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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Making the Bully Your Bitch"  You hike the pack onto your shoulders, slam the car door, and roll the toothpick over to the other side of your mouth, all in one smooth motion. You snort softly as you turn a contemptuous eye onto the school. It's Thursday morning, the start of your first full day as David Kirkham, Professional Asshole. It should be more than second nature to you now, you should actually be a little bored with the impersonation. But you still feel a thrill of anticipation as you swagger toward the school. From the Donna yesterday you went home to the dinky little house that Kirkham and his little brother share with their mom. Her name is Margaret, and she's a registered nurse at an Urgent Care clinic. It would have been easy enough to blow off Kirkham's chores and schedule, but you felt a cocky need to do and act exactly like him, to prove to the inflamed dick whose body and personality you're driving around that you can do things just as good as him, just the way he does them. So when you got back to his place you banged a fist on Tad's door and busted in without an invite. He glared up resentfully from his desk, pencil poised over the notebook. "Just checkin' you weren't jerking off," you told him. "I'll have supper ready in about thirty minutes." You could tell he'd like to flip you off, but he just glowered. Back in the kitchen you put some instant rice on to boil, then sliced up some pork and vegetables for a quick stir-fry. Kirkham is not a "cook", but he spent the summer with his grandmother, and she taught him a bunch of relatively easy recipes for meals that seem a lot fancier than they actually are. You started your homework even while the meal was cooking, and buckled down into it while gobbling dinner down across the table from Tad, who having finished his own homework was scrolling through his phone. Afterward, you put him to cleaning up the kitchen while you spread out books and papers to power through your own schoolwork. Kirkham may be a thug and a reprobate, but he is also (you discovered to your chagrin) very good at some very hard classes, especially math, being that he's taking both AP Calculus and AP Stats. You were finished by the time Margaret Kirkham got home at nine, and were already back in the bedroom running scales and arpeggios up and down a cello. That's something else (it pisses you off to admit) that he is surprising at: Not only is he talented at the cello (he's even studying with a university professor) and appreciative of classical music in addition to the more metal forms of pop, but he is good enough to play in the school orchestra, the elite chamber orchestra, and in a privately organized school string quartet. You got up the next morning satisfied that you've got Kirkham well in hand. He is now like a powerful steed who communicates his power to you, his rider, so that you feel bolstered and strengthened by his strength, which you can turn outward at the world or inward to control him. But he's still a little wild, and you can tell he needs watching if he's not to slip from your grip and carry you along on his instincts. So you gave yourself the same little talk this morning as yesterday, into the bathroom mirror, as you dressed after your shower. You just fucking watch yourself, you growled as you pulled on some tan shorts and a fire-engine red polo; socks and the slip-on Skechers. Remember who's working you by the short hairs. You don't so much as fucking twitch 'less'n I give you permission, cocksucker. Fuck, I don't even give you permission to twitch, you reminded him as you spritzed the tinted glasses and carefully wiped them clean. You don't twitch. I do the twitching for you. There was a little gloating light in the eyes that reflected back at you in the bathroom mirror, but they vanished as you slid on the tinted shades. It's like sliding on a mask: hide the eyes, and you hide the only part of Kirkham's hard-featured face that's open and vulnerable. You slid a flavored toothpick between cheek and gum, grinned at the effect, and swaggered back to your bedroom to finish packing for school. Kirkham had a tough time in elementary and middle schools, and it was there that he learned to be ruthless with his fists, and to give no quarter. He was small for his age, and he is still on the small side, and for that reason (probably) the bigger guys thought they could push him around. But he doesn't take without giving back triple. He trained himself to box bare-knuckled, and to keep fighting, hard, even when hurting, even when it feels like something is broken. Eventually, everyone learned to steer clear of him. And as for why he now bullies the weak: Contempt, you suppose. At least, that's