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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
| It's forty minutes past your curfew. So as you're already technically in trouble, you decide to press on with the work. It doesn't take long to measure out and mix the ingredients. But in checking back over the spell, you realize there's a wrinkle. To execute these spells you have to pile the ingredients onto a sigil in the book; which in this case that means you'll have to pile the ingredients (including all that graveyard dirt) onto the book and set it on fire. The ingredients, not the book. And yet the book will be in that pile of stuff, so there's a good chance that it'll go up in flames too. You sag against a table and scrub at your face. Almost you give up for the night. It would be much smarter to make a copy of the sigil. But you are so exhausted that you just mutter a "Fuck it" and slam the open book onto an empty table. Before you can stop yourself, you start pouring bags of dirt atop it. And after you've got the last bag poured out, it's nothing to pour the rest of the ingredients over the mound. And after you've done that it's the easiest thing in the world to light a match and— In the back of your head a little voice tells you this is a very bad idea. The stuff you poured on the dirt? It's basically rocket fuel. It would be a bad thing to blow up the community center basement. Even worse to blow it up at midnight. Even worse to blow it up at midnight while standing in the middle of it looking exactly like your best friend. (You still haven't taken Caleb's mask off.) But you mutter a "Shit" and throw the match onto the pile anyway. You're so tired you almost hope it does blow you up so you can get some sleep. Phoomph! A sheet of purple-tinted flame rolls off the pile and envelops you like a soft cloud. You shut your eyes. So this is what it feels like to be on fire, burning like a greased pig, you think. Not bad. You open your eyes and find that you're not on fire. But the pile of dirt is. Violet flames, three and four feet tall, curl and twist and lick at it. But so softly does it burn—there's no hiss or crackle—that you find yourself straining your ears for any noise at all. You edge up to the table, and find that there's no heat coming off it either. You stick your hand in it, all the way up to your elbow. If you closed your eyes, you wouldn't even know there was a fire going at all! Cool! You look around to check the book for further instructions, then remember—this is how punchy you are—that it's under the fire. You grimace. The book said something about the fire going out and having to be relit until it can be relit no more, but that's all you can remember. But you've no intention of camping out to babysit it. You can check on it tomorrow. With heavy feet you trudge up the groaning wooden stairs to the basement door. You're home before you remember that you need to take Caleb's mask off, and when you wake, the soft light of dawn is filtering into the truck cab where you slept the night. You sneak into the house through a side door; water is running upstairs, and with your parents so preoccupied you slip into your room, change clothes, and hop into the shower before they can catch you. * * * * * Except you do get caught, and you do get grounded, for no one is fooled by your wild protestations that you did get back by your curfew, it's just that no one saw you come in. So you're not able to get back to the school basement until Monday morning, when you stop in early on your way to school. You wince hard when you see through the basement windows that the fire is still burning. How long is this going to take? Caleb is tensed up in his desk first period when you catch up to him, and the glower in his eye tells you it's not a good idea to ask about his weekend. But you do, just to be polite. No surprise, he just seethes at you. You also get the impression, as you glance around the room, that he's getting dirty looks from some of the other people—Kelsey Blankenship in particular—but maybe you're seeing emotions that aren't really there. But things sure turn around for him in the fourth-period English class you share. * * * * * He's slumped in his desk—bony shoulders practically resting on his seat; bony knees pressed up against the back of the desk in front of him—with his arms folded. You're ignoring him and staring listlessly at the front of the room when a girl comes in. Her eyes bounce off you without registering your presence, but you sure notice her. Your cock does, too. She's a cheerleader. Okay, she's not one of the Westside cheerleaders. You know all of them by name, face, and breast and hip size. But this girl could be one. Physically, she almost defines the stereotype. Her features are regular and even, and her teeth are snowy white inside her wide smile. Shimmering blonde hair—spun gold might a cliche, but it was invented to describe hair like hers—drapes down to her shoulders. A summertime tan glows under her skin. Her legs are strong and toned. She is wearing a dark, flimsy, one-piece dress that clings to her figure and drops to the middle of her thigh. She is wearing strappy sandals. A lump forms in your throat. My God, what I wouldn't give to have her straddle my lap, open her mouth, and let me put my tongue down her throat! You sit up. Where did that thought come from? You heard it inside your head—almost like a voice, nestled in the creases and folds of your brain, whispering to you. She rakes the classroom with her gaze, a slight pout on her lips. Then she finds what she's looking for, and her eyes light up. Oh my God! She isn't looking at you but she is walking your way, coming down your aisle! She'll pass your desk in a moment! She stops right next to you! She's standing right next to you, and a scent like fresh pine and aloe tickles your nose! You almost capsize. "Hey," she says, and twists a lock of hair behind her ear. "You're Caleb, right? We have calculus together?" Your eyes almost start from your head. She's talking to Caleb?! Well, at least she's standing next to you, her smooth elbow practically in your face. You can't help but ogle the curve of her ass beneath the clinging skirt. The dark fabric looks as light and fragile as Kleenex. If I tore it back, you think, I could see her— "Uh, yeah." That's Caleb, though you can barely hear him over the rushing in your ears. "So yeah," she replies, "I have you in math and— Well, I'm having trouble with some of the homework? And someone told me you're really good at it? So I was hoping maybe we could—" She twists on her feet, and your mouth fills with a foaming spit as the muscles and tendons in her thighs flex. "We could get together, to go over stuff? Like tutoring? I'd pay!" she adds. You can practically hear Caleb's jaw creak as it drops open. "No," he gurgles. "Erp! No, what I mean is— Uh, sure we— We can get together. But you don't have to pay. We could just, uh— Whatever." He gulps. "When?" "Like, real soon? 'Cos, God. I don't know why I signed up for the AP class, it's really kicking my butt." Her butt. Her supple, supple butt. You have to grip the sides of your desk to keep from reaching over to touch or tweak it. She's still talking, and Caleb is still talking, and then she's opening up a little black coin purse. "—give you my card," she says as she hands it to him. "It's all current. You have a card you can give me?" "Nuh," Caleb says. "Mm, no, but I can—" "That's okay. Just call me or text me." Again, she twists in place, then says, "God, thanks so much. Text me, like, later today? I have to get to class now." She skips back to the door with a light tread, glancing back once with a glinting smile before vanishing around the corner. You lean forward to follow her with your head and eyes, and nearly impale yourself on your erection. You gape at Caleb, who gapes back at you. "Who was that?" you whisper. "Beats the fuck outta me." With a dazed look he examines the little white card he holds between a forefinger and thumb. "Sydney Melissa McGlynn," he says. "She's in your calculus class?" A hot fury suddenly washes over you. "And you never told me about her?" Caleb flushes in turn. "So what if didn't, Prescott? What good have you ever done me?" He sinks into his seat, and spends the rest of class in a reverie. * * * * * "Yeah, I know her," Jenny Ashton says at lunch, which you take with her and her friends. You asked her about that girl. "She's new this year, that's why you don't know her." "Prescott gives lots of people lots of reasons for not knowing him," Carson Ioeger snickers. "Oh, I know who you're talking about," James Lamont says as you flip off his best friend. "I got her in AP Calculus, same as Johansson." "I have her in English," says Paul Davis. "And I've got her in Environmental Science," Jenny says, "so you guys can stop bragging. Why do you want to know about her?" James guffaws, and you shoot him a dirty look. Obviously you want to know why a gorgeous creature like Sydney would be interested in Caleb, even as a tutor. And you wonder if she'd settle (unwittingly) for a fake Johansson. |
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