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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Settling In"  Your fingertips brush against the phone in your pocket as you drop back onto the mat with the pizza box, and the instinct to pull out the phone and call her almost takes over. But you jerk your hand away and concentrate on the pizza. A smell of tomato sauce, mushrooms, onions and spices gushes into the room as you open the lid. Patterson reaches over to the fridge and takes out some more beer. A teenage boy's idea of heaven: pizza, beer, friends, and nothing to do. So it's a party, though a low-key one. You swallow pizza slices without chewing them and beer without tasting it, belching and scratching all the time. You jostle with the other two and cuss at them and wipe your fingers on their shirts and they wipe theirs on yours. Jason breaks out the porn, handing you a few magazines that are very familiar to Gordon, but whose pictures bewitch him still; Patterson opens a browser on his phone and titillates himself the high-tech way. You're not so bemused by pictures of naked women holding various impossible poses that you wonder a little at how claustrophobic it all is. This seems to be about as much fun as Gordon is capable of having, which dismays you, for you'd figure the captain of the basketball team and the boyfriend of the head cheerleader would be leading a huge and wild pack through revels of sex and mayhem. But this gathering, you see, is the regular thing for Gordon. Oh, Chelsea gets him to go to a big party at someone's house every week or ten days -- when it's one she's throwing herself, or one she thinks is worthy of her attendance. But as you think about such scenes, you can't think of one where Gordon had any real fun. Mostly, you have the impression that he approaches them with a bad temper, and leaves them with a headache. This scene up here -- this scene now, poking and growling and jockeying with Patterson and Lynch -- is about the happiest he ever is when in the company of other people. After two hours -- which pass very slowly as they unspool, and seem to have flown by when they are over -- your phone rings. "So if you won't call her, she'll call you," Patterson says with a sour smirk. "It's not Chelsea," you say as you check the number: Will Prescott's. "I gotta take this." You get up and walk to the other side of the room, where you keep your voice low. "Yeah?" "Are you having fun?" says a familiar voice with a furious whine. "Where are you?" "I'm up at the school with Steve and Jason." You decide to let them think it's your dad calling. "Someone told me you wanted to talk, and I've been waiting for a couple of hours for you to show up, so do you think you can get over here?" "I'll come right home." "Home? I'm in that fucking basement." "Alright, I'll meet you there as soon as I can." You hang up before he can reply. "I gotta take off," you tell your friends, and their faces show guarded sympathy, for they made the deduction you intended, and they know about Gordon's home life. "Thanks for the lunch and the money," you tell Jason. "See you tomorrow," you nod at Steve. "Hey Gordon," Steve calls to you when you're at the door. "I'm serious about Chelsea. Make her call you." You give him a tentative nod, and leave. * * * * * Caleb's car is still at the school, but your truck is nowhere about when you park. Did Gordon go someplace? A better question, you decide, is how he's been getting along with Caleb. The first question is answered when you push open the basement door and see both your friends down there. Gordon must have walked over. He's in your body and in your clothes, but his pose is his own: feet planted firmly, chin raised. "You been up in the loft all this time?" he asks. "Yeah. Lynch brought a pizza. Oh, also." You plant a foot on a desk and pull the three bills from your sock. "You can pay Tilley back with these." "I don't care about that," he says, though he takes the cash. "I wanna know about you and my dad." His eyes are bright with anger. You glance at Caleb, who is sitting cross-legged on one of the desks with a dejected look on his face. Has Gordon been brow-beating him for two hours? You hope not. "Hey, eyes on me," Gordon says. "You wanna talk about it in front of Johansson?" Caleb raises his hands. "I don't wanna get in the middle of it," he says. "I'm not putting your mask on again." "Then go take a walk," says Gordon. "If you're saying it's none of your business." Caleb slides onto his feet with a sigh, and he bumps into you as he passes. "Hate to be in your place," he mutters. When he's gone, you sit on the edge of a table. "So whaddaya wanna know?" you ask Gordon. "You remember any of the stuff I did while I was at your place?" "I think so," he says, but his tone is wary. "It was a fucking day before it started coming in, you know. I thought there was something wrong with the things. But last night -- " A troubled look comes onto his face. "I had a bunch of weird fucking dreams, but when I woke up I started getting the stuff. You know what I mean, right?" He looks at you closely. Actually, you don't know what he means -- this doesn't sound anything like your experience. But you don't want to complicate things, so you just nod. "But it's all okay now, isn't it? Like, everything's natural?" You make a short jump and mime a free throw. Gordon remains wary. "As natural as it needs to be, I guess. But I wanna know what's going on with my dad. 'Cos I don't know if that stuff is real, or if I'm just remembering shit that I dreamed." So you ask him to describe what he "remembers." His delivery is halting, and his expression gets tighter and tighter as he goes. But when he makes a fumbling end to it, he's described your experiences pretty well. You shrug. "That's about it," you tell him. "I think he tried getting back in the saddle yesterday, but I didn't back down or anything. Uh -- " The words dry up in your throat. Gordon's face -- your face -- has turned the color of a bruise, and his eyes glitter with horror and fury. He has to swallow a couple of times before he can speak. "You fucking moron," he finally says in a choked whisper. "Do you even realize how much you've fucked things up for me?" No, you don't. But you've got Gordon's brain in there with you, so you switch views. While the guy with your face is boiling over, you do a gut check. The fear is like a kick in the stomach: Gordon has never stood up to his father, and is terrified of the consequences of doing so. But you did stand up to him, and nothing happened. In fact, it seems like you've frightened him into leaving you alone, and you've even stood up to him a second time. Could he still fuck you up? Gordon's gut tells you he could. But you also feel a giddy excitement at having kicked back at him without suffering any consequences. At least not yet. "I kind of get it," you tell him, speaking slowly and feeling each word before letting it out. "I know why you're scared of him -- " "I'm not -- !" He glares. "Don't pretend like you know how I feel, just because you're -- !" He saves a furious finger at you. "'Cos you don't know -- !" "I think I do," you retort, and do feel some of Gordon's own impatience at having this twig lecturing you. "I think I know how you feel about your dad. You know how I feel about mine, right?" That puts him on his back heel, and he blinks. "No," he says. "I -- " He blinks some more. "I guess you feel kind of -- Scared?" His expression changes to one of puzzlement. "But not really scared." "Sure, that sounds about right. Well, I know how you feel about your dad, and about what I did. But I was there, and I know how it feels to get in his face and have him not hit me back. Can you guess what it feels like?" Gordon's jaw drops. For a very long time he only stares at you, then through you. A shiver runs through his skinny shoulders. Then his eyes drop, and he swallows. "Probably feels kind of -- " He kicks at the floor. "Kind of awesome." "Damn straight. It's like what you were telling me and Tilley when you were playing Caleb. About standing up to the bullies." Gordon looks up sharply at you. "Yeah, I stood up to your dad and I stood up to Chelsea, and I made them -- " "You saying you could handle my shit better than me?" he snarls. "No. Or -- I dunno." Now it's your turn to kick at the floor in embarrassment. "You think you could handle my stuff, and Caleb's stuff, better. You said so. How would I feel about you hitting the Molester back? Would I like that?" He makes a face, which is answer enough. "Yeah, I wouldn't. But you'd do it, because you think that's the right thing to do." You shrug. "I think I was doing the right thing with your dad and Chelsea, even if it was on accident. Maybe we each got blind spots, and the other guy can see 'em better, fix 'em." Gordon is very quiet, and he leans against a book case with his arms folded. "Do you think it's really like that?" he says at last. "We can fix up each other's shit better than we can do it ourselves?" Next: "The Confessions of Others" |
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