These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (16 page)

So I take it downstairs and give it a try. I don't know whether to be pleased or ashamed when the uniform actually fits, albeit a bit snugly in the rear and the bust. If I wear my sports bra to hold the girls in and try not to bend over too much, it might just work. Besides, I think I look sort of cute in the cap.

By five o'clock, trick-or-treaters are starting to come to the door. Mom's fake electric jack-o’-lanterns are lined up on the porch and glowing, and her big pumpkin-shaped candy bowl is full of Snickers and Three Musketeers and M&M'S—the tempting kinds of candy we've both tried to avoid all afternoon. I asked her why she couldn't have gotten something besides chocolate. “What would be the fun in that?” she said.

At first it's kind of fun handing out the goodies to these miniature princesses and superheroes. This is something I hardly ever did in the city, since kids rarely came to the apartment house. For the most part, these little ones are accompanied by parents, who linger on the sidewalk. After a while I think I recognize some of the parents as kids I once went to school with. So far no one has recognized me. Or maybe they're just too preoccupied with their kids. I feel sad to think that people my age are out there, happily married with kids of their own, trick-or-treating and having fun doing parental kinds of things, while here I am, living with my mom
and being an overgrown kid with barely a life at all. It's so depressing that I eat several Snickers bars before Moms car pulls into the driveway.

She's flushed and pleased when she comes inside. Tossing off her leather coat, she informs me that she might Ve just sold another house. “They spent two hours going over every inch of the place, then they wrote up an offer right there. I just dropped it off with the sellers, and we should know by tomorrow whether its a go.”

I give her a high-five. “So what're you going to wear to the party tonight?”

She slaps her forehead. “In all the excitement, I nearly forgot.”

“The cheerleader outfit was sort of cute,” I say, hoping she'll have better sense.

She makes a face. “Cute, but a bit much for someone my age.”

I shrug, relieved that the doorbell is ringing agaiti. Mom answers it, oohing and aahing over the costumes as she plops generous handfuls of chocolate into their bags and buckets.

“What are you going to wear?” she asks me as she closes the door.

“Ill surprise you,” I say.

“Great. Then I'll surprise you too. Can you ride herd on the little goblins for a while?”

“Sure. Its kind of fun. And my costumes all ready to go anyway.” So I continue to answer the door, and after about twenty minutes, Mom reappears, dressed in black.

“Is that it?” I ask as she shoos me upstairs to change.

“No, but I can finish down here and answer the door too. Hurry and get your costume on. The party is already starting.”

“We'll be fashionably late,” I call as I go into my room.

I wish I'd thought to air out this wool uniform. It smells strongly of mothballs, but I give it a misting of Poison perfume, hoping that'll help camouflage the musty aroma. First I button up the shirt, which is fitting better thanks to my constricting bra. Hopefully I won't faint from lack of oxygen. Then I put the short pants over the funny socks and pin up my hair and secure the baseball cap. For shoes, I decide on my Dansko clogs, since their dark color sort of makes them resemble old-fashioned baseball shoes. Or so I tell myself.

I study my reflection in the full-length mirror and decide I make a rather cute ballplayer, although a little on the feminine side. I'd really wanted to go incognito tonight, but short of a mask, which I don't have, I can't do much about it. Just the same, I try on an old pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses, which actually add something. Then I decide to use my eyeliner pencil to create a small, sporty mustache. There—I don't think anyone should recognize me now. Especially if the lights are dim.

I go downstairs and find Mom in the powder room, putting the finishing touches on her ensemble. When she turns around, I see that, like me, she's used an eyeliner pencil for whiskers, but hers are curly feline whiskers. She's turned herself into a cat. A rather
sexy
black cat with hot pink pouty lips and heavy blue eye shadow.

“Wow,” I say as she turns around to show off her costume.

“These rhinestones are from your grandma,” she points out, showing off her sparkling blue cuff bracelet and matching collar. SheVa rich kitty

“How about the ears and tail?” I ask.

“That was my inspiration. I think they were Callie's. Remember when her dance team dressed like cats for a competition one year?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, I found them in the attic and remembered I had these black velour sweats, and it all seemed so simple.”

“You look great,” I tell her, trying not to feel too envious of her cool outfit. I mean, I have some black sweats too—-maybe not as elegant as her velour ones, which also fit her like a glove—but I could ve been a black cat. Even if I was a plumpish cat, it might have been better than this dumpy ballplayer.

