by Sara Kocek
“Hey, Reyna!”
Just by Madison’s voice, I could tell she was with Abby and Leah. She always sounded extra hyper when they were together.
“Hey,” I said, “What’s up?”
Turning my back to Olive, I crouched and pulled my cell phone out of my backpack. Then I pressed the button to turn it off silent mode. Madison began babbling on the other end of the line about our annual Halloween party as I scrolled through my missed calls from during the school day. Two were from Leah, one from Madison. I also had a text that said, CALL US ABOUT HALLOWEEN. Every year since third grade, Leah threw a huge party on Halloween weekend, and it was always followed by a sleepover with just the four of us.
“So anyway, is seven to ten good for the party?” Madison was asking. “Because we have to send out the invites tonight if we want to compete with the other Ridgeway parties—”
“Um, actually, I can’t come until ten,” I said, realizing for the first time that the Halloween plans I’d made with Olive would overlap with the party. “I’m going with someone to the Springdale haunted house from eight to nine.”
“Oh!” Madison sounded shocked. “A boy?”
“Just the girl I was telling you about.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Olive’s back straighten.
“Maybe you should bring her along,” said Madison. “That way we can see for ourselves what’s so weird about her.”
“No, that’s OK.” I glanced over at Olive. Her ears were perked like a dog’s.
“Come on! Bring her to the sleepover.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said.
“What does she want?” mouthed Olive.
I lowered the phone. “She wants you to come to Leah’s sleepover after the haunted house on Halloween night.”
“I’d rather have a sleepover with just the two of us.”
I didn’t say anything. I tried Olive’s trick of staring without blinking. It worked.
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “In the name of our friendship, I’ll endure the adolescent torture ritual known as the slumber party.”
“OK,” I told Madison. “Olive is coming, and she says thanks for inviting her.”
“I say no such thing,” muttered Olive.
“Awesome!” said Madison.
We hung up and I sat back down on the bed near Olive. “Maybe it’ll be fun,” I said, trying to reassure us both. “I’m sure they’ll like you.”
She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Are you delusional? Nobody likes me.”
When I got to school on the morning of Halloween, Mr. Mancuzzi, the principal, was standing in the parking lot threatening detention to anyone whose costume revealed more skin than was permitted by the school dress code.
Olive and I walked straight past him. Between her overalls and my long-sleeved blouse buttoned to the collar, our costumes were so modest they couldn’t possibly get us in trouble. Or so we thought until Mr. Mancuzzi spotted Olive’s pitchfork.
“Whoa, there!” he called after us. “Where are you going with that pitchfork, young lady?”
“What young lady?” Olive kept walking. “I don’t see any young ladies around here.”
“He means you,” I said.
Mr. Mancuzzi was jogging to reach us. “Girls!”
“Why would he call us girls?” Olive’s face was a careful mask. “I’m an old man, and you’re no spring chicken.”
I stopped and waited for Mr. Mancuzzi while Olive continued her somber march toward the school.
“It’s part of our costume,” I tried to explain when he reached me. “Without the pitchfork, nobody will recognize what we’re supposed to be.”
“And just what are you supposed to be?” He squinted at my blouse and apron. “Farmers?”
“Sort of,” I said.
Mr. Mancuzzi scratched his moustache and looked up at Olive, who was watching us from the front steps with her mouth set in a grim line, just like the man in the painting.
“At least you’re dressed appropriately,” he sighed. “But if I hear one word today about the misuse of a pitchfork, I’ll confiscate it. Got that?”
I nodded and jogged to catch up with Olive.
It was a mark of my invisibility at school that nobody commented on my costume during the day. Olive got made fun of—people joked that she was too convincing as an old man—but nobody said anything about my outfit one way or the other. I think it was because nobody knew my name. That is, until the parade.
