Page 96 of Devils' Day Party
I exhale, forcing a smile to my own face as I dress the girls in their own aprons, their butterfly masks reminding me of Barron as I pull two stools up to the counter to make things easier for them.
“Are we doing Bisquick biscuits?” Emma asks as Katie stands shyly on my other side, always the quieter of the two, her eyes watching me like I'm doing something worth memorizing, planting inside her brain to look at years after this moment has passed.
“No way. We're doing biscuits from scratch. Katie, can you get the flour?” I ask, and her cheeks flush with pleasure before she scurries off.
“Happy Devils' Day,” Cathy says, a furred deer mask on her face, made with real antlers. The moms believe in sustainable hunting, so every deer season, they bring home plenty of venison to feed not only us, but some of the older residents who live in the park. She pops the top on a bottle of champagne and pours three glasses, bringing one to me and kissing me on the forehead. “Don't tell your teachers,” she says, and I laugh, helping Emma and Katie mix up the dough for the biscuits and forming it into perfect little patties.
Once they're in the oven, we start the chocolate gravy, mixing butter, milk, vanilla, cocoa powder, and flour in a saucepan until it's nice and gooey and warm.
“I like cooking with you,” Katie tells me as we drizzle the chocolate over the fresh biscuits, serving the moms plates at the table as they light candles and dim the lights, the air crackling with the smell of burning sage.
“I like cooking with you, too,” I say, feeling my lips turn up into a smile. We serve everyone ice-cold milk with their food and sit around the table, candles flickering on every surface, the sound of my music still drifting from the speakers in the studio. It's just loud enough for us to hear at the dining table, all the windows open to the flood of silver light from the moon. My playlist must've ended and started over again because Toxic Thoughts is playing again.
“This is my favorite Devils' Day Party ever,” Emma declares, chocolate splatters on her mask that I can't even begin to guess how they got there. “We should do this every year.”
“I'll remind you that you said that when you're in high school,” Jane murmurs under her breath, but Emma isn't fazed. She turns her blue-grey glare right on our mom and frowns.
“Karma is in high school, and she's here,” she declares, and a laugh bursts from my throat. A sob is close behind, and I have to clamp a hand over my mouth as the tears slide down my cheeks.
“Oh, Karma,” Cathy says with a bubbly champagne laugh, reaching over to rub my knee. “You're okay, daughter. You're okay.”
We make a circle on the living room floor after dinner, consulting one of Mama Cathy's spell books and reciting a simple mantra for love, health, and happiness, lighting a red candle and sprinkling pink rose petals into a bowl of water from one of the local springs. There are over forty natural springs in the city limits of Devil Springs, and over a hundred in the county.
“Now what?” Emma asks, bouncing in place, her eyes glittering with boundless energy behind her mask.
“Now? It's two in the morning,” Jane says with a yawn, three champagne bottles drained. I was only given one glass because the moms like rules too much, but that's okay. I don't need alcohol or weed or boys tonight.
“Why don't we go work on the mural?” I suggest, and even Katie gasps in excitement. I laugh as my little sisters drag me outside to look at the lines of the image, drawn by the moms, and sloppily colored in with paint by the hands of eight-year olds. The left half of the mural is nearly done, but the right is just waiting for color.
On the ground below my window, I spot the box of spray paint and shame washes over me. Somewhere, someway, the memory of that must be buried in my sisters' brains, just like Barron remembers all the time we've spent together.
“Let's paint,” I say, picking up a bucket and opening the top.
My sisters dig in as the moms sit on my porch and lean against one another.
As the hours pass and the moonlight moves across the sky, the girls fall asleep on the cement, paintbrushes still clutched in their hands, and the moms take them to bed before leaving for their own room.
“If you stay up long enough to see the sunrise, paint it,” Cathy says, kissing my forehead before disappearing into the house behind Jane.
I head inside, grab a band and put my hair into a high pony, before returning to the mural. Even though I'm yawning, my eyes brimming with tired tears, I keep going until a bit of orange-yellow light on the wall draws my attention away from the face of the Horned God and over my shoulder, to where the sun is just beginning to kiss the sky.
