The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

Conspirators Three

Previously: "A Conspiracy of Two" 

Caleb's eyes nearly bulge from his head. "Are you crazy? We can't try these things on ourselves!"

"All I mean is, you know—" It's hard to frame the thought without sounding like a churchy dweeb: If it's dangerous, we shouldn't test them on other people. "Ah, fuck it," you grumble. "Let's get Tilley out here."

"Keith?"

"You know another one?"

"God, I hope not. But what do you want—?"

Then Caleb blanches. "Keith?" he exclaims. "You want to test it out on Keith?"

"We gotta test it out on someone, you said."

"Keith's a friend!"

You've already got half a text typed in, but you pause to glance up at Caleb. "Lemme test it out on an enemy, then? Mansfield?"

Caleb makes a face. "Okay, get Tilley out here," he grumbles. "But we tell him what the thing is! Maybe he'll have an idea for what we can do."

Then his face falls. "I must be losing my mind," he mutters. "Tilley with an idea? It never happens."

* * * * *

"Jesus," Keith sneers as the turns the mask over and over in his hands. "You're shitting me."

It's a common refrain with Keith Tilley. You're shitting me, he said when you told him you were going out with Lisa. You're shitting me, he said when you told him you squeezed out a B-minus in Algebra II last year. You're shitting me, he says when you tell him you've got a few extra dollars and want to go do something fun with it. He's a congenital sneerer, even when he doesn't really mean it.

So you don't take him seriously now. But how seriously does he take you?

"See, that's what I said when Prescott told me," Caleb is now replying to him. "But he showed me how he made it, and now we got this one, too." He holds up the mask that he made under your direction.

Keith glances at it. "Dude." His lip continues to curl. "It isn't even the same color!."

"That's 'cos we just made it and we have to polish it," you retort. You snatch the mask—which is a glowing blue, in contrast to the dingy off-white of Caleb's—from his hand. "But this one's finished, and we're trying to figure out what to do with it."

"What do I look like, an interior decorator?" Keith sniggers, and glances between you and Caleb. Then he rolls his eyes as neither of you join his laugh.

"Look, it's magic," you start to say, but Caleb interrupts. "We'll show you how to make one, if that's the only way to make you take it seriously."

"Eh, sure," Keith says. He shrugs his bony shoulders. "I got nothing better t'do today. Oh!" He snaps his fingers. "'Cep' I was—"

Whatever he was going to do goes unstated, because Caleb nearly hauls him off his feet to pull him over to where the book and your supplies are. "Will?" he asks, and you trudge over with a sigh to supervise.

* * * * *

It's not long before you're starting to regret getting Keith involved, because he snickers and makes lame cooking jokes all during the process. Where Caleb, though skeptical, was open-minded about it when you showed him, Keith seems convinced that this is all a practical joke at his expense, and is determined to show that he's not taken in by pretending to be in on it. Long before you have finished mixing the ingredients, you have the urge to slap him on the back of the head.

"Yeah, I knew this was all bullshit," he snorts as he turns the hemispheric shell around in his hands. "So what am I supposed to do now? Say 'abracada—' Whuuuughh!" He almost jerks off his feet and does a full body spasm as the shell drops from his fingers with a clatter. He blinks down at it, then bends over to peer at it.

Because, as with the other two, it's not a shell anymore. It's a mask. You and Caleb exchanged tired but satisfied glances behind his back.

For a long moment he doesn't say anything. Then he straightens up with a smirk. "Yeah, that's a pretty good trick," he says. "How'dja do it?"

"We told you, it's magic. Or something."

"Yeah, but how'd you pull it off? Making the switch?" He shuffles his hands around in mid-air.

"Oh, fuck this, Will," Caleb snorts. "I knew it was gonna be a waste with him."

"No, come on, I wanna know how you done it!" Keith protests.

"Oh, forget it, man," you retort. You are suddenly very tired, of Keith, of the masks, of the book, of everything. "I'm going home." You sweep up the book and trudge for the door. Caleb follows.

