Dead gray skin, rotted away to show off the stringy sinews of muscle below. Sunken, rubbery sockets around sparkling hazel eyes. Those were actually hers, though; they moved as she studied herself. Decaying corn-on-the-cob teeth with gore stuck in the spaces between. What did zombies eat again? Just brains, or they weren't fussy about the other guts too? Probably didn't enjoy the candy apple she'd had earlier.
Jet watched her reflection in the funhouse mirror, her dead face—sorry—her undead face. OK, she'd worn the mask for three whole minutes, so Mom couldn't complain and now Jet couldn't breathe; hot toffee air that turned wet against the rubber, sticking it to her skin. She pulled the mask off. Still pale, slightly less gray, though, but the mirror elongated her round face, distorting her thick brows and upturned nose. Her short blond hair was sticking up now; static buzzed against her hand as she flattened it.
"Jet?" "—Damn." She flinched. The mirror warped his face behind her, squashed his muscular frame into accordion ripples, but Jet knew his voice. Of fucking course. Lim. But not with his usual black swept-back hair and clear tawny skin.
He wore a garish red wig and denim overalls over a striped shirt, train-track gashes drawn on his face. Chucky. They'd watched that movie together on their third date. "Didn't mean to scare you," he sniffed, awkward. "It's Halloween, that's the point." More awkward. Jet walked away without looking at the unwarped him, past a stall of pumpkin pies and apple bread. Just $5!!! yelled the chalkboard sign. “It’s . . .” JJ slipped off his wig and stumbled after her, through a group of freshly face-painted kids. Why was he following her? She'd given them both an easy out. Again. "Sorry," he continued, "I was wondering. I just." Well, this was fun. Jet was super glad she'd come to the Halloween Fair now. The whole of Woodstock, Vermont, swarming The Green in the middle of town, and she'd managed to run into the one person she didn't want to see. "Trick-or-treat!" a small vampire yelled up at her. Jet hoped he'd choke on his slobbery fangs. Were kids always this annoying, or did the sugar rush bring it out of them? It was past ten now; when did parents put children to bed these days? Not fucking early enough. She picked up her pace, but JJ didn't give up. "Jet, please." He reached out for her arm. "I need to talk to you about something." Jet stopped, sighed. Something meant them, didn't it? And they weren't a them anymore, not for months. "I can't right now." Lie. "I'm helping my parents run the fundraising booth." Bigger lie. "Did Henry draw those scars for you?" Change the subject. JJ narrowed his sharp eyes. "Please, Jet, it's important." "Oh, important," Jet snorted, "like when you said I was the best you could hope for …. in Woodstock. Such a poet, J." "You know I didn't mean it like that. And it's not about us, it's-" "—Hey buddy, think you dropped this," a voice said over JJ's shoulder, saving her. It was her brother, Luke, bending to retrieve the crumpled red wig from the grass. Pinpricks of string lights reflected in his matching hazel eyes as he straightened up and squared up, passing JJ the wig.