Sissy Room

Chapter Thirty-Five: The bells of Iglesia de San Rafael tolled noon, their bronze throats pouring sound into a sky the color of a polished coin. Incense wandered out the open doors in pale ribbons. On the front steps, parishioners spilled into the October light—linen shirts, Sunday dresses, fans tapping wrists in a slow, practiced rhythm. Father Luis stood at the threshold, shaking hands and blessing foreheads, his cassock bright as bone against the shadowed nave. Martina lingered halfway down the steps, a rosary looped around her fingers. She pressed the worn crucifix to her lips, then paused before crossing herself—hesitation caught between devotion and decision. Amber came to her side, adjusting the strap of her tote, eyes narrowed against the sun. “Qué pasa, mamá?” “I’m deciding whether quiet is wisdom or fear.” Martina’s mouth quirked. “Ask me again in an hour.” They moved toward the sidewalk where bougainvillea climbed a cracked stucco wall and a bulletin skittered in the sea breeze, pinwheeling until it landed face-up in a shallow puddle. The headline bled into the water: Reconciliation Service — Next Sunday. Amber’s gaze lingered on it. “Fitting,” she said. Then, quieter: “Mamá, tú siempre sanas a todos menos a ti misma.” You always heal everyone but yourself. Martina’s eyes flicked toward her daughter. “Healing isn’t about who deserves it,” she said softly. “It’s about who’s willing.” Amber folded her arms. “And what about Lilly? You’re really thinking of going back to work for her?” The tone was half concern, half disbelief. Amber’s gaze slid to the church’s side garden where a statue of St. Raphael cast thin shade. “You know how she is,” Amber said, switching to English, the words quick and careful. “Lilly collects people the way influencers collect brands. When you don’t fit the story anymore, she un-tags you.” A beat. “You didn’t even get to say goodbye to Paul the last time.” The memory flashed—Martina’s face softened, then steadied. “I know.” She tucked the rosary into her pocket. “But sometimes mercy looks like risk.” Amber’s mouth opened to reply — but the low, silky purr of an engine cut through the air. A convertible dipped in a red mist metallic tintcoat turned onto the street, catching the sunlight so sharply that both women flinched. Lilly’s hair glowed like champagne in the glare, her sunglasses oversized and perfect, her smile curated but warm. Amber muttered under her breath, lips curling in dry humor. “Show off. Nothing but skin-deep beauty and soul-sucking privilege.” Martina shot her a warning look — maternal reflex — but Amber’s sarcasm hung in the humid air. Lilly pulled to the curb and waved with two manicured fingers. “Hi! Perfect timing!” she called, her voice a practiced melody of enthusiasm and self-assurance. Martina hadn’t expected this. “Oh,” she said, straightening. “I thought we were meeting at the restaurant.” Lilly grinned, slipping out of the car in a crisp white linen dress that caught the wind. “I thought something out of the ordinary was in order. A little sunshine, a little sea air—it felt right for… us.” Her eyes flickered, reading both women. “Hop in, Martina.” Martina turned to Amber and handed her their car keys over, eyebrows raised. “Please get the car back in one piece after your afternoon out.” Lilly replied brightly toward Amber. “And Amber—Paul’s back at home swimming. You should stop by, hang out and catch a quick dip and meal. I made some focaccia pizza earlier—it’s cooling on the racks in the kitchen.” She added it lightly, as if it were an afterthought, but the invitation had a clear shape: Come see him. Amber hesitated. “I don’t know if—” “Go,” Martina said gently, her voice dipping into Spanish, warm as a lullaby. “Siempre hay que estar ahí para los amigos, aunque el tiempo nos haya separado. Las mareas siempre nos devuelven a quienes necesitamos.” (We must always be there for our friends, even if time has pulled us apart. The tides bring them back when both sides need each other the most.) Amber’s practiced smile faltered, then rebuilt itself—this time with a little more sincerity. “Actually,” she said, thinking of Paul, “that sounds kind of nice. Alright, I’ll head over after grabbing a one piece, okay Ma?” Martina leaned in, kissed her daughter’s cheek, and whispered, “Cuídate.” Amber waved once, and as Lilly opened the passenger door for Martina, the dynamic between the three of them shifted like sunlight through clouds—tentative, hopeful, uncertain. The intercoastal skyline unfurled beside them: sailboats moored like white brushstrokes, palm fronds glinting against the rippling water. Lilly drove with one hand lightly on the wheel, the other tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. Her sunglasses reflected the sunlight like shields. The city moved around them—bridges arching like ribs over the water, fishermen casting lines off piers, murals of dolphins chasing each other along the seawall. A food truck’s scent of frying plantains mixed with brine. For Lilly, every sight brought a twist of anxiety. Don’t mess this up. Her heart thrummed with the rhythm of the tires: get her back, get her back. Not for herself, she told her pride—but for the house, for Bryan, for Paul. For a sense of family that had slipped through her fingers like tidewater. Martina, meanwhile, traced the horizon through her window. The closer they drew to the docks, the stronger the air smelled of diesel, salt, and driftwood. She remembered bringing Bryan and Rachel down here years ago when Amber & Paul were  both toddlers—feeding them crackers while watching the boats sail by . She remembered laughter. She turned to Lilly. “So,” she said. “A sailboat?” Lilly smiled, trying to sound casual. “I figured we both deserved to breathe. No over crowded restaurants. No pretending. Just conversation and open air. Plus the studio owns the ship anyway, just one of the perks.” Martina nodded, impressed despite herself. “You always did have a sense for drama.” “Only when I need to,” Lilly replied, half-grinning. And maybe—for the first time—it wasn’t armor. As they slowed at a stoplight near the marina, the hum of the car and the sway of the palm shadows brought back the scent of ropa vieja that lived in a particular corner of Martina’s mind—the one where grief and comfort share a stove. She’d been in the Goldhawk kitchen that day, years ago, steam fogging the window over the sink while shredded flank steak surrendered to tomatoes, peppers, and cumin. Rice tumbled in its pot; plantains hissed in oil. The house smelled like payday and Sunday at once. “Martina?” Lilly’s voice had floated from the living room—bright, weightless, practiced. “Could you join me for a minute?” Martina had wiped her hands on a dish towel, turned the burner down, and stepped into the living room. The air felt different there—cooler, staged. The family photos on the mantle watched her: Paul gap-toothed, Amber’s arm looped through his like a chain that would never break. Lilly stood by the window, sunlight behind her turning her into a silhouette with perfect posture. “It’s really for the best,” she said, palms open like a mediator. “If you weren’t here when Bryan and Paul come home, that would really be helpful. We need a clean break—to start fresh. You’ve been absolutely wonderful, but this is more about MY family starting fresh.” The words had been soft as down and just as suffocating. Martina had looked at the mantle, then at Lilly’s careful smile, then back to the kitchen—where the pot began to boil over, hissing like a warning. She’d turned to go and save it, but in the living room a door opened, wind dropping in like a final punctuation.   The yacht was a small masterpiece: a Beneteau 45, sleek as a silverfish, moored at a private slip. Teak gleamed under the midday sun. White sails tugged restlessly at their lines. The steward’s uniform looked pressed from the air itself. They boarded to the sound of waves slapping wood. A breeze brought hints of salt and jasmine from the shoreline. On deck, a table gleamed under a linen cloth, set with crystal flutes, a bottle of French Brut, and small dishes: citrus-marinated olives, paper-thin jamón ibérico, shaved manchego, and grilled sourdough brushed with olive oil. A bowl of poached shrimp on arugula waited in the wings, the pink shells glinting in the light. Martina eased into her seat, the wind catching her hair. Across from her, Lilly adjusted her sunglasses and tried to steady her breathing. She wanted this to go perfectly—not polished, not performative, but real. That was harder than any negotiation she’d ever done. “Thank you for coming,” Lilly began. “I wanted something… different. Not a boardroom or kitchen table. Just this.” “Neutral ground?” Martina asked, faintly amused. “Neutral air,” Lilly corrected. They clinked glasses. The sound was delicate, almost hesitant. As the boat eased from the dock, the city fell behind—a mosaic of glass and color dissolving into horizon. The ocean opened around them, infinite and forgiving. “I owe you an apology,” Lilly said finally. “For how I made you leave. For making your love for them feel like a threat instead of a gift. You were part of the house before I was, and I hated how that made me feel.” The boat tilted slightly with the wind, as if acknowledging the confession. “I was angry,” Martina said. “But anger fades fast. It’s the emptiness and sadness that stays long after. After Rachel’s funeral, Bryan and Paul came back to a house broken. I cooked to keep the air from collapsing. Amber and I did bedtime stories in Spanish so Paul could dream in two languages. When Bryan took him to Charlotte for work, we adapted, we sent letters, care packages spent two Thanksgivings & Christmas’s together. We tried making it work when we could. Then…. when you all came back three years later, those first months—” She exhaled. “We were almost ourselves again….but I was wrong about being ourselves again…. weren’t…because YOU were there. She turned her face toward the wind; when she spoke again, her voice thinned. “Then I felt your eyes on the old photographs. On the chair. On me. Amber stopped hanging around as much. Paul laughed less. Bryan wore tension in his shoulders like a uniform.” Lilly swallowed. Pride rose like a reflex; she pushed it down. “You’re not wrong.” She folded her hands. “That’s why I don’t want to pretend this is only emotional. I know we’re never going to be best of friends, I screwed up and I’m not looking for a second chance. I want our relationship to be professional; I don’t want to stand in your relationships with either Bryan and especially Paul. So I’m proposing a contract. Scope, hours, pay that not just respects your worth but matches it with a number that works for you and Amber.” Martina’s chin tipped; surprise flickered. ”But while that all sounds wonderful, Lilly I feelt there’s something unwritten in all of this.” Lilly hesitated, her hand tightening around the stem of her glass. The boat rocked gently, but inside her, everything tilted. Words pressed against the back of her throat, thick and heavy, each one a risk. “It’s about Paul,” she began slowly, the syllables too soft, almost drowned by the hiss of the sea against the hull. “He’s… struggling.” Her eyes darted to the captain in the distance, then back to Martina. She leaned forward, voice lowering instinctively. “Medically, yes—but emotionally, too. He forgets to eat, to drink, to rest. He gets lost in the noise inside his head until his body just… catches him off guard.” She stopped, exhaling through her nose, the admission cooling in the open air. Her hands wouldn’t stay still; she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then folded her napkin again even though it was already perfect. “I need someone who can help him stay grounded. Someone who knows how to… keep him anchored without making him feel broken. To make sure he’s and taking care of himself—” She hesitated, her voice faltering, “—and, um, remembering certain… routines.” Martina didn’t flinch. Her calm, her silence, only made Lilly fidget more. “Discreetly,” Lilly added quickly. “Always discreetly. He’s a good kid, just… he’s been under so much pressure. He needs structure, gentle reminders, someone who can—” Her eyes flicked toward the deck, then back. “Like a—” she paused, regretting the next word even before it left her lips, “—like a nanny, but not in name.” The word hung there. Too sharp. Too loaded. Too true. Her stomach twisted. She saw it instantly in Martina’s face—not offense, but quiet understanding—and somehow that was worse. Lilly’s smile flickered, brittle as sugar glass. “I didn’t mean—” she started, then cut herself off. No, that’s exactly what you meant, a darker thought whispered inside her. A nanny is literally what the kid needs. Someone to watch him. Someone to make sure another public ‘incident’ doesn’t happen. And if it does that, they’re hands can change him. God, if it had been recorded, if someone had tagged her name, if the video had gone viral. Lilly’s pulse spiked. For one nauseating second, she pictured headlines, gossip forums, Reddit threads dissecting her as a “fake mom influencer.” Her stomach turned with shame. Stop it. Stop thinking like that.   