I stared at the mirror like it had betrayed me.
The dress — short-sleeved, black velvet, clingy in all the wrong places — hung off my shoulders like it belonged to someone braver. Someone who didn’t overthink every square inch of themselves.
The dorm mirror was tacked up with Scotch tape and Post-it notes, a few of them curling at the corners. One read “Don’t forget Dutch quiz Tues!” in Maya’s handwriting. Another had a doodle of a bat in a party hat.

The tag said “goth witch,” but the way I kept fidgeting with the hem made it feel more like “gender crisis in progress.”
Behind me, Maya was humming something off-key and dancing around the dorm room in fishnets and red lipstick, adjusting her vampire cape with zero shame.
The cassette deck on her side of the room was playing The Cranberries at low volume — “Zombie,” warbling faintly beneath the hum of the radiator.
“You look amazing,” she said, flopping dramatically onto the bed. “Seriously. The boots? Perfect. The eyeliner? Scary in a sexy way. The dress?” She gave a slow, theatrical thumbs-up. “Gay rights.”
She grinned behind a smear of Wet ‘n’ Wild lipstick, her red Solo cup of Mountain Dew tucked between her knees.

I turned back to the mirror. “I look like I borrowed this from someone cooler and forgot to return it.”
She sat up on her elbows. “You look like you. The real you. And yeah, maybe she’s nervous, but she’s still hot.”
A glow-in-the-dark pumpkin clung to the window behind her, suction-cupped in place since mid-October.
I let out a breath through my nose, tugged at the sleeves again. “It just feels… loud.”
“It’s Halloween,” she said. “Everyone’s loud. There’s literally a guy downstairs dressed as the Kool-Aid Man.”
From the hallway came a faint echo of “OH YEAH!” followed by scattered applause and someone yelling, “He broke the couch again!”

I cracked a tiny smile, but it didn’t stick.
My reflection still made my stomach twist.
I walked over to my closet and pulled the bag off the hanger.
Maya blinked. “What’s that?”
I held it up. “Plan B.”
She sat up straighter. “Wait. Is that—?”
“Yep.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not.”
I pulled out the tall blue wig, the strapless green dress, and the plastic red bead necklace. “If I’m gonna be uncomfortable, I might as well be unforgettable.”
The wig still had the remnants of a price sticker from Spencer Gifts, half peeled off.

Maya blinked once. Then burst into laughter.
“Oh my god. You’re really doing Marge Simpson?”
“I mean… yeah. Why not?” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “If I’m gonna be seen, I might as well be seen.”
She practically bounced off the bed. “I am so in love with you.”
Her cape flared as she twirled, and her Doc Martens thudded softly on the dorm’s cheap carpet tiles.

I stepped into the dress, still unsure if I was making the boldest move of my life… or the stupidest.
Probably both.

Maya sat back on her heels, watching me hold up the green strapless dress like it was made of dynamite.
“Want help?” she asked softly.
I didn’t answer right away. The dress felt heavier than it looked — not physically, but in all the ways that mattered.
I nodded once.
She stood up, walked over, and gently took the hanger from my hands. “Okay,” she said, calm and careful. “Let’s do this.”
I could hear the faint buzz of a hair dryer down the hall and the distant sound of someone blasting TLC’s “Creep” through half-closed dorm doors.

I turned away, unzipped the black velvet one I was already wearing, and stepped out of it slowly. The cool air kissed my shoulders. I didn’t hide. Not this time.
Maya didn’t say anything, didn’t smirk or make it weird. She’d seen me before — in quieter moments, on bad days, on days I’d wanted to disappear. But this was different.
She held the new dress open for me, arms outstretched like she was offering me armor.
“You sure?” she asked.
“No,” I admitted. “But do it anyway.”
She smiled. “That’s my girl.”
Her voice was barely louder than the rustle of the dress, but it cut deeper than any noise outside.

I stepped in.
The fabric clung at my hips, bunched at my ribs, and refused to go quietly over my chest.
“Here, lift your arms—no, not like that, like this,” she said, trying not to laugh as she adjusted the fit. “Jesus, how does Marge make this look easy?”
“It’s cartoon logic,” I muttered, trying to keep my balance. “Nothing has zippers.”
A plastic baggie of safety pins sat nearby, just in case. Maya had already MacGyvered half her outfit together with them earlier.

