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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Dinner with Brenda"  There's a couple of places you could take Brenda dancing, but you pick Legends because you get the feeling it's about her speed: a nice, bright, unthreatening place, but with enough music and motion that she'll think it's exciting. On the drive out you ask if she's ever been, and she gives exactly the answer you'd expect: Only a couple of times but it was great! The parking lot has yet to fill up, for it's early yet, but there are knots of people—college people mostly, by the looks of it—hanging out front. A couple of them you recognize as Eastman people, and you notice that they notice you, but you pay them no heed. As you approach the door, you drape a loose arm over Brenda's shoulder. The bruiser out front looks at your IDs and directs you to the under-21 dance floor. You can tell by the look he gives you that he recognizes you from all the other times you've come out, and gotten into the over-21 floor with a different ID. The lounge is dimly lit but with accents of harsh, bright light over the (non-alcoholic) bar; the tables and booth are like solid shadows; and the air thumps with a beat sounding from behind a pair of heavy doors at the other end. You guide Brenda up to the bar, where a twenty-something bartender gives you a cola and Brenda an iced coffee (your suggestion). As drinks are not allowed in the dance room, you take a table in a corner where you can see the door. "Who'd you come out here with? When you came?" you ask her. "Oh, just the girls. Marjorie and Nancy. Nicole." "Who'd you dance with?" "I danced with Corey." She giggles. "And after that, I'm, like, never again. " "I'm sure you were fine. Or did you mean Corey?" She laughs. "What about you? I bet you're a good dancer." "I'm too tall. I look I'm bouncing on pogo sticks." "You know who's a good dancer?" she exclaims. "Jack Li! You now him?" You grunt. "I know who he is." "Oh my God! He could be, like, a professional!" Jack Li is an Asian-American senior, a member of the marching band's color guard, and a fairly popular guy who is gay as fuck. It doesn't surprise you that he's a good dancer. It may surprise you just a touch that his name has come up around you twice in as many days. "If he comes in," you reply, "I'll let you dance with him." "Oh my God! I couldn't!" Brenda hides her face. "I didn't say you had to, I just said I'd let you." You reach over to drag her chair—with her in it—around the table to bring her closer. "And if any of your other friends show up, I'll let you dance with them too." You stretch to put your arm over her shoulder again. "You can have whatever fun you want. Just as long as you come back to me." Even in the dim light, you can tell that she is blushing deeply. * * * * * You kill just enough time to finish your drinks, then move into the dance room, where a guy on a platform at the far end is making the music. It's a lot harder to hear each other talk over the pounding music, but that's part of your plan for the night: relieve you and her of the need for small talk. You guide her over to one of the booths that line the back wall, where you squeeze close. Again, you drop an arm over her shoulder and let your hand dangle just inches from her breast. After a minute of hesitation, she slides her arm behind your back and around your waist. With your free hand you grab her hand and put it on your stomach, covering it with your own. But your attention is on the dance floor, where a half-dozen pairs of kids are twisting and jerking awkwardly to the music. Together, you and Brenda watch them without speaking. Five minutes in, you turn your head and put your nose into her hair, inhaling its scent and nuzzling her gently. Another five minutes pass and you resettle yourself, dropping your arm behind her to cradle her waist, and to press an open palm against her warm thigh. She scoots up a little closer to you, and hugs you a little more tightly. You shift again, turning a little toward her, and throwing your free arm across so you can clasp your arms around her. You bury your face in her hair, and maul the side of her head gently with your nose. She seems to liquify in your arms. You hold her this way for a few minutes, then release her with the excuse that you've "got to run a short errand." In the men's room you take a nice long pee, wash your hands and comb your hair again in the mirror, and visualize the rest of the evening. On the way out you pause, washed over by a sudden dizziness. Again, there's the feeling that the floor is much farther away than it should be, and it's paired with the giddy, self-conscious realization that you're playing someone else's game, and that you're playing it by playing them. Brenda has her phone out when you return, and she starts guiltily and puts it away when you sit down beside her again. "You bored?" you ask her. "No, I just got a text!" she shouts back over the bass thump of the music. "They checking up on you?" "It was Marjorie! She and everyone else are going out to a party!" "Where?" "Lana Bratten's! You know Lana?" "But if you're bored," you say, "we can go! It's gonna be a couple of hours before the floor show starts!" "We paid to get in!" "So what? Come on!" You haul her to her feet. "It was dumb to come out this early anyway," you tell her when you're crossing the lounge again. You've got her hugged close to your side now, with your arm around her waist and your hand on her hip. "I wasn't thinking. It's always a lot later than this when I come out here." "I'm sorry it was kind of a waste." "It wasn't a waste. Not a second of it." You pull her closer still, and she stumbles a little over your feet. "We'll just go someplace you can have some more fun." You dart in to kiss the top of her head. Then, when you're at your car, and are about to open the door for her, you catch her and spin her around so you can spoon her standing up. You clasp her from behind, your hands on her stomach, and bending so that your nose and mouth are buried in the side of her head. You hold her like this for a long moment. Then you raise your hands, crossing them over her, so that you can palm her breasts. They have the feel of firm, ripe fruit. A hard tremble runs through her, but you hold her this way until the tremble passes. * * * * * It's a really small party you wind up at—only a score or so people. It's a small house, too, with the partygoers squeezed into a living room, dining room, kitchen, and back patio. You are forced to meet Brenda's friends. Most of the girls are of the same stamp as Brenda herself: plain-faced, flabby, and dressed down in cheap hoodies and jeans. Almost all the boys wear glasses, and look vaguely frightened when you walk in. As they should, since you recognize a handful of them from your classes, and remember picking up and moving a couple of them when you found them in your way. The "party" as such mostly consists of sprawling around a couple of game consoles or on sofas with cell phones. Music is playing, and a couple of times someone will get up and try to dance, but these quickly peter out. So, not much different from most of the other parties Steve Patterson has attended, except with a lot less sexiness, and without the chance to sneak off to do something really fun and dangerous. The closest you are able to come is when you maneuver Brenda into the very back of the hallway leading to the bedrooms. There, you push her into a corner and put a hand on one of her breasts. "I was serious when I said I could help you with your Stats," you murmur while squeezing her gently. "Help you with Physics." "Uh huh?" she says. "Only you gotta make sure you've got at least one of your friends with us when I do, else we're not gonna get anything done. It's gonna be a study session, right?" "Right," she gasps. You lower yourself far enough that you can put your mouth to hers. Your breath mingles as you murmur, "But having a friend with you while we— That's up to you." You breathe on her lips, and touch the tip of her nose with the tip of yours. * * * * * She texts her mom at ten, to say she's at her friend Lana's house with you, and that she'll be back around eleven. It's actually eleven-thirty when you drop her off. "I'll talk to you Monday about getting together, doing some homework," you tell her. "You think about who else to bring along." She says she will. All in all, you're pleased with how things went, since Brenda seems like the kind of girl who will have to be coaxed gently into doing anything. But you'd wager that by the end of the week you'll at least have got a tittie-fuck out of her. Which is about all you really want. Next: "Sunday in the Loft with Jerks" |
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