She inhaled sharply and tried again, softer this time. “Not a nanny,” she said, forcing a small, apologetic laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just… someone who can care for him the way I can’t right now. I don’t even know what word fits. It’s not quite medical, not quite maternal, just… human. Supportive. Patient.” Her voice thinned. She looked down then, ashamed of how raw her words sounded, how easily they’d stripped her pride bare. For the first time in years, Lilly didn’t look like a woman who built her image around control and composure. She looked like someone admitting defeat—and hoping it might be mistaken for grace. Martina tilted her head slightly, her gaze soft but unyielding. “Lilly,” she said, setting her glass down, “I need to understand what you’re really asking of me. You’ve mentioned he’s struggling — but what does that look like, day to day? What would you need me to do?” Lilly’s hand froze halfway to her necklace. The question was reasonable — expected — but it still struck like a pinprick of truth. She looked past Martina toward the shoreline, where sunlight trembled on the water’s surface. For a moment, she didn’t trust herself to speak. Her throat tightened. “Yesterday,” she began slowly, “we went to the pier. It was supposed to be… a good day.” Her laugh was quiet, brittle. “He’d had a wonderful morning, actually. He cooked breakfast for me — he was dancing in the kitchen, he looked… happy. More like himself than I’ve seen in weeks.” She blinked hard. “And then, later, there was a moment—” The words wavered. She pressed her palms together on the table as if steadying them could steady her voice. “He forgot to take care of himself. We were out for hours — the crowds, the heat, the water… he didn’t notice how much he’d had to drink, and I didn’t either. When it caught up to him, it was… public. Sudden. His protection failed” Her voice dropped. “And he froze. Completely. Like he was six years old again. I’d never seen that kind of fear on his face. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was… devastation.” Lilly’s jaw trembled. She tried to hide it behind another laugh — too quick, too sharp. “So when I say I need help, I mean it in ways I don’t even have the vocabulary for.” She paused, then added softly, “And I can’t be the only one trying to hold it all together.” Martina listened in silence, her eyes wide but not shocked — only saddened. She could picture it too clearly: the crowds, the noise, the boy she’d once helped through smaller versions of the same panic. When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle. “You helped him through it?” Lilly nodded faintly. “I did what I could. Took him somewhere quiet, got him cleaned up, made sure no one made a spectacle of it. But—” She exhaled shakily, “—it broke him, even if he didn’t say so. And it broke me a little too, because I realized I couldn’t plan for everything.” She looked up then, meeting Martina’s eyes head-on. “So when I say ‘nanny,’ I don’t mean someone hovering over him. I mean someone who’s there when I can’t be. Someone who understands him, who knows how to calm him before he spirals. To remind him he’s not broken. Just… adjusting.” For a heartbeat, the wind carried nothing but the faint clink of halyards and gulls circling above. Martina’s expression softened. She could see how hard this admission was — not just the story, but the surrender in it. Finally, she reached across the table and rested her hand lightly on Lilly’s. “Lilly,” she said quietly, “what you did yesterday — that was care. Not control. There’s a difference.” She squeezed once, reassuring. “And I can help. Not as a nanny. As family. We’ll make sure he feels safe again.” Lilly’s phone buzzed on the bench between them. She glanced down, intending to ignore it, and froze. Bryan had sent a photo years old in a sun-flooded room, the handmade wooden rocker taking up half the frame. Amber and Paul sat in the wooden rocking chair, cheeks round and laughing, Bryan behind them with one arm draped protectively across the backrest. To the left stood Martina, smiling. On the right, Rachel, her hand resting gently on Paul’s shoulder. Lilly’s breath left her in a thin thread. She turned the screen so Martina could see, she leaned closer, eyes shimmering. “Mira eso… We were all there.” They looked at the image together while the sloop carved a clean line through the bay—two women suspended between a past that hurt and a future that might not. “Bryan just texted it out of nowhere?” Martina asked. “He’s in Tokyo,” Lilly said, voice unsteady. “But he…knows when to throw a rope.” They sat with the picture another beat—salt on their tongues, sunlight prickling their arms, the hull hissing against the water. They sat in silence as the yacht cut a smooth line across the bay, gulls coasting overhead. Two suns burned—the one in the sky and the one on the phone screen, eternal and glowing. Martina’s hand covered Lilly’s. “You keep saying you want to help Bryan and Paul,” she said softly. “But remember—your family helped me and Amber, too. Maybe this time, all five of us can help each other.” She took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were wet but steady. “Let’s start again.” Lilly met her gaze, sunlight glancing between them, the horizon stretching wide enough to hold every unfinished story. The yacht leaned into the wind, sails full, bow pointed toward home   The air shimmered with the slow warmth of early October — that Jacksonville magic hour when the sun burned gold but not cruel, when the humidity gave way to salt and citrus. As Amber’s 2015 Volvo C30 hummed along the quiet, leaf-dappled streets of Sandalwood, the dashboard glowing a mellow blue. She drummed the steering wheel with ringed fingers, half-singing, half-exhaling to Miley’s “Wrecking Ball,” trying to shake the strange flutter sitting behind her ribs. A laugh escaped her throat trying to clear the air —  self-aware. “God, Amber,” she said to herself, “you really are about to crash a pool day uninvited.” The passenger seat told a different story. Her black one-piece bathing suit sat there, folded neatly, simple but chic, a kind of understated confidence she was still trying to learn to wear. Along with a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses, lip balm rolling in slow arcs at stoplights. Her phone screen lit up against the fabric — one new notification. Another missed call to Marcus. Two weeks. Three conversations. It should’ve been six. She flicked her eyes to the road again, jaw tightening. Marcus was four states away, living the varsity dream, while she was driving through Sandalwood — the neighborhood where driveways looked like museum floors and lawns never went yellow. She turned down a palm-lined street, her own reflection flashing back in the side window — hair loose and golden from the sun, oversized denim jacket slipping off one shoulder, that half-smile she wore when pretending she was fine. Sandalwood rose around her like a curated dream—pruned palms, white stone driveways, the hush of money that kept voices at indoor volume even outdoors. She respected it. She also distrusted it. This was the side of town where people became a version of themselves that photographed well. She exhaled through her nose. Paul wasn’t supposed to live like this. Paul didn’t used to live inside photographs, she thought, watching bougainvillea splash magenta over stucco walls. He lived inside Saturdays. Inside bike tires and scraped knees and LEGO cities that took over the kitchen table He used to be the messy one. The kid who spilled orange soda on the carpet and laughed it off, who dared her to climb onto the roof after curfew, who swore they’d both be Batman and Robin when they grew up — but refused to say who was who. Something had shifted after Charlotte more noticeable then even after his mom passed. He’d folded inward, like paper creased to make a smaller shape. A tiny photo charm spun from her rearview mirror—her and her mom, cheeks pressed together, Amber missing a tooth. She almost laughed. Peter Pan, she’d almost called Paul in her head. Then checked herself. He hadn’t refused to grow up; life had shoved him into fast-forward and then hit rewind without asking. Be fair, she scolded silently. Be kind. She turned up the long curve to the Goldhawk house. The water flashed behind the property, a haze of afternoon glare; the house itself looked show-ready—white, glass, clean lines, the kind of place architects used as desktop backgrounds. It made her both proud for Paul and protective of him. “Okay,” she murmured to herself, cutting the engine. “Be a friend.” The Goldhawk pool glimmered like a jewel. Pale turquoise water shimmered beneath the early afternoon light, the surface trembling every time the autumn breeze crossed it. Steam didn’t rise—the October heat didn’t need the help—but the water breathed with a quiet shimmer. A speaker under the eaves murmured a summer playlist at low volume, the bass barely more than a heartbeat. Paul was in motion. His body sliced through the water with the precision of someone trying not to think. He cut the length like a metronome—flip, streamline, kick, reach—each stroke pulling him forward and, for a few seconds at a time, under. Beneath the surface the world softened and the noise turned to thunder in the ears, a private storm. He flipped, pushed off hard, and, for a singular beat, the punch of humiliation from the pier flickered through him—the stain on the boards, the heat in his face, the way breath becomes a square you forget how to solve. He put more power into the pull, slicing the memory apart with movement. Every stroke carried with it a flash of the pier — the laughter in the crowd, the shock on Lilly’s face, the heat that had crawled up his neck and refused to leave. He kicked harder, as though motion alone could erase memory. The sunlight rippled over his shoulders, catching the tension that lived in his muscles now — the quiet defiance of someone who refused to let shame have the last word. He dove again, deeper this time, to where the world turned blue-green and still. The sound of his heartbeat filled his ears, pulsing like distant thunder. He exhaled and let himself sink, staring up at the distorted light above. Then — a shadow. He broke the surface in one sharp motion, wiping the water from his eyes just as a voice — bright and familiar — cut through the air. “Hey! Watch it, Phelps!” Amber stood at the edge, one hand shielding her face from the spray, laughing. Paul blinked, chest still heaving. “Amber? What—” “My mom and your stepmom are off playing fancy-lunch,” she said, teasing light as she held up her tote. “I was told there would be pizza. And allegedly a friend who knows how to share.” He opened his hands, surrendered. “Rumor mill’s accurate. Towels are in the cabana.” He swam for the steps, pulled himself out in one smooth press, and the sun caught him all at once—taller than she remembered, leaner too, shoulders not broad but present, definition running clean along forearms and calves, a quiet four-pack that had nothing to prove. Amber felt heat climb her neck, surprised at herself. When did you get… there? And why do you hide it under baggy everything? He caught her looking and went mock-wary. “What.” “Nothing,” she said, then let honesty land. “You look… good. Healthy.” She made it sound clinical and immediately regretted it. He squinted, played it off, handed her a towel. “Pool house is all yours.” She went in with a little wave, cutoffs swishing, Marcus’s jacket shrugged off her shoulder and into her hands. In the small mirror she slipped into the one-piece, scraped sunscreen across collarbone and shoulders, pulled her hair into a high, loose tie. The girl who looked back was eighteen and not a senior in a brochure; she was a person. She liked that.   