%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "An Old Song with Swapped Singers"  You whip out your phone and dial Caleb. "Hey, I know you got that mask of Chelsea, but do you got any clothes to go with it?" you ask as soon as he answers. A pause. "Hang on while I double check that I'm not on speaker phone." Huh? "Since when do you have a speaker phone, fucker?" "I don't, but can you be a little more careful about blurting shit out?" "Fuck you. The Chelsea mask and some suitable clothes. Bring them to school tomorrow." "Why?" "To do the thing to Javits. You don't want him seeing your face when you try humping that mask onto him, do you?" "Tomorrow? We can't do it tomorrow!" "Why not?" Another pause. "Well, I guess we could, but it's really sudden." "Sudden makes it sweet. Oh wait, don't bring any clothes, just the mask." A hard gasp, then: "You want me walking through the school halls as Chelsea Cooper naked?" Reality swims. "Well, that'd be great—" "Yes it would. What time do you want me to streak?" "But we can't. I just mean I can get some clothes from Chelsea. I think. Talk to you tomorrow if not later." You cut him off in mid-sentence, but apparently it wasn't important, for he doesn't call back. You call Chen, and though you refuse to tell him why you need the clothes, you bluff him into agreeing to bring some in the morning: "It's the only way I can guarantee you Javits," you tell him. "And you need to call him yourself, set up a meeting between you and him at the portables." He grumbles but agrees. Then it's back to finishing the mask and brain-band. * * * * * Blank mask and brain band? Check. Bag of Chelsea's clothes, left under your Jeep just before first period? Check. Mask of Caleb Johansson? Check. Dipshit Johansson himself? You thrust your way liquidly through the crowded halls of the science wing in search of him. Even before you spot your co-conspirator coming out of Mr. Gelding's classroom, you spot Javits coming out of Mr. Cash's. Cindy Vredenburg is with him. Not for long, you grin. Then you spot three lanky figures come out of Geldings' room. You shove one—Anthony Kirk—aside and lay hands on Caleb's neck and belt. He goes rigid, but you've too much practice at this, and use his face and body to batter your way through the crowd. And behind you comes a jeer from Javits: " Hope you like lo mein on the down low, Johansson!" Hustle, push, rush. "You brought that fucking thing, Johansson, you brought what you were fucking supposed to bring me," you yell. Lowerclassmen scatter; Caleb doesn't reply. Up the path to the portables you jog, puffing hard, and when you reach the portable you want, you push him into the door. "Get it open, get inside." His hands scrabble over the weather-beaten wood, and when he finally pushes the door back, you knock him inside with a blow to the shoulder. "You better fucking have brought that thing, man, 'cos I'm only playacting now, and you don't wanna see—" "Yes I brought it! Jesus!" Caleb rips open his backpack. "Did you bring—?" You've already yanked the plastic grocery bag from your own backpack. It's a cheap-ass wardrobe Chen passed along to you—sweatpants and shirt, but it'll do. Also: "Here's the blank mask for Javits. Snap it up, your new body's gonna be along any minute." You only give Caleb time to squat before you smash Chelsea's mask to his face. She falls backwards—for it's suddenly Chelsea Cooper in Caleb's clothes—and as soon as her head hits the floor you clamp her mouth and nose shut. Three seconds later she explodes upward, swinging her arms and coughing. "Get changed," you tell her as she glares at you with streaming eyes. "I'll watch outside, delay Javits if it looks like he's coming up too fast." You're out the door before Caleb can move or reply. You light a cigarette and lean on the corner of the portable opposite, where you can intercept your victim. Adrenaline surges through your body, and you find yourself lightly squeezing a fist and tapping your foot in a syncopated rhythm. This is fuckin' good, man, this is gonna fuckin' work, you can feel it! Gradually the rhythm increases in tempo and complexity until it's a wordless rap, and most of your body is subtly grooving in several different directions simultaneously. Javits must've had business with Cindy before he could break loose for the meeting, for a fake Chelsea flashes you a quick thumbs' up through the broken blinds of the portable before Javits appears; and even then it's several minutes before he comes, moving slowly. He looks a little lost, as though he's not sure what he's supposed to be doing here. He comes almost to a halt when he sees you, then just jerks his chin at you. "Whatdja do with Johansson?" he asks. "Shoved him up your ass when you