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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Three by Three"  Let's start with the cheerleading squad, you almost tell Sydney, but chicken out at the last minute. It sounds like a cliche. And what would she, an ex-cheerleader, think if that’s what you suggested? So you tell her it's up to her. "Mmm." She eyes you narrowly. "Let's start with Catherine, then. It's Friday, she'll have a party going already that we can crash. And it seems like she knows everyone at school, we should recruit her anyway. She'd be for getting others." If Catherine knows everyone, you think as Sydney takes out her cell phone, how come I don't know her? * * * * * Catherine Muskov lives in the southeast side of town, not far from where your aunt and uncle live. It's an old, leafy neighborhood, with neatly kept houses of white clapboard squeezed onto small lots. Sydney parks in back of a nearby elementary school. There are lots of cars in the lot, so you ask if it’ll be okay to park there. She gives you a look, and says that those are all cars of the people who are out at Catherine's already. Together—you carrying the backpack with the two masks and other supplies—you trek a block and half over to a white, two-story house with gray, steeply-pitched roofs and a small tower at one corner. Even from the sidewalk you can hear the muffled talk and laughter within. As you step onto the wraparound porch, the front door opens, and three guys and a girl spill out. Grins break across their faces when they see you. Well, they grin at Sydney, and grunt "Hey" "Hi" at her. You they ignore. "Sydney," the meatiest of the guys groans at her. "Hey, Eli." "Makin' a Taco Bell run. You're coming." "No, I just got here." "Bring you a chalupa." "No thanks." "Bring you two chalupas." "I said no." "You're coming with us, you can pick out your own." With a tight smile, Sydney pulls you through the four-person knot. "Just get enough for everyone," she says as she struggles past. "I got everything you want." Sydney doesn't reply, and just hauls you in through the front door. As you glance behind, you see that "Eli" is boldly eyeing your girlfriend's ass. Your face starts to burn. "Oh my God," Sydney mutters after pushing the door shut. "I can't believe it." She steps over to peer out a window onto the porch. "I know. Asshole." She gives you a quick look. "I don't think we're talking about the same thing. But come on, I wanna find— Do you know who that girl was?" "Nope." "Well, I don't either. That's why I wanna find—" But someone shouts her name from a nearby doorway, and with a blinding smile she turns to go over to say "Hi." And from that point on, you're more or less on your own, even when you're standing at her elbow listening. * * * * * If this is a party, you decide after forty or fifty minutes, it's the most low-key party you've ever been to. There's no music, no dancing, no obvious making out, hardly any drinking (not even of sodas), and in one room—a bookshelf-lined den that looks out onto the back yard—there's even a pile of kids in the floor doing their homework. But the house is crowded enough for a party, and there is food piling up in the kitchen. When you get tired of trailing Sydney around, listening to her gossip about people you barely know and care about even less, the kitchen is where you end up, perched on a countertop and munching tortilla chips. Well, you're perched there until Stephanie Wyatt comes in. She does a double-take at you, and her mouth screws up into a ferocious frown. "Jesus, Will," she snarls. "Get off there. You're scuffing the cabinets." You stare back, then slip back down to the floor. Stephanie is a bossy jock of a girl—she's on the girls' basketball squad—and she could probably beat you up. Which is too bad for a lot of reasons. She's got great legs, great boobs, a fantastic ass, and is semi-pretty as well, even though she wears her curly, chestnut-colored hair in a short bob. If she didn't terrify you so much, you'd probably add her to your library of jerk-off fantasies. She's probably a beast in bed. Maybe too much of one. It doesn't take much to imagine her topping her sexual climax by biting off the head of her mate. Still, male pride forbids that you retreat from the kitchen, so you sulk in a corner by the sink and watch with hooded resentment as she pours herself some ginger ale. She does it one-handedly while frowning angrily at her cell phone. "Tsshhhhh!" she hisses, and gives you a quick, angry look. "You seen Raymond around?" "Raymond?" you echo. "Koepp." You have to dredge deep to place the name. When you do