Date: October 27, 1990 (Saturday).
Location: The van der Woodsen Estate, Highland Park.
Event: The Halloween Exorcism.
Part 1: The Doppler Effect
By late October, the Texas heat had finally broken, leaving behind crisp, cool evenings that smelled like dry leaves and distant barbecue smoke.
Our football season had settled into a terrifying rhythm. We were undefeated. We were ranked in the Top 20 nationally. And most importantly, my body felt fantastic. The constant, grinding soreness that usually plagued a quarterback by mid-season was gone. I wasn't standing in the pocket taking unnecessary hits from linebackers anymore. If a play broke down, I slipped out the side door, changed my arm angle, and delivered the ball while running toward the sideline. I was playing smart, efficient, untouchable football.
But tonight, I wasn't a quarterback. I was Clark Kent.
I stood in the Cooper hallway adjusting a pair of thick, plastic-rimmed glasses I had bought at the pharmacy. I was wearing an oversized dress shirt, a cheap red tie, and a blue t-shirt underneath with a crudely drawn 'S' in permanent marker. It was a low-effort costume, but it was comfortable.
Sheldon walked out of his bedroom. He was wearing a black-and-white striped suit that looked like a barcode, completely covering his arms and legs. He was holding his trademark clipboard.
"Are you a zebra, Shelly?" I asked, putting my hands on my hips.
"I am not a zebra," Sheldon said, sounding deeply offended. "I am the Doppler Effect. It is the change in frequency of a wave in relation to an observer who is moving relative to the wave source."
"Nobody at a high school party is going to know what that is," I warned him.
"That is a reflection of the flawed American education system, not my costume," Sheldon replied, clicking his pen. "Besides, I am not attending Serena's gathering to socialize. I am attending to conduct a sociological study on the inefficiency of pagan sugar rituals. I hypothesize that teenagers consume 400 percent more sucrose on this date simply due to peer pressure and artificial scarcity."
"Just don't lecture anyone about diabetes while they're eating a Snickers," I said, grabbing the keys to my truck.
Missy walked out of her room dressed as a terrifyingly accurate zombie cheerleader. She had fake blood running down her chin and a missing tooth blacked out with makeup.
"I'm riding with you," Missy declared. "Mom won't let me go trick-or-treating with her and Dad because my costume is 'an affront to the Lord.' So I'm crashing the rich kid party."
"Fine," I sighed. "But if you break anything in the van der Woodsen house, I will leave you there to pay it off by scrubbing their floors for the next ten years."
Part 2: The Estate
We pulled up to the van der Woodsen estate at eight o'clock.
Calling it a house was an insult to architecture. It was a sprawling, three-story Tudor mansion sitting on two acres of prime Highland Park real estate. The long, winding driveway was lined with massive oak trees. Tonight, those trees were strung with thousands of orange and purple lights.
A valet in a tuxedo stepped forward to open my truck door. I handed him the keys, trying to act like it was completely normal to have a valet at a high school Halloween party.
"Try not to look like peasants," Missy whispered to me as we walked up the massive stone steps.
The front doors were wide open. Inside, the mansion looked like a Hollywood movie set. There was a fog machine pumping low-lying mist across the marble foyer floor. A string quartet dressed as skeletons was playing classical music in the corner. Caterers carrying trays of expensive hors d'oeuvres weaved through a crowd of teenagers who were wearing costumes that cost more than my father's truck.
Eric van der Woodsen met us in the foyer.
Eric was wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, a red rose in his lapel, and holding a clipboard. He looked like a young, sophisticated James Bond villain.
"Ah, the Coopers have arrived," Eric said smoothly, checking off our names on a list. "Georgie, Serena is in the grand living room. Sheldon, the candy buffet is in the west wing. It features imported Swiss chocolate. Please try not to completely destroy the bell curve of my sugar distribution."
"I make no promises, Eric," Sheldon said, adjusting his Doppler Effect stripes and marching off toward the west wing with his clipboard raised like a shield.
Missy immediately disappeared into the crowd, her zombie makeup drawing terrified and impressed looks from the preppy kids.
I walked into the grand living room. The ceiling was thirty feet high, dominated by a massive crystal chandelier. And standing directly under it was Serena.
