Toil & Trouble

by Hannah Johnson

  Mitch and Amber will be into it, he decides. They were there for its strange and unholy creation. They understand.

  “Then it’s time to get costume matters officially settled,” Arthur goes on. “Kristy will be the ... elegantly underdressed—”

  “I know I’m a sexy mummy,” Kristy interrupts. Then she puts on a bright smile. It’s way less convincing than her usual bright smiles.

  “Okay. Yes. Good. Kristy is the sexy mummy. Cora, you’re the werewolf.”

  “Ow ow, aroooooo!” Cora contributes. So at least someone is still chipper.

  “Howie,” Arthur continues, “you’ll do the honors of being our chainsaw killer. If you could recruit Amber and Mitch to be brains-eating zombies, that would be fantastic. Kristy, if Cliff would like to join us, he’s more than welcome to do the same.”

  “He’s gonna be so excitedddd,” Kristy says, with approximately ten percent of her usual enthusiasm.

  “And I ...” Arthur finishes, “will be the ghostly troubadour.”

  Everyone stares at him.

  “What the hell is that?” Howie says then.

  “There’s no way that kid requested a ghostly troubadour,” says Cora.

  “Maybe not specifically,” Arthur says. “But it will be in keeping with the theme.”

  “Yeah, okay, Zombiever,” Howie scoffs.

  Now everyone stares at him.

  “Like Bon Iver,” Howie explains.

  Cora shakes her head. An oh hell no kinda head shake.

  Howie looks hopefully at Kristy.

  “Not your best,” she admits.

  “Damn it,” Howie mumbles.

  “I assure you I’ll be suffering just as much as the rest of you,” says Arthur—sorry, wait, The Ghostly Troubadour. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to spend all of my spare time from now until haunted house day learning the complete discographies of Taylor Swift and ... a snake and Little John—”

  “What?” says Howie.

  “—and writing new eerie arrangements to reflect our terrifying Halloween setting.”

  “Okay, that’s pretty bad,” Cora acknowledges, snorting.

  “What about this whole situation isn’t?” Arthur replies.

  Wouldn’t you know, dude has a point.

  +

  It’s 12:42. A really excellent time to be asleep. Howie is trying for the whole asleep thing, but it’s made kind of difficult by the fact that Arthur is still up and sitting at his desk beside the bed. He’s got his guitar in his lap and headphones on, and he’s watching YouTube music videos with a chilling fixedness.

  Howie never thought he would find himself battling Taylor Swift for his boyfriend’s affections.

  So, you know, at least wonders never cease.

  “Babe,” Howie croaks in a very sleep-mushy voice. Words ... hard. “You could just, you know, do ... not that. Come on. Sleeeeeeep.”

  “Is it just me, or is You Belong With Me inherently frightening?” Arthur says, his bleary eyes locked on the computer screen. “There’s a very menacing undercurrent to these lyrics.”

  “Or you could just keep doin’ what you’re doin’,” Howie says, “that’s okay too,” and covers his head with his pillow.

  Arthur twangs a few melancholy Swiftian notes on the guitar.

  +

  The sexy mummy costume arrives in the mail.

  Yaaaaaaaaay, Kristy thinks to herself.

  She’s become very big on Yays without exclamation points lately.

  She decides to model her sexy mummy costume for Cora in the kitchen after the store has closed for the day. It’s basically a little white dress and leg warmers: it’s not like she hasn’t worn less to go swimming.

  But it just seems like an inaccurate and disrespectful way to entomb someone who’s on their way to the afterlife.

  “On the plus side, you look fucking adorbs,” Cora says.

  “Thank you,” Kristy says glumly, and does a shuffly little spin. She figures a mummy wouldn’t be a super graceful spinner.

  “And you know you won’t even have to do anything. It’s not like you’ve suddenly got to act like a stripper. All you gotta do is walk around, and at the end of the day we’ll have an awesome blog review to look forward to. By the way,” Cora adds, “I fucking hate that I’m in a situation where I have to get excited over a blog review.”

  “It’s not as fun as blogs are supposed to be,” Kristy agrees morosely.

  Cora laughs. “How fun are blogs supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know! More fun than this!”

  “Maybe there’s tons o’ fun in store.” She grins devilishly. “For example: just think of all the sexual awakenings you’ll inspire in those little weirdos.”

