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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Someone Else"  Danielle Davis's brow crinkles with surprise and puzzlement as she looks up at you. "Oh. Hey, Will," she says. "You're, uh—" You've no idea—well, not yet—what she was going to say, for before she can get any further you smash the mask into her face. She falls backward onto Chelsea's bed and bounces. Her phone flies away. "Yow," Chelsea says behind you. "And I thought Gordon was rough with Gary!" The door clicks shut. You're trembling all over, and now that the deed is done you let go with a good hard shiver-and-shudder. For you've just assaulted one of your classmates. And you're about to do worse. You're about to steal her body and her identity. "We have to get her out of her clothes," you mutter, remembering the trouble you had when you put Gordon's mask onto Gary. "Um ... " You feel your eyes bulging as you study Danielle. "Yes?" Chelsea says. You glance back; her eyes are twinkling with amusement under arched brows. You blush, much to your chagrin. "Well, um, do you want to take care of that?" "Why? Can't you do it yourself?" That twinkle brightens. "Yeah, I could," you stammer. "But I— I thought— Don't you want to ... " "Why would I want to see Danielle naked?" A slow grin spreads across Chelsea's face. You'd swallow, but a blockage, roughly the size and shape of a watermelon, seems to have closed up your throat. "You mean," you croak, "you'd be okay with me, uh ..." You fumble your hands at Danielle. "Well, it doesn't have anything to do with me, not especially," Chelsea airily declares. "You're the one who's going to be wearing her clothes. Wearing more of her than that, even." She goes up on tiptoes and whispers loudly in your ear. "It's going to be her naked body under those clothes after you're dressed up again." You flinch backward a step, but Chelsea laughs. "Okay, if you're going to be so shy about it, Will, I guess I could—" "No, it's okay." You block her as she reaches for Danielle. "Er, you're right. I should, uh—" "Oh, now you can't wait, huh?" "What?" "I'm just giving you a hard time. God, I think I'm as nervous as you." She covers her nose and mouth with her hands and breathes deeply. "Well, you better get on with it. I'll go downstairs, keep my mom occupied so we don't have anyone coming up and knocking while you're—" She giggles. "Getting into your new wardrobe." It's like a sheet of flame has covered your face, and is singeing your eyebrows and scalp. * * * * * Even after Chelsea has gone, it takes you almost a full minute before you can work up your courage to touch Danielle. You start at her feet. She's wearing black high-top Converses that have silver stickers and highlights glued onto them. You draw off these and her socks, then turn her onto her front so you can draw off the red-and-black checkered flannel shirt that she has draped over a purple t-shirt. The latter you pull off over her head, exposing her back and the clasps of her bra. After hesitating, you unhook then, then turn her over. The cups remain wedged onto her breasts, though, and your eyes will insist on glancing up to check them out even as you fumble at the front of her jeans. The latter are a tight-fit, and you have to fight to get them down around her hips and off her legs. Her panties, like her bra, you leave in place. Then you stand back to admire the uncovered form of your body-to-be with a swelling appreciation. Danielle is African-American, or at least partly so. Her skin tone is very light, lighter even than Kendra Saunders's, so that except for the shape of her eyes and chin and lips she could probably pass for being Hispanic. Her dark hair is also very straight, possibly because it's been treated, possibly because her genes incline that way. It is very thick and she wears it long, so that the tips fall almost to the bottoms of her breasts. She is slim and shapely, with a stomach that curves in from her chest before curving back out again in the hips. She isn't athletically toned, though, and her tummy is a little flabby, but she is probably in better shape than ninety percent of the girls who aren't on a sports team or who do gymnastics. The thought makes you wonder: Does Danielle do gymnastics? You don't know that much about Danielle, actually, except that she's in the orchestra or the marching band or something musical, and that she hangs out with a much better class of student than you do. (Admittedly, that's not saying much.) You shared several classes with her your freshman, sophomore and junior years (though none this semester) and you've talked to her enough that you and she know each other's names. She is friendly with Lisa— You give a little start. Was that the reason, subconsciously, that you gave Chelsea Danielle's name? Because