I’m not afraid of Halloween. So what if there are going to be 50 ten-year-olds in my neighborhood toting red balloons and evil smiles that they’ve practiced in the mirror for weeks? Doesn’t scare me. I KNOW THAT’S YOU, ANTHONY MARINO. GET OFF MY LAWN. TAKE YOUR BALLOON WITH YOU ya little bastard. He is, too, that Anthony. He gets on my last nerve. Do you think Anthony Marino’s grateful for just one mini snickers bar? No. Of course not. Anthony has to dig his oversized mitt down to the bottom of the bowl and drag it up, like a fishing net, and there go all my beautiful little chocolate bars, flip-flopping out of my big orange pumpkin and into Anthony’s pillowcase. He grins up at me, malevolently, as always. Thanks Mrs. C, he leers, I’ll see you later. Why does that feel like a threat? What has he got planned? An evil clown convention in our basement? A tp partay? It doesn’t matter. I’m not scared at all.