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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Betrayals, Backstabs, and Possible Boyfriends"  Five o'clock should be fine, though you do have to go home to make sure that Yumi's mother isn't going to need her during the hour or so that you will probably be at Chelsea's. "You never eat at home anymore," she chides you when you say you will be meeting a friend at five. She is already in the kitchen. "I didn't say I was going to eat with her!" "Then who are you eating with?" "Well ... you and dad and everyone else!" "How can you eat here when you're going to be somewhere else?" "What time are we going to eat?" "Whenever it's ready!" Mokichi comes sauntering in. "When will what be ready?" he asks. "Dinner." She smacks his hand with a spoon as he lifts the lid off a pot. "You'll ruin your appetite." You retreat to your bedroom to fetch the items you need for Chelsea, and stop in the kitchen again just long enough to promise that you'll be home as soon as you can for dinner. "I won't be able to help it if it's cold!" your mom warns you. * * * * * So it's only four-thirty or so when you get to Chelsea's. Mrs. Cooper, a short bouncy woman who probably looked a lot like Chelsea twenty years ago, lets you in. "Are you all meeting up to go somewhere?" she asks. "Chelsea says there's a boy coming over in a bit, and it's not Gordon." She winks. "I hope he's for you. Is it a double date?" "Something like that. Maybe. More like a blind date? Um, I have to talk to Chelsea before he gets here." "You go right on ahead. Top of the stairs, first door you come to," she says, as though you have not been out here before. Chelsea is sitting up on her bed, and she does a double-take at you when you look in at her. "You got the stuff?" she asks as she bounces off the bed. She is in a much more sober mood than the last time you talked. "Of course, I've got it," you retort as you set the bag on the foot of the bed. "You don't think I'm a moron, do you?" "So how are we going to do this?" Chelsea tips the bag upside down, dumping all the contents out. "I'm assuming we work it like with Gary. We copy him, put the stuff into the mask, turn him into a zombie. Then him and me, we— Uh, we start hanging out, and anytime I need to send you a message, it gets to you through him." Chelsea nibbles on a thumbnail. "I guess that works," she mutters. "I've been looking at his social media." "And?" you prod when she falls silent. "And nothing, I guess." She shakes herself free of whatever thoughts have been preoccupying her, and turns a bright smile on you. "I hope you like him!" Instantly you're on your guard. "Why? What did you find out on his social media?" "Nothing!" "Then why did you—?" "I was just trying to get an idea of what's in store for you, is all." "And what did you find out?" "Nothing!" Bullshit, you think, but Chelsea is unshakeable on the point. All that she will allow is that he's on the tennis team. "So what is this stuff," she asks, turning to the supplies spread out on her bed. "The stuff for him. A mask, stuff to seal it up with, the stuff we have to put inside it to make him a, you know, zombie—" "Whose zombie?" "Well ... Yours, I thought." "Mine?" "Isn't that the plan? Isn't that what I said? I date Cody instead of Gary, and when—" "But the point is that he passes the messages along to me," Chelsea says. "He doesn't have to be my zombie. He could be yours, couldn't he?" You feel a headache coming on. It was like when you were arguing with your mother, except without the snippiness and the yelling. But Chelsea, like Mrs. Saito, seems determined to misunderstand what you're saying. "If he's my zombie," you patiently remind her, "then you can't wear the mask." Chelsea's eyes widen. "Who says I want to wear the mask? Who says I want to be—?" She rolls her eyes and clucks her tongue. "Cody Schaefer!" "Wasn't that the plan? We said that, right? You'd be Cody and you'd be—" You have to grit your teeth. "My boyfriend?" "Did we say that?" Chelsea sounds surprised, though she's not such a good actress that it doesn't sound fake. "Well, I guess that would work too." "I thought that was the plan!" "Oh, Will!" Chelsea dimples at you. "I know you were talking like that, but I didn't take you seriously! But if that's the way you want to do it," she grandly declares, "I'll go along with it!" * * * * * The conversation has left you wanting to scream, and you do scream, but you tell Chelsea you have to use her