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“I am a terrible father.”
Frank sits back on his haunches and examines his child, who’s seven years old, covered in fake blood, and grinning at himself in the full-length mirror like this is Christmas morning and not Halloween evening.
“I think you’re a cool dad,” said child emphasizes. “You’re the coolest dad of all time!”
“I don’t think cool dads let their kids dress up like demon dolls, buddy.”
“Technically Chucky is a serial killer,” Asher tells him seriously, straightening his orange wig.
Frank pushes himself to his feet, using Asher’s head as support and making him laugh. “My point exactly.”
“Dad come on.” He spins around and looks up at Frank with his big blue eyes. The fake freckles Frank drew on his chubby little cheeks make him want to pick him up and kiss him all over like he used to do when he was a baby, but he doesn’t want to risk getting a plastic knife rammed into his ribs again; he’s already going to be covered in bruises in the morning from all the times Asher’s stabbed him with the thing since they bought the costume from Party City.
“TJ’s mom wouldn’t even let him dress up as Scream and Chucky is way worse than him. So that makes you cool!”
Frank puts his fists on his hips and lets himself think about it for a minute, then says, “Okay, yeah, I’m pretty cool,” and pulls Asher in for a hug that makes him laugh again.
Pressed up against each other, he gets some of the sticky fake blood on him that he squirted over Asher’s costume and arms and smeared over his face, but it blends in with his own costume anyway — which, it is a costume, no matter what Ray tries to tell him. He wouldn’t wear a black cape and fangs on a normal weekday, would he? Well, not anymore, anyway. The novelty of wearing goofy outfits in public to make his kid laugh wore off when the PTA moms started giving him snarky mean-girl looks. They already look at him like that enough with all his ink. Too bad for them he can’t unzip his skin like a meat suit!
Asher does a weird little dance when Frank is cuffing his pants, and he looks at him with what has been dubbed The Dad Look. It’s paired with his hands on his hips, which is extra lethal and tells Asher he means business, which is why he avoids The Dad Look by running over to his bed and out of range.
“Ash,” Frank says, dragging his name out. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
Asher does the jig again and whips the plastic knife out from under his pillow, which doesn’t concern Frank as much as he thinks it probably should. “No.”
Frank has learned by now not to believe that. He lifts his eyebrows a little higher and cranes his neck to try and make eye contact with Asher, who’s preoccupied with trying to fit the knife in the tiny pocket on the front of his overalls. “Are you sure? Because you know we’re not taking the car tonight, bud.”
“I’m fine,” Asher says stubbornly, and tears a hole through the bottom of the pocket. He sticks the toy knife through the hole and smiles down at his work proudly.
Frank cannot believe this kid sometimes.
Actually, he can. They might not share DNA, but Frank was the one who raised him after all.
“Alright, but you know what happened last time you said you didn’t need to use the bathroom, right?”
Asher stands in front of him, hands on his own hips in a perfect imitation of Frank, and says, “There’s not gonna be any candy left,” and then stomps from the room.
Frank turns around and laughs at his reflection in astonishment. Yeah, Asher’s definitely his kid.
After making a pitstop in his room for his plastic fangs, Frank goes out into the kitchen to find Asher stabbing an imaginary opponent. “You got everything?”
“Yeah.” He thrusts the knife towards the fridge.
“You sure?”
Asher freezes, and runs past Frank back into his bedroom. He emerges a second later with the PAW Patrol pillowcase they picked up specifically for tonight, which is a hilarious contrast to his costume.
Frank checks the pockets of his jeans to make sure he’s got his wallet and phone, which has been blowing up with texts and calls and Facebook notifications all day wishing him a happy birthday. He hasn’t gotten a chance to respond to any of them yet, but he found a long time ago that having your birthday on Halloween and also having a young child isn’t exactly the best combination. November 1st has been his honorary birthday since Asher was old enough to actually pay attention to Freeform’s 31 Nights of Halloween.
“Good to go?”
Asher nods hard enough his wig almost flies off, and slings his pillowcase over his shoulder like an old-timey mechanic. “Good!”
