The Book of Masks (Abridged)

Things Best Left Buried

"MR. BARRIENTOS?"

The teacher looks up from his desk at the sound of his name and the tap at his door. You are momentarily taken aback because he really does look like a more tan version of Mr. Walberg. Okay, maybe he's also fatter—squeezed into his jeans he looks like an ice cream cone—but he makes up for it with a better style. You especially like the bolo tie at his neck.

But right now he's looking at you with a look of blank incomprehension. No surprise, for you've never had him: he teaches Horticulture classes. "Hi, my name's Will Prescott, and I was one of the kids out at the portables this morning, when you came out?"

A light of recognition comes into his eyes; also a look of weariness and disappointment. "Oh, yes. Well, you don't have to worry about that, I didn't report anybody."

"Thanks, I guess. But, um— Well, in all the mess, my backpack got dumped out all over the ground? And I had to pick all my stuff up? And I lost one of my books when it happened."

"Did you ask the other fellows about it? Maybe they found it?"

"They wouldn't give it back, sir. Not even if I asked." You feel your cheeks color.

Now he seems to see you for the first time. "Mm. I see. What kind of book was it? For what class?"

"It wasn't for a class, sir. It was a— Well, it was kind of an antique that I'd brought in to show some people. It came out of the special collections at Arnholm's."

"Uh huh. So it was valuable? How valuable?"

"Arnholm's was selling it for two hundred dollars," you tell him, eliding the point that you'd bought it for two. "It's very old."

"Ah." His expression tightens. It tightens even further when you add a flat-out lie, telling him that the book doesn't belong to you. "I will see what I can do about that, Will," he tells you, and scribbles down your name and a description of the book. "The fact that it is of some value will probably help us in recovering it for you. The threat of the police— Not that I think the police really would be interested, mind you," he adds. "But they don't need to know that, do they?" He winks heavily at you. "Who were these boys?" You give him their names. "I'll let you know when I hear something," he tells you in a fatherly manner, and when you leave you are rather wishing you had him instead of Mr. Walberg for Sociology.

* * * * *

"The problem," says Caleb as he drops another shovelful of dirt at your feet, "is that you made a stink about it. If you'd kept your mouth shut—" He grunts as he jams the shovel into the earth again. "Then they'd have forgotten all about it. As it is—" He lifts another shovelful and drops it on the growing pile. "Now you're going to have to hire those girls on as bodyguards."

"Yeah, have your joke," you retort. "If you're not going to help me, why should I help you?"

"You're not helping me, unless you're standing guard against an appearance of the north wind." He turns over another spadeful of dirt.

It's almost midnight, and you're in the wide quad between A wing and the Music Wing, digging up the time capsule that had been buried only that morning. Kelsey Blankenship—one of the AP girls—had officiated, reading some specially-by-her composed folderol about messages from the past to the future off a creased piece of notebook paper. Then the class had trooped back to the room, where Mr. Walberg had handed out the second half of the assignment.

And that's why you and Caleb are out here now trying to get back into the capsule. Or, rather, that's why Caleb is. You're just along for moral support, and you remind him of that fact.

"And I'm giving you moral support against Spencer and those psychos," says Caleb. "You say that's not doing any good? Well, your moral support's not helping this dirt come up any faster or easier."

You roll your eyes and glance around. There's a wind, but it's not a cold one, for it's still only the middle of September. There's a sound of traffic a few hundred yards off, but at this time of night, hardly any cars sweep along Borman Road, to startle you with their head beams. "What are you putting into the time capsule?"

"I told you, a CD."

"I know, but of what?"

"Like it matters. It's blank. For my paper, I'll tell Walberg it's the top twenty songs of last week."

"So write that on the paper. Why do you have to dig it up and swap the thing out for a CD?"

