Trick or Treat

The year I was Wembley Fraggle for Halloween, I was seventeen. Nobody outside of my family appreciated my costume, and I was considerably older than the other trick-or-treaters.

"I think," I said to myself, feeling generally uncomfortable, "that this will be my last year of trick-or-treating."

And it was. Until my younger brothers and younger sisters and I decided to dress as the cast of Avatar: The Last Airbender for Halloween.

Little Sister was Katara. Little Brother was Zuko. Baby Sister was Toph, and big-eyed Baby Brother was Aang, the avatar himself.

In assigning characters to each sibling, we came across a problem called Too Many Male Characters or Our Parents Had Twice as Many Daughters as Sons. There were three boys in the cast of Avatar and only two girls, while we were three girls and only two boys.

The moral of the story is that due to the dearth of men, I ended up being Sokka, the meat and sarcasm guy. I converted a blue dress and a shredded white dress shirt into this outfit:

More or less.

After working on our costumes like underpaid child laborers in a sweatshop, the younger siblings and I were loath to split up and diminish the recognizability factor of our costumes. Thus I chaperoned the children around the neighborhood.

They'd go to the doorstep, ring the bell, and say "Trick or treat," and collect their candy while I hung back several feet, waiting awkwardly on the lawn.

Something curious happened at most housed. The adult who answered the door would look beyond the kids and see that, under my puffy winter coat (it was a cold Halloween, and while Sokka is from the South Pole, I'm definitely not), I was wearing a costume. And I guess they either thought I was still a kid or took pity on me, because they would then say, "Don't you want some candy?"

At first I would politely say, "No thank you. I'm just chaperoning."

And then they would say, "Are you sure?"

I wasn't sure. By the time we'd gone around the block, my coat pockets were filled with candy. I gave up on adulthood, ran home to get a pillowcase, and spent the rest of the evening saying, "Trick or treat!" on every doorstep.

It was fun, but nobody outside of my family appreciated my costume (all the folks answering the door were advanced far past the Avatar age), and I was considerably older than the other trick-or-treaters.

"I think," I said to myself, feeling generally uncomfortable, "that this will be my last year of trick-or-treating."

So the next year, I swore I would leave the candy to the kids. To keep myself from being tempted, I didn't even get a costume. I got scheduled to work Halloween night, and that was fine with me.

Well, the fast food joint wasn't exactly hopping that night. I got home a little earlier than expected, just in time to commence the annual Halloween visit with my grandmother.

Once there, my mother suggested I take Baby Brother trick-or-treating around my grandmother's neighborhood. I don't remember why the rest of the kids weren't around, but they weren't. I seem to remember that Baby Brother's evening of trick-or-treating had been rather disappointing, candy-wise. Whatever the reason, I agreed to take him up and down the street.

There were only the two of us, and I couldn't very well force my tiny little brother to knock on strangers' doors alone while I stood back and supervised from a distance. So I walked right up to every door with him and said, "Trick or treat!" for him. Then I would subtly push him forward to accept his candy.

Except at every house, the person who answered the door would hand me a piece of candy, too. These were old people in a neighborhood that didn't get many trick-or-treaters, so the candy was always above-average. King-sized candy bars. Movie theatre boxes of Junior Mints. And people were just handing these treasures out to me like it was nothing, no hesitations, no questions asked.

For the first few houses, I was extremely confused. Why did people keep giving me candy like I was a trick-or-treater? I was acting very parent-ish, wasn't I? I wasn't looking longingly at the candy, was I? No! I wasn't even carrying a candy bag. I wasn't even wearing a costume...

"Oh," I said, looking down. I was still wearing my work uniform. Apparently, people thought I had dressed as a fast food employee for Halloween.

"Well," I said to myself, "whatever," and since it appeared to be my destiny to always be given candy on Halloween, I bravely accepted said destiny and also all the candy I could carry.