The costume shop was dark because any sunlight was filtered through storefronts full of Frankenstein's monster, Alice in Wonderlands or any other fictional character. It smelled of mothballs, old coffee and a hint of something unpleasantly sour. The salesman, wrinkled and crooked, pointed a finger at something hidden behind a 1940s Hollywood wardrobe.

"This'll go great with your brother's," he said, his voice croaky and referring to Elijah's Batman costume.

It had been a few days back when an assistant whose voice I had never heard before telephoned us very politely and offered an invitation to Neverland's first Halloween party. It shocked me somewhat, because I didn't believe I was worthy of attending, but I shook off the thought because I immediately understood that this was going to be more of an innocent children's party than a celebrity's high-end Halloween gathering. It was unclear whether Michael would be there at all - he was in L.A. more often than at home, working hard on his upcoming studio album (so he had once told me, gloating). Our whole family was invited, but mum and dad thought such festivities were unnecessary and extravagant. Bilhah, Elijah and I, however, looked at each other meaningfully and here we were: standing in the only costume shop in the area with a gentleman who was villainously intent on bringing in his hard-earned cash with the promise of three customers. Only a month earlier, Batman, starring Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson, had been released and Elijah had already paid for his black costume with his saved-up pocket money.

"Oh, I don't know," I shook my head, "it's a children's party."

The gentleman shrugged and was already taking Catwoman á la Eartha Kitt off the hook.

"Isn't it, too, you know..." and I mouthed sexy to Bilhah, but she shook her head convincingly.

"Just try it on!" she encouraged me, taking sides with the greying shop clerk and Elijah urged me on as well. And so I did, struggling desperately and stumbling ten times in the too-cramped cubicle, but I had to admit that it fit me like a glove. Somewhat embarrassed, I stepped out of the stall, turned 360 degrees and everyone clapped as if I had won an award, and that was that.

A few days later I was sitting with my sister in her pick-up truck in front of Neverlands' gates, waiting for a security guard to open them. I never again saw the first security guard who let me in on that July afternoon, and when I asked Michael about it some years later, he said, with a hint of pretended arrogance:

"Oh, I fired him. What kind of security guard lets's in strangers just because they have a folder to deposit?"

Neverland was transformed into a horror paradise, with cobwebs, witches and zombie butlers, and I grimaced at the extravagance. Elijah became more and more animated and jumped out of the car with a swish of his cape, which was then put away by a staff member. By yet an other person we were kindly led around the house, to the garden, and my stomach began to itch with anticipation, for naturally I was hoping for the presence of a Certain Someone.

In the garden, where the dark gazebo stood, it was a hive of activity: not only were there dozens of children, but also parents and a host of staff, and everyone was handing out presents, which, traditionally, was not even part of the holiday. Elijah socialised immediately, and Bilhah and I were promptly handed a number of gifts to share among the children - with an approving nod to me and Bilhah's outfit. With Bilhah dressed as Jack's Joker, we became a particularly lovely couple. It made me happy, this childish joy, the ease and directness with which everything was done, the way we were immediately received as if we had been regulars for years. It made me even happier when I realised that Michael was there. He was conversing with someone, but I only had eyes for him: he had just returned from L.A., he was wearing an unbuttoned military jacket and his fedora was crooked, his cheeks were red and he was smiling broadly at the person standing in front of him, and my stomach churned at the heavenly beauty with which he was clad. I took a deep breath and turned back to Bilhah, but the latter had already noticed and gave me a fat wink. I shook my head subtly as if it were diplomatic sensitivity. It was too late, he had already seen me, and I heard his voice from behind me: "Oh, Bethel!" And he rushed towards us, dragging his interlocutor along because he always had to do everything at once.

"Óh, you guys look great!" He said, emphasising each of his words, and I laughed like a fool in love or a happy child.

"And what are you dressed up as, sir," chuckled Bilhah, "Napoleon?"

