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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Trap of One's Own Making"  You glance between the two tables. At one: Elle and Leah and Laura and Jack and their friends. At the other, Maria and Chelsea. No one seems to be paying attention to you. What does it mean? you wonder. If you were being catfished by other people—by Clover Mystery say—how come all the people you DMed showed up here, just like you asked? And if it's these girls who have been catfishing you— A dreadful thought occurs to you, and all the blood drains from your face, to pool in your heart, where it starts to boil with anger. If all these girls have been doing it to me ... if they've all been in on it, all been lying to me, all have been—! You stalk over to the table where Elle and Laura and Leah are relaxing. Your face is very hot as you glare at them. Leah looks up at you, but she doesn't otherwise react. But your throat is frozen shut. You can't explode in front of her other friends. That would just make things worse. So you wheel and stalk over to where Maria and Chelsea are sitting. You feel feverish, and your fingers are still twitching as you lurch up to their booth. Maria didn't wave to you or anything, but you tell yourself that maybe she was distracted by Chelsea. All I have to do is say "Hi,", you tell yourself, and she'll introduce me to Chelsea and ask me to sit down, and— "Yes may we help you?" Chelsea asks in a metallic voice. She is giving you a very tired look. Maria gives you a distracted frown. "I just came over to say 'Hi'," you tell them. "Um— I didn't know you were bringing Chelsea along," you tell Maria. She blinks at you, then turns that same distracted frown onto Chelsea. "Who are you?" the head cheerleader demands. "Uh, Will. Will Prescott." You give her a little wave. "We go to school together." Chelsea's expression turns very prim. "Well, maybe we go to the same school," she says, "but that hardly means we go to school together!" You turn to Maria, who is now giving you the same look you might give a crazy homeless person. "When you're done with Chelsea," you tell her stiffly, "I'm sitting over there." You gesture to your own booth. "And you can come join me." Maria says nothing, but Chelsea guffaws. "As if!" She sips from her coffee, and her eyes dance with malicious amusement at you. "Hey, I'm the one who asked her out here—" "If you're sitting over there, Will Prescott-who-goes-to-the-same-school-as-us," Chelsea says, "how about you go sit over there, and leave us alone. We're waiting for someone." "Who?" Your heart hammers in your chest. "A hot guy." Who totally isn't you, is the not-so-buried subtext. You flush, and almost trip over your feet as you stalk back to your booth. As you brush past the other table, Jack leans backward to pat your arm. "Way to go, man," he tells you with a grin. "Don't let anyone say you don't got balls!" But you jerk away and throw yourself into the booth, to bury your face in your hands. After a few minutes, when you're sure that you won't actually burst into tears, you gather up your stuff and trudge out. * * * * * You spend the rest of the evening curled up on your bed, paralyzed with shame and horror. You rouse yourself enough to send off DMs to Meryl_Elle, Laura Mac, and the rest of the crew, asking why they never showed up. You figure their replies, whatever they say, will be interesting. Maybe they figure the same thing too, for they never reply. You drag yourself to school the next morning, and all the way there you rehearse arguments you could give your mom and dad for why you should be withdrawn from Westside, to transfer to Eastman, or to the Christian school, or to be homeschooled, or to be sent away to another city where no one knows you. You can hardly bear the sight of the place. At least Caleb and Keith are decent to you, and continue to say nothing about that "intervention" the other day. But after a listless lunch, during which you said no more than two words and offered no more than three grunts, Keith pulls you aside. "Hey man," he says, "I don't know what's goin' on with you, but, you know, me and Hollister and them got this YouTube channel we're trying to get launched, and—" "What YouTube channel?" you ask. He blinks, then looks hurt. "The YouTube channel I been telling you about." He sighs. "The movie channel." "Oh, right," you tell him, though you'd swear this is the first you've heard about it. But you seem to have sucked away what little wind was in his sails, for he completes his thought with a churlish-sounding, "You ever wanna hang out with us, you know, you can." "Thanks," you tell him, and you do feel a small, warm stain of gratitude in your chest. Keith is one of the dumbest guys you've ever met, but at knifepoint you would have to confess that he is a sweetheart. "I just need—" You bite your lip. "I dunno what I need." "A good lay," Keith says. Then he seems to realize that was not the best joke to make. "Sorry, man," he mumbles. "It'll all get straightened out. You just gotta, you know, have, uh, faith or sumpf'n." * * * * * You feel a little better on Wednesday. You haven't heard any more from Clover Mystery or from those girls, and you don't see any of them either, not outside of class. You are starting to think that if you just keep very still, the whole stupid mess will just go away. But Wednesday evening you get a text from Caleb: Ur clover mystery person wants to c u, he says. You stare a long time at the text without replying. It's from Caleb's number, but you are feeling so scorched by texts and DMs and other whatnot that you're not sure you believe it. So you call him directly. "Dude, di you just send me a text? About—?" "Yeah, Clover Mystery. At least, that's who they say they are. I don't—" "What are they texting you for?" "Because, Will, they wanna meet you at The Flying Saucer." "That's not what I mean. Why are they texting you if— I mean, they got my number!" Boy howdy, does it seem like they got your number, if by "got your number" you mean "know how to make you feel like a confused piece of stomped-on shit." "I don't know, Will," Caleb sighs. "Are you gonna go meet them?" You hesitate. "Only if you go with me." "I don't—" "Go with me, man! If you're a friend! You know I got people"—like you, cocksucker—"telling me I got imaginary friends and shit like that! I want you there! To see, whoever it is that's—!" "It's just gonna be Rennerhoff and them. We settled this, didn't we?" "Well, that's another reason I want you going with me. That way if it is them, they won't start anything!" Caleb mutters something in the back of his throat, but relents. * * * * * The Flying Saucer doesn't look exactly like a UFO, but it does occupy a semi-circular building in the downtown district. Caleb, looking very tired and a little pissed off, is waiting for you in the parking lot. Together, you go inside. It's not as crowded as you would have expected for a coffee shop near the college to be at this time of night. Of the two dozen tables, less than half seem to be occupied. Light, New Age–type music is piping over the sound system. You and Caleb wander through the place. Most of the people look like college students, but there are a few guys in Eastman-colored letterman jackets relaxing at one large table. They're the ones making the most noise in the place, and you give them a hard look. Maybe it's Eastman people dicking around with me? you wonder, but dismiss the thought as paranoid. You don't spot Rennerhoff or any of his loser friends, but you do pull up short at the sight of two familiar figures hiding in a booth next to the doors to the restrooms: Jack Li and Chelsea Cooper. You grab Caleb by the arm and jerk your chin at them. He frowns at them, then frowns at you. You find you don't know what to say, and shrug. "Those are the only guys here I know," you mutter. "You see anyone else it could be?" "This is a wild goose chase, Will," he replies. "Or maybe they're not here yet." "Or maybe they're not here yet," he agrees with a sigh. "So I guess we find a spot and watch the door?" "You find us a table," you say. "I'll get us some coffee." "Are you paying for mine?" he asks. "'Cos I don't got the money—" "Whatever." You're waiting for the barista to bring you two regular coffees when you feel someone brush your back. You glance back and do a hard double-take. It's Chelsea Cooper. "Get rid of your friend, then wait for me to get rid of Jack," she murmurs at you. "Then come over to my booth. I want to talk to you." * To talk to Chelsea: "Coffee with Chelsea Cooper" * To leave the coffeeshop: "Forage and Storage" |
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