Page 2 of A Hexcellent Chance to Fall in Love
Until the Store Closes
Christina
The handle on the toilet jiggles as I try to flush. Great. Just great. Next it won’t flush at all, and then we’ll all have to use the porta potties that haven’t been delivered yet for this year’s event—or they might not show up, and we’ll have to cancel the haunted house altogether.
As soon as I exit the bathroom, I jot down fix toilet handle on my ever-growing to-do list. Patty will fix it. She can fix anything. The school is lucky to have her on staff. There’s absolutely zero need to freak out. I quickly write down confirm porta potty delivery —just in case.
I take a deep breath. Okay, you can do this .
It’s just another Halloween—only the most important event that everyone expects to be wowed by, used to raise money for the arts programs at the school, and if it fails, it will be all my fault—but absolutely zero pressure.
Dread rolls around deep in my stomach as I take my first real glance around the staging room for what will be this year’s main Halloween attraction in Clover Creek.
A tradition that brings in people from towns near and far.
My high schoolers are up to the challenge—they always are—just like they have been for the nineteen years this event has taken place.
The real question is, Am I ready this year?
As a way to signal the start of the season, I hang a special black apron with skeleton bones printed on the front from a hook on the wall, which happens to be right next to Break a Leg painted in bright purple with a rudimentary-looking flower.
Five petals, swirly middle, nothing fancy.
Not sure how the two things go together—nor have I ever bought into the breaking-a-leg thing as good luck.
The historical reason is relevant, but keeping the tradition of the phrase has never really sat right with me and has my thoughts spiraling faster than Alice down the rabbit hole.
Generally speaking, breaking things is bad, and let’s face it, the insurance policy the school offers isn’t that great.
Darn it. I stop rubbing my arm—the spot with the scar—and focus back on the task at hand.
It’s time to get the initial walk-through of the house started, but, of course, I have to circle back once I’m outside because I forgot my pen inside, and it’ll be extremely difficult to write a list without it.
The staging building is completely separate from the house itself—which is smart and gives us a lot more storage room to work, and a place for the kids to get ready when it comes time.
It’s still hard to believe that someone gave acres of land and these buildings to the school to use like this.
Most haunted houses are hodgepodged together with plywood and zip ties and a lot of hope that the weather holds out—at least that’s my understanding of them, as I haven’t made it a habit to actually go to them myself for fun or anything.
But this “house” was constructed for the sole purpose of this event for the town.
A gift by some well-to-do person years ago who loved Halloween way more than I do—which isn’t saying much.
It’s not that I hate Halloween or anything, it just isn’t my favorite—it’s like a sugar rush: Sure, it tastes great going down, but then when it’s over, you feel kind of terrible.
At least that’s how it’s been for me, especially these last couple of years.
The last time I remember thoroughly enjoying Halloween—and not having a Halloween “hangover”—was when I was five. Mom had loaded me and my big sister, Ashley, into the car to go back-to-school shopping, and as we were driving along, Ashley called out, “I want to be Julie for Halloween.”
Mom glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “It’s not that time yet.”
It might not have been, but as soon as the word “Halloween” was spoken, my mind swirled with ideas. The previous year, I’d been a dragon princess, and the year before that, a space cowgirl. What would I be this year?
Ashley let out a long breath. “Yeah. But that’s what I want to be.”
“Julie?” Mom repeated. “From that hockey movie you watch.”
“ The Mighty Ducks. Yes. Exactly. I want to be Julie.”
“Whatever you want, honey,” Mom said—that’s what she always told us. That we could be anything we wanted to be.
Ashley smiled so big, her whole face lit up—she looked so beautiful.
“Me too,” I called out. “I want to be Julie, too.”
“You can’t be Julie if I’m Julie,” Ashley said.
I scrunched my lips real tight. If Ashley was going to be Julie, then it had to be the coolest costume, and I wanted to be cool like Ashley, but before I could say anything, Mom said, “Your sister can be whatever she wants. Plus, it’ll make finding costumes easier—”
“But, Mom!” Ashley complained.
“Let’s not worry about it now,” she said. “School shopping first. Who needs new shoes?”
Ashley crossed her arms over her chest. “I do.”
“I do, too,” I said.
Mom flipped on her turn signal.
A few months later, Mom bought our costumes and got us the same trick-or-treat bags, and she even got Ashley a blonde wig—just like she had wanted.
“I want a wig, too,” I had told Mom.
“You already have blonde hair,” she said back, and while I was disappointed, I couldn’t argue with that.
Everywhere we went that night, people asked if Ashley and I were twins, and they all gave us “a couple extra pieces” of candy for being so creative.
