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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Anticipation and Transfiguration"  "What do you mean, 'best buds'?" you sputter. "How does that—? How could—? That wouldn't make sense!" "Maybe not," David Kirkham complacently retorts. "But I could make it work." How? you want to yell back. But instead you just demand that this apparition—your friend Caleb Johansson, disguised perfectly as David Kirkham—explain exactly what he means. "So, why were you and him fighting? You and Kirkham, I mean," he says. His shoulders and arms flex and strain as he tightens his folded arms across his chest. "It was 'cos—how'd you put it? You wanted to make yourself more trouble than you were worth?" You nod. He nods too. "So maybe you should'a fuckin' explained that to him," he says. "Kirkham just thought you were being a little fucking pain in the ass. Which you were." He removes the toothpick from his mouth and stabs it into the muffin. "And between you and me, Will, this whole 'more trouble than you're worth' shit is just that. Just a line of shit. I can't fuckin' believe you let Gordon talk you into it." He lifts his coffee, and stares at you over the rim as he drinks. "But," he continues as he sets the cup back down, "if you'd explained it that way to Kirkham—" He breaks off. You wait for him to finish his thought. Instead, he cocks his head as he regards you, then snorts. "Oh, fuck," he mutters. "Nah, that wouldn'a worked either, it wouldn'a made no difference. He'd'a still beat the shit out of you just for being such a goddamned pest. 'More trouble than I'm worth'," he sneers. "It's so fucking pathetic, now that I say it out loud. It just makes me want to beat on you harder, so you'll learn you're not worth shit." His jaw muscles work, and he pushes the chair onto its back legs as he continues to study you. You answer by going back to work on your own donut and coffee. "No, I think I'll have to sell it this way," he says after a thoughtful silence. "I finally had you face down on the ground, with your elbow bent back behind your head, and I asked you how come you wouldn't stop fighting. And you said, 'Cos I'll fuck myself before I stop fighting you'." He shrugs, then picks his coffee back up. "And that's when I let you go." You stare, then glance around the donut shop. There's a fat guy in a seed cap on the other side of the dining area, hunched over a Tablet with his donut and coffee. The doughy woman behind the counter is studiously scrolling through her phone. Kirkham's voice can't help carrying inside the echoing interior of the shop, and you wonder what these other two have made of what he said—if they've been listening at all. You over the table to answer him in a low voice. "And that's what Kirkham would'a done if I'd said that? Let me up?" "Prob'ly not," he admits as he falls forward again. "But like I say, I think I can sell it. It's not so different from how Kirkham acted in middle school. Chen, too." "The fuck?" "They went to Proctor. It was kind of a tough school. Most of the assholes at Westside came outta Proctor. Anyway, Kirkham, and Chen too, they got hassled hard by the big guys. But they fought back." "So they tried to be more trouble than they were worth?" "Fuck that," he growls. "That's not what Kirkham and Chen were doing when they hit guys like Black and Patterson back. Jesus. They don't care if they're 'more trouble than they're worth'. They just hit back 'cos—" He lifts his coffee to you in a kind of toast. "'Cos they'd go fuck themselves before they ever stopped hitting back." * * * * * Caleb warns you that it's gonna be hard being his "friend," even with the story he's going to try telling. But to help sell it he also tells you the story you're going to have to give others. Tells it to you? He practically acts it out in front of you by waving his clenched fists around as he demonstrates each blow and counterblow. So, according to him: You and he met up yesterday at the school—Gordon was never there, in this version—and he got you onto the ground quick. But after letting you up—"Get up, you fucking pussy," he taunted you—you flew up at him and went back to work on his chest and body. He put you down again, and kneed you in the back until you were still. But then, though you were slow and groggy, you got up and threw another punch at him. Again, he put you down, and this time he bent your arm back hard and told him you'd have to suck his cock if you ever wanted to get on your feet again. You told him to go fuck himself. That's when he asked his question, and you gave your answer. And then? And then he