by Richard Peck
“No, wait. There’s the Lexus,” Uncle Paul said. “Let me finish. You need to know. Ed McLeod and I could be friends someday. Good friends maybe. But that’s all. We’ve decided, so it’s a little difficult for me to be around him. We’ve backed off. We’ve moved on.”
I didn’t know what to think. Should I tell Uncle Paul that you can wait too long and then all the good ones are gone? Then I decided, no, I’d hold off till I could come up with something myself.
Now we’d eased in behind the Lexus. It was pulled up somewhere at the edge of nowhere. And yes, they were out of gas.
“Where had you been?” Uncle Paul asked them.
“Like Peoria,” said Janie Clarkson.
“You were visiting Bradley University?”
“Well, that was the plan,” Janie said.
“But we couldn’t find it,” Holly said.
We followed them home. Janie Clarkson’s turn signal was on the whole time. Blinky-red-and-I’m-about-to-turn-left all the way to the off-ramp.
Then in the dark Uncle Paul said, “You’re growing up, Archer.”
“Not fast enough,” I said. “The voice. Other stuff. Where is it?”
“It’ll get here,” Uncle Paul said.
“So will Christmas, but I’d like some now.”
“I remember the waiting,” he said.
“No, you were born six-foot-four with stubble,” I said, “in those shoes.”
“Oh, right,” Uncle Paul said. “I forgot.”
After a mile of watching the Lexus turn signal, he said, “There’s more to growing up than the voice and the other stuff.”
“Mom thinks I’m making some progress,” I said. “She says I’ll be playing bridge pretty soon. Probably in a foursome with Little Lord Calthorpe. But then she also said she found me under a cabbage leaf, so go figure.”
“You’re learning to listen,” Uncle Paul said. “That’s more than a start.”
“And the trouble with listening is you hear stuff you wish you hadn’t,” I said.
“That’s the price you pay,” said Uncle Paul.
I wasn’t totally ready to move on from talking about Mr. McLeod. I was trying to work this out in my head.
“When you were twenty-six, Uncle Paul, did you date a lot of guys?”
“Yes, indeedy,” he said.
“Were you, like, in love with any of them?”
“I tried to be, but no,” he said. “That’s why this hits me so hard now.”
“Because of love?” I said. It was dark.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then how can you and Mr. McLeod ever just be friends?”
“Don’t confuse me, Archer.”
“Okay then, just one more question, but it’s easy. When did you decide to be gay, Uncle Paul?”
“Being gay isn’t a decision. How you live your life is a decision.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. “Right.”
23
The next week was all about the school Halloween party. A planning committee of seventh and eighth graders were busy as bees, or at least out of class. Tuesday in homeroom we got an incoming e-mail.
“Step away from the screen, Ms. Roebuck,” Raymond Petrovich said, and read out a message from the principal’s office.
Students of Memorial Middle School:
The Excitement mounts as Halloween approaches in a whirl of autumn leaves and anticipation. The Halloween party as you know is one of the school’s most treasured traditions, dating from our days as a junior high.
With that heritage in mind, we have honored the request of the seventh and eighth graders to limit this gala evening to their two classes.
We are unanimous in our welcome of a promising class of sixth graders for the first time in the school’s history. But we acknowledge the need for the seventh and eighth graders to enjoy an evening without the company of a class that is in effect still elementary-school age and not yet “party ready.”
That doesn’t mean the sixes won’t have their own celebration of the season, and a fine one too! The sixth-grade festivities will take place on the last period of Halloween Friday, with plenty of cookies and apple juice for all, and a craft table for making their own masks. Ghosts! Goblins! And forty-five minutes of fun.
The seventh- and eighth-grade extravaganza, “Dracula’s Dungeon,” will take place in the food court. Music from 7:30, buffet refreshments from 8.
A heartfelt happy Halloween to all,
(signed)
Mr. Otto Kleinfelt, Principal
Mrs. P. T. Highsmith, President, Parent Teacher Association
We heard this document to the bitter end, read out in Raymond’s creaky tenor. We were totally steamed. Then Sienna Searcy rose out of her girls to say, “I’ll be fine. I’m going to Dracula’s Dungeon as an eighth grader’s date. Liam Carmichael.”