They get their shoes on, Asher in a pair of red Converse his mom still had for some reason from when he was a kid and sent over last week as a surprise, and before Frank shuts the door behind them, he flicks the lights off and grabs one of Asher’s sweatshirts from a hook on the wall just in case, since they do live in Jersey and all. It’s still pretty mild when they get outside their building though, so he ties the black sweatshirt around his waist, which blends in with his cheap black cape and makes him feel — and probably look — like he’s wearing a long cloak.
“Wait!” Asher shouts when they get to the end of the parking lot, and snatches his tiny hand from Frank’s.
Frank, who was preparing to cross the street to mingle with the throng of other parents and small children galloping along the sidewalk, grabs Asher’s shoulder and says, sharper than probably necessary, “What?”
“I forgot something!”
Frank wracks his brain but comes up short, and puts a hand to his chest. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days. What could you have possibly forgotten? I told you you can’t bring your Squishmallow out tonight, bud.”
Asher shakes his head and flaps his hands at the same time, whipping his pillowcase all over the place. “It’s for school!”
Frank’s heart, which was stuck in his throat, drops all the way down to his stomach. This isn’t the first time Asher conveniently forgot to tell Frank about some homework assignment that was due the next day or a bake sale last minute that everyone had to participate in, so he can only imagine what’s coming.
Asher starts running back across the complex parking lot before he tells Frank what exactly it is he forgot this time, looking like a real-life Chucky in the early dusk, and Frank follows behind him with a sigh and a hefty eye roll.
He catches up with him in the hallway and grabs the criss-crossed part of his overalls at the back. “Slow down there, kid. What did you forget?”
“Unisex!”
Frank lets go of the chintzy sky blue overalls and scrunches his nose. He tries not to laugh, because Asher hates when he laughs at him, and Frank doesn’t feel like getting stabbed again; the plastic knife is sticking out of his pocket like a homemade holster.
“What?” he asks carefully.
Asher unhooks the carabiner of keys from Frank’s belt loop and shrugs.
Frank takes the keys from him and lets him in. Asher shoots into his room like a bat out of Hell and reemerges half a second later with something flat and orange. He shoves it into Frank’s hands. When Frank unfolds it and assembles it into a small box with a handle, he can’t help the laugh that escapes him.
“UNICEF? I had no idea they still did this.”
“The class that collects the most money gets a pizza party next Friday,” Asher explains, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Can we go now?”
“Well hold on, I gotta put some money in it now, don’t I?”
Frank scoops up all the loose change in his pockets and inserts it into the orange box, then hooks it onto the carabiner; he hopes the feeble cardboard handle survives the night there.
“Thanks, Dad!” Asher scratches at the fake staples Frank drew on his face, looks down at the makeup under his nails, and wipes his hand on Frank’s shirt. “I hope we win the pizza party, because Miss Wright always puts on Star Wars when we have parties. She played The Nightmare Before Christmas today but that’s only because it’s Halloween and technically we’re not allowed to have parties unless the office says it’s okay.”
“I thought today was Miss Wright’s last day though?” Frank says as they head back out the door for the second time tonight. “Isn’t she going on maternity leave?”
Asher screws his face up. “Oh yeah. She’s gotta go have her baby. Well whoever the new teacher is, they better like Star Wars or we’re going to have a big problem.”
Frank laughs to himself and follows his son outside.
Frank remembers what it was like being seven (barely), so he remembers the woes of a tiny bladder.
It’s almost nine and the PAW Patrol pillowcase is about ten pounds heavier than it was when they left the apartment — and being carried by Frank now — when Asher finally cracks. He’s honestly surprised he was able to hold it this long without pissing his pants or in someone’s rose bushes, but he does, and Frank is so impressed by the feat he doesn’t even have the fatherly urge to tell him, “I told you so!”
It happens just when Frank is thinking about calling it a night. The sidewalks are growing sparser and the air cooler, and Asher, despite his spritely demeanor, started dragging his feet three houses ago. They’re making their way down an abandoned cul-de-sac dotted with Halloween stakes and inflatable ghosts that are swaying in the late night breeze, and Asher runs up to the first house on the bend despite the yard being empty of any decorations and the stoop being devoid of bowls of candy with “Please take one!” signs.
