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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Anonymous Benefactor"  A movie? That's all they're going to do? You probably wouldn't go out to see a movie even if you weren't grounded. So you're not going to waste one of the chits that Laurent owes you on something you wouldn't be doing anyway. You close the browser window and wipe clean the history before sneaking off your dad's study. You don't bother to make a visit to the back fence; if you're not waiting there, you figure, the guys will know that you're not interested. * * * * * At least your dad lets you have your phone back the next morning—Saturday—and he turns the wifi back on. There's a handful of texts from Laurent when you check in. They're kind of cryptic, so you call him to find out what's up. "It's kind of a disaster out at the campsite," he sighs. "The rain came in during the night and put out the fire. Me and Brownie had to relight it when we went to check on it this morning, which wasn't fun because the dirt was soaked, and we had to come back into town to get a tent to put up over it, and then go back out to put it up." You glance out the window at the cold rain that's falling. It's just as well. Your dad told you that if it wasn't raining, you'd be working outside with him getting the yard prepped for autumn. "So how was the movie?" you ask. "Well, that at least worked out," he says, and his tone brightens. "We got a fuckload more masks out there. You know. Dark theater. Girls to sneak up on." His tone turns gleeful. "We almost started a riot at one point!" He laughs. Whoa! "You copied a bunch of girls? Who'd you get?" "Why don't you come out and see?" "I'm grounded." "I told you, that's no problem. We still got your gear. Give us a time to meet you, and we can be out at the fence to do a switch. Then you can stay out till, well, whatever time you wanna go back." You swing around to check the weather page on your computer. Tomorrow is supposed to be mostly cloudy but there's no rain in the forecast. In other words, it's likely your dad is only putting off until tomorrow what he has threatened you with today. So you accept Laurent's offer, with the private determination to spend not just the day but the night out. * * * * * Two o'clock. "Do you think you're going someplace?" your dad asks when you enter the living room in jogging shorts, t-shirt, and a rain poncho. "I was just gonna take a fast jog around the block," you tell him. "Come on!" you plead as he lifts an eyebrow. "I'm going stir-crazy! Look at me! I'm so desperate I wanna go jogging in the rain!" Your brother giggles from the sofa, where he's playing a game on his cell phone. "You're grounded, Will," he reminds you. "Robert," your dad chides him without taking his eyes off you. "Around the block and then you're back," he tells you. "I'll be ten minutes, tops!" you promise, and dart for the front door before he can change his mind. The rain patters on your poncho and cap as you sprint across the soggy lawn. The street is pocked with puddles, and water sluices into the storm drains. Your shoes are soon soaked, and they squish loudly as you jog along. The memory of the stitch your double got the other night, when he went to visit Eva, comes back to you, like a phantom pain. Halfway up the block, you turn at the sound of a motor, but it's only a luxury sedan coming up behind, and it passes you without stopping. You slow up and check the time on your phone. The guys are late, you find. You pause at a Stop sign to catch your breath and to do a little stretching, which you'd neglected to do when you set out. You're still at it when the big black truck approaches from the direction of your house. It slows up and you grab the handle before it can stop. You jump inside, and almost shout with fright at the kid who helps haul you in. It's you. The same face you see every morning as you brush your teeth and brush your hair and try flattering yourself into believing that there's acres—just acres—of soft, warm, sexy, nubile high school girls aching to kiss and nuzzle and suckle you. He's got the same narrow, rabbity eyes. The same wide smile that somehow gets tangled up on some very large teeth. The same corn-colored hair that sticks out in weird tufts over your brow and ears and top of your neck. The same coarse hairs that you haven't shaved off your chin and upper lip and cheekbones in a couple of weeks. And he's scrawny, like you are too, with arms and legs that seem to be all jutting elbows and knees, like a marionette. He's in a loose t-shirt and floppy shorts (like you are), which only makes him looks even bonier. "Hey man," he says, and his voice is a light, thin tenor. "So Dad let you out, huh? I was starting to worry." "You guys were late," you retort. The hair is going up all over your body, but you can't tear your eyes away from your double. "We been circling the block for ten minutes. Come on, finish switching with me. Gimme your shoes." Your double is barefooted, you now notice, and his feet are like rowboats. You kick off your sopping sneakers and pull off your poncho and hat. The two of you fight for position as you change clothes and places so he can get at the door. Finally, with an exasperated Oof! he pops open the door and falls out of the slow-moving vehicle. You turn around to watch through the back window as he goes sprinting back the way you came, his arms and legs pumping hard. God, I look like a goofball when I run, you sigh to yourself. "So that was weird," the driver says. Only now do you notice that it's Brownie at the wheel. "There's flip-flops in the floorboard for you," he adds. When you shiver, he punches up the heat. "So who was that?" you ask back there. "Will Prescott. You know him." He laughs when you cuss at him. "Laurent," he corrects himself. "You had a deal with him, right?" You turn around to look out the back again, but the figure has disappeared around a corner. How weird to think that your lookalike was actually the muscular wrestler. "So what are we doing?" you ask as you turn around to buckle yourself in. Brownie laughs again. "Laurent told you we scored a fuckload of masks and shit last night, right?" he brags. "We're all meeting at the park to parcel 'em out, then we're gonna go out an' have fun with 'em." "What if someone catches us?" "We're thinkin' about driving out to Lattyville. Or down to Suffolk. Not much chance of runnin' into someone there." Those are two of the smaller towns—hardly more than villages—a dozen or so miles out of town. Brownie grins and leans over to add with a conspiratorial whisper, "We're going shopping for outfits!" * * * * * The rendezvous point is Potsdam Park. Marc, Chris, Noah, and Ethan are already there—Laurent is covering for you, and Marcos is off doing something else—and a bazaar of masks and disguises is soon spread out on the floor of the decorative gazebo where you're sheltering from the rain. There's a buzz of conversation and a lot of hoarse laughter as masks are passed around, examined, and traded. It's hard to make out which masks are copies of which people, for you have to hold them up and turn them this way and that in order to find the ghost-like faces that they contain, and not all of the masks contain faces that you recognize. But you recognize Mia DeWitt from your Film class, and are startled to find that Jessica's mask is in the mix as well. When you point this out to Marc, he grins, and takes it from you to set aside. There's more toys, too. Laurent made up a bunch more of those memory strips, and he and the guys got a bunch of them onto the people they copied in the movie theater last night. This causes an argument to break out: "We should glue these things into the masks," Ethan says. "That way we know which ones go with which ones." "Shit, no fun in that," Brownie growls. "I wanna mix 'n match. Like, we could put Garner's brain inside his sister's body." That earns him a punch from Marc. Ultimately, it's decided to leave the masks and metal strips separate—though how they were supposed to be "glued together" you don't understand, and are too embarrassed to ask—and the various wares, once identified, are spread out, and masks are matched up with the equivalent metal bands. Then there's a long, shouty argument about who will get to pick first, followed by an equally long and equally shouty round of rock-paper-scissors. You are the second-to-last to get a pick, but there's plenty of identities left for you to choose from when it's your turn. Even after Noah, who is supposed to pick last, mutters, "Don't pick Maria" in your ear, you've got a good set of choices. You ignore Braydon Delp, the only guy who got copied last night, because who wants to impersonate a weedy, teenaged, would-be black magician? (He only got copied, you're told, because he was at the theater with his girlfriend, whose mask has already been claimed by Chris Ratliff.) Of the remaining identities, two of them—Mackenzie Fuller and Emily Sparks—are masks only. The other two are a complete disguise, but you don't really know the girls. But maybe you could talk Marc into letting you wear Jessica's mask again. Next: "A Rain Delay" |
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