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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Empty Hands and Empty Heads"  "So why are you moaning and groaning?" Caleb demands as he stomps down the freshly turned dirt. "And why now, when we're done? You're bitching more now than when we started." You just grunt, and Caleb grunts too, and wordlessly the two of you trudge back to your vehicles. You sneak back into your house, and it's nearly ten the next morning before you raise your face from your pillow to look at the clock. * * * * * Actually, it's no great mystery why you were bitching last night. It was a reaction to your frustrated boredom on Friday afternoon, which was itself a reaction to running into Mendoza and his friends. But a night's sleep has restored your equilibrium, more or less, so over a brunch of cereal and microwaved bacon you phone Caleb to see what he's got planned for the day. "Cleaning house," he gripes. "Maybe we can catch up around supper time." So you call Keith, who should be almost done with his Saturday morning work shift at Don's Donuts. "Can't," he says. "Plans with my peeps." "I'm not one of your peeps?" you retort. You're used to doing stuff without Keith, but much less used to the idea that maybe he does stuff without you. "Sure, you can come." "Gee, thanks." You roll your eyes. "What's the plan?" "Exhibition fight over at the Christian school. Mixed martial artists thing." "At Agape?" "Yeah. 'Kickboxing for Christ,' or some shit like that." "You're kidding." "Come and see if I'm kidding." "Who's going to be there?" "Fairfax, Hollister, Montoya. Oh yeah, it's Carlos's cousin who's giving the exhibition." "All by himself?" "Dunno. You in?" "Meh, it's just going to end with someone witnessing." "Dude, it wouldn't kill you to go to church." "I go to church! Every Sunday, dipshit! My parents make me." "Bet they don't got kickboxing there." He's right, but you beg off anyway. Keith doesn't sound that broken up by your decision, which miffs you a little. It's a little after one before you finally find someone to hang out with, and it winds up being something of a fourth choice -- the last thing you'd do before giving up totally. * * * * * "It was this or a chemistry experiment," you explain to Paul Davis, and you have to tell him again when a shout from the crowd drowns out your voice. "Chemistry experiment," you yell in his ear as a wave of applause goes up. Perfunctorily, you join in. The grass of the soccer field is seared at its tips -- the consequence of a late-summer drought and heat wave -- and the air is dry and smells of dust and clippings under a brilliant blue sky. Even with your sunglasses you have to shade your eyes against the glare of the sun. Girls in shorts -- big girls with meaty thighs -- thunder back up the field from the far end, where the Westside squad has just made a goal. It's not a regular game or a scheduled match, but an ad hoc collision, held at the municipal soccer fields, between the Eastman and Westside girls' varsity teams for a fundraiser. It cost you three bucks to buy this patch of ground where you're sitting at the sidelines, and you glower sourly at a trio of middle school students who are watching for free from a sidewalk only thirty yards away. "What kind of chemistry experiment?" Paul asks. He doesn't have to shout it because the applause has finally died down. "Beats the fuck out of me. All I know is that Carson was all, like, what do you know about ammonia sulfide, or something like that." Jenny Ashton, who's sitting in front of you, glances back. "Who was this? Carson and James?" she asks. "Yeah, I called them up to see if they wanted to do something. They started throwing chemistry shit at me like I was their lab partner. After that's when they told me to call -- " You nudge Paul. "Yeah, it surprised me when you showed up," Jenny says. "Well, they said it was also supposed to be -- " You break off and make a face at the back of Jenny's head, as she's turned back to the game. The ball is in play again, and the Eastman girls, in their green and purple, are driving deeply into the crimson-and-gold side of the field. "They said Yumi and Eva and Jessica were supposed to be here," you tell Paul. "I guess they're late," he replies, and his face is a neutral mask. It was the promise of their presence -- far more than the soccer game, about which you couldn't give a shit -- that brought you out here. All three are Westside cheerleaders, which is nice enough, and are friends with Jenny, which would explain why you might run into them by hanging out here with her and Paul. But the great draw was that maybe you could finally have a talk