Outside, Paul moved through the house like he had a list. Plates. A warming bag with still-crisp slices of fennel-sausage focaccia. A cooler clinking with sparkling waters—lime, grapefruit, black cherry. On the chaise he set his HEAT jersey and the red basketball shorts he’d meant to change into later; between the fabric, the thing he tried not to name. He laid another towel across the stack like shade over a secret. Just be smart. You can do smart. Amber emerged with a cloud of coconut SPF, sunglasses on, confidence in her walk that was—he allowed himself to notice—earned rather than performed. The line of the suit was sleek, the back a long curve, strength braided into grace. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen pretty; this was composed. It did something to his chest. “Can you get my shoulders?” she asked, handing him the can. “Uh—yeah.” He kept the spritz quick, polite, professional enough to make them both smirk. “Thanks,” she said, tipping her head toward the water. “Go show off.” “Bossy,” he muttered, laughed and dove back in, water erupting around him. Amber stretched out, tilted the lounger to sun, then couldn’t help it—she watched. He was different in motion: efficient, focused, almost… calm. She liked that he was good at something that had nothing to do with pretending. “Who knew,” she murmured, almost proud. Slipping on her sunglasses, but her gaze kept drifting back to the pool — again back to Paul, slicing through the water with effortless focus. He was quiet, disciplined, someone she hadn’t seen in years and by the look of him somebody who she regretted not meeting sooner. Music filled the air — Britney, Blink-182, Creed — a nostalgic playlist for kids who had grown up just enough to miss the sound of their own summers. Paul finished a length and, passing, flicked a single bright droplet at her ankle. She fake gasped, flicked one back. He responded with an exaggerated splash that caught both of them, and then they were laughing in that reflexive way that collapses time. “Truce!” she called. He popped up, grabbed the edge, vaulted out with a wet squeak of tile under foot, and—on impulse—offered a hand. She took it and he spun her once in a dorky half-dance that wasn’t smooth at all and worked anyway, both of them grinning before he cannonballed them both in. When they surfaced, both gasping, both laughing, time folded. The years, the awkwardness, the distance — gone. For a heartbeat, they were just Amber and Paul, kids again. They floated by the shallow end, drifting with the faint current. “First crush?” Amber asked. He considered the easy lie, then settled on the soft one. “In Charlotte. Bayley Price. Cheer squad. All high ponytail and glitter, you know? Didn’t fit.” He shrugged water off his nose. “I like… different.” Her chest tightened. You don’t mean me. You can’t. Amber arched a brow. “Sounds fake.” “And you?” he asked. She rolled her eyes skyward, smile bending. “Marcus is… complicated.” A bite of lip. “College is what I fell in love with first, though. I’m aiming for North Florida on scholarship—econ, business. If the grades line up, I want Miami for the doctorate. Build something my mom never had.” Pride for her swelled in him, uncomplicated and real. “You’ll do it,” he said simply. “You will. And whoever is lucky enough to support you in mind, body and sprit is the lucky one” They drifted there for a while, sun on their faces, the faint clink of halyards on distant masts. “Food?” he asked finally. “Please.” He got out first and offered her the towel; he didn’t hold on too long, but when the terry met her shoulders there was a quiet flicker in both their stomachs that they pretended not to notice. He plated the pizza, steam lifting in fragrant ribbons of fennel and sweet tomato, and they ate with their feet up, arguing about whether Blink overtakes Britney on a summer playlist (it doesn’t, she insisted; he conceded gracelessly). After, Amber stood, wringing water from her ends. “I’m going to change back—my mom’ll kill me if I ruin the car seats.” She padded toward the pool house, and Paul could help but to try and catch a glimse—just catching the rhythm of a person confident in her body and letting the fact exist. She’s beautiful, he thought. And she’s here with me. He held that like a coin in a pocket. “Your turn!” she called a minute later, coming out in cutoffs, jacket slung over her shoulder, hair up, cheeks still sun-pinky. She pointed her chin toward the small gas fire pit and thumbed the igniter; the blue flame bloomed under crushed glass. “Hurry—golden hour.” He ducked into the pool house. Miami Heat red jersey, red shorts. He changed with the speed of someone who’d learned new choreography against his will—careful, efficient, everything in the right place, double-checked by touch at the waistband, the fall of the fabric. He stared at himself in the mirror for a breath, combed his hair, one shot of cologne like punctuation. Chapter Thirty-Six: Back outside, he slid onto the cushioned loveseat beside her. The fire made little dragon noises. Somewhere across the water a boat horned twice. They traded smaller stories—the crab boil that Lilly had made at Kim’s, miniature disasters from childhood, the time Amber and Paul tried to sell melted popsicles as smoothies. “You were always better at the pitch,” she teased. “You were always better at the truth,” he answered, and was surprised at himself. Paul leaned back, feeling… safe as Amber’s ankle bracelet chimed when she crossed her legs. For a heartbeat, as she shifted to set her seltzer on the low table, the hem of Paul’s shorts gapped at one thigh – there a pale suggestion of something rustled beneath, a shape she knew from babysitting cousins, the bright white, puffy appearance & paste colors? Here and gone in the same blink it took for flame to reflect on glass. Her expression flickered. Her mind stuttered. No… can’t be. Her expression changed, just a breath — surprise, empathy, confusion — and then it was gone. Paul saw the flicker, didn’t know why, only that shame rose in him like heat. Amber forced her smile brighter, her voice rising to break the silence. “So, cast list Monday.” “Yeah.” He tried to smile and almost got there. “They had me read Jem again.” “You’d be a great Jem,” she said, and meant it. “I want Atticus,” he admitted, quiet enough that the fire almost ate it. “But… yeah. Any stage is a stage.” They sat with that. Not the end of the world. Not the win either. Just waiting. The sky did that Florida thing where it turned peach then hot-pink then something you couldn’t name with words. The water caught every color and magnified it. He felt the air cool on his skin and didn’t flinch at it. “Thanks for inviting yourself over,” he said at last, a crooked smile. “Anytime,” she said, and bumped his shoulder with hers. “Friend.” He took the word and placed it gently, like a photograph in a good frame. The fire crackled. The speakers found a Beyoncé hook and turned it low, like a secret. For a minute, everything was exactly as uncomplicated as it looked. He’d remember that hour later — the warmth of the fire, the sound of her laugh cutting through the music, the rare feeling that everything broken in him had gone quiet for a while. But good hours have a way of vanishing; they drain out with the night, leaving you back in your own skin.   By dawn, the smell of chlorine and smoke had been traded for disinfectant and coffee. The cafeteria doors at Bishop’s Gate Academy swung wide, a burst of late-October light falling across the tile. The air inside was syrup-sweet and restless, humming with the sounds of a Monday that hadn’t quite started yet—laughter, yawns, the metallic scrape of chair legs. Paul moved through it quietly, backpack slung low, hands in pockets. Every table felt like its own country: soccer jackets over one, marching band pins glinting at another. The air was thick with sugar and cheap cologne, the ground buzzing under a hundred sneakers trying to stall the week. He passed by a group of freshmen who were arguing about who could eat three muffins in one bite, and the moment their laughter hit him, it flicked something loose—an echo of last night. A blast of fryer oil and syrup from the breakfast line tilted him into a different room: Lilly on the edge of her bed last night, hair in a topknot, the glow from her tablet painting her face amber. She scrolled through a grid of suns and rain clouds, thumb hovering, brow knitting as the wins and losses evened out. Six bright suns for dry nights across the top row; now a messy braid of little gray storms chasing them. He remembered the notification lighting her screen—Mindy’s name, her message quick and warm: Hey Lil, I’m seeing that Paul has had a rough couple of days; it’s normal, I promise. Also, let’s get together—Amy is waiting on her favorite Aunty for another present. Lilly’s mouth softened. He’d watched the worry recede a notch. It had mattered more than he let her see. “Yo, Finch!” a junior he barely knew threw at him as Paul slid past a table of debate kids. It was a joke—everything was a joke until it wasn’t. He dipped through and out into the corridor, the noise change like walking out of surf, then back into the cafeteria again from the side doors that opened to the small stage. The drama crowd had staked out the front tables. He saw Amber—hair up, face bright, white Converse tucked under her chair—and the familiar orbit around her: Naomi Kim (sophomore, laugh that carried), Evelyn Ortiz (junior, dyed copper bob, calm as a cat), and Jai Gupta (senior, hoodie uniform, perpetual script pages Familiar faces, safe faces. He lifted a hand. Amber caught it, her smile like a hook. Another scent yanked him sideways: steam and citrus, the foggy mirror of his bathroom. This morning’s pep talk had been more practical than pep: his father on speaker, laugh lines audible even through the tinny phone. “It’s your responsibility to let your skin breathe—everywhere it needs to,” Bryan said. “Like, everywhere-everywhere including downstairs.” The electric buzz of the trimmer in Paul’s hand had sounded way louder than it should. A task; a line crossed. He’d done it because he’d promised. Because adult meant doing the unfun things now so the worse things didn’t happen later. Onstage, Ms. Julia Douglas (52) stood with a clipboard. Early fifties, Manhattan vowels, linen blazer over a black turtleneck even in Florida. She wore that theater-teacher elegance—silver bangles, square glasses, a scarf that looked like it had seen off-Broadway winters. When she spoke, her New York rasp warmed the room. “Darlings, breathe. No one ever booked Broadway hyperventilating over a cafeteria bagel.” Laughter rippled, nervous and grateful. She took the mic for no reason other than the shape of it in her hand. “Here’s the plan, loves. We’ll do a family-and-friends dress before winter break. The real run is March into April, three nights a week. High standard. Higher heart.” Next to her, a man in impeccable all-black—boots polished, collar soft: Declan O’Shaughnessy, 57. He had directed programs in London, Hamburg, Kraków, Moscow. A resume that made kids sit straighter. His voice rolled out slow, low, and Irish, smoke over whiskey. “This story we’re buildin’, children, it isn’t for the faint-hearted. I’ve seen professionals break on it. I’ve seen teenagers find truth in it. The work will cost ye, and that’s how you’ll know it’s worth doin’.” The crowd hushed. Julia smiled, a flash of scarlet lipstick and practiced poise. “Housekeeping first: preview show before winter break, full run March through April, three nights a week. Standards will be high, attendance mandatory, tempers optional.” Laughter rippled through the room. “You’ll sign your conduct contracts after casting—think of them as our ‘don’t do dumb things’ clause.” Mr. O’Shaughnessy is directing. Yes, that means standards.” A pointed look. “We had… discussions. Long ones. Because this To Kill a Mockingbird keeps tradition alive—and adds a spin. You’ll learn the concept after you sign the conduct contract. Fancy way of saying: grades up, no drama offstage.” Declan stepped forward, voice a velvet rasp. “I’ve seen professional companies break on this story. I’ve also seen teenagers crack it open like a walnut and find something beating inside. We took our time with the list. I expect you to take your time with the work.” The auditorium/theatre leaned forward. Amber’s knee bounced. Paul felt his pulse bump in his throat. As Julia kept talking—conduct code, rehearsal etiquette, the secret “spin” they’d reveal after contracts—he drifted into the memory that had been shadowing all morning: Lilly’s voice outside his doorway two days ago, careful and contrite. “Before you leave the house, I’m going to check that your Step-In is on properly. It’s not punishment. It’s precaution. We can’t have another… episode like the pier.” He’d nodded while a piece of him scalded. She’d added the backpack rule too—two spares, every day—until she trusted him to make the habit automatic. He’d said, “Okay,” because fighting made it worse. Because he was learning that dignity sometimes meant letting someone help you carry it. Julia’s phone lit up. A microscopic pause. “If your phone dings now,” she said lightly, “that’s either God or your understudy contract. Try not to confuse them.” A freshman squeaked. Paul’s phone stayed quiet. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Across the row, Naomi’s buzzed; she pressed her lips together, nodded to herself. Paul caught her eye and gave the small solidarity smile of someone who’s been the safety net before. She smiled back: I’ve got this. “Roles,” Julia said, flipping a page. “We’ll build up to the big three. Remember, this is the largest cast we’ve ever staged.” Names rolled out. With each one, cheers sparked, then settled. The we’re getting close to the final three big names, the leads. “Charles Baker ‘Dill’ Harris — Jai Gupta, senior.” Jai’s friends thumped his shoulders; he did a mock bow, cheeks pink. “Calpurnia — Ms. Evelyn Ortiz, junior.” A sharp clap from the back. Evelyn’s chin lifted, calm breaking into pride. “Bob Ewell — Mason Crowe, senior.” Booing jokes; Julia hushed them, smiling. “Tom Robinson — Aaron Baptiste, sophomore.” “Boo Radley — Noah Patel, junior.” As the cadence lifted toward the top, something tight wound in Paul’s chest. The room breathed; he didn’t. The old chain reaction stirred—anticipation, heat, that traitor adrenaline. He shifted his weight, grounding through his shoes, pushing air low like Dad had taught him freshman year for stage nerves. Julia glanced up, savoring the pause. “Jem Finch…” Time kinked. In the span of a heartbeat he was at the pier again. In the span of the next, he was eight, kneeling on Martina’s kitchen tile, begging to stay up late. He felt the body’s message—a low urgent signal—and forced his attention back to the breath. “…Paul Goldhawk, senior.” Applause, clean and immediate. Amber clapped hard, whistled. He smiled, easy and camera-ready. Inside, something sank and something else rose to meet it. Jem. Not Atticus. He’d read Atticus three times. He’d dreamt the quiet power, the courtroom breath held in the spaces between words. He’d seen the silhouette of the man he wanted to be and stepped toward it in the mirror every morning. Jem was good. Jem was backbone. Jem was not the mountain. He swallowed and kept the smile tethered. It felt like acting; he was good at acting.   “Scout Finch — Amber Enamorado, senior.” The room bloomed again. Amber’s grin lit the stage; she looked briefly, instinctively, for Paul. He clapped harder, mouthed, Knew it. Her hand pressed to her heart—thank you—and then dropped to her lap, where her phone lay dark. Relief flickered in her eyes. He mouthed, Knew it. She pressed her hand over her heart, returning the gesture like a secret handshake.   Silence fell before the last card. “Atticus Finch—” A freshman from the second row stopped breathing. Everyone felt it. “—Miles Redding, freshman.” A pause. A single breath of surprise moved through the crowd. Miles blinked like he’d stumbled into sunlight. Declan’s grin widened slightly, mischief tucked into his beard. “We like risks,” he said under his breath, and half the room caught it.   Onstage, Julia smiled the smile of a teacher who had just set a challenge and wanted to watch them rise to it. “Congratulations. See me today if your schedule needs adjusting. The rest of you—tomorrow morning, 7:30 a.m., we announce our concept and sign contracts. You’ll want to be here.” The applause washed again. Paul kept his smile, but inside something toppled—a small table, a vase of flowers. He’d wanted the father; he’d gotten the brother. He could already hear Lilly: Jem is heartbeat. He could already hear Bryan: Don’t underestimate heart. He could already hear his own body, bright and unhelpful: now. Paul felt warmth unfurl with lethal calm. The body’s betrayal was not public this time. The protection did what it was supposed to. He breathed, carefully, as if any extra movement would tip the beaker. He felt anger arrive one beat after shame, a relief and a threat both. It wasn’t only the role. It was the composite weight of a week—small wins erased by sudden slips, the pier, the towel in the car, the way he’d seen his reflection and not recognized the ratio of boy to man. He shifted in the fold-down seat, eyes scanning the room for a clock, the exit, the corridor. He stood when the row did, waved at Amber when she turned, fingers flying to text him: Lunch after? We celebrate. He lifted his phone, pretended to type, then tucked it away before she could see his hands shake. Amber glanced at him, the beginning of concern knitting between her brows. He gave her a thumbs-up, smile unwavering, then stepped sideways off the apron, down the small stairs, into the narrow hall. The noise dimmed behind the stage door. He walked—cool, casual—to the corner, then turned left, then right, then—he was moving faster. Private restrooms weren’t an option now he thought and waddled? The “Step In” swelled a bit under the gushing. He knew where he would have to go to change, The keycard Lilly had pressed into his palm felt suddenly heavy. The hallway air was cooler, the light flat and mercyless. He took the long route instinctively, down past the language labs, through the quiet of the chapel corridor where everything smelled faintly of wood polish and old music. At the end of the corridor, the glass-roofed annex opened like a greenhouse of light. To the west: a short hall, white tile, blue signage. The blue door waited there, unassuming, institutional, half in shade. His feet slowed. The stigma rose like an old rumor. He’d watched kids vanish through that door for years—injured athletes in wheelchairs, the kid who’d had surgery, a junior on chemo who shaved his head before anyone could ask questions. The whole school pretended not to know what the door meant. Which of course meant everyone knew. He swallowed. You are not a rumor. You are a person managing a thing. He slid the keycard across and then stood there for three long breaths. Then he walked to the blue door and pushed it open. Cool fluorescent hum. Pale tile. No posters. No pastel decals. Just a private, clinically bright room with a sink, a covered bin, a wall panel with two buttons—red and green—and, to his right, a closed interior door with a frosted window. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and hand soap. No shelf. No carts. No obvious supplies. A label in red marker under the wall panel: press & talk for assistance. His mouth was dry. He pressed the red button. “Um… it’s Paul Goldhawk.” He cleared his throat. “I—uh—need… help.” The speaker buzzed and then a voice: clear, warm, unhurried. “Hey, Paul. Got you. One second.”   The door on the right opened and a wash of sound and scent slipped in: distant baby laughter, a teacher’s soft shh, the sugary-clean smell of wipes and crayons. Whitney stepped half-in with a professional smile that didn’t ask for anything, dark hair in a low bun, scrubs patterned with tiny suns that felt like a private joke. She didn’t look older than twenty-five. She did look like she’d been good at this before she had any reason to be. Her smile was easy, professional. “Hey, Paul. Good to see you again.” She kept her voice low, as if quiet itself were privacy. “No worries. I’ll walk you through our flow once, then it’s dead simple.” He nodded, cheeks hot. “Thanks.” “We keep each student’s basics on the other side,” she said, gesturing toward the closed door. “When you press red and say your name, one of us retrieves your set and knocks. We pass it in. You take care of what you need. When you’re done, pop anything reusable back in your tray—yours is teal with your name—and anything disposable goes in the lined bin there.” She pointed, matter-of-fact, no wince, no pause. “Then hit the green button. That pings us to collect the tray for restock. If you ever need us in the room—for any reason—you press and hold red. Otherwise, this stays your space.” He nodded again, the instruction manual steadier than his thoughts. He hated that his throat felt tight with relief. “Good?” Whitney asked. “Good,” he said, voice small but intact. She smiled. “I’ll be right back.” The door opened to the hum and closed again. He exhaled, alone. The room was just a room. He could breathe. He could also hear, suddenly, Declan O’Shaughnessy’s voice from twenty minutes ago: Crack it open and find something beating. He had not cracked open Atticus. He had landed Jem. He’d tell himself later why that mattered. For now: do the next right thing. A soft knock. Whitney’s hand nudged a slim teal tray through the door. “Here you go,” she said, voice light. “Take your time.” “Thank you,” he said. And meant it. His phone buzzed on the counter, the screen face up. Zach: bro where r u math test started 5 mins ago need somebody smart to cheat off lol…seriously though i need a 60 average help a brother from another mother and probably father out. Paul huffed a laugh that wasn’t one. Even with the free pass for second period, he didn’t want to be the rumor. Paul huffed a small laugh despite himself. I’m in a situation, he typed, then erased it. Soon, he sent instead. He hit the green button, washed his hands, and—distracted, rushing—left a bundled, used thing sitting atop the plastic bag instead of inside the bin. Inside, Whitney knocked, waited, then eased the door. “Paul?” No answer. She stepped in, noted the bag on the counter, and smiled at herself. First-timer. With a gloved hand she tied it, the practiced knot as automatic as breath. She paused half a second when she clocked the design—unexpected, younger than most students chose—and her face softened, not in pity but in annoyance at a world that made some things harder than they needed to be. “Huh,” she murmured, almost fond. “That’s a first. Adorable, actually.” She sealed the bin, washed her hands like a ritual, and buzzed the light off, leaving the room exactly as anonymous as he’d found it. The annex light softened as the sun continued to rise as he stepped back into the glass hall. His phone buzzed again—Amber: Where’d you go? Julia wants us for a five-minute pow-wow. Also… proud of you. Also also… we’re celebrating. He stared at the words, thumb hovering. Be right there, he typed, then erased it. Math test, he sent instead. A lie that was kinder than the truth. Or maybe just easier. Back in the cafeteria, Julia scanned the crowd from the stage edge. “Where’s Paul?” she asked, too brisk to be worried. “I need Jem and Scout and… Atticus.” Amber’s mouth worked. “Math test,” she said. “Second period. He bolted.” Declan nodded once, unreadable. Julia sighed. “Tomorrow, 7:30. Contracts, concept, blocking. Big news. Tell him.” She leaned in, lowered her voice. “And tell him Jem has to keep it together for Scout. That’s the job.” “I will,” Amber said. She looked at the message on her screen again. The lie glowed there like a small neon sign. In her mind, other scenes replayed: their dinner; his shorts and then the way he’d left the stage with his smile still on but his eyes somewhere else; the quiet between breaths. Her chest tightened. I’m watching you, Paul, she thought. I see you even when you don’t want to be seen. Outside, the October light slid a degree toward gold. Somewhere on campus, a bell rang, and Bishop’s Gate shifted from one rhythm to the next.

