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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Confessions from Somewhere"  "Well, if you don't want to get yourself a boyfriend," Chelsea starts to say with a titter. "Let's show Alexis the masks," you blurt out. Your interruption stops Chelsea short, and she blinks. "Yeah," you continue, and your heart starts to beat hard. "We should get her out from under my mask, and we should show her the masks, and we should, like, get her involved." "Will," Chelsea squeals, "what are you talking about?" Your heart pulses in your chest and in your ears. "I'm talking about giving her a chance to have a normal life!" you exclaim. "You know, one where she doesn't have to worry about—" Instinctively, you cover your nose and mouth with your hands, and breathe deeply of the warmed air cupped there. "We should give her a chance to be someone else," you say more calmly. "To be someone who doesn't have a health issue. So she can, like, experience life without worrying about—" "No," Chelsea says, there's steel inside her sweet tones. "But—!" "No, Will, that's not part of the plan." "What plan?" She turns a little pink, and stammers. "The plan to—! What we were talking about—! This girl—!" She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and resumes with a patronizing smile. "You're letting this girl do your thinking for you, Will," she says. "You need to concentrate. The plan, remember, is to get you a girlfriend." "But if we could—!" "I'm not going to listen to any more about it, Will. If we get Alexis mixed up in this then who else will get into it? It'll just turn into a mess. Come on, get out your phone, and let's talk possibilities for you." You bite your tongue, but comply. * * * * * And so Chelsea manages to distract you. Mostly. Barely. But you don't really see the faces of Alexis's acquaintances as they flash over the screen of your phone, and you only grunt in answer to Chelsea's persistent questions. "Look, I'm just not into doing this today," you finally declare. "Not right now." You shoot Chelsea a nervous glance. "Maybe I need to get used to, uh, being here?" You expect her to yell, but instead she smiles back broadly. "Sure, maybe that's it," she says. "I guess it can be a little confusing for you. I mean—" She rubs your back while beaming into your face. "Look at you now and look at what you used to look like. If you need to take your time, take your time. The real girl's not going anyplace." True, you reflect as you drive off, and she's safe from a ... coronary incident ... as long as she's trapped under my face. It would work that way, wouldn't it? * * * * * Text messages backed up while you were talking to Chelsea, and once home you lock yourself in your bedroom to sort them out. They're the usual Saturday-morning sort of stuff from Alexis's friends: What are you doing? Who are you with? Is there a plan? You don't think you're up to dealing with them at the moment—you are feeling pretty rattled for reasons you don't quite understand—and broadcast a generic text to the effect that you're busy helping your mom with some Homeowner Association stuff and aren't free. But your finger hovers over the "Send" button before shooting that text off to Michelle. You chew on your lip, and out of the corner of your eye catch the motion reflected in the mirror behind the vanity/makeup table. You do a double-take at the girl who looks back at you from inside it. Look at you now and look at what you used to look like, is what Chelsea said. Yes, just look at you now. A small, slight girl in the junior class with a frightened light in her eye. Oh, but what have you got to be frightened off, Alix? you chide yourself, and brush a dangling strand of hair out of your face. You've got lots of great friends just dying to hang out with you, and a bunch of awesome boys to hang off of. And look at this house, and this bedroom! You've even got a credit card of your own—something that Will Prescott's dad would never trust him with. Yet it might all go in an instant, like a soap bubble popping in the sun. You fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. It's so selfish of Chelsea, to keep Alexis trapped under a mask when she could be enjoying life, for once, free of that hovering fear! You blink back sudden tears of pity. You raise your phone over your face and blink up again at Michelle's name. Wise Michelle. Sober Michelle. She's like your group's den mother. Even if you can't tell her anything, or ask her anything, you'd feel better just having her and her shoulder nearby. You erase the old text and shoot off a new one, asking if she's available for a little two-girl shopping-and-snacking expedition. I'll