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The crisp autumn air nips at the exposed skin of anyone daring to brave the late October evening. Inside the Griffin household, however, the warmth of anticipation fends off the chill. It's Halloween, 2010, and a palpable hum of excitement and nervous energy vibrates through the cluttered kitchen. Lois, ever the harried matriarch, stands by the counter, her hands on her hips, a furrow of exasperation between her brows. Her gaze is fixed on Chris, who stands proudly in the middle of the room, a wide, slightly lopsided grin plastered on his face.
Chris, eleven years old and brimming with an almost boundless energy, has arrived in the kitchen, not in a costume, but as a brown-faced, sweater-clad embodiment of Bill Cosby. Brown paint, thick and somewhat uneven, smears his cheeks and forehead, contrasting sharply with the bright, almost manic glint in his eyes. He fidgets slightly, his hands tucked into the pockets of a particularly hideous, patterned sweater that Lois had dug out of a donation pile.
“Chris, sweetie,” Lois begins, her voice a strained blend of affection and barely contained panic, “you cannot go to a Halloween party as Bill Cosby, especially not with… that.” She gestures vaguely at his painted face, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in the full effect. “It’s just… no. Absolutely not.”
Chris’s grin falters, replaced by a pout. “But Mom! It’s funny! Everyone at school thinks Bill Cosby is hilarious!” He bounces on the balls of his feet, his enthusiasm refusing to be entirely dampened. “And I even got the sweater to match!”
Lois sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to carry the weight of a thousand parental battles. “I know, honey, but it’s not appropriate. Not for Halloween, not for anything. You need to change. Now.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.
Chris deflates, his shoulders slumping. He drags his feet as he shuffles out of the kitchen, muttering about how nobody understands his artistic vision. Meanwhile, Stewie, a compact nine-year-old bundle of precocious intelligence and thinly veiled cynicism, stands beside the kitchen table, meticulously arranging a small pile of miniature candy bars. This candy isn't from trick-or-treating; it's his private stash, carefully hoarded from various allowances and secret trips to the convenience store, and he's inspecting it for quality before the real haul begins. He’s dressed in an elaborate duck costume, the bright yellow fabric and oversized orange bill making him look like a very disgruntled, slightly waddling, feathered creature. His sharp, intelligent eyes, usually alight with scientific curiosity or a glimmer of mischief, hold a distinct weariness.
“Do I have to go trick-or-treating with Dad?” Stewie whines, his voice a surprisingly deep rumble for a child his age, though it still carries a youthful inflection. “He always makes us go to the houses with the worst candy, and he insists on telling everyone his ‘hilarious’ knock-knock jokes. It’s socially debilitating.” He pushes a tiny Snickers bar across the table with a gloved, webbed hand.
Brian, fourteen and already possessing a contemplative air that belies his age, leans against the doorframe, a small, worn notebook clutched in one hand. He’s dressed as Inspector Clouseau, a ridiculously oversized trench coat nearly engulfing his lean frame, and a felt fedora perched at a jaunty, yet somehow melancholic, angle on his head. His usually dark hair is artfully slicked down. There's a subtle tension around his eyes, a weariness that often settles there, but his gaze softens as he looks at Stewie.
“I can go with you, Stewie,” Brian offers, his voice a low, steady baritone, already possessing a mature cadence.
He pushes off the doorframe, a faint creak of his trench coat accompanying his movement. “Dad’s probably going to spend half the night telling everyone about his ‘glory days’ of college pranks anyway. We’ll get more candy if it’s just us.” Brian, as a general rule, avoids chocolate due to an allergy that causes hives and an upset stomach, preferring the fruity or sour candies that Stewie sometimes passes over.
Stewie’s eyes light up, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Really, Brian? You’d do that?”
Brian nods, offering a small, comforting smile. “Yeah, sure. Beats staying home and listening to Mom complain about Chris’s costume choices for the next hour.” He gives a wry chuckle, and Stewie giggles, a surprisingly childish sound from the usually composed boy.
Just then, Meg, thirteen, appears at the top of the stairs, her presence announced by the faint rustle of fabric. She descends slowly, her shoulders hunched, a familiar anxiety radiating from her. She’s dressed as a cat, a simple black leotard, tail, and ears, but the effect is somehow muted by her self-conscious posture. A sparkly, somewhat ill-fitting pink skirt completes the ensemble, a concession to her desire to appear feminine, yet she tugs at it constantly, as if it’s an unwelcome addition. Her eyes, usually hidden behind her glasses, are wide with a mixture of hope and dread.