I was advised these tricks, so they aren't mine originally. But I've found them helpful. Write a section/ scene/ chapter, but don't post. Start working on the next, or even two more. Then go back a couple days later and read the first again.  Sometimes reading out loud in a quiet room helps, it forces you to slow down. This helps me find a lot of silly typos and the like. "You're far less to sk over when reading out" (see? skimming along, you probably read that differently than if you read it out loud, it was supposed to say, "You're far less likely to skip over mistakes when reading out loud."  hehehe) When writing a scene, if there's a particular phrase, or detail that I'm putting in to deliberately refer back to later, I keep a separate, running list of them off to the side. Then when writing the later scene/ chapter, I can quickly cut/ paste to weave that detail into the later scene. But that's more of a 'style' issue, that you may or may not care about. Anyway, I also find it helps with my plot if I work ahead. More than once I went back a day or so and 'ripped out old work', deciding on a slightly different direction. As I said, I'm not an expert, but these 'tricks' seem to help me, for what it's worth.

I wrote this for a contest, and am posting a cleaned up version here.  I meant to post it before Halloween, but had some computer issues over the weekend. This story takes place a few weeks after the end of Convergence.  You don't need to have read that story to enjoy this, but it involves characters from that book.   The Invention of Halloween. By Operational Systems   “Video library will stock your home theater with fifty such classics, including hits like Ryu, plus Jasper and Jinx.” In the darkened evening room, across from the colorful television describing the wonderful prizes for winning tonight’s game, was a normal looking family.  A husband, a wife, and their two children.  The tallest, Benjamin Young, crumpled his ten-foot body into his chair in a way that added wrinkles to his buttoned white shirt and khaki pants.  He had gotten too comfortable in that long period after work and still had not bothered to change to evening attire.  His glasses reflected the brightly colored DVD gift set while hiding that his attention had been lingering elsewhere. Across the room, on her own couch, was the mother, his recently married wife Victoria Montgomery-Young.  She was almost as tall as her husband, which thanks to her stronger posture and attitude, often saw him eye to eye.  She was of moderate beauty, being an older woman and mother, and was showing the first signs of pregnancy with her third child, an act that had caused her already glamorously sized breasts to swell against her loose dress.  She smiled, remembering her own contributions to ‘Ryu’, in her early days as a psychological consultant for the NOW Corporation. One could be forgiven if their vision glanced over the two smaller ones on the middle couch, thinking of them as children, completing the image of a normal family.  A young boy, a young girl, two parents, watching a gameshow together.  The boy, in his corduroy overalls and white shirt, was horizontal on the couch, laying in a bored fashion, legs comfortably stretching out behind his ‘sister’, who was sitting on the edge, enraptured by the television, her eyes shining as she imagined winning the home library of fifty digital video discs.  The boy’s glasses where a mirror of his father, Ben, as Oliver began pushing himself slightly up, reflecting the array of colors coming from the box that drew everyone’s attention.  The show, the latest fad that everyone had to watch, was reaching its conclusion.  Oliver was about to offer his critique of the program; in all the ways the program had disappointed him over the past hour. Plus, the prize was kind of dumb, who needed that many DVDs?  Doesn’t everyone have Netflix? What made this otherwise Rockwellian display twisted into something worthy of a Goyan nightmare, is that Oliver, at thirty-six, is the oldest person in the room.  His ‘sister’, Jennifer, was technically the youngest, but despite her thirty-one years, was stilled dressed like a woman of about thirty-one months of age. The television morphed back to the host, his gray-white hair a contrast to the younger man next to him.  As he spoke the screen split into two, with an artificial line separating three women, each of which appeared mostly identical in height and appearance.  “Now, back to our contestant, Peter, have you finally determined, which of these lovely ladies is your real neighbor, Claudia?” The Camera focused its full attention on the man he nervously looked across the stage at the three ladies, “I um… I uh think it’s.” Audience murmurs seemed to distract him.  Candidate A, no Candidate C. “It’s Cee!” Jennifer yelled, “It’s always Cee!” “Bee!”  Peter said, his face darting around confused.  “Final answer Bee!” The host gave a sad smile, almost delighting in the failure of the man, letting the audience in on the secret.  “Candidate Bee, step forward, are you Peter’s neighbor Claudia.” Bump – bump – bump brrrrrrr The woman ripped off her wig revealing a lush head of blonde to the buzzer and throwing aside the red circular glasses with her movement.  This was not his elderly woman, whose cat Peter had watched, who would bring him his paper and mail when they were put in her box.  Peter’s face dropped in horror, smacking his head in defeat.  The real Claudia, candidate A, brought her hands to her mouth in shock. “I’m sorry, Peter.  You let in the doppelganger.”  The host started, moving the mic from his hand and aiming it at the audience.  Like a prayer they called forth the show’s title. “That’s” “Not” “Your” “Neighbor!” “Well thank you Peter, thank you Claudia, you did a wonderful job tonight.  Everyone will go home with at least one prize, brought to you by Video Library, the brand new musical, ‘Naomi and Oliver Go to New Columbia’”,  As the screen shrunk to display an programing ad for the next show and local station, and the credits rolled up at lightning speed, the host quickly sped up his closing statement to the family on the couch, “And thank you for joining us on another episode of ‘That’s Not My Neighbor’, next week we have a very special episode, you won’t want to miss it, see you around folks.”   “I don’t know why we watch this; this is a silly premise for a television game show.”  Oliver started his rant, pushing himself up to address the entire room.  Jennifer turned her head, about to answer Oliver, and flicked her long brown hair in a way that drew attention to her remaining adult features.  She was like a flatter mirror of her sister across the room, Victoria, if Victoria was half as tall and wore a sparkling dark blue tiered tulle dress. “It’s because you are bad at the show.” The young lady offered. Oliver did not take the bait, “Of course I’m bad at this show.  You know how many neighbors I knew back on Earth?  Zero.  And that was great.  I couldn’t tell you their names, let alone their ages.  Nothing.  No, I focused on important things, like how to beat Bobby Flay.” Ben pushed himself to his full height in the chair, “That’s a horrible thing to say Oliver.  You at least know your neighbors, here, right?” Oliver’s eyes darted across the room, to the television, to Jennifer, to Victoria.  All six eyes were on him.  “Well, there’s Nigel.” Oliver got stuck after that, “And Nigel’s mommy and daddy.” Ben nodded, but Victoria could smell the tension on Oliver.  She was a shark, “And their names are?” What little knew the names of any grown-up? “I uh… then there’s that old couple across the street with the cute little dog.  It’s like a terrier, but it’s huge.”  He shook, and turned the topic, angry.  He had just lost at the TV show.  “Whatever, why does it matter?  It’s a stupid show I’m not going on it.” Ben’s face was sour, in a world like Amazonia, ‘it took a village’.  For the small ones they never knew when their parents might be taken from them, community was essential.  For the big ones, everyone worked together to maintain the collective lies that people under seven feet tall were incapable of growing up.  “Oliver, you’re telling me you never saw your neighbors back on Earth?” “Not even at Halloween.  Not one person for years.  I didn’t even bother buying candy last year.  Like I was free-ba…” Oliver stopped himself, as though not being ready to be an adult on Halloween was something to boast about.  Ben’s face seemed to weaken, and crumble under the weight of Oliver’s bravado.  Parts of him remembered Captain Alder’s childhood, the artificial memories of an alternate life on Earth, another life Oliver had gifted him with. Victoria shifted up from her sofa, and leaned forward, “What’s hollow wiener?” Jennifer, her sister who had never been allowed to grow up, was entirely focused in this moment, her eyes on her adopted brother-nephew for more clues.  Oliver had said the ‘C’ Word.  Oliver had hinted there was an entire day of the year built around the ‘C’ word. Oliver took a deep breath and wiggled excited, “That’s the best thing you could say.  Of course!  You guys wouldn’t have it here.  Finally, I am free.  I hate Halloween.  It’s the worst holiday ever invented, and I come from an Earth with Valentines Day.” Jennifer rebuked him, “But what’s this about candy!”  How could candy-day be that bad? Oliver misunderstood her question, going straight to the explanation, “Yup, everyone buys candy and then the kids ring your doorbell and ask for it and your entire night is ruined because you have to get up like every five minutes to give them candy.   All the children dress up like monsters, or superheroes or whatever.”  He didn’t stop there, pouring all his hate into his words. “And I guess I don’t mind when it’s just a kid’s thing, but like, the worst are the adults that get into it.  The stupid parties, the dressing up, the horror movies.”  He chuckled, “yeah, I guess I’m glad you guys don’t have it here.  This makes sense, you’ve got babies, and you’ve got grown-ups, no one is the right age to go out trick-or-treating.  This is perfect.  I’m like the ultimate Scrooge McDuck of Halloween, and I’ve found my vault to go swimming in.  You guy are not missing anything.” Ben gripped the edge of his sofa, giant fingers digging into stiff cloth as he allowed his adopted son to go through his rant.  Halloween may be the greatest holiday Earthlings had invented after Christmas and the Fourth of July.  Everyone could enjoy it!  The young, the old, there was fun but also the frights.  It was an excuse to let oneself relax in fear, to understand it and grow past it. “Except the candy, and the parties, and the movies,” and her eyes and tone shifted, the part she most wanted, “and the dressing up?”  Jennifer looked at him like he was a home DVD set with a thousand videos. “No!  Children go around begging for candy and there’s these tacky decorations that make sounds, and people take it too far.  And the parties are lame, for the young ones it’s all pseudo-horror.  Like, ‘close your eyes and feel this’.  And you stick your hands into a mess of cold food and pretend you’re touching eyeballs and brains.  It’s just spaghetti in a different form.” He dismissed the horror genre as well, “The films!  Who wants to go and be scared?  Who wants to have a bad time, and that’s assuming it’s a good movie.  And they’re not like the horror movies in my day”  Oliver hadn’t actually seen the latest round of horror movies that were the only films making money back on Earth.  He knew they were different, but it felt silly saying, ‘these new ones are about things, and are not like excuses to murder teenagers’.  