“Does he know?” snapped an Emma.
“They’re treating us like babies,” said a Central girl. Peyton somebody. “I know what: Let’s all wear Pampers on Friday.”
Which nobody wanted to do.
“Apple juice,” people said. “Could you puke?”
Everybody agreed it was a crime and totally not fair. We said we wouldn’t go to this so-called forty-five-minute party. We’d cut out of school early. We all had hall passes.
“We’re going public with this,” Lynn Stanley barked. “We Westsiders know plenty about the power of the media. We can go viral because this story has legs. We want some serious ink on this, and I’m seeing a headline in the Sun-Times: UNHAPPY HALLOWEEN FOR MEMORIAL MIDDLE 6TH GRADERS BANNED FROM ANNUAL PARTY.”
This got some applause, but Hilary only looked on, cool as his usual self. His wheelchair was parked at a slant in front of Lynn and me. His naked toes twinkled at her from the end of his cast. “Try to keep calm, Lynn,” he remarked.
“Why should I?” she said, very snappish.
“Because we shall get more serious ink than ever you can think.”
“How will this happen, Hilary?” Her eyes narrowed. She was using a little eyeliner these days.
“Because we sixth graders will have a Halloween party that will make their Dracula’s Dungeon look like detention.”
• • •
Hilary shifted down and motored to the front of the room, turning on a dime. He was English, and we were a less well-organized people. He looked us over.
Ms. Roebuck bent to tie the shoelace on one of her sneakers, and the printer printed out a class set of the letter from the principal and Mrs. Highsmith.
“Our party will take place when their party takes place,” Hilary announced. “But ours won’t be in a cafeteria reeking of bad pizza.”
“Then where?” people wondered. Not the swimming pool room. Too dank.
“At the Calthorpe residence,” said Hilary.
“Ah, the old Showalter place,” Lynn muttered. “Talk about a haunted house.”
“Halloween is rather Scottish,” Hilary explained, “but the English invented the fancy-dress party. Lady Christobel has a dozen trunks full of quite wonderful costumes, many of them historic.” Hilary’s glance swept over Lynn and me, then fell on Ms. Roebuck.
She was smoothing out her skirt.
“Ms. Roebuck, you’re to be a chaperone if we can find a suitable escort for you,” Hilary told her.
Hope chased fear across Ms. Roebuck’s face. Her skirt swept a keyboard, and our parents got an e-mail about flu shots.
“Raymond?” Hilary wheeled around. “Where are you? There you are. Get out word about our party to the other sixth-grade homeroom. Lynn Stanley, be secretary and draw up a list. We will of course need quite an army of adults to chaperone us since we aren’t party ready.” His piping voice dripped British sarcasm.
Lynn had already whipped out a notepad. The f
irst name on her list was
PAUL ARCHER,
who’d be a great chaperone.
Lynn stroked a cheek and added
MR. & MRS. BRIAN STANLEY,
her parents.
“We’ll need them both,” she said. “I always did.”
She went on with the list and put down all our teachers from this year and last. Making up the list seemed to be a power surge for her.
Up at the front Hilary was saying, “We have ahead of us a busy week of planning. Don’t think of trying to learn anything. Keep your minds perfect blanks in class.”
“Say, listen,” Sienna Searcy said from out of her group, “who is this Lady Christobel person anyway?”
“My dear, you’ll never know,” Hilary said to her. “You’ll be at the wrong party.”
The bell rang, and Hilary jumped. Reginald loomed in. Then we were off to first period, careful to keep our minds perfect blanks.
• • •
Lynn Stanley didn’t get her UNHAPPY HALLOWEEN headline into the Sun-Times. But somebody did, and as soon as Wednesday. Probably somebody better organized:
PARTY OF SEASON PLANNED FOR SNUBBED 6TH GRADERS
When a sixth grader at Memorial Middle School came home to tell his mother that his class had been barred from the school’s Halloween party, the idea of the event of the social season was born.