The dress finally settled into place with a tug and a shimmy. Maya zipped it up from behind — slowly, carefully, like she was closing a secret.
When I turned to face her again, the silence was thick.
Then she smiled. Wide and soft and a little bit in awe.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “And yeah, I’ve seen you without the dress… but somehow, this feels even more naked.”
I swallowed. “Because it’s me.”
“Exactly.”
She reached for the wig and placed it gently on my head, tilting it forward to get the angle right.
“Okay,” she said, stepping back. “Now you’re Marge.”
She handed me the red beads with a reverent little bow, like she was crowning me queen of Springfield.

I glanced at the mirror.
The beehive wig. The red beads. The green strapless dress that hugged me in all the wrong — and maybe right — places.
The mirror flickered slightly — the overhead light always buzzed like a bug zapper when the heat kicked on. I stared anyway. Somewhere in the reflection, behind the nerves and the costume and the girl I was still getting used to…
There I was.

**

We stepped outside into the hallway.
The tile floors were slick with the tread of combat boots and muddy sneakers, a couple stray candy wrappers already crinkled underfoot.
Girls were everywhere — laughter echoing off the cinderblock walls, dorm doors flung open with music spilling out like fog.
One room was blasting “Gangsta’s Paradise” on a boom box propped in the window, while another had Alanis Morissette belting through tinny desktop speakers.
A werewolf in a letterman jacket sprinted past us, chased by a girl with fairy wings and a plastic sword.
Her wings snagged on the fire extinguisher box, but she kept running, shouting, “You owe me Skittles!”
Someone had strung orange lights along the railing. A half-inflated pumpkin balloon bobbed near the ceiling.
The pumpkin was taped to the hallway smoke detector with masking tape — a clear violation of every rule on the dorm bulletin board, which now had a Sharpie mustache drawn on the RA’s photo.

Costumes ranged from lazy to legendary.
There was a Cleopatra. Three Spice Girls. At least six cats. One girl had fully committed to being a toaster, complete with cardboard and chrome paint.
A handwritten sign taped to her chest read “Insert bread here” with arrows pointing to a slot cut in the top.
No one looked twice at me.
And for a moment, that was more shocking than if they had.
I braced for whispers, for stares, for something — but it was just noise and girls and music and movement. And I was part of it.

Maya looped her arm through mine, smug as anything. “Told you. You’re perfect.”
I didn’t answer — not out loud. But I held my head up just a little higher.
My beehive wig wobbled slightly when I walked, and the red beads clicked softly with every step. But somehow, it felt okay.

Across the hall, someone in a Carmen Sandiego coat and fedora gave us a thumbs-up. Maya grinned and returned it.
Her cape swirled as she turned, catching the hallway light like a movie poster.

“Let’s get downstairs before the line for candy apples gets longer than your hair,” she said, tugging me gently forward.
“Do they even have candy apples?” I asked.
“No idea. But if not, we riot.”
From below, we could hear the rumble of voices and the bass thud of a song that might’ve been “This Is How We Do It” — or someone’s bad mix tape trying to be.
Somewhere down the stairwell, someone shouted, “They’ve got popcorn balls and Little Debbie cakes!”
I squeezed Maya’s hand a little tighter. Not out of fear. Just… because I could.

****

The party was already at full volume by the time we stepped into the commons room.
The door was propped open with a pumpkin-shaped candy bucket, half-full of crumpled candy wrappers and a melted Reese’s.
Someone had rigged black lights in the corners, and the stereo was blaring “This Is Halloween” from The Nightmare Before Christmas — loud enough to shake the floors.
A stack of jewel-case CDs sat beside the stereo, next to a mix tape labeled “Hallowicked Mix ’95” in glitter gel pen.
The smell of popcorn, cheap cider, and latex masks filled the air.
Someone had lit one of those cinnamon brooms from the grocery store, adding to the chaotic fall scent palette.
A fog machine puffed dramatically near the snack table, even though it mostly just made everyone cough.
Someone waved a folded Chicago Tribune at the haze, muttering, “Dude, this is not what they meant by atmosphere.”

And the costumes? Oh my god.
There were Animaniacs — all three of them, plus someone trying (badly) to be Dr. Scratchansniff.
Dot had little white gloves and carried around a can of Aqua Net, spraying her hair every five minutes.
A guy in a full Kool-Aid Man getup kept wandering through the crowd yelling, “OH YEAH!” and crashing into furniture like it was his full-time job.
Someone had rigged a disposable camera and caught him mid-crash. “We’re putting that on the dorm board!” someone shouted over the music.

But the best one? Easy.
Across the room, three guys had committed — fully committed — to being the Sanderson Sisters from Hocus Pocus.
Winifred’s wig was massive. Sarah’s dress was showing way too much leg for a guy with that much chest hair. And Mary… somehow had vacuum attachments strapped to his feet instead of a broom.
One of the vacuums still had a power cord dragging behind him like a ghostly tail.

