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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Disguise and Those Guys"  "What are you talking about?" you shriek, even though you're pretty damn sure you know what Chelsea is talking about. "I'm talking about making another one of these for you, Will," she replies, sounding as though she knows that you know exactly what she's talking about. "Well, not another one of him," she adds, indicating the docile Philip Fairfax. "He's twice as beige as we need up here, and four times the beige would be at least eight times more beige than I personally could—" "I don't need a boyfriend!" Chelsea looks vastly amused, but she only shrugs. "We need some way of talking to each other," she reminds you. "Someone to take messages from you to me, and who'd look natural next to you and to me. I was thinking Sean," she prattles on, ignoring your glare, "because he's on the basketball team and could be Gordon's new best friend—" She gags. "We could also get rid of Steve and Jason that way, finally—" "Not Sean." Chelsea blinks. "Not for Gordon's new best friend?" "Not for me!" "Oh. Well, I don't think there are any other black guys for Danielle to date." "Why does it have to be a black guy?" "Will!" Chelsea looks shocked. "Don't tell me you have a problem with black people!" You clench your fists. "If I had a problem with black people, would I be looking like this?" Chelsea turns a little pink, and her mouth turns prim. "There's a difference, Will," she says, "between being black and dating black. But if you've got a problem with having a black guy for a boyfriend, even if he is a fake—" "I don't have a problem, but I don't like you assuming I want one!" "But it's the natural thing for Danielle—" "Now who's being offensive?" Chelsea's mouth falls open. "What?" she says. "Danielle doesn't—?" She peers at you. "Doesn't Danielle, um, want—?" "She's already turned down Sean! He spent most of their junior year trying to rub up against her. And she turned down LeShawn Puckett, when—" "Le Shawn?" Her brow crinkles. "Who's he? Is he black? Is he that black guy on the soccer team?" "No, LeShawn's on the track team. That's Jeremiah on the soccer team, and I think I'm getting ready to turn him down too." Chelsea's eyes widen, and she guffaws. "You think you're going to turn him down? You mean you aren't sure? Oh, Will," she laughs as you gasp at her. "You can have anyone you want. I bet Danielle could have her pick. She's very pretty." She reaches out to finger a strand of your hair, and ignores the way you flinch. "Don't you think she's pretty?" she asks Philip over her shoulder. "Yes I do," Philip says. His tone is flat but amiable. "Tell you what, Will," Chelsea says. "You pick whoever you want. Except, you know, it has to be someone I can be seen with." "Like who would that be?" Chelsea puts her hand on her hip. "Don't talk to me like you think I'm a snob, Will. I mean, just don't be stupid and suggest someone like—" She rolls her eyes. "That girl on the basketball squad. The black girl, I mean." "Almida Jones?" "No, the other one. The one they call 'dump truck' behind her back." You sigh. "So someone Danielle can hang out with and you can be seen with." "I think that's exactly what I said, Will." "Well, what about him?" You chuck your chin at the fake Philip, who has been listening to all this with a faintly puzzled frown. "Who?" Chelsea glances over her shoulder, then wheels back on you. "Oh my God, you're not serious!" "What's wrong with him?" "Look at him!" You don't see what's so objectionable about Philip Fairfax. He is a pale, clear-skinned redhead whose crew cut and black-framed glasses give him the look of a mid-century NASA engineer—a look only amplified by the plain white t-shirt, the heavy brown trousers, and the black canvas sneakers. The lack of animation in his face also gives him the air of someone preoccupied with calculating angles of trajectories for model rockets. Yes, he's probably a natural at "Angry Birds," you think. It must be that nerdishness that Chelsea objects to. Fortunately, you have a ready riposte. "But he's going to be making that YouTube video for the cheerleader squad, right?" "Ye-es. Well, him and his friends." A flicker of fear shows in her eyes. "So that's why he's a natural go-between. He'll be talking to you while making it. Probably he'll be doing lots of consulting with you. I mean, you're going to be running it, basically, right? Telling him and friends what exactly you want, looking at the footage, choosing what goes in and what gets cut out, suggesting—" You relish each nail that you thwack into the argument, and continue until Chelsea looks