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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Making a Case from a Different Direction"  "I don't have to put up with your shit," you tell Chelsea. "I can eat somewhere else." Her eyes blaze as you rise, but she doesn't stop you. You catch a quick look from Patterson, but if his expression is supposed to mean anything to you, you can't read it. As you trudge over to the line to pick up a tray of food, you glance around the cafeteria. You don't often eat in here, since you bring your own lunch, but now you remember another reason you prefer to eat outside. There aren't many friendly faces. The room is packed mostly with freshmen, sophomores, and juniors, but even the seniors aren't the types you'd hang out with. Many of the tables are overrun with jocks. The basketball players and football players would be the worst to hang out with, but even the table where the track people and swimmers sit wouldn't be your kind of scene. The tables where cluster friendlier faces don't feel particularly welcome either. Christian Knouse and Darrell Parsons have their heads close together, but they'll be talking about RPGs and tabletop game crap. Michael Hurst and Roy Booth will be talking about band stuff. Andy Tackett and Kevin Winkler will be talking about literature and the latest indie movies. If pressed -- if you didn't have Caleb and Keith, or Carson Ioeger and James Lamont to fall back on -- you could join some of these without it being too awkward. Today, in Gordon Black's body, you'd feel completely out of place. You've no idea where else you might land. But you also don't want Chelsea to see you sitting by yourself. So when you've got your tray -- some horrible vegetable medley concoction -- you drop down at the table where the lesser jocks are clustered. And to make sure that Chelsea gets her blood pressure up, you drop down next to Olivia Byrne. She's one of Kelsey Blankenship's friends and hangs out with the AP types. So does Rachel Burton, but they're probably at this table because they're on the swim team and so fit in easily with Fred Hildown (track), Marc Garner (soccer), Brooke Galloway (tennis) and Deanna Showalter (gossip). There's another girl here, sitting by Marc, who you don't know. They all look at you in surprise, except the girl you don't know, who just looks mildly interested. "Mind if I sit here?" you ask. You only get some shrugs in reply, and a few uneasy looks. You swallow some of the vegetables -- they've got a weird taste, but are edible -- and give Olivia a sidelong look. She's a brunette with thick hair that falls in a great sweep down to the bottom of her neck, and her time in the water has smoothed and slimmed a natural hourglass figure. She's one of the girls that you quietly lust after but are forced to ignore because she is so obviously out of your league. As Gordon, though, you feel like you can talk to her. If only you had something to talk about. You lunge for the obvious. "So, what are you doing this weekend?" She glances back at you -- she's listening to Deanna prattle about something -- and looks surprised to see that you were talking to her. "Uh, no real plans, just hanging out with friends." A quick expression passes over her face as she briefly looks you in the eye. For all the world it looks like guilt. But it instantly vanishes, and she swings back around again toward Deanna. "Just hanging out?" you ask her. "No parties?" Now she really does look surprised when she looks back at you. "No. No party parties, like at anyone's house." She gulps down a deep breath, and her face tightens. "Um." She hesitates, then blurts out: "Some of us are talking about going out to the Warehouse Saturday night. Maybe you and Chelsea, and Steve, if you're interested in going out there, you could meet us there." It doesn't sound like an invitation, but there's a querying note inside it. It's best to be noncommittal, though. "I'll talk to them about it." "Have you ever even been to the Warehouse?" Marc Garner asks. He's got a satirical twinkle in his eye. "Couple of times," you say. "I don't remember the last time, though." "'Cos you got your own party room, right?" He laughs. You don't respond to the allusion to the gym loft. As for "the warehouse" -- That's another one of those places in town -- one of too many -- that you only know by reputation, not experience. It's not a business like a nightclub or sports bar, only a traditional hangout for high school kids. It is, in fact, literally a warehouse, and it's located in the scary, post-industrial section of town. Most Fridays and Saturdays, you have heard, it is the setting of dances and semi-professional performances by amateur bands. On weekday nights it is