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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "When Yumi Met Gary, Part 1"  You got nothing to do until it's time to meet up with Yumi, and an hour and a half to do it in. That's both the glory and the bane of Gary Chen's weekends. No shit to deal with but the epic stretches of empty time. So you jam down Twentieth until you run out of city, then wheel around and work your way back over to Farm Road, the residential boulevard that hugs the western side of town. You follow it all the way up to the interstate—gunning the engine at stoplights and grimacing at the assholes in front of you—then hit the highway east. It takes you past car dealerships and box stores, past the mall and warehouses, all the way out in the country again, sailing off toward ... Well, where? Anyplace that Gary Chen's troubles can't follow. Memories tickle the back of your brain, but you ignore them to glare out at the rolling countryside with its stands and belts of trees. The hills are touched with yellow, and the trees wracked with crimsons and browns, for October has more than half passed, and the air is cool under a dry but cloudy sky, and the moody thought that you are halfway to the halfway point of your final year in high school hangs heavily off your shoulders. And after graduation? Because there's no fear of that, as you explained to Yumi last night. * * * * * "You're so funny," she said. You were sitting in your Jeep, in the parking lot behind the record store. It was raining again, and the roof rattled as though pelted by pebbles. It was dark, and you were huddled up close to each other, playing with each other's fingers and murmuring into each other's faces. Did you dare lean in to kiss her? No, not yet. Maybe now? No, not yet. Now? "Fuck are you talking about? What makes me funny?" "Oh, I don't mean like that. I mean, you're in my math class. And in Orchestra." "Someone's gotta be. Fucking instruments won't play themselves." She doesn't reply, and with a twinge you think she's probably wincing at all your cussing. "What other classes are you taking?" she finally asks. "Well, I gotta English class and a science class—" "What English? What science?" "English IV and Physics II." "AP?" Fuck you. "No, just regular." She sits up. "But you're taking AP Stat with me." A fact you never fucking noticed before. "Yeah. That and Orchestra, like you said. Oh, and a bullshit business class. Marketing." "Still," she said, settling back close to you. "Physics II and AP Stat. I'm taking Chemistry II. And I'm not even in the regular English IV class, I'm in the Classical Literature class." "Yeah. So what's that got to do with making me funny?" "How are your grades?" You stifle a sigh. "Getting A's, mostly. I'm a little borderline in Physics." "Well, see, that's what makes you funny." She twined her fingers inside yours. "Everyone thinks you're a thug, Gary. 'Gangbanger Gary,' y'know? Ow," she says as you clench her fingers between yours. "Sorry." Not sorry. "Why are you telling me this? 'Cos I fucking know—" "But you're taking those classes. Those are real classes. And you're not blowing them off out at the portables or behind the music wing, like the rest of those— Assholes. 'Cos you're passing them. You're getting A's, you said, right?" "That's what I said." Your chest tightened. It's not fun balancing two jobs—one of them extremely illegal—with school and a home life dominated by a sick old man, and it's not easy, and it's not something you wanted to brag about or even to explain. "So?" "So that doesn't fit with what people think of you." Scorn dripped from your voice. "You want me to show them that side of me?" She didn't answer right away. Then she said, "No!" and inched up closer to you. "I wouldn't pay any attention to you if you did." She never paid attention to you before, but your forgave her that now as she put her face into the crook of your neck and rubbed her nose there. "Do you have a tiger mom too?" she murmured. "G'ym. Yeah, I guess you could call her that." You felt like you were choking on your own erection. "Does she drive you crazy?" "Yeah, sometimes." "Is that how come you're ... coiled up so tight? So ... hard?" Jesus Fucking His Father Up the Ass Christ. She has no idea how ... hard ... you are right now. "Is that why you like to ... hurt people?" You sucked so hard on your lower lip that you almost swallowed it. "Mmm. I got a lotta stress in my life," you allowed. "Sometimes I don't got the patience, like, to deal with the morons and the assholes." And the motherfucking racists. "Me neither," she breathed. "I'm taking hard classes too. I've got a lot of stress. Oh my God." Her voice trailed away into a whisper. "It's like we're made for each other." You almost impaled