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The fluorescent lights of Howdy's cast a sickly yellow glow on Sabrina’s already furious face. Her fingers, usually so nimble as she refills sugar dispensers, drum a rapid, agitated rhythm on the sticky countertop. It's Halloween night, 2010, and instead of the usual hum of pre-holiday excitement, a thick, palpable tension hangs in the air around her.
"I just don't get it, Jimmy," Sabrina seethes, her voice a low growl, barely audible above the tinny country music emanating from the ancient radio behind the counter. "He promised. Wyatt promised he'd be here. Said he'd drive all the way from Phoenix just to go to the deli guy's party with me." She slams a sugar caddy down with a thud, rattling the packets inside. "Now he's 'got a thing.' A 'thing,' Jimmy! On Halloween! Who has a 'thing' on Halloween when they're supposed to be surprising their girlfriend?"
Jimmy, ever the loyal, albeit slightly awkward, confidant, nods empathetically, his eyes wide with genuine concern. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, his costume for the evening – a poorly constructed Frankenstein’s monster – feeling even more cumbersome under the weight of Sabrina’s wrath. His green-painted face, usually a source of amusement, now seems to reflect her pallor.
“That’s… that’s pretty fucked up, Sabrina. Especially since you’ve been looking forward to this, like, all week.”
"Fucked up doesn't even begin to cover it," she retorts, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "I spent hours finding the perfect Bonnie and Clyde costume, and now I'm just... Bonnie? With no Clyde? It's pathetic, Jimmy. Utterly pathetic." She throws her hands up in exasperation, then lets them fall with a dramatic flop.
A spark ignites in Jimmy’s eyes, a rare flash of his inner hero. “Well, then… then I can be your Clyde!” he blurts out, a little too eagerly. He immediately cringes, his Frankenstein persona momentarily forgotten as a blush creeps up his neck, making the green paint around his ears look even more absurd. “I mean, if you want. The deli guy’s party, right? I could totally go with you. I’m, uh, I’m not doing anything else. Just hanging out with Hope.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the house.
Sabrina pauses, her anger momentarily replaced by a flicker of surprise, then consideration. Her eyes, still narrowed, scan him up and down, taking in his lanky frame and the earnest, if slightly goofy, expression on his face. “You’d… you’d really do that, Jimmy?”
He beams, his face lighting up. “Yeah! Totally! I mean, it’s not like I’m going to another party. And besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t, like, key Wyatt’s car if he ever actually shows up.”
A small, genuine smile finally touches Sabrina’s lips, a rare sight these days. “You know what, Chance? That’s… that’s actually pretty sweet of you. Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it. You can be my Clyde. At least someone will appreciate this vintage fedora.” She adjusts the fedora perched jauntily on her head, her mood already visibly lifting. A wave of relief washes over Jimmy. But then, a new concern bubbles to the surface. Burt. His dad. Halloween was Burt’s favorite holiday, not for the candy or the costumes, but for the sheer unadulterated mischief it sanctioned. And Burt, when unleashed, could be a one-man wrecking crew of terror, particularly to small, innocent children. Like Hope.
“Okay, so, new plan,” Jimmy says, a newfound urgency in his voice as he rounds the counter. “I gotta make sure Burt doesn’t, like, traumatize Hope for life. He’s been talking about ‘Operation Spider Web Apocalypse’ all week, and honestly, I don’t even want to know.” He shudders theatrically. “Javier! Marcus!” he shouts, his voice echoing through the practically empty Howdy’s.
From the back, two figures emerge, both wearing makeshift vampire capes fashioned from trash bags. Javier, with his usual deadpan expression, carries a mop, while Marcus, always a step behind, clutches a bucket of greasy water. They’re supposed to be closing up shop.
“What up, Jimmy?” Javier says, his tone flat.
“Big problem, guys,” Jimmy announces, leaning in conspiratorially, as if relaying top-secret intel. “I’m going to the deli guy’s party with Sabrina, so I need you two to be on Hope duty. And I mean serious Hope duty. Burt is… Burt is on the loose, and I can’t have him turning Hope into some kind of, like, Halloween casualty. No scary masks near her face, no sudden noises, and absolutely no talk of his ‘spider web’ whatever.” He points a stern, green-gloved finger at them. “Understood?”