Things weren’t always better ‘back in the day’. Ben knew better.  Oliver had a habit of ranting for the purpose of ranting.  As if he enjoyed the game rather than seeking some truthful balance, “What’s wrong with carving pumpkins, or telling ghost stories.”  He pushed his body up, then leaned over towards Jennifer, “you draw a picture on a pumpkin, like a silly face, and then your mommy or daddy cuts it out, and we put a candle in it and we put the pumpkin outside for everyone to see.  It’s called a jack-o-lantern.” Victoria offered a pragmatic take, “That sounds like a way to get some more use out of the shell.  Pumpkin pies from scratch are a bit of a mess.” Oliver was in his zone, for the first time in his life he could rant on a topic without any pushback at all, without being called a boring old curmudgeon for disliking fun.  “The worst part is the kids think that like this is a day to look forward to.  Halloween is about control.  Without Halloween, the teenagers would be rioting.  So, the grown-ups got together and came up with stupid activities for them to do.  Bob for apples, march in a parade, stay up late at the dance, go door to door and get candy.  Trick or Treat used to be a threat, now it’s completely stripped of any meaning.  Even when I was young there was still that potential, to like egg a house or smash mailboxes, but now?  Wave a bit of sugar in front of a child and they lose all sense of mischief or independence.” That was enough for Victoria.  Her eyes widened with possibility.  She imagined the littles she worked with, dressed as lions and tigers and bears, walking up door to door, ringing a bell, begging for candy.  Their Amazonian neighbors looming over them, each getting a rare opportunity to cosset on their cute outfits. She could see them marching down the street, only to be jumped upon by a skeleton or a ghost, their tight little diapers flooding, turning yellow in fright.  The autumn evening dragging shadows, cold wind blowing through empty trees, branches shaped like Amazon arms reaching towards them.  The psychological terror reinforcing their new dependencies, as their regressed minds struggled with the imagined horrors. “Oliver, that interpretation of history is a bit…” Ben, the professional historian struggled to pull half-forgotten memories, vague ideas of eves of holy days, when the dead came to dance, and witches spoke with devils.  The truth of where the holiday came from did not matter.  Ben wanted Oliver to meet his neighbors, in a safe way, he wanted to see Jennifer smile with joy as her bucket filled with candy as a reward for going outside their boundaries.  He wanted to carve over the traces these children would draw on pumpkins, delicately transforming their drawings into something spooky yet also inviting.  He wanted his children to have fun he knew he once had, to feel free to explore something dangerous or scary, because deep down they knew they were safe and protected – protected because of him.  It was a strange selfishness, to want to help his children grow.  Littles were not supposed to grow-up, why would they ever need to practice this? “And don’t get me started on the candy.  You get these tiny little things, and that’s the good scenario.  Sometimes people try to mess with you and give you an apple.  You walk for five miles to get ten bucks of chocolate you’re still going to be eating until February.  Bah-Humbug.”  Mr. Scrooge finished his rant. If not asking politely for a handout from adults, how else would you prefer littles to obtain their candy?  Perhaps they should spend hours working at the treadmill? Ben had heard enough, he nodded to Victoria, their wordless connection of a look was enough to achieve consensus.  They were on the same page, so he cast his reel towards his adopted daughter. “Jennifer, if you were to dress up, what disguise would you wear?  What do you want to become?” “A princess,” her answer was too fast.  She shook her head.  She could be anything.  Even something naughty.  She looked at Oliver, then back to Ben, then her older sister.  Was this a safe place to explore her desires?  “Wait, I can be anything?  No limits?” Oliver was oblivious, not seeing the larger plans of the bigs.  Their hidden game was twice as far away from him as his own height was to theirs.   “Dressing up as ‘sexy’ versions of things is the dumb thing adults do.  It’s the most infantile part of the holiday.  Like it’s one thing if kids go and have some fun.  But adults just asking for it if they celebrate it.  I swear if it was done here, it’d be seen as a sign of immaturity.  You guys would form pogroms and put an end to ….”  He would not be allowed to complete his complaint. Which was good, there were things the Amazons did you were not allowed to talk about. “A witch.  Like… in the movie.  Like Oz.  I want to be black and green.” This was it.  This was her chance to both play and be rewarded for it.  Like going to the play preserve but she could be anything she could imagine.  Not be limited to something stupid like a nurse or a teacher, but real power.  The power to scare the little girls at daycare and steal their dogs and eat their candy and fly and send monkeys to attack people she didn’t like.  A chance to be evil, to kiss the devil, to frolic in a graveyard with only a full moon to guide her steps. But just for one day. Then she could go back to being the good girl. The parents locked eyes, a simple enough costume, they could even make it a theme, as a family.  They would need the cooperation of the other grown-ups, but once they could see it in action, the parade of littles, each wrapped up tightly, they’d get it.  It was a chance for each parent to put their children on display and for the entire neighborhood to enjoy them.  This was big.  They were at the front of a wave, pushing something forward that would change the lives of billions. Their heads turned to Oliver.  They just needed the buy-in of an obstinate little whose heart for the fantastic was three times too small. “And you, our little munchkin, what are you going to go as?  Maybe the lion?”  Victoria sent out the first hint. Oliver dismissed it, “What!  I’m not doing Halloween.  I’ll stay home.  It’s fine.  Someone has to stay and give out candy” Jennifer was betrayed by her adopted brother.  Halloween was going to be fun, but Oliver took a bucket of cold water and threw it in her face.  She would have melted, but Ben came in for the save. “How about the Wizard?  I bet you can’t decide.  So many good options.  A tin-man?” “I’m not going as any of those.”  Oliver crossed his arms obstinate, as if he had a choice in the matter.  He was still operating on Earth principles, where Halloween was opt-in.  (Why would anyone opt out?). He might as well have been defying gravity.  He was playing by a new set of rules. Victoria gave a wicked smile and brought herself forward, “Well, you can always dress up as Dorothy.” Jennifer couldn’t contain her laughter; she let out a quick burst of a chuckle that came from deep in the throat.  The image of Oliver, wearing French braided pigtails was a bit too much for her.  She imagined pulling at his hair and chasing him as he ran in ruby slippers.  She coughed and managed to rub in the final barb, “Maybe the Gale’s will let you take their dog.  You can complete the look.”   * * * Oliver did not have to try on wigs or wear a dress, but he did have to bear it for each step of the ritual on the countdown to Halloween.  Instead of television after dinner, Ben and Victoria supervised as Oliver and Jennifer had to draw and cut out various Halloween appropriate window decorations from scraps of paper.  Oliver struggled with the dull small scissors he had been given, barely able to put pressure into the thick cellulose paper to slowly make a decorative link of bats. “Not like that, that’s a kitten, and she’s sleeping.”  Ben tried to correct Jennifer’s first attempts to get into the spirit of the holiday.  “It’s more like, a stray cat that has been frightened.”  Ben scrunched down but brought up his hands “Like… Hiss” “I get it,” Jennifer tried.  She wanted to draw kitties in various delightful poises.  Stray cats were mean and ugly.  The kittens would have to do, but he found she was more cooperative on making the ghosts that would hang from the tree in the front yard.  While they had seen a buzz of activity around the house, this was the act that brought the attention of the neighbors. “It’s a little holiday,” Ben explained, “we thought we’d bring it back.”  Henry and Emily Gale were amused as they walked their tiny dog across the street.  Now they were close enough they got a chance to look at the various kittens and bats in the windows and could see the sharp features on the hand carved faces on the pumpkins near the front door.  There was a ritual happening here, but the symbols meant nothing to them. Oliver was not exactly in a festive spirit, “Yeah this is basically Kwanza, but for white people.” “Oliver!”  Ben hollered, just a warning yell.  Technically there was nothing offensive in what he had said, but it was clear that Oliver’s intent was to be a Grinch.   The little shrugged and handed him another ‘ghost’ to hang from the tree. Henry Gale looked at the small ones in their jackets, protecting them from the same fall wind that gave life to the paper ghosts that danced on tree limbs.  Green Leaves had since turned to orange and brown, and Jennifer would become distracted by bundling the fallen leaves into small hills.  Henry moved in for a, not a whisper, but a change in tone that is often used by adults when they want to talk about something grown-up while ignoring or playing down what they were saying in front of children. “How does the visiting thing work?  With Oliver and Jennifer.  They come up and ask for candy?  That’s it?  We’re supposed to give them a candy bar?” Ben shook his head, “No, the point is they wear a disguise.  They come to your door in a costume, and they ring your doorbell, and say the magic words – trick or treat.  Then you give them a piece of candy.  A full bar is a bit too much.  Then they go and visit the next house, and the next, and the next.” “I don’t get it.” Henry said, pushing back a bit of gray hair, glancing between Oliver and Jennifer and Ben.  “That’s a lot of walking, and a lot of candy.  It seems bad for their teeth.” What wasn’t there to get?  Ben had left a note in the mailbox of each neighbor around the block.  “It’s one of those things you have to see, but once you do, everyone will want to do it too.” Emily pulled at the dog, and then lifted him up into her arms protectively, “And all this ghost stuff seems a bit, ungodly?  They could get nightmares.” “It’s like a purge,” Ben started, “Maybe, Victoria can explain the psychology better, but you build up this fright and then you release it, and you’re better for it.  You just have to know what their limits are.  Oliver thinks he’s not afraid of anything, but Jennifer… anyway there’s plenty of safe parts, like carving jack-o-lanterns from pumpkins, stuff all ages can enjoy.” The orange faced concoctions where the entire talk of the town.  The neighbors would look out their window and instead of a darkened street there were these faces, casting shadows and protective light across a dreary normal landscape.  This was festive and of the season in a way that felt more substantial than the harvest reefs that decorated some of the other doors. Carving them had been a challenge, with children imagining fanciful curls and circles, and elaborate landscapes across a pumpkin canvas that exceeded the size of their heads.  Ben’s unskilled hands forced their attempt to simple squares and triangles.  