Pumpkin Spice Liars

1. Homecoming

The quiet town of Raven Grove lives for all things Halloween. With a name like that, how could it not? There's a very Salem vibe to it and I'm not sure if it's on purpose, but here we are. The crisp fall air cripples like a drug and the town breathes it in, riding the insufferable high. Caramel apples, cornstalks, pumpkin spice and everything nice.

Except everything is not nice.

Like every true homegrown Raven Grove resident, I love Halloween. Though I don't quite fit the typical mold. I tend to gravitate more towards the gore and lore of it all. There's something about dressing up as a ghost to blend in with all the departed souls stalking around on All Hallows Eve. Something about it that I like more than just picking out any old costume.

I prefer zombies and ghost stories and bats. Open to vampires. I'd take a jack-o-lantern over a pumpkin any day. I'm all for the haunted part of the hay maze. Oh and I don't make Halloween an excuse to dress like a slut. Not that most girls at my high school need an excuse for that.

Really I love the terror Halloween inspires. I revel in it.

That's why I signed up for the school fundraiser.

Raven Grove High (hereby RGH) hosts the same Halloween Dance every year. The tradition goes back as far as my parents (and theirs) can remember. To help boost the cash flow, the school throws a pre-dance fundraiser: Patch Fest.

No, I'm not kidding. Yes, it is as horrid as it sounds. It's also as fall as it gets.

I'm talking an entire Saturday at the local pumpkin patch. Arts and crafts in the morning, pumpkin picking, apple dipping, afternoon hay rides and hot cider stands. Gag. The night has some soul at least. Pumpkin carving at twilight (vampires not included), a bonfire and a haunted house. It's always good for some moderately spooky fun.

Thanks to my student council senior project, this year I'm in charge of it all. I've been struggling the last month –fielding volunteers, finalizing vendors, and approving decorations. The good thing is people are always willing to sign up for Patch Fest. More willing than they are for the Holly Jolly Fest or the Spring Fling.

It's not ideal, but at least it's October. Sorry, Spooktober.

Mid-Spooktober to be exact. Homecoming to be most exact. I stare at the yellow fliers plastered all over the cafeteria notice board and wonder if there's a single person who won't be at the game tonight.

A thought that resonates long after I've finished my apple pie turnover.

***

There's something about those Friday night lights. I get it, Texas. As expected.

RGH's modest stadium is overflowing with students and alumni alike. I shift my way through the crowd, pulling my hoodie tighter over my face and sticking my hands in the pockets on my black jeans.

"There you are!" Alex shouts, eyes rolling at me.

"Hey," I mumble. I climb the rusting bleachers and take the empty seat beside my best friend.

I spot Alex's yellow football T-shirt and black scarf. School colors. Go team.

"See you dressed for the occasion." I drag him.

"See you didn't." Alex points out.

"You know black's my favorite color," I shrug.

"It's like your only color, Amber," he laughs. "You do know black is a school color. Be careful or one day people may think you actually care."

"Rude." I cross my shoulders, smug. "And they would never think that."

Five minutes later the crowd is electrified, pulsing with excitement fueled by cider and pumpkin spice lattes.

"It's go time. Look!" Alex shouts.

My eyes follow his pointing finger to the edge of the stadium.

The team is bathed in yellow lights under the goalpost. They run through a painted banner and I see him run onto the field. Owen Carr.

Goddamn his ass looks right at home in those snug pants.

"Uhm, you're doing it again," Alex laughs.

"Doing what?" I arch my brow.

"Drooling."

"Gross. Bite me." I roll my eyes.

I'm sure right now you're wondering how I, your average anti-social, student council goth could ever EVER fall for Raven Grove's golden boy. And yes, I'm aware what a cliché it is to fall for the golden boy quarterback. Allow me to backpedal.

I wasn't always like this and Owen wasn't always golden. I suppose we were friends once –in elementary school. What a time to be alive, amirite? Do you even choose friends when you're 10? Or do you just grow to like the person who shares your desk?

Either way, I wasn't complaining about Owen. I'm not complaining about his 6' tall frame, or washboard abs, or his shaggy wanna-be man bun hair. People should dress up as him for Halloween. They could label his costume Immortal God Quarterback (Cliché sold separately).

My eyes roll as I spot the witchy bitches in the front row. Right on the sidelines and right in the players' line of sight. Suppose this time of year it's more accurate to call them the Bitchy Witches. More elementary school friends turned high school enemies. Why, you ask? For the sole purpose that we grew apart. Well, they grew tits and blonde extensions and I grew goth. It's a whole saga.

In their ridiculous cheerleader skirts, Monica and Clarisa are as insufferable as ever.

...

"The OG Halloween SO beats Halloween II. It's not even an argument," I laugh.

"Well, they both beat Season of the Witch," Alex says.

I lean back on our old couch cushion. My candy-corn knee-high socks cover most of my black leggings. Alex is mumbling about the ultimate villains now.

"And who would win, Mike Meyers or Jason?" I ask, rolling my eyes.

I've spent every Halloween with Alex for as long as I can remember. A perk of our moms being old besties. We grew up together and in doing so we created our own Halloween traditions. And they commence tonight. Our Sunday Spookathon.

Every year we re-watch all the old cult classics while wistfully yearning to have been born during the 70s. It's a generation Z problem, I know.

We eat way too much caramel popcorn and end up drunk on mulled cider we steal from the kitchen when my mom's not looking. She has a thing for hot toddies. It tastes like an autumn candle smells, but it beats the alternative, which is nothing.

At least we get drunk on something other than the fumes of my dad's fake fog machine.

At least we do Halloween right.

"Cya!" I wave at Alex from my spot on our pumpkin-infested porch.

"Cya at school. Your favorite day tomorrow!" Alex laughs. He picks up his bike from our front lawn (next to Skeleton #3) and walks it to the street.

"Don't remind me," I groan, scowling.

I fall onto the hanging swing and enjoy the last moments of dusk. Even the air smells like Halloween. Like a crisp October night alive with fright.

Tomorrow is Monday and the start of the last week of school before Patch Fest. That means full-on Boo Brigade duties and Boo Brigade bitches. Yes, the Bitchy Witches.

It's not that I don't love Halloween –really I do –it's that I don't really love my school.

RGH isn't my brand. Just its Immortal God Quarterback.