The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

Like a Boss

Previously: "Avalanche Girl" 

"Oh, good!" you gurgle. "We can make some more masks now!"

But Sydney gives you a funny look.

"We need to go over this stuff, Will," she says. "This is—"

"Sure. But you don't want to get one of these for yourself?" You wave a hand in front of your face. "I mean, I know you and Reagan hang out, it won't look funny or anything—"

Not nearly as funny as you and whatsisname hanging out, the traitorous thought comes.

"—but I want us to get our coven started." You giggle as you fondle the wand she handed you. "Besides, it'll be more fun playing with these things if we're being other girls."

Sydney's eyes narrow, and her face takes on a cramped expression.

"You need to be more serious about this, Will," she says.

But then she catches herself.

"Well, okay," she mutters, and hands you her wand so she can devote both hands to her phone. "Maybe you're right. We should be training the, uh, the new members, the pedisequoses, in using these things." She starts tapping in a reply to your replacement. "And that's probably better to do if we're, um, inside the, uh—" She trails off as she concentrates on the text.

"Exactly!" You put an arm around her and pull her close. "You just listen to me, Sydney, I'll steer you straight."

If Sydney recognizes the allusion—it's a close variant on a promise Reagan made to Sydney the first day they hung out at the start of the year, when Sydney was still very new and Reagan was eager to pull her into her and her friends' orbit—she doesn't show it.

* * * * *

You and Sydney meet your pedisequos at the old school and help him unload things into the basement. He is very shifty and gives you a sidelong fish-eye as you work. You have a hard time suppressing a laugh, partly out of nervousness. That's me, you keep telling yourself, not because you don't believe it, but because the thought is like a canker sore you can't help poking with your tongue. That goofy, scrawny, shaggy, baggy-clothed scarecrow is the face and form that you show other people and which other people accept as being you! It's embarrassing!

It's also creepy. You've got a feeling like you're having an out-of-body experience. I'm standing over here, but I'm also standing over there. And I can't control what I'm doing over there! It's as if your reflection has come unglued, pushed its way out of the mirror, and starting tramping around the real world. You feel as though you've been pushed out of the way—displaced! More than a couple of times you feel an urge to tear off the masks and reclaim your rightful identity.

"Guess I can go now," the fake you mumbles after you've got the supplies piled up in the basement. He shoots you a quick look, winces, and turns toward the stairs.

"Will," Sydney says, and you and the other person both turn at the name. "Do you want to give your pedisequos some instructions?" she asks you with a meaningful look.

You turn to him, and feel Reagan's sass rising in you like hot sap.

"Straighten up and fly right," you tell him. "Do your homework, don't backtalk mom and dad, and leave Robert alone." The fake you flinches, but nods. "And try not to be an idiot." He mumbles something under his breath, and a flush creeps up his throat.

"I have to get something from my purse," you tell Sydney after the other you has gone out the door. "Be back in a moment." You dash for the stairs. Will is just opening his truck door when you emerge into the late afternoon sun. "Hey!" you call to him. He stands with a moody expression as you hustle up.

"Listen, I know it's going to be tough for you," you murmur at him when you're pressed up close together next to the truck. "You got a lot of shit going on, but me and Sydney are going to, you know, do something about it. That's what all this cult business is about."

"Did you tell her about it?" he asks. "About Blake and Kirkham and Caleb and—?"

"No. Well, not yet," you add as his face curls up into a scowl. "But just do your best for now, okay? And keep hanging out with Sydney. I know it makes, um, us, happy." His expression darkens, but the light in his eye brightens a little at the same time.

"Look," you start to say. Then you give in to an impulse, and push yourself close to him. He staggers back a step, bumping into the truck, but you follow him, brushing your tits up against his chest. The musk of his dirty clothes envelopes you.

"You probably know what Reagan thinks of you," you tell him. "What she thinks of me. Of us." You lightly stroke his shoulders, and he stiffens. "But that doesn't matter now. Because I'm her. I can do her thinking for her. Her talking, too. No one's going to give you shit—none of Sydney's friends—about being her boyfriend. I can talk you up. I think I might even can get Blake's asshole friends to leave you alone."

"Can you do anything about Kirkham? Or Caleb?"

"Forget Caleb and them. You're getting some new friends to hang out with. Better friends, more popular friends." You tug and pinch at his clothes, and your put your face so close to his that you can feel his breath on your nose. "We'll fix you up so you don't look so much like a pity fuck. Oh, jeez, sorry," you murmur as he flinches. "That just sort of popped out. It'll all be okay, you'll see."

You caress his warm, fuzzy cheek with an open palm, and stare into his dark, liquid eyes until you feel yourself going cross-eyed. Almost you brush his lips with yours.

A sound like a cough pulls you out of the reverie, and you release him and step back. "Remember what I said," you tell him. He makes a face—it must be a reflex with him/you—but he looks a little happier as he climbs up into the truck. You watch, and wave once, as he backs up and pulls away.

Sydney is standing near the basement door, watching with an amused expression, when you return. "You were hitting on my boyfriend," she dryly observes.

"I'm starting to get the attraction," you tell her.

She lifts an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Well, I'm having to make myself get it." You toss your hair. "I mean, really, Sydney. I could set you up with anyone on the lacrosse team just like that!" You snap a finger as you brush past her and descend the stairs to the basement. "But no, you have to go for a guy who looks about as much like a black magician as a starter for the New York Giants."

* * * * *

Your doppelganger picked up enough supplies for at least half a dozen masks and memory strips, and you and Sydney set up a quick-and-dirty production line in the basement, casting six masks in quick succession, and prepping six metal strips. You split the remaining jobs, with you polishing three masks while she starts the longer and more exacting work of carving runes into the metal bands. The buffer is loud enough that you save your breath and don't bother talking.

You also don't check your phone for messages, even though it is regularly going off with alerts. Not until you have gone home—Reagan lives on the northwest side of town, near the river—do you catch up with all the texts and DMs, some of which are a little irate with you for having ignored them.

Lol sorry spent day w sydney, is the reply some variant of which you send to a dozen people, some of whom were looking to hang out with Reagan, and some of whom were just sending links. We ate choclate chip cookie dough and five gallns of ice cream and talked lol not really but did talk, you explain to a few girls who express some disguised envy at your hanging out with Sydney McGlynn. Not evys perfect w sydney and she needed some talk time, you improvise when pressed. Confidential! I do same for u sum time, you are forced to assert when the demands grow too hard. The flurry of return emojis suggest that the other girls are now really envious of you. You send Sydney a text telling her what the cover story has turned into. She sends back an emoji of her own: a shrug.

She took two of the memory strips home to work on while you took one. You work idly work on it until the wee hours of the morning while surfing between social media sites and fielding messages. Keeping in character is one of the excuses you give yourself—as you are now Reagan Hackett, you need to act like her—and for that reason you are also greatly enjoying yourself. But you are also using social media to peruse possible "recruits" on the volleyball team to your coven—impersonations for Sydney.

The prime recruit would have to be Kayla Shea, who is Reagan's best friend, and one of the girls sending you envious texts about hanging out with Sydney. Second choice would either be Ellie Kemp, who is the captain of the team, or Lacey Salter, who is the star player. (If the WHS girls' volleyball team can be said to have a "star.") Actually, almost any other member of the squad would be a good choice—they're all good girls, not at all the type to get into devil-worship, or whatever it is Sydney is luring you into—but the dark horses would have to be either the boyish (almost butch) Regina Yost or one of the non-seniors. Probably, on reflection, Aria "Confidence Queen" Giordano.

Next: "Capture the Captain" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"