%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Becoming Alexis"  Fragile. That's what Chelsea called you just before you drove off. Funny that she picked up on it so fast. At least she didn't call you "morbid," you reflect, and you grip the steering wheel as you think it. But Alexis is apparently pretty good at pushing that thought down to where it's not obvious on her face or in her eyes. The thought that she might fall over from a fatal heart attack at any moment. It'll be alright, her parents have assured her since she was old enough to understand, and she believes them. We have to trust the doctors. (But Alexis isn't sure she trusts them.) They say you'll be okay. It's not a bad problem, and we can wait until you're older before we do something about it. The problem is a congenital heart defect: a hole in her heart that lets the blood from different chambers mix together. The defect is not so grievous that Alexis's heart is a ticking time bomb, and the doctors have warned that the risks of surgery likely outweigh the risks of leaving it untreated, at least until she is an adult. But Alexis is also a high-strung girl who tends to fixate on things, like the number of seconds that pass until a light turns green. (Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen; you're counting them out even now as you sit at the intersection of Twentieth and Boyle.) Even when she was a little girl people commented that she seemed nervous; later on, phrases like "high maintenance" tended to get stuck onto her. Maybe she's also a little OCD. So she can hardly fail to fixate on her heart condition. Even now you feel the tug of the familiar maelstrom. Thinking of your heart condition makes you nervous, which can't be good for your heart, which makes you even more nervous. But when Alexis does put it out of her mind, she gets excited and even a little shrill; and when she catches herself in these moods she yanks the reins back hard. Yes, "fragile" is a good word to describe a girl who fears she could shatter at any moment, and who spends most of her life inspecting herself all over for hairline cracks. * * * * * It's instinct, not a plan, that leads you to call Erin Hale while you're at the Taco Bell drive-through window, waiting for the two dozen regular tacos, two dozen taco supremes, two dozen burritos and dozen chalupas you ordered. It's like your palm was itching and the phone was a salve. "Hey there, yeah," you chirp when Erin picks up, and the words just seem to form themselves. "I just got away from Chelsea! Oh my God, that girl can talk!" "So what did she want?" Erin squeals. "I was asking Michelle if she knew, but she was only, like—" Shit. Too late you realize what you've let yourself in for by calling Erin. "Oh. My. God!" you pant. "She—!" Then your throat closes, for what can you say? Not the truth, obviously! So why did Chelsea Cooper want you to come out to her house to talk? But it's like your brain has seized up—a not uncommon feeling for Alexis to have—and nothing comes. "I don't think I can tell you, you know?" you finally gasp out. "You'd have to swear, like, total secrecy! 'Cos she swore me to total secrecy." "Get out! What is it? Is it the squad?" You can practically picture Erin bouncing on her bed with excitement. "Did she want to talk to you about the squad?" "Oh, dammit, you dragged it out of me!" You laugh, almost hysterically, with relief, for Erin has invented the perfect answer. "I can't say anything, really, I can't! Because she swore me—! Anyway, it's not news, it's just something she, uh, wanted to ask me about?" You feel like you're about to faint from the stress of inventing plausible half-stories. "Come on! You can tell me! I swear, I swear, Alix, I won't tell anyone!" "Not even Sabrina?" "God! You wouldn't tell Sabrina, would you, Alix? If you didn't tell me?" "If I told one of you I'd have to tell you both!" You start taking bags from the clerk, and the stress of doing that while talking almost overwhelms you. "And then we'd have to tell Rebecca and Tanya, or one of you would have to, because—" "It's about them! Is it about them?" Erin shrieks. "Was she asking about them for the cheerleader squad?" "I can't tell you! I'm in the car and I'm about to head home!" You feel like you're about to start crying. "Just don't tell anyone anything! I don't want anyone getting anyone's hopes up!" "Hopes?" Erin shrieks. "Someone's got hopes?" "I have to go, Erin! I was just killing time—" The car behind you honks, and your heart punches the back of your breastbone as you release the brake and slide forward toward the street. "You're going to tell me something, Alix Lachance! But wait, before you hang up! Julian and I are at the store. What do you want us to get for drinks?" "Whatever! I've got my own juice