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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Seduced by Steve Patterson"  You're woken with a start by the alert on your phone, and have pulled it out from under your pillow almost before you are awake. You shake yourself all over and glare at the screen. It's a text from Will Prescott, and a soft fuck escapes your mouth. You texted him last night before heading to the bar, to tell him what happened at the school. He texted back to say that he had never gotten a message from Chelsea after she cancelled the original meeting—which only confirms (to your mind) that the meeting was a set-up for a trap for you. You shut the conversation down after that, telling Jack there'd be time to talk in the morning. Then you turned Steve's phone off. Now Jack wants to meet—undoubtedly so he can wail and whine about having Steve Patterson stuck inside his old body. The shed thirty mins, you reply, then push yourself out of bed. * * * * * Temperatures are in the forties, but you are dressed in no more than long workout shorts and a hoodie when you saunter into The Shed, a diner/coffee bar in Acheson's little business district. It occupies the old post office—a brick building of little distinction—and is run by a seventy-something hippie couple, so all the coffees are fruity and organic and expensive. But the bakery goods are homemade and tasty. Will—that is to say, Jack—is hunched at a table in a corner when you come in, and his face whitens as you approach with your coffee and mutton."Can you believe this shit?" you snort as you hook the chair opposite him with your foot to draw it back and plop into it. "What shit?" he guardedly asks. "What do you think what shit? Look at me. Chelsea's got Patterson mixed up in it now." His expression is pinched. "So wha'dju even go out there for?" "She texted me! I thought she texted you, I thought we were going to have that show down! Lemme see your phone." You put out your hand. "I told you, she didn't text me! But what was Patterson doing out there?" "She texted him too, told him she wanted to talk to him about Gordon. Said she'd had another fight with him." You snort to yourself. "He told you this?" "I remember! Fuck, I remember everything." You rub your temple. Yes, you remember. You remember the three texts from Chelsea, pleading to meet on account of the fight she'd had with Gordon. (He'd even taken her phone from her, she said; that's why she was having to borrow Maria's.) You remember the clipped and brutal texts Patterson had sent back, telling her to take a cold shower and sleep on it, and you remember the gloating satisfaction over the crisis. And you remember thinking, on the drive up to the school to meet her, What can I tell her to do that'll really get Gordon mad at her, that'll really bust them up? And you remember her standing outside the gym, crying that Gordon had even taken the key from her, and that she needed to get up to the loft to get her stuff because this time, maybe, it really was all over. And you remember letting her in and leading her up to the loft, and smirking as she sniffled over the bag she'd brought to pack her shit up in. And you remember how she took something from it and leaped at you and smashed something into your face and then— Well, then you remember waking up naked on the tennis courts. You describe all this to Jack between sips of coffee. He asks if it really was Maria's phone that Chelsea was using, and you double-check to confirm that it was "Clover Mystery" whose phone she texted Patterson from. Jack wonders if that means Maria is also in on it, but you reply that an airhead like her can't be. "So what did you and ... Steve ... wind up doing last night?" he asks, an expression of loathing on his face. "I sent him back to your place, after I finished slapping him around." He starts. "You didn't." "Well I didn't slap him physically— "No, I mean—" He grips the edges of the table. "You didn't send him back to my place." His voice is strangled. "Did you?" "Of course I did. The fuck did you want me to do with him?" "But does he have my—? Does he remember—?" "Not last night. He'll have 'em this morning, if the same thing happens with him as happened with you." "But what if he doesn't?" "Then he'll call and tell me and I'll go get him, and then you'll have to tell him—" "Oh, Jesus!" "Oh, come on! Does it really make that much of a fucking difference if it's him or me who's—?" But you're distracted by a figure flashing past a nearby window. You think you recognize her, but you turn in your seat to confirm when the door opens and she comes in. It's Stephanie Wyatt. Stephanie is a jock, and she's a scary one, the way Patterson is a scary jock. In fact, they're like sex-swapped