“You look great too,” she says. “Or maybe I'm just being catty.”

I make a fake-sounding laugh. I'm thinking I probably resemble Rosie O'Donnell in that women's baseball movie,
A League of Their Own
, when I'd really rather be Geena Davis. “And if the Halloween party doesn't work out for you,” I say to Mom, “you could always go down to the Highball and offer to serve cocktails.” Who's catty now?

She makes her hands into claws and actually hisses at me.

So it is that I (the cross-dressing ballplayer) appear to be escorting a sexy black cat in faux diamonds (is that really my mother?) to a costume party Mom's the one who drives us there, though.

I try not to feel too dumpy as we walk up to the fitness club,
which has been transformed into Halloween Central, complete with pumpkins and spider webs and skeletons and ghosts. Were barely in the front door when Todd, dressed like an old fighter pilot, comes up and starts talking—make
that flirting
—with Mom. When he finally notices me, it seems like an afterthought. “Hey, Babe,” he says, gently punching me in the arm, “hows your batting average these days?”

At first I think “Babe” is a compliment, and I smile and joke back. But when he turns his attention back to Catwoman, I get it. Babe Ruth was pretty chunky too.

“Hey, is that you, Cassie?” says a guy in a bandanna. He has a black patch over one eye and a fake parrot on his shoulder. He, too, is sporting a fake mustache.

“Yeah?” I say, trying to figure out who this guy is.

“Aye, it's me, Gary Frye,” he says, chuckling. “Aargh, I'm a pirate of the Caribbean, mate-tee.”

“Hi, Gary,” I say in a flat voice. I don't want to encourage him.

He slips his sword into his belt and fingers the fabric of my jersey. “Cool. This is the real thing, huh?”

So I tell him about my dad's one season in the minors.

“Yep,” he says. “Same thing happened with me and football.”

“What's that?” I ask, falling for it.

He launches into a long tale about how he had all these full-scholarship offers from some of the smaller Pacific Northwest schools and how he decided on Seattle Pacific, but then he injured his knee midway through the season and eventually lost his scholarship
and had to drop out and get a job at Boeing to support his wife and kid.

“Tough luck,” I say.

He nods, and his parrot nods with him. “Yep. All my NFL dreams straight down the toilet.

“Hey, Penny,” he says when a petite belly dancer comes up. She has on a long, dark wig, and I can tell that Gary thinks she looks pretty hot in that outfit.

“Hey, Gary. Who's the cute ballplayer?”

“It's me, Cassie,” I tell her.

“Oh, I actually thought you were a guy.”

“That's the whole point.”

She laughs. “Yeah, but I was going to ask you to dance.”

“Why don't
you
dance?” says Gary in a suggestive voice.

So she actually does a little belly dance for us, complete with finger cymbals and jingling coin jewelry, causing a few others to stop and watch.

“Wow, you're really good,” says Gary. “Where'd you learn to do that?”

“I've been taking a class at the rec center.” She pats her toned midsection. “It helps to slim the waist.”

“Maybe I should come,” says Gary, patting his paunch.

While everyone is joking about the benefits pf belly dancing, I decide to slip off to the sidelines, maybe even get something to eat. It figures, this being a fitness club and all, that most of the refreshments are healthy. I fill a paper plate with veggies and fruit and go
to stand next to a woman dressed like a bowling ball, who turns out to be Emma Carpenter, the chubby gal who was inspired by my mom to join the fitness club. I tell her that I officially joined the club and plan to set up my own workout regimen, which won't include spinning.

“Maybe we could work out together sometime,” she suggests again.

I glance down at her rotund costume, which is covering her rotund figure, and just nod. “Yeah, sure, maybe.”

“I don t know why I came tonight,” she admits. “I usually avoid things like this. But that Cindy at the front desk talked me into it. Then I went to the costume shop, and all she had left was this stupid bowling ball.” She looks down at the three white spots, which I assume are the finger holes. “Its pretty bad, huh?”

I laugh. “Well, I'm not too thrilled about being taken for a guy. Penny, the belly dancer, tried to pick me up.”

She laughs. “And then they don't have any real food here.” She lowers her voice. “I mean, I'm trying to diet just like the next person, but I understood this was supposed to be
dinner?

I nod. “I know. I'm starving.”