Still in those shapes could an entire child’s imagination be found.  Together they spent hours drawing, carving, husking, the massive squashes, just to turn an unwanted shell of a fruit into a temporary candle stick holder. “But if things go right,” Ben started, “it’ll be something all the littles will look forward to next year.   Imagine the whole block of children visiting each house, each one dressed up, laughing and frolicking and all the fun they’ll have.” They shook their heads and continued their walk.  They could not see it.  All those babies just… knocking on doors?  Asking for candy?  Dressing up?  It was ridiculous. Oliver did not bother to chime in.  Instead, he passed the last artificial ghost to his dad.  He left it to himself, “And if things go wrong, then it will become an annual tradition the littles will come to fear.” * * *   One strange nicety of the Amazonian calendar is that the tenth of Brumaire would always fall on the last day of the décade, which meant there was no school or work.  A soft sprinkling of white snow came down in the morning but could not stick to the ground for more than a few minutes.  The clocks struck zero PM and the children began their transformation.  Victoria took Jennifer to the bathroom and carefully applied makeup to face.  Oliver’s outfit was simpler – an oversized shirt, a hand-me-down from Ben, a floppy hat, and husks and stalks they had gathered from a neighboring cornfield.  They had, to Oliver’s insistence, not spent a dime’ on the outfit.  That meant they had more budget for Jennifer’s getup, and he found himself looking at the clock waiting for his adopted sister to complete her transformation. She came down the stairs like Cinderella, each step along those giant platforms accentuating legs under the dress.  Now Oliver understood.  The sexy version of a witch’s outfit is just a witch’s outfit on the body of an attractive woman.  Her emerald appearance did nothing to hag her face, instead acting as a hint of the exotic. “You ready for this?”  Oliver started.  This was the moment that everything would change. “You need a jacket.”  A giant voice said, Victoria hit a tone like his mother, he said nothing as a light cloth was thrust upon him, and expert hands pulled it up.  She settled on a spot midway that left his outfit exposed but could offer some protection from the wind.  Her massive face came in close and whispered. She quietly asked him, as though his dignity mattered, “Are you wearing?” It was unnecessary.  Normally she would have asked if he had gone, so she could mark it on his potty chart – an eternal tracker of daily shame he had inherited shortly upon entering his dimension.  Oliver was not as big a man as he used to be.  He wore the replacement underwear because it was expected for an adopted little to wear.  No one had to know if he never used it. The four exited the house into the last hours of evening Sun and made their journey to the first house, each carrying an empty bucket.  The Amazons lingered at the edge of the sidewalk as the two littles marched across the black drive, avoiding piles of newly felled leaves and with difficulty climbed up the porch to the house.  Jennifer went to knock, but Oliver stopped her, standing on the tips of his shoes and pushed in a hidden doorbell.  Ancient unused chimes wound up, and beckoned the inhabitants to the door. She had short hair, almost sun bleached or aged white mixed with brown, and a flowery dress that was out of season.  Ben had warned her of the parade, and still she had forgotten guests would be coming, with no effort made for appearance.  It was thus a shock to her to see two littles dressed in theater disguise, staring up to her, with small empty silver buckets to each side. For a moment she feared they had come to rob her, but then she remembered she was twice their height, which was better than facing down two of these small ones. Oliver waited for Jennifer to say it, this holiday was for her, but she was fumbling her line, the understudy stepped up. “Trick or Treat,” he loudly voiced.  He had the practice of doing this a thousand times before, even if it was from a quarter century past.  He held up his bucket while stepping back enough from the door to let her deliver the goods. The giant frowned, “Treat?”  Her face scrunched with a dreary thought: ‘are the union workhouses not in operation’.  But the look on their faces, and their cute outfits, were enough to spring to action.  She turned and went to her candy dish she kept on a high shelf. Oliver shrugged and helped Jennifer, “Now if she doesn’t give us candy, we get to tee-pee her house.  That’s the trick part.”  She nodded.  It was good to learn toilet paper had other purposes.  This was a transaction.  The bigs got to see the littles debase themselves, and they could give us some candy, or they can face our wrath. She returned with a glass dish, like the kind kept at a coffee table.  Her giant hands took a single wrapped candy, and she dropped one into each bucket.  The gold covered confection collected light in contrast to their dull steel pails.  It made a plump sound upon hitting the bottom of the empty container.  At just over half an ounce of hardened caramel, to Jennifer it might as well have been gold.  Oliver was unsure.  One part felt he should comment on her miserly interpretation of holiday generosity.  Speaking up would not be consistent with his curmudgeonly attitude.  She was just ‘free-balling’, using whatever sweets she had on hand to make do.  He was ready to turn around and leave when a small voice entered the foyer. “Mommy!  Who is there?” He waddled in, thick diaper covered by a single shade blue sleeper.  His dark hair had become unkempt from his evening bath, and one hand clutched protectively at a plastic dinosaur, a brontosaur or perhaps even a plesiosaur.  He did not care for the newcomers, but he knew about the candy dish.  The candy dish that was always out of reach; it was forbidden. Oliver had tried to invite young Daniel to the club, but the other little had watched a bit too many cartoons in his retirement here on Amazonia.  Oliver guessed he was about twenty months old upstairs.  Daniel’s mom made him stay home and watch as the ‘bigger boys’ got to play on bikes and go on adventures.  Oliver hated that his mission forced him to differentiate among the oppressed classes, and he hated that Daniel had to be tortured into thinking Oliver was getting the better end of the bargain.  His mom would use it to build a grudge against Oliver and use the ‘older boy’ as a contrast for Daniel’s own failings. The man dropped his dinosaur, it squeaked on hitting the ground, and his fingers found their way out of his mouth long enough for recognition to take place, and he dropped them to his side. “These are your neighbors.  Jennifer is dressed up like a wicked witch, and baby Oliver is dressed like a hobo.”  The woman informed him. Oliver could see the recognition.  They were not eyes looking towards freedom, or adventure.  The other young man, broken by hypnotics and toys and diaper changes, knew what was going on.  A deep buried memory from his own past, on a world as far from Amazonia as Oz is, from the first time he was a child.  He wished he had the magic in him to go back, to return home by clicking his heels, but mommy insisted on him wearing soft little booties. “Halloween.  You’re … trick or treating.”  He was suddenly the tallest small person in the room.  Oliver wanted to run away. “That’s right baby,” She answered, “Doesn’t it look exciting, maybe when you’re older we can do it too.”  She didn’t intend it to be a dismissal.  For a moment she really believed Daniel could one day grow up enough to be taken door to door and ask for candy.  Unfortunately, she used it in the same language she used when he asked her to be potty trained or eat real food. Oliver and Daniel locked eyes, each knew the other knew.  Each knew the other knew that the other knew. Oliver hadn’t known Daniel wasn’t from around here, either, but that look was enough.  Daniel knew that Oliver had chosen to embrace this stupid tradition and wanted to be a stupid little kid.  Oliver hadn’t traveled to this dimension to liberate men like him; he came here because he wanted to be a little boy again and not have to be an adult back on his own planet.  Oliver probably wanted to wear the diapers too. No words were shared, just mutual understanding and disrespect.  For what felt like minutes Oliver was aware he was dressed up like a child, going around begging for candy like a child.  He was only liberated as the door closed as ‘mommy’ urged Daniel to wave goodbye.  Jennifer had been oblivious of the exchange, she skipped and showed Ben her treasure, while Oliver walked to his adopted mother with his head down.  Her large arm came up behind him and rubbed his hair, pressing him closer to her.  She knew it was hard, the world was sometimes too big for him. “I’m going to take Jen back; she needs to go potty.”  Ben explained, lifting the girl in giant arms.  His longer legs could sprint home and be back in minutes. To Oliver it was one more defeat. One house. They had gone to exactly one house and she needed to go back.  They were not going to beat any records tonight.  It might take them hours to go to each house on just their own block. “We’ll wait here.”  Victoria answered for both her and Oliver.  Once her husband was out of range, she turned to Oliver.  A strong wind ripped through the trees; in the distance Oliver could see their ghosts struggling to hold on to branches.  One of their risen dead had fallen and surrendered back to the Earth.  Her giant hands found his jacket and zipped it up higher. “Not too bad.”  She started. It was awful.  It was far worse than he imagined, and all he got was one stupid candy. “No,” he answered. He stared at the bucket before lifting it, “Can I eat my candy?”  He needed something in his mouth to distract himself. “No.” Somehow, she knew the rules of the holiday even though she had never experienced it.  As though she could derive it from first principles.  You don’t get to eat any candy until you go home. The two lingered near the neighbor’s tree, the cul-de-sac street empty except for the distant bark of a dog.  Oliver said nothing, but stared off, as though counting the long hours ahead for him of walking, of personally meeting all the local grown-up oppressors, all the men and women he was secretly fighting against, and get to see them, know them as not just generic bad-guys, but as families he was wanting to disrupt – to cure. Oliver was distant, bothered by what he saw with Daniel.  Victoria began to probe.  “How do you beat Bobby Flay?” “What?”  Oliver turned his head up.  He was still uncomfortable being around Victoria.  She saw him for what he was, and what he wanted her to see him as, and sometimes she saw him in ways that were disturbing.  She could see Oliver for who he could become. “The Iron Chef himself.  You have a strategy for beating him?” Oliver had boasted he could do that.  Somewhere in his brain he had dedicated too many clock cycles to this, “So the trick of the show, is that you need to choose something he doesn’t really make that often, like a foreign food, but” and his voice raised on this, “you can’t choose something so weird the judges haven’t had it.  If it’s too unfamiliar they’ll just default to Bobby because it will taste good and yours tasting more correct won’t save you.” She nodded along, this was better than when Jennifer talked about what she learned at school.  She rarely got to talk to her adopted son about something he cared about.  