The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

Masked Desire

Previously: "A Male Mix-n-Match" 

"I know how we could work it so we could go out," you tell Teresa, "with you wearing the, uh—" You point to the mask. "You could put on my clothes.

She stares at you. "You mean you'd go home and get some?"

"Uh ... Well, yeah, I guess we could do it that way." You feel yourself blush. "Yeah, I guess you'd wanna put on some fresh things anyway, instead of—" You pluck at the front of your shirt. "And then—" You give Teresa a very level stare. "Well, I've got Mickey's things here."

Though she keeps a fair poker face, you are sure you can see the thought behind her eyes: You just can't stay out of Mickey's body, can you? But she doesn't say anything.

"Okay," she says. "That could be fun."

She stands up. "So you want to get started now?" she says.

* * * * *

Teresa hasn't so much as unhitched a button before you leave, but she had time to finish the change before you can get back.

First, while you were pulling out a fresh pair of boxers from your dresser, you got a text from Keith, who wanted to know when next you and Caleb want to go out "as sum bitches." You texted him (and Caleb) that you were going to be busy doing errands for your parents all afternoon.

Then you were caught by your mom, who gave you a couple of twenties and orders not to come back home without a complete set of toiletries for your bathroom, because you're running low. At least that'll give Teresa and me something we can do when we go out, you decide.

So, all told, it's a little more than thirty minutes before you get back to the school basement. When you walk in, the figure in the back of the room whirls with surprise and seeming embarrassment. You are almost as surprised to see him, because although you should have been expecting a change, you were still thinking of "Teresa" waiting for you.

He is standing in front of the floor-length mirror, and as you freeze at the top of the stairs, he hops over a little to put something between your eyes and his crotch, for he is completely naked.

"Hey, you took awhile," he says in a raspy baritone as you slowly come down the stairs and wind your way through the junky basement toward him. He jerks his chin. "That the stuff you brung me to wear?"

"Yeah." You feel yourself wincing a little as you look at him. In the dim light, it's hard to fully make him out from a distance, but your chest is thick with a surprising dread as he comes more fully visible.

He has long hair, as you and Teresa both inferred, though not as long as Micah's: it only drapes to the top of his shoulders, but is as long in the front as it is on the sides and back. It is brown and soft and very full—a crop that could be grabbed in silky fistfuls. His chest is lean and a little bony, while his stomach—though it shows no abs—is flat. His hands hover in front of his crotch, so you can't make out anything below that, but it's not like you're trying to look down there, either.

It's his face, though, that gives you the most gut-wrenching turn. That's my face, you think with a kind of frozen horror. Almost my face. Practically my face. Except—

Much later, after it has burned itself onto the back of your eyeballs, and you've had a chance to warily compare the memory of it with the actual reflection of your own face, you are able to admit that it is not exactly your face. It is a little thinner, and a little bonier, with stronger cheekbones and a leaner jaw and chin. The eyes, though, small and narrowly set, are not nearly as rodent-like, even as they still have a wary cast to them. But he has your features, and if his hair was as short as yours—and as choppy and stiff—you wonder how close people would have to look before realizing that ... he wasn't actually you.

Maybe he's thinking the same thing. For as you are studying him, he is studying you intently as well.

He's the first to jerk out of the trance you seem to have put each other in.

"So, maybe I should go ahead and get dressed," he suggests, and puts out his hand. Stiffly, you hand over the plastic bag with the stuff you brought him: underwear and socks, some cast-off sneakers, blue jeans and a white t-shirt, and navy-blue flannel hoodie that you haven't worn since you were sophomore, but which still mostly fit when you tried it on in your bedroom.

"So, you gonna change into Mickey still?" he says as he unloads the bag, handling each item singly with a kind of curiosity before setting it on the table.

"Sure. I guess I better, if we're gonna go out together," you mumble. They might wonder where I got a twin from, you don't say aloud.

Mickey's gear is in the cabinet where you stored it all last night, and it makes you both cold and excited all over as you take out the clothes and the mask and reflect that in a few minutes (when you wake) you will have her body again. But as the other guy is dressing in front of the mirror, you shuffle off to the other end of the basement, where you find a cubbyhole to make your own change. He better give me some privacy, you grumble to yourself as you drop to the concrete floor and start to pull off your shoes and socks. I mean, she better give me some privacy, same as I gave her, you correct yourself. For if you were surprised to find a guy down here instead Teresa, you now have to remind yourself that he really is Teresa.

I wonder if she added a 'personality' to go with that mask. That's the last thought you have as you lay back, naked, and palm the metal strip holding Madison Crawford's mind and memories onto your forehead.

* * * * *

"So, like, you were asleep forever again," says the guy. He's dressed now, sitting on the conference table, looking back at you over his shoulder, with beady eyes. You flash him a fast, sour smile, and quickly finish putting on your own clothes.

Jesus, these clothes again you think as you straighten out the gray cotton shorts and resettle the zebra-striped short-sleeve shirt that drapes off your shoulders and boobs. You drop into a chair to pull on the ratty sneakers over your bare feet. I wonder if I could get some money from my mom for new clothes, and sneak in some new things for Mickey while I was at it. It seems worth a shot.

"Where do you want to go?" the guy asks when you're done. He hops off the table and comes shuffling over to you. He is tall—or you are now short—and he looms over you, almost pressing onto you. His long hair—longer and thicker and silkier even than yours—falls forward to drape one side of his face.

"Coffee shop again?" you suggest. Then you snap your fingers. "Oh, we have to go to the store while we're out, pick up some stuff."

"Huh. That could be different. Almost like we're real people."

He doesn't move, but continues to stare down at you, intently.

"Uh, Teresa?"

"Yeah?"

"What do I call you? When you're, um, like this?"

He sucks in his lower lip.

"Could call me Joseph. That's Cody's middle name."

"Okay, that answers my next question. Did you put on the—" You rub a finger across your forehead.

"Yeah. Or— What's your middle name?"

You give him a tight smile. "'Joseph' is fine."

For a moment neither of you says anything. You find you can't break eye contact with him, like a bird mesmerized by a snake. It's with a quavering voice that you finally say, "If we're gonna go—"

"Who drives? Oh, I guess I should."

"It's my truck."

"You don't got a license."

"Neither do you."

He sucks in his lower lip again, then says, "I could use yours."

You swallow deeply, and allow that he could.

"Then come on," he says. His fingertips settle lightly on your shoulder as he guides you to turn around, and the place where he touched you burns even after he's withdrawn his hand. You shiver all over at the shuffle of his footsteps as he follows you up and out the basement.

* * * * *

"What do you need to get at the store?" he asks after you are on the road.

And you don't answer because you are almost paralyzed with feelings you can hardly comprehend. I'm in this guy's truck with this guy, you are thinking, even though it's your truck. Oh my God, I'm going and doing something with this guy I hardly know! Fright and excitement have closed up your throat.

It's Mickey's fright and excitement you feel, and you know that they are hers, but knowing that doesn't make them any less real or any less paralyzing. There's another thought and another feeling, though, one that keeps trying to break through to the forefront of your brain, yet every time it gets close you feel yourself dodging and ducking it with terror. It's a feeling bound up with the sense that you are being carried away somewhere—in this truck, by this guy—and you are sick with fear and anticipation about where you will wind up.

So you are frozen in your seat, staring at him, when he stops at a light and turns to look at you.

He holds your eye.

Then he leans across to gently brush his lips against yours, for just a moment, before withdrawing.

That's when the realization bursts out and consumes you like a flood of fire and ice water.

You have a massive crush on him.

Just like Madison has on Micah, but maybe even worse.

Next: "A Date That Wasn't" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"