Masquerade

You don't need to tell Darth Vader that black is slimming. He knows. I wore his helmet, cape and gauntlets along with my black turtleneck and jeans for our school's annual Halloween Parade and lost nearly seven pounds in those six blocks. When we got back inside, I pulled off the mask and breathed a deep lungful of the air that I had taken for granted just half an hour previous. And to think that all of this might not have happened at all, except for a break in the clouds.
For the past twelve years, and certainly for many years before, the kids at my school have made a tradition of dressing up and meandering around the neighborhood in a long, roughly grade-by-grade line that eventually snakes for more than a quarter mile before the fifth graders even make it out of the gate. It takes less than half an hour to make the trip, but this does not include the hour of preparation that begins right after lunch. In some cases, parents appear at the cafeteria door, whisking their kids off to the bathroom to paint and primp them for their big moment. And every year before this one, the sun has beat down and the last day of October. The sweat has ruined many a pale vampire, and drenched countless pretty princesses. But this year, a dark cloud was hanging over the parade like, well, a dark cloud.
And then, just before lunch, the skies parted, and the school emptied out onto the playground. Class by class we walked down the stairs and out onto the street. It's the lowest impact field trip imaginable, but the kids love it, and the parents can't seem to live without it. When we finally made our way back to the school, there were cupcakes and paper cups full of Tampico punch. The "no candy at school" rule took a day off, and we sent the kids home on a sugar high that was certain to last at least another twelve hours. On Monday, it's back to business as usual, and if it rains it means indoor recess, but it won't keep us from our grand masquerade.