Page 21 of Such Sharp Teeth

“I’m Goth,” she says, shrugging.

“Well, what about me?”

“I only have one cloak,” she says.

“Brutal. My own sister leaving me in the dust.”

“You’re still hot. Be Catwoman or something.”

The bile rises again. I can’t be Catwoman. I don’t want to be Catwoman. I don’t want to be any kind of animal-human-hybrid anything. I want to be 100 percent human. Extra human. The most human.

“I’m not going,” I say. “We don’t have to go tonight.”

“It’s Ash,” she says. “We do have to go. Just pick something.”

“You pick.”

The look on her face when I say this lets me know I’ve made a grave mistake.

She sashays through the store, whistling a pretty tune, as I follow behind, chewing off my fingernails. I would tell her that I’ve changed my mind, that I’ll find my own costume, figure something out, but this is the happiest I’ve seen her since I’ve been back, laughing maleficently as she flips through the plastic sacks.

Eventually, she chooses “Adult Lady Archer Supreme.”

“So, sexy Robin Hood?”

“Come on,” she says, smiling wide. “We need to get you a bow and arrow.”

—

On the way home from Party City, Scarlett sends me into the liquor store to get a bottle to bring to Ash’s. She refuses to come in with me.

“I’m not putting myself in a position to be judged,” she says. “I’ll wait in the car.”

“All right,” I say.

I get my wallet out of the cupholder and start to button my coat.

“Can you be quick? I have to pee.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, leaving my coat unbuttoned.

It’s cold and windy out, bitter for October. I hurry across the parking lot as my coat blows open, exposing me to the elements. A wet leaf adheres itself to my chest. I wait until I’m inside the store before trying to peel it off.

“Need help with that?”

I look up. It’s Ian. He wears a black beanie, a navy flannel, dark jeans, and Doc Martens with hot pink laces. He’s got stubble that wasn’t there the last time I saw him. I can’t tell if I like it or not. We’ve texted a few times, made casual conversation, but it’s different standing across from him. There’s something about his presence. He smells good. Not his cologne. Him.

“I’m all set, thanks,” I say, flicking the leaf onto the floor.

“I’m bringing bourbon,” he says, lifting the bottle in his hands.

“I can see that,” I say. “Are you planning to share?”

“No, I’m not sharing it, no. This is just for me, so if you want to drink bourbon, better get your own.”

“Okay, noted,” I say.

It’s hard to maintain eye contact with him. One, because he’s so tall, it puts a strain on my neck to look up at him, and two, the lighting in here is weirdly great, and it makes his eyes appear even bluer. I forgot they were so blue. I kind of hate it. Looking into his eyes feels like eating something delicious you can’t totally enjoy because you know it’s really bad for you. His eyes are fucking me up. Giving me high cholesterol.