%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Complexity of Social Lives Not Your Own"  "Yeah, alright, go for it," you say. You feel cold and sweaty all over, and your shoulders twitch as though someone else were shrugging them for you. "See what happens. Could be fun." Gordon studies you narrowly. "You sure?" "No," you admit. "I'm scared shitless, 'cos I don't know what'll happen or if I'll like it. I mean, when we do go back to -- ?" "You don't like her?" "Liking's got nothing to do with it," you stammer. "I don't know who I like. I mean, I do. Andrea Varnsworth, I like her." You and Gordon briefly lock eyes, and his mouth goes up in a half smile. "Oh yeah," he says with a leer that repulses you for what it does to your face. "Cassie's no Andrea. But I think she could be fun." You squirm, trying not to think of the obvious kind of "fun" that he's referring to. And he'd be having it with her with your body. "Yeah," you say without enthusiasm. "I guess we'll see what happens." Gordon holds your eye a little longer, then acquiesces with a shrug of his own. The rest of your time together, by a common, unspoken consent, is spent talking about school and your opinion of each other's classes. Maybe it's not a surprise that each of you has just about the same opinion of those classes as the other does. Gordon demurs from your opinion on only one point: He thinks you're giving Mr. Walberg a bit of a bum rap. "You'd like him better if you worked harder in his class," he says. "That time capsule project, for instance. What the fuck were you thinking, giving him a hair dryer to put in it?" * * * * * After leaving the Dairy Queen you wind up at Chelsea's, lying on her bed and rubbing her back while she texts with her friends and browses social media sites. It's part of Gordon's typical "stroking" strategy with her: Keep her happy with some light touching while she concentrates on the stuff she really likes. You break off before nine, though, with the excuse that you have homework to do. She reminds you that you need to invite "your roommate" to her party. At the Johansson house you talk a little with Caleb's mother, then do schoolwork until eleven-thirty and go to bed. You wake at your usual time, but instead of heading straight over to the school for your morning jog, you stop at the elementary school to see how Caleb is making out. You bang on the basement door before pushing it open and trudging down the stairs. On the floor is a sleeping bag, and a very disheveled and frightened Jason Lynch is sitting up in it, blinking at you hard. "Oh, fuck!" he gasps. "You awake?" "What?" "Are you awake, you little puke?" It comes out unbidden, the teasing -- but serious-toned -- insult. He looks drained, and half scrambles back. He shakes his head, like he's trying to dislodge some rocks from it. "I -- Uh -- " You crouch beside him and tap your knuckles on his skull. "Are you there? Are you home? Who the fuck am I talking to?" He gapes openly at you. And after a few seconds a light of dawning recognition comes into his eye. He flushes. "Oh, fuck you, asshole." "There you are." You stand up. "How's your morning wood?" "Like I got a dick big enough I could tell." He snorts and blows and rubs his eyes. "What the fuck are you doing here?" "Checking on you, obviously. Are you and Lynch friends yet? How was your night?" "I heard rats all night. I think I did. Dreamed about 'em, anyway." He shivers. "And what am I supposed to know about -- Ugh." He shudders more deeply now. "Whatcha got first period, Lynch?" He thinks a moment. "Baseball practice." "You gotta be quicker than that, fucker." "It's early! Anyway, I got baseball practice first period. Or Lynch does." "When do you and me got study hall?" Another brief pause. "Third. Up in the loft sometimes. Except when you and Chelsea are -- " "Weight training? What period?" "Sixth or seventh. I don't know, I don't count -- " "What's your last period?" He sighs. "Horticulture." Then he giggles, an authentic Lynchian snigger. "That's when Chelsea goes t'the opera, right? Whore t' culture?" "Okay, you fucking maggot, here's the important one. What's Lynch's PIN number?" "Oh, that's easy. Three-four-four-two. Up at Federal Merchants." He yawns. "Got nearly two thousand squirreled away in there." You feel your eyes pop. "You're fucking with me. Where's he get it from?" "His granddad in Oklahoma. They got a system, every month his granddad gives him ten percent of whatever the balance is in the account. So he picked up a hunnerd n' eighty dollars plus change a few days ago. Teaches him the principle of savings, or something like that." Caleb rubs his