Chapter 45: Halloween
October moved the way October moved in Southern California — warm days, cooling nights, the particular energy of a season that technically existed even if the foliage didn't cooperate.
By the last week of the month, the conversation at the lunch table had shifted to the question of Halloween plans.
"There's a party at Duncan's place on the thirty-first," Meg said. "Are you coming?"
Simon had been expecting this question and had been quietly preparing his answer. "Probably not."
"Why?"
"Because I'll spend the whole night trying not to say something to someone who deserves to have something said to them, and that's exhausting for everyone involved."
Veronica looked up from her food. "You should work on your tolerance for people who are different from you."
"I have excellent tolerance for people who are different from me," Simon said. "I have very limited tolerance for people who are cruel to other people and have never encountered a consequence for it. Those are different categories."
"You're describing Logan," Veronica said.
"Among others," Simon said. "Yes."
"Logan's more complicated than you think," Veronica said, in the tone she used when she was saying something she'd only partially decided to say.
Simon looked at her with the specific attention of someone who has just received a data point they weren't expecting.
"When did that happen?" he said.
"Nothing happened," Veronica said. "I took a case for him. He hired me to find his mother. It was a professional interaction."
"Right," Simon said.
"It was."
"Of course it was."
Meg put her hand on his arm. "I believe her, Simon."
"I believe her too," Simon said. "I'm just saying — professional interaction now, entirely different situation six months from now. That's my prediction."
Veronica stood up with her tray. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."
"The lack of response is basically a response," Simon said to the space she left.
With Veronica gone, the table was quieter.
Meg rested her chin in her hand and looked at him. "So you're really not going to the party."
"I'm really not going to the party."
"Even if I ask you to."
"Even then. Because you going to the party without me is a better outcome than both of us going and me ruining it for you within forty minutes." He met her eye. "You know I'm right."
Meg made the sound she made when she agreed with something she didn't particularly want to agree with.
"Then I'm not going either," she said. "It's no fun without you."
"There's a Halloween carnival on the pier," Simon said. "Just us. You can wear whatever costume you've already bought because I know you've already bought one, and we can eat terrible food and ride things and it will be significantly more enjoyable than standing in Duncan Kane's living room listening to someone explain their hedge fund internship."
Meg thought about this for about four seconds.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm wearing the costume."
"I assumed," Simon said.
The Buy More in late October operated at a heightened energy level that had something to do with the proximity of the holidays and something to do with the specific way retail establishments responded to seasonal decoration as a structural requirement rather than a choice. Every display case had a plastic pumpkin on it. The ceiling had fake cobwebs. Morgan had been wearing a cape since October fifteenth and had not offered an explanation.
Simon arrived for his afternoon shift, clocked in, and found Chuck at the Nerd Herd desk with the contained energy of someone managing pre-event anxiety.
The interview was tomorrow.
Simon did his daily check-in — quiet, internal, the Intersect percentage ticking upward by its daily fraction — and leaned on the counter.
"You ready?" he said.
Chuck adjusted his name badge for the second time in a minute. "Mostly. I think. The panel is flying in from corporate, which is—"
"Which means they're taking it seriously," Simon said. "Which means they already have a shortlist and you're on it, otherwise they wouldn't bother with the travel."
Chuck looked slightly less tense. "That's one way to read it."
"It's the correct way." Simon glanced toward the sales floor, where Harry Tang was performing the specific kind of supervisory walk-through that communicated disapproval without targeting anything specifically. "Don't let Tang get in your head tonight."
"He's not in my head."
"He's trying to be."
"He's not succeeding."
"Good." Simon pushed off the counter. "One more thing."
"Morgan," Chuck said, before Simon could finish.
"Morgan," Simon confirmed.
Chuck looked across the floor to where Morgan was demonstrating a television remote control to a customer with the energy of someone presenting before a large audience. "I know. I'll talk to him tonight."
"He means well," Simon said.
"He always means well," Chuck said. "That's the part that makes it complicated."
After his shift, Simon found Casey near the back of the home theater section running what appeared to be a very thorough examination of a soundbar but was clearly not that.
"Anything I can help with?" Simon said.
Casey looked at him. "Your clearance level doesn't cover current operations."
"I know that. I'm asking if there are operational support tasks that don't require the clearance."
