The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

Braydon Builds a Time Machine (Of Sorts)

Previously: "The Least Interesting Guy in Town" 

You went to bed full of resolve. You wake the next morning feeling listless and ragged. With slumped shoulders you pack your things for school. With head drooping you eat your breakfast. With ass dragging you drive to school and trudge through the parking lot.

Things will never change. Nothing exciting ever happens to you, and you're too much of a slug to go out and do anything.

So you're silent and mumbly in your morning classes, and with your friends at lunch. You bomb a minor Calculus test in sixth period, which only deepens your gloom. Your feet feel weighted with lead as you shuffle to Astronomy.

That used to be your favorite class -- insofar as you had any classes you liked -- because the material was moderately interesting, wasn't very challenging, and it was the last class of the day. Now you can only think about the fact that Stephanie will be sitting in the far corner, probably staring at the back of your neck and silently despising you.

No, worse: She's probably not even thinking about you.

It's funny -- you never paid any attention to her before. Insofar as you ever noticed her in that classroom, her presence was just a reminder that she'd always been aggressively uninterested in you.

Which had never meant anything before. The vast majority of the kids at Westside are uninterested in you, just as you're uninterested in them.

But after yesterday's pathetic showing at Besandwiched, she's got even better reasons to be uninterested in you, and that needles you.

So as you push into Mr. Cash's classroom -- and it's almost like there's a force field trying to repel you -- you sneak her a quick glance. Today she's wearing track pants and a t-shirt, and she has her feet up on the chair in front of her, texting intently and slowly chewing on a piece of gum. You flinch and turn toward your seat --

And for a wild moment an ardent flame sears your inner core. You imagine her catching sight of you, and coming over to apologize for being so rude yesterday, and asking if you'd like to hang out and maybe --

Just as quickly the fantasy dissolves. What a stupid thing to imagine. It's like your own brain is trying to mock you now.

But as you slump in your chair, you can't help watching her out of the corner of your eye, in case she actually ...

She doesn't. She puts the phone away as Mr. Cash approaches the lectern, and alertly takes up her pencil for note-taking.

* * * * *

"So you and Stephanie bugged out early," Braydon says. He's leaning against the locker next to yours, and his eyebrows arch over his glinting eyes. But his expression isn't lecherous. If anything, it looks hopeful.

"Yeah, she had things to do. So did I." You continue changing out books.

"Mm. Sorry if we all weren't as, uh, hospitable as -- " He trails off. "But I got a question for you."

"'bout what?"

"Well, you were telling me the other day about this book, you thought maybe I bought it?"

"Yeah?" A prickle runs up your spine.

"So -- " He draws a deep breath. "I might be in the market for it. Seriously." His face lengthens. "Can you tell me what was in it, what kind of, uh -- ?"

"I dunno, I didn't get into it. I found it for super-cheap at Arnholm's -- "

"Wait," he says. "You found it? I thought you said Mendoza had it."

"It's complicated. But I found it at Arnholms', and then I lost it here at school. I heard that Mendoza had it, but he told me he sold it to someone."

Braydon's brow darkens. "So you're actually trying to get it back."

"Well, I don't know," you admit. "Maybe. I mean, I'm not interested in buying it back or anything."

"Well, can you tell me what was in it? What kind of stuff it was about?"

"I don't know, I didn't have it that long."

"So what was it called? Who wrote it?"

"I don't remember." You shut your locker. "Look, I have to go -- "

"I'll walk you out."

He follows closely as you squeeze through the crowded halls, and not until you're in the parking lot does he resume questioning you. Not that you've got much to tell him. It was an old book, with no author that you can recall, written in Latin. The cover was of red leather with gold lettering, and there were drawings of faces on the inside pages. You say nothing about the stuff that creeped you out about it, like the way the faces seemed to shift and change. The way the pages seemed to unlock one at a time.

The way it asked you to give a little blood before it would let you go any further into it.