with them about Lisa. The Garner girls -- Jessica and Eva -- are friends of hers, after all, and through her you got to know them at least a little bit. You're sure that if anyone knows why she decided to break up with you, it would be them. You'd twisted Caleb's arm to get him to ask them about what happened, but he kept putting it off with excuses until you finally gave up. This will probably be your last good chance of getting some kind of explanation out of them. So when the time passes and they don't show up -- And when you glimpse spot their brother, Marc, twenty yards to your left -- Well, if they're not with Jenny and they're not with Marc, then they are probably not coming. When Paul lets out a deep sigh, you reflect it probably sucks as much to be him as it does to be you. It's an open secret that he has a massive crush on Yumi Saito, and judging by the drawn look of his face, he's having no more fun watching this soccer game than you are. So bored. So very, very bored. So you have to stifle a yelp when a voice sounds in your ear. "Hey, what's the score?" You whirl, and swallow a startled eep to see Stephanie Wyatt plopped on the grass beside you. She crosses her legs and pulls her knees up to her breasts. Her strong, tan knees up to her large, firm breasts. "Huh?" You gulp. "Oh. I don't know." "What, 'dju just get here?" She's staring past you, a taut, watchful expression on her face as she follows the game. "Shit," she snarls softly, and you glance back in time to see the ball shooting like a cannonball toward the Westside goal. "No, I lost track." Her head shifts just a little toward you, and though her eyes are hidden by shades, you can seen the contempt on her lip. She reaches behind you to punch Paul. "What's the score?" she demands. "One-zero. Westside." "Yeah!" she roars, and leaps to her feet. "Go Westside!" she yells through cupped hands at the field, and follows with a couple of teeth-rattling whistles and a fist-punch at the air. "You could show a little more school spirit, Prescott," she says as she flops down next to you. Frankly, you're surprised she even remembers your name. * * * * * You've known Stephanie since you were in the fourth grade. You shared elementary school teachers with her that year and the next, and many of your middle-school classes overlapped as well. But Stephanie has never had anything to say to you. As long as you've known her, she's been one of those athletic girls who was better than you at basketball, softball, volleyball -- -- and this is so embarrassing to have to admit -- -- and football, and she made it worse by being openly scornful of you and your efforts. And she hasn't changed since fourth grade, except perhaps to become even more like the way she was. She's on the Westside basketball team, and you don't think you've ever seen her when she hasn't been dressed like she's on her way to or from the gym. Right now, for instance, she's in white shorts and an emerald green jersey that show off limbs that are smooth, tawny from the sun, and tight with muscles. She wears her light-brown hair in a business-like bob that curls up over the top of her neck, the top of her ears, and eyes that droop a little sleepily at the far corners. In fact, about the only thing you could say against her, physically, is that she hardly ever smiles, and that her gaze is uncommonly hard and piercing, as though she's trying to trying to decide whether she needs to elbow drop you, or whether a crippling kick to the knee would suffice to get you out of her way. But maybe it's just you that she looks at that way. * * * * * So you make no reply to her gibe about not having enough school spirit, and return to not-watching the game. A minute later, though, she nudges you again. "Hey, you seen the Garners around here?" "Marc's down that way." You wave off to your left. Stephanie gets up on her knees and stares off in his direction. And because you're in her way, she pushes you to the side. You take it, because you're not supposed to fight with girls. Especially with girls who could kick your ass without even realizing that's what they're doing. Then she drops back and hunches over her cell phone. After some typing, her cell rings and she puts it to her ear. You can't help eavesdropping. "Yeah ... Dunno, I'm not sitting with him ... 's'fine, I don't care, DQ's fine. I'll see if Anita wants to come ... No, I wanna talk to you and Eva ... Okay, four, the one by Mellon Village, right? Okay." Sounds like Stephanie is meeting Eva and Jessica after the game. You could contrive to be there too. To continue: "Six Little Dairy Maids, All in a Row" |
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