Casey considered this. "Not right now."
"When?"
"When there are." Casey put the soundbar back. "The agency doesn't run on your schedule. You're on call. Being on call means being available, not being deployed."
Simon absorbed this.
"What about after I start college?" he said. "I've been meaning to ask how that's supposed to work."
Casey's expression shifted slightly — not uncomfortable, exactly, but the look of someone directing a question to a different department. "That's above my pay grade. Beckman handles long-term asset placement."
"Can I—"
"No," Casey said. "You don't request meetings with Beckman. Beckman initiates. When she has a plan for your college years, she'll tell you." He looked at Simon evenly. "In the meantime, you continue your current life. That's not a suggestion."
Simon nodded. "Understood."
"Good." Casey moved toward the large appliances section. "Go home. Be a high school student."
"It's Halloween."
"I know what day it is," Casey said, and disappeared between two refrigerators.
November 1st.
Halloween and college application day, which was either a scheduling oversight or a deliberate attempt to see how much high schoolers could handle simultaneously.
The school had cleared most of the regular schedule for seniors — a practical acknowledgment that the day was going to be spent largely on laptops regardless of what was written on the board. Teachers circulated, helped with questions, and looked the other way when the application portals were more interesting than the curriculum.
Simon had prepared his applications in advance. He worked through the UCLA submission methodically — final check on the personal statement, confirmation that the letters of recommendation had been received, verification of the GPA transcript, submission.
Done in forty minutes.
He'd also submitted to USC, Caltech, and Stanford — the last one because Meg had talked about it and because the engineering program was legitimate, not because he had any expectation of getting in or any particular plan to attend.
The financial aid applications were a separate and more complicated problem that he'd decided to handle after the acceptances came back, if they came back, which meant he'd be dealing with the actual cost of attendance in the spring. The current state of his storage closet meant that problem was less acute than it had been in September, though he wasn't in a position to explain that to any financial aid office.
He found Meg in the library just after eleven, laptop open, expression concentrated.
"How's it going?" he said.
"Done," she said. She sat back. "Stanford, Berkeley, Northwestern, and Georgetown. Done."
"Georgetown for the criminology?" he said.
"Their program is strong and it's close to Quantico," she said. "I figured it was worth the application."
Simon nodded. She'd thought this through more carefully than she'd shown. He'd expected that.
"I'm heading back before music rehearsal," she said. "The winter showcase is in December and we're doing an original arrangement, which is—" She made a gesture that conveyed the specific chaos of original arrangements. "A lot."
"I'll be at the carnival later," Simon said. "What time works?"
"Seven. I'll text you when I'm done." She closed her laptop and started packing. "Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
She gave him the look she used for things that were demonstrably untrue but not worth arguing about. "I'll see you at seven."
She left.
Simon sat in the library for a while after, looking at the confirmation emails in his inbox — the little receipts that said: this application has been received, we'll be in touch.
He'd applied to four universities.
Somewhere in those four was a path forward that he hadn't fully mapped yet. The agency had plans for him — Beckman had said so, in her way — and those plans were going to intersect with whatever the universities decided, and together they were going to produce a next chapter that Simon could describe in outline but not in detail.
He closed his laptop.
Tonight there was a Halloween carnival on the pier. Meg had a costume. There was going to be bad food and cold ocean air and the particular joy of a date with no agenda beyond the date itself.
The future could wait until the applications came back.
He drove to the Buy More, worked four hours, and drove home to change.
At six fifty he was in the Mustang, idling at Meg's curb.
At seven fifteen — the text had said almost done, ten more minutes — she came out the front door in a costume he hadn't been briefed on but immediately approved of, carrying the expression of someone who had been in a rehearsal room for three hours and was ready for some fresh air and carnival rides.
She got in.
"Nice car," she said.
"You say that every time."
"Because it keeps getting truer." She looked at him. "You didn't dress up."
"I'm dressed as a Buy More employee who doesn't work at the Buy More tonight," Simon said.
Meg looked at his outfit — dark jeans, jacket, the clean simplicity of someone who had put just enough thought into it.
"That's not a costume," she said.
"It's very subtle," he said.
She shook her head, smiling, and looked out at the street.
"The pier?" she said.
"The pier," he confirmed.
He pulled out and drove toward the ocean.
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