“Is it time yet?” Meg asks, her voice a soft, almost inaudible murmur. She clutches her small trick-or-treat bag to her chest like a shield. “Connie’s party starts at seven.”
Her friends, Ruth, Patty, and Esther, are supposed to meet her there. This party, with Connie D’Amico, the queen bee of their social scene, represents a pinnacle of social aspiration for Meg. She desperately wants to be liked by the popular crowd, to feel like she belongs.
Lois, momentarily distracted from Chris’s sartorial failings, beams at Meg. “Almost, sweetie! Just a few more minutes.” She glances at the clock on the microwave, a digital display glowing bright green: 6:45 PM.
Stewie and Brian, eager to begin their candy quest, exchange a glance. “We’re going to walk ahead, Mom,” Brian announces, his voice firm. “Stewie gets cold easily.”
Lois, preoccupied, waves a dismissive hand. “Alright, alright, just don’t go too far! We gotta stick together!”
With that, Brian and Stewie step out into the cool night, the crunch of fallen leaves under their shoes providing a rhythmic backdrop to their conversation. Meg, after a few more anxious glances at the clock, finally makes her exit, murmuring a quiet goodbye to her parents. Chris remains upstairs, still deliberating his final costume choice, his Cosby show deemed "not good," and a ghost sheet being "too boring."
A moment later, the front door swings open abruptly, revealing Peter Griffin, dressed as a giant, inflated Homer Simpson. “Alright, kids! Who’s ready to rake in some serious cavity-fuel?!” he bellows, his voice booming through the house. He looks around, noticing only Lois. “Where are the other rugrats?”
Lois sighs. “Brian and Stewie went ahead. Meg just left for Connie’s party. And Chris is still upstairs trying to figure out what he wants to be.”
Peter scratches his Homer Simpson head. “Chris, eh? Well, no time to dilly-dally! C’mon, Lois, let’s go wrangle him up and get him something decent. No time for silly Cosby costumes, that’s for sure.” With Lois’s tired agreement, Peter and Chris eventually make a last-minute trip to a costume shop, where the imposing stature and primary colors instantly draw Chris.
Brian and Stewie walk along the sidewalk, the glow of carved pumpkins illuminating their path. Brian holds his notebook, occasionally jotting down a thought, while Stewie, despite his earlier cynicism, clutches his trick-or-treat bag with an almost childish excitement. They talk about everything and nothing – Stewie’s latest scientific hypothesis about faster-than-light travel, Brian’s thoughts on the existential dread of being a teenager, the merits of various candy bars (with Brian carefully sorting out any chocolate for later disposal).
“You know, Brian,” Stewie begins, his voice thoughtful, “the sheer inefficiency of the human digestive system is truly baffling. Imagine the caloric conversion rates if we could simply absorb nutrients through osmosis, like a plant.”
Brian chuckles, writing something in his notebook. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that? No trick-or-treating, no hot fudge sundaes.”
They turn onto a darker street, the houses set further apart, their porch lights fewer in number. A group of shadows stirs ahead, coalescing into a cluster of figures. As they draw closer, the dim light from a distant streetlight reveals them: four teenagers, older than Brian, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, dressed in generic “scary” costumes – a ripped zombie shirt, a faded vampire cape. They are loud, their voices echoing in the quiet street, punctuated by bursts of laughter.
“Whoa, check it out, nerds,” one of them, a lanky boy with a fake blood-splattered shirt, sneers, his voice dripping with condescension. “Looks like we got some little trick-or-treaters.”
Brian instinctively moves slightly in front of Stewie, his hand subtly resting on Stewie’s shoulder. “We’re just heading home,” Brian says, his voice even, trying to project a calm he doesn’t entirely feel.
Another teenager, a hulking boy with a crude clown mask, steps forward. “What’s in the bag, little ducky?” he grunts, his voice distorted by the mask. He gestures with a candy bar he’s already half-eaten, a wrapper dangling from his fingers.
