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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Counterstrike!"  It's Sunday evening, but it's already dark. Chelsea was happy—almost eager—to meet you and Michelle up in the gym loft, and you'd had to put her off just a little bit, so that you could meet with Michelle and set up the ambush. You can't believe it went off so easily. "Will." You jump a little. Michelle has knelt next to Chelsea and is frowning up at you. "I said," she says, "is anyone going to interrupt us up here?" "Huh? Oh, I don't think so. Chelsea always clears the schedule to make sure we're alone when we talk. Except for Gordon," you add. "Shit." Michelle raises an eyebrow. "Could he show up?" "Might. I dunno. But what I'm thinking is—" You chew your lip. "I told you that he had that accident? That he's not really Gordon anymore, he's one of those robot things?" Michelle nods. "He's supposed to obey Chelsea." You look down at the head cheerleader; Michelle has been arranging her hair and limbs so she doesn't look quite so much like a crumpled doll. "What happens after we replace her?" "I'll be Chelsea, right?" Michelle says. "So he'll obey me, won't he?" You can only shrug. What she says makes sense, but you can't shake the feeling that things might not work that way. But you swallow your doubts and change the subject: "Should we get Alexis out here?" "Why?" Michelle returns to arranging Chelsea. "This doesn't have to do with her." "Well, who's she going to be? Who did she pick?" "Is that your business?" "If I'm going to help out, like I did here, I should know." Michelle makes no reply. "Is it one of Chelsea's friends?" "It's one of Alix's friends. Well, not a friend, exactly," Michelle corrects herself as she unbuttons Chelsea's top. "Someone she knows." "Well, I'm going to get a disguise too, right?" "Why do you need one?" Michelle continues to concentrate on Chelsea. You feel yourself on the verge of totally losing your command of the situation. It's like Michelle has taken over completely—the way Chelsea took over completely—and is going to start bossing you around. So you drop down next to her. "Listen," you hiss. "I didn't have to help you or Alix out. I could have left you where you were. And even after I helped you out, I didn't have to help you here with Chelsea." Now Michelle looks up at you, her eyes wide with surprise. "I'm the one who found that book," you continue, "and figured out how this stuff works. If I want to use it to make a mask and turn myself into someone else, I think I have a fucking right to." For a moment Michelle says nothing, but only stares at you. But her tone is soft when she replies. "I wasn't arguing with you, Will," she says. "You can do whatever you want, I guess. I won't get in the way. Alix won't either. I was just asking why you wanted to need to turn yourself into someone else." She gives you a brief look up and down. "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with you." Words get stuck in your throat. Did Michelle just pay you a compliment? "Well," you stammer, "I don't need to. But the whole reason I was, you know, pretending to be someone else—" Pretending to be Alexis "—was so I could find someone who maybe I could ask out, go out with." "What happened to that date you were supposed to have last night?" You twitch. Michelle is right. You don't have the old excuse anymore, not if you're turning down girls who ask you out! "I skipped it, cancelled it, to help you out! But maybe I still want to do that thing me and Chelsea were going to do, where I use this stuff to figure out someone I can ask out." You feel a flush of shame rising up your neck at that very needy and insecure confession. "Someone who I know would be a good fit for me." Again, Michelle looks you up and down, and for a hanging moment you think she's going to pay you some other compliment: Oh, you don't have to worry about anything like that, Will, or Just ask a girl out, Will, it's sure to work out. But she only shrugs. "Knock yourself out." "Well, I'm still thinking about doing it down in the junior class," you continue. "So who is Alexis—?" Downstairs, a door slams, and you and Michelle jerk upright and glance at the loft door. Then you look at each other, your eyes mirroring surprise and fear. "I'll go see who it is," you say as you stand up. "As soon as the mask comes out of Chelsea, put that mask of me on her. It'll be kind of funny if there's two of me up here, but it's better than having Chelsea like this." "Should I move her, hide her?" Michelle asks. "If you can manage," you say as you open the door and out of the loft. Don't let it be Patterson, you pray as you descend the steps. Don't let it be Patterson. It isn't, but Gordon Black isn't much of a welcome sight, either. He looks like a shaven grizzly bear that's been put in athletic shorts and a tank top, and as he scowls up at you from the bottom of the steps, he looks like one, too. "Oh, hey," you stammer. "Chelsea didn't tell me you'd be coming out here, too." "Well, here I fucking am," he retorts, and sets a heavy foot on the bottom stair. "She up there?" "Yeah. Uh, did she call you, ask you to come out?" "What fucking business is it of yours?" "Well, she just threw me out of the loft. She's with someone. Uh, I don't think she wants you up there." Your heart pounds as Gordon pauses on the bottommost step and looks past you up to the loft door. Then with a heavy shrug he descends the steps. You follow. "So the fuck is going on up there?" Gordon asks when you're both down on the gym floor. He glares around the dark and dingy basketball court. "She's up there with a friend. Well, with Michelle Estrich." "They eating other out?" "What? No! I don't think so. Michelle is, um—" You're not sure how much Gordon knows about what kind of thing he is, or that there might be others like him. "Michelle is doing some favors for Chelsea, and she came up here to—" "Whatever." Gordon trudges off and disappears through the black entrance to the changing rooms. When he returns, he has a basketball. He drills it on the floor a couple of times, and turns a skeptical eye on you. "You know how to do anything with one of these?" "Well, sure. Back in middle school, I— Oof!" You stagger back under the blow as the heavy rubber ball hits you in the chest. "But I'm not good enough to play against you!" "No fucking shit, but that ain't what I asked. Try to get it past me and into that basket back there." He jerks his head at the basket behind him. You gulp, nod, and bounce the ball. And as you try to drive the ball past him, he with an almost casual ease reaches out and takes it from you in mid-dribble. From the middle of the court, he sends it in a graceful arc to swish through the net opposite. "Go get it," he says. "Hustle." * * * * * A very long and humiliating half hour passes: long enough for you to start panicking at Michelle's non-appearance. Ten minutes to copy Chelsea, you figure silently. Say, fifteen minutes to change into her and her clothes? So what's taking so long? And between these despairing calculations, Gordon pushes, bullies and insults your skills without once letting you get close to the basket he's guarding. The score is somewhere between two hundred and three hundred to nothing when you finally hear footsteps from the direction of the loft stairs, and you and Gordon pause as a very pale and pinch-faced Chelsea Cooper appears. Her eyes dart between the two of you. "Hey, pookie," she calls out. "What are you doing?" "Waiting for you. You done?" "Not really." More firmly, she adds, "I want you to go home." Silence. At first it is merely a cool silence. Then your skin prickles as it becomes very cold. Gordon bounces the basketball once. "She wants me to," he says, addressing the rafters. "Are you telling me to?" Chelsea darts you a squinting glance. "Yes," she says. "Go home." But Gordon doesn't move, not right away. Instead, he bounces the ball three more times off the floor. The blows echo around the gym. "Whatever you say, Chels," he says at last, and trudges off toward the side door exit. "Text me next time you want something." You hold your breath, and you bet Chelsea—Michelle—is holding hers. Gordon's insolent manner leaves you quivering with dread. "I don't like that," you tell the new Chelsea. "That was very weird." "Never mind him," she says. "I've got problems here. Aren't these things supposed to have the memories inside them?" "Sure." "Well, I'm not getting anything." Her lips compress into a line. Next: "A Girl Who Remembers Nothing" |
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