If you ask me, everything that happened during seventh period was the fault of Gretchen Palmer—the girl from our homeroom who teased Olive for wearing a uniform to school. The minute she saw us at the parade, she called over her posse and started poking fun. “What are you supposed to be?” she asked, eyeing Olive’s overalls. “Farmers or something? You look like you’re from the Depression.”
“Bingo,” said Olive. “What are you supposed to be?”
Gretchen was dressed in a skimpy nurse’s uniform that showed off her cleavage. It was a miracle Mr. Mancuzzi hadn’t made her change her outfit. “A nurse,” she said. “Obviously.” Her friends stood behind her and adjusted their stethoscopes. They were nurses too.
“I see,” said Olive. “Well, you better go—you wouldn’t want those cops over there to mistake you for prostitutes.” She pointed at a group of boys dressed as police officers.
“Excuse me?” Gretchen was clearly itching for a fight. “Put down your pitchfork, loser, and apologize for that.”
Olive just laughed.
“I said apologize, Olive Garden.”
“Olive,” I said, poking her in the side. “This is stupid. Let’s go.”
But she ignored me. “I’m not apologizing,” she told Gretchen. “You apologize.”
Gretchen grabbed one of her friends by the arm and stepped closer. “Do you want a fight? Because we’re not afraid of a couple of dykes.”
Anger flashed across Olive’s face. “What did you just call us?”
“You heard me—dykes. And what are you doing with that pitchfork anyway? You can’t bring weapons to school.”
“The better to stab you with,” Olive muttered.
Suddenly, without any warning, Gretchen faked an expression of terror. “Help!” She shrieked. “Help! The farm girls just threatened me with a weapon! Help!”
In an instant, Mr. Mancuzzi materialized with an entourage of security guards. They pulled the pitchfork out of Olive’s hands and demanded my brooch with its pointy edges. The parade, which had been circling the gym, dissipated, and throngs of gypsies, zombies, and disco pimps ran toward us. As a security guard demanded that I empty my pockets, Levi Siegel showed up.
“Reyna!” he called, shoving his way through the crowd. “What’s going on?”
Gretchen didn’t give me a chance to answer him. “These freaks were threatening me,” she told Levi in full earshot of the teachers. “They should be suspended!”
Levi frowned. “Reyna threatened you?”
But before I could speak up, Mr. Mancuzzi stepped in and put a hand on Olive’s shoulder. “I want you in my office,” he said. “You too.” I felt a cool weight settle on my back, right below my neck.
“Leave Reyna out of this,” said Olive. “She had nothing to do with it.”
“She did too!” Gretchen looked around at all the teachers. “They both threatened me.”
Olive gave her a murderous glare. “You can accuse me of whatever you want, Gretchen, but Reyna did nothing wrong.”
“It’s true,” Levi told a security guard. “She’s an innocent bystander.”
I opened my mouth to speak for myself, but there was no need—Mr. Mancuzzi let go of my shoulder. “Just Miss Barton,” he said impatiently. “In my office. Now.”
Olive glanced at me, then turned stoically toward him like a man on death row.
“Everybody back to the parade!” barked the security guard.
“Olive,” I called. �
��Are you going to be—”
“I’ll be fine.” Gritting her teeth, she followed Mr. Mancuzzi out of the gym as Gretchen and the rest of the slutty nurses turned on their heels and marched away.
I couldn’t even process what had just happened. I felt faintly dizzy and took a few steps backward, looking for a spot on the bleachers where I could sit. That was when I felt Levi’s hand on my arm. “Are you OK?” he asked, leading me toward an open seat in the front row.
“I guess,” I said, sitting down.
He shook his head. “That girl’s been in at least one cat fight every year since kindergarten. It’s crazy.”
“Who?” I asked. “Olive?”
He laughed. “No, Gretchen.”
“Oh.” I looked across the gym. She and her friends were now clustered around the bleachers on the other side, talking among themselves.
“Olive doesn’t usually talk much,” said Levi. “I always thought she was shy.”
I smiled. “She’s not shy at all.”
“But you are.”
My cheeks felt warm.
