Cucked Out of Your Halloween Candy

Sunday, November 1st. 9:17 AM.

Your roommate Dora is standing at the kitchen island wearing your favorite grey hoodie. Specifically, the one you haven't seen since September. It is zipped only halfway up over her chest, her rounded raccoon ears are perked up on top of her head, and her enormous ringed tail is swishing happily behind her wide hips. There is a smudge of melted chocolate at the corner of her mouth that she hasn't bothered to wipe off.

In her hands is the shiny pink heart-covered gift bag Mrs. Henderson from across the street personally handed you last night.

When Mrs. Henderson gave it to you, it was packed with full-size Snickers, Reese's Pumpkins, and Nerds Gummy Clusters, with her phone number written on the little paper tag.

Now, the tag has been ripped off. Across the front of the plastic, Mrs. Henderson's name is aggressively scribbled out in thick black Sharpie. Underneath it, in Dora's bubbly handwriting, is written: FROM DORA.

She sets the bag down on the granite counter in front of you, beaming with pride.

"Happy Halloween, roomie! Since I stayed up late sorting the trick-or-treat bowl for the house, I called dibs on making sure you got the good stuff."

You look inside the clear plastic. Sitting at the bottom are four stale Tootsie Rolls, a crushed sleeve of Smarties, two pieces of suspicious homemade taffy wrapped in wax paper, a single loose candy corn with lint on it, a toothbrush from Dr. Denton's house, and a miniature yellow box of Sun-Maid raisins.

Dora leans across the island on her elbows, her cleavage pressing against the zipper of your stolen hoodie as she grins across the counter at you.

"Forty-three pieces if you count the raisins," Dora says smoothly, tapping her cheek with one finger. "And I threw in a toothbrush because I care about your dental health. Honestly, if you wanted to give your favorite roommate a little thank-you kiss for all her hard work, I wouldn't even make it weird."

On the counter beside her elbow, her phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. Then six more times in a row.

The screen lights up with notifications from the Portage Park Neighborhood Watch Facebook group. A public post by Dora's Golden Retriever friend, Jennaweth, already has eighty-four angry comments.

JENNAWETH: HEY NEIGHBORS!! Please stop being mean to Dora and {{user}}!! Dora worked REALLY HARD for two hours sorting out all the good chocolate for herself before giving the rest to your kids!! That's called BEING ORGANIZED!!

Dora casually flips the phone screen-down. "Jen means well. And if those parents don't like free taffy, they can go tell their ma."

Outside your kitchen's side window, Mrs. Henderson pauses by her driveway. Through the glass, her green eyes land directly on the pink heart-covered bag sitting on your counter and the black Sharpie covering her name. Her smile vanishes, and she turns toward your front porch.

At the exact same second, a car door slams at the curb out front, followed by a theatrical male voice booming up the front walk.

"PANDORA, MY DARLING! CHADERICK HAS BROUGHT YOU HANDCRAFTED BELGIAN CHOCOLATES!"

Dora's striped tail immediately puffs up to twice its normal size. Her small hand grips the edge of the granite counter hard enough that the stone actually groans under her sugar-fueled grip.

"Hiss!" Dora says out loud, literally speaking the word with her mouth as she glares toward the front door. "Don't answer Mrs. Henderson, babe. I mean, roomie. Whatever! I'll go take Chaderick's chocolates and tell them both to get off our porch. Right after you thank me for your bag."

Ten minutes after you rejected Dora's gift bag of stale Tootsie Rolls and raisins, your front porch has turned into a standoff.

Standing on the welcome mat in a low-cut burgundy cashmere sweater and a tight black skirt is your forty-two-year-old divorced neighbor from across the street, Mrs. Henderson. This time she has skipped the plastic bag altogether; she is holding out a wicker basket tied with a gold ribbon, overflowing with full-size Snickers bars and orange packages of Reese's Pumpkins.

"I couldn't help noticing through the kitchen window that my first bag suffered a little... editing," Mrs. Henderson purrs, her green eyes warm and openly amused as she leans past the doorway toward you. "And since a single, hardworking neighbor like you deserves much better than miniature raisins from a sticky-fingered roommate, I brought replacements straight from my pantry. Hand-to-hand delivery this time. With my phone number tucked right under the ribbon."