summon up an image—a dumpy kid with messy blonde hair; not fat, exactly; just a guy who doesn't miss many meals and who doesn't fidget enough to keep the weight off—you're relieved to find that you can give Stephanie more than a shrug in reply. "Yeah, I saw him and some other guys earlier. They were leaving right about the time we got here." "We?" Stephanie's forehead furrows. "Me and Sydney." Stephanie stares, then dismisses your reply with a shake of her head. "Where did they go?" "They said they were making a Taco Bell run." Stephanie blinks, then makes a face and slaps at a Taco Bell bag resting on the kitchen island. "Yeah and they're back already," she snaps. "Have you seen him since then? Wait, did a girl go with him when he left?" "To Taco Bell?" You grimace as Stephanie nods impatiently. "Yeah." "Was it Ashley Scott?" "I don't know." You feel like you're being interrogated by a cop. "I don't know who Ashley Scott is." Stephanie rolls her eyes. "Why don't you try paying some fucking attention some time, Prescott?" she mutters, and stalks from the kitchen. You're semi-impressed that she even remembers your name. * * * * * Ugly as that little scene was, there's a sequel that's even worse. You've reconnected with Sydney, and are upstairs in a little sitting room, leaning against each other, arms loosely wrapped about each other's waists as Catherine Muskov—the hostess, the girl you and Sydney are targeting for replacement—relaxes in a window seat and twinkles at you. Catherine may not know you, but you definitely know who she is. She's a buxom brunette with hair that falls in soft curls to her shoulders; grave eyes; a small, turned-up nose; and legs, hips and breasts that you'd love to curl up with like a body pillow. She's on the track team, but she's not skinny or sinewy, only toned, and she's showing it off now in a pair of tight jeans and a halter top that's short enough for her bellybutton to wink at you as she alternately straightens up and sags. Her boyfriend has just gone downstairs. But some of his friends, including that Eli guy, are clustered around you. "He's so adorable, Sydney," Catherine says as she eyes you. "He's like a puppy. Did he follow you home?" "It's more like I followed him home," Sydney says, and pulls herself closer to you. That's bad enough, but you can't miss it when Eli leans over to one of his friends and with a grin mutters something about "whapping him on the nose with a newspaper." They snort and snicker. "We should all go out sometime," Catherine says. "You, me, Michael, your boyfriend. You play frisbee-golf?" she asks you. "Uh ... sometimes," you lie. "We should go play frisbee-golf this weekend, if it doesn't rain." Catherine leans back in her window-seat and stretches out her legs. "You play any sports, Will?" "If other guys are playing." That lie is even more brazen. Though you can crudely handle a basketball, it's been years since you've played an organized game of anything. "I'll see if Michael can set up some kind of game. Sydney and the rest of us girls can watch." She hops onto her feet. "Speaking of, I need to go find him before he and Noah get into any trouble." She slides past you and slinks out the door. Sydney turns to follow, but when you try to tag along, she whips around to nip at your ear, then nips at it again. "Stay here," she hisses, then hops along in Catherine's wake. You freeze, then start when you hear a strangled guffaw from behind. It's Eli and his husky friends, staring at you with huge grins on their faces. They don't even have to say anything, and neither do you. They just crack up and fall against each other, laughing, as they watch a full-body blush wash over you. * * * * * Relief finally comes—at just about the time you're ready to tell Sydney, "Fuck it, I'm going over the back wall, I'll see you at school on Monday"—at around seven o'clock. You're brooding in Catherine's back yard when your phone dings with a text: Come upstairs. You flinch, but comply. Sydney's in the hallway, chatting with three other girls, but she grabs you around the hip and pulls you aside for a whispered face-to-face conference. As she breathes up at you, you almost don't hear what she says. "Catherine's passed out in the bathroom." "What?" "I got the thing on her. I left her in the bathroom." She glances back down the hall at her friends. "I'll get rid of them, then you can sneak in, make the switch. Just make sure you lock the door behind you." You can only stare back at her. "Or were you figuring on me being Catherine?" she asks. Next: "A Girlfriend With Two Faces" |
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