The Book of Masks (Abridged)

School Haze

YEAH, YOU SHOULD JUST BURY THE BOOK. Magic; the occult; it's probably a bad scene all the way around.

Of course it's way too late to drive out to the school now, so you tuck the strange book under the passenger-side mat and go back inside your house.

* * * * *

But you manage to forget all about it until the next morning, when you're walking along the school breeze-way on your way to first period. With a groan, you turn and start to trudge back to the parking lot.

You're only halfway there when a pale-faced Keith Tilley sprints into view up ahead. He dashes up and crouches behind you. "Jesus, Will, hide me hide me hide me," he whimpers.

"What the--"

"Javits," he says in a terrified croak.

"Oh, Christ! If you were running from him, he will have spotted you."

"Probably. And he's coming this way."

You spin on your heel and start hurrying back toward the school. Keith falls in next to you, and you pull away as he clutches at your arm. "Get away from me," you snarl. "I don't want Javits noticing me. Has he got a posse with him?"

Before Keith can answer, you hear a hoarse, gloating voice calling out: "Tilley!" Keith leaps away like a hare, and you have to steel yourself not to run too as the lithe, strong Seth Javits sprints past. Good luck, Keith you think to yourself. Seth is one of the faster basketball players, so your friend will need it.

And since his friends are probably back at the gym, between you and the parking lot, you decide to leave the book in the car until later.

* * * * *

And, naturally, you forget about it until you're back at home. Four-twenty, the clock says when you think of it again. Well, there will still be teachers at the school, and the doors will still be open, so there won't be any trouble getting inside. And Mr. Walberg, you know for a fact, often stays late. Besides, it'll be an excuse to delay starting on your homework.

The student parking lot is mostly empty when you pull in, but you recognize a few of the cars, most prominently Gordon Black's VW Bug. Yeesh. Him and the other basketball players must still be hanging around after post-class practice. You'd have to pass the gym to get in through the front doors, so instead you decide to approach B wing from the back by skirting the rear of the school.

You've just passed D wing when a figure swings into view up ahead. He's instantly recognizable: soft, platinum, fly-away hair bobbing in the breeze; flannel pajama bottoms; a low-cut white t-shirt under a threadbare brown sports jacket; bedroom slippers. "Ay!" Dane Matthias grins at you. "It Will! Be! Prescott! What're you hangin' around here for, like a loser without a social life?" He laughs good-naturedly.

"I gotta see Walberg about something," you reply. "What's wrong with your social life?"

"Walberg!" he gasps. "No shit! I just got through hangin' out with ol' walrus-butt myself." He pulls a short cylinder and lighter from his jacket pocket, and you don't have to wait for the acrid odor to know what he's lighting. "Oh, he's a lotta fun when he gets mellow. Lookit what we share." He takes a deep hit, and graciously offers it to you.

You wave him off with a smile. "Yeah, I can't imagine that. What were doing with him? You have him for a class?"

"Sure. Fifth period history. He likes me. Asked me to hang out with him after classes for the next month." He laughs.

"Oh, shit, Dane, what'd you do?"

He laughs loud, and takes another hit, and laughs loud again. "He caught me goin' through his desk," he says, eyes dancing merrily through the smoke. "I was just lookin' for some chalk, 'cos I was gonna write somethin' on the board. If he only came back two minutes later, and seen what I was gonna write, I'd be hangin' out with him for the rest of the year!"

"Christ! I wouldn't go through Walberg's desk for money!"

"And he didn't have any of that, either," Dane laughs. "But he thinks I learned my lesson." He takes one last hit, then wets his fingertips and carefully pinches the end of the joint. "He goes off and leaves me by myself for ten, fifteen minutes at a time. And you know what I do then, right?" He grins.

"Oh, God, you go through his desk, don't you?"

His laugh is long and raspy, and he clasps your shoulder. "What're you doin' when you're done with him? We should go hang out, man. I was gonna go find Tim or Karl, but fuck 'em. Just you and me, with some beers by the river. Talk about girls and teachers and titties and homework and pussy and--" His eyes glint: warm and friendly and inviting.

You grin and hang your head. You like Dane, and he likes everyone. It's a flattering invite, but that's not really your style. "Maybe this weekend?" you counter.

"Oh, I'll forget by then," he says, and pats his jacket pocket meaningfully. "Come on. Do you good, man. Johansson makes you all stiff."

It surprises you a little, that he's watched you with your best friend and made some kind of judgment about your relationship--even if it's not one you'd like to agree with. "Call me this weekend if you happen to remember," you challenge him back.

He shrugs lightly. "Don't ask the impossible of me, dude. But I'll see you around." He looks past your shoulder. "You see Black or Patterson or them? Maybe they'll let me up in their fuck palace." He doesn't wait for an answer, and just lopes along his way.

You watch him as he goes--and he does pull at the gym's side door, but finds it locked--and you take your ball cap off and tug at your stiff, straw-like hair. Briefly, you're tempted to reconsider his offer, and to call after him.

But it would be weird. Dane is very relaxed, about everyone and everything, and you're not sure you've got it in you to relax alongside him; you'd have to be a very different kind of person to fit in with him. You wince as you wonder if Dane is right: Maybe you are a bit of a stiff; you certainly feel stiffly self-conscious at the moment. You find yourself wistfully wishing you could take a vacation from yourself and be a different kind of person, at least for a little while.

And then, with a sigh, you remember that you've still got that book you're trying to get rid of. You turn back toward the school.

But the back doors to B wing are locked, so you trot around the side, counting off windows until you come to Walberg's room. You peer in, and rear back in surprise, for Walberg is staring straight back at you. But the window is open, and you bend and put your face into the narrow crack. "Hey, Mr. Dubya," you call. "Can you let me in?"

"What do you need, Mr. Prescott?" he gruffly asks. His eyes are hidden behind his heavy, tinted glasses, and his jowly mouth sags in a frown beneath his enormous, walrus-like moustache.

"I got something for the time capsule."

"It can't wait till tomorrow?"

"Well, I was driving by, and I thought--" You shrug.

He's a big man, big and stout, and he seems immovable as he rests with his forearms on his desk. Walrus butt, indeed. And he doesn't move. "Front doors are unlocked, Mr. Prescott," he says.

You're tempted to just slip the book through the window to him, but it doesn't look like he's going to want to come over and take it from you, so you shrug again and trot back the way you came. You sigh: You'll have to circle all the freaking way around the school.

You pass the back door to A wing, and find that it's locked as well. And as you're paused in front of it, you hear voices and laughter.

It's coming from behind you, from the old, ratty portable units nearby. Someone or some ones are back on the other side of the nearest one, it sounds like. Who might it be?

And then you remember Dane, and you can well guess the kind of students who would still be on campus, and what they might be getting up to.