face, then blinks and studies his hand. It's a strong, meaty thing with stubby fingers. "Alright, three-four-four-two. You gonna write it down?" "I think I can remember it." His grin is also Lynchian as he looks up at you. It freezes and falls a little, though, when you crouch back next to him. "Then let's get that shit off your face. I hate looking at Jason Lynch." You grab his forehead. * * * * * He's still passed out when you leave him, and you don't see him at school, but apparently he had no trouble remembering Lynch's PIN, because when you break from post-school practice there's a text on your cell from him: got 300, going shopping. There's also a text from Prescott: date w Cassie set for Sat.. Rocket fuel and a date with Cassie Harper. You're not sure which will be more dangerous to you in the long run. You've not heard back from Caleb by the time you get to his house, so you help his mother fix dinner. She hasn't heard from him either, and when the meal is ready -- it's pork chops and apple sauce and green beans -- you text him to see what the hold-up is. He replies that he's at the elementary school waiting for you. With a snort, you tell Mrs. Johansson that her son has been unavoidably detained, and eat supper with her. It's pleasant, though the conversation is a little strained. You help her clean up and pack leftovers for her son. Caleb is a little pissed off when you finally catch up to him outside the basement, and he looks up from his cell phone with a dark expression. "Jesus, it's like I'm the only one who cares about this stuff," he says. "And you couldn't bring me my portion?" he asks when you tell him why you are late. But he's put the time to some use. "I've been looking over the notes we made for the next spell," he says. "And there is no fucking way we're doing it down in that basement. Because we'll blow the place up," he says when you ask him why not. You tell him it can't be that bad. "Will, I bought a bunch of rocket fuel," he says. He pauses as your old white truck roars to a stop alongside the Bug with a growl and a cloud of dust. "And we're supposed to set it on fire." "Set what on fire?" Will Prescott asks as he jumps from the cab of the truck. "Sorry I'm late, I had to babysit Tilley. Jesus," he adds, turning to you. "Can you fucking do something about Javits?" "I already tried." "Well, try again." "Why don't you try, cocksucker? If it fucking bothers you so much." Will squints malignantly at you, and resettles his cap on his head. "Johansson," you say. "Do you give a fuck about Tilley and what Javits is doing to him?" "Hell no. What bothers me is the crap I've got in my back seat." Will grins. "You crapped in your back seat?" Caleb leans across the hood of his car to shove two birds in Will's face. "It's all that flammable -- er, stuff I had to buy today. We're supposed to pour it over that pile of dirt you hauled out of the cemetery -- " "I didn't get any dirt from any cemetery," Will says. "Weren't you bitching mightily a few days ago about carrying a coupla hundred sacks of dirt down into the basement?" "Sure, but I didn't pull it out of a cemetery." Caleb turns red. "The spell says it has to come out of a cemetery!" "Yeah, but I didn't -- " "Shut up, Prescott," you snap, and Will catches his breath, then laughs. "I got the dirt out of the cemetery. Your friend there just moved it into the -- " "Wait a minute!" Caleb slides off the hood of his car and scrambles backward until he's pressed against the wall of the school. He points. "Did you two fuckers switch back when I wasn't looking?" Before you can answer -- or decide which answer would be more amusing -- Will saunters over to Caleb, who flinches from him. Will leans in close and whispers in Caleb's ear. Then his hands disappear, somewhere down near Caleb's crotch -- And Will leaps back with a laugh when Caleb swings at him -- both are cherry red in the face. "Relax," Will says, and resettles his cap again with a grin. "What's it matter who's who as long as we're having fun." "We didn't switch," you say firmly -- Will's tomfoolery has ticked you off a little. "And the dirt came from the cemetery." Caleb is also snappish. "Well, we're supposed to soak it with the crap I bought today and light it on fire." "So let's do it," says Will. "We'll blow ourselves up. Along with the school. And the book, probably." "What's that?" The final warning has caught your ear. "Yeah. We need to pile all that stuff onto the sigil. We've been using the sigils in the book, you know, so if we set that crap on fire -- Ssssssst! There goes the book." Next: "Fireworks" |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
