%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Flashback"  That evening Sydney texts you, and then she calls you so you can talk directly. You are perched on the window seat that looks down into the back yard. The Cabots live in a big, two-story house in the south-east part of town, only a block or two from where your real aunt and uncle live, in a neighborhood where the trees are old and the lots spacious. You're curled up on a quilted comforter with one shoulder pressing against the cold glass, in your socks and sweats, when your new mom comes in with some hot cocoa and two small peanut-butter cookies for you. You take them with a smile and a thanks, and suspend your conversation until she's gone and closed the door behind her. Sydney—who is still playing Riker Brown—wants to know if you really are okay. "I'm fine," you sigh. (But even alluding to it causes your ... things ... to rustle, like a dog that's heard its name dropped. You squirm to open up a little more room for them.) "I think these things hit me kind of hard, you know. It— Well, it might take me awhile to get, uh, used to this, uh, place." "There's nothing wrong with Elijah, is there?" "No, I told you. Well, no more than usual." "What's that mean?" You bite your tongue. Then you say it. "Okay, how many guys have you pretended to be so far? How many horny guys have you been?" There's a gasp on the other end, then a giggle. "Is Elijah—?" "He's going through the usual, okay? And he's kind of freaked out by it. Which means I'm kind of freaked out by it." Riker laughs. "Haven't you been through puberty yet, Will? Judging by your whiskers—" "Yes! But going through it again is—!" That was when your mom came in with the cookies. Which was a relief, because when you mentioned that to Sydney, it jumped her train of thought off the previous tracks. "If I came out there tonight, do you think you could get her for me?" "No." "Why not?" "It's a bad idea. My dad's home, for a start." As earlier, you twitch a little at how easily the phrase my dad came tumbling from your mouth. "So we could get both of them! At the same time! Then—" "I thought we wanted to take these things slow." "But I miss you, sweetie!" Riker coos. "You've got Micah there. The whole family." "It's not the same." There's an unmistakable pout in his voice. "If I just wanted a lot of dummies— It's no fun without you here!" That's sweet of her, and you tell her that you miss her too. "We could try for something tomorrow," you tell her. Then you correct yourself. "No, Monday. My— My dad'll be at work then, you can come over and—" "What's your dad do? What's your mom do? You guys look like you're rich!" You know what she means, but Elijah is not conscious of being "rich." You report that Mrs. Cabot, as far as you know, is a homemaker, while her husband works for a book company. "What book company?" Riker's question is sharply put. "Parsons." Riker's breath sounds like a hiss. "Oh my God. Will," he says, "that's the company my dad worked for. And Nicholas works for." You'd forgotten. "Did your dad—? Does Nicholas know, uh, Thomas Cabot?" "I don't know. I'll have to find out. Oh my God, but this is— I don't know what to think, Will! I'll have to look into this," he continues. "Oh my God! I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Let's say we made plans." The line goes dead. It takes only a little thought to sort out why Sydney reacted as she did. Her father and her step-father both were members of a Brotherhood, and both of them also worked for—you have to concentrate to pull up the name, for Elijah doesn't pay that close of attention to his dad's work—Parsons Collegiate Media. Is it possible you've unwittingly infiltrated the household of another member of the established Brotherhood? It seems unlikely. But when you eat dinner it's with one eye cocked warily on your new father. * * * * * "What I don't understand," your mother is saying as she vigorously cuts herself off another bite of chicken parmesan, "is how they can't even know what the problem is. It's a simple mechanical system! And it's all laid out in front of them. If you can't see it with your own eyes—" You haven't been paying attention, so you're not sure exactly what she's rattling on about. Only that it's about a grandfather clock that your Aunt Emily had repaired, after which a new problem with the chimes began. "A frog's a purely mechanical system too," your father mildly replies. "Nobody's completely figured them out." "That's different!" your mother snaps. "Nobody designed the frog. You know what I mean!" she adds when your father opens his mouth to reply. "Anyway, it's all laid