Stewie, despite his usual bravado, shrinks back a little. His grip on his trick-or-treat bag tightens. “It’s… it’s just my candy,” he stammers, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
Before Brian can react, the clown-masked teenager snatches the bag from Stewie’s grasp. The others laugh, their cruel mirth echoing in the stillness of the street. They rip open the bag, their hands diving in, grabbing handfuls of chocolate bars and lollipops.
“Hey!” Brian protests, stepping forward, his voice rising. “Give that back!”
The lanky boy with the fake blood-splattered shirt shoves Brian roughly. Brian stumbles back, nearly falling. “Beat it, Clouseau,” the boy sneers. “This is our turf.”
Stewie watches, his eyes wide with disbelief and a building rage. His meticulously collected candy, now scattered on the ground or clutched in the grubby hands of these bullies. He feels small, helpless, and the cynical worldview he often projects feels suddenly very real. The teenagers, their mission accomplished, saunter off, their laughter fading into the night.
Brian, regaining his footing, rushes to Stewie. “Stewie, are you okay?” He looks at the discarded wrappers, a pang of anger and helplessness tightening his chest.
Stewie doesn’t answer immediately. His lower lip trembles, a rare display of vulnerability. “They… they took my candy,” he whispers, his voice thick with unshed tears. The bravado is gone, replaced by the raw hurt of a nine-year-old.
Meanwhile, at Connie D’Amico’s Halloween party, the bass vibrates through the floorboards of her lavish living room, a cacophony of pop music and teenage chatter filling the air. Meg stands awkwardly by the snack table, clutching a plastic cup of lukewarm punch. She’s tried to engage with Ruth (dressed as a nurse), Patty (a bee), and Esther (a cowgirl), but their conversations always seem to revolve around boys and clothes, topics Meg struggles to connect with. She fiddles with the hem of her sparkly skirt, feeling the familiar prickle of social anxiety. She desperately wants to be part of their easy laughter, to feel the effortless camaraderie that seems to envelop everyone else.
Then, the music dies down, and Connie D’Amico, resplendent in a meticulously crafted vampire costume, claps her hands together, her voice ringing out above the remaining chatter. “Alright, party people! Who wants to play Spin the Bottle?!”
A cheer erupts. Meg’s stomach clenches. Spin the Bottle. The ultimate social gauntlet. She wants to run, to hide, but a tiny, hopeful voice whispers in her head: This is it. This is your chance to fit in. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to stay. The bottle spins, a blur of green glass on the polished wooden floor. It twirls, slows, and finally points directly at Meg. Her heart leaps, then plummets. Everyone is looking at her. Her cheeks flush crimson.
“Alright, Meg!” Connie cheers, a sly smirk on her face. “Looks like you’re up! Spin it again, let’s see who you get!”
Meg’s hand, trembling slightly, reaches out and gives the bottle another hesitant spin. It twirls again, and this time, as it slows, it points directly at a tall figure in a surprisingly detailed Optimus Prime costume. He’s standing somewhat apart from the main group, and his helmet hides his face, offering a strange sense of anonymity. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad. A ripple of murmurs goes through the crowd. Optimus Prime, silent until now, gives a slight nod.
Connie grins. “Alright, you two! Closet time!”
The closet is small, dark, and smells faintly of old coats and mothballs. The door clicks shut, plunging them into near-total darkness. Meg’s heart pounds against her ribs. She can feel Optimus Prime’s presence beside her, a hulking shape in the gloom. The silence stretches, thick and awkward. Optimus Prime shifts, and then, to Meg’s surprise, a hand reaches out and gently takes her hand. His touch is hesitant, almost shy. Then, the helmet tilts, and a soft, muffled sound escapes from within. Before Meg can process it, he leans in, and a kiss lands awkwardly on her lips. It’s not passionate, not romantic, but it’s a kiss. From a boy. In a closet. At a party. A wave of unexpected giddiness washes over her. This is actually happening.
The moment, however, is fleeting. The closet door suddenly bursts open, flooding the small space with blinding light and the sound of raucous laughter. The party guests, impatient, have decided to interrupt.
“Ooh, what’s going on in here?!” someone shouts.
Meg blinks, her eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness. She looks at the boy in the Optimus Prime costume, who is now pulling off his helmet. Her blood runs cold. Her stomach drops. Her face drains of all color.
