Be More Chill. Ned Vizzini

Dad.” I walk out to the porch and wait for the car service. When it comes, I stroll down the lawn dressed entirely in black, mask over the top of my head, not on. I get in the car and try to negotiate the wannabe-strawberry air-freshener smell.

      “Where you goin’?” the driver asks.

      “Elk’s Club Lodge, Lefferts Road by the Friendly’s.”

      “T’anks.” We slide down my street, take a turn past school and the field, which somehow has two fireflies in it, spinning in a lazy DNA spiral, this late in the year. I try my mask on.

      “Oooh, tha’s cool,” the driver says.

      “Yeah?”

      “Yeah. You look like a li’l’ hooligan.”

      Hooligan? Hooligan doesn’t sound particularly dangerous or interesting. We ride in silence the rest of the way. I plan the night’s events: if Christine is there with Jake, then I’ll pay a girl some of this money Mom gave me to distract Jake while I talk with Christine about how I feel about her (good plan). Then I’ll take off my mask and she’ll see who I am and she’ll be like—

      “We here,” the driver says. I pay him and step out.

      The Elk’s Club Lodge has a snaking line in front of it nine trees long, comprising of kids dressed as pro wrestlers, kids dressed as members of Slipknot, kids dressed as Fidel Castro and Bill Clinton with Phillies in their masked mouths, kids dressed as giant condoms and Viagra pills. The line surprises me. I step to the back with my mask down.

      “What’s this for?” I ask the guy in front of me.

      “Tickets, yo,” he says over his shoulder, making a lipsmacking noise. He’s dressed as some sort of small tree. “You need tickets for the dance.”

      Oh crap, it’s Rich. His whole face is green so I couldn’t tell at first. I better be quiet so he doesn’t figure out who I am and torment me. I keep the mask on and it gets atrocious and spitty inside, but I think the anonymity is worth it. The line shuffles toward the door and I finally get in after giving money to a guy who looks like a walrus.

      The Elk’s Club Lodge is perfect for the Halloween Dance; it looks like a Scooby Doo mansion inside. Fake cobwebs hang out with real ones. Streams of orange tissue paper buddy up with actual mould on the ceiling. In the music room, a small platform has been constructed on which a DJ dressed as a wizard distributes choice R&B.

      “Ngukkk!” someone yells as they fly by me swinging a sword. Samurai costume. The samurai stashes his weapon by a pipe and starts dancing as I make for the punch.

      “Welcome to the dance,” Ms Rayburn says, ladling out a cup that has a piece of pineapple floating in it. “Nice mask, hope we get to see who you are later, huh?” Ms Rayburn smiles; she’s dressed as a librarian/secretary and is exceedingly hot. Then I take a look at the dance floor and get a whole new definition of exceedingly hot.