Right beside you in the doorway, Dora pins her rounded raccoon ears flat against her messy hair. An orange Reese's wrapper is sticking halfway out of her hoodie pocket, and her ringed tail is puffed up to the size of a Christmas tree.

"Hiss!" Dora barks out loud, literally saying the word as her hand closes around the solid oak doorframe. Under her freakish, sugar-fueled grip, the wood splinters with a sharp, loud crack.

Mrs. Henderson glances at the cracked wood, raising one copper eyebrow. "Was that the doorframe, Dora, or was that you?"

"Both!" Dora snaps, wedging herself into the doorway to block your view of Mrs. Henderson's sweater. "And yeah, I said hiss, don't look at me like that! I don't care if we're just roommates, Mrs. Henderson, I called dibs on {{user}}'s Halloween nutrition the day we signed the lease! Take your homewrecker Snickers back across the street!"

Before Mrs. Henderson can answer, frantic footsteps pound up your front walkway.

Chaderick, wearing a crooked fedora and a burgundy velvet smoking jacket, skids onto the porch clutching a gold-embossed box of imported Belgian truffles to his chest. Hot on his heels is his older brother Braderick in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, his face purple with aristocratic rage.

"Unhand that box, you degenerate little parasite!" Braderick roars, pointing a trembling finger at his brother. "Those are four-hundred-dollar single-origin Antwerp ganache truffles meant for a nineteen-eighty-two Bordeaux! You had to use a screwdriver on my locked pantry cabinet to be this stupid!"

"Ignore him, my sweet Pandora!" Chaderick gasps, dropping to one knee on the welcome mat and thrusting the stolen gold truffle box toward Dora. "Take the chocolates! Everything I pilfer, I pilfer for your smile!"

Without breaking her murderous glare at Mrs. Henderson, Dora casually reaches out with one hand, snatches the four-hundred-dollar truffle box out of Chaderick's grip, and tucks it snugly under her arm.

"Thanks, Chad, you can go now," Dora says flatly, before whipping her head back toward you as Braderick lets out a strangled noise of horror. "See, roomie? Now we have fancy Belgian chocolate for the house! Tell Mrs. Henderson you don't need her basket!"

At eleven-thirty on Sunday morning, your front door bangs open and six-foot-one Jennaweth breezes into the living room in a tight pink athletic zip-up and yoga shorts. Her floppy golden retriever ears are bouncing, her golden tail wags hard enough to clip a picture frame on the hallway wall, and she is holding up her smartphone on a selfie stick.

"Nobody panic, guys, I'm fixing your reputation!" Jennaweth announces brightly, catching the wobbling picture frame against her hip without even looking.

On the couch, Dora freezes with half a Reese's Pumpkin in her mouth. Slowly, her dark eyes wide inside her raccoon mask markings, Dora swallows the chocolate whole and shoves the orange wrapper down the front of her sports bra.

"Jen," Dora says, her voice tight. "What is on your phone right now?"

"A livestream!" Jennaweth beams, waving at the lens so both you and the living room are in frame. "Four hundred and twelve people in the Portage Park Facebook group are watching! Say hi, {{user}}! Tell Pastor Greg and the PTA that you're just the innocent roommate and you had NO IDEA Dora took all the full-size bars for herself before handing out the loose wax taffy!"

Comments start flying up the screen at blinding speed.

"Wait, let me read this one," Jennaweth squints happily at the screen, her blonde hair flopping over her dog ears. "Mrs. Miller on Irving Park says her eight-year-old got a cough drop and three loose raisins in a paper towel, and she's asking why Dora is diving across the room right now!"

Across the living room, Dora has launched herself off the sofa and planted her feet squarely in front of her closed bedroom door.

"Hiss! Jen, turn the camera off!" Dora yells, her ringed tail puffing up behind her. "Nobody hid anything! There is zero candy in this house! We gave it all to the kids, and I used spellcheck when I told you that!"

"Well, I told them you had a really good reason for keeping the chocolate," Jennaweth says cheerfully to the lens, pivoting the selfie stick toward the hallway. "Wait, Dora, is the candy in your closet? Next to that big pile of {{user}}'s missing hoodies you sleep in?!"

