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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Nuclear Option"  Doing something significant with Sydney even if she's under a mask? It's a tempting idea; very tempting. Too tempting to resist. "Okay, if you want to, um—" You look past Sydney to goggle at the sophomore girl who is sprawled out on the floor of her bedroom. "Handle Bridget's duties?" Sydney finishes for you. She looks amused, and lays a palm against your chest. "We'll have all the fun you want, Will," she says as she gently pushes you back toward the door, "after I've got the job." She closes the door in your face, almost catching your toes. * * * * * You're sitting in the backyard, brooding in a distracted way on the future and on your plans for it, when the kitchen door opens and Sydney comes out. Her appearance momentarily surprises you. Shouldn't she be busy with Bridget? She's changed her clothes at least, into skimpy black jogging shorts and a red t-shirt, and you get a good, long look at her shapely, tanned legs, and at her bust, as she saunters toward you. She notices you studying her, and her mouth spreads into a soft, open-mouthed grin, and she brushes back her golden hair. "Hey there," she says when she's standing in front of you. "You got a place for me to sit?" You're by the back wall, in the corner, where there's an ornamental, wrought-iron table and two ornamental, wrought-iron chairs under the canopy of a spreading tree. The other chair is puddled with dirty water and sodden leaves—it rained off and on for most of the day—so you brush your knees, and Sydney sinks onto your lap, straddling you. She runs her tongue inside her bottom lip, and her smile widens. "Anything wrong with the masks?" you ask her. It feels like your Adam's apple is trying to turn sideways in your throat. "No." "Is Bridget, whatever her name is, still out?" "Unconscious, you mean? I guess." "Nn-hnn. Is it okay to leave her up in your bedroom?" "Sure." Sydney holds your eye in a dreamy gaze, then tilts her head and leans forward to put her face to yours. "Is Sydney almost done changing into her mask?" you interrupt. The girl stops, then leans back again. That look of amusement returns. "Who do you think I am, Will?" "I know who you look like," you tell her, and your pecker raises itself as though to second the identification. "But I'm pretty sure my real girlfriend is, uh, still up in her bedroom. With Bridget." Sydney sniggers. "Your real girlfriend," she echoes. "Who do you think I am, Will?" she asks again. "Listen, um, you," you gasp. "I think—" "I know who your body thinks I am," she says, and she gently covers your crotch with her hands. You spasm runs through you. "Why are you letting your brain get in the way?" "Sydney, um, please," you murmur, but she stifles your protests by suddenly covering your mouth with hers. She's very gentle, probing, inquisitive, with her lips and her tongue. She presses with them, and pulls with them, feeling your mouth out with hers. Every now and then you can feel the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't press it on you, but only explores the outlines of your mouth with it as she pulls your mouth into hers. You try not to reciprocate, but your lips have other ideas. The kiss doesn't last long, though. Sydney breaks off, but leans against you and puts her cheek against yours. "We don't do this often enough, Will," she breathes. "Technically, I don't think we—you and me—have done it ever," you protest. "Oh, I remember—" "That wasn't you." "You think I'm a pedisequos." She says it very matter-of-factly as she sits back up again. "You think I'm my own pedisequos. How could you ever tell the difference?" "I could pull the mask off you." "Would you try?" She leans in to breathe the words softly into your ear. "That would be so hot." You twist under her, trying to push her. "Sydney. Fake— Whatever you want to call yourself." You grimace and grunt. "I know you think you're the real girl—" For all practical purposes, I am," she says. "I wish you'd see that." She settles herself still more firmly on your lap. "If we went off someplace and did it, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference." "Do it?" you repeat. "It?" "You know." She grinds herself into you. "Go all the way." Your eyes nearly pop. "But you wanted to, uh, not do that. Keep yourself intact, you said, it—" "Yeah, I guess I should," she sighs. "Who knows how these things work. But I wish you'd stop acting all embarrassed with me, Will." She