supposed to be a lot more scary. It has a reputation for being dangerous, not because lots of fights break out there, but because it is basically a giant, illegal party scene. You've always been curious to see what it's all about -- dying to see what it's about -- but you have always shied away from it because you know, you just know that the one night you attend will be the night that the police raid the place, arrest everyone, and your dad has to come bail you out of a horrible municipal jail cell. Has Gordon ever been out there? You'd bet he has. You'll have to ask him. But for now you only ask Olivia who she knows that will be going out there, and she rattles off a lot of names, most of which you know and a few of which you don't. She talks about her favorite bands that have played out there. Somehow she steers the talk onto what she likes to do after school. "I've been hanging out at Starbucks a lot, you know," she says, as if you would know or would care. "I'm usually there until six o'clock or so. So, like, when you guys got out of basketball practice, we could all meet there sometime." She sounds out of breath when she says this, and avoids looking in your face as she tucks her hair behind her ear. Is she coming on to me? you wonder. "Maybe," you allow. "Not today, I've got things I have to do. But maybe tomorrow." Then she ruins it for you: "And, you know, for Chelsea they've got lots of low-fat, low-calorie stuff. That's what I drink." * * * * * Fifth period is a Psychology class. Briefly you entertain yourself by wondering if Gordon has found his own malformed psyche -- or his father's -- described in the textbook. But nothing else in the class period holds your interest, and you spend your time doodling and thinking about the switchback you and Gordon will do next period. You decide to give Black a taste of his own medicine -- you can excuse it to him by saying you've got his image to keep up -- by bearing down on "Will Prescott" at his locker immediately after the fifth period bell has rung. He sees you coming, and the glint in his eye suggests he doesn't anticipate what comes next: You grab him about the neck in the crook of your arm and haul him into the boiling crowd. He twitches and writhes, but he can't break away from you. The smaller students in the hall bounce off you like ice off the prow of an ice breaker, and the larger students steer clear before you reach them. "Who wants a beating?" you yell as you pull your victim into the F wing boys' room. You're deeply conscious that it's not nearly as scary sounding as what Gordon announced himself this morning, but you're not used to issuing inventive threats. Luckily, you've got Gordon's face and reputation on your side, and the room rapidly clears. Will Prescott is very red in the face when you release him, and he glares at you. "I said we were going to meet here," he snarls. "And we did. I just picked you up for our date. Didja like the ride I gave you?" He shows his teeth. "Let's just switch." He pulls off his cap and shirt. * * * * * "Be back at the school by five," Gordon tells you when you're awake again and pulling on your original clothes. At his suggestion, you'll keep to your real personas for the rest of the school day. "I'll call you if I need to meet you somewhere that's not the parking lot, but keep yourself scarce until you hear from me." "You ashamed to be seen with me?" "No, I just don't wanna have to explain why you still got a face after I grabbed you at your locker ten minutes ago. People mostly don't when I do that." You swallow the obvious query: Why does he pull that kind of shit? "Anything I need to know before we head out?" he asks. "Chelsea's still pissed at you. I got mad and went and ate at a table with some other people, spent lunch talking to Olivia Byrne." You can't help flinching. "Is that okay?" "For me? No. For you?" He shrugs. "I guess you don't wanna fuck my girlfriend." He raises up very tall and gives you a cold look down from a very high place. "It's your loss." "Sure. Oh, I'm also supposed to mow the lawn when I get back from school." "Yeah, you told me already." You gasp as he grasps you by the belt and hauls you onto your tiptoes. "You need an excuse for being late for class? 'Cos if I wet your hair in the toilet, maybe you won't get a tardy slip." You beg off the favor. * * * * * Caleb is lurking near Mr. Kowalski's classroom, and he looks very jumpy. "Will?" he says quietly as you draw up. "Yeah?" He hops between feet. "I mean ... Will, is that you, or is it -- ?" "It's me, Caleb." He doesn't look happy, but accepts your self-identification. "Can you hang out this period? We should talk." Next: "The Remains of an Afternoon" |
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