It had been the best night ever. Dad had to carry my trick-or-treat bag with Ashley’s wig all the way home because it was too heavy for me.
And even though Ashley was too tired to look at her candy, Mom and Dad let me stay up late, and I laid all my goodies out on the living room floor, dividing them into chocolate and not chocolate and giving all the Whoppers to Dad because those are disgusting, but it wasn’t the same without Ashley.
She didn’t trade me my Reese’s for her Milky Way.
We didn’t play dress-up in our costumes for the weeks to follow.
We didn’t talk about that night at all again.
A lingering scent that’s both sweet and acrid at the same time mixed with the stagnant smell of a house sitting unused for months greets me as I enter the haunted house and wander from room to room, leaving my memories behind.
I’ve got too much work to do, and thinking about the past isn’t going to help me with this task in the present.
It seems like last year’s cleanup crew did a good job, and the fresh spiderwebs in the corners really help add to the overall ambiance—Oh god, please don’t let any unwelcome friends come home with me.
I should’ve double-checked where I left my purse.
Maybe have the house treated for bugs? I quickly jot that note down and continue on my way.
All in all, everything seems to be in order. Most of the lights still work, there isn’t any visible damage, and there isn’t even a single candy wrapper on the floor. I’m finishing up when my phone pings.
Emily: Still waiting on your RSVP
Emily: You ARE planning on coming, right?
My little sister’s engagement party. In a few short weeks, she will be announcing officially to all our family and friends that she’s getting married.
Making me officially the spinster of the Loring household.
She’s happy, and I love that for her. I just wish it didn’t have to mean that I will once again be the disappointment.
Why can’t you be more like your sister? Don’t you have an architecture degree? Why are you teaching high school? Haven’t you found a boyfriend yet? That last one always annoys me the most. My entire family knows I’m bi.
Me: This is my busiest couple months, but I’ll try
It isn’t as though we haven’t talked endlessly about my job and all the extra hours I do that I don’t get paid for.
She also knows all about this event and how important it is.
I enjoy teaching and it’s rewarding, but it isn’t easy like everyone likes to assume—usually those are people who have never set foot in a classroom and have never been responsible for twenty-plus hormonal teens.
Emily: Titi! I need my big sister there!
Even in text I can hear the whine in her voice. She always knows how using her special nickname for me makes me feel.
Me: I’ll do my best.
Emily: Ashley is going to make a speech, and Mom thinks you should too
And there it is. Another reason I don’t want to go. Not that I don’t love my big sister. I just hate what our relationship has become. And the worst part is that it doesn’t have to be this way.
I love both of my sisters; that’s never been the question, and I would do anything for either of them.
But if I let the thoughts about Em’s engagement sit in my stomach, they’ll curdle like sour milk.
I can count on one hand the number of serious relationships I’ve been in.
Something always seems to go wrong before anything turns long-term, but for the few times they did, none of them lasted: I’m too ambitious, or I’m not ambitious enough; I work too hard, or I need to focus less on my career.
It seems no matter what I did or didn’t do, the common denominator was always the same: me.
What is it about me that makes me so unlovable?
I wish I knew so I could change it. Actually, I wish someone could love me for who I am—flaws and all.
But what if they don’t like me that way either?
I’d give anything to find my person.
Instead of responding to Em, I take a breath, slide my phone into my pocket, and go back to my lists. There’s comfort in them—in creating something that I can check off one by one—a sense of accomplishment, and right now I could use that.
There are so many things to build and buy. The endless revolving questions about everything that needs to be done spiral in my head, unlike the toilet drain because of that broken handle.
We haven’t picked out a theme yet, but knowing my students, it’ll be something wonderfully disgusting.
That’s another reason why I’m not a super-fan of Halloween.
All the blood and guts—ironic that I’m in charge of the haunted house.
There are enough things in the real world to be afraid of; I don’t need someone jumping out at me from the dark in a mask to do the job.
At least being a part of the planning process means I know all the jump scares before they happen.
I add fake blood to my list of basic items for the event. Whatever we do, it will include the gelatinous goop—that I’m positive of.
My alarm goes off, reminding me if I don’t get started on the shopping now, I’ll be eating dinner at nine o’clock again.
My memory has been getting worse these last couple years and always seems to be worse around Halloween.
Maybe it’s just the joys of getting older, or perhaps it’s the impending stress of the upcoming holidays, or it could be all the added stress of this event; but whatever the reason, lists and alarms are a must to keep me on track.
I look around one last time and let out a long sigh. Why did I ever think I should be a high school theater teacher?