Javier raises an eyebrow, a rare flicker of emotion. “Dude, it’s Halloween. Kids like being scared.”
“Not my kid,” Jimmy counters, his voice firm. “Not by my dad. Just… keep her safe. And entertained. Think of it as, like, a babysitting mission of epic proportions. There will be… uh… snacks.” He trails off, unsure what else to offer as an incentive.
Marcus, surprisingly, seems to grasp the gravity of the situation. “Got it, J-man. Operation Protect the Tiny Human is a go. We’ll be her bodyguards. Her cute, little, innocent bodyguards.” He even attempts a salute, which ends up more of a clumsy wave.
Jimmy sighs, a mix of relief and lingering anxiety. “Good. Good. I’m counting on you guys. Seriously. If Burt so much as makes her cry, you’re on dish duty for a month.” That threat, he knows, will resonate. He turns to Sabrina, offering her a tentative, hopeful smile. “Ready to party, Bonnie?”
Sabrina grins back, her earlier fury completely replaced by a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Let’s do this, Clyde.”
Meanwhile, across town, the sun dips below the horizon, painting the Murfreesboro sky in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange, a perfect backdrop for the macabre festivities of Halloween. Virginia, resplendent in a surprisingly authentic-looking witch costume, complete with a pointy hat that keeps sliding over her eyes, tugs Maw Maw’s arm.
“Come on, Maw Maw! We gotta hit up the rich houses first! They always got the good candy. None of that stale hard candy or, like, those weird taffy things.” Virginia’s voice is a mix of excitement and thinly veiled greed.
Maw Maw, dressed as a surprisingly spry, albeit slightly confused, ghost in a bedsheet with eyeholes cut out, giggles. “Ooooh, candy! Is it the kind that makes your teeth fall out? I like those!”
Virginia rolls her eyes affectionately. “No, Maw Maw, we want the chocolate kind. The good stuff. Now, stick with me. And don’t tell anyone you’re not a real ghost, okay? It’s part of the… mystique.”
As they disappear down the sidewalk, a shadowy figure emerges from behind a bush. Burt. He’s dressed in his signature Halloween ensemble: a faded, blood-splattered hockey mask, a tattered cloak, and, most importantly, a bucket filled with eggs. His eyes, visible through the mask’s slits, sparkle with unadulterated glee.
“Alright, boys,” Burt whispers conspiratorially to a handful of giggling neighborhood kids, all armed with their egg ammunition. They range in age from seven to ten, their faces painted with varying degrees of spooky enthusiasm. “Operation Egg-cellent Adventure is a go! Remember the targets: Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning petunias, the Jenkins’ pristine white siding, and, of course, the mayor’s ridiculous fountain. No mercy!”
The kids let out muffled cheers, their youthful exuberance barely contained. Burt grins under his mask. This was his favorite part of Halloween: the chaos, the anarchy, the sweet, satisfying splat of an egg against an unsuspecting surface.
The deli guy’s party is, predictably, a sensory overload. The air is thick with the smell of cheap beer, questionable food, and a faint, lingering aroma of deli meats. Decorations, haphazardly strung, include plastic skeletons dancing on invisible strings and cobwebs made from stretched-out cotton balls. Music, an eclectic mix of 80s pop and classic rock, blares from a pair of overworked speakers.
Jimmy, still in his Frankenstein costume, tries to navigate the crowded living room, a half-eaten hot dog clutched in his green hand. Sabrina, looking stunning in her Bonnie Parker attire, is chatting animatedly with a group of friends near the snack table, a bright, genuine smile gracing her face. He’s glad she’s having fun. He’s even starting to relax a little, the earlier anxieties about Hope fading into the background, thanks to the sheer volume of people and the unexpected cheerfulness of the party.
Suddenly, a familiar voice, smooth and laced with a hint of Southern charm, cuts through the din. “Sabrina, darling! I thought you’d never show up.”