But even the little bit you've said get Braydon excited. "Real Latin, that's pretty -- Whoa!" His eyes glimmer. "I'd sure love to get a look at it. Where did you lose it?"

"I ran into Jeff Spencer and some of those idiots out by the portables." It gratifies you to see a small flutter of panic cross Braydon's face. "They got into my stuff and by the time I got it back that book was gone. You'd have to talk to Mendoza to find out who has it."

His face tightens. "Well, maybe I can put some queries online, see if I can scare up who has it. If you don't want it back -- " He cocks his head. "How much did you pay for it?"

"Two dollars. Originally it was two hundred, but it turned out it was damaged."

"How?"

"Some of the pages were stuck together."

"Hmm. Well, how about this." To your astonishment he pulls out his wallet. "Here's two bucks, just to reimburse you for what you paid for it. If you find it, let me see it so I can make you an offer for it. And if I find it, I'll either give it back to you or make you an offer for it. For like, real money. Deal?"

"Sure," you say in a daze. "Except I don't know how I can find it, I don't have any idea -- "

"Maybe you'll think of something." His brow crinkles. "But we have a deal?"

"I'll see what I can come up with," you stammer, though without any conviction.

It's enough to satisfy Braydon, though, and after clapping you on the arm again, he walks back toward the school.

* * * * *

Even though you don't really like the idea of Braydon getting his hands on that book, the prospect of his being after it does motivate you to action. Whether it's so you can get some money for it, or in order to keep it out of his hands, you're not sure. You can decide that when the time comes.

Inspiration -- mild though it is -- comes when you're halfway home, and you cut off a Prius, which beeps angrily at you, to make a sudden left-hand turn. Ten minutes later, you're parked at Arnholms'.

Ted Arnholm is at his usual station, thumbing through and marking books, when you enter, and he lets you cool yourself waiting before turning his watery eyes up you. "Yahp?" His voice is a dusty rasp.

"Hey." You smile weakly. "You, um, you probably don't remember, but I was in here a couple of weeks ago and I bought a book -- " You wince as his tangled eyebrows go up. "It was from the special collections shelf, and it cost two hundred dollars, but the pages were all glued together, it turned out, so you marked it down to two and sold it to me as a, uh, paperweight?"

He stares at you. "Yeah?"

"You remember that?"

"Hard to forget bullshit that costs you that kind of money." His eyes are watery, but his stare is icy.

You tug your ear. "Yeah, I guess. The thing is, and I know this is a weird question, but do you remember the name of the book? See, the thing is," you hastily add as his eyes widen, "it got stolen from me, and I'm trying to replace it, and I need to know the name of it so I can look it up online? To find another copy? You know?"

The bookshop owner scratches his cheek and stares. For a moment you think he's going to grab you by the neck and heave you to the curb. But with a rattling sigh he gestures you to follow him over to a locked door.

There's a cramped office behind it, with shelves and cabinets piled over with folders and papers. Arnholm paws briefly through some of these, then opens a cabinet drawer. He wets a finger, rifles some folders, and pulls one out. He jams some half-moon spectacles onto his long nose. "Got a pencil and some paper?" he asks. "It's a long one and it's in Latin." He snorts when you pull out your cell phone instead. "De -- that's D-E, not D-A-Y -- persona --that's P-E-R -- "

It's very long, more of a sentence than a title, and he ends by telling you that "Libra Persona" is probably the name it would be listed under if it were rendered online. "I seem to recall that phrase was penciled onto the title page." He also warns you that there was no author credited, and that it contained no publication information. "It was a very old book, or at least it looked like it," he snaps. "If we could have found out more about it, we would have charged more. But it looked like a fake, even before we -- Don't know how we missed the fact that its fool pages were glued together." He glowers at you. "But it got stolen?"

"Yes sir."

"Huh." He doesn't add to the remark, and only rubs his chin.

You thank him for his help, and retreat home.

And now that you've got that information on the book, do you pass it along to Braydon, or do you do some research of your own on it?

* To continue: "Unexpected Social Scenes" 

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