The mother is Lady Christobel Calthorpe, vice consul of the British Consulate. The son is the Hon. Hilary Evelyn Calthorpe, future Baron Calthorpe of Calthorpe Castle in England.
The family is presently at home, unexpectedly, in the western suburbs. But in a graciously granted phone interview, Lady Christobel said, “We are English, and so we have held quite memorable events in remoter regions than these. The Charge of the Light Brigade comes to mind. And I have behind me the resources of the British Consulate, and behind them the United Kingdom.”
Her Ladyship added that while Halloween is not an essentially English holiday, “We know all there is to know about dressing up.”
Given the Calthorpe glamour and grandeur (Lady Christobel is ninety-first in line for the throne) the party promises to be a hot ticket, one unlikely to be limited to sixth graders.
Otto Kleinfelt, principal of Memorial Middle School, was unavailable for comment.
24
You can get invitations engraved overnight if you’re the British Consulate with the full force of the United Kingdom behind you. Ours was addressed to THE MAGILL FAMILY on paper so thick it unfolded itself. It was this close to a royal command.
Dad was totally stoked. You’d think the last thing he’d want to do is dress up for a party. But he worked around the clock on our costumes. Mom had to cook for the rest of the week.
I’d planned to glue straggly wood shavings down both sides of my face, top off with a floppy yellow nylon wig, and go as Perry Highsmith. But Dad had other plans.
In case you didn’t recognize us at the party, we were three characters from The Wizard of Oz—Scarecrow (Mom), Cowardly Lion (me) (thanks, Dad), and Tin Man (Dad).
It all had to be just right. Dad drove out to Long Grove for actual straw to stuff up Mom’s sleeves. Grandma Magill had been leading a quiet life since Grandpa died, but she brought out her sewing machine. And I got a velvet lion suit with a flexible tail and a silk mane. Cowardly, yes, but not Kmart.
Dad’s costume was the best. Grandma ran it up from silver foil. He found a metal worker to do Tin Man’s head.
“Dad, we could have saved a lot of trouble. We could go as ourselves, then pick costumes out of Lady Christobel’s trunk,” I told him.
“English costumes?” Dad said. “I don’t think so. We’re Americans. The Wizard of Oz is an American story, by an Illinois guy.”
“Okay, Dad,” I said. “Try to keep calm.”
“Besides,” he said. “I have to be Tin Man.”
• • •
On the night of the party the three of us were down in the front hall, waiting for Uncle Paul. He was going to take Dad in the Audi convertible because Tin Man’s head and funnel hat were too tall to fit in the Lincoln or Mom’s Subaru. We were admiring ourselves. My nose was black patent leather. My ears perked. I could do practically anything with my tail.
Under her busted straw farmer hat, Mom had big scarecrow circles painted on her cheeks. Actual straw came out of her plaid flannel cuffs. Her overalls were taken in at the waist. She was an excellent Scarecrow.
Dad was the best and shiny as a chrome bumper. Under the pointy hat his mask fitted down over his whole head, with weird round eyes cut out of the tin and an eerie small mouth. Kind of a space-alien Tin Man.
A footstep sounded on the stairs above us. My ears lay back on my velvet head.
Holly.
I’d forgotten about Holly. But here she came down the stairs, except she was Dorothy. The one with the apron, the artificial pigtails, the bobby socks, the ruby slippers, red as her lips. She’d rifled through the costume closet of the high school drama department.
“Oh, honey,” Scarecrow said, “you look darling.”
Dorothy clicked her ruby slippers.
“You’re not a sixth grader,” said Cowardly Lion, bravely. “You can’t go to this party.”
“If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why, oh why, can’t I?” Dorothy said. “Besides, you little creep, look what the invitation says.”
Scarecrow was holding the invitation, and of course it said “The Magill family.”
“Precisely,” Grandma Magill said, coming in from the back way. Sort of Grandma Magill. But now she was wearing a giant pink net dress with skirts sweeping the floor. It was pretty tight on top, and she had on a crown studded with fake jewels—emeralds. She gripped a wand with a glitter star at the end of it.
Scarecrow stifled a scream.
“Mama,” Tin Man said, muffled. “Who are you?”