It’s Chris. Her eleven-year-old brother, Chris, his face flushed, a sheepish grin plastered on his face. The laughter of the party guests intensifies, turning from playful to mocking.
“Meg and Chris?!” someone shrieks. “That’s so gross!”
Meg feels a hot flush of humiliation spread through her. Her meticulously constructed hopes for the night crumble into dust. Chris, oblivious to the depth of her mortification, just shrugs.
“What? It was just a kiss! We were just playing the game!”
The humiliation is a physical weight, pressing down on Meg, suffocating her. She turns and pushes past the laughing crowd, a choked sob escaping her lips. She has to get out. Now. Chris, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere, looks around, his sheepish grin fading. He sees the scorn in their eyes, the pointing fingers. He realizes, belatedly, that he’s done something wrong. He follows Meg, a bewildered expression on his face.
The Griffin kids, now reunited in their collective shame, find themselves outside the party, the cool night air a harsh balm on their burning cheeks. They walk in stunned silence, unable to meet each other’s eyes. The dreams of social acceptance, the simple joy of Halloween, shattered.
A voice breaks the silence. “Meg! Wait up!”
Meg turns to see Jennifer, a not-as-close upbeat friend from her class, jogging to catch up. Jennifer is dressed as a redheaded Olivia Newton-John from her ‘Physical’ music video, complete with a headband and leg warmers. “Hey, what happened? Why’d you guys leave?”
Meg can’t bring herself to explain. “Just… not feeling it anymore,” she mumbles, avoiding Jennifer’s gaze.
Jennifer, sensing Meg’s distress, offers, “Well, I’m heading to my place. Want to come over? We can watch a movie or something.”
Meg, desperate to escape the scene of her humiliation, nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”
So, Meg and Jennifer walk off, leaving Chris standing alone on the sidewalk, the remnants of his Optimus Prime costume clinging to him. He looks in the direction Meg went, then to the path back home. He’s not ready to face his parents. Not yet. He decides to go trick-or-treating. Maybe some candy will make things better. He starts walking, his footsteps heavy, towards the familiar, slightly dilapidated house of Mr. Herbert. He's a World War II veteran, his gaunt face and stooped posture bearing the weight of his past. He suffers from PTSD and struggles with social interaction, making him a solitary figure in the neighborhood. Chris approaches cautiously, remembering the quiet kindness Mr. Herbert often showed, a stark contrast to the boisterous crowds of the party.
Meanwhile, Stewie, still reeling from the theft of his candy, finds Brian at a nearby crosswalk. Brian is sitting on a low brick wall, his head in his hands, his Inspector Clouseau hat slightly askew. He looks utterly defeated. Stewie’s initial impulse is to cry, to demand comfort, but the raw humiliation he feels overrides it. He points to a group of teenagers down the street, their figures still visible under the glow of a distant streetlamp. They’re laughing, still, and Stewie can see some of them are holding his stolen candy.
“There they are!” Stewie hisses, his voice low and venomous. “The miscreants who perpetrated this heinous act of grand theft confectionery!”
Brian lifts his head, his eyes narrowed. He sees the teenagers, and a flash of something hard, something uncharacteristic, crosses his face. His usual melancholic composure cracks, revealing a raw, unadulterated anger. He stands up, a determined glint in his eye.
“Alright,” Brian says, his voice flat, dangerously quiet. “Let’s go talk to them.”
Stewie, surprised by Brian’s sudden shift in demeanor, follows, a strange mix of apprehension and grim satisfaction washing over him. Brian, despite his lean build, walks with a newfound purpose, his trench coat billowing slightly around him. They approach the group of teenagers. The bullies stop laughing, their expressions turning from amusement to mild annoyance, then to slight unease as Brian walks directly up to them.
“Hey,” Brian says, his voice still low, but with an edge that makes the teenagers pause. “That was my brother's candy you took. Give it back.”
The lanky boy with the fake blood-splattered shirt scoffs. “Oh, look, the little detective’s back. What, you gonna arrest us?”