at home, whatever you guys want, I trust you. Just not with what I talked to Chelsea about!" You shut off the phone and throw it into the passenger seat. A car honks and you almost drive up onto the sidewalk with panic. Not until you're stopped at a light do you have the presence of mind just to tell yourself to relax. Jesus, you reflect as your heart tries punching it's way out of your chest. Even without the heart defect, it's like Alexis is a heart attack waiting to happen. * * * * * But you're much calmer by the time you get to your new home. Erin has, more or less, made up a story that you can tell her, and you rehearse it in your head in the kitchen while loading the food onto platters and sliding it into the oven to keep warm until your guests start to arrive. Chelsea wanted to ask me about some of the girls in the junior and sophomore classes, like who the good gymnastics girls are and who would be good on the cheerleading squad, because— Oh, but she swore me to total secrecy about why she wanted to know, and anyway I'm not sure she actually told me every— Mrs. Lachance—like her daughter a small, blonde woman—comes in. "What time are your friends going to start arriving?" she asks. "Fifteen minutes? Maybe? I got caught at someone's house so I'm running late." She scrutinizes the food bags. "Are you going to have enough?" "There's only going to be, like, eight of us, Mom! I told you, it's only going to be a little thing like—!" You cut yourself off before you can cringe. Like Kelsey Blankenship has for her friends! It was Craig Wyatt who told Alexis about Kelsey's soirees, and since Alexis worships Kelsey from afar, she just had to emulate her. But without confessing that fact! "But Erin and Sabrina are bringing some more stuff," you continue. "Roman said he might bring some stuff too." Your heart starts to beat again at the thought of that dark-haired hunk Roman Robey and his killer smile. Mrs. Lachance sniffs at the tacos with disdain. "Maybe next time you could get something from Canopies. You know, they have a line of frozen gourmet Mexican food—" "Mom, this is what Roman and them wanted!" "I'm just saying maybe next time you could get this for them, and for you—" "I'll think about it! Okay? I have to get changed!" Inwardly, you think, Frozen? Are you serious, Mom? Really, what's the point of getting something gourmet if it's frozen? Even if it's from Canopies? Not that you'll be able to stomach anything from Taco Bell. You're relieved to dash upstairs and get away from the stench of the Mexican fast food. You've got your own brain still, and it loves Taco Bell. But apparently you've also got Alexis's palate and digestion, and both of them are quivering with horror at what you just slid into the oven. You also marvel at how intuitively you were able to act Alexis's part without even thinking about it. At least, you sure felt like you were in character! In your bedroom—which is done up in creams and lavenders—you quickly pull off your school clothes and change into fresh jeans and a pale, pink t-shirt. After fussing with your hair a little (even while telling yourself it doesn't matter; this is just a get-together amongst friends) you decide you need more than just a t-shirt. After trying on an old flannel shirt and then a denim work shirt, you don a baby blue pullover sweater that you feel has just the right touch of casual class. Like you're relaxed for the evening, but still looking good. You put in your two smallest earrings and wrap a couple of small, silver chains about your left wrist. Oh God! you think as you study yourself in the mirror. Is it too much? Are they going to think I'm too dressed up? What's Roman going to think? Oh God, what if he doesn't even notice? Would that be worse than if he did? You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. Focus, Will! You're not this girl. You don't have to freak out like her when it's just you! Besides, it's bad for your—her—heart. Jesus, how big of a disaster would it be if you had Alexis's heart attack while pretending to be her? You take a deep breath, and you look much calmer when you look at yourself in the mirror again. Except for the eyes. You can't do anything about them. And when you smile, it looks very, very brittle. There's a rumble from outside, and when you look out into the driveway your heart starts hammering again. A black Ford pickup truck—bigger and manlier than Will Prescott would dare drive—is growling there. It gives one short roar, then shuts off. The doors open, and three tall guys clamber out. Justin Lovejoy. James Randolph. And from behind the wheel, Roman Robey. You groan. Maybe even worse than a heart attack: you'll have to deal with Alexis's crushes! Next: "Alexis's Gang" |
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
