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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
| "Listen, I'll just switch over now," you tell Sydney. "You don't sound real enthusiastic." "It's not that,," she whispers back. Reagan's face looks bloated in the dark, lit only by the glow from the screen of your cell phone. "I just don't want— Well— Maybe you better." "If you don't want me to—" you start to say, but you're already kicking off your shoes. "No no, it's alright. In fact, now that I think about it, it's probably for the best. Except for—" she starts to add. "Except for what?" You pull your t-shirt off over your head. It sends your hair flying. "Nothing," she says. "I'll just make sure to keep an eye on Ellie today," she adds. * * * * * You're unconscious during all the switching, so Sydney handles the masks for you. The office lights are on, and Reagan is lurking near the door when you wake. A fully dressed Ellie Kemp is standing on the other side of the (very small) office with a doubtful expression on her face. You are cold, and very conscious of your nakedness, as the two girls look down at you. "Hey," you mumble as you sit up. You pull your knees to your chin, both to ward off the chill and to help cover yourself, for you've got a penis flopping around down below. "I thought I was gonna be looking like someone else when I woke up." "Coach's mask is on her desk," Reagan says. "But I want you to talk to—" "He doesn't have to tell me anything," Ellie interrupts. She folds her arms. "You can leave it to me, boss," she tells you. "Leave what to you?" "Whatever." You and Reagan exchange a glance. "Well, um, I guess for now, just go out and be normal," you tell Ellie. "You know, go to class, talk to your friends. Don't tell them about, you know, what's going on with, um—" Ellie rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I get that. I'm not dumb." She puts a hand on her hip. "Do you want me telling people about that fundraiser idea?" "No! Well—" Again, you look at Reagan, who doesn't react. "Just, uh, follow Reagan's lead on that. We—" "You need to get dressed, Will," Reagan says. "It's almost time for class." "I was just going to say," you continue, "that we'll get together tonight to talk. Over at the coach's place, probably. So keep your schedule clear." Ellie gives you a half-smile, then prances over to Reagan. She put her arm in the other girl's. "Come on," she tells your disguised girlfriend. "Coach has to get ready for class. Want me to run things for you while we wait?" she asks you. There's a smirk on her lips. "Sure. Just remember to take your cues from—" But she's already opened the door and pulled Reagan through. You scramble over to push the lock in after she's pulled it shut behind her. * * * * * It was probably just as well that Sydney gave you a couple of minutes to collect yourself outside of one mask before plunging you into a new one, for you're still disoriented and you have to sit (still naked) at Coach Schell's desk, with the light off and the door locked, for a couple of minutes more before you feel like you've shaken the worst of a small hangover. You find the mask in the dark, and cradle it in your hands for another minute, as you murmur your own name to yourself over and over: My name is Will Prescott. My name is Will Prescott. I'm Will Prescott. You still feel a tug that wants to substitute Ellie Shaw in the formula. When you are finally feeling centered—some minutes after the bell for first period has rung—you close your eyes and lift the mask to your face. You're still cold, and you're still feeling like yourself when you wake, in the dark, some time later. Even when you raise your head, and feel soft hair tumbling to your shoulders, you still feel like yourself—as though the hair is a wig. The absence of a dick—impossible to miss as you pull on some thong underwear—is a terrible shock, and it's not until you have the light on and are putting on the rest of the clothes the coach left behind—tight, Lycra running shorts, a t-shirt, and a pink-and-green polyester windbreaker—that the feeling of another mind starts to steal over you. And not until you've tied and double-knotted the sneakers, and rubbed a hand down a smooth, hard, bare calf that the feeling really takes hold: My name is Cathy Schell, and I'm one of the junior coaches at Westside High. And then, as you glance at the clock: Oh, shit, I'm way, way late! You grab the lanyard with the whistle on it, brush back a hank of tawny blonde hair, and leap for the door. The girls are already broken into two teams on the court floor, on opposite sides of a net, when you emerge, feeling haggard and breathless, and