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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Into the Deep End"  Me and Sydney were never going out together. That's the false confession you made to Nathan Cruz. So who had the wrong idea—you or Sydney? That was his sneering retort. No answer would sound good, so you just turn your back and walk away. It may be your imagination, but you think you hear him snicker. * * * * * The truck your gang is clustering around belongs to Tony Peterson, a hard-faced wrestler whose scowl is in no way softened by the soft bouffant of curly locks that's piled, like a clown wig, atop his head. When it's time to head over to the Warehouse—and the decision seems to be made all at once, though by no one in particular—he gets in the cab and you and a bunch of others (including Nathan, to your dismay) pile into the bed. There's a lot of happy screaming from the girls as the truck jumps and rockets from the parking lot; the guys laugh as they catch the girls and hold them as the truck swings violently into the street. But you're wedged between two guys, and can only bump shoulders with them as the truck rocks and sways down the boulevard. The Warehouse is a black and dismal hulk, but the parking lot, which is rapidly filling, is washed by the acrid glare of vapor lamps. Tony parks the truck and revs the motor once before killing it, and everyone starts hopping out over the sides. You jostle one of those interchangeable brunette girls when you land. She grins up at you. "Hi," she says. "Hi." "You're Will, right? I'm Emmy." "Hey." There's an awkward silence, and then her glance and smile falter before she turns away. You can practically read her mind: Jerk. You sigh and follow as the pack moves off toward the Warehouse. The double doors are open, and a deep whoomp-whoomp of dance music is spilling out, along with loud voices and laughter. You have to run a gauntlet of muscled assholes in red shirts to get past, and you are both startled and alarmed to see that one of them is Blake O'Brien. If he spots and recognizes you, though, he makes no sign. Inside, on the left, accessible through a giant doorway, you glimpse a dance hall open all the way up to the roof. There's a stage on the far side, where a DJ and his equipment are set up under colored lights. Crowds of shadowy bodies writhe on the floor between it and you. Opposite is a makeshift saloon under a low ceiling, with booths, tables and chairs, and a bar of plywood sheets and sawhorses behind which stand a dozen kids surrounded by crates of snacks, food, beer, liquor, and more. Your group busts up into smaller groups, with a few hooking a left onto the dance floor, but most of the rest move into the saloon. Here the group breaks up even further. You stick close to Adam and Catherine, both because he's the one who invited you along, and because Ben—who you feel most comfortable and familiar with—is also with him. To your relief, you're in line to buy nothing worse than a beer, though the price (fifteen dollars) nearly gives you a heart attack. You collect it and follow the strutting Adam (who has Catherine pulled close to his side) and Ben over to a booth already occupied by a guy and two girls, and you all squeeze in together. No one introduces you, though you can't shake the impression that the other three are glancing over at you curiously. Talk is light, about topics you can't follow, until Adam drawls, "We came out here from Andrea's." The guy you joined—blonde, soft and burly, but with the friendly, dopey face—looks startled. "Andrea?" he says. "Andrea Andrea?" "The Andrea," Adam confirms with a cocky lift of his chin. His glance slides sideways toward you. "That's where we picked up Prescott." That gets you three brief but direct glances. "So how'd you wind up Andrea's?" the guy asks. "She called me. Us." Adam pulls Catherine closer, and kisses her on the temple. "Said she was bored, wanted someone to come over and hang out." "Whoa, why didn'cha call me?" "'Cos she was looking for people who aren't lame." That quip earns him a flip of the middle finger. The girl next to him (who has pulled her dark hair back in a bun) leans toward you with an intense look. "Aren't you going out with Sydney McGlynn?" she says. It sounds almost like an accusation. You can't quite stifle a sigh. "We went on a couple of dates." "I heard you were going out together." "Well—" "Prescott was over at Andrea's when we got there," Adam drawls. "Just the two of them." You mutter, "She called me first," but your words are lost beneath Ben's startled, squealing laugh. "But you're not going out with Sydney?" the girl presses. You suck in a deep breath. "No." That earns you a hard, disbelieving stare. Finally, she shrugs and says, "I thought you were going out with her." "Where'd you hear that?" Adam asks. "Reagan Hackett." Adam swallows a mouthful of beer before saying, "Reagan would know." "I know, right?" The girl gives you another doubtful look. You shrug and look away. Perhaps sensing your discomfort, the girl next to her changes the topic to Nathan and his girlfriend. It gives you spiteful pleasure to learn that they're unhappy with each other. * * * * * But there's worse to come. The group in the booth has split and reformed, and split and reformed again, leaving you with Meghan Farris, Ben Gunnison, and a couple of Adam's friends whose names you don't know, when you feel a hand clamp like a claw onto your shoulder. You look up. You flinch, even before you recognize Reagan Hackett. She scowls down at you and says, "Hey Will, can I talk to you a minute?" The request is framed as a question, but the way her fingers dig into your shoulder tells you that it's an order. You struggle onto your feet, and follow her over to a corner of the saloon near the back wall. "What've you been telling people about you and Sydney?" she bluntly demands when she's got you alone. "Nothing." Her eyes narrow. "You mean haven't been talking about her and you? You haven't been talking to Nathan or—" "I'm not talking about her. People've been asking me—" "So what have you been telling them?" she demands in a steely voice. "That we're not going out," you confess. "I mean," you stammer as Reagan's stare hardens. "We're not!" "I know you're not," Reagan says, "and do you have any idea what a shit you were about it?" "What do you mean?" "Do you have any fucking idea how hard Sydney's taking it?" You are momentarily bewildered. Sydney? Broken up about our break up? We fucked each other this afternoon! In Andrea Varnsworth's bed! Then you recollect that Reagan must be talking about the pedowhatsis Sydney left behind in her place. "She's better off without me," you stammer. "Oh, fuck you!" Reagan grabs your ear and a fistful of your hair, and gives you a rude shove. "She liked you, Will! And you—!" "We didn't hit it off," you improvise. "What the fuck?" "She needs someone better than me, someone who can—" You glance around. "She needs someone like Blake over there!" "Oh, what the fuck do you know—?" "Am I supposed to go out with her just because you think—?" "You're an asshole, Will! Maybe she is better off without you!" She shoves past you, almost knocking you off your feet. Stung, you shout after her, "Did she tell you why I had to break up with her?" Reagan wheels and glares. Then her expression twists into one of sweet contempt. "Yes," she says. "She says you broke up with her because David Kirkham made you!" She wheels around again and stalks off. * * * * * Well, that tears it for you. It's pretty clear that's going to be the story all around school, if it isn't already, which it probably is. No wonder you're getting pointed questions from every direction. You're not having much fun anyway, and you don't want any more "fun" like you've been getting. So you text Kirkham and tell him to come pick you up, then find Ben long enough to tell him that you're leaving—he at least has the grace to look surprised at that—and go out to loiter in the parking lot. You're out there long enough that you have to hide between cars when a pack of red-shirted football players makes a quick round of the lot. "Hey, so how was your Saturday night?" Kirkham asks after you've jumped into his car. He grins at you around the toothpick. "Gotta be fuckin' frank with you, boss, I never pictured you coming out here." "It wasn't fun. Just take me home." "Which is where?" The question floors you, until you realize that David Kirkham had no way of knowing where you live. "Acheson," you tell him. But on the drive out you text Andrea, to ask if she has time to talk. And you almost drop the phone when she asks if you can come out and spend the night with her. Next: "Fun and Punishment" |
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