The flyer came home again the next October. Bright orange. Same font.
OAKRIDGE ELEMENTARY ANNUAL FALL FAIR. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17. FAMILIES WELCOME!
Dustin was eleven now and in fifth grade. He’d grown two inches over the summer and his voice had started doing a weird thing where it cracked in the middle of sentences. He was too cool for most things now. Too cool for me to hug him at drop off. Too cool for cartoons. Too cool, I assumed, for homemade costumes.
So I was surprised when he put the flyer on the table at dinner and said, “So. Pumpkins again?”
I looked up. “Really? I figured you’d be over it.”
“Mom.” He gave me a look like I was being very slow. “We’re the sad pumpkins. It’s our thing.”
“It’s our thing,” I repeated.
“Also,” he said, very casually, poking at his rice, “I kind of told Dad he should come as one too.”
I put my fork down.
“You did what?”
“He said he’d look stupid. I said that’s the point.” Dustin shrugged. “He said he’d think about it.”
“He’s not going to do it.”
“He might.”
“Dustin. Your father has never worn a costume in his entire life. At our wedding, he refused to wear a boutonniere because he said it was ‘too much.’”
Dustin grinned. “Then this will be a big moment for him.”
We built the costumes the same way. Felt, safety pins, and two new hula hoops from the dollar store, since the old ones had been crushed in the garage over the winter. My pumpkin came out lopsided again. I’m starting to think it’s a skill. Dustin’s came out better this year. He was taller, so the shape worked. He made the stem himself, out of green pipe cleaners, and it stood straight up this time.
Saturday morning, we baked the cupcakes. Orange all the way through. Frosting everywhere. Dustin got a streak across his forehead and refused to wipe it off.
“War paint?” I asked.
“Tradition,” he said.
At the fair, the gym smelled like popcorn and apple cider. The same paper leaves hung from the basketball hoops. Principal Okafor waved at us from across the room with her reading glasses swinging on their beaded chain. Mr. Hale, who was now running the whole technology program, gave Dustin a fist bump and a slightly wary look.
“Nothing on any flash drives this year?” he asked.
“No sir,” Dustin said solemnly. “I’m retired.”
We set up at the fifth grade booth. Tasha was there with Mia, who was dressed as a slice of pizza and very proud of it. People said hi. A few of the parents who had been there last year gave me small, warm smiles. One of them, a mom I barely knew, came over and squeezed my arm and said, “You look great,” and walked away before I could say anything.
Around two o’clock, the gym doors opened.
I looked up out of habit. Some part of me still braced, every time those doors opened. A year doesn’t fully undo that.
It was Nigel.
He was alone.
And he was wearing a pumpkin costume.
It was clearly store bought. It was the inflatable kind, with a little battery fan that kept it puffed up, so he looked like a giant round orange balloon with legs. It was the most ridiculous thing I had ever seen in my life. He walked through the gym with his face bright red and his arms sticking out stiffly at his sides because the costume was too round for them to hang down.
Kids pointed. Parents laughed.
Nigel kept walking. Straight to our booth.
He stopped in front of us. The fan in his costume whirred.
“Don’t,” he said to me. “Don’t say a word.”
I put my hand over my mouth. I couldn’t help it. I was laughing so hard I had to grab the edge of the table.
“I said don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You’ve got the face.”
“This is just my face, Nigel,” I said, and then we were both laughing, really laughing, him red-faced inside his inflatable pumpkin and me in my lopsided felt one, laughing at each other in the middle of the gym like a couple of idiots.
Dustin stood between us, looking from one to the other. He didn’t laugh at first. He just watched, the way he used to watch, quiet and careful.
Then the corner of his mouth started to twitch.
“Dad,” he said. “You look so dumb.”
“I know.”
“Like, so dumb.”
“I know, buddy. That’s the point. Somebody told me.”
And Dustin laughed. A big laugh. A real one. Head back, eyes squeezed shut, the green pipe cleaner stem bouncing on top of his head.
Someone took a picture of the three of us. I didn’t know who until weeks later, when Tasha texted it to me. In the photo, Nigel is mid-laugh with his arms sticking out like a scarecrow. I’m bent over, holding my side. And Dustin is in the middle, between us, a little taller than he used to be, laughing at both of us at once.
Not caught in the middle. Just standing there. In the middle. Where he got to be a kid.
They gave out the prizes at three. Principal Okafor stood on the stage and tapped the microphone, and when she got to best costume, she paused and looked out over the crowd with her reading glasses on the end of her nose.
“This year,” she said, “the committee has decided to give a special award. For best family costume.”
She looked right at us.
“The sad pumpkins,” she said. “Will you three come up here?”
Dustin’s mouth fell open. “How does she know we’re the sad pumpkins?”
“I may have mentioned it,” I said.
We walked up together. It took a while, because Nigel’s costume didn’t fit easily between the folding chairs, and he had to turn sideways and shuffle, and the whole fifth grade was howling. Principal Okafor handed Dustin a small gold trophy, the cheap plastic kind with a little gold figure on top.
She held the microphone out to him. “Anything you want to say, Dustin?”
He looked at the microphone for a long second. The gym went a little quieter. I think some of the parents remembered.
Then he shook his head and grinned.
“No,” he said. “I’m good.”
He handed the trophy to me.
That night, after Nigel left and Dustin had gone to bed, I stood in the kitchen washing frosting off the cabinet handles. The little gold trophy was sitting on the windowsill above the sink, next to the dish soap and a dying basil plant. Its plastic figure had a chip on one arm already.
I thought about the girl I used to be, sitting on the edge of her mother’s bed, being handed a war she didn’t ask for. I thought about how hard I’d tried to keep my son from ever feeling that. And how he’d felt it anyway, because silence isn’t the same thing as protection. Sometimes it just means a kid is the only one in the room holding the hot pan.
I’d spent so long being careful not to make him choose sides that I never showed him I was on his. That’s what he really needed to see. Not his mother staying out of it. His mother standing up.
I dried the last cabinet handle and turned off the light.
On my way to bed, I stopped at his door. It was open a crack. He was asleep on his side with one arm hanging off the bed, the green pipe cleaner stem still tangled in his hair.
Down the hall, in the closet, two felt pumpkins and a big inflatable one were piled on top of each other, waiting for next year.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.
With a commitment to delivering impactful journalism, Sophia is passionate about bringing clarity to complex issues and amplifying voices that matter. Her work reflects her belief in the power of news to shape conversations and inspire change.