"Because, Will, Mr. Walberg is one mean-minded son of a bitch," says Caleb, leaning on the shovel to catch his breath. "I told him I was giving him a thumb drive, and I gave him a thumb drive, and he wrote down that I gave him a thumb drive. So if I turn in a paper telling him that I gave him a CD, he'll challenge me on it, and when I tell him he made a mistake, that I gave him a CD and not a thumb drive, he'll dig this fucking capsule up to prove me wrong. This way," he says as he resumes work, "when he digs it up it'll be him who's proven wrong."

That still doesn't answer your question, but the fact that Caleb doesn't get it almost persuades you to drop it. He's usually smarter than you about these schemes, so it probably means you're just dumb.

This is probably what it's like being Keith Tilley, you reflect grimly: Walking around with the vague feeling that your friends are smarter than you in a way you can't really comprehend.

But you decide to press it: "No, what I mean is, on your paper why can't you just write that you gave him a thumb drive full of music, the top twenty songs of last week or whatever? Why does it have to be a CD of music? What's wrong with putting music on a thumb drive? I mean, with saying that's what you did?"

Caleb pauses.

"Because the problem isn't that you gave him a thumb drive, right?" you continue. "The problem is that you gave him a thumb drive full of porn. That's why you don't want to write that paper for him, about what you put in the time capsule. Because you don't want to say you gave him a thumb drive full of porn. So tell him it was a thumb drive full of music."

Caleb stands stock still. Then he gets out of the hole—still very shallow—and begins throwing dirt back into it. "Why couldn't you have said this six hours ago, Prescott?"

"You didn't explain it to me enough to see it," you say with a shrug. "Oh, and now that I've helped you out of your hole, can you help me out of my mine?"

"Sure. I'll tell you the same thing you just told me. Stop digging the hole you're already in."

* * * * *

But the problem isn't that you're digging a hole. The problem is that you've already dug it. You dug it when you talked to Mr. Barrientos.

The sequel, at first, was a relief. You talked to the teacher on Monday afternoon. On Wednesday morning you got called into the office, where Mr. Sagansky—the principal himself—presented you with the book and assurances that all had been taken care of.

You'd felt a flutter of black anticipation at his words, and sure enough the sequel had come after third period. Horner and Spencer had been in class that day, and you'd felt (rather than seen) them follow close behind as you'd left. You'd heard their braying voices all down the hallway, talking about things that didn't concern you, as though you were nowhere on their mind. Their voices had cut out when you'd opened your locker. But as you'd changed your books, you'd felt a pressure from behind, as of bodies squeezing against you.

You'd a dreadful premonition that it was something sinister, but put it away: it only had to be the crowd jostling past. But then you'd turned around, and found Spencer and Hunter and Call and Thomason standing in a close semicircle, pinning you in. They were grinning at you, and they had their hands behind their backs.

You'd grimaced back, and tried squeezing between them, but they'd shuffled forward, jamming you against your locker. They are large assholes—except for Hunter, who's about your size—and without striking at them you were unable get through them. There they stood until the bell rang; and then the tardy bell; and for another five minutes, grinning without speaking.

Then they'd broken off, leaving you to stagger away, trembling.

You were only late for lunch that period. But they were there again after fifth, and after sixth. The composition of the group changed, with some dropping out while others—like Tanner Evans and George Mendoza—cycled in. It was the same in each case: pinning you to your locker without touching you with their hands, and keeping you there until you were well and truly late to class.

That was Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday.

But at least you got that book of magic away from them, right?

* * * * *

It sits now by your computer, on a bright Saturday morning, and you glower at it. You got it away from them, but what are you going to do with it?

It's too bad you didn't take it with you last night, when you met Caleb. You could have done what you originally set out to do: Bury it in the time capsule. But you didn't. And now you're wondering if the damn thing really is worth the bother. You've done a little online research on it, and turned up one hit that seems to be about it. Maybe it really is a valuable book; you could probe more deeply to find out.

Or maybe you could swallow those trepidations you've felt, and explore the book itself.