The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

Three-Point Shot

Previously: "Thanks Aloft" 

You are brought sharply back to reality by voices from the outer office, and look at the time to see to your surprise that it is nearly five o'clock. And when you look down at your work—notes and jottings copied from Wikipedia for a presentation you need to do in Speech—you find you have no memory of making them. It was as though you were entirely on automatic. Preoccupied with this oddity, you hardly notice as you pack up your laptop and things.

Out in the now-empty school corridors, you text Chelsea, telling her that you want her and Gordon to clear out so that you can get to Steve with no one else around. It surprises you a little when you send this, for you've no memory of deciding that Steve is your preferred choice. It must have been a subconscious decision.

You go to Kim's locker to change out books, then into a girls' restroom to freshen up from the day. But there's still been no reply from Chelsea by the time you are done, and you end up loitering on the quad between the gym and the theater wing, and are still loitering there after the rest of the boys' basketball squad, with much chortling and jostling, has left the gym and disappeared toward the student parking lot.

Finally Chelsea does reply: Gordon being butt wants to stay wi steve. Wat do?

You ponder this, then ask where she is. W guys n loft. You detach yourself from the wall you'd been leaning against, texting. On way up follow my lead, as you make your way into the gym.

A voice calls "Come in" in answer to your knock. Inside, Chelsea, looking blown and vexed, is glowering at her boyfriend, who is glaring sullenly back at her. On the other side of the loft, perched on a wooden crate, a very cool Steve Patterson swings one leg and nurses a beer. His eye falls briefly on you, then returns to the couple. There's a faint curve of contempt on his upper lip.

"Hey, Chelsea," you say, pretending embarrassment. "I got that, uh, homework you asked me to get for you." You look around, and hurry over to a crate closer to Patterson than to Chelsea, atop which you set and unzip your bag. You search through and pull out a couple of random sheets of paper, which you fold up and take over to Chelsea. She glances at them, says, "Thanks, Kim," and returns to haranguing Gordon about why he'd rather spend his Friday night up in the loft with Steve than with her. You return to pick up your bag.

You feel Patterson's eye on you, and instead of leaving after zipping up your bag, you sidle up to him. "I've got something I wanted to talk to you about," you murmur, and cast a distressed glance back at Chelsea and Gordon.

"Yeah?" Patterson studies you with a very cool and thoughtful gaze.

You pluck at a long ringlet that has fallen past your shoulder, and wind it up about your finger. "It's about Scott Frazier." That's one of the basketball players.

"Frazier? What about him?"

You suck in a deep breath and look everywhere but into Patterson's face.

"Well, he's taking a Spanish class, but, um ... Ms. Martinez asked me— She wants to know, and she asked me to ask you or Gordon if—" You glance back again at Gordon and Chelsea. "Look, are you busy tonight? Right now?" You look up into Patterson's face with a beating heart. "Can we ... go get something to eat? Something fast, I mean? And talk about it?"

His expression doesn't change, even as he coolly appraises you. You return his unblinking stare with an unblinking one of your own. Your finger goes back to that ringlet, to play with it some more.

Maybe that's what does the trick. His eyes crinkle up a little, and the faintest smile comes to his lips.

"Hey Gordon!" he shouts in a voice that makes you jump. "Chelsea wants to do something with you. Don't be a moron about it, okay? I can take care of myself, I don't need you holding my— hand."

Gordon frowns like a thundercloud at him, then his eye goes to you. You feel a brush of fingertips settling on your shoulder: Steve's.

Gordon blinks, then turns away. "Sure, man, you do you," he growls, and puts his head down as he heads for the door.

* * * * *

Patterson doesn't waste any time getting you and himself outside. When he asks where you want to go, you tell him he can decide, that you'll just get a ride with him and he can bring you back up to the school afterward. He nods, but you can sense the smirk he's hiding.