“Buddy, no, the porch light’s off, you know what that means.”
Asher is a fairly good listener with decent manners, but he reaches up and rings the doorbell anyway. Frank cringes when he comes up the walk and can hear the buzz inside the house, and he’s just grabbing Asher’s hand to pull him away when the door opens.
The face that peeks out at them is round and pale, the guy’s eyes wide in a way that tells Frank he forgot the date and wasn’t expecting anyone to ring his doorbell at this time of night.
Frank expects Asher to say “Trick or treat!” or even “Hi, I’m Chucky! Wanna play?”, but instead he blurts out, “I gotta pee!” and shoves past the guy into his house like he lives there.
Frank watches him go in a shocked sort of wonder, unable to absorb the fact that his son just barged into a stranger’s home on arguably the most dangerous night of the year.
“I am … so sorry.”
The guy turns back to Frank from where he was watching Asher tear off through his house, and he looks amused. “Don’t worry about it, I know how kids are. Mi baño es tu baño.”
Frank runs a hand through his hair. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I asked him before we left if he had to pee.” He laughs lightly and pops his plastic fangs out to shove in his pocket.
“Oh, I could imagine.” The guy opens his door a little wider. “Come on in, it’s getting cold out there.”
He finally gets a good look at him then, and he’s — well, ridiculously hot. Frank noticed the pale, round face, but what he didn’t notice in the lack of porch light was the long eyelashes or the crooked mouth or the pointy cartoon character nose. Frank floats past him into the house like he’s following the scent of pie to a windowsill, and shivers when the door closes behind him. He’s not sure if it’s from the sudden change in temperature or not though.
“I’ll go grab him,” Frank says, gripping the pillowcase a little harder than he means to. The guy’s house smells like Chinese food and vanilla candles and, from what he can see, is filled with half-opened cardboard boxes and plastic totes. He must’ve just moved in.
“Nah, he’s fine,” the guy says, waving a big hand that Frank notices is missing any telling jewelry. “The worst thing you can do is rush a child in the bathroom. Want something warm? I think I might have coffee in one of these boxes.”
“Uh, I don’t — drink caffeine at night.” Frank sticks out a hand. “I’m Frank. Iero. Me and my son Asher live over on Snover.”
The guy takes Frank’s hand gently, which he wasn’t expecting at all from a hand that size, and gives it a firm shake. Although everything about him seems to say gentle, from his soft yellow-blond hair to his cardigan and the worn monster cereal shirt underneath. When he smiles it’s like a flower blooming, and these are dangerous thoughts to have, aren’t they? Dangerous thoughts on the most dangerous night of the year.
“Gerard Way. Just got in this afternoon, can you tell?”
Frank laughs when he’s given his hand back, then wants to kick himself in the ass for laughing at all. That wasn’t even funny! “Where from?”
Gerard waves him to follow, and they go into the small, softly-lit kitchen. There’s takeout and a glass of wine on the table and a laptop open to a movie. Half the drawers are open and the counters are covered with things that still need to be put away. Not even lived in yet and the house is already cozy.
“Up in Newark. I was working at a high school as an art teacher but I decided I didn’t like teenagers anymore, so here I am.
I have a bunch of tea, but none of it is decaffeinated. Is there caffeine in hot chocolate?”
“If there is, I didn’t know about it.” Frank sets the pillowcase full of candy on the table and pulls out a chair. When he sits down the UNICEF box jingles. “You’re a teacher?”
Gerard opens a cabinet and reaches up on his bare tiptoes to look inside. Frank tries his best not to let his eyes wander to the spot where his cardigan is riding up. “Yeah, my brother got me a job at Forrest Elementary. I’m picking up for Miss Wright on Monday.”
“Hey, that’s Asher’s class!” Frank says, but what he thinks is, Oh shit.
“Hey, small world.” Gerard shakes out a few packets of Swiss Miss and tears them open like they’re sugar packets, then he pours them into a small pot on the stove. He flicks the burner on and moves over to the fridge and Frank watches him maneuver around his new kitchen with his bottom lip clamped between his teeth.
