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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Theater of One"  You're only able to talk a little more with Brittney before she has to cut it off. She ends by inviting you to her "Poker Tuesday" party tomorrow night. "It's just a little thing we've started doing since I met Jeremy." She giggles. "He likes his poker, and Tuesdays are the only nights we're both free, so—" She shrugs. "I thought you said you'd only been dating him for two weeks." "Oh, that's how long we've been dating. We've been, you know, seeing each other for a little longer than that." She scrunches her nose in a way that she thinks is adorable, and blushes again. She always could blush on cue, you find yourself thinking. Too bad its a skill that doesn't really work on stage. You promise that you will come to her house tomorrow for poker night, and ask if you can bring a date of your own. She gasps an "Of course!", and you can tell she's dying to ask who it is. But you blunt her question with an enigmatic smile and repeat that you'll see her tomorrow night. Jeremy Short may be a hunk, but so is Paul Griffin. And he's younger and he's been in television and movies! * * * * * Angela Crosby was a mutual acquaintance whose name got dropped while talking to Brittney. You haven't seen Angela in awhile, but Brittney did confirm that she still works at DAUM, an expensive boutique on the edge of town, facing Beverly Hills. In fact, Brittney said, though I might be wrong so don't quote me, but in fact I think she's part-owner now! It wouldn't surprise you. Of all the girls that Gianna knew when she was still acting professionally, Angela was the one everyone thought would go the farthest. Even though she wasn't an actress. And even though she is black. Gianna met Angela when they both worked at Caravan, a women's clothing store specializing in "exotic" clothing. Angela, who is tall, regal, statuesque, and reserved in the manner of a Maasai warrior-woman, was a natural for the store, and it was both awe-inspiring and somewhat sickening to watch middle-aged white women grovel for her approval, both of themselves and their purchasing choices. Angela was never less than polite, but the difference between her approval and disapproval could only be detected in the slight difference in warmth when she said, "I think that will work for you." She wasn't an actress, but she did some modeling, but mostly she was known by friends and colleagues for her stab at being a fashion influencer online. But both her YouTube channel and her Tumblr account, the last time Gianna checked, had gone un-updated for months, and her subscriber count was never very large. Maybe it was on account of her already being in her late twenties; maybe she was just too "cool" and "aloof" for video. But the quarter-successful attempt did give Angela cachet in her circle. She and Gianna (and everyone else) had to find other work when Caravan closed, but Angela was quickly hired by DAUM when it opened in the same location. And she might now be a co-owner in the store now? You can't help wondering what that means, as Angela was never one to save up her money. She could only have a financial interest in the store if the owner gave her one. And why would its owner do that? You can think of only a couple of reasons, none of them very flattering to Angela. Still, she's another candidate for conversion to the Brotherhood, so after leaving Bruges you make a side trip to DAUM, which is still open. The clerk (when she deigned to speak to you after you barged up with an "Excuse me") coolly informs you that "Ms. Crosby" isn't here, and she takes the card you give her (along with the request to mention to Angela that you stopped by) as though it's a dead cockroach. Your flesh is cold on your bones as you leave the store. * * * * * You've got a very passive-aggressive text from Sydney (How r things going?) but you don't answer it until you get home and have made yourself a hot tea. Then you call her directly. "I'm still looking, Sydney," you tell her. "It doesn't have to be someone perfect, Will," she says. "But you want someone who's good," you tell her. "I thought I had someone picked out for you tonight, one of Gianna's old friends from back when she was still acting, but—" But after thinking of Angela, you are less than impressed with Brittney. "Well, I've got some other, better ideas," you lamely conclude. "Well, if you can get just someone at school—" "I'm trying to get you one of Gianna's old friends," you interrupt. "I know them better than I know any of the kids at school. Why are you so hot to get out of Becky's mask, Sydney? It's on account of drama, isn't it?" She doesn't answer. "Well, I don't know who at school is suffering from 'drama'. Probably most of them, right? But with Gianna's friends—" "Okay, I get