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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Excuse My French"  by Masktrix A month ago you’d have panicked and told Aiden everything. A week earlier, you’d have come out with a string of excuses, justifying what he’d seen. But a month ago you didn’t know about magic, and a week ago you weren’t Mathilde Ambard. Something deep inside emboldens you. “I do not hav to explain myzelf to yoo,” you hiss, shaking your elbow free from his grasp as if his very touch offends you. You look in Aiden’s eyes, and, suddenly, it all makes sense! You let a full snarl emerge from your lips as you look down your nose at him, suddenly feeling far taller than Mathilde’s petite frame. “Yoo… worthless leetle junkie.” Aiden is about to speak but is taken aback. “Wha…” Gotcha. When you delivered Abi’s stash, you knew it couldn’t all be just for her: she had to be selling it, too. She mentioned Adderall, one of those drugs they give kids to concentrate, something that smart kids use to try and boost their performance in exams. Most of the kids at St. X don’t give a shit about test scores – they’re going to get into whatever college they want anyway. But then there are the geeks. The high achievers. The kids who can’t come second at any cost. The kids like Aiden Nichols. “You zink I did not know?” you say, voice drenched with contempt. “People like you, zey never know zeir place. You always want more. So you try und cheat, and when zat does not work, you create your leetle fantazees.” Aiden doesn’t reply. He just stands there, dumbfounded, not sure what to say. It only swells up your contempt for him further. “You are worthless, Aiden,” you say slowly, prodding your finger against his ribcage and letting it rest there. “You zink people owe you answers. You do not understand zat some people are just better zan you. Do not ever – ever – speak to me zis way again. Now get out of my sight.” He turns pale, as if someone’s just punched him hard in the gut. Then, uncertain, drained of all the confidence he’d built up moments ago, he backs off, heading down the corridor hunched like a wounded animal. You slow-blink with contempt, then march back to your room, flicking your hair as you go. Once there, you lean back against the door and take a deep, satisfied breath. You’re not sure if that was JM, or Mathilde, or someone new but you’re certain you like the feeling. Aiden isn’t going to go away, though. Right now, it’s his word against the real Mathilde’s that she’s back at school – you doubt anyone else is going to remember clearly if she sat with them at lunch, at least enough for Aiden to make waves, and the genuine Mathilde’s not going to put up with his bullshit questions any more than you did. It does ruin your plans for the weekend, though. And, if Aiden is half as bold as you suspect he might be, particularly with his geek friends, Mariah and Niamh with her stupid haircut, you’re running a risk every second you spend at Xavier’s – the more people who see you, the more witnesses Aiden has that he isn’t deluded. You pull out JM’s bag from where you stashed it and head back to her room. Tammy-Lynn isn’t around, so you grab the rucksack and throw in the Stephanie mask, Mary’s band and your ingredients. Then you catch an Uber for Saratoga Falls. You can work out what you’re going to do once you’re there. You stay as Mathilde, though: what’s the point in changing back? *** You’re dreaming of a sunny day on the left bank of the Seine, sipping high quality espresso in a café at the southern end of the Pont Neuf. In reality, you’re stuck in Saratoga Falls, sipping a frothing mess in the ridiculously named Koffee Kauldron. You have no idea whether it’s Mathilde’s thoughts or your own – a genuine memory or some kind of fantasy that you’ve conjured up. You must have fucked up the last spell, you decide, or misplaced an etching on the metal band. It definitely worked – the fact that her name appeared in the mask is testament to that. But for some reason her thoughts and personality haven’t come through like Mary’s, and you’re stuck trying to play Mathilde Ambard without the spark that gives life to her soul. At least, you figure, you’re out of St. X, and away from Aiden, Abi, Mary and the rest. You open up the book and turn the page to the next spell, bringing your phone out to work on the translation. As you do so, a message pings onto the lockscreen. Hey! Surprise. :D :D :D Your eyes go wide. Mark messaging ‘StephWyatt’! You quickly tap a reply. Not today, busy. At the soccer game. Cn c u on the sidelines. Looking ::fire emoji::. Not playing 2day? Am cming ovr. You clench your teeth. NO. DO NOT COME OVER. AM WITH FRIENDS. Why nt? Got boys with me. Can all hng tgether, watch game then chill. I SAID NO, MARK. WILL EXPLAIN LATER. WTF? You think. How the hell are you going to explain this away? Then it hits you! It’s a wild punt, a Hail Mary given you can’t even see what’s happening on the other side of town, but it’s your only hope of stopping your charade unravelling. Plz. Guy wth me ex. Will cause fight. Meet tmrw? You wait for the next message, but it doesn’t come. You have no idea what’s going on at whatever field Mark and the real Stephanie Wyatt are in, or what the fallout is going to be. You just pinch your nose and clench your fist in frustration. This was supposed to be perfect! This was supposed to be a whole new world for you! And instead you’ve picked up a stalker conspiracy theorist and a boyfriend so damn clingy he’s going to ruin everything! You shake with frustration, feeling that sinking feeling, deep in the pit of your being, that you thought you’d lost forever when you realized what the book could do. Fuck. My. Life. You turn back to the pages open in front of you. Maybe the next spell has the answer. Maybe it’ll let you turn someone else – Mathilde or Stephanie or even Aiden – into stupid old you. Wouldn’t that be great? You could ambush the real Mathilde when she comes back, assuming you can find a way to polish up the stupid mask in time, and stick her as JM. She’d rant and rave that she was Mathilde, of course, but who gives a shit? She’d be in the body of Jocelyn Moss! Everyone at school would just think JM had gone insane, and you could get on with living a life that’s better than the one you were born to in every single way. It’s a fantasy you chew over, convincing yourself it’s the perfect solution, as you decipher the near-impenetrable Latin with only an online translator for aid. It’s for a ‘pedisequos’ – you draw a complete blank on whatever that could be. And, worse, the part you can translate isn’t something within your means: how the hell do you get several hundred pounds of earth from a grave? You’re mulling that over, wondering how the hell you can even transport something like that, when the solution hits you. It’s already obvious that you can’t do this on your own anymore, but your options for allies are limited. Mary isn’t worth considering – she’d try and take control of everything. Tammy-Lynn might be better, but you still don’t trust her not to open her mouth and blab about the secretive world of magic to everyone. Aiden Nichols might have been the perfect candidate before today, but you’ve seen his true colors: beneath the veneer of helpfulness there would always be a risk of betrayal. And as for Mathilde… well. You doubt she’d forgive you for taking her life for a joyride. That leaves one option. It’s the riskiest, given you barely know them, but they’ve already proven easy to manipulate – and they’re in your debt. *** You’re back as Jocelyn, outside the church, standing awkwardly in Mathilde’s clothes – at least a size too small for you. The church basement is the only location you know in town that’s suited to your needs: completely private and with access you can control. Abi’s drug drop will have to move, of course, but that – like whatever happened with Mark and Stephanie – is a problem for later. Right now, you need a base of operations away from prying eyes. Downstairs, you’ve stashed the book and the masks in a dusty corner, behind some paint pots that look like they haven’t been disturbed since the last century. You’re just losing hope that your new lackey is going to arrive when you finally see him pull up. Your prize. A townie boy with a pick-up that should be able to haul all the graveyard earth you need for the spell. And, better yet, a guy who – as long as he doesn’t flake out – owes you a forfeit of doing whatever you want. He’s everything you’re looking for in an assistant. “Hey,” Will Prescott says as he scrambles out of his truck's cab, a stupid fitted cap resting over his rabbity face. “What’s up?” That's all for now. |
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