weren't looking," you retort before you can think better of it. Bad move. Javits stops dead and turns a cold glare on you. Javits isn't one of the kings of the basketball court, not like Patterson is and Black was—not yet. He's not much taller than you: maybe an inch and a half. He seems much taller, though, because he's got a long, horsey face and broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist. (His junior year he was voted "Best abs" in the class.) But as one of the better varsity players, he isn't shy about demanding respect; and he's strong, fast, and mean enough to make his demands stick. Just ask Keith Tilley how bad it is to be on the receiving end of Javits' temper. Now he's in your face. "Funny," he says. "How'd a fortune cookie like you learn to talk smart English like that?" "From the same teacher who taught you how to French kiss Patterson's asshole," you retort. "He does good work, you just gotta know which classes to skip." He swings: hard, low, and fast. But you're not to be taken unawares. You parry his blow—though it sets your arm ringing from the tip of your pinky past your elbow—and jam in one of your own. But he's turned, and it only glances off his side. You're readying your feet for a little action when the cocksucker head-butts you in the nose. Son of a bitch! The world expands like an accordion, and it feels like your nose is trying to figure out what your brain smells like. Something hits you in the back of your head, and only when you realize the entirety of your body is resting on something firm do you understand that you've been knocked to the ground with Javits atop you. Luckily, he seems to have knocked himself badly too with that head butt, for his hands only weakly grasp the front of your shirt. With a grimace you try to twist out from under him. You see his fist go up— "Seth!" a girlish voice shrieks. You and Javits both freeze. He looks over his shoulder. You peer around him. Chelsea Cooper is in the door to the portable. She gazes back, aghast at the sight of you and Javits fighting. Then she quickly gestures at him to follow her into the portable. He stares, then turns around to stare down at you. You grin at him, and sniff back a trickle of blood. His lips peel back, and he leaps from your chest. But instead of going in with Chelsea, he stalks back down the alley toward the school. You and Chelsea stare at each other for just a moment, then you scramble wildly for the door, your hand out. Caleb—bless him!—understands your thought, and from around the corner pulls the blank mask and shoves it at you. Javits has only gone a few yards, he hasn't reached the edge of the portables area, when with five very long strides you catch him and leap onto his back. You wrap the mask over his face, and both of you tumble hard to the ground. He nearly swallows a mouthful of grass, but you tuck and roll away. You glance around wildly. There are voices, of course, but they're not close. They should be coming closer, though, people like to hang out at the portables during the lunch hours. You grab Javits by the ankles and drag him toward the portable, his face making a groove in the grass. Caleb shrinks back, and dances ineffectually in place as you pull him inside. "The fuck was all that about?" she demands of you. "Just two guys horsing around," you retort with a sour laugh. "God damn it, I let my fucking mouth run away with me." You laugh again. "But it felt good. Oh!" You take a moment to nurse your nose and regret the headache you know you'll soon have. "Just don't demand a rematch when it's you, okay?" * * * * * You're squatting at the corner of the music wing with Justin Roth and Perry Small, grinning and laughing about all the times you or them have gotten a bloody nose, when you spot Seth Javits coming out of the portables. His face is an expressionless mask, but he turns this way and that with darting, watchful eyes. You stare at him until he spots you and swings in your direction. Justin doesn't react, but Perry shifts backwards when he sees Seth coming. Then he's staring down at you. "Hey Chen, what was that you were saying earlier about my asshole?" "It was Patterson's asshole, and I was asking how much you love French kissing it." Justin covers his sudden grin, but can't fully stifle his laugh. "Hey Roth, you wanna see something really funny," Javits says to him. "Come around here about five o'clock and watch as I teach Chen how to pee through his nose and shit through his ears. You're gonna be here for that, aren't you, Chen?" He tilts his chin. "Wouldn't miss it," you chortle. "Be hilarious watching you teach me that trick by doing it yourself first." Next: "Romances in Disguise" |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
