Every life, even the life of a snail, matters to her. My heart is full as I watch her, the both of us getting drenched. When we make it safely into my car, she looks at me, and without saying anything, I lean over and kiss her. I’ve never met anyone quite like her before, and I don’t need peonies to tell me how lucky I am that I did.
20
I sit on the front porch holding a basket full of candy. The fog machine next to me lets out another puff of smoke, clouding my vision. I wave my hand to dissipate it as another horde of kids come screaming up to me, their parents lingering on the streetlight-lined sidewalk.
“Trick or treat!” a tiny ghost shouts.
“Uh, treat?” I say as two Elsas greedily dig into the candy before scurrying off and out of sight.
I put the basket down on my lap and pull off my football helmet, quickly checking in my phone camera that the zombie makeup my mom helped me apply is still in place. My scar is now an oozing gash across my forehead.
I almost asked Mom to take it off when I saw it, and honestly, I still can’t look at it without cringing. All I can see is my reflection in Dr. Benefield’s glasses the night of the accident, when my head was actually broken open.
But I’m trying not to run from it anymore.
I tense as my vision blurs, and for a moment I can hear a voice, whispering to me, telling me not to let—
“Boo!” a voice says, pulling me safely out of the flash before it can completely overtake me.
I put my phone down to see…
What on earth?
Marley’s voice is coming toward me up the stairs; she’s almost swallowed whole by a lumpy brown snail costume. It’s got it all. Long antennae, a big, swirly shell, everything about it identical to the snails we picked up on the path a few days ago.
Laughing, I stand up and reach out for her. She wiggles away and swings her shell around to whack me in the side.
“Hey, I’m not laughing at you.…”
She glares at me, crossing her arms over her chest, her antennae even staring me down. “All right. Fine. I won’t say anything.” I smirk and turn an invisible lock on my mouth while she rolls her eyes, looking adorable.
Never thought I’d be attracted to a giant snail, but here we are.
I unlock my mouth and clear my throat. “Wait, I just have to say… you’re the cutest damn snail I’ve ever seen.”
“Yeah, sure,” she says, but she softens and does a tiny twirl. I move to hug her, but her giant shell is in the way, blocking my arms from wrapping completely around her.
“So, uh. Why a snail?”
“Well, you know,” Marley the Snail says, reaching out absently to touch my tattered zombified football jersey. “We’re quiet, we’re shy, and we hide.”
I lean closer to her, one of her long antennae almost poking my eye out.
“You never have to hide with me, Marley,” I whisper to her.
I watch as a million expressions move across her face, too quick for me to even keep up with. Finally her features settle.
She reaches up, hesitantly touching the two buckles on her shoulders. “I guess I dressed up as the old me,” she says, looking up to take in my tattered football jersey, the football helmet tucked under my arm, the fake bloody gash on my forehead. She takes a step forward and reaches out, touching it lightly, while I stare at her lips, wanting to kiss her.
“And you dressed up like the old you,” she says softly, and I close my eyes at her touch, wanting more.
The magic of the moment is broken by a giggle.
I look over to see an audience of tiny costumed kids watching us like we’re a plate of broccoli.
“Ew!” a little Dracula says, and there’s a chorus of giggles.
I look between them and Marley, giving her a wry smile. I toss the entire candy-filled basket in front of the kids, and a mob scene breaks out on my lawn, the parents’ eyes wide with horror.
Grabbing Marley’s hand, I pull her inside and flick off the porch light behind us.
It’s dark inside except for the glow of the streetlights outside, the yellow light pouring in through the windows. I take a step closer to her, the air electric as she looks at me, her lips slightly parted. “Looks like we’re out of candy.”
“How did that happen?” she asks, breathless.
She slowly reaches up, my heart pounding as she unsnaps the buckles at each shoulder, letting the shell slide to the floor.
“I’m not this anymore,” she says, moving closer to me.
I pull the jersey over my head, wiping away the bloody gash on my forehead, the injury that doesn’t define me anymore. “And I’m not this.”