what you feel when you let his instincts ripple forth. Guys like Prescott and Johansson and Tilley (and Dortbruch and Padilla and Church; and Stratton and Winkler and Osbourne; and ... and ... and ... so many of them) just make you tired at how boneless they are. Even the toughs who skip class and hang out at the portables would get the treatment from Kirkham, if he thought he could get away with it. In fact, just last week he lipped off at Kyle Kent, who's got muscles and a spastic lack of self-control. Kent came at him, but Kirkham dropped him with three hard, bone-jarring blows to the gut, cheek, and kidney. "An' that's what ya fuckin' get," he spat down at the panting, vomiting Kent, "f'r bein' a pointless, dumb fuck." But Kirkham only felt disgust and anger, not hatred, at Kent and the waste of meat and oxygen that pointless, dumb fucks like him represent. And now here you are, and there's Kent loitering by the back of the Drama wing with Dean Stratton and Dorothy Harmon. On an impulse, you swerve toward them. "The fuck are you all waiting around for?" you challenge them. Kent ignores you, but the other two wince slightly. "Seen Chen yet today?" you ask. That would be Gary Chen, the school's big drug supplier, and the closest thing Kirkham has to a "best friend." When no one answers, you ask, "How y'all fixed up for weed?" That at least gets you an answer. "Fine," Stratton grunts, and continues squinting off into the parking lot. You shuffle up close to Dorothy. "How about you?" "I'm good," she says, not looking at you. "'Cos I got a stash of my own. Not for sale. Cut off the top, best of the batch." You shuffle up even closer, and she flinches a little. "You ever want some, just come look for me. We can split a pearl after class. Y'ain't gonna do better," you breathe on her. She smiles weakly at you through a hard wince. You back up. "Whenever you want. Kent!" He darts you a murderous glance. "Loosen her up for me, will ya? Make yerself useful." You turn and trudge off for the breezeway leading into the school. It takes you a moment to realize just who you talked to, what you said, and how you said it. It makes you briefly giddy. Fuck, I did that, I said those things? You finger the toothpick, and chomp down hard on it as you grin to yourself. Then you quickly squash yourself. Don't be such a fucking goober, Prescott. Remember who you are. Still, you can't stop from smirking a little as you pull out your phone and shoot a one-handed text to Chen: where f r u? * * * * * He must've been skipping his first-period English class too much recently, because that's where he's on his way to when he replies, and tells you to fuck off when you press him to come out to the portables with you. It's your study hall this period, but you always do your school work the night before and do it right, so first period is for you a time to relax and find your groove before classes start in earnest. Justin Roth is skipping his first period, though, and so are Cody Wooten, Brad Murphy, and Spencer Osbourne, who are all clustered around Roth by the portables when you go out there. "Hey man!" Osbourne chirps at you. You ignore him and his smirk: he's a suck-up who won't stay down no matter how many times you push him. The others are silent save for Roth, who rumbles a "'T'sup" at you drop your pack near his feet. You answer by pointing at the freshly lit cigarette dangling in his mouth, and after a fractional hesitation he hands it over for you to take a long drag on. That's what you like about Roth. He's got the kind of cool that makes it seem like he's not taking shit from you even when he knuckles under. And that's why, as you hand the cigarette back, you tell him you've got a couple of buds for him, and when he asks "How much?" you tell him "Gratis." "Fuck," Osbourne chortles, "you got any gratis grass for me?" "I got a fucking hard on you can suck on." You continue to concentrate on Roth as Osbourne sniggers nervously. "Hey, y'ever score with Dorothy Harmon?" Roth looks momentarily lost—a not uncommon look for him; he's so often stoned or drunk or just lost in thought that one can never be sure he's paying attention—and before he can answer, Osbourne giggles. "Dotty? I scored with her." "Bullshit." "No, seriously, at a party last May. End of year thing at Eric Harlen's place." You regard him for half a moment, then reach over to grab his scruffy blonde hair at the top of his head. He gasps and sits up very straight. "Then tell me all about her pussy," you growl. "How hot, how wet, how soft, and how stanky it is." But Roth interrupts Osbourne's stammer: "If I was you, I'd be lookin' at Meghan Farris." You frown, then remember the girl who thinks of Kirkham as her "secret husband." Next: "The Lizard King" |
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