open. You can see the gears and everything else. So why in God's good name—? "Elijah!" She interrupts herself with a sharp frown in your direction. "What was that look for?" "I didn't say anything!" you protest. "I didn't accuse you of saying anything," she archly retorts. "I asked you to explain the expression on your face!" You have no idea what she's talking about. Unless you accidentally let show the boredom and irritation you feel. She gets so spun up about things these days. And when she does, she gets that brittle Yankee accent like your cousins—her nieces and nephews—have. The r's vanish from the ends of her words, so that "here" becomes "heah" and "there" becomes "they-ah!" It hits your ears like vinegar. "I was thinking about something else," you mumble. "I wasn't even listening to you." "Oh, really?" she exclaims, and inwardly you wince. "That's a fine excuse to give when—" "Apologize to your mother," your dad says. "I'm sorry," you mutter. "Hmph. Well, you're forgiven. What were you thinking about?" This is even worse than listening to her go on about that clock. "Just school." "And how is school?" "It's the same." "Deserving of a dirty look, eh? Who is it this time?" "No one!" "Elijah," your dad says. "If you're going to give me the look you meant for them," your mother says with arched eyebrows, "I would like to know who it was deserved it. Was it school, or was it your play date this afternoon?" "It wasn't anything!" She turns to your dad. "You know, I had misgivings letting him go. Dr. Moss was telling me she had those two boys in her office just the other day. For being a couple of Army brats, they don't seem to get much discipline at home." "What were they in for?" "She said—" Then she breaks off to turn back to you. "What in the world is becoming of your underthings?" A scalding fear flashes over you. "What do you mean?" you ask. You have a vision of her sorting through a pile of your cum-sodden BVDs. "They're vanishing." "Vanishing?" Your dad looks between you and her with a frown. "The last time I put laundry away I counted only half-a-dozen pairs in your dresser." "I don't need more than that anyway," you protest. "You most certainly do!" your mother exclaims. "And I bought a dozen pairs for you the last time I— Where did the other half of them go?" "They're probably up at the school. In my gym locker." "Why aren't you bringing them home?" "I forget?" "Bring them home tomorrow. Every pair." You cringe. "He's going to lose some anyway, Carolyn," your dad says. "Clothes are always getting lost in gym class." "That's what I'm wondering." Your mother turns a suspicious frown onto you. "Dr. Moss was telling me that—" * * * * * So it's with some trepidation that you approach her later that night, to ask if you can go over to the Browns again tomorrow, after church. She's in the "studio" in the back of the house, where all the family's "art" projects are executed. It's where the piano and writing desk are, and it's where she is sitting now, vigorously streaking an open sketchbook with a hunk of charcoal. She's in a much more mellow mood now. "Are the Brown twins going out for soccer again this year?" she asks when you tell her the "play date" is to talk about soccer. "I think so." "They were quite good. What did Mr. Cook have to say about them?" You shrug. Why would the soccer coach share his opinion about the other players? "Well, of course you can go over. What time? Will there be anyone else there? You know," she says, giving you a grave look, "I want you to remember how many people—how many of the other boys on the team—look up to you. You're the best player on the field, you know that?" You nod, though you find the compliment more than a little embarrassing. "You set an example." "Mm-hm." "You might set an example for those two. You know what a 'mentor' is, don't you? Well, you might think about acting as a mentor to those two boys. Show them how to comport themselves, on the field and off it. Come here." She gestures you over with a quick flick of her hand. "You have so many gifts, Elijah, so many talents." She strokes your hair. "Don't let them go to your head. But share them." Her mouth turns prim as she tugs at the seams of your jacket. "Don't let them change you." Too late! you think. * * * * * Whoa, Sydney texts later that night, when you report that tomorrow's play date is a go, and what your mom had to say about it. What kinds of crazy am I going to find inside her head? You have no answer to that. Except, maybe to suggest finding a different family to target. Next: "May We Borrow Your Mother?" |
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
