Beneath Bomberry Bridge

     Queenie wonders what it would be like to have a real birthday party — the kind with balloons, and presents sealed with ribbons, and a cake with your name written on it in pink frosting.

     She pushes those thoughts down and focuses on cutting two-thirds of a Green Pepper Omelette into smaller pieces for Rxom, an ancient, toothless Mutant Lutari who hasn’t been able to chew for the past two decades.

     "Thank you, dear," he snarls. He can’t help his tone. It’s in his blood.

     After all of the adults and older children have settled down with a can of stolen Neocola, and the younger children are snuggled in a large cardboard box, Gahwaine calls a family meeting. Everyone’s expecting it. It’s the first day of the Month of Collecting, after all.

     —

     They found Queenie weeping in a pile of Broken Toy Sailboats under the Money Tree on the first day of the Month of Storing sixteen years ago. When questioned, the tiny Halloween Wocky reported — in between sobs — that she had been trick-or-treating the previous night and had never made it home.

     The young Wocky adapted to family life far more quickly than some of the others had, even the adults. One night in the Month of Celebrating — one of the last bearable days before the snow started sticking — she found a tiny plastic crown trampled into the dead leaves outside of Usukiland and refused to take it off for the next two weeks. They called her Queenie after that.

     Queenie doesn't remember the name she was born with. She doesn't remember where her home was, or who took her trick-or-treating all of those years ago. The one thing she does remember, the only thing, is the shape of the mailbox in front of the house she left that night. It looked like a birdhouse — blue, with white trim. She hasn't told anyone, but sometimes, when she goes foraging, she looks for this mailbox.

     —

     "As we all know, the Month of Collecting is upon us," Gahwaine says, taking care to not crush the can of Neocola in his enormous scaly first. "Our longtime family members know the importance of this month in our survival through the winter, but I would like to formally re-iterate our goals for our newer additions."

     All eyes flutter to Pres, a Mutant Quiggle, and Tippy, a Halloween Zafara, who were inducted into the family last month. The family is gathered around their usual spot beneath Bomberry Bridge, clustered around a campfire that manages to stave off the early autumn chill.

     "Halloween is the one time of year when we can move freely, without fearing repercussions from other Neopians. We are —"

     "What do repercussions mean?" blurts Cheo, a four-year-old Mutant Yurble.

     Gahwaine's gaze, which has grown steely as it roves among the members of the family, softens.

     "Repercussions mean consequences," he says. "Other Neopets don't understand why we look the way we do. They're afraid of us because they think we want to hurt them — and that makes them do unpredictable things."

     "Unpredictable?" Cheo makes a face.

     "We don't know what they're capable of. But in my experience, and the experiences of many members of our family, it's not safe for us to go out in Neopia Central. We frighten people. And when people are afraid, they react poorly. They often try to..."

     Gahwaine's voice fades as he looks at Cheo, whom Queenie found a year ago outside of the Neopian Pound, which refused to take her in. He clears his throat.

     "With each passing day, the number of Neopets in costumes increases, and so does our ability to blend into crowds. This means that we can collect resources in public — and, on Halloween, those resources will be freely available. This month is critical for stocking up for the more difficult weeks of winter."

     "The ability to go out in public also presents another opportunity: the possibility of employment. Adults and older children may be able to find jobs working in haunted houses, costume stores, or themed events. Each year, we pool these funds to purchase a one-way ticket to the Haunted Woods for a family member of the elders' choosing."

     Queenie feels eyes on her. She knows the eyes are kind, loving, encouraging — but for some reason, the fur on the back of her neck prickles.

     "Due to a particularly successful month of resource-gathering last year — I give my most sincere thanks to Lucky, who had an exceptional role in a Halloween-themed play that ran for a whopping seven weeks —" Everyone briefly applauds for a Zombie Kacheek, who lowers her head gratefully. "— we are hoping to be able to send two family members to the Haunted Woods this year."

     A low murmur ripples through the family. Queenie averts her eyes and gazes into the fire.

