about Halloween.
"Vhere is your costume?" the man—Kyla's dad—demanded. Neither of them had made any move to invite Brian in off the porch. "Don't you know vhat night this is?"
Brian pointed to his T-shirt, which was black. Of course, he'd probably have worn the shirt even if it wasn't Halloween, but nobody else had to know that.
Kyla's parents stayed rooted in the doorway. "Ah," the mother said in her gravelly voice that sounded more Russian than Transylvanian, "he is wearing disguise of American teenage boy. Beneath disguise, he is fifty-two-year-old South American dictator."
Momentarily minus the accent, the father said, "He better not be if he expects to take
our
daughter out." He grinned, either to indicate he was joking or to show off his fangs. And he wiggled his clawed fingers on the doorjamb to make sure Brian noticed.
You can't hold people accountable for their dorky parents,
Brian reminded himself. On the other hand, he was ready to get back into his car, when Kyla's voice called, "Mom? Don't let Dad scare him away. I'll be down in a minute, Bri."
He was only twenty minutes late. How silly of him to think she'd be ready.
"Bri?" Kyla called again. "Mom? Dad? You
have
invited him in out of the cold, haven't you?"
"Of course, dahlink," Mrs. Zolla said, stepping back.
Mr. Zolla stepped back also. "Ve vill keep him entertained before ve drink his blood," he called over his shoulder.
Wonderful,
Brian thought. Life would be so much easier if girls came without parents.
Kyla said, "Well, don't drink too much of his blood. He needs to have enough energy to be able to dance. You okay, Brian?"
"Yeah," he assured her.
"Don't make him sit in the dark, Dad," Kyla said.
The father switched the lights back on. The living room was nicer than Brian would have expected from the outside. Big old heavy mahogany and walnut furniture that his mom, who loved antiques, would have drooled over.
From a table that was by the door, Kyla's mother picked up a silver tray that held candied and caramel apples. "Trick or treat," she repeated. Brian was just thinking that in the city you could never have Halloween treats that weren't wrapped and tamper-proof, when she added, "Ones on right-hand side are without razor blades or broken glass."
"And here I am, on a diet," Brian lied.
A set of stairs curved up to the second floor. Kyla peeked her head around the corner. "Hi, Bri. Costume issue here. I'll be another minute."
"You know," Brian started, "I've been to these things before, and usually it's just the ninth graders and the dorkiest tenth graders who wear..."
But she'd ducked back into her room. All he'd seen of her was that she had her long blond hair pinned up on her head. He hoped, as long as she was going for a costume, that it would be a sexy outfit—more French maid, and less, for example, Humpty Dumpty. Last year, Maranda had gone as Tinker Bell and had wanted him to go as Peter Pan. "Yeah, right," he'd told her. He'd known before they started that it would be difficult enough to get her interested in making out when she was wearing wings and pixie dust; and he could only imagine how the night would have gone if he'd had to contend with that stupid hat and green tights.
Mrs. Zolla said, "I go up and help dahlink daughter."
While she went upstairs, Mr. Zolla, still sounding like the Count on
Sesame Street,
asked Brian, "May I get you something to drink?"
There was no telling how long a costume issue could take, so Brian said, "Sure," and followed him out into the kitchen.
The kitchen was large and very modern—white paint and brushed stainless steel. Brian guessed it was too much to hope that he would get offered a beer. Mr. Zolla knew Brian went to high school with Kyla, no matter what the fake ID in his wallet said.
But when Mr. Zolla opened the refrigerator, which was one of those super-expensive ones with the flat-screen TV built into the door, the refrigerator was empty except for maybe a dozen of those
"Vhere is your costume?" the man—Kyla's dad—demanded. Neither of them had made any move to invite Brian in off the porch. "Don't you know vhat night this is?"
Brian pointed to his T-shirt, which was black. Of course, he'd probably have worn the shirt even if it wasn't Halloween, but nobody else had to know that.
Kyla's parents stayed rooted in the doorway. "Ah," the mother said in her gravelly voice that sounded more Russian than Transylvanian, "he is wearing disguise of American teenage boy. Beneath disguise, he is fifty-two-year-old South American dictator."
Momentarily minus the accent, the father said, "He better not be if he expects to take
our
daughter out." He grinned, either to indicate he was joking or to show off his fangs. And he wiggled his clawed fingers on the doorjamb to make sure Brian noticed.
You can't hold people accountable for their dorky parents,
Brian reminded himself. On the other hand, he was ready to get back into his car, when Kyla's voice called, "Mom? Don't let Dad scare him away. I'll be down in a minute, Bri."
He was only twenty minutes late. How silly of him to think she'd be ready.
"Bri?" Kyla called again. "Mom? Dad? You
have
invited him in out of the cold, haven't you?"
"Of course, dahlink," Mrs. Zolla said, stepping back.
Mr. Zolla stepped back also. "Ve vill keep him entertained before ve drink his blood," he called over his shoulder.
Wonderful,
Brian thought. Life would be so much easier if girls came without parents.
Kyla said, "Well, don't drink too much of his blood. He needs to have enough energy to be able to dance. You okay, Brian?"
"Yeah," he assured her.
"Don't make him sit in the dark, Dad," Kyla said.
The father switched the lights back on. The living room was nicer than Brian would have expected from the outside. Big old heavy mahogany and walnut furniture that his mom, who loved antiques, would have drooled over.
From a table that was by the door, Kyla's mother picked up a silver tray that held candied and caramel apples. "Trick or treat," she repeated. Brian was just thinking that in the city you could never have Halloween treats that weren't wrapped and tamper-proof, when she added, "Ones on right-hand side are without razor blades or broken glass."
"And here I am, on a diet," Brian lied.
A set of stairs curved up to the second floor. Kyla peeked her head around the corner. "Hi, Bri. Costume issue here. I'll be another minute."
"You know," Brian started, "I've been to these things before, and usually it's just the ninth graders and the dorkiest tenth graders who wear..."
But she'd ducked back into her room. All he'd seen of her was that she had her long blond hair pinned up on her head. He hoped, as long as she was going for a costume, that it would be a sexy outfit—more French maid, and less, for example, Humpty Dumpty. Last year, Maranda had gone as Tinker Bell and had wanted him to go as Peter Pan. "Yeah, right," he'd told her. He'd known before they started that it would be difficult enough to get her interested in making out when she was wearing wings and pixie dust; and he could only imagine how the night would have gone if he'd had to contend with that stupid hat and green tights.
Mrs. Zolla said, "I go up and help dahlink daughter."
While she went upstairs, Mr. Zolla, still sounding like the Count on
Sesame Street,
asked Brian, "May I get you something to drink?"
There was no telling how long a costume issue could take, so Brian said, "Sure," and followed him out into the kitchen.
The kitchen was large and very modern—white paint and brushed stainless steel. Brian guessed it was too much to hope that he would get offered a beer. Mr. Zolla knew Brian went to high school with Kyla, no matter what the fake ID in his wallet said.
But when Mr. Zolla opened the refrigerator, which was one of those super-expensive ones with the flat-screen TV built into the door, the refrigerator was empty except for maybe a dozen of those
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