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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Home Away from Home"  You meet Will at the head of the stairs the next morning. You can't keep your lip from curling a little as you study him, with his wild hair jammed under a sloppy ball cap, his lanky frame lost inside a floppy t-shirt and some worn-out jeans. You're in a crisp, buttoned-up white dress shirt, slacks, stiff dress shoes, and a tie. But if he reads your glance of disapproval, he doesn't register it. "Teachers," you tell him in a low voice, and glance at the nearby door (closed) to Robert's room. "I want you to make notes of some of the teachers. Put them on the list we were talking over last night." His eyes pop, but you just turn and precede him downstairs. * * * * * It was with a sense of certainty that you grasped the thought when you woke the next morning. A teacher at school, you told yourself. If they're not married, or if they at least don't have children. That would give us a base, and access to the school and to our doppelgangers. We wouldn't have as much free time as we maybe need, but we'd have at least as much as I've got now. And they'd be pretty easy to get to, easier than some of the other people we were talking about. Of course, your first thought went to the teachers you've got or have had. Most of them, though, give you the shudders when you think of turning yourself into them. Mr Walberg? Vomit. Mr. Hawks? Yeargh! Mr. Peters? You almost faint. Ms. Gladstone, though, is a possibility, and being Mr. Kowalski or Mr. Cash would be no worse than being your own dad. (Which is still pretty gross, even after getting somewhat used to it over the past few days.) But there are lots of other teachers at Westside, and if you can get a line on which ones are promising, you can start constructing a list. * * * * * Naturally, Caleb winds up being no help. He texts you a list of possibilities later that morning, and though you have no time—being consumed with Salopek work—to give it more than a glance-over, you can tell just by the names that he's only thinking in physical terms. As in, which teachers give him a boner. So you call your son during his lunch break to give him an earful. "You're not taking this seriously," you growl at him. "Ms. Willett? Mrs. Oliver? First of all, why the fuck do you think I want to be someone who has a husband?" "These are for you?" he asks. "Of course they're for fucking me!" You quickly close the door to your office, and lock it. "Who did you think they were—?" "I thought this was a partnership!" he sputters back. "I thought we were— Like with the kids you were having me research! Find a house where there's just two people, one for you and one for me." "So you want to be Mrs. Oliver?" "She's hot," he says, defensively. "And I'd be her husband? Yeah, you're not thinking this through," you snort when there's no answer. "Or you are, but you're thinking with your cock, not your—" "Okay, what exactly are we looking for now?" he snaps. "'Cos if it's a teacher, and if you want both of us in a house, it's probably gonna be husband and wife!" Alright, he's got you there, he's caught you not thinking things through. "Fine, point taken," you reply. "But I'd like it to be someone with a brain. I need to be someone at least as smart as my dad, 'cos this stuff is hard and I need all the help I can get." "So what's wrong with Mrs. Oliver?" "She's math. I think science would be—" "Mrs. Gambetta, then." "So you could be Mr. Gambetta?" "Mr. Gelding." That suggestion is like a hammer blow between the eyes. Mr. Gelding—a.k.a. "The Nutcracker"—is the hardest hard-ass at the school. He's not as old and decrepit as many of the teachers there, but he's not young, either. Oh, but there you go again, judging based on looks. You know exactly why Caleb is suggesting Mr. Gelding: because he has the reputation for also being the smartest teacher on staff at Westside. If anyone at the school could crack the challenge you've set yourself, it would be him. Also, you can sense that Caleb is trying to corner you into either accepting Mr. Gelding as a candidate, or into rejecting him for the same reason he is trying to suggest people like Mrs. Willett. Because they are attractive. "Okay, put Mr. Gelding on the list," you tell him. "Along with his wife. If he's got one." Caleb makes a slight choking noise. "I don't know if there is." "Then, lucky you, we can swap you in for—" "And what if he's got kids?" That stops you dead. Teachers? With kids? It hadn't occurred to you—and you could kick yourself—that they might. You certainly can't have kids in the house, not with the kind of thing you're planning. You'd have to put a mask on them, and that's not a step you want to take unless there's no other option. After a moment's heavy thought, during which you hear only Will's ragged breath over the phone, and the distant voices of kids shouting at Westside, you say, "How do we find out which teachers don't have kids?" * * * * * One of the perks of being the hardest-working (and maybe the most indispensable) man at Salopek is that you can take off from work early (or even in the middle of the day) for an hour without getting docked and without even having to get permission. So, at four-forty-five that same afternoon, you are parked out front of Westside High School. The school busses have gone, and the teacher's lot has been emptying. But the school is still busy with students doing extracurricular activities, teachers finishing up their work, and administrators wrapping up for the day. It is the latter you are interested in. Maybe. It was Caleb who suggested the obvious strategy for finding a suitable teacher at Westside: interview one of the administrators. But since you can't really "interview" such an administrator, not about the kind of personal information you need about the staff, you are going to have to use more ... intrusive ... methods. As you frown at the front doors to the school, your old truck finally pulls into the lot and parks next to you. Will hops out, then gets into the car with you. "Sorry, got caught in traffic," he says as he digs inside the plastic bag he's carrying. "We still got plenty of time. I think half the school's still here," you say. You look over as he pulls two masks out of the sack. You answer his grin with the query, "I thought I said we only need one." "I got one," he retorts. "And I got another one, just in case." "Just in case what? You mess up?" "Just in case we see a chance to score a second one! Dad!" he sasses. "Aren't you the one that's supposed to be thinking three steps ahead?" "Well, let's not rush into anything. I wasn't exactly planning on making a switch here, just on copying someone so we could— Jesus!" you exclaim, for Will has also pulled out the tub of the goop you need to enslave a mask to your control. "Always be prepared," he says. "We gonna use your hair or mine?" "We'll decide that after we decide if we're going to do a switch." "I still think we should be prepared." "Alright," you grumble. "Then we'll use mine." You reach up to pull the mask of your dad off—because you need to use your hair, not his—but Caleb stops you. "Hang on," he says, "we can't have two Will Prescotts sitting in a car together. One of you is bad news enough. I'll take off my mask first—" "You go inside and do it in a restroom," you growl. "I'll do it out here." You expect him to argue, but he opens the car door with a grin. "Great idea," he says. "And after that, I'll scout around the school, see who's left to grab." He hops out with the bag, but he does leave one mask for you. He sprints across the front quad for the school doors. * * * * * You set an alarm on your phone to wake you, so from the time you take your dad's mask off to the time you wake up back inside it (having clipped off some of your hair and put it on the dashboard in between), you lose only two minutes. The experience leaves you very groggy and a more than a little bad-tempered. So you ignore the text from Will, telling you that Mr. Gelding and Mrs. Gambetta are both still in their classrooms, and are the only teachers left in the science wing, and when he pokes you again you tell him to just keep still and watch. Two seconds after hitting "send," though, he lobs another text at you, suggesting that you ambush whichever teacher happens to be the last one in the Agricultural Annex in back of the school. You remind him that you're here to snag an administrator. Still, you have to admit he has a point. Maybe you should just grab a teacher. Even if they are not the best choice, a teacher—any teacher—would be a place to work from, at least toward a better alias. As it is, you are gambling that you can catch the last administrator in the building. Or what about the security guard, who you glimpse opening the door for Mrs. Epstein and Ms. Goretsky? He's a new guy, looking very young and fit. He's probably single. And he'd also have access to the school while being relatively invisible. You hesitate, then choose. Next: "Inheriting the Meek" |
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