Harper staggered a little, her hand flying to the giant S emblazoned on her chest. I caught her by the arm, dragging her forward before she could start making excuses or trying to redirect us to the spooky bingo booth. She gave a cluck of protest, swatting at my hand until I released her. Straightening up, she led us to the boys.
As we got closer, I noticed that their table was covered in a variety of containers. There were vases and mugs and beakers, all filled with food-coloring-stained water. I glanced up at the banner over their heads and read the words dime toss.
Cornell all but jumped out of his chair as we approached, a twitchy smile exposing his blindingly white teeth.
“Hey,” he breathed. “You made it.”
“Yeah,” said Harper.
She seemed to be struggling to think of something else to say, but failed repeatedly. Peter was kind enough to bail her out, waving but remaining seated.
“Excellent costumes,” he said.
Meg bobbed a curtsy, her face dimpling around the tiny heart she’d painted on her cheek in eyeliner.
“So, Mr. Lightyear,” I said, sweeping a hand toward the assortment of bottles and glasses. “What do I win if I get a dime into that tiny vial in the back?”
Peter turned and laughed, spotting a vial barely large enough to count as a full dram, sparkling with silver glittery water.
“A Nobel Prize in physics,” he said, chuckling.
“Damn.” I tried to snap my fingers, but my gloves impeded the sound. “And here I am without any change.”
Peter leaned down and retrieved a cash box that looked identical to the one at the front gate. He patted it lightly.
“Oh, we have change,” he said.
I dug into the pocket of my cloak, finding a dollar and handing it over. Peter counted ten dimes into the palm of my glove and I handed half of them to Meg. The dimes flew every which way, pinging off containers but refusing to make it in.
“We’re waiting for our replacements to show up,” Cornell said to Harper. “The lower-classmen will run the booth for the rest of the night.”
“Oh,” she said brightly. “Okay. Cool.”
One of Meg’s dimes landed with a hearty splash in the middle of a vase. She clapped her hands triumphantly. We laughed as Peter held out a wicker basket full of dollar store toys. Meg picked out a plastic kendama, brandishing it regally.
A crowd of people poured out of the farthest chem lab and wandered over to the table, edging the girls and me out of the way and thrusting money into Peter’s hand. Dimes went flying again. This crowd seemed to be having about as much luck as Meg and I had.
“You guys should check out the haunted house,” Peter said to us, leaning back in his chair. “It’s pretty cool this year.”
Meg made a face, undoubtedly trying to figure the odds of there being a clown inside the haunted house. Her coulrophobia was downright pathological.
“Is there still dancing in the cafeteria?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Cornell nodded, his wolf ears sliding forward.
Meg turned to me and Harper, her hands clasped innocently behind her back.
“No,” I said. “I will definitely choose the haunted house over dancing.”
“But I can’t go in alone,” Meg said in an incredibly loud whisper. “It’s pathetic.”
“Why? It’s not like you care who you go in with,” I said. “You just want some bozo to buy you a kettle corn.”
Peter frowned and glanced around the group at the table. He spotted Brad Hertz at the next booth and flagged him over. It was odd to see Brad without Jack Donnelly and Nick Conrad. Generally, they operated in the same sort of trio that Meg, Harper, and I had, except with more grunting. Brad was dressed as a generic cowboy, his curly brown hair stuffed under a Stetson.
“What’s up?” he asked Peter. “I’m not tossing any dimes tonight.”
“Brad, do you know Meg?” Peter asked, gesturing to Meg.
“Since the third grade,” Brad said, raising an eyebrow at Meg. “How’s it going?”
She twirled her kendama awkwardly. “Fine, thanks.”
“Meg was heading over to the caf,” Peter explained, not looking as he picked up the toy basket and extended it to the newest winner of the dime toss.
“Oh,” said Brad. He looked back at Meg. “You want me to go with?”
“You don’t have to,” Meg said, scuffing the toe of her shoe against the pavement with excellently feigned coquettishness.
Harper shot me a look of horror. I flicked my eyebrows at her to say, Well, at least it’s working.