"You tease!"

Without any unease he gave Bilhah a hug, and then he pulled me to him, firm and resolute with one hand on my lower back. He smelled of worn cologne, of a mixture of make-up products and the inevitable smell of a hard day's work. My body, all dressed up in a tight suit, was nestled in the corner of his slender waist, and I felt his firm stature against mine. Only now did I see who it was he had been consorting with. Janet Jackson in Minnie-Mouse attire, his younger sister and doppelgänger, appeared beside him, and the likeness I perceived was miraculous. Light-hearted, but with the hint of relief to find female peers, she introduced herself. I knew that she and Michael were the closest pair in the Jackson family, and I could see why. We engaged in polite, this-and-that conversation, and while I was conversing with Michael's sister in an easy manner, and he for a moment laughingly corrected Bilhah on her Napoleon remark, I saw his eyes flicker past her shoulders, and they caught my gaze. He looked up and down, then smiled subtly with his lips slightly open, and nodded. It could just as easily have been something about him agreeing with Bilhah, but I couldn't help thinking it was an approval, and I felt the Cat-woman costume tighter than ever. Then I lost sight of him, and I felt light-headed, too visible in the obnoxiously snug costume. My fake eyelashes felt heavy, and the red lipstick might as well have been an invitation to share my bed, and the approving comments only seemed to reinforce that feeling. I resented the fact that it was a violation of the angelic innocence I thought Michael saw in me, and even though he had given that supposed approval, it still made me feel eerie, even though no one was dressed less extravagantly than I was. The evening unfolded and the program ranged from a film, to a buffet of sweets, to more presents and photographs. A member of staff, Karen Faye, who I believe was an assistant to Michael's doctor and did not hide her infatuation for him, but who was nevertheless a kind-hearted woman, had taken on the task of shooting polaroids, and happened to come near me while she was eyeing the rabble for something picturesque. I didn't realise that Michael was standing behind me until he pressed his hands on my shoulders:

"Take our picture, Karen!" he suggested with a bright smile, pressing his face against mine. A few people turned around after his loud demand, and smiled in sweet observation, and if it wasn't for my layer of make-up and the darkness of the evening they certainly would have noticed my red cheeks. Karen did as asked, but noted that we had blinked because of the flash.

"Another one, then!"

And this time he pressed a kiss on my cheek, and I laughed heartily, hearing Janet and Bilhah cheer suggestively. I ought to have felt insulted by their childish intonations, but in truth I was too happy for that.

"Oh, beautiful!" Approved Karen, and she handed me the printed Polaroid, which I hid under the suit by my shoulder to let it develop and didn't remember until later.

A few wonderful hours had passed, the night had fallen and most of the children had left sleepily for the nearest mattress or couch. At the time, and even today, I experienced this as the most normal thing in the world, if not positively miraculous: Neverland was full of happy children and adults, there was no perverse thought that had orchestrated it in this way with ill intentions. While Elijah had plopped down on the couch and fallen asleep immediately, with a belly full of sweets and his mask on still askew, Michael had decided it was a shame to wake him up now to go home, so he let us stay the night at Neverland too. While Bilhah was still engaged in a deep conversation with Janet, Michael showed me the way to the guest-house, which was almost unnecessary because I knew Neverland well by now, but as a host he insisted. We didn't say much, the keys jingled in rhythm in his hand and he hummed a tune. I was, with heels on, not yet as tall as he was.

"To think I'll have to wear this tomorrow, too," I broke the silence, "seeing as I haven't prepared for staying over."

Michael smiled, teeth bared.

"Without the mask and the belt it'll look like a regular workout-fit. Women on TV love sporting in latex, for some reason."

