The Book of Masks (Abridged)

A Game of Doubles

"OH, CRAP," Carson chortles. "It's Kendra, and she's got her clothes on for once."

"Shut up," you say, and nudge him. But you can't help eyeing her as well, even as you feel a cold ripple go up your back.

Kendra Saunders is a slim, Kenyan beauty with auburn-dyed hair that hangs in tight ringlets down to her shoulders, framing a face with achingly prominent cheekbones and a wide smile. She isn't especially buxom or busty, and looks better built for track than for gymnastics, but she is lithe and graceful, and when she turns and smiles--which she never does to you or any of your friends--she has a way of making the world feel much more electric. Especially the part of the world centered on your cock.

And now she's here, dressed in a short skirt and tight top and bright white tennis shoes, and she's twirling a racket in her hands and giggling with Kim Walsh. Kim is even slimmer and smaller, but she's not a cheerleader like Kendra, and she has a slightly vexed expression on her freckled face and stands awkwardly as Kendra keeps clutching at her and laughing. As well she might, for Kim is the student council president, and has always struck you as being a very serious girl, one with little time for the haughty, nasty, gossipy cheerleaders.

And then there's Dane. You nod and smile at him as you approach, expecting him to acknowledge your surprise appearance with a cheery callback to your run-in with him last week. But even though he nods back, he looks at you with a squint, and his smile is tight. He bounces a tennis ball with a hard, nervous energy, and his eyes bore into you as you pass. The fuck has he got to be so unfriendly about all of a sudden? you wonder.

You and Carson take a spot several courts over. "Kind of a weird group over there, huh?" you mutter.

"What's weird about it?" He glances over at them. "Matthias is friends with lots of people."

"With Kendra?" You give a sudden start: That's what's bothering you. It's a goofball echo back to when you saw them together in the library. "Don't you usually see him with Hennepin and Gerard? And Semple?" you add meaningfully.

"Adrian Semple?" Carson asks blankly.

"You know any others? And you know Semple. Him and Hartlein are like that." You cross your fingers. "And you remember what Jenny was talking about last week, about Kendra and Charles and Fatima."

"I remember what she was telling us about Kendra," he laughs, and you hush him. "If I wanted to talk about that shit, I'd be hanging out with Jenny and Yumi."

You separate, and Carson slams the ball directly into the net with a sloppy serve. He grimaces as he trots over to retrieve it. And when you see who has just arrived, you trot over to meet him at the net. "Okay, don't look behind you, but Javits is on his way over."

He blinks. "You're shitting me."

You yank the ball from his hand. "Looks like they're gonna play doubles over there. Javits is in tennis togs."

"Is Cindy with him?"

"Nope."

His earlier disclaimer notwithstanding, Carson looks thoughtful. And you, too, chew on the inside of your cheek, for Seth Javits and Cindy Vredenburg--the latter a cheerleader, like Kendra--are never far from or out of "touch" with each other. Out of the corner of your eye you see Kendra skip over to Javits and give him a lingering embrace. "Maybe Seth hired a body double to keep his girlfriend distracted for the afternoon," you say, remembering Carson's joke about the advantages of being in two places at once.

He snorts. "Well, it's none of our business. And I don't want Javits noticing us."

"No fear of that, it looks like," you reply, for Seth and Kendra are still tangled up with each other. "Looks they've only got eyes--and hands--for each other."

"Let's just keep our eyes on the ball," Carson says through gritted teeth. "Service, please."

You swivel to return to your side of the court, and can't help but notice Dane staring straight at you, past Kim, even after she has spoken to him. You have to pause, because it is definitely an unfriendly glare.

The racket slips in your grip, but you manage to get the ball over the net. Carson, however, can only make a wild return. "We gotta stop meeting like this," you say as you both trot up to the net.

But you continue to fumble badly. Neither you nor your friend are very good anyway, and you're very conscious of your bad moves, what with the others being nearby. And though no one at the other court says anything, every time you glance past them, you have the impression that Dane is watching you from the corner of his eye.

