I remember the moon that night. It looked almost too full, hanging low and tinted orange round the edges. It was the moonlight more than the flickering streetlights that illuminated us as we rode our bikes through our sleepy town. All seven of us wearing red plastic devil masks, chosen because they were the cheapest thing in Razzle's joke shop, secretly hoping that our low effort translated into coolness. We were a pack, red-tinged and hollering, heady with anonymity and our parent's booze. We didn't have a plan but this felt enough to me. It was Devil's Night and we were warm with cheap bourbon, our backpacks heavy with eggs and toilet paper. We felt invincible.

The others grew restless and someone, maybe Nick, suggested the old house on Oak Street. Oak streeters were notorious for stiffing kids candy on Halloween, pretending they weren't home or only allowing one funsize chocolate bar per kid. We figured we'd egg their front porches  then duck into the old house to lay low and finish off our booze before hitting the next target. We didn't know then that some things should be left well enough alone
© Diane Lawlor