“I’m Glinda the Good Witch, obviously,” Grandma said. “Who did you think I was, Aunty Em?”
“Witch,” Scarecrow whispered behind me. “Didn’t I always tell you?”
Then Uncle Paul walked in the front door with the car keys in his hand. He was wearing what he wears to costume parties: a Ralph Lauren double-breasted dinner jacket, a pleated Tom Ford shirt with black butterfly bow tie, and pants with a quiet stripe down the side. “Nobody ever questions a dinner jacket,” he says.
But we stopped him dead in his tracks. We were all here but the flying monkeys. Dorothy clicked her slippers for him. Cowardly Lion did something with his tail. Tin Man stared unblinking. Glinda drew a bead on him with her wand.
“We’re off to see the wizard,” Scarecrow explained.
“Oh,” Uncle Paul said. “Then I guess we better hit the yellow brick road.”
The town hadn’t seen traffic like this since the lockdown days last spring. It was start and stop with some limos. But finally we were out by the carriage lamps of the former Showalter place.
The press was on the lawn, aiming cameras at the glowing windows. People without invitations were being escorted off the premises by black-suited consular muscle.
The two guests waiting just ahead of us seemed to be President and Mrs. Abraham Lincoln. Honest Abe wore a top hat and a shawl. Mrs. Lincoln, who was a little larger than life, wore a hoop skirt and a bonnet.
I didn’t know them, but Scarecrow reached out and gave Mrs. Lincoln a boost on her hoopskirt. She jumped and turned around. “Is that you, Marjorie?” It was Mrs. Stanley, and Abe was Mr. Stanley. Together again.
The door closed behind them. When it opened again, Glinda took Uncle Paul’s arm. Scarecrow took Tin Man’s. Cowardly Lion muttered to Dorothy, “This is so not your party,” and in we went.
There to greet us was the ugliest woman who ever lived. And it wasn’t a mask. Scarecrow gasped.
She wa
s a really tall woman in a towering white wig, and her left arm was in a sling. She had on a Bo Peep costume, low in front but flat. A flock of fake sheep grazed by her skirt. In her free hand was a shepherd’s crook.
“How very good of you to come,” Bo Peep boomed. “I am Horace Calthorpe. Excuse the sling. I hit a reef. And I always choose this Bo Peep costume, as I am rather the black sheep of the family, haw, haw. Do come in. My wife will be down directly.”
Beyond Bo Peep the party swirled across the marble floors under the blazing chandelier. Waiters in powdered wigs circulated with trays of punch cups. An orchestra played for dancing in the living room.
“This doesn’t look a thing like Kansas,” Scarecrow said. “Does it look like Kansas to you?”
The whole sixth grade was there in a lot of Kmart costumes. Sienna Searcy’s girls went by without Sienna. They were all princesses of some kind. There were a ton of zombies. Still, we were outnumbered by grown-ups. Coming in behind us was the Mayor of Chicago. The real one.
The crowds parted, and Hilary was sitting on a settee at the foot of the curving stairs. He was Tiny Tim with an antique padded crutch. Next to him sat a ballerina, the number one swan from Swan Lake. Feathered headdress, black glitter eyes, mile-long legs in toe shoes.
Tiny Tim was saying to her, “Sit up, Esther. Be as tall as you can be.”
I dragged Dorothy over to introduce her. But here came Lynn with two plates of food. She teetered in high-heeled shoes that buttoned up into her black skirt. She was wearing a tacky hat.
“Who are you?” we said.
“Mary Poppins,” Lynn said. “I found this outfit upstairs. It wasn’t in a trunk. I think Hilary’s actual nanny wore it.” In heels she was taller than I was. She was gaining on me. “I had to keep it simple,” she said, “and I couldn’t manage the umbrella. I have to feed these two. He can’t walk in that cast. She can’t walk in those toe shoes. They’re both dead weight.”
But now Dorothy was pulling me toward the dance floor. “I can’t dance in these paws,” I whined. “I can’t dance at all.”
“Hashtag you can’t do anything,” Dorothy said.
But I found Uncle Paul and handed her over.