Queen of the Monsters
Brian Armer
Mom had been promoted to robot engineer before lunch and witch-hat detective shortly afterward. By five, she had repaired a cardboard shoulder, found the missing hat beneath the cat, and convinced a small witch that her broom did not need to fly for the costume to count. Her own Halloween outfit was a sweatshirt with a piece of silver tape stuck to the sleeve.
“What are you going to be?” her son asked. Mom glanced at the clock, then at the popcorn waiting on the counter. “Possibly someone who sits down.” He nodded very seriously and backed into the hallway, his cardboard robot elbows catching both sides of the door. His sister followed him. From behind the door came a whisper that was considerably louder than normal speech: “Don’t tell her.”
Dad arrived in the kitchen with an expression Mom recognized from birthday surprises and broken flowerpots. He volunteered to finish the popcorn. When she asked why the good scissors had disappeared, he said he was not authorized to discuss it. Somewhere down the hall, a witch accused a robot of standing on the royal cape.
Mom was reaching for the last cup when the living-room lights dimmed. The robot appeared beside the sofa and announced, in his best mechanical voice, that an important person was required immediately. His sister stood behind him holding a paper crown with uneven points and enough glitter to outlast the house. Across Dad’s arms lay a bright green cape.
“You make Halloween for us,” the witch said. “So we made you something.” Mom looked from the crooked crown to the little faces waiting beneath it. The robot had drawn a heart on one of its points. His sister had added a tiny broom to another. Neither child seemed remotely interested in whether the tape showed.
Dad fastened the cape over her sweatshirt, and the witch set the crown carefully on her head. “Queen of the Monsters,” the robot declared. Mom tried to thank them, but her voice caught halfway through. She pulled them close instead, cardboard elbows and all. “Does the queen get to sit down?” she finally asked. Her daughter considered the rules. “Only after the parade.”
They marched twice around the living room. Dad supplied a terrible trumpet noise, the robot walked backward until he met the ottoman, and the witch insisted that queens were supposed to wave. Mom waved. Then she took the middle of the sofa while Dad brought the popcorn and the children negotiated who would hold which corner of her cape.
Halfway through the movie, her son reached up and straightened the crown. Mom had forgotten she was wearing it. She looked down at his hand, then at her daughter asleep against the green fabric. The silver tape was still on her sleeve. She left it there.
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