  “Ew!” Kristy cries. “Ew, ew, ew, ew.”

  “Sorry,” Cora says through her very fiendish laughter.

  “Ew,” Kristy says firmly.

  “You know what,” Cora says, sobering, “if you want to see a real ho in bandages, you should swing by my play rehearsal tonight. I promise, Dr. Frankenbitch will be in fine and skanky form.”

  “Wouldn’t you be Dr. Frankenbitch?” Kristy points out. “Since she’s the monster ...”

  “I’m surrounded by a bunch of nerds,” Cora mutters.

  “I think you’re exaggerating how bad she is,” Kristy declares. “I went to her for a haircut once, and she did a really good job. And she talked to me the whole time! She was nice.”

  “Yeah, but everyone’s nice to you. That doesn’t mean anything. She sucks. She’s always all in my face with her stupid peach lipgloss and her horrible everything.”

  “No one who wears peach lipgloss can be that bad,” Kristy protests, like that’s actually somehow a proven fact.

  “Dude, she is. I promise. I know what girls like her are like.”

  “Really? She doesn’t seem like the type you’d hang out with.”

  “It wasn’t so much hanging out as it was getting the shit bullied out of me,” Cora says. A flicker of something sad and vulnerable darts across her face.

  Kristy’s heart flops. “Aw, Cora.”

  “Whatever. I promise you, I so do not care anymore. Who’s happy in middle school, anyway?”

  Kristy was, but it doesn’t seem tactful to mention it.

  “I’ll drop by tonight,” Kristy says. “But if she’s not as awful as you’ve said, then you have to promise to stop hating her so much.”

  “Yeah, no, cannot do. The iron has entered into my soul, Diana.”

  “Okay, Anne. Then at least will you promise to stop being so mean to her? You said this was her first play ever, right? There’s no way she’s not totally intimidated by you.”

  Cora scoffs. “I don’t think she gets intimidated. She has a serious case of smug hot girl face. Only Natalie Dormer is allowed to look that haughty about a secret and still deserve my love.”

  “So you’re judging her by how she looks,” Kristy says, crossing her arms.

  “It’s okay to do that if you’re judging them for being hot,” Cora protests.

  “Cora, come on. Resting bitch face is a real thing! Just look at how much Kristen Stewart has suffered for it!”

  “I guess,” Cora says grumpily.

  “Everybody gets intimidated,” Kristy says. “I remember what it was like back before I convinced you to like me. Being on your bad side is scary.”

  Cora leans over to give her a one-armed hug. “I didn’t expect you to be so nice. People as pretty as you are usually total jerkwads. I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are, and it’s okay.” Kristy pats her curly head. “But I’m just saying. You gave me a chance. Maybe you should try it again for her.”

  “There’s no way she’s as great as you,” Cora insists.

  “You never know!” Kristy encourages.

  “She’s not!” Cora declares, pressing sloppy, super-dramatic kisses to her cheek. “It’s not possible!”

  “Aw!” says Kristy, and for the first time in awhile smili
ng is easy.

  +

  At rehearsal that night, Kristy and Cora hang out behind the curtains, eating Halloween-sized bags of Skittles and watching Heather get her Frankenstein’s Monster on onstage.

  Somehow, all of the pornographic mediocrity that’s been driving Cora so nuts doesn’t really seem to be there tonight. Sure, Heather is way better at wearing an outfit of strategically placed bandages than anybody should be, but there is something sort of raw and anguished about her. Something kind of authentic.

  “She’s really good and I’m being queen of the butthead assholes, huh?” Cora says.

  Kristy pats her arm reassuringly. “Pretty much.”

  Cora groans. “I haven’t felt this humiliated by my own judgment since I got all into a song on the radio and then found out it was by a Jonas brother.”

  “It is a really good song, though,” Kristy says sensibly.

  “Well, yeah.” Cora sighs. “Damn your smooth, sultry sound, Jonas brother.”

  +

  “Hey,” Cora says that night, mostly because before Kristy left, she gave Cora a Do the right thing look that could not be denied.

  Heather is touching up her makeup in front of the green room mirror again. This time it’s mascara.

  “If it isn’t Dr. Frankenbitch,” Heather says icily. “Yay.”

