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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Trap of One's Own Making"  You glance between the two tables. At one: Elle and Leah and Laura and Jack and their friends. At the other, Maria and Chelsea. No one seems to be paying attention to you. What does it mean? you wonder. If I'm being catfished by Clover Mystery, how come all the people I DMed showed up here, just like I asked? A dreadful thought occurs to you: What if it's all these girls who've been doing it to me? What if they've all been in on it, all been lying to me, have all been—! You clutch your head and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to yell, you want to upend the table, you want to punch someone or something hard. But you find you can't even move. All your muscles are locked up too tight with fury and horror. * * * * * Gradually, the tension drains from your limbs, but it leaves you exhausted. You slump in your booth, and when you lift your coffee to your lips, you find it has gone cold. Fuck this, you mutter to yourself, and heave yourself to your feet. You hadn't even bothered to unpack your bag as you waited, which at least saves you the trouble of packing it up again. But you are so drained that you almost pull yourself down when you try hefting it to your shoulder. "Hey Prescott," a jeering voice calls, and you turn. It's one of Jack's friends, the one with the Trolls hair. Adam, you vaguely recall his name is. Adam Dork, or something like that. "You taking off?" he calls. "Where's your study date?" he adds when you reply by making a face at him. "They didn't show up." "You sure?" His grin is like a leer. "Maybe they're just invisible, like some of the girls you've been seeing!" You glare murder at him, but he doesn't see, for he's whirled suddenly. "What?" he demands of the table, where people are gasping. "I'm just giving him shit." Everyone's giving me shit, you bitterly reflect as you trudge out of the coffee shop. * * * * * You spend the rest of the evening curled up on your bed, paralyzed with shame and horror. You rouse yourself enough to send DMs to Meryl_Elle, Laura Mac, and the rest of the crew, asking why they never showed up. You figure their replies, whatever they say, will be informative. Maybe they figure the same thing too, for they keep silent. You drag yourself to school the next morning, and all the way there you rehearse arguments you could give your mom and dad for why you should be withdrawn from Westside, to transfer to Eastman, or to the Christian school, or to be homeschooled, or to be sent away to another city where no one knows you. You can hardly bear the sight of the place. So it's a surprise—not a pleasant one, but a surprise nonetheless—when you hear your name called in a cheery voice as you're shuffling across the parking toward the gym. You can't help wincing as you glance back in answer, though, and you're not cheered to see that it's Laura MacGregor calling. "Wow, don't take this the wrong way, Will," she says as runs up to join you, "but my dad would say you look lower than whale shit." "Thanks," you retort. "No, come on," she says as she pokes you. "It's not that bad." "Who says?" "Well, what's it about, then?" "Nothing." "Come on, Will," she pleads. "Is your dad or mom in the hospital or something?" She grabs at you as you start to turn away. "Don't be mad at me!" "I'm not mad at you." "Are you sure? Why didn't come over to our table last night? When your study date didn't show up?" She peers at you when you don't answer. "Is that what you're mad about? You got stood up?" You turn and stalk off. But she's not to be put off, and hurries after you. "Listen, you should've come over. We were studying ... Well, having fun pretending to study, and you could've—" "I didn't want to crash your party. And you didn't ask." "Well, we shouldn't have to. Will!" She grabs and pulls you to a stop. "Come on," she cajoles you. "Let's do something after school, at least." "I'm busy." "Doing what? Moping?" She grabs you by the shoulder and hauls you around to face her. "Will," she says, "if someone's trying to friendly, don't be unfriendly back, or they'll stop trying to be friendly with you." You can't help rolling your eyes. Why does she think you stopped being friendly with her and her friends, except because they stopped being friendly with you? But you listen without arguing when she suggests getting together with just a small group. "I'll pick 'em out, no one from last night," she promises you, "in case you're mad at one of them. You're not mad at me, are you?" she asks in a small voice. "No, I'm not mad at you," you assure her with a sigh. "Then I won't ask who you are mad