casey the Pretender and a Pint-Sized Grave

Typical of any October in the Pacific Northwest, the weather tonight is soggy and blah.  A steady spray of mist silently soaks my football jersey, an irritating rain we locals call spit. Not worth the trouble of opening an umbrella. Not worth spit. Kind of like me.

It was the perky Mylar balloons that drew me to the far corner of the graveyard after we split up, not some psychic mumbo jumbo like Josie predicted. My English teacher would have called the balloons “garish,” a good college-prep word. Bobbing above the graves, the balloons put a tacky coating on what had to be the children’s cemetery. That’s right. I didn’t need a sign to tell me; pint-sized plots, lamb-adorned headstones, and stuffed animals were a dead giveaway. No pun intended.

As I struggle to remember why I agreed to spend the night in a cemetery, my cleats sink another half inch into the soft, muddy earth. I hope I’m not stepping on anyone.But then I remember. Josie talked me into this. Truth be told, she didn’t have to try very hard. As our unofficial entertainment director, Josie notoriously plans the perfect activities for the Baby Group–well, usually. This one is not so fabulous. But, with my folks off at some benefit for a new pet charity, I had nothing else to do tonight. Actually, my parents probably assumed I would hand out candy at the house. No way I was doing that, so I agreed to come on Josie’s little adventure.

I didn’t ask permission, I didn’t leave a note. If I’m lucky, they will notice I am gone and get pissed. Doubtful, though. I’m the invisible woman in my own family. Take my birthday, for example; between my brother’s all-important football schedule and Thanksgiving, my birthday is mostly celebrated with a candle stuck in the middle of a leftover pumpkin pie. Don’t even get me started on the presents. I usually receive something impersonal, like a gift card wrapped inside a new sweatshirt from my brother’s university bookstore. Are they hinting I should go there? As if. The point is, I’m an afterthought, not a special event.

So, when Josie’s arty aunt gave her a tombstone rubbing kit to celebrate Halloween, I admit I was a little jealous.Yes, I envy my friend who receives gifts on random holidays. I hate her a little, too.

Still, she’s my best friend, which is why I was the first one she called last night to toss around the idea.

“Casey, what do you think about rubbing tombstones? Do you think the gang will go for it?” she asked.

“A cemetery on Halloween? Are you crazy?” I said. “I’m not so sure about that. You know what my parents would say? We will bring home spirits with us. Disturbing the dead for no good reason brings massive bad luck.”

“Yeah, well. So, you’re going to let your mother’s Chinese superstitions keep you home? I can’t believe you, Casey!”

“Well, if you knew about the hungry ghosts, you would listen to me. I don’t want to go,” I said.

Josie tapped on the cell phone. Tap, tap, tap. “So what are you going to do instead? Stay home. Alone?”

“Nice.”

“I’m sorry, Casey but, I really want to do this. I have a good feeling about it. We’ll have fun, I promise. And you can sleep over after,” she coaxed.

“Fine,” I answered. It wasn’t worth fighting about.

Josie picked Lakefront as the venue, said it was the closest cemetery to her house or something. We would meet at her place around three, finish our costumes and then head to Lakefront. I wasn’t completely sold, but the thought of being left behind was enough to convince me.

At present, I stand under a knotty apple tree, helpless as my brother’s old football jersey gets slowly drenched by the spit. I am such a chump. My brother’s stiff white pants from sixth grade football (when his epic career began) keep sliding down my skinny legs, even with the laces cinched as tight as humanly possible across my waist. And by now, I’m sure the grease paint beneath my eyes is smeared, making me look like a benchwarmer for the losing team. Perfect.