“We’ll catch up with you, Meg,” Harper said, uncertainly. “After the haunted house.”
“Uh-huh,” Meg said, too busy batting her eyelashes at Brad to bother with the rest of us. She glanced up at him shyly. “Have you had any kettle corn yet?”
“Uh, no,” he said. “We could grab some?”
They wandered off, leaving the rest of us to watch in stunned silence. I swung my horns to look down at Peter.
“That was impressive,” I said.
He tipped back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “It’s good to be king. Or president, I guess.”
“Or space commander,” I said.
Harper nudged me with her shoulder. “Okay, we’ll go through the haunted house and then—”
“I’ll catch up with you,” Cornell said.
“Great,” Harper said.
“Great,” Cornell agreed.
Peter coughed into his fist. It sounded a lot like the word great. He was saved from having to cop to it by a new group of people shoving forward to throw dimes. In the split second that Cornell was distracted making change for a dollar, I shoved Harper toward the haunted house. I’d never been a huge fan of haunted houses—or typically frightening things as a whole—but I was prepared to do anything to avoid having to stand around and watch her and Cornell make monosyllabic conversation. There wasn’t even a closet for me to shove them into.
* * *
I led Harper to the math and sciences building. The door was being watched by a girl dressed in medical scrubs, splattered with fake blood.
“Don’t,” she whispered as we passed. “Don’t.”
I frowned as the door slammed closed behind us. I could hear the girl whispering the same thing to the next group of suckers and immediately remembered why I hated haunted houses. The hallway that led to the computer lab and chemistry labs was almost entirely black. There were opaque tarps covering all the doorways and windows, with bloody hands stretching against the plastic. Unseen speakers piped in the sound of heavy breathing and a rapid pulse.
One of the hands concealed in the tarp brushed against my arm and I sucked in a breath, refusing to scream, even though I could hear other people screaming all around me. Harper reached out and locked her elbow with mine. Cape and cloak swishing, we moved forward.
A spotlight turned on with a thump, blinding us for a moment as a massive shape in a doctor’s coat stood in our way.
“You can’t,” Mike Shepherd said, his eyes wild and rimmed in purple bruise makeup. He looked like a young Uncle Fester from The Addams Family as he waved a rubber butcher knife at us. “The infected. They’re—oh, cool costume, Harper.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Harper said.
He nodded approvingly and then seemed to remember that he was supposed to be in character. He rocked forward again, cleared his throat, and said, “No, the infected. Don’t go any farther.”
We moved around the first corner. I saw spots as my eyes tried to adjust to the sudden darkness. That insistent heartbeat pulsed through the speakers, seemingly louder here. I couldn’t see anyone, but I could hear whimpering and wailing. Something reached out and brushed my leg. I tightened my grip on Harper.
It’s just a frosh, I told myself sharply. Just the fingernails of a frosh trapped in the dark. Nothing scary about a frosh. They’re tiny and haven’t mastered chemistry yet.
Harper screamed and I nea
rly leapt out of my boots, my heart slamming against my ribs in time with the faked pulse coming through the stereo.
“What the what?” I panted, clutching my chest.
“Sorry,” whispered a familiar voice. “It’s Cornell.”
“Oh, hi,” whispered Harper.
“I’ll give you guys a minute,” I said. “I’ll be over in this creepy stretch of utter darkness.”
I shuffled to the side, accidentally kicking something on the floor that whacked my leg in protest. I muttered an apology and leaned against the wall. I could hear other people padding down the hallway, screeching and running as the unseen hands reached for them. My pulse refused to slow down, even as I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath.
“Trix?” said Harper somewhere to the left of me.
“I’m right here.”
Shoes scrambled against the linoleum. There was a collective intake of breath before the sound of thuds and screams as a crowd of people collided to the ground. I couldn’t discern Harper’s voice in the mass. A hand grabbed my skirt. I shook it off, stumbling farther away.
“Harper?” I asked in a loud whisper. “Cornell?”