     "Needless to say, preparations must begin at once." Gahwaine is back to business, now clenching a dented Neocola can. "Any questions?"

     —

     Did someone love her, once?

     Queenie's just trying to do some laundry, but questions from her childhood — or lack thereof — have a habit of sneaking up on her.

     She sighs and continues scrubbing the raggedy pile of Money Tree-donated, hand-me-down clothes in the river that flows below Bomberry Bridge. Neopia Central is as urban as it gets, so the water isn't exactly clean, but it'll do.

     For a pack of Mutants, anyway.

     Queenie shakes her head. What has gotten into her? Why is she thinking things like that? She loves her family, and she knows her family loves her. It's true love, too. Unconditional. Not the kind of cheap, plastic love that would abandon a child on the day after Hallo—

     "Queenie?"

     A soft, melodic voice cuts through the gentle rush of the river. Queenie hears reeds rustling behind her, and from them emerges Lucky the zombie Kacheek. Her milky green eyes twinkle in the moonlight as she settles at the river's edge beside Queenie.

     "I was looking all over for you," she says, immediately grabbing the soapy brush out of Queenie's paws and setting up on the overalls she had been scrubbing. "Why're you hiding here? I thought you'd be super excited after the meeting."

     "I still had chores to do."

     Lucky rolls her eyes. "You're so humble, it's annoying."

     "Humble?"

     "Girl, were you even listening to Gahwaine?" Lucky doesn't miss a beat as she scrapes every last bit of grime out of Rxom's old button-up shirt. "They're sending two of us to the Haunted Woods. I knew that you were going to be one of them for sure, but now there's a chance for me to come with you!"

     A breeze makes them shiver. Gone is the early-autumn warmth; winter is well on its way.

     "Why are you being so weird about it, anyway? You're acting like you don't want to go." A pause. "You do want to go, don't you?"

     Queenie grabs the brush back from Lucky and pulls one of Cheo's stained t-shirts out of the pile of dirty clothes, avoiding her friend's gaze.

     "Queenie." Lucky touches Queenie's paw mid-scrub. "You do realize that the point of the family is to keep us alive until we can get to the Haunted Woods and lead a normal life, right?"

     "That's not the point of the family!" Queenie exclaims, surprising them both. "The point of the family is to have a family. To be loved. I don't want to leave. You're all I have. Neopia Central is my home."

     "Neopia Central is not your home," Lucky says, her eyes wide. "Look at us, Queenie. We live under a bridge. We steal garbage in the middle of the night. People treat us like criminals even though we haven't done anything except dare to exist."

     "It's still my home," Queenie says. "It's the only place I've lived. It's where I was born." She pauses, and hesitates. "Don't you ever wonder why you exist?"

     "I — what?"

     "I want to know why I exist. Who painted me? Who left me? Why? Did I have a family before?"

      "I don't care about who or what I was before I became a zombie," Lucky says, and Queenie is surprised by the note of pleading in her voice. "I don't care about the past. I don't even care about the present — not this present, at least. All I've ever wanted is to just be normal. I want to feel the sun on my fur. I have dreams, Queenie. I want to have a home. I want to have a candle collection and a Meowclops. I want to open a bakery, for Fyora's sake. And I can't do any of that here."

     They gaze at each other, caught in a stalemate.

     "I want to go somewhere where we aren't freaks," Lucky says quietly.

     "You're not a freak," Queenie says, instinctively reaching to touch her friend's face. She means it. She's spent her whole life admiring Lucky's beauty — her cloudy pearlescent eyes, the delicate stitches that line her face. It broke her heart last year, watching Lucky beam onstage during that Halloween play, realizing that she'd only get to be a beauty queen during the Month of Collecting.

     "We all are," Lucky says, taking Queenie's paw and clutching it in hers. "Stop asking questions about the people who abandoned you, Queenie. Come with me."

     Queenie opens her mouth to speak but can't think of a single thing to say. All she can do is squeeze Lucky's hand, feeling helpless tears fall down her scarred cheeks.

     —

     And one day, just like that, it's Halloween.