“Anyway, you want to know a secret about Gretchen Palmer?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “She has eczema covering her entire stomach.”
I felt my mouth open. “How—?”
“Pool party,” he said. “Eighth grade.”
I tried not to smile.
“You want to walk in the parade together?”
“Sure,” I said. But before we could even stand up, a teacher began clapping her hands at the top of the bleachers and calling for order in the gymnasium.
“Line up by homeroom!” she bellowed. “The parade is over! Line up by homeroom!”
So Levi and I stood up, waved each other good-bye, and went our separate ways.
I didn’t see Olive until the sleepover that night. Our plan to visit the Springdale haunted house fell through when Mr. Mancuzzi called Olive’s house and told her dad what had happened at the parade. Olive got grounded for about six hours before she was able to convince her parents that she hadn’t done anything wrong. Then she was allowed to go to the sleepover.
When we rang Leah’s doorbell at ten minutes past ten, Olive was wearing her shy girl mask. She had put on blue jeans and a modest, gray blouse, and I watched her tuck her hands neatly into her jacket pockets as we waited on the porch. I wondered if she was nervous.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” I told her. “They’re really nice.”
She let go of a deep breath I hadn’t realized she'd been holding. “I just want to make a decent impression for once in my life,” she said. “I hope you know it’s all for you.”
I didn’t have time to answer. There was a commotion on the other side of the door, and the next thing I knew, Leah, Abby, and Madison were barging out and smothering me in hugs. They were even more hyper than usual, probably from all the candy they’d been eating. Olive stood uncomfortably in the doorway while Abby threw her arms around my neck and said, “Reyna! We’ve missed you so much! You should’ve come earlier!”
“Guys, this is Olive,” I said, extricating myself from the hug.
Olive opened her mouth to say something, but Abby didn’t give her a chance. She and Leah descended upon her, squeezing her around the middle and pulling her inside. “It’s so nice to meet you!” Abby squealed while Madison touched her on the arm and added, “Reyna’s told us so many wonderful things about you.”
“Nice to meet you too.” Olive stood stiff as a board, waiting for them to let go of her. When they did, she looked disgruntled, like an animal at a petting zoo.
“Here, let me take that,” said Leah, grabbing the sleeping bag from under her arm. “We’ll be sleeping in the play room. Come on, I’ll show you.” She opened the door leading to the basement and we followed her down the stairs.
The basement was bright and colorful, just like I remembered it from past Halloweens. There were streamers hanging from the walls and special black and orange confetti pieces scattered on the windowsills. I could see the leftover snacks from the party growing stale on a foldout table by the wall. “Is that stuff still fresh?” I asked Leah.
“I don’t know, maybe,” she said, walking over to the table and breaking one of the cookies in half. “I was going to put it upstairs in the fridge, but then I got a little distracted…” She looked over at Abby and Madison and burst out laughing.
“What?” I glanced back and forth between them.“Distracted by what?”
Madison rolled her eyes. “Before you guys got here, some people at the party decided to play Seven Minutes in Heaven. Leah went in with Drew Tubman…”
“—And came out with this!” Leah pulled aside her wild, curly blond hair to show us the biggest hickey I’d seen in my entire life.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s like the size of a chocolate chip cookie.”
Abby laughed. “I know, right? Let’s set up our sleeping bags on the floor. Then we can talk about how hormonally crazed you are, Leah.”
I glanced over and saw Olive staring at the hickey. She was still clutching her overnight bag to her hip like a security blanket.
“Yeah, let’s get in our pajamas too,” I told Abby. “Olive and I had a long day.”
At the sound of her name, Olive jerked her gaze away from Leah’s neck. “Is there a bathroom where I can change?” she asked.
Leah laughed. “Why? We’re all girls. Just change here.”
“OK…” Olive sighed, dropping her overnight bag next to mine.
