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is too awesome. She doesn’t mean that in a nice way. She wishes I was more serious, like my little brother, Mitch.
    â€œDon’t keep me in suspense, creep,” I said. “Just tell me what’s so tragic.”
    â€œMy dad bought a pumpkin farm,” he said.
    â€œYour dad isn’t a farmer. He works at an insurance company. Oh. Sorry. I mean, he worked at an insurance company. I know he’s been looking for work. But … pumpkins?”
    Devin rolled his brown eyes. “Tell me about it. Actually, he just leased it. It’s one of those Pick-Your-Own-Pumpkin places. You know. You walk in the field and pull your own pumpkins off the vine. Big thrill, right?”
    â€œWe did that when I was five,” I said. “I thought those long, twisty vines were creepy. Mitch was two and he started to cry. So we had to leave.”
    â€œI’m going to cry, too,” Devin said. “But Dad thinks he’s going to make a fortune selling pumpkins. It’s only one week till Halloween. How many pumpkins can he sell?”
    I shook my head. “Oh, wow.”
    â€œWait,” Devin said. “Here comes the tragic part. He got permission to take me out of school all week so I can help out on the farm.”
    â€œOh, noooo,” I moaned.
    â€œOh, yes. So where am I going to be spending Halloween? In a pumpkin patch.”
    â€œNo way. No way.”
    â€œPolly’s party will be a total thrill by comparison,” Devin said, shaking his head.
    His hand scraped the bottom of the popcorn bowl. “Hey, what happened to all the popcorn?”
    â€œVery funny. Most of it’s stuck to your teeth.”
    I was joking around, but I felt bad for him. He’s not a farm kind of guy. He actually spent his first seven years in New York City. Then his dad got transferred here to Dayton, Ohio.
    But Devin is a city dude.
    â€œYou’re just going to rot with the pumpkins,” I said sadly.
    He sighed. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up.”
    That made us both laugh. I checked the clock on the cable box. Then I jumped to my feet. “See you when you get back,” I said. “Good luck.” I gave him a hard, phony handshake.
    He stood up. “Lu-Ann, where are you going?” he asked as I pushed him toward the front door.
    â€œI have to go scare my little brother now.”

I tell my brother, Mitch, a scary story every night before he goes to sleep. I just make them up as I go along.
    Mitch likes my stories and he hates them at the same time. He doesn’t really like to be scared. He grits his teeth and shuts his fists and pretends he’s brave.
    I don’t want to torture the poor kid. But I only know how to tell scary stories. That’s the only kind of story I can dream up. I guess I just have a scary mind.
    Mitch and I look alike a little bit. We both have straight black hair and dark eyes and round faces. I’m very thin, but he’s pretty chubby. Mom says he hasn’t lost his baby fat.
    How do you think that line goes over with Mitch?
    Not too well.
    Mitch is a quiet, serious kid. He’s only eight, but he likes to read endlessly long fantasy books about ancient kingdoms and dragons and battles and stuff.
    He gets straight A’s at Meadowdale, his elementary school. But he doesn’t have a lot of friends.
    I think it’s because he’s so quiet and shy.
    We get along great even though we’re so different. The only thing we fight about is breakfast — toaster waffles or toaster pancakes? He goes for waffles, and I like the pancakes. Mom says it would be silly to buy both. So … big fights in the supermarket.
    I took Mitch into the kitchen for his nightly bedtime snack — Oreos and a glass of milk to dip them in. Then we headed upstairs. Mitch climbed into his platform bed and pulled up the covers.
    Dad got him a platform bed down on the floor because he tosses and turns and rolls around a lot at