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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Making of a New You"  Mrs. Whitney's frown deepens. "Where's Charles?" she asks. "Did he leave you here alone? What—?" Even if you had decided otherwise, you might have pasted this woman in the face with a magical doohickey just to shut her up long enough for you to make an escape. But instead of running, you drag her limp body back into the living room and drop her onto a deep, richly embroidered sofa. Only then, with a spasm of panic, do you wonder if her husband isn't in the house with her. Like a frightened deer, you scamper through the house, terrified that someone else will pop up out of some corner. Even after you have pretty much settled that you still have the house to yourself, you are as jumpy as a skin full of grasshoppers. * * * * * You had an armful of things when you ran into Mrs. Whitney, and it was purest luck that in your right hand you were carrying the second of the two metal bands you filched from the trunk of supplies. And getting it onto Mrs. Whitney was like using muscle memory, because you remember using the same trick on Caleb and on one of Robert's friends; on Umeko and Jenny Ashton; on Erik Carstairs ... You sink onto the sofa next to the unconscious woman. How many people are out there who aren't ... themselves ... anymore? ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ You step to one side, and grin and wink at Caleb as he presses past you into your dad's study. Your dad looks up from his desk with a bright smile. "Caleb!" he exclaims, and puts a hand across the desk. Your friend takes it, and they shake. "How's school going for you?" "For me it's going great." "How's it going for Will?" Your dad glances past Caleb with a twinkling eye, and comes around the desk as your friend glances puckishly over his shoulder at you. "You understand," your dad continues as he steps up close to Caleb, "that this isn't really an interview, it's just a formality. As far as we're concerned, you're already on the team." "But let's make it official," you say, and hug Caleb from behind. Your dad smacks something onto his forehead, and he slumps in your arms. "Cheesy line, bruh," your dad snickers as you lower Caleb to the floor. "You're the one who started it," you retort. "Already on the team." But your dad is already loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. You crouch to start pulling Caleb's clothes off him. ~ "Hey, thanks for coming out, man." Stephanie grins at Erik Carstairs, and tweaks his flat stomach through his shirt. He smirks back, then glances over at you. "Oh, you know Prescott?" Stephanie asks, following his glance. "Seen him around." He chucks his chin at you. "How you doin'?" You shrug. "Will's an assistant manager," Stephanie continues. "You'd be working under him." "Yeah?" Erik's eyebrows rise. "Well, I didn't say I was takin' the job. Fact, I don't even—" "You're taking it," Stephanie says, and goes up on tiptoes long enough to slap something onto his forehead. His eyes seem to cross, and he crumples up and tumbles to the floor. "Jesus!" you exclaim, and rush over to shut the office door. "I thought we were waiting for—!" "We don't gotta wait for anyone, Prescott," she snaps. "I saw a chance to—" "Don't you 'Prescott' me, motherfucker," you snarl, and Stephanie actually takes a step back and pales. "You don't ever forget who you're talking to!" You poke her in the chest. "And don't ever forget who you really are!" ~ "Jesus, dude," Robert quietly chides you after he's shut the bedroom door. "You didn't have to jump down Johanna's throat that way." "He just pisses me off sometimes," you growl. "He?" Robert lifts an eyebrow. "I don't care who he's dressed out as, I can smell the stink off him." "Bruh, it's a partnership," Robert says. "You went along with it when I asked if we could—" "I didn't think we had a choice!" When he looks wounded, you add with a sigh, "I'll try to do better." "Well, I think you should," Robert says. He nods his chin at the short kid in the sloppy clothes who with staring eyes is passed out on his bed. "'Cos I'm pretty sure Casey's horny for Johanna, and I know that she likes him." You stare, then groan. ~ "Will!" You drop your phone, and listen again for your name. At the sequel, you lurch to your feet and thunder downstairs. Your mom is standing near the side door with a distracted look on her face. "Come go with me," she says. "I'm going out to—" She bites her lip. "I'm going home for a bit." You start. "What?" "I'm going home," she repeats more firmly. "And I need you to, uh, help me switch—" "But you've got a home," you blurt out. "We got you this one!" "I know, sweetheart," she says, and bursts into tears. "But sometimes I just get ... homesick!" She sniffles. You hold your breath as you nod. "Okay, lemme put my shoes on." You scamper upstairs. You've got your phone out by the time you reach your bedroom, and with trembling fingers you text Robert's number: Ur mom wants to switch back u n boss need to get home! ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ You shiver all over, and for a moment you are so horror-struck that you cower from doing unto Mrs. Whitney what has been done to so many others. But then you tell yourself that you were one of those others, and you will be one again if the motherfuckers who are doing this ever catch you. You pray a silent apology to the woman slouching next to you for what you are about to do next. * * * * * You were drenched in flop sweat by the time the metal band reappeared on Mrs. Whitney's forehead, but you still put the mask onto her, and by the time it too reappeared on her face—for like the metal band, it had seemed to disappear into her when you placed it on her—you are nearly unhinged with anxiety. Your only consolation, though it is a nauseating one, is that you "remember" doing this sort of thing so often that you hardly have to think about it. So while the mask is still inside Mrs. Whitney you pull her shoes off and loosen the thin, strappy belt around her waist. And though you flinch, your eye still can't help running over her, to take in the look of the impersonation you are about to begin. The woman is several inches shorter than you, and despite an age that you would peg (with your unpracticed eye) at being somewhere between thirty-five and fifty, she still retains a figure. Her dark brown hair is bobbed stylishly short to the top of her neck and over her ears, and with a long, wide-sweeping bang that now hangs over one eye. Her skin is smooth and tastefully made up, with no really obvious wrinkles or lines; only some fine wrinkles at her throat lead you to guess that her age is somewhere north of forty, because they remind you (shiver!) of some of the wrinkles at your mother's throat. She has good breasts and hips, and no obvious belly. She is in a tasteful, charcoal-gray dress that feels like it's made of silk, and she wears sheer pantyhose. From a thin chain about her neck dangles a large, sapphire-colored pendant; she is not wearing earrings. All in all, she looks rich, chic, intelligent, and confident. In other words, the total opposite of yourself. Once the mask and metal strip are in your hands, you gently push another mask into her face. Like the first mask, it seems to vanish into her face. But then it isn't her face anymore. It's yours. Your new doppelganger opens his eyes with a frown, does a double-take at you, and gasps. Again, your "remembered" instincts kick in. You raise a warning finger. "Who's your boss?" you ask him quietly. He gulps and looks fearful. "Uh, you are," he croaks. "Right. What's the last thing you remember? Being out in the barn, right?" "Yeah." There's a note of uncertainty in his voice. He looks down at himself, and seems to shrink up inside himself. "Why am I in a dress and ... pantyhose?" "You remember we— I made some masks out in that barn?" you remind him. "I'm getting myself a new face, and you need to take my place." "Yeah?" "Yeah. Come on." You gesture him to his feet, and he lurches after you toward Charles's bedroom. It's probably the wrong spot for his mom to get undressed and dressed again, but it is the one place in the house you feel semi-comfortable. "You're going to have to ... well ... pretend you're still one of ... them," you tell your replacement after you've got the bedroom door shut and locked. "You think you can do that?" He licks his lips. "I don't know." "Well, you remember what you ... what I was doing before, right? I mean, you remember coming out here with"—now you have to lick your lips—"Robert." It's so much harder to talk about this stuff out loud, and it was hard enough just thinking about it. When your doppelganger nods, you add, "So just keep acting like you were then. Only— Well, I'll have to give you a number or something to text me at, so you can tell me everything that's going on." "What are you going to do?" "Don't you remember?" you ask. It seems like that's all you were doing since "waking up," is figuring out what to do. "Not really," he says. "I mean, I remember doing stuff like, uh, talking to that Charles gink, and making the new masks." "Well, we're gonna try to take the motherfuckers down. The ones that did this to us." Us? you wonder. But it's hard to not to regard him as your alter ego. He glances down at himself. "By doing the same thing?" "It's just temporary," you retort. "Once we get everything back to normal, well— Everything'll go back to normal," you lamely conclude. "Alright," he says, sounding unhappy. "I guess you want me out of this dress now." Next: "Mother Loves" |
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