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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Lunch Where No One Knows Your Name"  "Not now," you tell Caleb, and try to get past him. You're in your skin because you've got Calculus this period and want to take your own notes. "What about after school? While Gordon's practicing?" "I have errands to run." His expression has been wary all this time, and now it hardens. "Yeah, all right," he says. "I just wanted to talk about how the day was going." His tone is prim. "Great, we'll have time for that later. I gotta get to class." He's been blocking you from the door, and you have to brush past him to grab the handle. Mr. Kowalski gives you a very level look as you come in, but he's not sarcastic the way some of the other teachers are, and he lets you take your seat without giving you any grief. * * * * * You look for Caleb after the final bell rings, but he's gone off alone, apparently. Keith shows up at your locker, though, but he's also looking for Caleb. "I haven't seen him since lunch," you tell him gruffly, for you don't want to get dragged into any conversations about stuff that you missed. He leans against the locker next to yours, arms folded across his chest, and lifts his chin to stare at the passing girls from under hooded eyes. "Yeah," he drawls. "What's the frigging deal with you and Johansson lately? It's like you're taking turns being asshats." This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. What did Gordon do or say? More relevant at the moment: What would Gordon do or say now? "Oh, I'm sorry, Tilley," you reply with as much acid as you can muster, even while realizing it's not a tone that will match Gordon's. "Was I being an asshat today? I'll bring you some fucking flowers tomorrow to make up for it." "Pfft. Maybe Monday I'll be on the rag, since we seem to be taking turns." You can't stifle a snicker -- the thought of Keith Tilley acting like Gordon Black is hilarious -- and he gives you a dirty look. "Yeah, you arrange to be on the rag tomorrow, Tilley." You pat his shoulder. "And bring your pussy to school with you, so you can go fuck yourself when Caleb or I tell you to." He flips you off, but you don't mind, because you're congratulating yourself on getting off a Gordon-like insult. Speaking of Gordon and his talents: You find that this list of supplies he gave you is nicely organized, and it takes you only a few stops to score them. You also didn't need to get any money off anyone, because to your surprise you found a couple of twenties -- more than enough to pay for the supplies -- in your jeans pockets before leaving school. Those bills certainly weren't there this morning. You'll have to ask Gordon where he got them. Back at the school after these errands, you squat in the breezeway and watch the gym doors. They burst open a little before five, and the basketball squad comes swaggering out -- loud and proud -- in little groups. Gordon and Patterson, with Jason Lynch in tow, are the last ones out, and they don't spot you as they turn toward the parking lot. Your butt muscles tighten with tension as the minutes pass, and a spasm of relief passes through you when your phone explosively vibrates. It shows Gordon's number. "Yeah?" "Where are you?" "At the school, just outside the gym." There's a pause, and then a huge silhouette shows at the end of the breezeway. "Okay, come on. We'll change in the locker room." You scramble to your feet and run down to meet Gordon at the gym doors. It's funny, you think as you pound up to him. Only a few days ago you'd be running the other way. Even this morning you'd be fearful about meeting him. But now, even though you're nervous, you're not scared. And though you certainly can't bring yourself to think of him as a "friend," he's started to become a familiar presence in your life. He crosses the gym toward the changing room on long strides, and you have to patter rapidly alongside to keep up. "You get the stuff?" he asks. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Hey, where'd you get the money? I found a bunch in my pocket -- " "From your friend Tilley, I figured you'd need a fallback in case you were too chicken shit to ask Lynch." "How did you -- ? And what was he doing with that kind of cash?" "I'm not a fucking news site, Prescott, and I didn't ask where he got it. He was just waving it around at lunch so I took it, told him I had a use for it today and I'd pay him back tomorrow. So you better -- " "You just took it from him?" The world tilts, and bangs you in the shoulder with a door frame. Gordon stops to stare at you. His eyes are hard and contemptuous, which is better than being hard and hostile, but still isn't pleasant. "Yeah," he says impatiently. "You can do that. You can do it to Lynch next time you see him. Which you better, if you wanna pay your friend back. Or, I dunno, don't. Fuck me if I give a shit." You're in the locker room proper by now, and he drops onto a bench with a heavy grunt. "Man, I hurt. You got a shit body, but I bet it don't hurt." He falls onto his back and sighs. "Alright, I lie, it's not a shit body, there's lots worse in this fuckhole. But gimme your face, man, it's a nice vacation spot." You've never thought of your life as a "vacation spot", but this doesn't seem the place to argue. Gordon reaches for the mask as you take it out, but on an impulse you bypass him and lay it directly on his face. His features vanish, and his gym clothes -- now resting on a much scrawnier frame -- billow briefly in the air before settling around him. He looks like a child in those clothes. Thin arms, a shallow chest, bony knees and shanks covered in short blonde hair, feet that fit loosely inside huge sneakers. His mouth hangs open in a noiseless snore, and his shock of wiry hair shoots out in all directions. You tilt your head to look down at him. That's me. It gives you a shiver to see yourself, looking dead, splayed out on the bench. But -- and this isn't pride, just recognition -- Gordon is right that you're not bad looking. You pull Gordon's mask from his bag, and since you don't want anyone finding Will Prescott and Gordon Black unconscious together in this way, you creep into the showers to make your own change. You undress, sit in a cold corner, and press his mask to your face. * * * * * "Where are you going to work on that stuff?" Will Prescott asks you while you're dressing. Unlike the original, the facsimile buttons his shirt from the neck down, but you don't correct him. "At home, I guess," you reply. You're already in Gordon's sloppy clothes, except for the hat, which you now flap out and settle brim backward on your head. "Bad idea," he says. "You can't close the bedroom door, remember, and what'll you say when my dad catches you working on it? You better spend the evening up here at the school, in the loft." He sits up to put on his sneakers. "In fact, I already arranged for it, if that's what you want to do. I told Steve and Jason that I wanted it for myself, trying to get things fixed with Chelsea." He grins at you in a way that you're not sure shows anger, amusement, or spite. "Like that's going to happen. Steve-o actually laughed at me when I said that, and I had to knock his head against a locker." Jesus. Does Gordon actually get to knock Steve Patterson around? "So what you're saying is that I'll have it all to myself." "That's right." He claps you on the arm. "Have fun." He leaves almost immediately after that, and you are much slower in following. You've not seen the loft yet, and thrill of excitement runs through you at the thought of exploring it, even if it's just you. Not just exploring it, but sitting in it, and claiming it, because it rightfully belongs to you. Well, it belongs to Gordon Black, but if you're going to take responsibility for his chores, you might as well lay claim to his rights in compensation. * * * * * But the night's responsibilities prove not to be too onerous, either. Gordon said the lawn needed to be "billiard table" smooth, and you spend ninety minutes carefully going over it with the lawnmower and the weed eater, and you kneel to pluck out anything you spot that could mar the surface. Gordon's dad doesn't look very happy when he surveys it -- he looks like he's sucking a lemon -- but he nods when you're done and quietly asks what you want to do about dinner: you'd picked him up something from McDonald's, but not bought anything for yourself. You tell him you're going to meet Chelsea for a Friday night date. He grunts and lets you go. Instead, of course, you go up to the school. The sun is just below the horizon as you pull up next to the gym, and you have the entire parking lot to yourself. Your heart quickens as you look around. You're about to use a key to go into the gym and step into the Holy of Senior Class Holies. Then your phone buzzes, and your heart explodes. It's a text from Chelsea: pookie, pls talk? Next: "Where the Boys Play" |
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