Free Dolls Behaving Badly by Cinthia Ritchie

finger over the glued-on labia. “How did you get it to look so real?”
    “ Playboy and Penthouse spreads,” I said. “Plus that squishy stuff from kids’ footballs to make it soft.”
    “Well, shit, honey.” Sandee reached over and grabbed my hand. Our fingers wrapped around each other and it was nice, holding
     another woman’s hand, the palm soft, no calluses or scratches—I could feel the shiny tint of her fingernail polish against
     my fingertip.
    “We’re two misfits, aren’t we?” Sandee said. “I lost Randall, and you, Carla, well, you’ve kind of lost your mind. But in
     a good way,” she said quickly. “I mean that as a compliment.”
    “I know,” I said.
    Monday, Oct. 31
    I’m writing this entry by jack-o’-lantern, Jay-Jay’s pumpkin grinning moronically between crooked teeth. The candle gives
     off the scent of spiced apples, while scattered around me packets of Smarties and Now and Laters and thick squares of purple
     taffy call out my name. “Eat me,” like in Alice in Wonderland.
    Earlier tonight Jay-Jay left for a mad bout of trick-or-treating with a bunch of kids from school, a neatly dressed PTA mother
     knocking at the door and peering curiously in at our dilapidated trailer that reeked of the casserole I had burned for supper.
     Two hours later, he staggered back home clutching a bag of treats so heavy he could barely lift it up on the table. His face
     was smeared with chocolate, his costume ripped down one side.
    “We had a blast,” he shouted. “Bailey threw up right in front of the stop sign on Gerald’s street and Mrs. Jenkins made us
     stop until she was finished, get it? Stop at the stop sign?”
    I poured him a glass of milk, for protein, and got him settled at the table, where he slid his candy into complex patterns
     and then recorded numbers in the small notebook he carries in his back pocket. When I asked what he was doing, he rolled his
     eyes.
    “I’m categorizing ,” he said. “Color, shape, and favorbility.” He slid two packets of Life Savers away from a pile of Hershey Kisses. “Did you
     know we all lose the same amount of weight when we die? The same amount! Even fat people. Even midgets.”
    “That’s nice.” I wondered if perhaps his gifted class was a bit too progressive for my tastes. “Did you learn that in school?”
    “Nah, it was from a movie over at Alan’s.”
      
    After Jay-Jay went to bed and the house was quiet, my belly filled with chocolate, I decided to work on my Woman Running with a Box painting. In some demented part of my mind I believed the supernatural promise of Halloween would lend a mysterious aura.
     I was pulling my supplies from the closet when Killer let out a deep growl and charged for the door. A moment later a distraught
     vampire flew into the kitchen. A vampire with flaming red hair.
    “Laurel?” I squinted at the chalky pancake makeup and bloodred lips. “You colored your hair.”
    The vampire plopped down in the chair across from me and began devouring a Nestlé Crunch bar. Then a Hershey bar, followed
     by a Mr. Goodbar, a Kit Kat, and a handful of chocolate coins.
    “Holy shit, slow down.” I grabbed the candy bowl and hurried it over to the counter. “You’re gonna be sick.”
    Laurel whispered something from behind her chocolate-smeared mouth.
    “Huh?”
    “I’m seeing someone,” she said, staring at the window behind me.
    I jumped up and looked out, sure some nasty little goblins were toilet-papering our backyard again.
    “I said I’m seeing someone.” She jammed another Kit Kat in her mouth. “A man,” she slurred. “I’m seeing a man. Okay, I’ve said it. Are you happy now? ”
    “I heard you.” I didn’t know what to say. Laurel and I don’t tell each other private stuff; we stay on the surface as much
     as possible, where things are as safe and bland as white bread.
    “It’s not what you think,” Laurel sobbed, her vampire makeup smearing down her face. “I love him!” The