Jimmy freezes, his hot dog halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart to the source of the voice, and his jaw drops, nearly dislodging a piece of frankfurter. Standing there, impossibly handsome in a perfectly tailored Clyde Barrow costume, complete with a fedora that somehow looks better than Sabrina’s, is Wyatt.
Sabrina whirls around, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Wyatt?!” she exclaims, her voice a mixture of shock and something akin to betrayal. She stares at him, then at Jimmy, then back at Wyatt, her mind struggling to process the visual information.
Wyatt grins, a charming, slightly smug expression on his face. “Surprise! You really think I’d miss Halloween with my favorite girl? I told you I had a ‘thing,’ not that I wasn’t coming. It was all part of the grand plan to sweep you off your feet.” He winks, then pulls her into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Jimmy feels a strange mix of emotions. Relief for Sabrina. Annoyance, for himself. And a sharp, unfamiliar pang that feels a lot like… disappointment. He’s just standing there, a green-faced, hot dog-wielding third wheel. The Frankenstein costume suddenly feels less like a fun disguise and more like a cruel joke. Sabrina, however, seems to have forgotten all about her earlier rage. She’s laughing now, a bright, melodic sound that makes Jimmy’s chest ache a little.
“You big idiot! I was so mad! I almost dyed your car purple!”
Wyatt chuckles, pulling her closer. “Glad I saved it, then. So, are we ready to tear up this party, Bonnie?”
Sabrina beams up at him, her eyes sparkling. “You know it, Clyde.”
They turn, a perfectly matched duo, and melt into the crowd, leaving Jimmy standing there, an awkward, green statue. He takes a mournful bite of his hot dog. It tastes like defeat.
Hours later, the party has taken a turn. The music is louder, the dancing more frenetic, and the air even thicker with the scent of various questionable concoctions. Jimmy, having spent most of the evening observing Sabrina and Wyatt from a safe distance, is now propped against a wall, feeling increasingly out of place and oddly deflated. Suddenly, Wyatt appears, a harried expression on his face. He spots Jimmy and navigates through the throng of costumed revelers, his movements quick and purposeful.
“Jimmy! There you are, man. Listen, I've got a huge favor to ask.”
Jimmy straightens up, a flicker of hope, or maybe just curiosity, stirring within him. “Yeah? What’s up?”
Wyatt gestures vaguely towards the back of the living room. “It’s Sabrina. She… she had a little too much fun, if you know what I mean.”
Jimmy follows his gaze. There, slumped on a worn sofa, is Sabrina. Her Bonnie fedora is askew, her head lolling to one side, and a faint snore escapes her lips. She is, undeniably, passed out.
“Oh,” Jimmy says, a mix of concern and, again, that strange pang of something else. “She’s… she’s really out, huh?”
“Yeah, totally. Like a light,” Wyatt confirms, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. “Here’s the thing, man. My buddy, Mark, just texted me about this insane after-party. It’s supposed to be legendary. And I can’t exactly take Sabrina there like this.” He glances at the unconscious Sabrina, then back at Jimmy, a hopeful glint in his eye. “So, could you, like, keep an eye on her? Just for a bit? I’ll be back soon, promise. Just wanna check out this other party, you know?”
Jimmy stares at him, a myriad of thoughts swirling in his head. He’s leaving her? After all that? But then he sees Sabrina’s peaceful, albeit comatose, face, and his natural protective instincts kick in. Someone needs to look out for her.
He sighs, resigned. “Yeah, okay, Wyatt. I’ll keep an eye on her. Just… don’t be too long, alright? My babysitting skills are a little rusty when it comes to adults.”
Wyatt claps him on the shoulder, a wide, relieved smile spreading across his face. “You’re the best, man! Seriously, you’re a lifesaver. I owe you one.” And with that, he’s gone, swallowed by the pulsating crowd, leaving Jimmy alone with the very much passed-out Sabrina.
Jimmy carefully maneuvers Sabrina into a more comfortable position, then gently tries to wake her. “Sabrina? Hey, Sabrina, wake up. Party’s over.”
She stirs, groaning softly, her eyes fluttering open, unfocused and glassy. “Mmmph… Clyde?” she mumbles, her voice slurred.