Suddenly, one of the teenagers, quicker than Brian can react, pulls out a can of pink spray paint from his backpack. With a quick flick of the wrist, a stream of vibrant pink paint erupts, splattering across Brian’s trench coat, his fedora, his face. The teenagers erupt in laughter again, louder this time, reveling in their petty vandalism. Brian stumbles back, momentarily stunned, the acrid smell of paint filling his nostrils. His hands fly to his face, wiping at the sticky pink substance. His carefully cultivated Inspector Clouseau façade is ruined, replaced by a garish, bright pink hue.
Stewie stares, his eyes wide. The duck costume, the stolen candy, the humiliation – it all fades into the background. All he sees is Brian, covered in pink paint. A small, almost imperceptible smirk touches Stewie’s lips.
“Well, Brian,” he remarks, trying to hint at levity, “now you’re the Pink Panther.”
Brian doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even crack a smile. His eyes, usually filled with a deep-seated sadness or quiet contemplation, now blaze with a cold, shocking fury. He looks at the retreating backs of the teenagers, the pink paint dripping from his hair.
Then, to Stewie’s utter astonishment, Brian says, his voice low and dangerous, “You know what, Stewie? Sometimes, violence is the answer.”
Stewie blinks, utterly speechless. Brian, the pacifist, the introspective one, advocating violence? It’s a complete reversal of his character. Brian’s face is set, his jaw clenched. He clenches his fists, the pink paint smearing his knuckles. The surprise on Stewie’s face is replaced by a dawning comprehension, a flicker of something dark and familiar in his own nature recognizing itself in Brian.
Stewie, spurred by Brian’s unexpected rage and his own simmering anger, looks at the retreating bullies. He picks up a small, jagged rock from the sidewalk. With a newfound ferocity, he hurls it. It clatters harmlessly against a lamppost, far from its intended target. He throws another, and another, a furious, frustrated barrage. The teenagers, hearing the clatter, turn. They see Stewie, a small duck-figure, throwing rocks at them. Their amusement quickly turns to renewed aggression. One of them, the hulking boy in the clown mask, steps forward.
“Oh, you wanna play, little ducky?” he growls.
Before Stewie can react, two of the teenagers grab him, one by each arm. They yank him around, shoving him back and forth like a rag doll. Stewie, small and light, stumbles, his duck bill flopping against his face. Then, another teenager, the one with the fake blood-splattered shirt, pulls out a carton of eggs. He grins, a malicious glint in his eye. The first egg splatters against Stewie’s chest, the slimy yolk and shattered shell coating his bright yellow duck costume. Another egg hits his head, dripping down his face, obscuring his vision. The cold, wet mess combined with the physical assault makes him reel. He feels more humiliated than hurt, the indignity of it all overwhelming.
The laughter of the bullies rings in his ears, louder, crueler. This isn’t just about candy anymore. This is about being small, being vulnerable, being powerless. Tears, hot and stinging, well up in Stewie’s eyes, mixing with the egg yolk on his face.
“Mommy!” Stewie cries out, the word a raw, desperate sound, stripping away all his sophisticated pretenses. “Mommy!”
Lois, just putting away a plate of half-eaten Halloween candy, hears the distant, shrill cry. It’s Stewie’s voice, unmistakable, filled with a terror she rarely hears from her youngest. Her heart lurches. She rushes to the front door, Peter lumbering behind her, still wearing his Homer Simpson costume.
Outside, in the dim light of the streetlamp, she sees them. Stewie, covered in eggs, his duck costume a slimy mess, sobbing inconsolably. And Brian, splattered with bright pink paint, his face a mask of furious, protective anger. The sight of her two youngest children, so clearly distressed, ignites a fierce, primal rage within Lois.
“Stewie! Brian!” she cries, her voice sharp with alarm. She rushes to them, pulling Stewie into a tight embrace, feeling the sticky egg yolk against her sweater. “What happened?! What is going on?!”
Stewie, still crying, points a trembling finger at the figures disappearing down the street. “They… they took my candy! And… and they threw eggs! And… and they painted Brian pink!”
Lois looks at Brian, her eyes widening at the sight of the pink paint. Brian, still seething, recounts the events, his voice clipped and precise. Lois listens, her jaw tightening with each word. Her children, her babies, humiliated and assaulted. A dangerous glint enters her eyes, a look Peter knows well. It’s the Lois Griffin who knows no bounds when her children are threatened.
“You know what?” Lois says, her voice eerily calm, but with an underlying steel that sends shivers down Brian’s spine. “We’re not going to stand for this.”