She bent over and took out some cotton shorts and a sweatshirt, while, next to her, Leah pulled off her own shirt, revealing a hot pink bra. When Olive saw it, she turned toward the wall and slid her sweatshirt over the blouse she was wearing. Then she put her arms inside, unbuttoned the shirt underneath, and pulled it out through one of the sleeves of the sweatshirt. I got into my own pajamas while she changed with lightning speed into her shorts.
“So,” Madison said when we were all settled in our sleeping bags. “This wouldn’t be a sleepover without Truth or Dare.”
I looked over at Olive, whose face was as blank and colorless as it had been earlier that morning when she’d carried her pitchfork up the front steps into school. I wondered if she was scared. “We don’t have to play,” I told her. “I mean, if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s fine.” Olive’s voice sounded strained.
“That’s the spirit,” said Abby. “Want to go first?”
“Do I have to?”
“We won’t bite!”
“Fine.” She turned slowly toward Madison, who was sitting on her right. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” said Madison.
Olive sighed. “OK. What was your first impression of me?”
Madison laughed. “That is so not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask.”
Two red splotches appeared on Olive’s cheeks.
“I mean, whatever,” said Madison. “I guess my first impression was that you looked shy.”
“I am around some people,” said Olive. “Next?”
Madison turned to Abby. “Truth or Dare?”
Abby chose dare—she always did—and Madison told her to make out with her pillow. Abby rolled her eyes and did it in a heartbeat. Then it was Leah’s turn. She had to call Drew Tubman’s house and leave a message on his parents’ machine saying that she was watching porn. Ten minutes later, after she and Madison recovered from their fit of hysterical laughing, it was my turn. “Reyna, truth or dare?” asked Leah.
I chose truth. I was not about to make a prank call.
“Hmmm.” Leah scrunched up her face. “If someone paid you fifty bucks, would you make out with a girl?”
“Probably not,” I said.
Olive looked up. “Why not?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I totally would,” announced Leah, but nobody paid her any attention.
“Let me guess.” The expression on Olive’s face was hard to read. �
�It’s against your religion?”
“Maybe it is. Don’t take it personally,” I said. The truth was it had nothing to do with my religion. I just wouldn’t want anyone at school to start spreading the rumor that I was gay. It would be impossible to live down, and Levi might lose interest in me. But I wasn’t about to get into an argument with Olive, so I shrugged. “I just wouldn’t want to, OK?”
She pressed her lips tightly and looked down at her fingernails.
“Anyway,” said Abby, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “Should we keep going?”
“Yeah.” I looked back over at Olive without meeting her eye. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
I didn’t know what to ask her. I would have liked to know what she saw in me—why she’d picked me out of the crowd and made me her friend on that day in the cafeteria—but it was another one of those questions you weren’t supposed to ask in Truth or Dare. The game was supposed to be about crushes and boys. Who you’d kissed, who you wanted to kiss—that sort of thing. In the end, I fell back on the classic question, “How far have you gotten?”
Olive didn’t answer right away. She seemed to be waiting for me to finish the question. Then she said, “…Gotten where?”
Leah, Abby, and Madison burst out laughing.
Olive narrowed her eyes. “Do you mean like sexually?”
“Obviously!” said Leah.
Olive looked down at her lap. “Does online sex count?”
The laughing stopped abruptly.
“Like with a web cam?” Leah looked shocked. “Seriously? That’s awesome!”
“No, not like that.” Olive picked at a hangnail on her thumb. “Like, just by typing out the words of what we would do…”
“Oh my God.” Leah clapped her hands. “That’s so kinky! I love it!”
Madison’s eyebrows were raised so close to her hairline that her forehead had all but disappeared. “Who was the guy?” she asked.
“It wasn’t—” Olive paused. “It was just somebody random from the Internet.”
Everybody was quiet, waiting for details. I couldn’t believe I’d known Olive for almost two months, and she’d never once told me about having online sex with strangers.
“Anyway, I answered the question,” she said after a long silence. “I think I’m ready to go to sleep now. I’m exhausted.”