I pointed.
Maya gasped. “Shut up. That’s amazing.”
“I kind of want to be them when I grow up.”
“Same,” she said, tugging me toward the cider table. “Let’s go before the vampire frat bros drink it all.”
We passed a group bobbing their heads to No Doubt now playing on the stereo — “Spiderwebs,” I think — while a girl in a giant inflatable crayon costume spun in place.

We passed two guys dressed as Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor and Al Borland.
Tim had a fake tool belt made out of a duct-taped fanny pack. Al was carrying a cardboard sign that read, “I don’t think so, Tim.”

We poured ourselves paper cups of cider and leaned against the wall, just watching.
The cider was lukewarm and a little too sweet, served from an orange Igloo cooler decorated with black duct tape bats.
The noise, the music, the laughter — it all buzzed around us like we were in the eye of a party hurricane.
One guy was trying to start a limbo line using a broom handle. Someone else was offering candy from an old popcorn tin and swearing it was "only a little stale."
Maya pulled a mini Twix from the pocket of her cape and handed it to me like it was a peace offering.

**

We hadn’t been standing there more than two minutes when a girl in a glittery cowgirl outfit walked past and did a double take.
Her boots sparkled with silver sequins, and she had a toy cap gun tucked into a glittery pink holster from the Halloween aisle at Target.
“Wait—are you Marge Simpson?”
I straightened a little. “Yeah.”
She grinned. “That’s amazing. Best costume I’ve seen all night, no lie.”
A loop of rhinestones bounced on the brim of her cowgirl hat as she turned.
Maya bumped my hip. “Told you.”
The cowgirl winked. “You nailed the wig.” And just like that, she was gone into the crowd.
Her perfume lingered faintly — something fruity and drugstore sweet, probably from Bath & Body Works.

Across the room, by the snack table, someone else had turned to look at me — a guy in a half-hearted cowboy costume, plastic badge and all.
His shirt was untucked, his jeans too clean. The kind of costume that screamed, "I forgot until ten minutes ago."
I knew him. Not well. Just enough to remember his name from one of the gen-ed lecture halls. Greg something.
He usually sat near the back, always with his Walkman clipped to his belt, headphones hanging loose around his neck.

He squinted.
Then his eyes widened.
And then he looked away fast — like if he stared too long, it might mean something.
I caught the way he muttered something to the girl beside him. The way she gave me a glance and then tucked her chin toward his shoulder, whispering back.
Her glitter hairspray caught the light like tinsel. She didn’t look hostile — just curious. Like she’d walked in on the last line of a joke she didn’t get.

The air felt tighter for a moment.
The music shifted to something slower — Mazzy Star, maybe — but the mood around us didn’t quite match the song.

Maya noticed. Her grip on her paper cup tensed.
“You okay?” she asked, voice low.
I nodded. “Yeah. Just… people suck.”
“Some of them,” she agreed. “But not all.”
Behind her, a girl in a Ghostface mask knocked over a bowl of Doritos and just left them there.

And before I could spiral, she leaned in and whispered, “You’re still the hottest in the room.”
I cracked a grin. “Low bar.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
We raised our cups in a little toast — cider and courage — and drank.
Mine had gone lukewarm, but I didn’t care. It was sweet, sharp, real.

And in the background, the Kool-Aid Man crashed into something again.
Someone yelled, “That was the RA’s chair!” followed by a burst of applause and a very unconvincing “My bad!”

**

A DJ had taken over the music now, switching from movie soundtracks and Halloween classics.
He was set up on a folding table draped with a black sheet, his mix CDs stacked in a shoebox labeled “Spooky Bops Vol. 1–3.” A lava lamp pulsed beside him in eerie red and green swirls.
“Ghostbusters” thumped through the room, followed by “Thriller,” then “Creep” by Radiohead, which got a weirdly emotional singalong from one corner of the party.
The stoner crowd — dressed in capes and clown wigs — swayed in a huddle, eyes half-lidded, chanting “I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo…” like it was gospel.

And then, somehow, the mood shifted.
The lights dimmed slightly. A slower song came on — “Nothing Compares 2 U” — and the energy in the room softened.
The black lights flickered down to just a few jack-o’-lantern nightlights on the window sills. Somebody turned off the fog machine, and the air finally started to clear.

Couples started pairing off. Some swayed clumsily, still in costume. A skeleton and a devil. Two matching M&Ms. Even Carmen Sandiego found herself dancing with Waldo.
They bumped elbows trying to slow dance, both laughing awkwardly as Carmen adjusted her trench coat to keep it from dragging.
Maya looked at me.
I hesitated.
Then I nodded.
She set her cider on the table and reached for my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her fishnets glinted in the dim light as she moved. The red on her lips still sharp even in shadow.

