As was tradition, the boys would stalk the neighborhood, armed with cartons of eggs and cans of Barbasol. Me and my friends were foam-caked, yolk-splatted messes when we ran into Alexis and her friends coming home from school. They were dressed in their Catholic school girl uniforms, not a trace of egg or shaving cream marking their clothing. When the girls saw us and knew they were in danger of being “bombed,” as we called it, they collectively warned—You’d better not—knowing we would. Which we did.
I exclusively targeted Alexis, cracking several eggs on her head and dosing her with clouds of shaving cream. Alexis squealed and screamed the entire time, which excited me. When we were done, the girls cursed us out and yet took it in stride, understanding that we were boys, in Brooklyn, on Halloween, and they had expected no better from us.
I stared at Alexis, made-over by my renegade handiwork, and thought she looked beautiful. A beautiful mess whom I so badly wanted to kiss. We didn’t kiss, but Alexis did hit me hard on the arm and called me an asshole while smiling big. My heart rose. Maybe just maybe we had a future together.