  “Real warm welcome.”

  “And you’ve earned a warm welcome how?”

  Not a terrible point.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a Frankenbitch.” Cora sighs and leans against the counter. “I was just ... sad about losing the role. I’ve really wanted to play that part for like ever, and when my friend was writing the script, I worked on it with her a little bit, and I just always imagined I’d be the one doing all that stuff she was writing. But you were better, and I’ve been a total child about it. So I’m sorry. I’m gonna leave you alone from now on, okay?”

  No point in dragging out this awkward agony, she figures. She drums her fingernails on the counter in some kind of obscure parting gesture, then gets up and starts to head for the door.

  “I think I know why Tasha picked you for Frankenstein,” Heather says then.

  “Oh yeah?” Cora doesn’t turn around.

  “You’re always so – like, out there. A total freak, all the time.”

  “Wow, thanks.”

  “It’s true. When have you ever played a non-weirdo onstage?” And, okay, girl isn’t technically wrong. “But in this part, you have this whole buckled up restraint thing going, and it’s kind of ... interesting.”

  “Really?” Cora turns around. “Interesting how?”

  Heather shrugs, the corner of her mouth quirking. “Just interesting.”

  “Yeah, well,” Cora says, digging the words up from the depths of her soul, “you’re a good monster.”

  “Creature. Not monster. Monster’s too mean.”

  It’s kind of a sensitive observation.

  Who is this person? And why is Kristy so fucking wise in matters of lipgloss and the human spirit?

  “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, a major bitch?” Cora asks.

  Heather exhales, her bangs fluffing out. “Did Howie Jenkins say that?”

  “Not exactly.” Sure, Howie’s reaction to the news that Heather got the part was a very dramatic “IT’S ALIIIIIIIVE!” ... but then he regaled them all with the story of Heather saving him from doom with a mini bottle of hairspray, so it’s not like it was all badmouthing. “But I know what you’re like.”

  “How?”

  “I can tell by looking at you. Like, come on, whose hair is that shiny? Do you shampoo with the blood of virgins?”

  “Unicorns, actually.”

  Cora laughs in spite of herself.

  She dares anyone to resist a random unicorn reference.

  “Isn’t the whole point of this play that it’s not good to judge people without knowing them?” Heather says.

  “So you’ve never judged anybody? ” Cora challenges. “And you weren’t, like, a terrifying popular super bitch in school?”

  “No, I was,” Heather admits fairly. “I made girls and boys cry. Never Howie, though. He’s tougher than he looks.”

  “Right?”

  “I did puke on him,” Heather adds after thinking for a second. “On prom night.”

  “Magical,” Cora deadpans.

  Heather snorts. “I’ve never been very good at being nice. But I’m trying to get better. That’s part of why I did this play in the first place. My therapist thought it would be a good idea. To stop worrying about being cool or what people think or whatever and just ... be something already.”

  “Huh,” says Cora.

  Heather folds her arms in front of her chest. “I’ve seen like every one of your group’s plays for the past few years, you know. It’s not like I just randomly decided, ‘Whatever, today I’ll audition for this play and crush some girl’s dreams because I can.’ I thought about it for a long time. I admire you guys a lot. I really ... I really wanted this.”

  “Good,” Cora says after a moment. “That makes me hate you less.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Cora shrugs. “A little.”

  “Rude,” Heather says. “But I’ll take it, I guess.”

  “Really, this is about as nice as I get. Unless you’re an adorable Artie Kraft’s employee or a puppy.”

  Heather shrugs, her eyes popping with exquisitely applied eye makeup and maybe amusement. “So this is as good as it gets, huh?”

  Cora basically never feels flustered. Say what you want about her (she likes to think she’s the only person in this town who drives people to the word “hellion” on a regular basis), but she knows how to fill a room with nonstop chatter. Most of it profane.

  And yet all she can come up with right now is: “Yep.”

  What the hell, man?

  “You have a good night, Cora,” Heather says, smiling a little. She grabs her bag off the counter.

  “Yeah,” Cora says, “you too.”

  This time when she watches Heather walk away, there’s kind of a whole different energy. A little flickering feeling of wait, no, don’t go! that Cora instantly hates.

  And yet.

  “Hey, about the haunted house thing?” Cora finds herself calling.

  Heather stops.