I nodded, wondering if it was a subconscious sneer at his estranged, older sister LaToya. Whereas he often spoke jubilantly about Janet, I never heard him mention the Playboy star. That had been a quite controversial thing, which even I had heard about in March of that same year.
Michael unlocked the guest house, and somewhat modestly he showed me the smaller, but no less luxurious house. It was, like the main house, furnished in Austrian style, a mountainesque invitation to a good night's sleep. At the sight of the cool sheets I couldn't wait to crawl in, but as I touched my face I was cruelly reminded of my layer of make-up, and automatically I moved to the bathroom. I switched on the light, the only one currently shining, because Michael hadn't been able to find the switch that quickly. It cast a warm glow into the bedroom, a strip of light that timidly made its way. At the sight of the brightness, Michael turned towards the bathroom door, blinking for a moment to get used to the change. He was still dressed the same, his curls disheveled and his eyes darkly surrounded by worn make-up. I pulled a fake eyelash from my eye and Michael flinched.

"They're fake," I explained needlessly.

"I know, but it looks unsettling."

I smiled and removed the other one. He bent down to get a better look and shuddered.

"Does your make-up artist take off your make-up, too?"

He shrugged and wobbled on his feet. For a moment he seemed frozen, then he moved towards me and the mirror, picking up a bar of soap. Not to wash his hands with, but to balance it on his fingers.

"Sometime, but not all the time."

"I hope you do it yourself, then," I said wisely like a teacher who didn't want to be disappointed. I saw his boyish grin in the mirror.

"If I'm not tired, yeah."

There was a silence while I removed my make-up with a half-moist washing cloth. It felt like a liberation, but my cheeks were fire-red from the scrubby fabric. Michael still made no move to leave, although he was probably not even aware that he might come across as an intruder. It didn't really matter because I enjoyed his company.

"Here," I said and turned around to sit on the countertop, with one knee raised and the other tucked under me. Michael glanced back at me in surprise with a raised eyebrow, his slanted eyes betraying his fatigue.

"I'll do it for you."

He laughed like a sigh at the absurd idea, but surrendered immediately, already moving towards me, coming dangerously close in a haze of expensive cologne and mint. I did not know what had moved me to say this, and for a moment I felt sorry, because my heart already bled at his closeness. I grabbed a new, thinner towel, while his hands placed themselves next to my knees, tanned and veiny. I was trapped, but what should have made me feel imprisoned actually felt liberating. As I moistened the cloth with lukewarm water, I studied his face, from which the gaze was directed downwards, and I saw it as if it were that first time: the dark eyes and eyebrows, his small nose and soft mouth that gave him an unmistakably African American impression, and the strong jaw that made my heart skip a beat. He was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. I did not notice that by now he had fixed his eyes on me, studying me the same way I had studied him. I sat up higher than him, and as he looked at me with his head slightly tilted, eyes half closed, I struggled to suppress the impulse to kiss him. Instead, I closed his eyes with my thumbs and began to remove his make-up with the towel. The banality of it irritated me, I wanted to throw the goddamn thing away and jump into his arms and give him my virginity. Yet I was gentle, and his eyes became lighter, along with his skin, but also darker in other places. It did not surprise me. I knew he had a skin ailment, not because he had told me in an emotional revelation, but because he had mentioned it once in a casual conversation. It was as if he had stepped away from the canvas and into reality, and his humanity overwhelmed me, along with the intimacy of our actions despite the absence of anything sexual. I pushed his curls out of his face, but they fell back.

"Right," I said, my voice soft, "all done."
He opened his eyes and smiled, biting his lips. When he looked in the mirror, his expression clouded for a moment. A deep sigh escaped him, and he moved his hand to his face for a moment, as he always did when he was unconsciously trying to hide himself.

"Oh," he said, at a loss for words. His eyes moved back to me, palms pressed flat on the surface again, seemingly refreshed and observant.
"Yet you still look at me the same way."

I breathed in, feeling the weight that was pressing me down being removed, cold air from outside flowing in, and it was all right again, and I remembered, and if all this means anything, it will explain itself eventually.

"How could I look at you any different?"