it, Will," she says. "Only, I kind of thought we were going to be people our own age. You know. Not middle-aged people with responsibilities." She says the last word as though it's a synonym for "herpes." "Gianna is not middle-aged!" you retort, for the gibe has stung you. "And her friend aren't either! And I'm just looking for one person, someone you can be, like, soon. We can still go back to the high school. Though maybe," you add, "you should let me go in first, scout around—" "We can talk about that later, Will," she says with crisp decision. "Just find someone who works." "Is it really that bad, Sydney?" you ask. "Being Becky?" Her sigh is ragged. "I'm finding out how much I got by on my looks back when I was me," she says, and her tone is haggard. "When I moved to Saratoga Falls, everything was okay, it was good, because everyone was nice to me. Because I—" She falls silent. "Because you looked like a hot cheerleader," you finish for her. "Ye-es," she sighs. "You looked like a hot cheerleader," you repeat. "I know, Sydney, because I saw you. I couldn't take my eyes off you. I—" The words come tumbling out almost before you know what you're saying: "I fucked over my best friend, Sydney, I used black magic, just so I could get close to you and talk to you. God, I am so crazy about you!" You throw yourself back onto the sofa, splay your legs out, and rub your pussy through the front of your slacks. Sydney giggles. "I'm crazy about you too, Will. Every night, when I'm with Paul—" She catches herself. You too are a little shocked at the implication of what she was about to say. So shocked that again you can't stop yourself from speaking. "Are you still letting your dad fuck you?" "Oh, every night, Will," she groans. "Because— I know I was giving you shit when you were wearing his mask. He's such a fucking narcissist, he's such a goose-brained ninny—" You don't remember feeling or acting like a "goose-brained ninny" when you were being Paul, but you don't interrupt. "—but he was you, and being with him was my first time being with you, Will! I miss you, but he's here, and when he cums inside me I pretend that it's you!" "You can come over," you suggest. "Not tonight," she says, but there's a note of reluctance in her gasp. "Tomorrow night?" "I've got something— Oh, yes!" You recall now Brittney's invitation. "You and Paul need to come over tomorrow. I'm supposed to go to a poker party at a friend's house, and I want Paul along as my date!" "And me?" She sounds skeptical, and you instantly see her point. "Well, you should come over too," you say. "Paul will be— Well, he won't be my 'date' exactly, just sort of my date, and you can come along because, well—" Okay, there doesn't seem to be a good way to justify the presence of a teenage girl at a poker party for thirty- and forty-somethings. "Well, we'll just say that I suggested he bring her. You can sulk if you want." "Will." "You can get a look at one of the girls I'm thinking of for you. She's the one who invited me out." "Alright," she sighs. "It can't be any more awkward than what happened to me in Gamma period today." "What happened to you in Gamma?" "Never mind. It was just a 'for instance' for myself." * * * * * After closing the connection, you kill thirty minutes by checking on your various social sites, then with a groan you decide to be a good teacher and write up some lesson plans for the morrow. You're interrupted by a text by Angela—which is blessed relief—asking you to Skype her. You get on your laptop and eagerly open the app. It's a shock when Angela's window opens. Not on account of Angela. She looks the same as ever, with an oval, agelessly flawless face with a calm gaze and large eyes. These have been touched up a little at the corners with kohl, and she wears dark lipstick, giving her a slightly "Nubio-Egyptian" look. Her hair, though, she is now wearing short, and she's no longer straightening it. Instead, it bursts from the top of her head in a great mop that curves out stiffly to fall just to the top of her jawline. No, the shock is how professionally she has set up her camera. There is none of the leering "fish eye lens" look you usually get on a Skype call; instead, her picture has the flatly framed aspect of a TV monitor, and she herself is poised midway between the camera and the chocolate-creamy bookcase behind, like a news anchor. Did she set this up herself? You rather doubt it. It was probably one of the dozens of boyfriends she's undoubtedly had since you last spoke to her. So struck are you by the tableaux she presents that you surreptitiously take a screenshot to show Sydney. Angela's own testimony about the success of the shop, and the gigs she's getting as a model, only confirm her as an attractive possibility for your girlfriend. Next: "Meet the Morrows" |
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