you really wish you'd had a chance to check your own face in a mirror or on your cell phone before showing yourself. It would be a hell of a thing—and your heart almost seizes up with terror at the thought—if you had Cathy Schell's hair and body, but Will Prescott's face. But no one shrieks and points as you come hustling out onto the gym floor. Only they do turn to stare at you. Aria Giordano pauses with the volleyball in her hand, poised to serve it. "Sorry I'm late, everyone," you call out. "I got hung up on— Have we done laps yet?" "Ten of them," Ellie calls back. Her expression is very neutral. "Thanks, Ellie!" You take up station on the sidelines near the net. "Alright, let's go." You blow the whistle, more to claim it, and the woman it belongs to, for yourself than to signal the start of class. There's a moment of suspense, and then Aria serves. * * * * * You don't intervene more than a couple of times during the warm-up game that follows, but you have to pay a lot more attention to the practice drills you set the girls afterward. It's a good bunch, and they respond well to instruction. It's not just that they know how to take orders, though. The coach and the girls both have the sense that this year they have a bench with the talent to do more than just play and win some games. They have a chance to make it all the way to the state levels. You have a more challenging class to manage after that: Personal Fitness 2. It's the kind of unrewarding work that falls to the junior coaches, like Cathy Schell, and in this case it's complicated by the fact that the class not only mixes grades and attitudes—from intensely competitive senior jocks looking for more practice, to sophomore shirkers who are taking the class only because it would fit in their schedule—but also includes Shawn Sax and Darren Green, who are on the basketball team, and who waste no time humiliating the others in the class while getting pissed off that the class doesn't come with more of a challenge. Half a dozen times already this semester the coach has had to pull them aside to chide them for their attitude, without apparent result. It doesn't help that they share the class with James Randolph, one of the JV basketball players, against whom they seem to have some kind of a grudge. The other classes are much more balanced, and the sixth-period class is a positive delight. It is dominated by the four students who make up the school's marching band color guard, and they are such a tight and friendly group that you make a mental note to suggest making them part of the coven. The real challenge comes during third period, which is when Coach Schell takes her lunch. It is also a free period for one of the guidance counselors, Thomas Luna, and he always comes to her office to visit. Because he and Coach Schell are sleeping together. * * * * * "He likes to drop by my place unannounced." You keep your voice down as you tell Reagan about Thomas, and why you might not be able to hold "Brotherhood" meetings at Coach Schell's house, like you'd hoped. You're in the coach's office—it's the end of the day, and you're packing to go home—but the door is open, and the other coaches have been in and out with grins and good-byes. "Isn't that a little, um, rude?" Reagan asks. You glance at the door as Coach Gossett swaggers past, but he doesn't stop. "He texts first," you murmur back, "but Cathy almost always tells him to come on over. Also—" You hesitate before giving voice to one of her suspicions. "I think he likes to drive by her place." Reagan's eyebrows go up. "That's kind of a creeper thing." "I don't know. She doesn't think so. She doesn't know what to—" You cut yourself off as Thomas Luna himself appears in the doorway. "Hey," he greets you with a wide, white smile. "You about ready?" "Five minutes." You return him a smile of your own. "Don't wait for me, I'll meet you out there." He nods, and nods at Reagan too before turning and sauntering out. Even in his loose-fitting slacks and his soft white shirt, he exudes a panther-like muscularity. Reagan gives you a look when she turns back to you, a look that says, Impressive. Thomas Luna is impressive. He's in his late twenties, like Cathy Schell, and is either coming off of or is taking a break from a couple of years of pick-up artistry. He is Hispanic, with a complexion like dark cocoa; his hair is black as coffee, and swept back like a rooster's comb. His gaze, even when relaxed, is smoking. Half chicano, half black, all man, he likes to murmur when atop and inside Cathy Schell. "We need at least one dick in the Brotherhood," Reagan says. That's all for now. |
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