toilet, and behind the locked door you jam a fluffy hand towel into your mouth and scream through that. Then after flushing the toilet and dabbing your face with cold water, you rejoin her. She's looking at the rest of the stuff you brought, and particularly wants to know about the metal strip. "It's the thing that's supposed to copy memories," you tell her. "See?" You pick up the other mask, and show her the strip that you glued into the interior. "The memories go in there, like the, uh, body goes into the mask. That way you can copy and wear both at the same time." Chelsea flips over the other mask, which though polished hasn't got a metal strip in it. "So why doesn't this one have one?" You pluck the memory strip from her fingers. "This is the one that goes with that mask. I didn't attach them because—" You suck in a deep breath. "Well, I was thinking about what happened with Gary. You tried the mask on and it didn't work, right? But it should have worked, because, dur, it copied everything about him. I mean, the guy who's running around now is acting just like him." "Yeah, so?" Chelsea frowns, like you're wasting her time. "Well, I was going to glue these together, like in the other mask. But I thought maybe we should try them out separately. Like, we copy Cody's memories into this thing"—you brandish the metal strip—"and we see if it works on you by itself. If it does, we add the mask and see if that works." Chelsea's gaze goes distant. "Oh I see," she says. "Yeah, that's smart. I'll be honest with you, Will," she says, and touches your arm. "I was worried about that." There's a sound from outside, and Chelsea bounds over to the window. "It looks like him," she says as she peers out through the blinds. "Yeah, it's him. Just so you know, I told him I wanted to talk to him about the East-West Club. And I guess you're here because you're always underfoot." You stifle the urge to punch her in the back of the head. "Okay, we're all set," she says as she turns toward the door. "Let's not waste time, okay?" You should be the one to—" She slaps herself in the forehead. "It'll be less of a surprise coming from you. Coming from Yumi, I mean." She titters. You sink onto the edge of the bed as she runs from the room, and rub your face until most of the anger has drained away. She can't help it, you tell yourself. No one can be that that mean and that tactless, so effortlessly and so often, and be doing it on purpose. She just must not have a filter. At the sound of footsteps in the hall, you slip the metal band into the palm of your hand—that piece is the smallest and easiest to hide—and saunter over to lean against the wall by the window. (It seems the most logical place to be "underfoot.") A moment later the door opens, and Chelsea comes in, followed by Cody. "Oh, and look who else is here," Chelsea exclaims. "But I already warned you, didn't I?" Cody nods at you, and here, in the intimacy of a bedroom, away from distractions and other kids, you're struck by how handsome he is. He's tall, with dark hair brushed straight back in a loose pompadour. His face is long without being horsey, with a straight, firm nose. His forehead is broad but clear, his eyes dark, and his mouth regular. He's dressed in a black polo shirt that drapes loosely over him, and his baggy white shorts hang to just above his knees. His calves are strong and downed lightly with hair. The only color on him is in the three plastic bracelets on his left-hand wrist—one a light green, another baby blue, and the third a citrusy orange—and on his tennis shoes, which are a bright blue with red tongues and yellow laces. Country club with a touch of the bohemian, you think. Or like a Geoff Mansfield without being a douche. "Yumi was just leaving," Chelsea says, and her voice shakes you from a stupor you hadn't realized you'd fallen into. "Sure," you say, and detach yourself from the wall. "See you around, Cody? Oh hey," you interrupt before he can answer. "You got some schmutz on your—" You slap him in the forehead with the dingus. His face goes blank, and he topples sideways to bounce on the bed twice before coming to rest on his back. His jaw hangs open and he stares vacantly at the ceiling. "Just so you know, Will," Chelsea says after she's caught her breath. "It's okay with me if you want him for yourself. I owe you a mask anyway." Then she adds, with surprising force, "I'm trying to be nice!" Next: "The Baffled Boyfriend" |
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