     Purple lights twinkle from branches overhead; the leering smiles of jack-o-lanterns illuminate the city's paths. All around them, costumed Neopets shuffle through the autumn leaves, swinging pillowcases bulging with candy. The air smells like candy apples. For some reason, it makes Queenie's eyes water.

     Queenie and Lucky, clutching the little paws of Anna and Cheo, follow their usual route through the residential neighbourhoods. They came up with it when they were children. It's designed to hit all of the biggest, fanciest houses in Neopia Central — places where families hand out whole Boxes of Chocolate Larnikins instead of fun-size Caramel Kiko Sweets.

     "Cheo, do you want me to carry that Box of Wocky Chocolates for you? You look like you're about to fall over."

     "No! It's mine!"

     Queenie and Lucky roll their eyes at each other. Lucky is positively glowing, her eager eyes reflecting the flickering orange light around them. Queenie resists the urge to grab Lucky's paw. She doesn't know why it feels like the last Halloween they'll be spending together. Maybe she does know. She focuses on the task at hand.

     "Make a left down there, Anna," Queenie calls out, hurrying her pace to keep up with the sprinting children. "Your other left! Wrong way! Slow down!" She swerves around a lamppost, narrowly avoiding running headfirst into a Flotsam dressed as a Chokato, and staggers down the unfamiliar street.

     And then she sees it.

     A blue mailbox. It's a birdhouse, with white trim.

     Queenie stops in her tracks so suddenly that even Anna comes back, her eyes wide with confusion.

     "Queenie, are you —?"

     "Lucky," she whispers, unable to peel her eyes away from the small, brick house before her, "Take the kids and keep going without me. If you need help, Pres said he'd be in front of Hubert's Hot Dogs at seven-thirty."

     "What? Why?" Lucky glances at the house and then back at her friend, unable to see what separates it from any of the other tidy little properties on the street. "What's wrong?"

     Queenie swallows hard and grips Lucky's shoulders.

     "I need you to trust me," she says. "I'll tell you everything later. Go."

     —

     Even though Queenie spent her childhood being chased from dumpsters by bat-wielding shopkeepers, she doesn't think she's ever felt her heart pounding as fiercely as she does right now, standing on the front porch of 132 Faellie Court alongside a gaggle of children dressed as elemental faeries.

     The door swings open and suddenly Queenie can't breathe.

     "Trick or treat!" the children bleat in unison, proffering their bags towards the green Wocky in the doorway.

     The trick-or-treaters make quick work of the platter of Achyfi Lollypops in the Wocky's paws and scurry off in minutes, leaving Queenie still standing on the doorstep, frozen in place, unable to think of a single word.

     "Are you all right, dear?" The Wocky glances towards Queenie's empty paws. "Oh, you don't have a bag for your candy!" He smiles and snaps his fingers. "I know just the thing. If you come on in for a moment, I think I can find something that'll work."

     Queenie follows him numbly through the doorway.

     No flood of memories rushes back as Queenie waits in a cosy living room, her feet warmed on a thick green rug. The Wocky disappears into the kitchen, and Queenie can't help but wander, unbidden, down the connecting hallway. She traces her paws along the photographs that hang from the walls. Unfamiliar faces beam at her from behind the frames, growing older as she moves further down. A Wocky family. Green, Red, Shadow, and Pink. Nowhere is there a photograph of a little Halloween monstrosity, a red-eyed, hump-backed freak.

     "I think I found — oh!" The Wocky jumps, surprised by Queenie's sudden appearance in the kitchen. The lights are off; the only illumination is a single beam of watery moonlight falling through the window above the sink.

     Her eyes gloss over him and his candy bag, drifting instead to the dishes on the table, the half-eaten Roast Gargamon waiting to be packed away, the still-sticky dessert cooling on the stove.

     "Candy apples," he says sheepishly. "We don't hand them out because we'd run out in about two minutes, but my kids love them. It's a Halloween tradition." He coughs. "Anyway, here's that —"

     "Don't you remember me?" Queenie blurts.

     "What?" The Wocky furrows his brow. "Who are you?"