yourself on your own cock. And it fizzed and it bit and it banged its head against your zipper when she raised her face to yours, wrapped one of your lips between hers, and tugged ever so gently. * * * * * "Fuck! God damn it!" The Jeep wobbles as you frantically search for a place to turn around. In your reverie you stopped watching what you were doing, and it's now ten minutes after six and you're at least twenty-five miles out of town. The next exit is— You search for landmarks, but every tree and bush and hillock looks like every other goddamned one. If you have to drive all the way out to Roryvale or Waxtend, which are the next podunk burgs on the interstate— "Motherfucker!" you scream when you glimpse the black-and-white in your rearview mirror. With gritted teeth you tap the brake to bring your speed down to a hair under the limit. For five miles you sail along with the cruiser slowly creeping up behind you. You cuss long and softly to yourself as you wonder if your tags are up to date. If he pulls you over, he won't be able to search you with probable cause. But if he's got a dog with him and the dog finds the steel box welded to the underside of the Jeep, it won't matter if he's got probable cause or not. You'll be shit out of luck anyway. You're in the left-hand lane, and when the black-and-white is about thirty yards behind, and still closing, you signal and move into the right-hand lane. For a long moment the cop hangs back. Then he speeds up and crawls past you on the let. You prop your forearm in the window and rest your head against your hand, as though relaxing, when in fact you're hiding the twitch in your cheek. The black-and-white cruises past. When it disappears around a corner, you jam hard on your brakes, dropping to only forty, and when you emerge onto the straightaway on the other side, he's nearly a hundred yards ahead. You speed up again, but keep well below the limit. When the cop vanishes into a series of S-curves, you drop back to thirty-five and start searching for a turnaround. There are no barriers in the median between the eastbound and westbound lanes, only a wide strip of thick, tall grass. After darting hard glances up and down the highway to assure yourself of its emptiness, you brake hard, jam the Jeep into first, and roar and bump and grind your way through hidden holes and shallow gullies over to the westbound lane. A single SUV rockets past as you pause, then you punch the accelerator and launch yourself back onto the interstate. The engine screams as with quick strokes you shift and accelerate back up into fourth gear. You do eighty all the way back to Saratoga Falls, as you gulp down deep draughts of air and try to pull your heart back down into your chest. * * * * * "Hey, sorry I'm late," you call out to Yumi as she comes out her front door. Her smile looks a little tight as you run around the front of the Jeep to tear open the passenger-side door for her. "So where are you taking me?" she asks when you're back inside the Jeep. "I said I'm sorry I'm late," you repeat as you twist the key in the ignition. "I didn't say I was mad!" she protests. "Anyway, you texted me. What were you doing outside of town?" "Killing time. Getting lost. Fuck." You dig at your scalp, which has broken out in a violent itch. "I didn't know I was also supposed to be planning where we were gonna go." "You're stressing out, Gary," Yumi says. You feel the glare on your face as you wheel on her. She's smiling gravely at you, and you force yourself to relax. "What do you think you've got to be stressed out about?" she asks. "Nothing," you admit with a deep sigh. "Or, you tell me. Do I got something to be stressed out about? I didn't wanna be late." "Stress yourself out all you want, Gary," she says. She tugs at your coat. "I'll help you work it out. Your stress and all the kinks." She blinks up at you, and bites down on a smile. You swallow a groan. You're supposed to break up this creature, by tonight if possible. It would be easy enough to work yourself into a surly, ugly rage, the kind that would piss her off for good, and maybe subconsciously that's what you were doing as you cursed and punched the steering wheel on the long, stupid drive back into town. But you don't want to break off with her, any more than the helplessly whirling, eternally tumbling Moon can break away from the Earth. And as you plunge into her glittering eyes and remember last night, you realize that maybe that's something else you were subconsciously worrying over on that maybe-not-so-pointless drive out of town. Maybe Chelsea Cooper isn't going to let Yumi Saito break up with the guy that Chelsea has picked out for her. Next: "Some Things That Yumi Can Do With Her Mouth" |
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