You're soon thoroughly unnerved. "Let's wrap this up and go somewhere else," you gasp to him when (again!) you meet at the net.

"Shut up," he growls. "It'll look like we're running away, and if we go walking past Javits-- Just get back over there. I'm gonna serve."

You take a deep breath and return to your side. You swat his serve back, but catch it at a bad angle, and it flies high over the fence and to the side ... and it lands on the court where the others are. Dane's the one who catches it. He holds it up and cocks an eyebrow, silently asking if you want it returned. His mouth suddenly twists into a crooked smile under dead-looking eyes.

Screw Carson, this is the perfect moment to bug out. "Let's just give up," you tell him in a loud voice, the better to hide the quaver in it. "I can't hit that thing for shit today."

He grimaces, but follows you out. As you pass, Dane lofts the ball at you. You almost fumble it as Javits turns to look at you. But his expression is blank, and he just turns back around, to whistle at Kim to serve the ball.

You wait until you're out of sight of the courts before collapsing against Carson. "Jesus, that was creepy."

"What the fuck," he says. "What's got you all excited?"

"You know what I'm talking about," you gasp. "Those guys back there."

"It was just four guys playing tennis," he says.

"A really strange group of four guys," you say. "I've never seen those four together."

"Oh, bullshit. Javits and Kendra are always with each other--"

"Not without Cindy, and not alone with each other."

"They weren't alone," he says. "Dane and Kim--"

"And that was weird, too. You saw how Dane was acting. He kept looking over at us."

"And we kept looking over at him. Or you did. Maybe they're back there talking about how creepy you were acting."

"Weren't they making you nervous?"

"You were making me nervous," he retorts. "With Javits over there and you quivering like gelatin--"

You grab him by the shoulder and close your eyes and take a deep breath. You can't believe you're about to give voice to the churning and incoherent thoughts you're having. "Okay, you're going to call me stupid, and I am being stupid, but if you want to know what my problem is--" You take another deep breath. "You know that book we were talking about earlier? And the things we were talking about when we were talking about it? Well, that book has disappeared. I told you that. Someone took it out of the time capsule." You look around Carson's shoulder, back toward the courts. "And those guys over there were acting really weird, like they weren't ... themselves," you conclude raggedly.

Carson's mouth drops open. "Yeah, Prescott, that's really stupid. You're talking about--"

"I know!" you say miserably. "I don't believe it myself. Really, so stop looking at me like that. It's just-- Well, we were talking about it earlier, and I am a little freaked out by the way the book wasn't in the time capsule. And so when we see those guys, and they're being ... weird ..." You trail off helplessly.

"So you decide to have a fucking psychotic episode, right in front of me." He peers closely at you, and you return him an ugly look. "It's kind of fascinating," he says. "I've never seen someone go crazy before."

Your face twists up. "Alright, fine, I'm being paranoid--"

"No, you're just being stupid," he says in a tone whose kindliness clashes with the content of his words. "You got one fucking powerful imagination. Maybe it's a good thing you didn't hang on to that book."

You grimace. "Well, you were putting a lot of it in my head from earlier. All that talk about disguises--"

"Alright," he drawls. "I won't tell you any more scary stories." He claps you on the shoulder. "Though it is my turn to make up a campaign for the guys, and I could use the help from someone with your kind of imagination."

* * * * *

He takes you home, but the day's events still prey on you.

It's Dane, you finally decide, that had you so unnerved. The guy's normally like an old bathrobe--big and warm and fuzzy and stinking of weed--and though you don't interact with him that much, he's always been like he was when you met him a week ago: Totally and guilelessly friendly.

But his attitude at the tennis court fairly burned with hostility. And not a warm hostility, but a freezing hostility. You kept hearing laughter from the others, but he didn't seem to joke around. You don't recall even having heard his voice while they were playing.

It was such a marked contrast from when you saw him last week.

Maybe it's the drugs. You've heard that they can do that to people. Make them paranoid, even psychotic. You'd brushed him off last week. He seemed to take it well. But maybe the memory has been slowly curdling in his mind.

Your hand goes to your phone. Maybe you should call him, and clear the air.