“No, it’s Jimmy, Sabrina. Come on, let’s get you home.”
He carefully helps her to her feet, supporting her unsteady frame. The walk back to the Chance house is a slow, wobbly affair. Sabrina occasionally bumps into him, murmuring incoherently about Bonnie and Clyde and missing an apple pie she vaguely remembers someone mentioning. As they stumble through the front door of the Chance residence, the house is dark and eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the raucous party they just left. The moonlight filtering through the dusty windows casts long, distorted shadows, making the familiar furniture seem alien and grotesque.
Sabrina, still heavily intoxicated, squints into the gloom. “Whoa…” she breathes, her voice filled with drunken wonder. “Is this… is this the haunted house? The one they were talking about?” She gazes around, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination. “It’s so… spooky. And… dusty.”
Jimmy sighs, trying to suppress a chuckle. “No, Sabrina, it’s just my house. It always looks like this. It’s not haunted. Just… well, it’s home.”
But Sabrina isn’t listening. She takes a shaky step forward, her eyes fixated on a coat rack draped with a discarded sheet, which, in the dim light, resembles a ghostly figure. “Look, Clyde! A ghost! And… is that a g-g-goblin in the corner?” She points a trembling finger at a pile of laundry.
Jimmy shakes his head, leading her towards the living room. “No, Sabrina, that’s just Burt’s laundry. And that’s a coat rack. You’re fine.”
He guides her to the worn, floral-patterned sofa. As he helps her sit down, she sways precariously, then, without warning, she reaches up, her hands fumbling for his face. Her fingers, surprisingly gentle despite their unsteady path, find his cheeks.
“Clyde,” she whispers, her voice thick with sleep and alcohol, her eyes still mostly closed. “You’re… you’re such a good Clyde.”
Then, her lips, surprisingly soft and warm, press against his. It’s a clumsy, drunken kiss, barely more than a brush of lips, but it sends a jolt through Jimmy, a sudden, electric shock that makes his heart pound in his chest. He freezes, completely caught off guard. His mind races, a whirlwind of confusion and a strange, undeniable thrill.
Sabrina pulls back, a contented sigh escaping her lips. “Mmmph,” she murmurs, her head lolling back against the sofa cushions. “You’re a really good kisser, Wyatt. Much better than… well, you know.”
And with that, she’s out cold again, a faint snore escaping her lips as she succumbs to the depths of her drunken slumber. Jimmy stands there, rooted to the spot, his face hot, his heart still thrumming. He touches his lips, a phantom sensation lingering. She thought he was Wyatt. She thought he was a good kisser. A bittersweet feeling washes over him, a complicated mix of elation and profound sadness. This was a moment he’d secretly dreamed of, but not like this. Never like this.
After what feels like an eternity, Jimmy manages to carefully lift the unconscious Sabrina and carry her to the guest room, gently laying her down on the lumpy mattress. He pulls a thin blanket over her, then quietly closes the door, leaving her to sleep off the effects of the party. He walks back into the silent living room, the lingering scent of stale beer and desperation in the air. The faint moonlight still paints the room in shades of grey and shadow. He passes by the kitchen, and a flash of white catches his eye. A note, taped to the refrigerator. Jimmy approaches, his brow furrowed with a sudden sense of dread. He rips the note off the fridge door.
It’s Marcus’s handwriting, messy and slanted:
Yo, J-man,
So, about Hope… look, this whole babysitting thing? Not my jam, dude. And Javier got a booty call he couldn’t refuse. Said it was, like, “destiny” or something. Anyway, we took Hope to the fire station. Safer there, right? Plus, they got those cool trucks. They said you got until 6 AM to pick her up.
Good luck, man.
Marcus
Jimmy stares at the note, the words blurring before his eyes. Six AM. The fire station. Hope. Alone. He crumples the note in his hand, a surge of panic rising in his chest. His heart, which had just moments ago been thrumming with the unexpected thrill of a mistaken kiss, now pounds with a cold, hard fear.
He looks at the clock on the wall: 3:47 AM. Three hours and thirteen minutes.