She too had spent many clock cycles thinking of how she would win the ‘neighbor game’ that had become a weekly special. “Oh, and you can’t pick Italian, or American South West, so like no hamburgers, no Mexican.  But everything else is good.   Me, I’d go with yoshoku.  Western style Japanese.  His biggest loss ever was making tempura, and it was not close.  I think if I practiced, I could get good at yoshoku.  It’s like half the dishes are about using Ketchup in places you shouldn’t.” “Yōshoku?”  She asked, “You’ll forgive me I’m not familiar with any of the words you said there.” “It’s like foods we eat, but with an Asian twist.  Like spaghetti but made with ketchup instead of,” Oliver suddenly became aware that ketchup was also a tomato sauce, “tomato gravy,” he offered as an alternative. “Hmm, there’s one problem Oliver.  You think the Iron Chef, the man who took on all of Yamatoa,” She let the thought linger, “who had an entire show around making breakfast foods.” Her mouth curled, hands came down trapping his shoulders, “Can’t make an omelet and some rice?” Sometimes all it takes is to say aloud the thing you had been thinking for it all to come crashing down.  His mother had just broken him. For years he had thought he had secret technology, some special way to win and everyone else was stupid.  He had stumbled upon one small trick, put all his hope into it, and quickly learned he was out of his game.  Now he was back to square one.  He bowed his head in defeat, then looked at the dozen houses around the block he would soon be visiting.  The scale seemed impossible.  Saving the world seemed impossible.  How do you change an entire world? Victoria had worked with enough littles; they were prone to this ego trap.  They spend years thinking they had grown up, that they earned their place at the adult table.  Oliver thought he had everything figured out, but he doesn’t know anything at all. Her boy was vulnerable, he had invested into some stupid television show, and it let him imagine he was like a superhero.  Sure, he couldn’t cook as good as Mr. Flay, who could, but he could still beat him if he was clever enough.  He could beat the grown-ups here too; all he needed was to know the secret words and came up with a plan. She could use this moment to ask for anything.  She easily could open a new front on her attempts to flatten her adopted son into her perfect baby.  She could him ask about Earth, learn more about their defenses, or ask about his silly club, finally figure out what the boys were up to when they rode around on their bikes and huddled in the club house. But beating her adopted son wasn’t the goal.  There were no points here, no game.  Just her son, being confused and sad at being forced to take part in doing something his parents wanted to do, he did not give a damn about.  She chose a different question. “Oliver, why don’t you like Halloween?  It seems harmless.  What really bothers you about it?” Oliver spoke so fast, he gave an answer he didn’t even know was in there, “I was eight.” Littles and their childhood traumas.  She was well versed with how pressures to grow up while also feeling the burdens from society that allowed them to say little.  The problems would carve their brains into personality and habits far better and stronger than any hypnosis she had invented. “My dad wanted, he wanted me to go further and farther than I ever had before.  He wanted me to go into the neighborhoods that were across the street.  I mean, not like this,” he pointed to the simple residential road.  “I mean it wasn’t that big of a boundary, I crossed it for school and for biking, but I typically just kept to the houses on the west wide of the major road.  Accessing across the street would be double the haul.  Potentially more.” She rubbed his shoulders, letting her warmth protect from the coming evening cold. “So I went across the street, took the time cross at the light, already loaded down with more candy than I’ve ever had, more than I needed, and started going house to house.  I didn’t know these people, not like my other neighbors.  It was like visiting a foreign country.  And the people on this side of the street took Halloween seriously, it was, a contest, who could dress up their house into the ultimate horror and demonic entity.” Oliver chuckled, “We got maybe a block in before, like Jennifer, I had to go to the bathroom.  I kept up appearances for a bit, all that build up, all that hype of getting the most candy ever, and poor logistics on my part - I was running back home.” “Did you wet yourself?  Is that why?”  Victoria politely began asking.  She had a one-track mind. “What?  No. I made it home, it hurt, made a mess of things getting my whole outfit off just to go, but the whole rest of the night was just ruined.  I had reached a limit and couldn’t go beyond it.  Then next year I just … didn’t want to go out anymore.  I didn’t even want to watch horror films anymore, something dad and I used to bond with when I was smaller.  Is that weird?  It was like ‘Scream’ came out and showed how dumb the whole genre was and where do you go from there?” Victoria pushed back and looked at the tiny man.  Bits of straw had lingered on her dress.  Oliver had a way of seeming like a kid one moment, and then a tiny old person the next.  He had a spirit of a man a century older than himself, and imagination of a boy decades in the other direction.  These contradictions should not exist in one person.  The two stood there, next to the leafless tree, wind rustling their clothes.  She needed him to choose. Victoria knelt and stared at Oliver in the face and hand came up, gently touching his smooth cheeks, “Oliver, I can’t fix what was wrong with your past, but I can make you feel better about the here and now.  I’m going to ask you to do something, it’ll make you feel better.” Oliver said nothing, his eyes stared at the candy and then came back to meet the eyes of his adopted mother.  He sensed no duplicity.  He relaxed and waited. “Pee your pants.” Confusion and protest started in his brain, but nothing came out of his mouth.  Not even a laugh.  Her command was not hypnotic, she couldn’t control Oliver, it was advice. “Right now, right here.  You’re holding a tiny bit in; I can sense it.  Just relax, close your eyes, pretend this tree is a urinal.  I know you are wearing a pull-up, trust it.  Trust me on this.” Oliver was now conscious of the tight white padding that cupped his groin, the cloth gripping tightly under his hips, protecting his thighs from any leaks.  “I’ve never done it … in public.” “With the outfit no one can tell,” she placed a piece of straw in his overly large waistband, his disguise would easily cover up any expansion. His complaint of privacy felt shallow.  He and she were alone.  There was no one outside.  Not even a passing car.  Oliver shivered, closing his eyes and hugging his elbows.  He had never been given permission before.  With a blink he was staring straight at brown bark, his mommy hovering over him, protecting him from unsightly onlookers. He took a long breath, ignoring the cold, the giant above him becoming invisible as the world dissolved into an imaginary bathroom.  In his mind he wasn’t wearing a diaper, he was standing, ready to release. Warm liquid bounced off cloth like interiors, drenching his equipment, a barely audible sprinkling coming through heavy clothes.  The warmth was a shield against a roaring wind that snuck around tree and Amazon and prickled his exposed skin.  The pleasurable, somewhat sticky liquid lingered around the edges of his compressed cloth, threatening to leak into his thighs and legs, but the pull-up performed, drawing the foul liquid in, leaving just a slight residue and moist environment in his groin.  The heat would remain for minutes.  What had been a thin protective underwear, grew three sizes.  Oliver rubbed the front of his pants instinctually after finishing, the added bulk still barely visible under the loose-fitting pants of his costume.  A strange warmth lingered in his hands that felt dirty, like his brief contact with his pants picked up a stink. When he opened his eyes, there was a piece of caramel in front of him, unwrapped and ready for consumption.  She would not comment on the act or draw attention to it. She wasn’t trying to trick her adopted son, but sometimes you just needed to face your fears in a safe environment, experience it full on, just to realize that they aren’t as bad as you think they are.  Sometimes a trick could also be a treat. Oliver took the caramel and slowly sucked on it in his mouth, which given its enlarged size, he was able to draw out the sugar over minutes, wordlessly enjoying the candy even after Ben and Jennifer returned.  Then, around the neighborhood Oliver and Jennifer went that night.  Not one person commented on the added bulk below his disguise.  It became a faded dim dampness that had no bearing on what he was doing, or on how people judged him.  The diaper is a kind of secret technology, one that would let him pretend to be one thing, while being something entirely else on the inside.

@Baby Jemma Very much agree on the self inserts! I do think it’s possible to do it well, but I tend to stay away from it as I doubt I could. I enjoy the challenge of thinking from someone’s perspective that isn’t mine. Thank yoooou. 🙇‍♀️ It does make sense that basic fundamentals are ultimately more important than the ABDL flavor / subject matter. That reminds me of this quote: “a good movie can survive a bad soundtrack but a good soundtrack cannot save a bad movie", but more like “a good story can survive lack of ABDL but ABDL content cannot save a bad story” 😝   @WBDaddy Yes yes yes on re-reading. It’s hard to stuff down excitement once it’s done. I do re-read as I go, and I think typically re-read once before I post, but I think I get that “glazed over” effect, where I know what I mean so I’m not looking specifically at the word choice or pacing, because I know what I want it to look like in my head. I suspect forcing myself to wait, sleep on it, read it the next day or a few days later will dramatically help with that.. I’ll have to give it a try. I am struggling with the balance of ‘backstory / buildup vs the big cheese’ lol. Like how fast to get to the meat of it — how boring might this lead up be, etc. I do see your point about Mabel, even if I have an answer in my head, it didn’t translate (or wasn’t hinted at well enough) in the writing and I thank you for that exact example!  I will 100% figure out a better cadence to avoid speeding writing and easy mistakes. Thank you!!! 💕 @widdlemikey Goodness, yes, yes, yes. I had to edit a chapter I posted twice having caught mistakes (despite having re-read the damn thing twice) after the effect. Very frustrating, but a very good reminder. I should have a little stick on my monitor — “PROOF-READ DAMNIT” 😆 Thank you if you do read and no worries if you don’t! I appreciate the comment all the same!! 

Hi there. I've only started writing for DailyDiapers myself. My first one was 'How Lucky can you get'.  ( https://www.dailydiapers.com/board/index.php?/topic/93929-how-lucky-can-you-get/ ) I only bring this up, because along the way, I had several people give me some helpfull comments. I can't tell you how helpful they were, and encouraging. I haven't read yours yet, but I will soon. In the mean time, while it might sound trite, proof-read, proof-read, proof-read. I had to read mine several times and I'd still find places where the wrong word, or misspelled word crept in. I know it's boring, but for me, reading something with a lot of obvious grammatical mistakes or such, takes away from the joy of reading. Now, I'll go read your stories and give you my 'two cents' for what it's worth.