“So what do you do, Frank?”
It takes Frank a second to answer while Gerard pours milk from a jug into the pot on the stove — because he completely forgot where he works. “Uh, I own this music store by the mall that used to be my dads.”
“Oh, Rock City?” Gerard says, turning to Frank with a bright, naturally lopsided smile. “My brother talks about that place all the time. He’s been thinking about getting guitar lessons, I think.”
“Oh cool, what’s his name?”
“Mikey Way. Tall, brown hair, glasses. I swear he sticks out like a sore thumb.”
Frank points at Gerard. “He’s one of the gym teachers at Forrest, right? Yeah, he comes in sometimes.”
The coincidences are getting a little freaky, and Frank’s not so sure what they’re supposed to mean. Next thing he knows Gerard is going to tell him he knows Ray.
“Yeah!”
Gerard comes over with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, one with the Captain America logo on it and the other covered in little painted cats. He gives the Captain America one to Frank and keeps the cats for himself. Frank wraps his hands around the warm mug and thanks him.
“Are you hungry?” Gerard asks suddenly, turning back to the fridge and pulling the door open. “I was picking up a message cookie at Acme my brother ordered for me and the guy at the bakery gave me a pack of cannolis when I mentioned I was new in town. The cookie’s gone, but — ”
He turns to Frank with the open package of cannolis and Frank looks at them with his mouth open slightly. “Did the guy have curly hair?” he asks flatly, reaching in and taking one. What’s the point of not consuming caffeine at night when he’s filling himself up on sugar? Oh well, looks like he’s going to be pulling an all-nighter. At least it’s Friday.
“Yeah, I think his name is Ray?” Of course it is. “I might go back and ask if he can do some cupcakes for my class. They’ll like me if they’re bribed with sweets, right?”
Frank nods and shoves half the cannoli in his mouth. Ray has known Asher since he was a baby, was the first person Frank texted when he got the call from the agency, but he still needs to stay on the kid’s good side, which means yes, sweets are a staple in the Iero household. And probably every household with young children.
“Ash’ll be your best friend as long as you have a steady stock of Smarties at your desk.” A chocolate chip almost falls from Frank’s semi-demolished cannoli and he catches it before it lands on his nice, not-fake-blood-stained jeans. “And you put on Star Wars during parties.”
Gerard’s eyes light up when he sits back down at the table adjacent to Frank, pushing away his empty takeout containers. “He likes Star Wars?”
“Oh no,” Frank laughs. He finishes his cannoli and washes it down with some hot chocolate. The sugar is already starting to make his throat burn, and he realizes that Gerard kind of reminds him of a sweet little old grandma, with his cardigan and candles and seeming affinity to stuff his guests. “Forget the Smarties, just mention Boba Fett and you’ll be like that.” He crosses his fingers.
“That’s my favorite character!”
They laugh at each other and look away when the silence grows awkward, then Gerard motions to the abandoned PAW Patrol pillowcase on the table.
“You’re going to have fun checking all that,” he comments.
Frank huffs. “Yeah, unfortunately I don’t want him knocking back a Pixy Stix laced with cyanide or whatever. Although that kid’s got guts of steel, I swear to God. I guess one upside of not being blood-related is that he didn’t inherit my shitty health.”
Gerard’s already soft face grows softer, and he says delicately, “He’s adopted?”
“Uh, yeah.” He shrugs. “I wanted a kid when I got out of college so I just — got myself a kid.”
He doesn’t talk about this all that often because apparently a single guy looking the way he does wanting to adopt a kid on his own raises some red flags, even though he didn’t have a single tattoo when he graduated, but it’s not his fault he was plagued with a chronic case of baby fever and all his friends with the right parts didn’t want to sleep with him for the sole purpose of giving him one. But there’s no judgment in Gerard’s eyes, just something that almost looks like admiration.
“That takes balls,” he says. “You must’ve really wanted to be a dad.”
Frank shrugs again, looking down at the table. “Yeah. He’s kind of the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Do you, uh — have any kids?”
“No,” Gerard laughs lightly. “No, I’m waiting for that right — partner. You know?”
