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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Actors' Studio"  "How many masks do we have?" you ask Sydney. "We can have as many as we need, sweetie," she replies without looking up from the metal band she's carving runes into. That's not what you asked, but you're not in a mood to argue. You paw through various piles and stacks, pulling things together. When you ask Sydney if that's all you've got, she shrugs. Seven masks in various stages of completion, by your count, and a matching number of metal bands. But there's more completed masks than completed bands. You snatch up a couple of bands, and push through more junk to find a couple of the little chisels you use to scratch the runes out. "I have to go home," you tell Sydney. "I'll work on these tonight." "You don't have to, Will," she says. "I want to. I need something to keep my mind occupied." She gives you a look, then starts to get up. "In that case, I—" "You can stay here as long as you want. Call Will—" You catch your breath and sigh. "Call the pedi-whatsis at my place when you want to lock up. Or, I dunno, if you want company." She frowns, but you dodge her eyes. * * * * * The Griffins live in the country south of town. Paul's parents, John and Rachel, both work at the college, he as a metals worker in the physical plant and she as a secretary in the English department. They live in a modest but well-appointed house south of town, where the subdivisions seep into the countryside. Paul has been fixing dinners while he's been staying with them—a little task to take some of the burden off them—but you're late getting back, so you stop at Ray's Barbecue for takeout. It's outside the budget Paul has set for himself, but you figure it won't hurt, not if you will soon be adding richer and more successful identities to his. Dinner is quiet but pleasant, and Paul's mom and dad take turns telling each other (and you) about their day. Then they ask you about the "school play" that you attended. "It was a technical rehearsal," you explain to them (again). "Basically, putting it on for the first time so they can practice it all the way through." "And was Carmen there?" your mom asks. You had told her that your old drama teacher—the one who gave you the confidence to pursue acting—would likely be there, because you and she wanted to meet. "She was so pretty!" You smile tightly. Never in a million years would Paul (nor will you) admit to what happened between him and Carmen all those years ago, and what came of it. For now, you only tell her that you and Carmen got coffee together. The closest you come to making a confession is when you tell them that Carmen has a daughter in high school now. And you suppress a flinch when your mother exclaims, "Why, she must be about the age now that you were then!" You murmur that, yes, she is a senior this year. "Oh, my, how time flies!" your mom observes. You clean up the dining room and kitchen while your parents move onto the back porch to watch the sunset and digest their dinner. Then you move into your bedroom. It hasn't changed much since Paul lived here, a fact that struck him with some force when he returned. Twice after graduation he'd had to return home after his money ran out, to find that the Griffins had kept his bedroom just as it was when he left home. This made sense when he was still under twenty-five, and he'd told himself it was because they hadn't decided what to convert it into. But each subsequent Christmas, he returned home to find it still unchanged. And when he came home this latest time—for a non-holiday visit, and an extended one, the first since he'd made his last, wounded retreat from Hollywood—it hit him that they were keeping it that way because they were more than half-expecting him to come back permanently. That extended run of success he'd had, culminating in his role as Simon Magus on Enchanted U, was to them just another temporary break from reality. And maybe they were right. You sit on the bed—a twin, hardly big enough for you—with your knees drawn up and your hands clasped in your lap, and look around. There's the same pennants on the walls, from Paul's days in Little League, and the trophies on the wall-mounted shelves from his middle-school career as a baseball player. On the dresser, in frames, are half a dozen photos from school productions. In each, Paul Griffin gazes out with a hooded but radiant confidence. As Pete and Daniel in Almost, Maine. As Juror 3 in Twelve Angry Men. As Philip Lombard in And Then There Were None. As Fred Phelps, among others, in The Laramie Project. And, during his senior year, as Romeo (of course!) in Romeo and Juliet. Two reactions vie for mastery in your chest as you let Paul's feelings well up. Oh, you dumb kid, you dumb, dumb kid, runs one. You thought you had the tiger by its tail, you thought it would be a rocket to the top because you had IT—the looks, the talent, the luck, the punch. You thought it would be just like high school, with the producers handing you the parts you wanted, when you wanted them, each one better than the last, until without even reaching for it you'd find yourself on the red carpet, smiling at the photographers, with Brad Pitt's hand on the back of your shoulder as he leaned in to get his face into the frame next to yours ... And how did that work out for you? Versus: Damn, you were hot back in high school. And you know what, you still are. There's just something about the bones in Paul Griffin's face that the camera loves. Even when it's a camera in a cell phone. Which you take out and turn onto yourself so you can smirk at your new face. It's still fresh, and handsome, and smooth, and perfectly photogenic. So what that Paul missed the brass ring by a country mile when he tried? With you in command of that book, and the stuff that makes pediwhatsits, you can make a few of them, sprinkle them around the town, and use them to get you the roles that Paul deserves. There was a plot line like that being developed for the show's fourth season, you now recall. The producers were playing with some ideas for shapeshifting potions, in case Adrian developed ideas above his station and they had to recast the lead. Just don't use that shit on Simon, you thought in a panic when Michael Shotwell told you about it over lunch. I don't want my part recast! Instead, they cancelled the show ... Even more humiliating was coming home during the middle of the run, to learn that your own parents didn't even watch the show. It's not really our cup of tea, your mother gingerly explained. And they're watching a police procedural in the living room when you go back out to get a beer from the fridge. I had a shot at one of those, you recall with a wince. But I thought, those run forever and you get typecast forever. Even if this Warlock College show gets cancelled after one, I'll have another, better part on the other side. Show the town I got range. The face is nice, but you're not sure how much longer you can stand living with Paul's self-recriminations. * * * * * Plans are all laid by nine o'clock the next morning. You're to pick up Rebecca at her mother's house and take her to a Sunday brunch at Le Metropolitain (another expenditure that Paul can ill afford.) Sydney will be waiting there ... Rebecca, you are startled to see, is almost a duplicate of her mother, but shorter and softer, with mild eyes that lack the angry agony in Carmen's. She is also missing the "Morticia Addams" aura (a reference that, thanks to Paul's memories, you now fully get). If anything, she looks like a novitiate for a nunnery. She is also very shy when she meets you, though her eyes glint with anticipation as she steps toward your car. Before leaving, you give Carmen a quick peck on the cheek. "I might take her to a movie after, or minigolfing, or something," you tell her, for you'll be up near the mall. "I don't want this to be a hit-and-run thing." Carmen looks pleased by the suggestion. She'd be a lot less pleased if she knew the real reason you are going to keep her daughter out for hours and hours. It's because you can't trust Sydney get her new imposture's memories until tomorrow morning. "So, you ever been to Le Metropolitain?" you ask Rebecca when you're behind the wheel. She shakes her head. "Well, neither have I. It didn't open until after I left town. Your mom says it's a treat, though." Rebecca murmurs something inaudible. In fact she's very quiet the whole drive. You finally ask her, point blank, if she's shy. "A little," she admits. "You know," she stammers, "I watched your show, even before—" You can almost hear her blushing. "Mother told me you were one of her students. But she didn't tell me— Not until—" "Okay, are you starstruck because I was on TV? Or because I'm your dad?" The words, when you realize what you just said, almost make you faint. "A little of both, I guess," Rebecca whispers. It's a relief to see Sydney waiting outside the restaurant when you park, and you leap from the car to greet her with a smile you know just dazzles. "Well?" she asks. "She's a doll," you tell her. "You'll love everything about being her." Next: "Becky" |
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