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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Master Planner"  "I'm sorry Mrs. Garner!" you exclaim as you leap back. "I wasn't watching where I was going and—" "Oh, Chelsea, don't worry about it," Mrs. Garner interrupts you with a warm smile. "I was in a bit of a rush myself so I'm sure I could've been paying better attention to my own surroundings. How are you enjoying the evening, by the way?" "I'm really enjoying myself, thanks!" you chirp. "Well, it's nice to see. I don't think you've been around since the beginning of the school year." "You know how it is," you say with a bit of a forlorn edge to your voice. "Our schedules rarely line up. I didn't really expect that we'd be so busy as seniors." Mrs. Garner offers you a sympathetic look. "It can be tough but I do hope we're able to see you a little more," she states before laughing. "Oh look at me, getting wistful and holding you up. You should be downstairs with the other girls." "Actually, before you go," you say, and snatch at Mrs. Garner's elbow before she can turn away, "I have a question about something in your bathroom?" You hate the way your voice goes up in a questioning lilt at the end. It makes it sound like you're improvising a line of shit. (Which, to be fair, is exactly what you are doing.) "Um, it's about the tile?" "Yes?" If Mrs. Garner is puzzled by your question, she doesn't show it. "Well, I'm talking with my mom about redoing my bathroom at home, and I was wondering if—" Gently but persistently you pull your hostess into the bathroom. "Um, I like the pattern on your tile, and I was wondering if you could tell me, um—" You point to the floor with one hand, while with the other you dip into your purse to finger one of the mind-copying strips you are carrying there. "I really can't tell you anything about the tile, Chelsea," Mrs. Garner says. "It was here when we bought the house." "Oh. Well, I was giving it a closer look a minute ago, and—" You sink onto your knees and trace a finger over one of the tiles. It's plain white, with no design that you can see. But you pretend to trace loops and whorls and spirals with your fingertip. "I'm trying to see if there's a pattern," you say, "and I was wondering if it's actually there or—" With beating heart you wait for Mrs. Garner to join you on the floor. But she doesn't kneel beside you, but only looks down at you with an amused but puzzled smile. "Oh, well," you say, and with a reddening face you get back onto your feet. "I guess it isn't important." "Well, I like I say," says your hostess, "it was already installed when we bought the house. Now, if you wanted to know about the deck out back—!" She laughs. You return her smile with a tight grimace of your own. Stupid cow. Why couldn't she play along? you fume to yourself. So when she turns toward the door, you spring on her with a Fuck it! You reach around her from behind and slap the metal band onto her forehead. She stumbles and falls against the door with a bang, and drags you down as you grab onto her. You wallow on the floor, your limbs tangled up with hers. Oh Jesus, I am so dumb! you chide yourself as you haul yourself back to your feet. Your heart is trying to explode from your chest, and you break out all over in a sweat as you put your head into the hall. Thank God it's empty. You turn back and shove the unconscious woman into the bathroom, then close and lock the door behind you. You slide to the floor (of unpatterned tile!) and try to catch your runaway breath and runaway heart. It's ten minutes before the strip reappears on her forehead, and then you have to put the mask onto her. So you have nearly half an hour to contemplate the face and form of Mrs. Garner. And every thought during that time is some variation on God, what a MILF! It's easy to see where Eva and Jessica get their looks, and to guess where they and their brother, Marc, get at least some of their athleticism. Subtract twenty to twenty-five years from her current age, and Mrs. Garner would fit right in on the cheerleading squad or the girls' varsity soccer team. She's blonde, like her kids, and she wears her hair long, like Jessica—a mop of loose, golden curls spills over the bathroom floor. She has slate-blue eyes, which are open and staring, and pink lips. Has she had work done? You can't be sure one way or the other, but she has very strong cheekbones that give her face a slightly gopher-ish cast. Her boobs are very large, too, and you have to fight the temptation to pull the top of her dress down and pop them out for comparison