pouts a little. "Is this how you're going to treat me after—" She winces. "After my original—" she says the word with loathing "—has gone off to do her secret agent thing?" "I think she'd like me to stay, uh, faithful to her." "But I am her!" "No you're—! Look. What would Sydney say? Pretend that you're her. Okay, so that isn't hard," you admit hotly as the pedisquos sniggers. "So what would she say about, um, me and a copy going off and, you know?" "Sure." She titters. "Go for it, have fun." "Be serious! Okay, what if we made another copy of you, of Sydney, I mean," you correct yourself. "Would you be okay with it if I went off with that copy?" She hesitates, then laughs again. "Oh, why limit yourself, Will? Why not make a bunch of copies of me, and go off with all of us?" You feel like your head's about to explode. "Okay, say I went off with those copies but left you behind?" "With them and not with me?" You nod. She studies you, then sags. "Alright, fine," she sighs. She slumps with downcast eyes. "I wasn't serious anyway," she says, and pulls her hair back. "I just saw a chance to screw with you is all." "Well, mission accomplished." She looks up, and studies you some more with a tilted head. "Are you going to be like this, though, when you're a pedisequos?" "What do you mean? When am I going to be a—?" "You're going to turn yourself into someone else, right? And you're going to leave a pedisequos behind." "Sure." "Well, I'm acting just like—" She rolls her eyes. "Like my original would. So your pedisequos will act just like you would. Right?" "I guess." "So is your pedisequos going to act like this, like you, around me? Is he going to be all—" A pink splotch breaks out across her brow. "You're not real, so I'm not interested in you?" Her expression turns very pinched. You gape at her. But before you can figure out an answer to her question—a question, you dimly sense, that could lead to paradoxes—you hear your name shouted. You look past her ear toward the house. An upstairs window has gone up, and a girl with long, brown hair is leaning out of it, glaring at you with haggard eyes. You push yourself to your feet, and this time the pedisequos lets you rise. * * * * * "We've got a problem," the girl bursts out once you're in the bedroom, and points to her face. "I'm not getting any of the memories or anything!" You stare at her. And as you stare at her, it's like you see her for the first time. She's a small girl, the crown of her head coming up maybe to the bridge of your nose. She has a broad face with wide-set eyes and a mouth that looks like it could open from ear to ear. Her most striking feature is her chocolate-colored hair, which is long and thick and falls like a great man down her back and around her shoulders all the way to her waist. She's dressed very simply in a t-shirt and jeans. Her name is Bridget Atwater, but she's really your girlfriend, Sydney. You have a sudden desire to wrap your arms around her and pull her close. It's a desire that gives you a sudden spasm of smug pleasure. I tried pushing off a girl who looked like Sydney, you congratulate yourself, but now I want to grab and hold a girl who doesn't, but really is her. So I must really be in love with her and not her— Bridget snaps an impatient finger your face. "Will! Focus! I said—!" "What do you mean you're not getting the memories?" "I'm not getting the memories! I didn't forget how to speak English just because—! It's like when I put on Caleb's mask." She pales. "Remember how I put it on, I couldn't remember anything, couldn't act like him?" "Uh-huh." "Jesus! What if these masks don't work for me?" Well, if they don't work for her, then she's not going to be able to wear them. But you don't tell her that. Instead, you put her under the covers of her bed, where she wriggles out of Bridget's clothes, and you pull the mask off so you can study it for flaws. * * * * * "Well, it worked fine for me," you remind Sydney an hour later, after she's back in the mask after you'd put it on to try yourself. "Maybe you should give it some time?" "So what do we do about all these texts we getting, asking where Bridget is?" Yes, Bridget Atwater seems to be a popular girl. She's getting texts from her brother, from a couple of guys, from some of her girlfriends ... And from Kelly O'Brien. From behind any of these faces, you could probably give Sydney support and cover while she waited for Bridget's memories to start coming. Next: "Party Crash" |
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