"Hey, where you goin'?" Keith calls. "Come on, guys, don't go away mad!"

"I'm not mad," you retort over your shoulder. "I'm just sick of you and your shit!"

"Well, where are we going?"

"I'm going home. You can fuck off."

"Are you leaving? I can't even lock up this place!"

"I don't give a fuck."

The last you see of Tilley, he's standing in the doorway of the basement, looking dumbfounded, as you twist the key in the ignition and start your truck with a roar. You shoot him a quick glare before throwing the shift into reverse and driving off.

* * * * *

He texts you later that night, asking if he can call and talk to you direct, and since you were never mad at him, just sick of his shit, you tell him yes. "Dude," he says after you pick up. "Whaddaya got to be pissy for?"

"I'm not pissy," you snap, for you're starting feel pissed-off all over again. "I'm just sick of—"

"'Cos I think I'm the one who's got a right to feel pissy!"

"You?"

"Yeah! You haul me out to that place with some line of shit, and you try to prank me with this 'Oooh, we got some magic shit to show you' line, and then when I call you on your bullshit you don't even come clean. You're being, like, a sore loser."

The phone almost slips from your nerveless hand. "Well, maybe I didn't come clean, 'cos I didn't have anything to come clean about! It's just like me and Caleb were telling you! But if you just wanna, you know, fuck off, or tell us to fuck off—"

"I don't want anyone to fuck off, man," he whines. "I just wanna, you know, be in on the joke!"

"That's what we were trying to do!" you yell into the phone. "Trying to get you—!"

"Hey, keep it down!" he interrupts. "I got you on speaker!"

"Look, what do you want, Keith?"

There's a heavy silence. Then, with a sigh, he says, "Okay, just give me the story and the rest of the story. Whatever you were going to tell me back at the place."

"It's like we were telling you, I found this book—"

"Oh, hey, you got the key to that place?" he interrupts. "'Cos I put the padlock back on before I left."

* * * * *

And that's what it's like talking to him. Even though he stops with the lame jokes and snide asides and pretends to take you seriously, he will make stupid interruptions. But you doggedly push through, all the way to the point of explaining about how you have to polish a mask to finish it, and then put it on someone to "absorb their form." "We didn't know what to do about that," you conclude. "That's why we called you out, Caleb and me. To show you in case you had an idea." And that was the dumbest idea that we ever had, you silently add.

"Uh-huh," he says. "Well, I don't know what's so tough about it."

"Why? What would you do?"

"Just put it on and see what happens."

"Yeah, but it could be dangerous."

"Yeah, well, you take your life into your hands every morning when you wake up. You take your life into your hands every time you go to school," he mutters.

That's true: Westside High is full of assholes.

"But look," he says, "you just keep me posted. Don't do anything without you telling me, okay?"

"Are you interested?"

If he notices the sneer in your voice, he doesn't react to it. "Sure I'm interested," he assures you. "I was interested this afternoon."

"You didn't believe any of it."

"Doesn't mean I wasn't interested."

* * * * *

The next day is Sunday, which means church. Umeko has a recital, which makes about five minutes of it bearable, and then you have lunch with her and your aunt and uncle. Sot it's nearly two-thirty before you can change out of your church clothes and into something more comfortable.

And it's while moving things from pocket to pocket that you realize you have lost the key to the basement padlock. It must be inside the basement, you conclude with a groan. And you groan louder when you remember that Tilley said he put the padlock back on when you left.

You've got a text from Caleb, asking if you want to meet at the basement, but now you're feeling grouchy and put out. You'd have bring some bolt cutters or something to get in, and then buy a new padlock.

Maybe you just don't want to deal with it today. It's not like anyone else is going to be able to get in before tomorrow.

* To take care of the padlock tomorrow: "At the Mercy of a Dumbass" 
* To take care of the padlock now: "Side-swiped by a Dumbass" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 1)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)"