“Ow,” squeaked a girl’s voice. “Someone is standing on my hair.”
“Who is sitting on me?”
“Someone turn on the lights.”
“I don’t know where any of the switches are. They left us here!”
“Where’s my wig? My sister will kill me.”
The fallen people continued to argue with one another, grunting as they got to their feet. Someone shoved past me and I tripped over the hem of my cloak. I couldn’t continue to hang out in the dark. It was too dangerous and the thudding pulse and labored breathing soundtrack was starting to get under my skin.
I moved forward, my gloved fingertips skimming the wall until I went through a doorway. Turning a corner, I found a dimly lit room full of cardboard boxes and littered with stuffed animals. A group of people were slipping through the door on the opposite end. I paused, taking in the stacks of cardboard boxes and the collection of thrift store toys sprawled on the floor. There was a giant panda in the corner. They hadn’t even bothered to throw blood on it. If the rest of the haunted house was this lazy, I’d be fine.
I walked straight through toward the open door, my eyes on the panda’s stitched smile. Which is exactly why I did not notice that the teddy bear on the other side of me had a person inside. It reared forward, arms outstretched, a dozen other smaller stuffed animals moving with it in a wave. I yelped and hopped out of the way, cold sweat starting to pool under my hood. I raced through the next door.
I stood alone in what I knew was actually one of the chemistry labs. The rational part of my brain took the time to dissect the room, peeling away the wash coming in from the red lightbulbs, the chain-link fence, the black sheets of plastic and hunks of cardboard streaked with fake blood. I tried to tune out the sounds of people screaming and the static screeching of the music being pumped in. A group of gleefully scared freshman girls—all dressed like farm animals in very tiny shorts—barreled past me, holding hands. My breath caught in the back of my throat as a masked Freddy Krueger popped out from behind a stack of cardboard boxes and grabbed the frosh dressed as a mouse. She wriggled and yowled until he released her, stepping back into the shadows.
I pushed myself forward, adjusting my horns as an excuse to face forward. It would have been helpful if the haunted house crew weren’t all decked out in masks. One face that I clearly recognized would have been useful in calming myself down. I couldn’t be afraid of my own classmates. But dozens of rubber-faced strangers leaping out and shouting unintelligibly couldn’t be reasoned with. I supposed that was kind of the point.
My intestines twisted into a terrified knot as I stepped on the foot of a boy dressed in a nylon Joker costume. He passed me, laughing with his friends as he gave a trite, “Why so serious?” And then he immediately screamed as a guy in a hockey mask stepped in front of him, brandishing a long plastic knife.
Where had Harper and Cornell left me? The hall of child murderers? What kind of messed-up crap was that?
As more people swarmed around me, pushing past as they made their merry way through this nightmare, I tucked my chin to my chest. My horns were heavy and I could feel the stupid amount of makeup I was wearing weighing down my skin. I bit back the fit of hyperventilation I knew was right around the corner, but my lungs burned. The heavy velvet of my dress trapped the panicked sweat that was sliding down my back. I flexed my hands, trying to recall what I’d learned in the Chemistry of Emotions class the year before. My sensory cortex was processing the fake blood incorrectly and viewing the masked people as attackers. My hippocampus was reminding me how much I hated scary movies. I’d hidden under a blanket when the girls and I had tried to watch The Cabin in the Woods. I couldn’t even watch The X-Files with my parents. My hypothalamus was begging me to scream and run in any direction, alerting my evolutionarily similar classmates to respond to my circumstances.
Knowing this didn’t help. It just meant that the purveyors of the haunted house had the same information and had found a way to cut out any loopholes. Ms. Jensen, the Emotional Chem teacher, offered them extra credit for creating a truly terrifying experience.
Why had I thought that this would be better than doing the monster mash in the cafeteria?
I turned to the closest member of the haunted house crew, who was perched on top of a table in a ripped suit and a hobo-style top hat, his face hidden under a grotesque clown mask. There was a large rubber axe in his hand. Thankfully, I didn’t share Meg’s fear of clowns. The misshapen downward curve of the mask’s mouth and the mottled blue paint over the eyes just looked like what would happen if someone stuck Mary-Anne France in a rainstorm. Which I found comforting rather than scary.
