I'll Never Finish This Book

EIGHT

October 31:

I held the envelope my dad sent me. Inside it was a letter along with a picture of me, age four, in a hotdog costume. Judging from the horrified look on my face and my tear-stained cheeks, that Halloween costume was my father's best work. I saw my reflection from the glossy photo, and it matched the look I had in the picture. I wished I could be home with my parents for Halloween, even if that meant having to put on some embarrassing costumes.

Growing up, Halloween had been one of my least favorite times of the year. It wasn't the holiday that I disliked, but I hated what my dad turned it into. While all the children my age were running around as superheroes and fairies collecting candy from strangers, I spent every Halloween sitting on the porch as that stranger handing them the candy. I also never wore any cool costumes like everyone else, but instead dressed up as whatever my dad found funny while we went costume shopping. One year I was a Christmas tree, and the next, he had me dress up as a piece of toast with a fabric jelly sewn on it. He wore the matching peanut butter one.

The costumes got worse throughout the years. I remembered the worst Halloween was when he had me dress up as a pumpkin. Although that was one of the better costumes, it was the fact that he didn't stuff it with anything that made it my least favorite costume. I ended up looking like a deflated orange balloon, and so many trick-or-treaters felt so bad for me that they even dropped some of their candy into my bowl.

There was also the time he completely forgot it was Halloween, so he didn't prepare for it or anything. Eleven-year-old me knew better than to remind him. I figured if he forgot it was Halloween, I wouldn't have to wear another ridiculous costume.

My plan fell short when eight o'clock rolled in, and the trick-or-treaters came knocking on our door. Since he hadn't known it was Halloween, he didn't get the chance to buy any candy. That year, he passed out any fruit we had lying around the kitchen and any spare change we had collected. After that year, we never did anything for Halloween as a family, and I had never been so relieved.

When middle school came around, trick-or-treating, along with pants that weren't skinny jeans, made the list of things that were no longer cool. That meant visits to haunted houses and Halloween parties were cool. I wasn't cool in middle school, or ever, so I never went to any of that.

Eli almost threw a party when he found out that I had never been to a haunted house. He made it his mission to make sure we went to one together that night. I ran my thumb along the edge of the picture before placing it back into the envelope, deciding to read the letter at a different time.

I placed the envelope on the counter I was seated on and looked around the art store. Eli had to cover the shift of another coworker that couldn't make it that Saturday afternoon, so he had me join him until they were expected to show up for the night shift. There were better ways that I could have spent that day off from work and school, but instead, I watched idly as last-minute shoppers asked Eli the same questions. After hearing, "Where's the orange paint?" "Where's the black paint?" "Where's the construction paper?" "Do you sell pumpkins?" asked over twenty times in ten minutes, I considered putting up a sign of FAQs.

Along with watching him work, I put together a small bowl of candy I picked up from a convenience store nearby. I passed out whatever Eli didn't eat.

When business began to slow down near the evening, Eli and I discussed more ideas for my book. He suggested I write a story about this superhero that wasted his potential working at an art store. He described this superhero as incredibly handsome and had to save all the people who walked into his store from buying the wrong type of paintbrush, making the world a much better place to live in. The story seemed well planned out, and it left me wondering how long it took him to think that up. Spending that much time alone in a store forced him to think creatively.