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“I thought you were the one who’s all into holidays and stuff. I mean, you dragged me out to that Blackhellaween party, you made me celebrate Valentine’s Day for the first time since I was a kid, you–”
“I like Valentine’s Day because it’s romantic, and Halloween is all about costumes and drama. Easter is just… boring.”
“A giant rabbit travels all over the world breaking into people’s houses and crapping out eggs and candy, and that’s boring to you?”
“…Chloe. You’re seventeen years old. Are you seriously telling me that you still believe in the Easter Bunny??”
“Uh, no, but I seriously believe in candy! And breaking into people’s houses.”
“Well, that would definitely make Easter more exciting around here…”
“I gather your folks aren’t the ‘dressing up as the Easter Bunny to surprise the kid with candy’ types.”
“Um, what? Is that a thing??”
“It was a thing when my dad was alive.”
“Oh my god. Oh my god, you’re not serious.”
“Hella fucking serious, cross my heart and hope to die. Every year we’d stay up late watching Saturday Night Live together, right?”
“Uh-huh…”
“So every year a little before midnight, my dad would start yawning and stretching, and then he’d claim he’s too tired to watch the rest and go off to bed. Then, like, fifteen minutes later there’d be a knocking at the door.”
“Oh my god. You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not creative enough to make something like this up.”
“Untrue, but go on.”
“Okay, so my mom would act all mystified about who could possibly be knocking on our door so late - she’s a shit actor, by the way - and ask me to get the door. Y’know, like any responsible parent would ask their young daughter to do after midnight when a strange knocking sounds on the door.”
“You were how old?”
“I don’t remember when he started; I was probably, like, four. He kept doing it until he died, so I was fourteen the last time.”
“Holy shit.”
“Anyway, so I’d open the door, and there would be this –haha– this-this fuckin’… giant rabbit– ha, god, he was such a dork…”
“Ha-ha-h-holy shit, no way–”
“Yes way; there’d be this fuckin’ huge, like, six-foot –hah– pink bunny with a –hahhh– basket full of candy–”
“Hahahah, oh my god, Chloe–”
“Hahhhh… ahhh… God.”
“Holy fuck.”
“Yeah…”
“That’s amazing. He was still doing that when you were fourteen??”
“Yeah, he’d probably still be doing it. The last couple years I’d be, like, begging him not to - I’m too old for this, you’re such a dork, blah blah blah - and he’d just… do it anyway. And then, of course, the rabbit would leave, and my dad would come back downstairs ten minutes later to ask us if anything strange happened.”
“He did not.”
“He did.”
“Wow. Yeah, I cannot imagine any of my parents ever doing anything like that.”
“James Amber in a bunny suit is something his political rivals would probably pay good money to see.”
“I’ll bet. I don’t think the stick up his butt would fit into one, though.”
“Hah, good point.”
“So did your dad, like, rent the costume every year, or did he actually own an Easter bunny costume?”
“No idea. I think it was the same one every year, so he probably owned it. It’s probably in a box in the attic somewhere, assuming it hasn’t been donated or trashed to make room for Step-dick’s stuff. He loved doing stuff like that, though. He’d dress up as Santa, too. I believed in Santa for probably an embarrassing amount of time because of that.”
“That’s adorable.”
“Adorably dorky.”
“Just the way I like it.”
“Lucky me. So what does your family do, then?”
“We go to church.”
“Oh.”
“Yup.”
“‘Kay. I mean, we used to do that, too, but we also did, like, Easter egg hunts and stuff.”
“And bunny costumes, apparently.”
“You know it! So, like, no baskets, no candy, no dying eggs, nothing? Just church?”
“My mom makes pysanky.”
“…She what now?”
“She uses wax to make really ridiculously elaborate and ornate Easter eggs with traditional Ukranian designs.”
“Uh, wow. That sounds… cool?”
“They’re beautiful. She’s really, really good at it. She taught me how to make them years ago, but mostly she just does it herself. It takes a lot of patience and a steady hand. I usually lose patience.”
“So not exactly a fun family bonding activity.”
“Not exactly, no.”
“I’m guessing they don’t hide them around the house for you to find…”
“They sit in an artfully arranged row on the mantel.”
“Ah.”
“And then we dress up in our ‘best’ clothes and go for the traditional family photo op at church. James hobnobs with his political frenemies, Mom and I do our best to look like the perfect, happy family, and then we go home and I try to scrub the dirty feeling of lies out of my skin.”
“That’s… Wow. Fuck, Rach.”
“You guys did Easter egg hunts?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we did. Max would come over the night before and we’d dye eggs together and make a huge mess. Then she’d have to go home because her parents wanted her home for Easter, but she’d come over again the next day after church. My dad would’ve hidden plastic eggs all over the house and yard, and Max and I would spend at least an hour looking for them. They were full of toys and candy and stuff. It was awesome.”
“That sounds really nice.”
“It was. So, wait, you’ve never had an Easter egg hunt? Like, ever?”
“Never.”
“That’s hella tragic, dude.”
“It is what it is. I rock the shit out of Halloween, at least.”
“I mean, yeah, you do, but–”
“It’s fine, Chloe. Seriously, not every holiday has to be a big deal.”
“Yeah, that’s true, I guess. Last few years have been hella boring, to be honest. Like, your Easter sounds exciting compared to mine these days. Mom and the Step-douche gave up on even trying to drag me to church, so I’ll just be hanging out here all day. I’d probably just embarrass them, anyway.”
“That sucks. But hey, I’ll come see you after church tomorrow, right? So that’s already better than our last Easters.”
“…Yeah. Yeah, that’s true. Hey, you wanna meet at the junkyard tomorrow? Trash up your best clothes?”
“Fuck yes. I’ll see if I can smuggle some wine out of church.”
“If anyone can do it, you can. I believe in you, Rachel Amber.”
“Ha, like you still believe in the Easter Bunny?”
“…Fuck, you’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Aw, what kind of a friend would I be if I did?”