     "Queenie," she says, and then, realizing her error, feels a flash of anger. "But you wouldn't know me by that name."

     She steps towards him and he steps backwards, pressing against the kitchen cabinets.

     "Now listen here —"

     "What name did you know me by?" Queenie asks, swallowing down the sick satisfaction of watching him squirm. "Don't act like you don't remember me. Halloween night, sixteen years ago. You created me. You took me trick-or-treating."

     "Sixteen years ag —" His eyes widen. "Kali?"

     "Kali?" Queenie repeats, the word feeling like poison on her tongue. "That's what my name is?"

     "What are you — how could you —" Despite himself, the Wocky leans towards her, his eyes searching her pockmarked face. "I can't believe you're alive. I mean, that's a miracle." He strings a plastic smile across his cheeks. "I'm so relieved! We thought —"

     "You thought what?" Queenie spits. "That you could get rid of me by leaving me at the Money Tree like a piece of garbage?"

     "No!" he yelps. "No, we would never do something like that. You got lost, we looked everywh —"

     "Stop lying!" She steps forward, now close enough to smell the pumpkin spice coffee on his breath. The Wocky attempts to slip sideways along the cabinets and Queenie stops him with an outstretched arm. For the first time in her life, she leans into the moonlight, letting its pale glow illuminate her twisted face, her bulging, yellow eyes, the wicked curve of her snaggletooth.

     "Tell me the truth!" Queenie snarls. "Why did you create me?"

     "We never intended for you to be born like that!" The Wocky covers his face with his paws. "You were supposed to be — normal! Something was wrong with you!"

     "Why didn't you take me to the doctor, then?" Queenie's voice comes out hoarse. "Why did you take me trick-or-treating like nothing was wrong?"

     "We didn't realize it at first," he whispers. "We didn't have any children, we had no experience. It was only when we brought you home and tried to take off your costume that we realized that... that it wasn't a costume." His eyes water and Queenie can't tell if it's from the memory or from the sight of her hunched over him in his own home. "You were sick, Kali. You were feral, you were snarling and hissing and gnawing on everything in sight —"

     "I was a baby!" Queenie screams. "Of course, I was gnawing on everything in sight!"

     "You weren't... right," the Wocky says slowly, sagging under the weight of his own words. "And we knew then that we wouldn't be able to care for you, and we — we panicked. I'm not proud of what we did, but we figured that someone else would be able to care for you better than we ever could."

     Queenie looks at this Wocky — this man, who could have been her father in another life — and steps back. She looks at the kitchen cabinets, undoubtedly bursting with bread and cereal and cookies, and the bedrooms upstairs with fresh sheets and Usukis and Altador Cup posters hanging from the walls.

     "You're right," she says, finally. "Someone else did care for me better than you ever could."

     The doorbell rings.

     The Wocky's eyes widen with horror.

     "The children," he says. "You have to go. I'm sorry, but —"

     "I'm not done," Queenie says, stamping her boots into the kitchen tiles. "I have more questions. I deserve to know —"

     "Please!" The Wocky pleads, eyes darting from between Queenie to the front door. "Please, Kali, I'll tell you everything you need to know later, but —"

     "Stop calling me that!" Queenie's voice is shrill in her own ears.

     The lock turns and the door swings open. An older Red Wocky and two smaller Pink and Shadow Wockies — dressed as Magax and Illusen, respectively — burst in, chattering excitedly. They freeze when they see Queenie.

     "Daddy, who's that?" the little Shadow Wocky asks, pushing her homemade leaf crown higher up on her head.

     Her voice sounds exactly like Cheo's. Suddenly, Queenie feels her anger and determination drain away like she's a balloon that's been punctured. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to be out of this house, away from this family, from the photographs smiling all around her.

     "Thanks for the bag," she says, snatching the pillowcase out of his paws and rushing towards the door. "Happy Halloween."

     Queenie is halfway down the street — which is now empty, except for a few teenage stragglers passing a bottle of Hot Doughnutfruit Juice between them — when she hears him cry out.