at. I'm really sorry what you've been going through, lately," she says, and her eyes fill with a liquid concern. "You know, I liked us reconnecting, and I don't want to see it go, you know, kerfluiey!" You nod vacantly at her. "Great! Listen, keep your DMs open. I got rehearsal after school, but I'll let you know what we're doing. And don't worry, it'll be something new!" She turns and flies off toward the theater wing. Only after she's gone do you remember that you should have told her to text you. You don't want to get any more DMs through x2z. * * * * * The day passes listlessly and without distinction. Caleb and Keith are decent to you, and continue to say nothing about that "intervention" the other day. Your heart continues to be heavy, even after you get a text—not a DM—from Laura, telling you that meet-ups have been planned at the old State Theater on Adams Boulevard. Christian Padilla is setting up hope u don't mind him, she says. You only shoot her a short acknowledgement. You're not real fond of Padilla—he's one of the gay drama queens who hangs around Charles Hartlein—but you can't help but feel heartened when you get a DM direct from him, telling you of the same arrangement. You reply that you already heard from Laura, and that you'll be there; he replies that he's surprised she remembered to tell you. Given that the meet-up is at the State Theater, and that Padilla is involved, you figure it will be a drama club thing, so you're not actually looking forward to it. But by five-thirty you are parked behind the theater and are searching for a way in. Which is hard to do because, to your astonishment, the building appears to be abandoned. You didn't really know the place, which is why you were grateful when Padilla gave you the address. It's a withered, decrepit building of tan brick, very old, and built in a vaguely Art Deco style, with a spike-like decorative pillar shooting up from behind a red-and-white marquee: dangling bits of iron suggest the pillar once flaunted a sign. But the lobby doors are all closed off behind faded red plywood; a circuit of the building reveals some emergency exits lacing external handles, and one side door above a narrow stoop. You're not sure you're at the right place, so you DM Padilla. Lol already here, he replies not thirty seconds later. Come in. So you pull at the handle of the side door, and it pops right open. It leads into a small space that must have once been an office: there are still some metal-frame cabinets in one corner. After propping the exterior door open you look behind the one interior door. A stench of old, dry mildew rolls out, and you gag and retch. It's almost pitch dark on the other side, and there's just enough light for you to make out a tattered red carpet on the floor. "Hello?" you call out. "Christian?" There's no answer, which leaves you feeling ill. If he's here—and he said he was—why doesn't he come out to meet you? Shit, you think after mulling the possibilities, for the obvious answer is that he's probably hiding in the auditorium, and he's going to pop out and surprise you and think it's a big joke. Unless he's not here, and this whole thing is another goof at your expense. Neither answer leaves you feeling happy, and it's with gloomy presentiments of persecutions to come that you shuffle down the hallway. The gloom deepens, until it's so dense that only the breath of cold air on your cheeks, and the rasping echo of your feet on creaking wood, tell you that you've stepped into an open space. There's a rustle behind you. But before you can react, something lightly touches the back of your head. You briefly have the crazy impression that someone has silently slammed a window shut nearby, and you know no more. * * * * * You wake with a grunt and a grimace, and blink at the darkness. What the fuck? you wonder with no little irritation. You are laying on your back on a hard surface, and are quite chilly. With a hiss you sit up and rub your face and eyes, hoping that a little circulation will get the brain working again, so you'll remember where you are and why— You freeze, then look down at yourself. Why I'm not wearing any clothes. You loose another seething hiss. Okay, this is now totally fucked up. Then something soft touches your back, and you whirl. Two realizations hit you at once. The first—and it's a relief—is that it's only your hair and not a spider web that is settling about your shoulders. It does that at the end of the day, when all the hold has gone out of the spray. The second—and this is hardly a relief—is that only Adam Dortch has hair like you just felt settle onto your back. Next: "Four in the Dark" |
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