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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Who Wants to Be a Star?"  A hot-air balloon is slowly swelling over the athletic fields as you and Blake return to the student parking lot. You can't help staring at it. It was a hot air balloon that carried the original wizard to Oz, if you remember right. But this balloon can't go to Oz. Nor will it be carrying any wizards. You're a wizard, though, of a sort. And though it's a mask, not a pair of ruby slippers, that you're carrying in the plastic grocery sack, it will take you farther than any hot air balloon could. And the mask, unlike the ruby slippers, won't be bringing you home again, either. It will be taking you far away. The thought makes you sweaty all over. Frightened, too. But though you have a chance to see your family again before you go, you're more afraid of chickening out if you go home. So after parting with Sydney, you drive straight over to the old elementary school. Paul Griffin's blue Mustang is already parked in front of the basement door when you arrive. Your doppelganger, in Paul Griffin's clothes, is slouching against its hood. "This's a sweet car," he calls out as you hop from your truck. "Fast, too." "You could'a gotten a ticket," you growl. "You sounded just like dad when you said that," your twin retorts. "So whose mom is it drives a car like this and wears clothes like this? She seems pretty butch." He's asking, of course, because he doesn't have memories that include seeing the actor. "Let's get you changed," you reply. It's super-weird talking to a copy of yourself, and it's all the worse because it's very awkward knowing that you're basically going to be abandoning him to the life that you don't want anymore. It leaves you feeling itchy with guilt. Not even when you try bucking yourself up with that cowardly old standby—Better him than me—do you feel good. Down in the basement you order your other self to pull off the clothes, which are actually too short for him, and he gasps with audible relief when he pulls the boots off. You disrobe as well, and give him your old clothes. He's just tying his shoes when Sydney—restored to her own face—peeks in at the top of the stairs. "Hey, are you decent?" she calls. You don't know how to answer that. So after giving you a look, your duplicate answers for you. "Yeah, come on down! It'll be twice as good as it usually is!" You make a face at him. Sydney comes down the stairs. She gives your double a look before turning to you. "What's the hold up?" she asks. "I wanna see—" "Just waiting to send this guy home," you mutter back. Your heart is beating hard. "Go home," you tell him once he's got his shoes on. He snaps off a salute. "Gonna hear from you soon?" he asks. "I'll let you know." Your voice is very weak. He gives you a querying look, then trudges up the stairs. From the top, after a fractional hesitation, he calls back, "Hope you're gonna have more fun than me!" Then he goes. Would that he took with him the stake that it feels like he drove through your heart with those parting words. "You okay, Will?" Sydney quietly asks. "Yeah, I'm fine." You look down at the bundle of clothes—Paul Griffin's clothes—that you are clutching to your naked crotch. "No you aren't," Sydney says. She strokes your arm. "What is it?" "I told you, I'm fine." "It'll be better if you told me instead of making me say it out loud for you." That catches your attention. She is very grave, but sympathetic. "You're growing up," she says. "All at once." You wince. "I'm sorry, Will." She puts her arms around you. The clothes you're clutching get in the way, so it's an awkward embrace. "You look like someone dropped a kitchen sink on your head." "It feels like they did," you confess. "I'm not even gonna say good-bye to my folks." "You shouldn't," she agrees. "Best to cut it all off quick." "Is that what you're going to do?" Sydney doesn't answer right away, and her eyes are downcast. "I didn't have to chance to say goodbye to my dad," she finally says. "I didn't have a chance to know that he was even going away." "I'm sorry." The reminder of how much worse she's had it makes you cringe at your own self-pity. "For what? I'm actually jealous. I didn't have to think about whether to say goodbye." "Yeah but—" But what? You let it drop. "Are you going to say goodbye to your mom?" She hesitates. "Not in so many words," she replies. "It's not going to be easy, but it won't be as hard as it is for you. My mom and I— Well, since she married Nicholas," she stammers, "we haven't had too much to say to each other." You know she's been trying to make you feel better, but now you feel altogether wretched. Sydney