She was dressed as Grace Kelly from the movie Rear Window. She wore a stunning, elegant black-and-white dress with a pearl necklace. She looked completely out of place at a high school party, and absolutely perfect.
She saw me and smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She walked over, effortlessly dodging a kid dressed as a giant hot dog.
"Clark Kent," Serena said, tapping the plastic rim of my glasses. "A little safe, don't you think?"
"I take enough risks on Friday nights," I smiled, wrapping my arms around her waist. "You look incredible. Did your mom fly that dress in from Paris?"
"Milan, actually," Serena whispered, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "But don't tell anyone. It ruins my relatable charm."
Before I could respond, a loud commotion echoed from the front foyer. The classical music seemed to stutter for a second.
The front doors had swung wide open again.
Part 3: The Heavyweights
Standing in the doorway, blocking out the moonlight, were the Recruits.
Larry Allen, Zach Thomas, and Jimmy Smith had arrived.
The contrast between them and the rest of the party was immediate and jarring. The Highland Park kids were wearing authentic, rented theatrical costumes. They looked like Broadway actors.
The Recruits looked like they had a budget of twelve dollars and a trip to the local pharmacy.
Jimmy Smith was wearing a violently bright, floral Hawaiian shirt and cheap sunglasses. He was supposed to be a tourist.
Zach Thomas was just wearing a white t-shirt that he had ripped into shreds, with fake blood and purple makeup smeared across his face and arms. He looked like he had just survived a car crash.
But it was Larry Allen who stopped the party in its tracks.
Larry, who stood six-foot-three and weighed three hundred and twenty-five pounds of pure, terrifying muscle, was wearing a pair of tiny, white, feathered fairy wings strapped to his massive back. They were so small they barely stretched past his shoulder blades. Floating above his head on a bent piece of wire was a cheap plastic halo.
He was the largest, most intimidating angel in human history.
I walked over to them, Serena right beside me.
"Larry," I said, trying desperately not to laugh. "You're an angel."
"My mom picked it out," Larry rumbled, his deep voice carrying over the music. He reached up and adjusted the bent plastic halo. "She said I protect you, so I'm a guardian angel. The straps are cutting off the circulation to my armpits."
"It's a very noble costume, Larry," Serena said warmly, not laughing at all. "The west wing has a massive buffet. Eric told the chefs to prepare a carving station specifically for you."
Larry's eyes widened slightly. "A carving station? Like, a whole cow?"
"A prime rib," Serena nodded.
Larry didn't say another word. He just turned and walked toward the west wing, his tiny fairy wings bouncing slightly with every heavy step. Zach and Jimmy followed him, eager for free, expensive food.
Part 4: The Country Club Snobs
About an hour later, the party was in full swing. Sheldon had successfully cornered a group of cheerleaders, lecturing them on the corrosive effects of corn syrup on dental enamel. Missy was actively terrorizing the wealthy boys by pretending to eat the catering with her fake rotting teeth.
I was standing near the fireplace with Serena, drinking a glass of sparkling cider, when the trouble started.
A group of Seniors had gathered near the entrance to the west wing dining room. They were Derek Hollingsworth's friends. The "Old Money" crowd. Derek himself wasn't there—he was still at home nursing his fake knee injury and his bruised ego—but his loyalists were out in force.
The leader of the group was a kid named Trent. Trent was a backup wide receiver who rarely saw the field. Tonight, he was wearing an incredibly expensive, historically accurate eighteenth-century pirate costume, complete with a velvet coat and a feathered hat.
Trent was holding a plastic cup, looking into the dining room where Larry Allen was happily devouring his third plate of prime rib.
Trent laughed, a loud, obnoxious, nasal sound that carried over the chatter of the room.
"Hey, look at this," Trent sneered to his friends, pointing his plastic sword toward Larry. "I didn't know the caterers were allowed to eat the food. I guess when you live in a cheap apartment on Booster Row, you have to stock up for the winter, right?"
The group of rich kids snickered.
Larry Allen stopped chewing. He slowly lowered his fork. He didn't look angry. He just looked incredibly tired, like a man who had heard this exact joke a thousand times in his life and was sick of the repetition.
Zach Thomas, however, was standing next to Larry. Zach did not look tired. Zach looked like a pit bull that had just been let off a chain. The fake blood on his face suddenly made him look genuinely psychotic. Zach took a step toward Trent, his hands balling into fists.
