Jessie's Journal (10/28/26) (Patreon)

Dear Journal:

Today, I was invited to a Halloween party at Gretchen Wilson’s house.  It was a casual invite; so casual it was almost flippant.

“I’m having a few friends over on Halloween,” Gretchen said at lunch. “Wanna come?”

The enthusiastic “You should comes” and “It’ll be funs” from the other people at the table told me the party had been planned for some time and that I was most likely an afterthought.  It didn’t keep me from nodding excitedly, however. 

“Sure!” 

 “Cool,” Gretchen said flatly.  So flatly that I wondered if she wanted to invite me at all.  “See you at eight.”

The rest of the day, I waffled between lamenting my overeager acceptance of Gretchen’s invitation and beaming at being included, however casually, among her “friends.”  Ultimately, I sided mostly with the latter.  Although I had acted like the quintessential fat girl, gobbling up any tiny morsel of attention, Gretchen’s parties were legendary and getting invited was no small deal. 

Neither is her house.  It’s the largest one in town by a country mile.  Gretchen’s father is a prominent attorney, and billboards with his toothy grin appear across the county.  I think it’s in poor taste that someone who’s supposed to help people lives in such a garish mansion, but that doesn’t mean I’m not looking forward to seeing it. 

I’ve been there once before.  Ironically, it was on Halloween about five years ago, but that time it was as a lowly trick-or-treater.  I don’t remember much beyond my legs being tired from walking up the driveway and Mrs. Wilson passing out full-sized Snickers with her husband’s business card attached.       

When I got home from school, Michelle was at the breakfast bar eating an after-work snack of biscuits and gravy. 

“Did you get invited to Gretchen Wilson’s Halloween party?” I asked, heaving my backpack onto the counter.  Her face told me she hadn’t long before she shook her head.

“No,” she said, swallowing hard.  “Are you going?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I lied.  “I may just pass out candy.”    

“You should go.  I went last year.  It’s a lot of fun.”  A lump in sissy’s throat was visible despite its increased circumference.  “I’ll pass out candy this year.”

I pictured sissy sitting outside to save her feet the anguish of walking to and from the door, a giant bowl of candy in her lap.  If she were anything like me, it would be about a 2:1 ratio of candy passed out versus candy eaten.  Maybe more if she fretted about how much fun I was having at Gretchen’s.

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing a bottled water from the fridge and heading upstairs.  “Maybe I will.”

--Jessie