And together, we stepped toward the center of the floor.
We didn’t talk. We just moved.
Arms wrapped around waists, heads resting on each other’s shoulders, hips barely swaying to the beat. My cheek pressed gently against hers. Her fingers found the small of my back.
The music seemed quieter here, not because it was, but because we were.

It wasn’t flashy.
It wasn’t daring.
It was just… us.
But we could feel it. The eyes.
People noticed.
Not everyone in the room was kind.
Some whispers came louder than others.
“Queer.”
“Lesbo”
“Tranny”
“Gross.”
Each word landed like a tack on a balloon. Sharp. Fast. Designed to deflate.

I felt Maya’s breath hitch against my neck — and then steady.
Her grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened.

But then came other voices.
“Shut up.”
“Leave them alone.”
“They look better than you anyway.”
Somewhere, a girl clapped. Someone else snapped their fingers in a sarcastic, “you tried it” kind of way.

And then I heard it — “RILEY!”
Claire.
She came bounding through the crowd like a rainbow in a trench coat, dressed as Velma from Scooby-Doo, complete with round glasses and an orange turtleneck.
Her wig was crooked and she had a pair of red Keds that squeaked every time she stopped too fast.

Jess followed, wearing an oversized lab coat with a clipboard that said “Dr. Chaos, Evil Genius.” Her eyes found me and Maya and immediately softened.
Her safety goggles were pushed up on her head like she meant business.

Claire didn’t say anything. She just wrapped her arms around both of us like a human force field.
Her perfume was vanilla-sugar and dryer sheets.
Jess stood beside us, glaring daggers at anyone still whispering.
The glow from her clip-on earring strobed like a tiny police siren every time she moved her head.

“Dance with who you want,” Claire said firmly. “Anyone has a problem, they can go fuck themselves.”
I laughed, even as the tears threatened.
My mascara was probably toast, but I didn’t care. I was held, and seen, and here.

Maya leaned back slightly and looked at me. Her eyes were shining. “Still think this costume was too much?”
I shook my head.
Not anymore.
Not even a little.

****

The party noise followed us halfway down the stairwell — echoes of laughter, someone yelling about spilled punch, a final “OH YEAH!” from the Kool-Aid Man as we slipped outside into the October night.
The stairwell walls were still warm with body heat and smelled faintly like hairspray, cider, and caramel popcorn.

The air hit different out here.
Cool. Crisp. Still.
No fog machines. No flashing lights. Just the hum of the streetlamp and the crunch of leaves beneath our boots.
A couple carved pumpkins sat lopsided near the building entrance, their candles long burned out, one missing its jagged-tooth grin.

We walked side by side, Maya’s cape brushing against my arm, the beehive wig tucked under my arm now. I couldn’t do another second in it. The dress, though… I kept.
A breeze tugged lightly at the hem, lifting the edges just enough to remind me it was real, that I was still in it. Still me.

We didn’t say much.
The silence wasn’t awkward — just full. Full of what we’d just done, what we’d just faced. Full of words that didn’t need saying yet.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell quiet. A car drove past the campus edge, its headlights flashing briefly across the sidewalk before fading into the night.

When we reached the steps outside our dorm, we sat.
The cement was cold through the dress but solid, grounding.
I kicked off my heels and let my feet breathe, flexing my toes against the cold concrete.
The stockings had left faint lines across my ankles. My toes wiggled freely in the chill, pale under the glow of the buzzing porch light overhead.

Maya reached for my hand.
“You okay?” she asked after a moment.
I looked up at the sky. A few stars peeked through the suburban glow.
The kind of half-foggy night where the moon looked like it had been rubbed with a thumbprint.

“I don’t know,” I said. “That was a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“But it was also kind of… amazing?”
“Yeah,” she repeated, quieter this time.
We sat like that for a while — the wind tugging at our costumes, the world going on without us.
Inside the dorm, we could still hear faint thumps of bass through the brick walls. But out here, it might as well have been another planet.

Then Maya leaned her head on my shoulder.
“You’re really brave, you know.”
I snorted. “Marge Simpson brave.”
She chuckled, the sound muffled by my shoulder.

“I’m serious.”
I looked down at her.
And for a second, the fear melted.
“I love you,” I said. Not loud. Not shy. Just… true.
Maya smiled without opening her eyes. “I know. I love you too.”
The wind picked up again.
But this time, it didn’t chill me.
It wrapped around us like a blanket.