Read Not Anything for Free Online

slight exaggeration), I’d still have fun on Halloween. Marisol and I dress up every year. Last year, we were the two crotchety old men from Waiting for Godot. This year, we’re paying homage to Lewis Carroll. I’m Alice and Marisol’s the Mad Hatter. Very appropriate, I told her.
    “Do you think this outfit is too skimpy?” Leslie asks, indicating that we’ve moved on to the second phase of the evening: The am I a slut or what? portion.
    Ever since Marisol’s parents got divorced, Leslie has spent Halloween night worrying that she looks slutty, which would be equivalent to calling an Amish girl a whore.
    See, Leslie’s super-big on respecting yourself and your body. That’s not to say that she doesn’t make the most of her assets. The woman has buns of steel. She runs every day and takes spinning classes three times a week. She says exercise and shopping are her forms of therapy. She keeps inviting me and Marisol to speed-walk at the mall. Me? Speed-walk at the mall? As if. But Marisol…well, Marisol is on the fast track to becoming a junior shopaholic. And her butt looks pretty tight, too.
    “Well?” Leslie takes another spin in front of us, and both Marisol and I try not to giggle. Last year, Marisol’s mom was a cop, and this year, she’s a construction worker. Both outfits were tremendously skanky before Leslie spent twelve hours modifying them. Now they were absolutely puritanical.
    “Mom, please.” Marisol pops open the first three buttons of Leslie’s blouse. “They’re just breasts. Let them breathe.”
    “I don’t know…Susie?”
    “You look great.”
    “Yeah? Thanks. I wonder what your father will wear.”
    Which shows how little Leslie knows about my father. “He’ll wear Dockers and a polo shirt.”
    “Dockers and a polo shirt? You think?” Leslie asks no one in particular.
    Leslie invited my father to her friend’s annual Halloween party because (as Marisol put it) she’s concerned that my dad spends way too much time alone (i.e., he’s about to crack up and shouldn’t we pull an intervention?). Whatever. Anyway, the real surprise was that Daddy Dearest said yes.
    That’s right. Yes.
    I’m assuming that this is his way of thanking Leslie for helping him research his latest novel. It’s a psychological thriller about blah, blah, blah. (Okay, I never really pay attention to what he’s writing.) But still, I have to give Leslie props. I can’t remember the last time my dad went out, even with me.
    “You told your dad to be here at seven, right?” Leslie asks for the twentieth time.
    “Uh-huh.” Actually, I told my father seven fifteen because Leslie is notorious for being late, and my father is notorious for being overly punctual. I figured if I fudged the numbers, the imbalance of their two personalities would even things out. Clearly, I was wrong. It’s now seven thirty, and Leslie’s still standing by the window hoping to spot him.
    “Do you think I should call? Oh, wait. There he is.”
    I glance out the window, and sure enough there’s dear old Dad dressed in beige Dockers and a white polo shirt with a sheepish grin on his face.
    “Sorry.” My father apologizes when I greet him outside. “I lost track of time…writing.”
    “Uh-huh. Is that for me?” I grab for the Godiva bag he’s clutching to his chest like a safety blanket.
    “Actually”—he deflects my hands and plants an awkward kiss on my cheek—“I had trouble deciding what to wear. Leslie said to wear a construction hat and faded jeans, but I don’t own faded jeans.”
    “But you own a construction hat?”
    “Anyway, I’m a college professor.” He points to a pencil tucked behind his ear and a super-tiny edition of Wuthering Heights nestled casually in his back pocket. “What do you think?”
    “Very original.”
    “Yeah?” He seems relieved.
    “No.” I shake my head at him.
    “Well.” He peers over my shoulder as the door opens behind me. “We’re about to find out.”
    “There