LITMIR.BIZ

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I reach out for the costume but she throws it on the bathroom floor behind her. “You will never bring another . . . animal costume into this house again, do you understand me?”

      “It’s not a costume,” I tell her. “It’s a werewolf.” It’s scary to say out loud, but she needs to know. “Information is power,” I add. I heard that on TV.

      “It isn’t a werewolf,” Lauren says, wiping away a tear. “It’s a Big Bad Wolf costume.”

      “I threw away the stupid mask!” I scream. My eyes are on little bedsprings that pop in and out of their sockets.

      Mom pauses then looks at me with concern. “Lily?”

      “She thinks she’s Mrs. Wiggins,” ratfink Lauren says. “She told me! She said she’s got Mrs. Wiggins’s blood inside her! It’s gross.”

      “Shut up! I did not!”

      “You did too. Liar!”

      I am a liar. I did tell Lauren about Mrs. Wiggins’s blood.

      I told Judy too, but when I swore her to secrecy, she laughed at me. “Who would I tell?” she asked. I immediately thought of her blabber-mouth girlfriend Karla who definitely would tell, and then Mrs. Wiggins would have to be dug up and tested for rabies, “and probably have her head cut off,” Judy said, and then I’d have to get really painful shots in my stomach that would hurt so much “you’d wish you were dead just like your dog.”

      I lied about swimming at Peace Lake.

      I lied about Aunt Jamie’s microscope too. I said I gave it back months ago, but I didn’t. It’s in my closet. Jamie doesn’t mind. When she comes to Sunday dinners, she brings me dead bugs, pods, diseased leaves, and strange wet stuff in pill bottles to look at with the microscope after she’s left. Things look different when you see them close up. Even black goop from Mom’s eyelash curler has teeth. There are tiny worlds with big monsters everywhere.

      I hear clip-clopping outside, and look down the hall toward my bedroom. I imagine the hairy face of the werewolf popping up at my window. Behind him, in the driveway, an old gypsy woman holds the reins to a horse-drawn wagon. “There really are werewolves, Mom. They live in dark foggy places you can’t see from our house.”

      The costume lies in a tangle behind her. “Monster movies,” she mumbles.

      “Werewolves aren’t monsters. They’re normal people who—”

      “I know what they are,” Mom interrupts. “I grew up with that nonsense, and I will not have it in this house.”

      Lauren sniffs.

      Outside, the gypsy’s horse poops on Dad’s new steam-cleaned driveway. The werewolf collapses in Mom’s flower bed, crying in pain while his spine stretches and bows like the land bridge we learned about in school, connecting the old world to the ice age and back again. The werewolf is changing into a man named Lawrence Talbot.

      I’m changing too.

      “Go to your room, Lily,” Mom says.

      “It doesn’t matter if you throw it away,” I say quietly. “It’s still mine.”

      “Your room, Lily.”

      Lauren sticks out her tongue at me.

      I’m sorry I hurt my sister, but it doesn’t matter how old or big I am—I can be a werewolf or the Big Bad Wolf or anything I want. It’s a free country. I’ll have to apologize and promise to do Lauren’s chores for a week, but I don’t care. Next time she goes outside to play, I’ll pee in her closet.

      That’s what a wolf would do.

      * * *

      Mom runs a hot shower for me, and asks me to join her in the kitchen when I’m done.

      I lean away from the sticky plastic shower curtain when I wash. Lauren comes in and lifts the lid to the toilet. “Hey finkhead,” she says. After she pees she turns off the fan, says, “Watch out for sharks,” and slams the door shut.

      The bathroom is small and steams up immediately.

      I can’t see past the curtain . . . where laughing baby Lauren sits on the countertop while Mom changes her clothes. It’s years ago and Lauren and I just took a bath together.

      I’m still in the tub.

      Winding myself tighter and tighter in the thick plastic folds of the large shower curtain, I make funny faces at her. She laughs and points her fat finger at me.

      I.

      Can’t.

      Breathe.

      “Isn’t she funny?” Mom teases, lifting Lauren into the air. She doesn’t look at me. “Lily is . . . so . . . so . . . funny!”

      Lauren laughs.

      I sit Indian style in the cooling bathwater. The curtain sticks to my forehead, the end of my nose, and my shoulders, and presses my arms against me, holding me in place.

      “A taste of honey . . .” Mom sings with the radio. “A taste, much sweeter than wine . . .” Her back is to me.

      I twist. I splash. I kick the side of the tub, jingling the metal rings on the shower bar. Each exhale makes the curtain crackle then steam up, erasing my view of Mom and Lauren. When I hold my breath, a little window clears in front of me, and I see her legs and apron strings. Inhaling, I smell bubble bath and the Pine Sol–scrubbed shower curtain.

      Mom?

      She giggles, pretending to bite Lauren’s stomach.

      “Marv Tonkin Ford’s got the deal for you!” the radio blares.

      “Shark shark bo-bark . . .” Lauren sings as she opens the door again. She flips on the fan. “Banana-fana fo fark . . . Better hurry up!” she says, brushing her teeth. “Mom’s making chili dogs for lunch.”

      “Lily!” Mom finally cries and, putting baby Lauren on the floor, quickly untangles me.

      Dad takes care of Lauren that night, while Mom sits on the floor next to my bed, smoking cigarettes and rocking back and forth.

      My arms stay stuck to my sides for hours.

      * * *

      Mom’s on the phone.

      “I told him to go. For goodness sake, go to Chicago, Paul. It’s the chance of a lifetime.” She’s talking to Mrs. Marks, Judy’s mom. “Of course, I don’t mind a few days to myself either.” She laughs.

      I’m painting eyes and cutting them out for my Halloween costume. Cat eyes, doll eyes, human eyes.

      “Lauren’s a princess this year. She’s in the bathroom doing her makeup. Uh-huh . . . Lily? She’s going as a potato. That’s right, an Idaho spud. She’s sitting at the kitchen table right now, making eyes for it. Then she’ll staple them to some brown butcher paper, stuff it with newspaper, and climb in . . . I know, isn’t she? . . . Uh-huh. Well, whatever else, we never doubted her creativity. What about your kids? . . . Well, of course she’s too old. Judy’s always been old for her age, hasn’t she?”

      Then it dawns on me: I don’t want to be a potato. “I’ve changed my mind,” I announce. “I’m going to be a gypsy.”

      “Just a minute, Connie,” Mom says, covering the receiver. Her smile falls. “A gypsy? Your potato costume is clever. Be clever, Lily. Strut your stuff.”

      “But I don’t want to be clever.”

      “Can we have this conversation when I’m off the phone?”

      I start ripping up the eyes I’ve organized in piles according to size and type.

      Mom sighs. “Let me call you back,” she says.

      “First

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