Frank does not linger on his use of the word partner. “Oh, yeah, for sure. It’s kind of hard dating when you’ve got a seven-year-old. It’s like — you’ve either gotta be in it for the long haul or not at all. Casual dating hasn’t been part of my vocabulary since I was like twenty.”
He’s not sure what makes him spill his guts to a guy he just met less than half an hour ago. It’s probably the sugar, or the candles, or the fact he always gets a little stupid on his birthday.
But again, Gerard doesn’t bat an eye. He keeps the conversation going. “I get that. I feel the same way. No more dating around for me either, I’m too old for that.”
“Right.” Frank downs the last of his hot chocolate and stands, grabbing the pillowcase full of candy and slinging it over his shoulder like Asher did. “I should probably go check and make sure he didn’t fall in.”
Gerard stands too. “Yeah. Oh! Sorry, I don’t actually have any candy to give him. I’ve been so busy with the move and the school I forgot it was even Halloween. And it’s my favorite holiday.”
“Me too.” Frank’s really not sure why he says it. Haven’t you told him enough? He’s your kid’s teacher, not your shrink. And he’s definitely not an option on the romance front because of that. Despite their similar sentiments …
“Do you have any spare change? If your class wins the pizza party it could double as a welcome party. And then you and Ash can bond over galactic bounty hunters.” Frank shakes his hips so the UNICEF box jingles from his keychain.
Gerard opens and closes his mouth, then leaves the room. Before Frank can think about how embarrassing he’s been tonight, he comes back with his wallet. He takes out two tens and shoves them into the little cardboard box, his hand grazing dangerously close to Frank’s crotch as he does so.
“Uh, thanks.” Frank can feel his cheeks growing warm, and when he looks at Gerard he sees a flush crawling up his pale neck. Trick or fucking treat, indeed.
Gerard points him to the bathroom, and when he finds it empty with the toilet seat up, he trails Gerard up the narrow staircase to the second floor.
They find Asher in a spare room that looks like it’s going be some sort of home library when all the boxes get unpacked; he’s asleep in the middle of the floor in his Chucky costume, cuddling his plastic knife like it’s a stuffed animal, with two silver cats with smushed faces flanking him like dragons guarding their hoard of gold.
“Again — I’m so sorry,” Frank whispers, and goes to fetch his kid. “Maybe everyone who said he needs a feminine influence is right.”
Gerard huffs a laugh. “Looks like you’re doing a good job to me. Any well-adjusted child prefers cats over dogs.”
Asher draped over his shoulder, Frank raises his eyebrows at him. “I will not be commenting on that for the sake of my child’s academic future. But thanks. For being cool.”
The two silver cats wake up and stretch, then wander from the room like they don’t have a care in the world. Toy knife scratching against his back from where Asher has his arms dangling over Frank’s shoulder, the three of them go quietly back down the stairs and pause at the front door.
“Too bad he’s asleep or else I could’ve met him before the rest of the class,” Gerard says, opening the door.
Frank steps out into the chilly night and unrolls the legs of Asher’s pants over his ankles carefully since he was very serious about not wearing socks today. “I’m glad you didn’t because now he has to deal with his new teacher on Monday being the guy whose house he broke into to piss. It’ll be his punishment.”
Gerard smiles a big, crooked smile and pulls his cardigan tighter around him when a breeze ruffles his blond hair. “It was nice meeting you, Frank. I’ll see you at the next parent-teacher night.”
“Yeah,” Frank says, stepping off the stoop. “Looking forward to it.”
And to think he’s always dreaded parent-teacher night.
He’s just making his way down the walk when Gerard says behind him, “Oh — I like your costume, by the way. It’s great.”
Frank looks down at his T-shirt with Dracula written across the chest in Sharpie, his Halloween costume and subsequent birthday suit for the last seven years, and smiles.
Gerard closes the front door and flicks the porch light on, and Frank starts on the tedious walk back to the apartment with fifty pounds over one shoulder and ten over the other.
“Alright, buddy,” he says, patting Asher’s butt. A group of teenagers dressed like the Scooby-Doo gang run by shouting at each other, but luckily Asher can sleep through the apocalypse. “Let’s get you home.”