utterly crushed. It's with a forlorn frown that she looks between you and Philip. "I guess you're right," she says as she studies him. Then she shakes herself. "Well, it could be worse," she sighs. "At least he's presentable." She glances back at you. "Did you go online and look at the guys who put themselves on camera? Whew!" * * * * * That's all she has to say to you that night. But the next morning she sends you a text asking when you'll be available for another meeting. (You get it in the middle of church, much to your parents' anger and consternation. It's your own fault for accidentally leaving your phone on, but you still privately blame Chelsea.) Because you have Sunday dinner, you're not able to get together with her at the school until the middle of the afternoon, by which time it's too late. But she didn't need you anyway—it was just a planning session with fake-Philip and his YouTube crew to talk about the documentary. "I don't know why Philip wasn't interested," Chelsea tells you when you finally catch up to her. "The other three guys were, like, over the moon about it. I bet they went home and did things with their wieners afterward, they seemed so happy." Yes, you were surprised too when Philip turned down your idea. It makes a lot more sense that guys would be happy to film cheerleaders. But there's no other reason to be up at the school, so you go home. Chelsea, though, has another meeting planned—the one where she tells the other cheerleaders that there's going to be a YouTube video starring them. You wonder how that's going to go. * * * * * Monday morning. You're passing the gym when you hear your name shouted. It's Jenny Ashton. "Hey, just wanted to say, you know, thanks for taking care of that thing with Marc," she says. She looks very embarrassed. "Did it work?" you ask. "Guess so. Eva told me last night Marc spent all weekend not talking to her or Jessica." "Why? Is he mad?" "I 'unno. Maybe he was just embarrassed." She glances over your shoulder. "Oh, those dumbasses. Look at that." She chucks her chin at something behind you. It's a crowd of half a dozen guys. You vaguely recognize them, though only one of them—Spencer Osbourne—has a name you can put to them. He and two others are squatting on the grass to form a blunt, three-man pyramid while the others tussle over a cell phone. "Eat a dick!" one of them shouts. "What's going on over there?" you ask Jenny. "They're trying to get a job filming cheerleaders." "What?" "Yeah, didn't you hear? Chelsea"—Jenny says the name like it's something squishy and venomous clinging to her tongue—"had the bright idea to get some guys to make a YouTube documentary about the cheerleader squad. It's been all over Snapchat and those places since last night." "And those are the guys making it?" you ask, even though those aren't the boys that Chelsea hired. "No, those are just some dipshits, decided they're gonna make videos about the cheerleaders too. Or maybe just random girls." She makes a face. "They tried getting me to help out, do some cheerleader poses for them." "They couldn't find anyone else?" "That's right," Jenny says acidly. "They were totally scraping the bottom of the barrel when they asked me." "That's not what I meant. I only meant, they couldn't find anyone to help them? 'Cos it's just them over there." "I guess I not. I mean, look at them. Friggin' losers." "Hey Jenster," Carson Ioeger says he brushes past you to drop his pack at Jenny's feet. "Danielle." His eye glints as he takes his cell phone from his pocket. "You look like a couple of girls who'd love to be in a YouTube video." * * * * * Carson insists he and James just mean to make a parody of whatever video Chelsea's having made, but you're happy enough to return to the student parking lot in answer to the mysterious text from Philip Fairfax (of all people). He's on the very far side of the lot, and he sweeps his arm in a broad wave to get your attention. "Jesus," he exclaims, and there's a wild look in his eye when reach him. "About freaking time! You've gotta help me!" Your heart leaps into your throat. Something is very off about him. "What's wrong, Philip?" you ask, feigning innocence and calm. "It's this fucking mask, Will," he says, and now your heart goes sideways. "I can't get the memories!" "Memories, Philip?" Has something gone wrong with the mask? Is this the real Philip? "I don't know what—" "Don't play dumb, Will! I put this mask on, but it's like I don't know who or what the fuck I'm supposed to be!" It seems to take you hours to realize what he means. "Chelsea?" you squeak. * To continue: "When Cheerleaders Try Calculus" |
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