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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Date with Another Guy's Girl"  You would like nothing better than to spend the rest of the afternoon with Chelsea, but you need to get ready for class. She returns to the girls' locker room to wash herself, and you also take a quick shower before changing into jeans and a t-shirt. You suffer through the rest of day from Chelsea withdrawal and also the lingering effects of unsatiated hunger and lack of sleep. It's worst during sixth period -- Athletic Weight Conditioning -- which you share with most of the basketball squad along with large numbers of football players and wrestlers. You have to make it look good in front of all those fuckers, but Gordon knows his limits, so you're able to push yourself only about ten percent past them, which is enough to maintain appearances without risking serious injury. You wonder, in passing, if you can hurt yourself in a mask. If you broke a leg while wearing Gordon's mask, would you find your own leg broken when you took it off? When you put the mask back on, would the leg still be broken? But you're not curious enough to hazard the experiment. And when classes end you have another basketball practice session. For your own sake you minimize the exertions and concentrate on hand-eye drills, and halfway through, when you break for some play time, you divide the squad into mini-teams and pit each of them in pairs on a half court. When you're finally done with the day's duties, you drag yourself up to the loft and collapse on the mat with Patterson and Lynch. "Fuck," you gasp. "I don't wanna move until -- Fuck me, Friday, at least." "I hear that," Patterson says as he breaks out three beers. "But what are you dragging for? You woke up late." "We went to bed late," Lynch chirps. "Didn'tja tell Stevie about our thing last night?" Patterson's jaw clenches at the hated nickname. "No. Fuck me, that was a dumb idea." You swallow half the beer Patterson's handed you. "No, it was cool," says Lynch. "We went out to the cemetery, you know, the one out on Farm Road," he tells Patterson. "Half dug an old woman out of her grave." Patterson rears back. "The fuck? What's cool about -- ?" He looks between you and Lynch, showing both shock and perplexity. "What the fuck were you doing?" "It was a dumb idea I had for Halloween," you say. "I got it into my head that it'd be cool if we got a bunch of dirt from a graveyard, just to have on hand to freak people out with or something. Even took a picture of the grave we lifted the dirt from. So, I'm worn out from all that shoveling we did. How many bags did we fill?" "Christ, Gordon," says Steve before Jason can answer. "Where the fuck did you get that idea from?" "It just came to me. I don't know what we're gonna do with it. Probably nothin'. We should just leave it where it is." "What did you do with it?" Lynch answers. "We dropped it off at this old school down in Acheson. We need to go get it before the grounds-keeping people out there take it away." "Fuck it, let 'em take it. Steve's right, it was a fucked up idea, and I don't give a fuck." "But after all that work!" Lynch looks genuinely hurt. "I said, Fuck it! We can get some more later, if it seems like a good idea, which it won't." "Then you can just get it yourself," Lynch says peevishly. "I will. Fuck, if I wanna hear someone bitch and moan, I'll go hang out with Chelsea." Lynch bites his tongue, and Patterson changes the subject to the basketball squad and Richards. There is some discussion that goes nowhere and takes its sweet time getting there, but after thirty minutes you cut it off by saying you need to take a hot shower. Lynch is gone by the time you've showered, dried, and changed into street clothes, but Patterson is still hunched in the loft, playing with his phone. "You got a text while you were downstairs," he says. "Fucking Lynch tried to take it, so I threw him out." Something in his manner suggests that he saw who the text was from, and that it bothered him. You instantly tense. It hadn't occurred to you that these guys would go snooping on your phone while you were away from it. What if you get a message from "Will Prescott" or "Caleb Johansson"? What if Patterson sees some of the texts you've been sending them? As casually as you can, you ask, "Who was it from?" The answer is worse than you'd feared: "Your dad." Patterson doesn't look up as you check the message. It contains only two words: Home. Now. It sounds like he's going to make another stab at bringing you to heel. * * * * * Steve follows you back to the house, but remains in his parked car in front while you go in. You asked him to come along, and with a curt and wordless nod he'd acceded. Steve Patterson is an asshole -- even Gordon thinks his best friend is a pretty nasty specimen of the eighteen-year-old high school male -- but he is loyal to Gordon and surprisingly tactful, too. He would never volunteer to go with you for moral support, but you don't have to ask him directly in order to get it. All you have to do is say, "Come go with me. I got some shit I need to pass on to you." And he understands perfectly. You wish you were man enough outside Gordon's skin to get the same kind of respect from Steve Patterson. For the first time since the day you had the dubious honor of moving into the same school as him, you actually feel as though you could like him, and you wish that he could like you. You don't make a lot of noise when you go inside the house, but you don't try to be quiet, either. Nor do you call out for anyone. You look in the living room and the dining room, the kitchen and down the hallway. Then you go out in the backyard. That's where your dad is. He's got the hose and is spraying down some bushes. He turns to give you a long, steady look, then goes back to spraying. You stand near him, patiently, and don't say anything to him. You ought to, he expects you to call him "sir" and to ask what he requires of you. But you've decided to break that habit. A flush creeps into his cheek as he continues to pointedly ignore you, and as you pointedly decline to address him by name. But he breaks first. "You didn't come home last night." "I was with Jason, we were working late, it seemed best to just crash with him." "You didn't call to ask permission." "It was late when I realized what time it was. I didn't want to wake you." It's a reasonable explanation, though not a truthful one. Or, more precisely, it's an explanation that would satisfy a reasonable man. Gordon's dad isn't a reasonable man, though. "You spend the night in this house. You ask permission before you don't." "I thought I should -- " "You don't think. You obey." His jaw works, and he turns a very familiar expression on you. "That is the rule, and as long as you live under my roof you obey my rules." This, too, would be a reasonable request if coming from most fathers, including Harris Prescott. But Gordon's dad is not a reasonable man, and you see in the gleam in his eye the thought and plan behind this demand. He is going to re-establish his dominance over you -- including the physical dominance -- on pain of throwing you out. Either you return to the way things were before -- including the beatings -- or he will put you on the street. You gaze back and decline to take the bait. If you can make him realize that you're just not going to play these games. "I want an answer," he growls. So it's got to be a "Yes" or a "No." And he'll take continued silence as a negative. You surprise yourself with how calmly you're taking it. It's almost like an intellectual puzzle. How can I get out of this? You cock your head thoughtfully while still looking at him. Actually, you might be able to put up with the abuse. It's just physical abuse, at its worst, and the pain always fades. It fades faster than the pain of physical exercise, even. And in other cases it's just mental abuse, of a kind. The fact is that Gordon suffers terribly under his father because he believes he should love and obey his father, so his dad only has to yell in order for Gordon to feel bad. But you feel no similar need to humiliate yourself for this monster's approval. So there's a pretty good chance you could just shrug it all off. But there's a stiff-necked part of you that rebels against putting on again a yoke that you've already shaken off. Even if the yoke doesn't mean anything to you, it would be a humiliating thing to do. And you'd be putting Gordon back inside it, too. Could you live on the street? It wouldn't be that bad, for you've the gym loft you can sleep in. You could wash clothes at your friends' houses. Food would be a problem, though. You'd have to get a job in order to eat, even if your other expenses would be pretty minimal. Finally, you've got magic in your corner. Next: "Life Changes" |
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