%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Private Party in the Portables"  "I want to know about Clover Mystery," you tell Chelsea. "Oh, Will," she groans. "No, I'm serious." You try to pry her off of you, but you don't put that much effort into it, so she continues to cling to your shirt. "Is she sending me DMs on x2z? Like, is she pretending to be other girls?" Chelsea peers up at you. "What? Like who—? What?" "Elle Moore. Leah Simmons. Laura MacGregor." Chelsea titters. "Are those the girls you—?" "Is Clover Mystery DMing me from some of those girls' accounts? Pretending to be them?" Chelsea blinks hard. "I don't know. I'd have to ask." She sucks on her lower lip, then says, "Should I be jealous of her? Is she catfishing you, do you think?" "I don't know what she's doing. That's why I'm asking—" "Pah!" Chelsea unhooks herself from your shirt and turns her back on you. "I'm starting to think you don't like me!" No, it's not that. You're just confused as fuck. And among the things you're confused by— "You were talking to Jack at the coffee shop the other night, before we talked." "So?" She glances back at you, from under drooping eyelashes. "You were talking to him about joining the cheerleader squad." "Yeah? Oh, you talked to him?" "But when you talked to him today, you told him you didn't know what he was talking about." She frowns. "When did I—? Oh, that." She shrugs. "It wasn't something I wanted to talk about just then." "On account of Kendra and Gloria?" Chelsea's eyes narrow. "Yes. You talked to Jack about all this?" "Yeah, and he's really pissed off. Because he thought you were—" "Will." Chelsea whirls around and grabs your hands, "this isn't what I want to talk about. I want to talk about you and me and—" "Are you breaking up with Gordon?" You jerk away from her. She gasps. "No! That would be— It wouldn't be good for your health, Will, if, you know, we— And you shouldn't talk to me, you know, in school," she stammers. "Only when we're alone, like—" Catfished, you think. The word has been bothering you ever since Chelsea dropped it into the conversation. She's setting me up for something. No fucking way Chelsea is into me. Terror overwhelms you, and you bolt for the door. "Will!" Chelsea calls after as you run out into the night. "Where are you—? Will!" * * * * * She texts you all night, from Clover Mystery's phone, begging you to pick up and talk. After a dozen such texts you lose patience and tell her to call you from her own phone, if she's so hot to talk. She says she can't, that she can't risk Gordon finding your name in her call list. And even after you repeat your demand, she refuses. You finally turn off your phone. It's a restless night you pass, and you're exhausted and tetchy the next day at school. A couple of times you spot Chelsea in the hallway, but she is always turned away from you, which is probably good, because she might get scorched by your glare if she locked eyes with you. Neither does she send you any texts. Caleb and Keith treat you like a porcupine with a toothache, and talk only to each other at lunch. Late that afternoon, you get a text from Jack, asking if you talked to Chelsea. You give him only a very bare reply, that Chelsea confirmed she didn't want to talk about the squad in front of Kendra and Gloria. Then you get a text from Chelsea, from the Clover Mystery number. She wants to meet up with you tonight. At the school, again. At the portables. Second verse, same as the first? you wonder, and you don't know whether to hope that it will be. But you shoot her a text telling her you'll make the meeting. * * * * * It's Friday night, so there's something extra creepy about being up on the school campus. Bad enough coming up on a weeknight, you think as for the second night in a row you trudge past the dark school toward the darker portables. But on a Friday night or a weeknight? That's just wrong in every way! You go straight to the portable you met in last night, and knock on the door before entering. Chelsea is sitting behind a desk, reading her phone. It's almost impossible to read her expression in the dim light cast by her cell phone. But it looks like she's frowning. "Hey," you say. "Hey," she replies. "Thanks for coming out." You sigh. You couldn't come up with any ideas about what to say to her, which sucks, because after a long moment of silence, you decide that she's waiting for you to make the first move. "Okay, I'm sorry I ran out on you last night," you start. "But I just—" "No, I'm sorry for throwing all that stuff at you." Her tone is cool but not unfriendly. "I was in a funny mood. Me and Gordon have been fighting. You probably don't know that." "No, I didn't. I'm sorry." "Well, I wasn't drunk. I want you to know that much, at least. But, you know—" She sniffs hard, and touches a fingertip to one eye. Jesus! you think. She's not gonna start crying, is she? "You were really sweet the other night, when we talked, at the coffee shop, and that's not something I can really say about Gordon," she gasps. "So, yeah, I just kind of threw myself at you. I shouldn't blame you for freaking out." You twist on your feet and look up at the shadow-eaten ceiling. "And it can't really— It wouldn't really work between us," Chelsea continues. "On account of Gordon. Regardless. But you are really sweet, Will, and— You're between girlfriends, right?" "Well, I hope I'm between them," you reply. "I don't have one now but I hope another one'll come along." She doesn't laugh at the hollow jest. "Well, you should keep your eyes open," she says. "And if a good one comes along, if a likely one comes along— What I'm saying is—" Your guts start squirming. It's pretty obvious now that she's about to burst into tears. "Give the next girl a better chance than you gave me!" Chelsea exclaims in a heaving sob. Oh, jeez, you think. But you're not made of stone, and when she comes out from behind the desk, you put your arms out to give her a hug. She squeezes you tightly, then shifts to put a hand to the back of your head. You are overwhelmed by what feels like the onset of an ice cream headache, and fall into a spinning vortex of darkness. * * * * * There's a cold, hard floor beneath you when you wake, but that is the only thing you are certain of when next you open your eyes. It is pitch black. But the equation "rotten smell = old portables" doesn't click into place until after you sink back into the last thing you remember: walking out behind the school to the old portables, where Chelsea (unaccountably) asked you to meet. You stood around for a minute, then texted her to say you'd arrived. A door creaked open, and a small figure beckoned you over. After a short, brusque greeting, you stepped past her into the dark portable. She closed the door, and then you felt her putting one arm around you while putting her hand onto the back of your head. Which was so weird you almost threw up on her. And then— Well, after then came now. You sit up, and suffer a brief dizzy spell. When it clears, you are hammered simultaneously by two thoughts. The first runs something like this: Sure, I remember coming out here to talk to Chelsea and her pulling me into a portable, but I also remember walking into a portable and talking to her while she was sitting in a desk. How the fuck is it I remember it two totally different ways? The second thought is, Holy shit, I'm naked! You scramble around, feeling at the floor, but find it dirty and bare. You get to your feet and peer about, but there isn't even a hint of light behind the dirty panes of the portable. Cautiously you feel about, sliding your bare feet across the floor, until you hit the old teacher's desk. Oddly, you were expecting to find it because you saw it here last night, even though you are pretty sure you've never been inside this portable before. You pat at its surface, and touch something soft. Clothes. Your frown turns into a grimace of relief. You feel through them until you touch something hard and plastic, which you pick up and turn around in your hands. The screen of the iPhone turns on, and you use its light to look around. There's two sets of clothes on the desk: yours and ... also yours. The floor creaks nearby, and when you turn the light in that direction, it catches the face of a recumbent figure who is just sitting up. He blinks at you. And he looks just like you. Next: "Hijack!" |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
