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“It’s Christina Aguilera, circa ‘Genie in a Bottle’ phase,” she announced earlier.

I don’t really get it. Then again, I haven’t researched that part of Christina Aguilera’s history on YouTube either. Still, I’m determined not to look her in the eyes.

I sit on the sofa hugging a throw pillow while Mom fills three glass bowls with bite-sized candies. The kids of Ballard Hills are going to hold her for ransom unless Dad hands over full-size bars. Our community isn’t notorious for late-night criminal activity—Mad Tagger aside—but Halloween is a pretty serious thing. It’s overloaded with ravenous teens searching for anything high in sugar content.

Squinting, Mom walks up to me. “I smell body spray and deception.”

“Mom!”

It’s complete bullshit—the first part, at least. I’m not one of those guys who rocks body fragrances meant to attract your crush and small woodland creatures the way all those commercials advertise. Aromatherapy body washes? Definitely. Today’s scent: orange zest and ginger with a mild hint of deception.

Mom’s eyebrows lower. “What’s your endgame here, Remy?”

“Twix and pixie sticks?”

“What else?”

“Twizzlers, but only the original kind,” I say with a little more confidence.

Mom sizes me up. Her bad cop routine is rather intense; immensely better than Dad’s. “A likely story,” she says, drawing back. “I’m watching you.”

“I’m watching you too!” Willow yells, running into the living room fully-dressed.

Our trick-or-treating tradition started three Halloweens ago. Mom came down with the flu and couldn’t march us around the neighborhood. Dad offered to replace her. He was wearing a foam banana costume and… no. On the verge of adulthood, at the ripe age of fourteen, I threatened to boycott every major holiday for the foreseeable future if I didn’t get to fly solo with Willow. Famous last words. It’s been my duty—and privilege since Willow’s so cool—ever since. The two Cameron kids braving the wicked streets of Ballard Hills alone.

But this year—

The doorbell chimes, along with the Wicked Witch of the West-cackle Dad installed for the occasion. Yep, we’re overflowing with all kinds of lame traditions in this neighborhood.

“Mine!”

I leap from the sofa, disposing of the throw pillow. I hit a perfectly timed high jump over poor Clover on the way. It’s hard to ignore Mom’s “The aroma of a trap is all over you, Remy Cameron!” as I reach for the doorknob.

Ian Park is standing on my front stoop, carefully patting his severely spiked and gelled hair as though it’s out of place. It’s dyed dark green, which really brings out the moss and amber in his eyes. He’s wearing a dark suit with a pale-yellow shirt. The collar’s popped and a skinny tie hangs loosely. I have no idea who he’s supposed to be, but he’s freaking adorable.

“Hey.”

“Whoa,” says Ian, half-laughing. “Um, tiger?”

Absently, I touch my face. I forgot.

Mom helped with the face paint, only giggling every five minutes. I’m wearing an orange-and-black tiger-striped hoodie and ripped, dark, skinny jeans. Mom put together a headband with faux-fur tiger ears, but I nixed that.

“I’m Hobbes.”

“Who?”

I regret every life decision I’ve made in the past forty-eight hours. Of course, he doesn’t know who Hobbes is.Ishouldn’t know who Hobbes is. Clearing my throat, I say, “Hobbes, as inCalvin and Hobbes, the comic strip.”

He blinks at me.

“Willow has a mild obsession with the Sunday comics. Halloween is our thing, and since last year…” My voice trails off in a painful squeak.

Ian’s hand is carefully hiding his amused smirk. “What about last year?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on.”