seems to sense this, for she releases you with a slap to your arm. "Come on," she says. "Get changed. For all you know, you have to catch a private jet back to Hollywood tonight for a movie premiere." She smiles. She's trying to look wicked and sensual, you can tell. You smile crookedly back, and hope that your grin is more convincing. * * * * * You are cold and confused when you wake, and you squint at a ceiling cobwebbed with shadows. You frown and blink at it, and sit up to look around in alarm. The place looks familiar, you know you've seen it before, you've been here before, but— Ooooooohhhhhh! The coming of the memories is like being hammered with an anvil. You close your eyes and hunch your shoulders. My name is Paul Griffin. Paul Samuel Griffin, to be exact. And I'm in the basement of the old elementary school in Acheson, where me and Sydney McGlynn hang out working on occult devices. And I know all that because I am really Will Prescott—William Martin Prescott, to be exact—and I am a student at my old high school back in Saratoga Falls, where I graduated almost fifteen years ago. You raise your head, your mouth twisted into a hard frown. Oh, to be in high school again, you think with a stab of longing. To be in high school again and to have a chance to do it all again. And this time, to do it right. The thought, of course, surprises you, and sit very still for several very minutes, blinking into the darkness and dazedly picking at a collection of mental scabs. Oh, you dumb kid, you chide yourself as you remember the early mornings and the late evenings and the long periods of boredom on set during the downtimes in between. Did you really think it'll be all parties and premieres and hanging out with Brad Pitt and reading from a pile scripts when you're not nailing some hot starlet you picked up one afternoon over at George Clooney's place? When mostly it's trying not to get conked on the head when the grips are moving the lights around. And that's when you actually have work and aren't scrambling to auditions when you're lucky enough to have one to go to. You glance at the pile of clothes—the jeans and v-neck t-shirt and bomber jacket and boots. Yeah, they look good and they make me feel good. But by now they're practically a uniform. Oh, look, another actor! is what they scream in southern California. Like you might say, Oh, look, another fast food worker, when you spot someone in a paper McDonald's hat ... You're just pulling on the jacket when the door to the basement opens and Sydney looks in. "Are you decent again?" "Yeah, why'd you leave me alone down here?" you shoot back. "A guy gets lonesome!" You cringe at the cheesy, oft-used line. But you do wonder why she didn't stick around after you'd laid back to put on the mask. "Come up here so I can get a look at you in the light!" You've already got your boots on, so you oblige. In three shakes of a lamb's tail you're halfway up the stairs. The skinny teenager inside you marvels at how quick a trained, buff guy like Paul Griffin can move. You surprise Sydney too. She backs out of the door with a squawk. You pause inside the doorway to grin at her. She can't help grinning back, but her expression is wary. "What are you looking at me like that for, Will?" she asks. "Oh, you wicked, wicked girl," you growl back at her. "You wicked thing! We used to put down girls like you on the show every episode. Put them down like bitches! Then, after shooting wrapped—" You advance two steps, and lower your head to charge. "We'd go down on the—" Sydney squawks and scampers around to the far side of her SUV. You chase, and she tries putting your Mustang between you. Bad move! You grin at her, giving her just enough time to read your thought. Then you vault the hood and have a brawny arm around her before she can flee again. "Will, I—!" You shut her up by taking her lower lip between your teeth. Gently, you squeeze it. Sydney stiffens, shivers ... then melts inside your arms. You put your mouth to her ear. "That's an appetizer," you murmur. You drop a hand to lightly squeeze her ass. It's hard but yielding. "When I get you good and alone—" "You got a text on your phone," Sydney squeals. "I took it with me when I came up in case something important came through, and you got a text from Carmen Oliver?" Her voice has gone all breathy. Your spirits—pumped like a stallion a moment ago—collapse. Carmen Oliver. "Morticia Addams" from up at the school. Now you know what that was all about. It was about her daughter, Becky. Your daughter. No wonder Paul Griffin might fantasize about doing his life all over again. Next: "It's the Pictures That Got Small" |
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