I put my cider down on the mantle. My instinct, drilled into me from years of managing a business and a football team, was to step in, assert authority, and shut Trent down. I took a step forward.
Serena put a hand on my chest, stopping me.
"No," Serena whispered, her voice cold and sharp. "This is my house. These are my guests."
Part 5: The Queen's Decree
Serena let go of my arm. She didn't march. She glided. She moved across the marble floor with a terrifying, absolute elegance.
The crowd naturally parted for her. When she reached Trent, the laughter from his friends instantly died. They recognized the look on her face. It was the look her mother used when firing a gardener or destroying a rival socialite at a charity gala. It was pure, concentrated Highland Park power.
"Trent," Serena said clearly. The string quartet in the corner seemed to play a little softer, as if sensing the temperature in the room had just dropped twenty degrees.
"Hey, Serena," Trent smiled nervously, adjusting his velvet pirate coat. "Great party. We were just joking around with the new guys."
"I heard your joke," Serena said, her voice completely even, devoid of any anger or shouting. That made it much worse. "It lacked originality, Trent. It also lacked self-awareness."
Trent blinked, confused. "What?"
Serena looked at him, her blue eyes scanning him from his expensive boots to his feathered hat.
"You are wearing a costume that cost seven hundred dollars, paid for by a father who is currently being investigated by the SEC for insider trading," Serena stated loudly enough for the surrounding ten feet of people to hear perfectly.
Trent's face drained of color. His jaw dropped.
"Furthermore," Serena continued, not giving him a second to recover, "you are a Senior wide receiver who has zero catches this season. You stand on the sideline on Friday nights. Larry Allen is a Sophomore who is currently being scouted by Division 1 universities because he is quite literally the foundation of our entire football program. He earns his place in this town every single week. You inherited yours, and you are currently squandering it."
The silence in the grand living room was now absolute. Even Sheldon had stopped lecturing about corn syrup to watch the sociological destruction happening near the buffet.
Serena stepped one inch closer to Trent.
"Larry is my guest," Serena said softly, but the words carried like a gunshot. "He is my boyfriend's teammate. Which means he is family. You are currently trespassing. The front door is behind you. Do not let the valet see you crying."
Trent stood frozen for three agonizing seconds. He looked at his friends for backup. They were all staring at the floor, suddenly fascinated by the marble tile. Nobody wanted to cross Serena van der Woodsen. To be exiled by her meant being exiled from the top tier of the Highland Park social hierarchy.
Trent turned around, his velvet pirate coat swishing pathetically, and walked out the front doors without looking back.
Serena watched him leave, her posture perfectly straight. Then, she turned around to face Larry Allen.
The cold, terrifying socialite vanished instantly. Her warm, crinkling smile returned.
"I am so sorry about that, Larry," Serena said gently. "Some people have no manners."
Larry looked at Serena. He looked at the spot where Trent had just been standing. The massive, three-hundred-pound lineman reached up and gently adjusted his bent plastic halo.
"It's okay, Serena," Larry rumbled softly. "I really like the prime rib. And I really like your dress."
"Thank you, Larry," Serena beamed. "Eat as much as you want. There's another roast in the kitchen."
She turned and walked back to me. The string quartet picked up the tempo. The chatter slowly returned to the room, but the hierarchy had been permanently, violently altered.
The Old Money snobs realized that the Quarterback wasn't just using the Recruits for protection on the field. He considered them brothers. And the Queen of Highland Park considered them royalty.
Serena stopped in front of me and picked up her glass of sparkling cider from the mantle.
"Was that too harsh?" she asked, taking a delicate sip.
I looked at her. I thought about the letters from Notre Dame, the national rankings, and the pressure of the impending playoffs. I realized right then that I didn't just have the best offensive line in the state. I had the smartest, most ruthless partner I could ever ask for.
"Remind me never to make you angry," I said.
"Just pass your History exam on Tuesday, Clark Kent," Serena smiled, "and you'll be perfectly safe."
[Quest Update: The Monster Mash]
* Social Hierarchy: Restructured.
* Recruit Loyalty: Maximum Capacity.
* Serena van der Woodsen: Upgraded from 'Anchor' to 'Enforcer'.
* Health Status: Optimal. The Improviser takes no damage.
***
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