“Me too.” Then she looks at me with a devious expression. “Want to go get something to eat?”

As tempting as this sounds, I'm not sure I want to be seen leaving with the bowling ball to go eat. “Let me think about it,” I tell her. “I mean, I just got here, and I came with my mom. Maybe I shouldn't run off right away.”

“Yes, I understand. I should probably stay awhile longer too. But if you change your mind, let me know.”

I thank her, then set off to find Penny, the precocious belly dancer, again. I want to ask her why she ditched me at happy hour on Friday.

“Sorry,” she tells me after I corner her at the drink table. “It was my nephews fourth birthday. The party ended at four, but it took forever to clean up the house after the kids finally left. I should Ve called you.”

“Well, no one was there except Gary and me.”

She giggles. “Oh. That must ve been fun.”

I frown. “Actually, Gary's not that bad. But it was kind of embarrassing. I'm sure people thought we were on a date.”

“Hey, are you two a couple or something?” asks Gary. He's got a guy dressed like a cowboy in tow.

“Yeah, we're lesbians, Gary,” teases Penny as she links her arm through mine. “You going to leave us alone now?”

He looks sort of embarrassed, then his brows lift in curiosity. “Hey, no problem. I'm an open-minded guy.”

She makes a face as she thumps his lopsided parrot, then introduces me to the cowboy, whose name is Bob and who's sort of cute in a nerdy way, although I notice right off that his teeth are crooked. I can also tell by the way he avoids eye contact that he's probably pretty shy. Probably due to those choppers. He seems to be trying to camouflage them with a big bushy mustache, which is slightly askew, but it only draws more attention to his mouth.

“We thought you girls might like to try out the dance floor,” says Gary with his eye on Penny and her exotic getup. He elbows Cowboy Bob, who nods and says, “Yeah, sure. Wanna dance?”

So the four of us head over to the gym, which is improvising as a dance floor tonight, and when the DJ begins the next song, which I'm glad to hear is a fast number, we go out and attempt to dance. Despite those teeth, Cowboy Bob looks pretty good in his boots and leather vest, but he is not much of a dancer. Still, we make an attempt. By the end of the song (and a few dumb jokes from me), he seems to loosen up some. We dance another one, but when a slow song comes on, I tell him that I'd like a break, that I'm thirsty. He seems relieved.

“What do you do?” he asks as we sip some kind of green and ghoulish punch that Cindy, the red-headed receptionist, now disguised as Lily Munster, dipped out of a big, black cauldron.

I give him my minibiography about getting my MBA and working in marketing for a few years before deciding to reinvent myself. Eager to change the subject, I inquire about him.

TmaCPA.”

“An accountant?” I say stupidly. Like what did I think—maybe he's certified public
astronaut

He nods. “Yes. I work for Warren and Wesley.”

“The bookkeeping place,” I say. “I've seen their office on Main Street.”

“Most people think it's kind of boring work,” he says, “but I like it.”

I nod. “Its good to do what you like.”

“What do you like?” he asks. “I mean, as far as work goes?”

“That's what I'm trying to figure out,” I admit. Then I hear a fast-paced song starting, and I decide that dancing might be preferable to talking, at least with this guy. “Want to dance some more?”

He smiles shyly. “Sure. That was kind of fun.”

I wave at Emma, the lonely bowling ball, as we head back to the gym. I'm surprised she's still here. Her offer of escaping this scene for food is starting to sound better than spending the evening dancing and chatting with Cowboy Bob, the accountant.

As we're dancing to a goofy disco tune, Bob's mustache tumbles from his upper lip and is about to be trampled underfoot. As he touches his upper lip with a worried look, I decide to rescue the furry little thing that resembles a fat caterpillar. I bend down to pick it up, and I hear a loud ripping sound behind me. This is not good. Nor is it good that this sound is immediately followed by a rush of cool air on my hind end. I stand up straight, putting one hand behind me to feel the seat of my dad's old baseball britches. Sure enough, they've split right down the middle.

I hand Bob his fake iriustache and excuse myself, backing away from him with both hands holding on to the seat of my pants. Then, realizing that spectators might also be behind me, I turn around just in time to see Catwoman and the Flying Ace and several others loitering near the entrance to the dance area. And I can tell by their semishocked, semipitying expressions, they've witnessed the whole pants-splitting thing.