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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Problem Solver"  "So who's this cheerleader you set me up with?" Will Prescott asks with cheerful insolence. "Is she hot?" "She's very hot," you reply. "And everybody hates her," you add as you bend your face toward the memory strip. "Now shut up." You don't need any useless chatter from Fake-Will as you rush to finish up the new mask, and getting the runes right takes up most of your concentration. Fake-Will snorts but otherwise obeys. He is perched on a table under one of the basement windows, watching for the girl you told him would be showing up soon. Nearby lie the remnants of the meal you sent him out to fetch: a box of fried rice for himself, and vegan wraps for you. Every day the same thing, you mutter to yourself as you push a crick out of your neck. Here you are again, at the old elementary school after nightfall, waiting for a girl to show up so you can copy her. Maybe you should give up on making more masks, and just use the ones you've made and inherited. Or maybe you should set aside an upcoming day this weekend to make a whole bunch all at once. "Hey, I think she's here," Fake-Will chirps, and you bolt upright in a sweat. "No, wait, they're turning into a driveway across the street. Does she live around here? This girl who's coming out?" He turns a squirrel-like face on you. "You know any cheerleaders who live around here?" you retort. "Besides, she goes to Eastman." "And she's a cheerleader everyone hates," he says. "How does that work?" You wish you knew. But for some reason, Jessica Pearce, who is one of the hottest girls on the cheerleader squad—she's got strong, tight thighs and calves; an ample bosom; luscious brunette hair; and a bow-like mouth in a baby face—is a loner with no obvious friends, either male or female. It's like someone put a curse on her. Someone named Alyssa Randal, you think. You squirm in your seat, and the knife slips between your fingers as you think of Jessica. You're not into girls, and you made out hard with Summer Nguyen last night only because fingering a fleshy fake of the girl you resent was like scratching a maddening itch. But you're sharing a mind with a horny teenage boy and a very out lesbian, and the thought of Jessica Pearce makes Will Prescott stiff and Chris Yves wet. Yves even approached Jessica, before snagging Summer as her latest, thinking that Jessica might share Yves's leanings—or would at least be grateful for the attention. Jessica's reply stung like a whip across the face. But that rejection in no way cooled Yves's interest in the girl. * * * * * The time ticks closer for Jessica to show up, under the misapprehension that she'll be meeting Summer. You finish the mask with ten minutes to spare, and give it to Fake-Will. He is dressed out in a t-shirt, jacket, and track pants, and after tucking the mask into an armpit he goes outside to jog around the school. When Jessica's SUV pulls up to the curb, he trots out onto the street to approach it from behind. You watch with increasing irritation as he talks to Jessica without making a move against her. Finally, he gestures you over. "Sorry," he says as you trot up. "She wouldn't roll down the window." "How'd you finally talk her into it?" You peer inside the cabin, where Jessica has slumped halfway over into the passenger-side chair. "I asked her if she knew a girl named Summer." "Shit." You punch him in the arm. "Hey! It was the only way! Anyway, like it matters. You're going to turn yourself into her, aren't you?" "Not this one. I just want her face for a little while. To meet up with someone." "A hot date?" "Shut! Up!" You kick him in the ankle. "I know you think you're funny, but you're not!" "So what's that say about you?" "Fucker!" You pull out your cell phone and signal Summer that it's okay to drive out. "I guess I'll just have to tell Summer to tell Jessica that she sometimes comes out here to— Oh, fuck!" It all just seems like so much busywork, suddenly. Fake-Will sticks his head in through the SUV window to ogle Jessica more closely. "Man," he groans. "How can anyone hate anything that looks like that?" "That's something I aim to find out." You grab him by the ear and haul his head and shoulders back out of the car. * * * * * The bell on the coffee shop door chimes softly, and you lift your hand to wave at the classmate who has just come in. He turns at your gesture, and pulls off his sunglasses. You almost melt as he