Boys of Halloween Past
The Year: Ninth Grade
“Kat, some kid just knocked over an entire tray of drinks. Can you help with cleanup?” asks my Haunted House of Hamburgers’ manager, Chris.
He’s balancing two trays of haunted hamburger sliders.
At the Haunted House of Hamburgers, every food is spooky.
These hamburgers have skulls burned into the buns.
“Got it!” I jump off the ice machine in the kitchen where I’ve been taking my break and head for the mop and cleanup rags. I’m going to need a ton.
You’d think a Halloween-themed restaurant would be a seasonal thing, but Mystic Hollow is Halloween-themed year-round.
People around here can’t get enough of it.
There are Halloween animatronics in a pretend playground out front, different scary movies playing on each TV, and old-timey portraits with eyes that follow customers around the room.
This year, Chris added a soundtrack of thunder with strobe lights in the ceiling, and the “lightning” flashes always catch me by surprise.
At fifteen, I am too young to waitress, but after my begging, Chris finally broke down and hired me to bus tables this past summer.
I’ve been determined to make enough money to buy the latest MacBook after I heard Zach talking about how it’ll make his study guides “next level.” When I get it first, it’ll supercharge my studying instead, and I’ll kick off my high school career by ranking first in the grade.
Except lately, I haven’t been keeping tabs on my earnings.
I’ve been asking for shifts for a different reason.
Justin Tremble groans when he sees me with the mop.
“Oh no, you’re the sacrifice for table five?
” He’s holding his order pad in one hand and a dish of half-eaten tomato caprese bites—made to look like googly eyeballs—in the other.
“Let me put in this order, and I’ll help you.
Don’t want you drowning in that spill, seriously. ”
My heart soars. Justin wants to help me again.
He’s always offering to help me refill the toilet paper in the bathrooms, bus my tables when the restaurant is so packed I can’t keep up, and last week, when a customer started yelling at me that their order was taking too long (something I have nothing to do with), he jumped in and defended me.
Plus, he’s two years older, and the only high schooler (aside from my sister) who I really know.
So of course I’m in love with him.
I stare after him as he heads to deliver the order.
He cuts above the crowd, the sort of broad shoulders that rival our quarterback’s.
Because it’s his job, Justin is extroverted—he lingers at the table, laughing and joking, just enough for me to spot his dimples.
When a girl asks him about the buttons on his work apron, he shows the cheesy blinking Halloween buttons off with pride.
He’s nice, he’s gorgeous, and he loves Halloween.
In other words, he’s perfect for me.
And since it’s the most romantic night of the year for me—us—I’m going to tell him tonight and make this our first of many Halloweens together.
In that moment, Justin looks over at me, and that smile, it isn’t about his job. It’s just for me.
Goose bumps race down my back as thunder booms through the speakers.
Focus, Kat! I tell myself, heading to the truly massive spill.
Cleaning it up doesn’t take long because my mind is elsewhere.
I’ve decided I’m going to write Justin a note about how I feel and ask him out to eat somewhere other than Haunted House of Hamburgers.
As I finish with the spill, Chris gestures for me to bus a nearby table.
Justin is taking orders at the table next to it, and when he finishes, he stops by, his pen tucked behind his ear.
Thankfully, I’m almost done clearing off the table.
“Need me to send out a lifeboat?”
I don’t even have to force my laugh. “I made it back to shore.” I hold up the bus tub as proof and pray I don’t have any ketchup on my apron.
My eyes move to the order pad in Justin’s apron pocket, and I wonder: Is there a spell I can try to get that pad?
There are plenty of ways to sacrifice items in a diner.
With no tables to bus for a minute, I make my move.
My mom has been sitting me down for weekly witching lessons, and while I still haven’t managed to do much of anything, I’m starting to understand that I have to give something to get something.
Maybe it has to be something meaningful, not just something that represents the item.
I duck into the bag and pull my friendship diary out of my bag. I pull out a page and write my message, my hands shaking: I’ve been wanting to say something to you for a long time: I like you. Any chance you’d want to get dinner sometime. Anywhere but here? —Kat And then I approach the deep fryer.
“Sorry, Laney,” I mutter. Then I hold it tight, thinking as hard as I can: Make my note appear in his pocket.
And I let go. The diary hisses when it meets the hot oil. Before my eyes, it begins to disintegrate, flaking into nothingness.
“What are you doing!” comes a voice.
I startle and then groan. Ashton, Chris’s super-annoying thirteen-year-old nephew, is standing there, hands on his hips.
“Nothing, Ashton,” I say.
“I definitely saw you put your book in the deep fryer,” Ashton says, his voice nearing screeching levels that only bats could hear. “I’m going to tell my uncle—”
He steps over, but the book is gone.
I hold my breath. Did the spell work?
“Like I said,” I say, trying to hide how breathless I suddenly feel. “Nothing.”
And then I wait.
I clean a table where a kid puked after stuffing too many fries in his mouth.
I deal with Tom Callabra’s table after they have a ketchup fight.
I pass Justin a thousand times. He says, “Hi,” “How’s it going?” and “T-minus one hour till shift’s over,” but nothing about my note. I start to feel sick to my stomach. Even if he doesn’t like me, he wouldn’t just ignore the note, would he?
As I am bussing my final table, staring out the window and fantasizing about introducing Justin to my parents, I glance out the front window and there he is.
My heart drops. His arm is around Emma Lansing, a senior at Mystic Hollow High.
When he catches me staring, he raises a hand in a sarcastic salute.
They head to Emma’s car and she turns, giving me a dirty look.
I focus on the table, trying to hide how hurt I feel. Would he really read my note and not say anything? I’m not sure what to think. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. And there’s Ashton.
“Don’t worry,” I say automatically. “I’ve been waiting the mandatory thirty seconds for the—”
Ashton slides my note across the newly cleaned tabletop.
I glance up in surprise.
“Where did you get that?”
“Found it in my apron pocket,” he says with a smile full of metal. When he gives me an exaggerated wink, his bowl cut flutters.
What did my magic do?
Ashton steps closer and raises his eyebrows suggestively. “I’m not usually interested in older women, but for you, I’d be willing to make an exception.”