     "Kali! Wait!"

     She turns around to see the Green Wocky jogging towards her, out of breath, his glasses fogging up in the cold.

     "First of all, thank you," he pants. "I appreciate you for not making a scene in front of my family. I didn't want you to leave like that, I — I know you're a good person. There's something I want to say to you."

     Despite everything, Queenie feels a spark of hope alight in her heart.

     "I — I know that your life couldn't have been easy," he says. "I know that you didn't ask for any of this and that we weren't there for you when you needed us. It's not who we are. It's not right. And I want to make things right."

     A grateful lump forms in Queenie's throat. She opens her mouth to speak.

     "This is for you," he says, pushing a thick envelope into her paws. "It's enough for a decent place for a few months, at least enough to get you on your feet. Maybe even enough to get you to the Haunted Woods, or Neovia, or wherever people like you belong. It's all yours, no strings attached. All I ask is that you don't come near my home or my family again."

     She stares at him. He smiles.

     "You're welcome," he says. "Happy Halloween."

     —

     Later, cutting a path through the tangled reeds that line the river, Queenie wonders what she thought was going to happen.

     —

     Thursday nights are pizza nights. Everyone waits impatiently for Queenie to return from Pizzaroo with four steaming boxes — Pepperoni and Mushroom, Broccoli and Cheese, Fly and Maggot, and Crust-Only, which only Cheo, now six years old and a defiant vegan, can stomach eating.

     Today, Queenie surprises everyone with an Aisha Chocolate Cheesecake. They ask her what the special occasion is — it isn't a holiday, and Anna's birthday is still a solid three weeks away. It's just another night in September, warm enough for the windows to let in a soft, late-summer breeze. Tippy's just come home from her part-time job at the Defence Magic, and is polishing her battle-worn exoskeleton; Anna is groaning about her online chemistry homework at the kitchen table.

     "No reason," Queenie says. "It just looked nice, is all."

     The family crowds around the pizza, ripping open the accompanying box of Neocola cans — cherry flavour this time, a controversial choice in their household — and pass plates and cups around the kitchen table. Queenie batters a slice of pizza into mush and hands it to Rxom, who smiles from the rocking chair he's perched in.

     After all of the adults and older children have settled at the table with a can of Neocola, and the younger children are settled in the assorted beanbags strewn around the house, Queenie wanders into the garden.

     She finds Gahwaine kneeling in a patch of tomatoes, dirt caked under his long, gnarled claws.

     "A letter came in for you today," he says, not turning around. "From the Haunted Woods. I left it on your desk."

     "I know," Queenie says. "I read it." She lingers behind him for a moment, watching Fleafs flitter among the leaves in the fading sunlight, and then crouches beside him, picking up a spade.

     "How is she?" Gahwaine asks.

     "She's doing great," Queenie says. "The bakery's preparing their October menu. She just made a huge batch of Eyeball Cupcakes and the Neovian Printing Press can't stop writing about them."

     "That's good," Gahwaine grunts. They work in silence.

     "Do you ever miss it?" Queenie asks suddenly, setting the spade in the dirt.

     Gahwaine pauses mid-snip. His gaze does not stray from the tomatoes before him.

     "It's amazing what money can buy," he says, finally. He turns to look at Queenie and there is a tiredness in his eyes that she does not recognize. "It's amazing how predictable people are when you rub a few Neopoints together in front of them." He sighs and looks back down at a lopsided Blechy crawling along a leaf. "And how quickly they can change when the gold runs out."

     "We're going to be okay," Queenie says. "You know that, right? We have enough."

     "We're lucky the harvest went well this year," Gahwaine says. "Sales were good last week, and the Chokatos are going to be ready to sell at the farmer's market this Sunday. Did you get your cloak mended?"

     "Yes," Queenie says. "It covers my whole face now."

     "Good."

     They tend to the garden until the sun dips below the horizon. When they can't see their own paws anymore, and the last fireflies of the summer dance in between the tomatoes and peppers all around them, they head back into the house to have dinner with their family.

          The End.