blisters you with an intense but thoughtful frown. You'd rather have Frank Durras glare at you than have almost any other guy at school smile at you. His white t-shirt spreads tightly over his pecs—as big as the plates on a barbell—and the heels of his boots drum on the hard, parquet floor as he stumps over to your booth. Just across the way, at the table where they're perched over their coffees, cell phones, and books, Maddy and Mandy and Natalie and Summer (who at your instruction set up this meeting of the Rumorati)—fall into a quivering silence as this tall— —strong— —dark-haired— —intensely sexy slab of lean top sirloin— —settles into the seat across from you. "Hey Jessica," he says, and rolls his shoulders around in his letterman jacket. "So what's up?" You fold your hands on the table in front of you, and let your eyes fall. Now that it's come to the point, you can hardly talk. Wow. And you think that you have a crush on Frank. Jessica nearly chokes on the knot in her tongue. It's Saturday afternoon, and you have no idea where the real Jessica is. Probably at home, killing time (and her own soul) with homework in the dark, silent house where she lives. You almost feel sorry that she's not here; almost you feel sorry that she has no idea how easy it is to call up Frank Durras and arrange for him to meet up for coffee with ... a girl he thinks is Jessica Pearce. Maybe he likes her, as secretly as she likes him? Your hands twitch. "I wanted—" Your voice dies in your throat, and you clear it with a soft cough. "Thanks for coming out to meet me." He grunts, and glances around. "You like this place?" "Is there something wrong with it?" He snorts as he plucks up the little wire geegaw that holds the card with the table number on it. Except it's not a number. It's some kind of astrological sign. "It's pretentious," he says. "New Age crap." "I'm sorry." Frank seems to catch himself, and his own eyes fall. "No, I'm sorry," he says. "I'll meet you wherever." There is utter silence at the table where the Rumorati are sitting. It's like they're all holding their breath. And Frank doesn't notice? "It's about your brother," you tell him. "Joe?" "Have you got another one?" "Pfft. No. Thank goodness. If I had another one like him—" Again, he seems to catch himself. "What about Joe?" "Is it serious between him and Becky?" Frank stares, then sucks in his upper lip and glances back over his shoulder. "I don't involve myself with my brother's, um, dates." "Because she's not serious about him." Across the way, the Rumorati—and their table—practically levitate. "I dunno," you continue as Frank only stares at you. "Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this. I mean, if you don't like being mixed up in your brother's, um, dates. And when I say Becky's not serious about him—" You bite your lip, and feel Frank's gaze boring straight through you, straight through the back of the booth, straight through the back wall of the cafe. You've never met anyone who could so cleanly gut and shish-ke-bab you with a look. "It's the whole squad," you tell him. "Well, not the whole squad. Not me and not Alyssa and not—" You scramble for a third name. "Not Nina. But most of the rest of them. They're taking numbers to go out with him. Like, they've got it all scheduled out." You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Each of them gets a month with Joe. As his, you know." You stare into your open palms. Frank says nothing. It's so silent you can hear the two baristas talking in the next room. "I just thought you should know that about them," you tell Frank. "Or Joe should." Frank snorts again. "Yeah, well, Joe would have some say in the matter." "Would he?" You look up into Frank's face. "I mean, if Becky stepped aside and—" Your heart goes into your throat. "Rhianna Miller, um, came onto him, would Joe, like—?" Frank pushes back from the table. "My brother can take care of himself," he says. "He's been taking care of himself for—" His jaw clenches. "Since he was thirteen." "I just don't want to see him get hurt," you whimper. "Pfaw!" The explosive squawk startles you. Is that what Frank sounds like when he laughs? He pushes himself to his feet. "Thanks for thinking of me, Jessica," he says. "But I'm the wrong guy to tell this too." He gives you a cold, searching look, then turns and stumps off toward the door. No, but those were the right girls to eavesdrop as I told you. Next: "Arsenic From a New Face" |
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