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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Court of the Basketball Kings"  It's like the gym is undergoing gravitational collapse. (That's a concept you learned about while working with Scott on that research project for Astronomy: put enough loose matter in one place, and it all falls in on itself and kaboom you've got a star or a planet where once there was only a lot of empty space and floaty stuff. Yes, weird metaphors come to you when you're feeling stressed.) So one minute you're crouching on a bleacher with Scott, the next there's half a dozen people crowding around. "Fuck, man," Ryan Shuler barks as he falls onto the bleachers. "Some'n needs to kill Gordon and Steve b'fore they kill us." Shawn grabs his package and growls, "Yo, Steve, I got yer fucking hustle right here, asshole" while Brendan mutters, "It's gonna get worse before it gets better." "Fuck," Ryan groans again. He sprawls back, spreading his arms across the bleachers. "Hey babe," he calls to the golden-haired girl who is approaching. "Come sit on my face, make a shitty day all better for me. Better for you too." The girl smiles tightly as she squeezes between you and Scott, giving you a faceful of blonde hair as she does so. She says something to Scott about "hanging out," but the rest of her words are lost as Shawn croons, "Jamie, Jamie, Jamie." Across the court, Gordon Black and Steve Patterson exit the changing rooms and hook a right onto the narrow staircase that will take them up into the loft where the school's top jocks keep a kind of private clubhouse. You look away, before either of them can glance over and see you with their teammates. Why am I still here? you wonder as Ryan cusses Matt Nichols out, Matt cusses him back, and Shawn knees Brendan Tummler in the hip. They're going to notice you in a moment, the way a pack of wolves will eventually notice the rabbit hunkered down in the grass in the middle of the pack, and then you'll be sorry you ever had the crazy idea of talking to Scott. But you're not ready to give up, not yet, not entirely. So compromise with your desperate need to escape by leaning around that girl to touch Scott on the shoulder. "Hey," you say, and catch a faceful of the girl's hair again when she whips around at your words. "I'm gonna have to take off," you tell Scott, "but, uh—" Your skin prickles as you feel Scott's friends locking onto you. "I'll text you later about the thing, if that's okay." "Yeah, sure," he says, and goes back to murmuring to the girl. You get up on creaking knees and shuffle to the exit. Jeremy comes out of the changing rooms, and you give him a little smile and nod, which he returns before taking his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. You hang your head with a feeling of defeat all the way back to your locker. Why did you think that was going to work? What did you even think was going to happen? Did you really think that you'd become friends with Scott, and through Scott you'd become friends with a lot of assholes who are on the basketball team? Why would you want that? I didn't want that, you remind yourself. I just wanted to get to know them good enough that wouldn't throw wet paper towels in my face if I ran into them in a restroom. I just wanted to start feeling safe around them. But that was never going to happen, was it? So (you tell yourself as you change out books in your locker) it's just as well that this dumb-ass scheme got shut down early instead of later. You hide out in the library until you're sure that Scott and everyone else has gone. * * * * * It's a Friday night, but Caleb is mad because you didn't help him steal his project out of the time capsule, and Keith is busy with some family function, so you're upstairs working on your math when your phone chimes with a text: h will whats up? You blink at it, for it's from Scott Frazier. doing math, you reply. bluh A long minute passes with no reply, probably because he's trying to figure out what "bluh" means. So you poke him with, whats up w u? nothing. Then, what mathu have? WTF? calculus, you tap back. whats urs? no math im done w that shit. no party where u at? party? It's embarrassing to have to admit, but you've already admitted that you're working on your math homework, so you reply, no all my friends busy. sucky here too, he says. You almost fall out of your chair. u taking any art classes? he asks. no not good at art im take art class and wood metal woking what kind stuff in artscraft book u wantd show me? You gulp, and your fingers tremble. not sure. something like making masks. ceramic? dont know. maybe. how make? could show u. With your tongue between your teeth you add, want to see? sure cool. looking for project. You tell yourself it's not going to lead to anything, but you agree to meet him out at his house tomorrow afternoon. * * * * * The day is sunny and warm, and lawnmowers are out buzzing like mechanical locusts when you park at the address Scott gave you. It's an older part of town, where the houses are small and dowdy. But the trees are tall and old and they drape the lawns and streets with shade, and most of the houses, even those that slump with an exhausted look at the end of their walks, are bright with flowerbeds. The door is opened in answer to your knock by a small, paunchy old man with grizzled hair and a crooked grin. "Yew're friend of Scott's?" he asks in a backwoods twang. "Come on in." You thank him and step in through small entryway into a tiny parlor dominated by an overstuffed easy chair, a sofa, and a big-screen TV. There's a scent of cigar smoke in the air. "Scott's in back," the old man says, and he paws at you until you give him his hand; it's leathery, like a gorilla's, and his grip is soft. "Got himself a studio back there." He touches your shoulder and navigates around the sofa to a back door. "Just go on back there and show him I let you in." He grins again. "Thanks, Mr., uh—" "Dewhurst. I'm Scott's grandpa." And where's his parents? you don't ask, but instead step out onto a small back patio and down into a small back yard. A lawnmower rattles loudly next door, so that you don't even bother to yell Scott's name. Instead, you trudge over to an enormous wooden shed, about the size and shape of a one-car garage, that takes up almost a quarter of the yard. It's open in the front—it doesn't even seem to have a door—and light streams in too through some grimy windows. Scott's standing in the middle of the shed, working on some kind of metal sculpture. Well, you suppose it's a sculpture. Maybe it's a giant action figure. Or maybe it's a gasoline-powered windmill. He's screwing something onto it, whatever it is. But before you can figure out what you're looking at, he looks over and sees you. "Hey," he says, then turns his concentration back onto the thingus. "Can you hand me the spanner over there?" "The what?" "Crescent wrench. On the table by your—" You glance to where he's pointing: a table, hardly bigger than a stool, spread over which are a bunch of tools, like the instruments in an operating room. You hand him the crescent wrench; he mutters as he inserts it into a gap in the machinery and twists it. One of the thing's arms drops off it with a clatter. Scott steadies the contraption, then with a muttered Shit he lowers it onto its side. "You like Transformers, man?" he asks. "The movies?" "Any of it." "It's okay, I guess. Kinda fun." "I'm trying to come up with a new thing like that. Only—" He gnaws on his lower lip. "Well, never mind. You eat lunch yet?" "Um—" "My grandpa was gonna send me out to get something, but I asked if I could wait for you, pick something up with you." He slaps you in the stomach. "You up for seafood?" "I ... guess?" "My grandpa likes The Marlin. You drive, an' I'll give you five bucks toward whatever you want." * * * * * You are not actually a big fan of batter-fried fish and shrimp, but you haven't eaten and you'll take food. Scott compliments you on your truck, and on the drive out and back to The Smilin' Marlin asks you about your Friday plans and weekend plans. "There's a soccer meet this afternoon," he tells you, "girls' teams, Eastman versus us. I was gonna go out." He doesn't invite you, but there's the odor of invitation in his words. His grandpa takes the meal in front of the TV with a metal TV tray, while you and Scott split a box of fish and fries on the back patio. You ask him about the thing he's making in the studio, but he dismisses the question with a shrug. "It's an overgrown Erector set," he says. "Sometimes I think it'll turn out really cool, and other times I think it's just a lot of junk. No one'll want to play with it." "It's a toy?" "Maybe a model for one. I don't know. Maybe I'm just pissing around." He tosses the last of the fries into his mouth. "So what's this thing you wanted to show me?" That's all for now |
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