“Pardon me, homicidal clown.” My voice was shaky as I forced myself to look up at him. “Any chance you could get me out of here before I have a nervous breakdown? You look like an upstanding gentleman. Not that your gender matters to me. I just require assistance.”
The clown looked at me and tugged his lumpy top hat farther down, the mask puckering at the forehead. In one graceful leap, he was standing in front of me. The mask’s chin wobbled, but the sealed mouth garbled any sound.
“I didn’t catch that,” I said. There seemed to be too much spit in my mouth and yet I felt dehydrated and dizzy. I touched a glove to my forehead. It came away slick and green tinged. “Sorry. My friends ditched me here and, well, maybe you wouldn’t understand, being a murderous children’s entertainer, but haunted houses really aren’t fun by yourself. And I’d like to avoid being known as the evil queen who fainted in the chem lab. See”—I pushed my glove down, revealing the smear of homework notes—“I forgot to add ‘don’t have a panic attack’ to my to-do list. A grave oversight.”
The clown seemed to consider this for a second before offering me the tattered brown sleeve of his non-axe-wielding arm. I took it, too thankful to be led out to worry about cutting off his circulation. He was warm and didn’t smell like fake blood.
“If it’s all the same to you,” I said, squeezing my eyes closed as Freddy Krueger jumped out in front of us, “I’m going to ramble until we’re free. It’ll help stave off the screaming and fainting thing, I think.”
The clown shrugged as if to say, By all means, Maleficent, go ahead.
He was fairly tall for a clown. I wasn’t sure why I tended to think of clowns as a shorter bunch. It would help them all pile into those tiny cars if they were small. But my axe murderer escort was nearly as tall as my horns, much too big to be a frosh. If I hadn’t known that Peter was running around in a Disney sweatshirt, I would have assumed it was him. Regardless, the clown being tall and armed—even with a wobbly axe—was reassuring.
“I’m Trixie Watson, by the way,” I said.
The clown saluted me with his axe. I wet my lips, coating my tongue in sweat and slimy, sweet makeup.
�
��First, I’d like to point out that I’m down with the consumer part of this shindig. Costumes and candy? I’m totally on board. But being trapped on campus after hours while my classmates work through their sexual frustration by making people pee themselves? Not so much. Of course, some people are working through their sexual frustration in the normal run-off-and-find-a-private-corner kind of way—did you see Teen Wolf and Supergirl come through here?”
The clown nodded while also brandishing his axe to push us through the traffic jam of giggling farm animals. They scattered, revealing the second chem lab, which was full of zombies. Groaning, drooling, claw-your-eyes-out Walking Dead zombies. The room stank from the solid carbon dioxide being used to roll out waves of fake fog. The music was different here, a discordant warble of distorted roaring and screaming layered under a violin being violated. My veins tightened with another flush of adrenaline. I dug my fingernails into the clown’s sleeve as the zombies started approaching us. With a sweep of his axe, they staggered backward, a few of them glaring at him for ruining their fun.
“Supergirl is my best friend Harper,” I continued loudly, jerking to keep one of the zombies from touching me. “And she’s been all kinds of in love with Cornell Aaron for years. And it’s about time those crazy kids went ahead and stuffed their tongues in each other’s faces and all, but, you know, they could have waited until I was safely through the haunted house.”
Stopping short, the clown’s shoulders seized with a laugh that I couldn’t hear. He lifted his axe and reached over himself to poke me in the stomach. The blade folded in on itself above my belly button. Laughing despite myself, I batted it away and gave him a grazing shove with my shoulder.
“Yeah, I know. It’s stupid to get freaked out. But the rest of the crew isn’t as facetious as you are. The mountain of stuffed animals that’s really a person? Not a fan. I will have nightmares for weeks.”
The clown wiggled his head and patted his chest proudly with his axe.
The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You Page 7