Dexter Morgenstern - The Slender Man

Dad picked up Lionel’s present on his way back. It’s a jumbo Captain America shield, hidden in a cheap gift bag. Part of the shield actually sticks out, but the visible part is covered in gift wrap. Behind the present is a twenty-four pack of Mountain Dew- Dad can carry that. I walk to the party, gift in hand, hoping that this party will bring more merriment than kids birthday parties usually do for me. I feel that it won’t though, because every birthday party I’ve gone to here, whether mine or someone else’s, has been with Shana. It will be awkward not having her here, but if I can just keep my mind off of her, maybe it won’t be so bad.

I reach the others and Karen, who was already walking toward us, takes the present and guides me into the house. I guess she doesn’t want Lionel to know he has gifts today. She leads me across her white wooden porch into her house. The inside of her house isn’t as green and white as the outside though. It’s surprisingly very empty. I mean, it has everything normal houses would, like bookshelves, couches, a TV and whatnot, but it’s missing decorations. There are no paintings or trinkets, grandfather clocks or throw rugs, or anything. The most you will find in this living room are some family portraits set about on end tables- excuse me, the end table. I guess the Willows aren’t very frivolous people, but then again, maybe it’s just that we are in comparison. In our living room you’ll find over a dozen candles and framed pictures of the “art” Adam and I created when we were little. Not to mention Stars of David and Judaica.

She leads me through the living room to a door at the base of her stairs. It’s a small coat closet. There are many gifts in the closet, both wrapped and unwrapped, and ours fit in nicely with the others.

“Thank you guys so much for coming. I was worried you guys wouldn’t want to, especially with what happened to Shana,” she says. I can tell she’s trying to appear grateful, but reminding me of Shana won’t do that. God, every time I hear her name there’s a lump of guilt, worry, and a few other nasty emotions, and the more I feel it the less it wants to go away.

“Oh, wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I answer.

“Help yourself to some cupcakes and ice cream. We haven’t brought out the big cake yet, and to be honest it’s mostly just for dunking his face in,” she says, following up with a loud and annoying low-pitched laugh.

“Thanks, I will,”

“They’re out under one of the tents,” she says. I leave the house and go straight to it. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and although it’s hard to choke food down with my throat being dry, I need to get something in my stomach, especially chocolate- lots and lots of chocolate. Underneath the canvas tent is a table covered in a white sheet being used as a tablecloth. The cupcakes are all red white and blue with little Captain America rings on them. I hate when they do that. Why can’t the rings just be in the box, not in the cupcakes? Every time I try and pull a ring out of a cupcake (except for those thin little Halloween spider ones) I end up taking half of the frosting with it, and I don’t like licking the frosting off the ring. It makes me feel like a pig. I search around for the chocolate ones and am disappointed to find that they are all vanilla. Except, wait, is that marble? I pick up one of the cupcakes and pull the wrapped down a bit. Awesome, they bought marble cupcakes as well. These will have to do.

I look around the table and see that there are also chips, beverages, and Neapolitan ice cream. There are also mini Captain America plates and plain white utensils. Doesn’t anyone bring serve food at birthday parties anymore? I set the cupcake down on a plate and pick of a can of tea. I turn around and see Mom coming under the tent with an empty plate, which reminds me.

“Here Mom, I brought the camera,” I say, pointing to the twenty pound rock hanging from my neck.

“Oh good, will you take pictures?” she asks. I pause for a moment. I have to take pictures now? If I’d known I would be asked to do this I would have conveniently forgotten the camera on the table or something. I sigh quietly as I find a good place to eat my cupcake. The Willows have some tables set up. There are actually a lot of tables, around ten or so, and each seats six, far too many for the amount of guests. Who all did they expect to come, the entire county? I find an empty table. It’s a habit of mine to find the least occupied table, but the habit isn’t drawn from not liking the others, I simply had a better person to converse with. I shake my head, hair flying into my face, before that name pops into my head.

It’s too late though as I feel that lump in my chest again. I sit down at the table and gloomily eat my cupcake- or at least half of it, but my appetite is gone. I look at the half eaten cupcake. I pick up the bulky camera and take a picture of it. Here you go Mom, you can upload this to your Facebook. The cupcake has dried out my throat a bit, so I open the tea and sip it. My face cringes when I find out it’s diet. Who feels the need to make diet tea, much less pay for it? Ugh.

I can taste the aspartame or whatever it is they use to make good drinks taste like crap and call it diet, and suddenly have the desire to finish my cupcake. When I do I wipe the crumbs off my hands and gather my plate and napkin. I walk around a bit, looking around at the attendees. There are less than twenty, which is strange for the dozen parked cars. I begin to think that maybe most of the guests were lone visitors that came just out of courtesy. Couldn’t bring their little ones along too- oh right.

I spot a trashcan near the food tent and am on my way when I see the birthday boy. He’s walking in my direction, wearing a big Captain America shirt, Captain America party hat, Capt- well they should have just put him in a Captain America costume. I approach him and crouch down to his level. “Hey there Lionel, having fun?” I ask. He looks me in the eye, and I don’t see happiness, I see fear. Is he scared of me? He’s still pretty pale from the sickness, so maybe that’s putting him off. I’m barely handling it. I can only imagine how a five year old would. “You’re five now! Are you excited?” I ask.

He gives me a half-smile. It’s like he knows this is a time for him to be happy, and like me, he’s trying, but also like me it’s not working so well. “Smile!” I say, trying again. I hold up the camera and take a picture of him. He’s not smiling in the picture, but he’s not frowning either. Instead he’s giving the camera a pretty blank look. We can caption it something nice like curiosity or wonder .

“Lionel,” I hear Adam call. Lionel looks over. Adam approaches from behind with a few signatures on his cast. Not many kids here. I think maybe they’re from overly-enthusiastic adults trying to be courteous.

“Your Mom wants you. They’re setting up the piñata,” he says. Oh, a piñata. That’s something Mom will want pictures of.

Adam takes the ever-so-quiet Lionel by the hand and guides him to the game. I follow, getting a little annoyed by the slow pace of small children, but distract myself by snapping pictures of random, pointless things that no one is going to remember. I mean who needs a picture of guests lounging around, some holding cans of soda, and others looking like they’re ready to go already? I sure don’t.

They’re setting up the piñata around the side of the house on a small cherry tree. The tree is so out of place that I have no doubt that it was planted by the Willows to honor some family event. I’m surprised that the piñata has nothing to do with Captain America. It’s a Batman Symbol. Maybe it was brought by one of the guests, or maybe the party supply shop was all out of Captain America ones. I take a few more pictures of them setting up it up, and then finally a pretty good one of Lionel wearing a red blindfold and holding a wooden stick. Lionel hesitates for a while, as if he’s really not interested in the piñata, but finally after a little goading he starts swinging. He misses again and again, but when he finally does hit it he doesn’t leave a dent or even a scratch. He gets the idea of where it is though, and begins repeatedly bashing it, but he’s still not getting it. I take some shots of him swinging at it though.