During the drive you quickly dispatch the bullshit story you invented to break the ice, telling him that Scott's grades aren't that good in Spanish, and Ms. Martinez wants to know if that would cause a problem for Scott's ability to play on the team. Patterson coolly informs you that it wouldn't unless it affected Scott's overall GPA, and that even if it did, Scott's loss to the team would be no big deal.

You were expecting him to take you to a fast food place, but he surprises you with an unusual choice: the cafe inside Canopies Food. That's a "natural foods" grocery store, and its cafe only serves vegetarian. When you express surprise at this choice, Steve replies that he can eat vegetarian no problem, and thought that you might prefer it. You tell him you don't prefer it, but you do like it.

"Oh God, now I feel guilty for dragging you away," you mutter after ordering yourself a chickpea salad. "We got the business taken care of, and now you're stuck here with me."

Irritation shows on Steve's face. "Why do you say that?" he demands. "'Stuck with'. You think I don't want to be here with you?"

"Well, you only wanted to talk about Scott and Spanish—"

"I don't give a flip about Scott and Spanish." He leans back and sideways in his chair, lounging like a tiger relaxing in the bush. "Why do you?"

"Well, I saw a chance to help—"

"You do too much helping, Kim, from what I see."

"I like to help!"

"I get that. I'm not saying you shouldn't. You're good at it, I hear. Yeah, I hear you're great."

"I'm not 'great'," you mumble, blushing.

He snorts. "Fine, then you're not great," he says. "You'd know best. I guess everyone's been lying when they tell me about you. Maybe you suck."

Your blush turns into a flush. "What?"

He gives you a very direct look. "Do you like people talking shit about you, Kim? Do you want me to talk shit about you, in front of you, and everyone?"

"Well ... No!"

"Then why would you talk shit about yourself? You think I enjoy it? You think I want to talk shit about you, so you're going to jump in and talk shit about yourself too? Jesus!"

You blink at him.

"Stand on your accomplishments, Kim," Steve says. "You'd look good there." He searches your face. "If you hide yourself under your accomplishments, how's a guy ever going to find you? He might want to. Did you ever think of that?"

You blush from the roots of your hair to the tips of your toes.

* * * * *

He's like that all through dinner. Confident without swaggering. Strong without being overbearing. Cool but never cold. He asks about what you do for student council, and about your family, and about the state of the Donna, about which he seems surprisingly knowledgeable and sympathetic. It's a beautiful old motor court, he tells you. I hate to think of it being trashed.

Before dinner is over, he is nursing your hand and looking deeply into your eyes. Afterward, he hangs his arm on your shoulder as he leads you back to the car, and though he plays music instead of talking on the drive back to the school, he is constantly turning to shoot you smiles. He parks by the gym, and asks if you're really just going to go home and watch a movie, as you said you probably were going to do. "We got Wifi up here," he says, "and my laptop. We could watch anything you want. Together." Of course, you agree to go up with him.

Dusk is falling when you enter the loft, and you stand in the shadows, quietly opening your bag as Steve sets up the laptop. When it's ready he lowers himself with a grunt to one of the old gym mats that's set up in the middle of the loft floor, and gestures you over. "You want a beer?" he asks, and reaches for the dorm refrigerator.

You push the laptop away, and surprise him by settling onto him, straddling his lap.

"Sure," you smirk at him. "But first, I want you!"

He has no time to react before you shove the mask into his face.

* * * * *

"You are Number Three," you tell the doppelganger in a voice that comes from somewhere inside you. "You are replacing Steve Patterson. That is why I have given you his face and form and memories. His personality, too, but only when others are around. When it's just you and me, like now, you are Number Three."

"I understand," Steve's duplicate says. His gaze, as he studies himself in the mirror in the corner of the loft, is as flat and open and frigid as the Siberian tundra. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing special for now. I'll have orders for you eventually. For now, take Steve Patterson's place, and make sure no one realizes that you aren't him."

The doppelganger turns to stare at you. Looking into his face is like being hit with an Arctic gale.

Next: "Helping Him Helping You" 

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