She turns, and with a swift, determined stride, begins to march down the street in the direction the teenagers had gone, still clutching Stewie. Peter, bewildered but sensing the gravity of the situation, waddles after her, his Homer Simpson head bobbing comically. Brian, still pink, follows, a strange mix of dread and satisfaction in his stomach. They find the teenagers in front of a modest, two-story house, still laughing, still casually eating Stewie’s candy. Lois stops short, her eyes blazing.
“HEY!” she bellows, her voice echoing through the quiet neighborhood, making the teenagers jump and spin around.
Their laughter dies. Their eyes widen as they see Lois Griffin, a furious mother with an egg-covered child and a pink-painted teenager, striding purposefully towards them. Lois points a finger directly at the lanky boy with the fake blood-splattered shirt, who is still holding a handful of Stewie’s candy.
“You!” she snarls. “You give my son back his candy, right now!”
The boy, intimidated by Lois’s sheer force of will, fumbles, dropping the candy. The other teenagers, seeing the wrath of a mother scorned, slowly begin to drop the rest of Stewie’s candy onto the grass. Lois strides past the bewildered teenagers, scoops up Stewie’s candy, and then turns her gaze on the house. She walks up to the front door and pounds on it, a loud, insistent thud that resonates through the evening.
A woman, harried and tired-looking, opens the door, peering out cautiously. “Can I help you?” she asks, her voice wary.
Lois, holding Stewie's hand, who is now sniffling but watching intently, holds up the egg-covered duck costume. “Your children,” Lois says, her voice dangerously quiet, “just assaulted my children, stole their Halloween candy, and vandalized my son’s costume.” She gestures to Brian, who stands, still pink, looking utterly stoic.
The woman’s eyes widen in alarm. She glances at her sons, who are now trying to make themselves scarce.
“I want all of my son’s candy back,” Lois states, her voice firm. “And then, because your children clearly have no respect for property or other people, I want cash to pay for the vandalism.”
The woman, clearly overwhelmed and embarrassed by her sons’ behavior, fumbles for her purse, her face pale. Lois stands there, unyielding, until a crumpled handful of bills is pressed into her hand.
“Good,” Lois says, her tone suggesting that this is merely a temporary reprieve. “Now, if I ever see your children bothering mine again, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Do we understand each other?”
The woman, meekly, nods. Lois turns, her mission accomplished, and walks back to her children, the candy and the crumpled bills clutched in her hand. Peter, still wide-eyed, follows.
Back at home, the house is a sanctuary from the harsh realities of the outside world. Stewie, cleaned up and in his pajamas, sits on the couch, a blanket wrapped around him. Brian, having attempted to scrub off the pink paint (with limited success, as faint pink streaks still linger in his hair and on his skin), sits beside him, his notebook open, though he’s not writing. Lois brings in a large bowl of retrieved Halloween candy.
“Here you go, Stewie,” she says, her voice gentle. “All accounted for.”
Stewie, his eyes still a little red, looks at the candy. Then, he looks at Brian, who has a faint, almost imperceptible smirk on his face. Stewie picks up a handful of small, individually wrapped pieces of candy that are clearly not chocolate. He carefully unwraps one and holds it out to Brian. Brian takes it, a small smile touching his lips. They eat their candy in comfortable silence, the shared experience of humiliation and then unexpected triumph forging a quiet bond between them.
Later that evening, Meg returns home with Jennifer. Jennifer, sensing the tension, makes a quick exit, mumbling a polite goodbye. Meg slips into the kitchen, where Lois is still tidying up.
“Hey, Mom,” Meg says, her voice small. She glances at Chris, who is sitting at the kitchen table, drawing intently in a sketchbook. He avoids her gaze.
“How was the party, sweetie?” Lois asks, her back to Meg.
Meg shifts uncomfortably. “It was… fine. We just… uh… played Spin the Bottle.” She clears her throat. “And I… uh… kissed another student.”
Chris, without looking up from his drawing, mumbles, “Yeah, me too.”
Neither of them specifies which other student. Lois, sensing the vague awkwardness but too tired to probe further, simply nods. “Well, as long as you had fun, that’s what matters.”
Meg and Chris exchange a quick, uncomfortable glance, a silent pact of shared humiliation and unspoken secrets.