she would be as good, or even better than Yumi or Cindy, at sussing out Lisa's reasons for breaking up with you? Well, even if it wasn't, it would be a bonus. So Danielle is a handsome girl. Even if she's not a cheerleader, like Cindy Vredenburg, or an academic star, like Kelsey Blankenship, or a social extrovert, like Catherine Muskov, she would be a step up from "Will Prescott" as an identity. You perch on the edge of the bed, and gingerly stroke her calf until the mask reappears on her face. * * * * * You are cold all over when you wake, and there's a stiffness in your neck and right shoulder. You frown and sit up. Hair falls about your shoulders, tickling you, and you gasp when you look down to find that you're naked. God, what the hell? You clasp your arms over your breasts and scramble up onto your knees. Still covering yourself, you get onto your feet and lean against a vanity. You're in a strange bathroom—pink like Pepto-Bismol—and were passed out on the floor with only a small, fuzzy bathmat between your bare skin and the cold tile. No wonder you're freezing! You do a little double-take at your reflection in the mirror— —and follow it with a triple- and then a quadruple-take as your eyes widen and your mouth forms a perfect "o". It's your face beneath the disordered tangle of hair that is draped around your shoulders. And yet, from somewhere in the back of your mind, there comes battering a vague but persistent thought that no, it isn't actually yours. The bathroom door is closed, but from the other side you hear the squeak of bedsprings. Chelsea, you think, to your own puzzlement. Then, Chelsea's bedroom, which makes this Chelsea's bathroom, because she asked me out here to talk about Cindy and her friends, and then Will Prescott came in and— You catch the edge of the vanity and let your head sink as your legs almost buckle. I'm not Danielle Davis. I'm Will Prescott. I'm Will Prescott, but I'm wearing— You raise your head and study your face with staring eyes. They're alive. Your face and your eyes are alive. They are Danielle's face and eyes, but they're alive and they answer to your will. So does your hand when you gingerly put your fingertips to your cheek. The sensation is that of skin—not of latex or leather—and your cheek tingles and prickles as you rub at it. You arch your eyebrows and suck on your lower lip, and you drop your other hand to touch and rub and tweak the nipple of your right breast. It hardens, and stings a little. Oh. My. God. You clutch the vanity with both hands and lean in to grin at your reflection as you let your gaze wander over its features, from the scalp to the slightly pug nose to the full lips that peel back so easily to disclose a wide, very white smile. I'm Danielle Davis! Another squeak of bedsprings reminds you that there's someone waiting outside for you. Quickly, without gloating over it, you dress. Panties. Bra. The wine-colored t-shirt and the flannel shirt draped over it. The jeans, that hug your legs and hips tightly, the better to show off your curves. Socks. Sneakers. The hair clasp is by the sink, where you left it when you carried the mask and Danielle's clothes into the bathroom preparatory to making the change. With Chelsea's brush you force your hair back over the tops and sides of your head, then seize it in a great fistful and close the clasp around it at the base of your skull. That done, you fluff out the ends, so that two great bolts of it cascade down your chest to cover your breasts while a third tumbles down your back. You turn this way and that, admiring the effect—and admiring your wide, friendly smile—then put out the light and open the door. Chelsea looks up from the front of her bed, where she is hunching. "Hey," you say, and the sound of Danielle's voice issuing from your throat takes you a little by surprise. "So I guess I'm done here, are we d—" The words catch in your throat. "Is that my phone?" Chelsea tightens her grip on it. "It's Danielle's phone," she snaps back. "I'm just checking for— Watch it!" She recoils as you snatch at the phone, and after a short, hard struggle you yank it away from her. "I don't know what you're being grabby about," she snarls. "It's not yours, Will." "It goes with this," you retort, and with the sweep of one hand take in your new body from the neck down. "What were doing with it, anyway?" You squint at the screen, which is displaying a lot of old texts. "Just checking things out, like I was gonna say. See how she can be useful to us." "Well, how about you let me figure that out. I know her better than you. Better than you can get just by reading her texts." "Fine," Chelsea says. She scoots over and pats the bed. "I got nothing better to do anyway than talk." * To continue: "Roles and Role-Players" |
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