let you up, and you staggered at him one more time. But this time he just pushed you back and told you to calm yourself the fuck down, and when you didn't, he slapped you hard across the face and again asked how come you didn't give up, and again you gave him that answer— And that's when he suggested going out to get coffee someplace and talk about it. That, you suspect, is where it's going to start sounding like a total fantasy. So (he goes on) you and him drove out in his car to the Milagro Beanfield Warehouse—"Ain't nobody I know would ever be out there, and see we weren't"—and over coffee (each of you paying for your own, because it's not like either of you is a faggot) he asked when you decided to stop being such a fucking pussy, and you said you'd just got tired of it. He'd snorted that, and though he didn't say anything aloud he admitted to himself that you'd at least made a start at it. Then you'd talked a little about classes and people at school you both knew. There hadn't been any gay-ass handshakes or anything like that when you parted, not even a curt "See ya at school." He didn't even give you a ride back to Westside, he just left you at Milagro to call up a friend to come pick you up. (It was Johansson, he informs you, that you called.) And that was all. So no (he now decides after he's finished this improvisation), you and him are not suddenly "best buds." You're just two guys warily sizing each other up after deciding not to hassle each other any more. And how are you going to explain to Mendoza, if he shows up, why the two of you are hanging out here at the donut shop? Caleb isn't able to answer before Mendoza himself actually does come in. * * * * * You see him first, because you're facing the door. You drop your eyes and mutter, "Mendoza's coming." "Don't shit yourself, Prescott," Kirkham mutters back. He picks up his coffee and kicks his chair onto its back legs. "Just follow my lead." Mendoza does a double take when he sees you, but he doesn't come over until he's also done a double take at the back of Kirkham's head. Then, after a fractional hesitation, he trudges over. "Hey man," he says, and slaps Kirkham lightly on the shoulder. But it's you he's watching. Kirkham glances back and up at him. "The fuck're you doing here?" he softly demands. "You're already so fat you can barely get up and down the fuckin' soccer field. 'S'what Chen tells me, anyway." "Fuck you, I need my energy boost." "Yeah, to get your fat ass up and down the field. Jesus." Then, as Mendoza continues to study you, he adds, "Fuck me, are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna get yourself a fucking donut or twelve?" Mendoza retreats to the counter. "Can you believe that lump'a fuckin' lard's on our soccer team?" Kirkham sneers to you, loud enough for Mendoza to hear. "It's a fuckin' sad state of affairs, man." You scramble for a reply, but can only come up with, "I hear the team's pretty good this year." "The fuck you know about soccer?" "I know what I hear." "Yeah, an' who's the dumbass you hear it from?" He lifts his chin. "I don't remember. Isn't Chen on the team?" You can barely hear his reply, which he gives through frozen lips. "Don't try sucking up to me, Will." Talk lapses until Mendoza returns with a small paper plate heaped over with five donuts, three of them jelly-filled. He looks between you and Kirkham uncertainly, then drags a chair over to sit between you. Kirkham snorts at him. "How fucking pudgy you plan on being when you graduate?" Mendoza replies with an even stare as he jams half a donut into his mouth. "Fuck me," Kirkham says with a shake of his head. "Oh, you know Prescott, right?" Mendoza turns that very even look onto you. "Oh, fuck, 'course you remember him." Kirkham chortles. "You had that nice little chat with each other on Monday, didn't you? Jesus. You know, if you choke on one of those things, maybe Prescott'll be nice enough to give you the Heimlich maneuver with his foot, like he did the other morning." Still, Mendoza says nothing. There's no emotion in his eyes, either. Just a dead, blank stare into your eyes. There's an awkward pause. Then Kirkham, his lip curling into a faint, leering sneer, announces that he has to use the head before taking off to school. That leaves you and the Mendoza alone with each other. When you can stand the silence no longer, you say, "It wasn't personal, the other morning." He looks up from his donuts with that same dead-eyed, glazed look in his eye. "Wasn't personal with me either," he says in a carefully neutral voice. Next: "When Worlds Collide" |
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