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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Jack's Story"  You don't call Chelsea direct, but you do send her a text asking for a chance to talk. As you wait for her reply, you and Jack talk a little more, but he seems distracted, and you definitely feel distracted. Eventually, you both fall silent, and soon Jack checks his phone and tells you he has to go. "You'll keep me posted on what you hear from Chelsea, right?" he says. "You got my number?" "Yeah, you're on my list. And, uh, I'll ask her about the thing with you." His expression tightens, but he nods. You can stand waiting for only a few more minutes after he's gone, and then you're out the door too. * * * * * It's after dinner that you find the reply from Chelsea on your phone—it came in while you were eating. She says you can call her after seven, which it now is. "Hi, Will," she chirps when she picks up. "What's going on? Did you eat yet?" "I just got through. You?" You have a hard time speaking around the lump in your throat. "Yeah, I'm all done. I'm alone, too. I had to get rid of Gordon." She titters. Your breath is coming in short gasps, and there's a gargle in your voice when you ask, "Is that why you gave me this number?" There's a pause. "What do you mean?" "Is this really your number?" Another hypothesis pops into your head. "Is this someone else's phone, and you're borrowing it?" Another pause, and then she sighs. "Yes, you got me," she says. "A three-pointer, too. Basketball humor," she adds. "I get so sick of it, but I hear it all the—" "Whose phone are you borrowing?" She has gotten very cagey, for there's another lengthy pause. "Why?" "Because it belongs to someone named 'Clover Mystery'. Do you know anyone named 'Clover Mystery'?" "Oh, God, no!" She laughs. "What kind of a name is that?" "So whose phone is it?" Your heart is hammering in your chest. Another pause. "I don't think I should tell you," she says. "Why not?" "Beg," she says. "Say 'Pretty please'. Sit up and say—" "Don't!" you snap. "Just ... don't. Okay? I don't—! I got a lot of shit from that person! From 'Clover Mystery'!" "What's wrong, Will?" All of a sudden, Chelsea sounds concerned. "Just ... who is it?" "I seriously don't think I should tell you. Yeah, this isn't my phone, I just borrow it sometimes to— And if I tell you whose—" She breaks off, and for a moment the only sound is of heavy breathing. "What's wrong, Will? You say she—? What did she do to you?" "I got some texts from her. And some other shit. It's hard to explain. I'd have to—" "We can meet," Chelsea says. "Up at the school," she adds. "Thirty minutes?" You gulp and agree. "Oh, and Will," she says, "if you get a text from me— From 'Clover', I mean— It's me. I'll be using her phone." * * * * * The sun has long since set when you get up to the school, and it and and all its grounds are swallowed in darkness. Gordon's VW Bug is parked next to the gym, and that gives you a bad turn. Has Gordon intercepted Chelsea? Or did she bring him out here? Chelsea sends a text while you're waiting in your truck, telling you that she is behind the school, near the portables. That wouldn't be a surprising meeting spot during the day. But at night, when the campus is deserted? You text back that you'll be there in five, and hop out of your truck. There is something very spooky about the school grounds now, when it is dark. It is only early October, so it isn't Halloweeny, exactly, but there is a whistle in the wind and a rustle in the grass as you trudge around the back of the school, between the empty tennis courts and the deserted athletic fields. The classroom windows are blank and blind, and your mind can't help dwelling on the black, empty hollows behind them. Row upon silent row of metal lockers, like small tombs, and the fading bustle of the school day dying into silence. The portables are even worse: rotting, listing buildings the size of small tractor trailers, hunching in the nighttime. They smell of mildew and old wood even on the outside. On the inside, it is all too easy to imagine, would be bugs and snakes and rats. You trudge into the open-ended courtyard formed by the encompassing wings of the portables' U-shaped arrangement, and come to a stop, looking around. There's no one in sight. You've taken out your phone and are typing a text when you hear a creak, followed by a soft voice. "Will! Over here!" You look up. The door to one of the portables has opened, and a white figure is beckoning you. You edge over—your feet don't want to work—and the foggy figure resolves itself into the shape of Chelsea Cooper. "In here," she urges you, and steps back into the darkness. "Why?" you ask. "In case someone comes!" "Gordon?" A pause. "Is he here?" "I saw his car next to the gym." Another pause. "Dammit. Yes. Get in here!" The lure of Chelsea Cooper is stronger than the repulsion of imaginary reptiles and rodents, so you lurch up the wooden steps into the portable. Chelsea steps back inside, and closes the door behind you. A stifling darkness swallows you. Then a soft rectangle of light blinks on. Chelsea sets her cell phone face up on a desk, and she becomes visible in the grayish light, though just barely. "Hi Will," she says, and she sounds out of breath. "So you wanted to talk to me?" Her face is in shadow, but you can see a soft glint in her eye, and her mouth is curled up into an open smile. She's wobbling on her feet, and you have the impression that she's balancing on her toes, and might topple forward into you. Is she drunk? you find yourself wondering. "Uh, yeah," you say. "I wanted to talk to you about ... um ... Clover Mystery? We were talking about—" "I can't tell you who she is. Not for real." "She's a friend of yours?" "Sure," Chelsea says, and her breath is coming in quicker gulps. "I don't guess there's any, um, harm in telling you that." Maybe it's Kendra, you think. Kendra Saunders is a nasty piece of work, you've heard. "Because she was sending me texts—" "Oh, I don't want to hear about texts," Chelsea groans. "I want to—" She doesn't finish her sentence. Instead, she goes up on tiptoes, and—as you had weirdly anticipated—falls forward against you, bumping you lightly. She giggles and straightens up again. You go stiff all over, but you manage to croak at a single noise: "Um." She giggles, goes up on her toes, and falls against you again, bumping you back against a wall. "Are you okay?" you ask her. "I'm great," she says. "How are you?" Again, she falls against you, but this time she throws her arms around you to catch herself, and presses her face into your neck and shoulder. She lifts her chin and peers up at you. "Will?" she says. "Yeah?" You feel like you're about to faint. "Hold me." So you put your arms under her pits and try lifting her up. "No, not like that!" she exclaims. "Like—!" Her lips are suddenly at yours. They are soft, tender, and her breath wafts over your mouth and around your nose. Your heart nearly bursts, and your brain feels frozen, but you gently pinch one of her lips between yours, and gently suck. She crushes you in an embrace, and wraps one leg around your waist. "Oh, God, Will," she groans. "This is it, isn't it? No more fucking around, this is it!" * * * * * "Oh, god, that was everything I wanted," she murmurs afterward, when she's laying back on the teacher's desk. She's naked from the waist down, for she let you finger-bang you, then sucked on your fingers. She is pointing a bare leg at the ceiling as you zip yourself up inside your pants, for after the finger-bang she gave you a blow job. (Which was nice, but which you were too freaked out by to properly enjoy.) "Gordon just grabs me when he wants sex," Chelsea goes on. "And it gets boring. I wanted something dangerous, and new." Your heart was already sinking before she spoke those words, and it sinks further. "So this isn't going to be a regular thing, is it?" you say. She looks over at you, then sits up and jumps off the desk. "It can't be," she says as she embraces you. "You can't even talk to me at school. My psycho boyfriend, you know. We can't even look at each other. But I can help you out." "Help me how?" By getting me off every day after school? you think with a gulp. She hangs off the front of your shirt. "I can get, um, Clover to leave you alone. And I can get you a girl. Some other girl. For you. I know who, too. A girl who'll share you with me." She giggles. "Who'll cover for us." You're seized by vertigo: She can't be serious. But you can think of one way to test her sincerity. Next: "The Breaking Point" |
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