buy, you add, even though you know it sounds needy. * * * * * You meet her at The Shoppes at Fell's Lake, mostly because, as the most expensive retail district in the city, it's the place where you're least likely to run into any of your other friends, which would be awkward after telling them that you are busy with your mom. Then after an hour of window shopping you repair to Le Metropolitain, where Michelle lets you treat her to an artichoke heart salad that costs twenty-five dollars. You content yourself with a quinoa salad after making certain that all the ingredients are locally sourced. "So what's on your mind?" Michelle asks after you've placed your orders. "It's the first time she's alluded to any kind of "business" that you might want to talk about. You know what she's expecting: a follow-up to your talk last night about the boys. You're not sure what you want to talk to her about, though, so you answer obliquely: "Do you like playing matchmaker?" A little white spot shows in one of her cheeks. "I didn't know I was trying to play matchmaker last night," she retorts. "If that's what you're talking about." "No, no!" you stammer. "I just meant in kind of a general, um, way? You know?" You cover your mouth with your hands and drink in the warmed air. "You know, Sabrina and Rebecca accuse me of liking to play matchmaker." "Accuse?" Michelle echoes. "It's a weird thing to 'accuse' someone of." "You think so?" You feel yourself blushing with pleasure. "Because I think about some of our friends, like Tanya—" You gulp down your heart, which has begun to beat inside your throat. "You know it's kind of hard for her, with guys, on account of, you know—" You break off and start to tremble as you feel yourself dancing around the topic of Tanya's race and its implications for her dating life. There aren't very many African-Americans at Westside, and none but Tanya in your immediate social circle. "I didn't know Tanya was having any problems there." "Well—" "Because she and James seem to hit it off." "The thing is— What?" You gasp as you catch up to Michelle's words, and your jaw falls open. "James and Tanya? Our James? Is there something with— With ... them?" Michelle's expression turns shifty. "Depends on what you mean by 'something'. You didn't know about them?" You shake your head, and Michelle's expression turns pinched. "Well, they asked me to keep it quiet, but I thought maybe you knew too." "No." You grip the edge of the table. "James? And Tanya?" James, the quiet sophomore basketball player who's as blonde as a vanilla wafer and twice as white as Wonder Bread, with Tanya, the black girl? "How serious is it?" "I don't know. Tanya wants it quiet because she's not sure she's serious about him. James, I think he's just shy." You feel like a house that's just been flattened by a fast-moving twister, and can hardly frame any questions. But Michelle refuses to be drawn out any further. "If they didn't tell you, I'm not going to tell you," she flatly declares. "Besides," she adds as she checks her phone, which has dinged with an incoming text, "I'll have to get that salad to go. I'm wanted." She gathers her stuff and signals the waitress. As it happens, you get a text of your own a minute later, from Chelsea, who demands your presence instantly. So you get your own salad to go as well, and follow Michelle out. * * * * * And you wind up following her all the way across town, too, and to your amazement you park behind her in front of Chelsea's house. Chelsea herself, in jeans cutoffs and a billowing sleeveless top that she probably got from her boyfriend, is watering the plants out front as you get out of your car. She waves you both cheerfully over. "What, were the two of you hanging out together?" she asks with a dimpled smile after she's shut off the hose. "As a matter of fact, yes," you faintly reply. You're more than a little unnerved by Michelle's creepy, expectant silence as she placidly stares at Chelsea. "Well, that's great!" Chelsea squeals. "Super convenient. Well, anyway, time to make some introductions, even though you're already friends. Michelle," she says, "Alexis here is a friend of mine. She's probably going to have some messages to pass along to me, and you need to pass them along as fast as you get them. Understand?" "Yes, Chelsea," Michelle says. A prickle goes up your spine even before Chelsea turns to you. "And Michelle here," she says, "isn't really Michelle. Well, I guess she is, deep down. But she's got one of those mask things on her. The kind that make her do what I want her to do." She grins, as though she expects you to congratulate her. Next: "The Ally of My Ally" |
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