School. Candy wrappers litter the floors, float in water fountains. Twix, Three Musketeers. I drift from class to class, taking nothing in, some amplified heartbeat seeming to follow me, forcing blood down these long intravenous corridors. At one point, a girl in a Zorro mask and cape pirouettes by me in the crowded hall, pauses, flashes the cape open at all of us, revealing a black bralette underneath. Boys roar approval, banging on lockers, and then she spins away, a teacher in hot pursuit.

I have a Kincaid sighting between classes, but when I turn, it’s somebody else, nothing in common with him but dark coat, light hair. I didn’t really expect him to come today; I gave him a lot to think about on Tuesday, a lot to decide. I’m not going to chase after him. In some ways, it really is like loving a ghost. And for the first time, I let myself wonder, Is this love?

No Trace, so I get on the bus after school, the talking-to Ma and Dad gave me on Tuesday still ringing in my ears. Such a smart girl—always said you were, so why—and for the first time I didn’t really mind hearing it, because it means they give a damn. About school, about me, for no reason other than they choose to. That love isn’t necessarily guaranteed. So. Straight home. Keep the doors locked, the phone close. Halloween is no excuse for taking stupid chances.

I watch as Bree gets on the bus by herself, glimpses me, sits five seats ahead. I settle in to wait for the overpass and Fear Him.

Ma bought candy, thank God, because the first knock on the door comes a couple hours after I get home. Bree’s forecast was right: one look out the window shows trick-or-treaters crawling all over the Terraces, following paved walkways to hit every apartment. It’s still daylight, so moms with really little kids are out doing the rounds now. Some of the mini monsters are wide-eyed and completely in awe of me as I drop candy into their buckets; others are power-mad with their ability to get free chocolate from an almost-adult just by saying trick or treat. I realize we don’t have any decorations up. We are so pathetic.

I tape Kincaid’s origami jack-o’-lantern in the window. I think he’d like that.

Trace got his phone back. Around five o’clock, he sends me a GIF of a twerking skeleton. Last I knew, he’d talked his mom into letting him hang out with Sage at his place tonight, too.

I’m searching for a good comeback GIF, tearing into my fifth or sixth fun-size Hershey bar, when another bang on the back door pulls me away from Killer Klowns from Outer Space with my bowl of treats. When Dad gets home, this is totally becoming his job.