with the pair that you're wearing. She has wide, bowl-like hips and strong thighs and calves. As for her waist— Well, she's got curves in the right places, but that's mostly because her bust and hips are so wide. In fact, you can't shake the suspicion that she might be cinched up inside a corset or waist trainer. Still, she looks healthy, and judging by her legs she probably hits the gym a couple of times a week. You hope that you look good when you're that age! (And, inwardly, you wince a little at the thought. Do you really plan on being Chelsea Cooper for the next twenty years? If not, when will you move out or back to being yourself?) Nearly thirty minutes have passed—and you've heard a half-dozen footsteps pass the bathroom door—before the stuff has finished copying Mrs. Garner and you've got your magical gear packed away again. You would love nothing more than to run away, but you steel yourself to see things through to the other side. You chafe Mrs. Garner back to conscious and squeak sympathetically at her when she wakes to a woozy consciousness: "Oh my goodness! You did a real headbanger into that towel rack!" you tell her. (Okay, it's hardly believable, but it's the best you can come up with.) Mrs. Garner has a sour and confused expression as you help her up, but she doesn't argue with you, and she doesn't accuse you of anything either. She just gingerly explores her scalp with her fingertips and wonders at not finding a bruise or a cut. "Well, I don't think it hurt you," you try comforting her. "Just gave you a little tap that was a little too hard!" "Uh huh," she says. "Maybe I should go sit down someplace for a little while." You don't want to give her a chance to start questioning you, so after seeing her off into the hallway, you gather your stuff to make a quick getaway. But as you turn back into the hallway, you glance down and see the corner of a bedroom through a half-open door. Prompted by some sixth sense, you creep down to peep inside. Judging by the decor, you guess it to be the master bedroom. And as you glance around you find yourself asking, If I was Mrs. Garner's billfold, where would I be? * * * * * "Score, man!" Caleb exclaims. "Eva and Jessica's mom and her ATM card! Now we don't have to use Kirk's! Oh, by the way, how are you going to get it back to her?" You give him a withering look. "Jesus, man! Can't you say something nice without immediately shitting all over it?" It's Saturday morning, and you're meeting with Caleb at the elementary school. It surprises you that he's actually happy with you for once for something that you've done with the magical gear—it seems like every other time you've done something with it, he's yelled at you. So it pisses you off that he won't give you more than three seconds of good will before immediately asking how you're going to get out of the hole you dug yourself. Maybe it's because his question has been bothering you too. You've got Mrs. Garner's ATM card—how are you going to get it back to her without her missing it? But Caleb shrugs your retort off. "We'll think of something," he says with a careless twitch of his shoulders. "The important thing is that we get the cash out of her account before she notices the card's gone." He picks up the mask with one hand, and the metal band with the other. (JULIE ELAINE MCCLOSKEY GARNER; that's the name that floats above the surface of the metal.) "You tried either of them on?" "No! Like I want my mom busting in and finding Eva and Jessica's mom in my bedroom!" Caleb shoots you a shrewd glance. "Whose mom, Will? Or should I say, Whose mom, Chelsea?" You make a face at him. "But you had to get close to her to get these," he continues. "So tell me, what's she like? How much did Eva and Jessica get from her? Please don't tell me it's Marc who got her looks!" "Oh, she's hot," you assure him, but you feel a twinge of jealousy as you say it. "Definitely something you'd tap." "Sweet!" Caleb runs a pale tongue over his lower lip. "You got anything for me to wear?" "Wear?" you ask. "You?" "Sure. I'm not going to the bank naked, Will! No matter how fuckable—" But you were planning to wear Mrs. Garner's mask today, first to meet up with one of the guys you suspect of stealing the weed, then to get the cash you need to do the next spell. You weren't counting on Caleb being so keen to get into the mask. Yet maybe you should let him carry the burden of getting the money from the ATM. It would keep him happy, and you could use the mask later for the other appointment. That's all for now. |
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