Copyright © 2025 by Brittany Noelle
CASSIDY
WE STEP INTO THE kitchen’s chaos. Chloe soaks in the praise, arms wide, born for the spotlight. I stick to the corner by the sink, smiling at all the strangers I’ll probably never remember. Chloe centers herself in the teens. A glittering display drawing all eyes.
“The party begins!” Even I cheer softly along with the group. Refusing her enthusiasm would be a sin.
“Where’s the drink?” one boy asks. He tips his red cup over, holding a hand out for droplets that do not come. I recognize Rick, his goatee still as thin-haired as in high school. The fake mustache and elaborate musketeer feathered hat suit his triangular face. “Parched over here.”
Another partygoer appears in the foyer, arms full of canvas bags of clinking bottles. “Drinks all around!” He isn’t costumed except for a matching fake mustache to Rick’s half-glued to his upper lip.
“What the hell Josh?” Rick complains.
The only other fully dressed musketeer rolls his eyes and rips the feathered hat from his shaved head. “Now we look ridiculous. We’re the three musketeers. Where’s your costume?”
The newcomer shrugs and wiggles his lips outward, fake mustache flapping. “Right here.”
Viking-boy takes over the kitchen island, turning it into a makeshift bar. “Calm down, Rickie. Not like you’re winning any contests. Now Chloe darling. Where are your shot glasses?” He steals the attention of the group, again the hero, as he describes some fruity tropical drinks to mess everyone up.
My chest eases. Chloe’s brightness dims as the spotlight shifts to the bottles instead of her. But they disperse cups and shot glasses, mix drinks, pass laughter back and forth between puffs of sudden joints. I scratch behind my ear and keep eyes on Chloe. She perches on the island in the center of the room, legs dangling. She throws out a toast. “To the ghouls and demons! Soon to be our bitches!” The kitchen echoes her words. It’s a ping-pong match of where eyes land. Chloe. Viking-boy. Witchy laughter. Epic bartender. Their vying for attention seems scripted, a normal occurrence.
After a moment, I recognize a few faces—Richelle the princess, Tall Tom the calmer musketeer. But not Viking-boy. A wide figure, settling between Chloe’s legs and keeping hands on her waist as much as possible. Greg. The “monster,” Richelle had said. I chew hard on my bottom lip, gut twisted up.
Viking-boy goes in for a kiss, but Chloe turns her chin to one side.
When did Chloe start hanging out with these people?
“Aren’t we doing that weejee thing?” Tall Tom asks, double fisting two red cups.
Chloe nods. “At midnight.”
“Isn’t the witching hour at three a.m. or something?” Richelle again arches a curvy eyebrow, pink-painted lips spreading wide.
“Well, it’s three a.m. somewhere,” Chloe jibes back. “Plus, doesn’t matter the time. What matters is participation! No cynics allowed. Right, Cass?”
All eyes ping at me. Viking-boy tries to sneak another kiss on Chloe’s ear, but she leans away.
My face goes hot. “Uh,” I say. “Right. Only open hearts can, uh… communicate with the dead.”
“Open hearts.” Chloe points a finger at everyone.
“Who’re we even talking to?” Viking-boy complains. His hands dig into Chloe’s waist.
She shifts but faces him. “Anyone in a chatty mood.”
“Your mom?” Tall Tom asks.
Quiet settles over the kitchen. So, they know about Chloe’s past. The cancer. The heartbreak. Maybe even the breakdown at the funeral. Chloe’s face shadows.
I open my mouth, spilling any words to get eyes off of her. “You can’t really target a specific person. Not unless you had a medium, um, I guess. Someone who can guide you. But just with us, buncha, uh, noobs, we might catch anyone’s radar. Or any… thing, heh.” The grin on my face hurts.
Viking-boy scoffs. “Thanks professor. Anything else?”
I hesitate, but Chloe’s discomfort encourages me on. “Uh, always say goodbye.”
“Who knew demons were so lame? Rules?” The boy with the joint, Josh I think, flicks ashes into the sink. Chuckles rumble around, and Chloe steals the moment back. Thank goodness. I hug myself to hide, knees pressed hard together as if that would make them disappear.
She points to the glass sliding door through the foyer hall. “Got a few hours to kill. Into the night!” She hops down and snatches Viking-boy’s hand to drag him along.
I release my breath, heart pounding irregular beats across my rib cage.
Most of them rush out into the fall evening, a channel of energy I can’t quite step into, for fear of being whisked away in the rapid of bodies. Chloe’s pale skin glows in the night, as if she is part moon. A pixie-like youth twirling in circles as she howls at the sky and laughs on the high of anticipation.
I drift behind, watching, trying to join. A couple, Rick and Richelle, opt to wrap around each other on the living room couch, lips never parting. One of the token couples always decorating the high school hall lockers with their make out sessions. No room for me there.
Tall Tom connects music on his phone to a Bluetooth speaker outside while the cat girl and half-musketeer Josh find the volleyball in a storage crate behind the porch railing. Chloe and her boyfriend stand at the makeshift volleyball court, holding hands through the netting, and pecking lips between bobs to the music.
I lean on the porch door frame and wonder about my own lips and hips and what it would take to bring myself to be so close to someone else’s skin. Chloe steals my gaze for a moment, grinning bright, inviting. She is my anchor here, the one I need to hold on to or risk turning into a flower on the wallpaper. Still, I hesitate. Parties are rife with embarrassment if you put your neck out—incriminating social media photos, slipping drugs into drinks, or classic self-esteem shattering bullying. I’ve experienced enough teenage torture to know who to avoid, and tonight he is Viking-shaped.
The game begins and soon devolves into strip volleyball. One sock, two socks, a feathered cap, a pair of checkered pants—soon the yard’s littered with costume bits. I wait for Chloe to call my name, give me some easy way to join the comfort of her side, but she doesn’t. I am ignored my entire time standing in the doorway.
Mmm, stings, doesn’t it?
The cold slithering voice cuts across the comforting sound of Chloe’s laugh. I flinch and bat at my right ear to be rid of the voice like it’s an icy bug.
Is that any way to treat a guest? I’m just pointing out the obvious.
As I struggle to push him out of mind, I watch the game with renewed jealousy. They have no struggles, no cares. I glance behind my back to the glow of the kitchen. Rows of glass bottles and stacks of red cups. Maybe to fit in, I need to follow their lead. My feet make the choice for me. I’m not listening to that sarcastic Englishman’s voice all night. I am not thinking about memories or scars or mysterious pizza guys with answers to my lifelong questions. If my meds won’t help, then this has to.
The empty kitchen greets me, red cups in a line, bottles shimmering with bright or clear liquid.
Oh yes, “party on dude.” As they say. By all means. Join the flock of failures.
“Shut up!” I grab a bottle, twist off the cap, and swig it straight. I choke back the bitter burn of something green and artificially fruity, ready to puke into the sink. The alcohol spreads slow as molasses. Warm, but not freeing. I expect more of a reaction. So, drink more.
Please don’t tell me this is your first time drinking. Poor, poor thing.
Marshmallow vodka chased with orange soda. Something blue that tastes like tar. My body rejects the flavors, but as the creep of warmth makes its way to the base of my skull, the Englishman’s chuckles fade, drowned in the alcohol. Soon he is gone. Not even a buzz in my ears.
And Chloe’s laughter carries like playful piano melodies through the open porch door.
One more drink. Lemonade. Nice and sweet, and I smile. Mind silent.
I should have tried this long ago.