especially around the hands and feet, but none of the other trick-or-treaters (little kids, mostly) and none of the parents answering doorbells had asked him any questions or even looked at him curiously. Kwang said “Trick or treat,” Stony moaned, and the adults handed over the candy. It was foolproof.
They were walking along the two-lane when a white pickup pulled up alongside them and slowed. “Hey, Kwang!” The voice made it rhyme with
clang
.
The guy in the passenger seat was a teenage boy, maybe a junior or senior. Four other boys squatted in the bed of the truck.
Kwang stopped. “Hey, Brett.”
“What the fuck are you supposed to be, a white man?”
A boy in the back said, “I can’t believe you’re trick-or-treating, man.”
“Hey, I’ve got two pounds of candy,” Kwang said. “What the fuck do you got?”
Stony looked at Kwang. Whipping out the F-word, talking in some tough-guy voice?
“We got a lot better than that!” the kid in the back said. He lifted a beer can. “Get up in here, boy.”
Kwang glanced at Stony, and must have seen something in his expression. “That’s okay,” Kwang said. “He’s gotta get back home.”
“I said, get the
fuck
in the
truck
!”
Kwang laughed, shook his head, and started to climb up on the bumper.
“Are you crazy?” Stony said, keeping his voice low.
But Kwang was in the bed of the truck now. The boys grabbed his pillowcase from him and started going through it. “Pixie sticks!” one of them yelled.
Another said to Stony, “Hey, Toilet Paper Man. Are you coming or not?”
Kwang looked back at him, his face blank. Your choice, Stony. And Stony thought, This is a mistake. He did not like these muscle heads, and he didn’t trust them.
He climbed in.
Someone handed him an Old Milwaukee. Kwang already had one in his hand. Stony watched in disbelief as his friend pulled the tab, pushed it into the mouth of the can with a practiced gesture, and took a big gulp. The pickup lurched forward. Stony took a sip of the beer, frowned at the sour taste, and kept it in his hand.
For the next hour they cruised around the streets of Easterly, shouting at kids and passing other high schoolers in cars. Nearly half of them seemed to be dressed as the walking dead. The pickup’s driver didn’t seem to be taking them anywhere in particular. Stony had studied maps of his hometown and the surrounding area, and he recognized the names of streets, but he could not stop staring at everything they passed: the split-level homes, the paved driveways, the Pontiacs and potted plants and lawn ornaments. Nothing was completely alien—newspapers and books had told him what to expect of the world—but each sight was accompanied by an inner
a-ha
, the satisfaction of a tourist checking off items from his guidebook. And all these kids! Each of them a classmate in the paralleluniverse high school he should have attended: his chemistry lab partner who could do a dead-on Chewbacca; the stoner he traded jokes with in the parking lot; the girl with the braces that he asked to Homecoming. They would have signed his yearbook.
Stay cool, Johnny!
No wonder Kwang was growing tired of him. Even these yahoos in the truck were better friends than some dead boy haunting a few square acres of farmland. The boys called him Klang and Krang and Kwanto, and he called them by their nicknames, and everybody called everybody else asswipe and douchebag and faggot. They couldn’t seem to stop punching one another. And Kwang was one of them. He fit.
“Hey, TP.” The beefy boy, whose nickname was either Torque or Turk, squinted at Stony and said, “Who are you again?”
“I’m from Belgium,” Stony said. The boy frowned. Stony said, “It’s in Wisconsin.”
The boy nodded as if suddenly remembering the place. “You know, you can take off your costume now.”
“That’s okay. Where I come from, it’s a rule that you have to keep your costume on until the next morning.”
“Shit,
They were walking along the two-lane when a white pickup pulled up alongside them and slowed. “Hey, Kwang!” The voice made it rhyme with
clang
.
The guy in the passenger seat was a teenage boy, maybe a junior or senior. Four other boys squatted in the bed of the truck.
Kwang stopped. “Hey, Brett.”
“What the fuck are you supposed to be, a white man?”
A boy in the back said, “I can’t believe you’re trick-or-treating, man.”
“Hey, I’ve got two pounds of candy,” Kwang said. “What the fuck do you got?”
Stony looked at Kwang. Whipping out the F-word, talking in some tough-guy voice?
“We got a lot better than that!” the kid in the back said. He lifted a beer can. “Get up in here, boy.”
Kwang glanced at Stony, and must have seen something in his expression. “That’s okay,” Kwang said. “He’s gotta get back home.”
“I said, get the
fuck
in the
truck
!”
Kwang laughed, shook his head, and started to climb up on the bumper.
“Are you crazy?” Stony said, keeping his voice low.
But Kwang was in the bed of the truck now. The boys grabbed his pillowcase from him and started going through it. “Pixie sticks!” one of them yelled.
Another said to Stony, “Hey, Toilet Paper Man. Are you coming or not?”
Kwang looked back at him, his face blank. Your choice, Stony. And Stony thought, This is a mistake. He did not like these muscle heads, and he didn’t trust them.
He climbed in.
Someone handed him an Old Milwaukee. Kwang already had one in his hand. Stony watched in disbelief as his friend pulled the tab, pushed it into the mouth of the can with a practiced gesture, and took a big gulp. The pickup lurched forward. Stony took a sip of the beer, frowned at the sour taste, and kept it in his hand.
For the next hour they cruised around the streets of Easterly, shouting at kids and passing other high schoolers in cars. Nearly half of them seemed to be dressed as the walking dead. The pickup’s driver didn’t seem to be taking them anywhere in particular. Stony had studied maps of his hometown and the surrounding area, and he recognized the names of streets, but he could not stop staring at everything they passed: the split-level homes, the paved driveways, the Pontiacs and potted plants and lawn ornaments. Nothing was completely alien—newspapers and books had told him what to expect of the world—but each sight was accompanied by an inner
a-ha
, the satisfaction of a tourist checking off items from his guidebook. And all these kids! Each of them a classmate in the paralleluniverse high school he should have attended: his chemistry lab partner who could do a dead-on Chewbacca; the stoner he traded jokes with in the parking lot; the girl with the braces that he asked to Homecoming. They would have signed his yearbook.
Stay cool, Johnny!
No wonder Kwang was growing tired of him. Even these yahoos in the truck were better friends than some dead boy haunting a few square acres of farmland. The boys called him Klang and Krang and Kwanto, and he called them by their nicknames, and everybody called everybody else asswipe and douchebag and faggot. They couldn’t seem to stop punching one another. And Kwang was one of them. He fit.
“Hey, TP.” The beefy boy, whose nickname was either Torque or Turk, squinted at Stony and said, “Who are you again?”
“I’m from Belgium,” Stony said. The boy frowned. Stony said, “It’s in Wisconsin.”
The boy nodded as if suddenly remembering the place. “You know, you can take off your costume now.”
“That’s okay. Where I come from, it’s a rule that you have to keep your costume on until the next morning.”
“Shit,
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