versions of each other. The only difference, aside from the sexual characteristics, is in the color of their eyes: Where Patterson's eyes are a cold grey, Stephanie's are a hot green. She's dressed out for exercise now, in purple running shorts that show off her strong, well-tanned thighs and calves, and an off-white t-shirt that shows off her large, firm boobs. Her auburn hair is bobbed short. Her face, turned in profile as she orders at the front counter, is regular and handsome rather than pretty, with deep-set eyes under a strong brow. Her cute little pug nose is the only real concession to female beauty that she makes. But she's got a body to die for, and Patterson has frequently suffered a "little death" in the still watches of the night after fantasizing into a sock over her firm breasts and hips and legs. If she's not a dyke—and there's lots of speculation that she is—she is probably an absolute tigress in the sack. "Oh, shit," Will murmurs, and you turn to cock an eyebrow at him. "Don't you have church?" you ask him. He makes a face, and knocks back the rest of his coffee. "I wanna get together this afternoon," he says as he rises. "I guess I should meet with the um— other guy." "Yeah, we'll do that." Your legs are stretched out, and you don't withdraw them, so that he has to high step over them as he goes. He shoots you a quick and dirty look as he does, and almost bumps into Stephanie, who is coming over. "Hey Stephanie," he says. "Prescott," she says. "Where you going?" "I gotta get home, get ready for church." "Huh, well I'll see you around." She watches his back as he shuffles for the door, then turns to you. "I never see you around here, Patterson," she says. "I never see you around here either, Wyatt. My bad luck." You hold each other's eyes, and you don't bother to shift to hide the swelling erection she's giving you. "How's your brother?" "He's fine." "He still holding that spot open for me?" Stephanie's older brother, Kevin, attends Duke, and plays on their team. "I haven't talked to him about you in a long time." "We're going to state this year," you remind her. "He can read about it online if you do." You feel a muscle in your jaw twinge—with that last remark she at last got to you. Not that you're going to admit it. "Why don't you sit down?" you offer, and glance at your plate. "I still got a whole muffin to get through." She holds up the paper bag she's clutching. "I just stopped in to get something to go." "You live around here?" "Down by the river. You don't live around here, I know that much." You grunt. "I wanted to try someplace new." "Oh, so that's how come you've never seen me around." Her eyes glint with light triumph. "You're a virgin here." "Yeah," you drawl. "But if you're a regular, maybe I'll start coming here regular too." "It's kind of expensive." "It's only money, Wyatt. What am I supposed to do with it if I don't spend it?" "Well, don't spend it all in one place." She glances down, obviously at the giant boner you're pointing at her, and flushes slightly. "And don't get any ideas about spending it on me." "Gonna do you a favor one of these days, Wyatt," you call after her. "Gonna sink a three-pointer in your basket an' make you cheer like you never cheered before." There's real anger in the look she flashes over her shoulder at you, but you only chuckle. * * * * * The Pattersons don't attend church, so you've the late morning to yourself, which you fill by jogging around the neighborhood: nothing serious, just enough to warm up and get the blood pumping good. Back home you shower and scrub and shave and dress in fresh shorts and a fresh hoodie, then pack up school books in your bag. It's almost noon, which makes it time to do what Patterson usually does on a Sunday: go up to the school, ostensibly to study, but really to hang out for a couple of hours in the loft with Gordon, Steve's best friend and the captain of the basketball team. If you're lucky, it will only be him and Jason Lynch won't be there too. But on the way out to your car you're interrupted in your private thoughts by a text. It's Will, telling you that he's set up a three-way meeting with you and "Jack" for twelve-thirty at the shed. You suck in a cheek and give the matter some thought. You do need to meet with the other two guys, and you probably should be there to act as a buffer between them. But you're also supposed to meet Gordon. Sunday afternoons are a boys'-only thing, but there's a pretty good chance that Chelsea—feeling safe in Gordon's company—will attend today, to gloat silently over you and your predicament if nothing else. So you'd like to be there for that, in case there's a chance of getting her alone. Next: "Conference Play" |
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