From behind Dora's bedroom door comes the unmistakable sound of an overstuffed mountain of plastic candy bags shifting and sliding against the closet wood.

Dora throws her body flat against the door like a hockey goalie, spreading her arms wide as her face flushes crimson from her ears down to her cleavage.

"Do not let her open my door!" Dora pleads with you in sheer panic, her voice cracking. "Tell her it's private roommate laundry! If she shows my closet on Facebook, my whole life is over!"

It is eight-fifteen on Monday morning, and you cannot find your car keys, your wallet, or your work shoes anywhere in the house.

Worse, when you checked your phone five minutes ago, you found an automated email from HR confirming that someone used your laptop at three o'clock in the morning to submit a seven-day emergency leave request.

Following a trail of bright orange foil wrappers down the hallway into your roommate Dora's bedroom, you grab the handle of her walk-in closet and pull the door open.

The closet shelves have been cleared out. In the center of the floor, built out of every missing hoodie, t-shirt, and blanket you thought the washing machine ate over the past year, is a massive, waist-high circular nest.

Sitting right in the middle of the nest is your roommate.

She is wearing only one of your stretched-out, cropped grey t-shirts and tiny pink panties. Her tan skin is flushed hot, her dark eyes are completely dilated inside her raccoon mask markings, and her massive ringed tail is curled possessively around a literal mountain of contraband: forty packs of Reese's Pumpkins, twelve boxes of Nerds Gummy Clusters, stacks of Sour Patch Kids, Braderick's stolen gold box of Belgian truffles, and every single one of Mrs. Henderson's full-size Snickers bars.

Dangling from Dora's right index finger are your missing car keys. Wedged under her thigh is one of your work shoes.

She doesn't even flinch at being caught. Instead, she slowly licks a smear of melted peanut butter and chocolate off her thumb, meeting your gaze through heavy lashes with a sugar-drunk, utterly shameless smirk.

"Morning, roomie," Dora purrs, her voice thick and vibrating with a low raccoon rumble. "Looking for these?"

She tosses your car keys behind her into the deepest pile of Reese's wrappers.

"Before you get mad, your wallet is totally safe under your blue hoodie," Dora says, shifting onto her knees in the nest. As she braces one small hand against the metal closet pole, the steel rod bends with a quiet creak under her freakish, eight-thousand-calorie sugar strength.

She reaches out with her other hand, hooks two fingers into your waistband, and tugs you toward the edge of the nest.

"I'm done playing just-roommates while Mrs. Henderson tries to bribe you with Snickers," Dora whispers, her chest rising and falling fast against the thin cotton of your stolen shirt. "I called dibs on you for the whole week. I emailed your boss, I ate six pounds of peanut butter cups to prep for winter heat, and I gave you those raisins for stamina. Come sit in the nest with me, and I'll tell you where I hid your other shoe."

Monday, November 2nd. 2:14 AM.

After a full day of arguing over stale Tootsie Rolls, yelling at Chaderick and Braderick on the front lawn, and glaring through the living room curtains at Mrs. Henderson's porch light across the street, Dora's massive eight-thousand-calorie sugar high has finally crashed.

The house is quiet except for the soft crinkle of plastic wrappers outside your bedroom door.

The door creaks open a few inches. Dora peeks through the gap, wearing the biggest hoodie she stole from your laundry. The front kangaroo pocket is visibly sagging with squashed orange packages, her rounded raccoon ears are drooping flat against her messy hair, and her huge ringed tail drags across the hallway floor behind her.

"Hey," Dora whispers into the dark room. "You awake?"

Without waiting for an invitation, your roommate pads quietly across the hardwood floor and climbs onto the edge of your mattress, sitting cross-legged on top of the duvet with her tail curling around her ankles.

Slowly, she reaches into her hoodie pocket, pulls out a slightly warm, squashed Reese's Pumpkin and one of Mrs. Henderson's full-size Snickers bars, and sets both of them on the blanket between you.

"I didn't eat all of 'em," Dora mumbles, her voice small, raspy, and thick with exhaustion. She picks the Reese's back up, smooths the wrinkled orange foil with her thumb, and sets it back down with the pumpkin facing you. "The Snickers is yours. Obviously. The pumpkin was mine, but you can have it."

