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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously, in "Making a Mask"  : You picked up an old book in the used bookstore that promised to show how to make magical disguises. You have used it to make a kind of mask. Undaunted by the apparent reality of magic, you are pressing on with your experiments in secret ...~ ~ ~ ~ ~ YOU GET TOGETHER WITH CALEB on Sunday afternoon at his place. He's pleased when you tell him that you asked your dad about part-time work at Salopak; he's less pleased when you bring up the subject of Lisa, and he has to admit that he couldn't get her to tell him anything enlightening about her breakup with you. "Jesus, you had, like, all day Saturday to talk to her!" you explode. "No I didn't,'" he retorts. "I told you, I just ran into her at the mall. We had about fifteen minutes at the food court, and she spent most of the time looking over my shoulder for Eva and Jessica." "So why didn't you call her and set up a special meeting?" "And how was I supposed to do that?" He sounds peevish and hounded. "What was I gonna say. 'Hey, you wanna get together and talk about how come you dumped Will?' Cut me some slack." "You could've made it a study session. She needs help in Chemistry." "Someone needs help with something," he mutters. "But all she said was that it wasn't working for her. Why do you think there has to be some reason for it, other than that maybe she wasn't all that into you?" You clench your jaw. The thing is, that's exactly the conclusion you've been trying to avoid. * * * * * That she dumped you is less of a mystery than the fact that Lisa Yarborough ever went out with you in the first place. You're not that funny looking, you flatter yourself. Sure, maybe you're a little too tall and gangly, and maybe your nose is a little too big and prone to zits, and maybe your hair sticks out stiffly like windblown mats of straw. But you must have something going for you, because during your junior year she turned down approaches by guys on the football and basketball teams, but she let you hang out with her starting at the end of May. And boy, was that fun, even if you didn't do much except sit close to each other. Lisa has violet eyes and thick, shoulder-length, raven-colored hair; bosoms that are large without flopping all over the place; and rocking hips that induce something like seasickness's pleasant, fun-loving cousin when you watch her walking away from you. You saw a lot of her over the summer, and she wouldn't just sit next to you when you hung out at the park. She'd put her arm around your waist and nestle her head against your chest and let you lean your own head against the top of hers. And if she never got a bright, shiny stare when she looked at you, her eyes would still dance with pleasure. But then, shortly after school started up again, she started making excuses for not hanging out after classes; and then during one horrible break between classes, when you went up to her and put your arm around her shoulder, she turned and calmly told you that you'd never actually said you were going out together. It was like the start of your summer-long fling, except in reverse: very cool and very casual, and without the hint that there was any meaning at all behind it. It's hard not to replay that scene in your head. It's almost as bad as the scene that has Lisa talking to Geoff Mansfield, and smiling up at him. Which is exactly the scene you saw on Friday afternoon when you got out of sixth period. * * * * * When you get home you catch your brother in your room, sitting in your chair, at your desk, hunched over your laptop with one hand pressing hard into his lap while the other hovers inches from the pornographic image that fills the computer screen. He leaps when you roar at him and tries to run past you out the door, but you catch and hurl him onto the bed. "Quit it!" he yells as you pound on him. "Quit it or I'll tell mom!" "Tell mom what, that you were using my computer to look at porn? You'll be in bigger trouble than me." "She'll put those blocks on your laptop too!" "Yeah, and then you'll lose all your access too. Take your punishment like a man, you little shit!" After delivering five hard punches to his gut and groin, you let him wriggle out and run away, then slam and lock your bedroom door behind him. You hurl yourself into the chair, close the browser, and -- And open it up again, returning to the image he'd found and was working himself over with. You let out a low whistle. It's a good find. You copy it to your desktop, then move it into an innocuously titled folder buried deep inside fifty other folders. Then you go looking for more. When you're done and have got most of the tension worked out, you turn your attention back to the mask -- you've nothing better to do than to work on it some more. But instead of polishing it all over, as you'd done before, you decide to concentrate on one spot and see if that makes a difference. Again, you start up a movie while you absent-mindedly rub a small place between your thumb and the knuckle of your index finger. Halfway through the movie you're called downstairs to take out the garbage. When you return and pick up the mask you notice a change in the place you've been rubbing: a spot, about the size of a quarter, has turned from dull white to a soft but brilliant blue. At first you are elated: your work has paid off, and you've some idea of what you should be doing to finish off the mask. But the feeling of happiness fades as it occurs to you that an hour of work has only buffed this one small patch. At the rate of an hour per square inch, it will take you more than week (and almost all your spare time) to finish it off. You resume watching the DVD, but this time you take frequent pauses to assess your work, and are relieved to see that it doesn't take as long as you'd feared to polish up a patch. But it is still going to be a long and boring task. * * * * * The week brings a lot of homework, which doesn't give you a lot of time to spend on the mask: maybe two hours a day, tops, to polish it as you surf the internet or watch videos. School itself isn't very exciting, and Caleb, despite his promise, is very slow and reluctant to do any more snooping on your behalf. You have one infuriating conversation, though, when you go to the library for third-period study hall on Thursday and stumble upon Geoff Mansfield. He's typing on his laptop when you come in, and gets a gleam in his eye when he looks up to see you. It stops you short. "Prescott," he says coolly. "Mansfield," you reply, trying to be just as cool. "I hear you and Lisa broke up." You only bite your lip. He continues, leaning back in his chair. "I thought maybe there'd been something going on between you two, so, you know, I've been real careful not to come between you guys. It wouldn't be cool to make a play for another guy's girl. I suppose there'd be nothing wrong with asking her out now, though, would there?" Mansfield is only a few months older than you, but he's solidly escaped the awkward puberty phase. He's at least an inch taller than you, with clear skin and thick, dark hair that curls behind his ears and over his forehead. He cruises confidently through the school corridors with shoulders back and chin out, and gazes calmly at the world out of dark, amused eyes. You've never been particularly jealous of the athletes in the school—buncha muscle-bound jerks—but Geoff is more or less like you. Just with all the kinks and awkward angles straightened out and all the blemishes erased. Which somehow makes it worse. "You can do what you want," you snort. You suddenly feel the awkward weight of your backpack on your shoulder, and want to find a place to escape to. "Of course I can do what I want," he replies with casual insolence. "I wasn't asking for permission. I was just expressing a thought." "Well, find someone else to share your thoughts with," you mutter lamely as you brush past him. You can't be sure, but you think you hear him snicker. * * * * * The weekend comes, and after finishing up all your required chores on Saturday morning you attack the remaining portions of the mask. You've got a system going by this time, trading the mask between hands when you get tired, and polishing in ever-widening circles. More and more of the mask turns a clear and brilliant blue. By Saturday night only a few streaks mar its glowing surface. You return to the spell to double-check for anything that you might have overlooked. Nothing leaps out at you, though now that you are so close to finishing the job you are given pause by its ambiguity in describing how the mask is supposed to work. As best you can translate, the mask, when prepared, will "absorb the form" of any face it is laid against. Does this mean it will somehow suck out the very shape of the person you try it out on, leaving behind ... What? A sodden mass of flesh? Or will it only copy the person's features? How much will it copy: just the face or the entire body? You are also made nervous by the lack of any clue about how to unlock the rest of the book. Will it be enough to simply polish the mask to completion? Or will you have to take a chance and try the mask on someone—yourself or another—before the magic will let you proceed? This leaves you feeling very worried about trying to use this thing you've created, whether on yourself or on another person. If it's a dangerous thing, you'd prefer trying it on someone you dislike, but it would be very hard to get close to that kind of person. That leaves a friend or family member as the only kind of readily available guinea pig. |
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