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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Surprises in Store"  You stare at him. Does he really not even know your name? "Do you know what I drive?" you cautiously ask. "I told you, I don't even know—!" "Alright, alright! Fuck. Look, that's my truck over there." You point. "Let's just meet at ... where I said. We'll talk there." He gives you a sour look, then stalks over to your truck. You watch as he fishes keys out of his pockets, and tries one or two before finding the right one. * * * * * Now you're more nervous than ever. Not that you'd like for him to know all about you, inside and out. But you know him inside and out—easily, naturally, intuitively. It would have been awkward enough squatting in the old storm drain, with you knowing its history, and him knowing that you know its history. But at least he would have known all of your history too, all the things that you wouldn't like other people knowing about, even if they're not as ... awkward ... as some of the things you know about him. But now ... It's going to be really hard looking him in the eye. * * * * * So when you reach the old gulch that runs through his neighborhood, you gesture him over to where you've parked. "Look," you tell him, "let's not—" You nod at the metal grill that covers the mouth of the culvert. "Let's just talk here. What do you know about me?" "Nothing," he replies with a sulky glower. "You know where I live? My family? My birthday? Not even a hint?" He shakes his head. "And not even my name. Fuck." "What about you?" His voice is dark with anxiety. "You know this place." "Yeah. And I know about ... Well, I know your name and family and everything. Your address. Your locker number and combo." You lick your lips. "Last Saturday, up at the Warehouse. I'm not spying on you!" you protest, though he hasn't said anything. "I just ... know?" "How?" "I don't know! How did I get like this?" You press your hands to your chest. "How did you get like—?" "It's got something to do with Leah." "No shit! Except she says she was with Brianna all afternoon, and Brianna says—" "Then Brianna's lying." "I guess," you sigh. But even though it's the only possible solution, Brianna Kirschke, you feel, is a very truthful girl. How do I know that? you wonder. Oh, right. Chris feels like she's a very truthful girl. "So we go find Leah," he says. "Sure. Except she's eating dinner now. She said she was on her way home." You take out your phone. "Afterward, though. I'll tell her we want to meet her after dinner." He's silent as you tap in a text—having swapped clothes, you are also texting from Chris's phone—but when you're done he says, "Look, I'm trying not to freak out, but I really want to know how come you know about ... where I live and stuff, and I don't know anything about you." "We have to ask Leah." "What if she doesn't tell us?" "She has to," you reply, though feeling less certain than you would wish. "If this is some kind of ... prank ... there's no point in playing it and then not 'fessing up." * * * * * But it looks like you're not going to find out, at least not anytime soon. Leah texts back to say that she has to stay in the rest of the evening to do homework, and when you ask if you can stop by, she tries putting you off by saying that she'll talk to you tomorrow. When you insist, she finally relents and says that you can come over for "a few minutes." But she cuts it short when you finally do meet. "I don't know what you're talking about!" she insists while leaning against her front door as you and Will glower at her from the patio. "I was with Brianna all afternoon! And Susie!" "Bullshit," you insist. "You were at Eastman with us. In the drama storeroom. With Chris and me!" "Chris who?" You sigh. "With him and me," you say, pointing to Will. "We were all gonna meet Jack and Elle and Laura there, and you showed up too—" "Well, I didn't! And so what if I didn't? Brianna and me—" "Leah," Will says in a heavy voice. "Change us back." Her face twists up in bewilderment. Then she shakes her head and says, "Guys, you won the dare, or whatever the frick this is. I'll see you tomorrow at school." "Leah!" "I'll see you tomorrow!" She shuts the door in your face. You ring the doorbell a couple of times, but it's her father that answers, and one look at his face tells you that it will be the police you talk to next if you don't get off his patio. You and Will turn and leave. "I guess we talk to her tomorrow," he says. "She's gonna make it stick." "Then we better get ready for it." You grip him by the arm and pull him back to your vehicles. This time you drive out to Acheson, to the community center, you taking the lead and him following. There, you climb into the truck with him, and after taking a deep sigh you start to give him your biography. "Your name, I guess, for tonight at least, is William Martin Prescott. You live at—" You go over it all a couple of times, in bite-size chunks, quizzing him on what you've told him as you go. Thank God he has a quick and retentive memory, at least when he focuses on using it. "Caleb Johansson," he instantly answers after you ask who he sits next to in Mr. Walberg's class. "I've also got him for English, fourth period, Ms. Gladstone's class. Him and me and Keith—" "Keith who?" "Tilley. We usually eat lunch together behind G wing during fifth period. He—Caleb—wanted me to get him a job at his dad's work—" "Which is?" "Salopek. And your brother's name is Robert and he goes to Schuyler Middle School." "Okay, now let me tell you about Carson Ioeger and James Lamont, in case you wind up having lunch with them tomorrow." You don't want to separate for the night—that would mean committing to your new "roles" as Will Prescott and Chris Love—but it is undeniably a relief when you watch him drive slowly away. You sit for awhile longer, your forehead resting against the steering wheel. But when a text comes in from Chris's mom—Are you staying out all night?—you turn the engine over and head for his house. * * * * * Chris and his brother Patrick live with their mom near Hochstetter Park, in one of the older and poorer neighborhoods in town. Patrick, who is twenty-six, makes a decent living as a pesticide control man, but it's his fifth job in as many years because he seems congenitally incapable of settling into any kind of steady job or role in life. Their mom, who is in her fifties, works retail at the mall. Between the two of them, there would be enough income to live someplace better. But no one is much inclined to move. Patrick is apparently out drinking with his buddies—his drinking has cost him two of his last three jobs; the other two, he just told his boss to go fuck himself and walked out—so it's just Christina Love in the living room when you get home. "Were you out studying?" she asks without looking up from the TV. "Some," you reply, and hoist the book bag higher onto your shoulder. "I still got some stuff to finish up." Her lips press together primly, and you duck down the short hall to the bedroom that Chris and Patrick still share. Luckily, some French homework is all you've got to get through for tomorrow, so you scribble that out—marveling a little that you can imitate Chris's handwriting perfectly—and then you brush your teeth and undress, pull on some loose-fitting pajama bottoms, and get in bed. You're awoken some time later by the rumble of Patrick coming in—he reeks of beer and weed—but pretend still to be asleep as he fumbles in the dark. He is snoring hard long before you've fallen back asleep, though. He's dead to the world—not even snoring—when you wake the next morning. It's early, and you want to get out of the house quickly, so you pack a gym bag with shampoo and soap and a change of clothes, then sneak out while it's almost still dark. At the school, you are tapping a text to Chris's mom, explaining that you left early, when you get a text from "Will Prescott": Remind me again what your locker combo is. Next: "Love, Prescott Style" |
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