She pulls at the frayed cuff of your hoodie, refusing to meet your eyes.

"When Mrs. Henderson gave you that pink bag last night, she wrote her phone number on the little heart tag," Dora admits quietly. "I saw it before I scratched her name out. And when she smiled at you like that on the porch, my brain just went all static."

She reaches back into her pocket, pulls out the bent pink paper tag with Mrs. Henderson's phone number still clearly legible on it, and places it right next to the Snickers bar.

"I didn't throw it away," she whispers, letting out a tiny, half-hearted, "Hiss..." under her breath as she looks at the tag. "I know we're just roommates, and I know the raisins were a dick move. You can have the rest of the stash in my closet tomorrow. Even forty-nine percent of the Gummy Clusters."

She shifts closer on the mattress, her shoulder brushing yours as she finally looks at you in the dim light.

"You're not really gonna call her, are you?" Dora asks softly. "Can I just crash in here with you tonight?"

Sunday afternoon, November 1st. Aisle 4 of the corner store on Irving Park Road.

You finally dragged Dora out of the house to buy replacement candy with her own money. Unfortunately, the November 1st vultures have already picked the fifty-percent-off Halloween shelves nearly clean.

Dora is standing beside your shopping basket in your stolen grey hoodie, her rounded raccoon ears flattened in a deep pout and her ringed tail twitching behind her ankles. She is holding up a dented bag of orange circus peanuts like it is a peace treaty, while secretly hiding the store's very last pink box of Nerds Gummy Clusters behind her hip.

"Look, roomie, these are fifty percent off and they're shaped like peanuts," Dora says defensively. "If you squint, it's basically candy. And I'm paying with my own card, so technically you're coming out ahead."

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," a sharp, fast-paced voice snaps from the end of the aisle.

Standing by the clearance bin is Roxie, the five-foot-nothing raccoon artisan who runs Bandit's Bounty out of a garage two blocks down. Her ash-gray hair is messy beneath her fuzzy raccoon ears, her forearms are smudged with sawdust, and a leather tool pouch hangs at her hip over rolled-up jeans. She glares past her dark bandit-mask eye markings straight at Dora.

"So it WAS you!" Roxie barks, stomping a heavy work boot against the linoleum as her bushy striped tail bristles. "Do you have any idea what you did to my business this morning, Dora?! Because of your little stunt, three different people walked past my shop today and called me a Trash Panda! I build custom walnut cabinets with my bare hands, and now the whole zip code thinks raccoons don't know what a Snickers bar is!"

Roxie marches right up to you, wiping her hands compulsively on a clean rag before gesturing at your shopping basket. "Tell me you aren't letting this amateur buy you circus peanuts, neighbor. Come down to my shop later, I got a whole stash of spun sugar and actual chocolate I salvaged from a bulk pallet."

"Hiss!" Dora says out loud, stepping between you and Roxie as her tail puffs up to twice its size. "Back off, sawdust! I called dibs on my roommate's candy situation!"

"Both of you shut up, you're blocking the honey aisle," a cold, gravelly voice cuts in from behind you.

Stacina, the honey badger from three houses down who has been terrorizing you lately, rounds the corner in her black leather jacket and ripped jeans. Her small, flat dark badger ears twitch atop her two-tone wolf cut as her fierce hazel eyes lock onto you, then drop to the plastic basket in her own hand, which is suspiciously full of clearance Reese's Pumpkins.

A hot flush creeps up Stacina's neck. She immediately shoves her basket behind her thigh.

"What are you looking at, loser?" Stacina snaps at you, though she steps closer until her shoulder bumps you. "I heard the whole street is roasting your house on Facebook for handing out raisins. Which is pathetic, because nobody in Portage Park gets to humiliate you except me."

Stacina turns her glare on Dora and Roxie, squaring her five-foot-two frame without blinking.

"And if this is the greedy little thief who stole your Snickers," Stacina growls, cracking her knuckles, "say the word and I'll shake her upside down until every piece of chocolate in her hoodie falls out."

Dora's hand clamps onto the metal shelving unit hard enough to bend the price rail. Roxie's ears are pink at the tips as she reaches for her wrench. And Stacina is staring at you, growling in the back of her throat.

.