The Book of Masks (Abridged)

Taming a Terror

AMONG THE SUPPLIES you already have two half-finished masks. There is one that Gordon had made but hadn't finished, and there's the one you made as part of your own experiments. Gordon's is farther along but still far from complete, so that's the one you tackle that night.

It turns out to be very long and fruitless work. A mask, right after it's made, is a pale, grayish color, like ash, and it has to be polished until it is blue. Gordon's mask is still mostly white, but there are streaks of blue in it. After an hour of rubbing at it with a cloth, you confess to yourself that it's going to take a lot of serious elbow grease to get the thing done. Hours and hours.

Oddly, it's your dad who saves you from that kind of drudgery. He knocks on your bedroom door while you're working, and comes in without an invite. "When's the last time you had the oil changed in your truck?" he asks. Then he asks, "What's that?" before you can hide the mask.

"Uh, project for school?" you stammer. "Helping someone out?"

"Doing what?"

"An art project? And it has to be polished?"

He grunts. "The oil in your truck, when did you change it last?"

"I don't remember."

He sighs. "Then stop by a lube shop on your way home from school tomorrow. Here." He tosses you his credit card. "Put it on that."

Then he cocks his head. "That thing has to be hand polished? Let me see."

Reluctantly you had it over, and he peers skeptically at it, and rubs it with his thumb. "What's it supposed to look like when it's done?"

"Blue all over."

"How long have you been working at it?"

"Off and on, um, six hours."

His head shoots up. "Six? You've been jerking around—?"

He snaps his mouth shut and gestures you to follow him. You have to comply, naturally, though you hate to.

He leads you down to the garage, and from a large box he takes a thing that looks like a giant, motorized mushroom. He plugs it in.

"Here. I don't know why I'm helping you out. But try it with this." He turns the motor on, and the floppy pad starts rotating fast with a whine. "See if that makes it go faster. It's a polisher."

"Er, thanks!" you exclaim, but he just rolls his eyes and leaves you to it.

But due to that timely intervention, you are able to finish the mask Gordon started in only thirty minutes, and the one you made in another forty-five.

Your dad doesn't even look up at you from the TV when you pass him on the way back to your room.

* * * * *

Tuesday morning. The Westside student parking lot. Early.

Very early.

It's mostly empty, so you've been able to get a space close to the school for once. But even though the building is open, you cower in the cab of your truck as Gordon shuffles toward you.

You have the finished mask with you, as per the instructions Chelsea texted you last night. It meant having to get up before dawn, and having to stop at the elementary school basement to grab up all the mask elements and the ingredients for the various spells. Even now the mask isn't actually assembled, as you have to attach the metal band that you made over the weekend to its interior.

So when Gordon taps on your window, you tell him, "I still have to put it together."

"Christ," he says.

"So if you need me to finish it, I should take it off somewhere and—"

"What class periods you got off?" Gordon asks. "Chelsea wants to know," he says when you only gawp at him. "What class periods do you got off or can skip? She's plotting something and needs you up in the loft then."

"Uh ... second period?" you squeak. "No, hang on, seventh period is my—"

"Too late," he snaps as he taps with one thumb at his cell phone. "You're skipping second. I don't know what's going on, but be up there. I'll take your crap in for you now."

* * * * *

It's a bit of a mess when the bell ending first period rings. You run out of Mr. Walberg's room without waiting for Caleb, and thrust your way through the hallways. The surging crowd batters at you like a heavy surf, and when you do get outside you have to run a gauntlet of P.E. students coming out of the gym. It includes a couple of cheerleaders, and you try not to take it personally when Eva and Jessica, whom you pass on the way in, ignore you.

The gym floor is empty, so you're able to make it up the stairs to the loft without being spotted. The door is unlocked, and you go in.

The fuck room is even more disgusting by the light of day. It is dingy and dusty and crowded with crates and discarded equipment, and the gym mats lining the floor look like cheap, unmade beds. A stench of sweat—and of more intimate bodily fluids—pervades the air.

"So what's going on?" someone asks behind you. You jump nearly a foot in the air, and come down to find Chelsea grimacing at you from the doorway. "Gordon said something about it not being done yet. I thought you told me last night—"

"It is done," you protest. "Well, practically. I just have to put it together."

"And how long will that take?" she asks as she joins you inside the loft proper. Her nose wrinkles.

"I dunno, a couple of minutes? Where'd Gordon put my—?" You spot your bag in a corner, leaning against a crate, and hurry over. "What's the deal, why do you need me to skip—?"

"Because we're doing that test now. Gordon'll be up here in a minute."

"Uh, I don't think we can try this stuff out on Gordon," you say as you unzip your bag.

"Who says we are? But why not?"

"Well, he had that accident, so he's not exactly a, uh—"

"But we can try that stuff out in his mask, can't we? Then put it on someone and see what it does to them?" Chelsea's stare is very hard.

"Oh. I guess so. But why did you want me to make another mask?" Your hands fumble as you start setting stuff out on the crate. It's like laying out props for a magic act. Which, of course, is exactly what it is.

"As insurance." She sounds very irritated. "We had that mask of Gordon, so we could bring him back after he had his accident. We'll make a mask of whoever it is Gordon brings back, as insurance in case the new spell messes him up."

You almost drop the container of sealant. "Who Gordon brings back?" you echo. "What's he doing?"

"He's catching us an asshole to try it out on," Chelsea says. "I gave him a couple of names, but maybe he'll bring back someone else. Hurry up," she says.

You've just got the metal band attached to the inside of the new mask when you hear a thumping and bumping and a lot of muted cursing from outside the loft door. You look up with wide eyes as the door flies open and Gordon, his arms encumbered with a very reluctant visitor, pushes inside.

It takes you a moment to recognize his prisoner, for he's fighting like a large cat. He's small but wiry, wrapped in dark pants and boots and a large jacket, and either he's wearing a dark ski cap or he's got a thatch of dark hair. When he raises a snarling face, you see it's actually both.

It's Gary Chen, Chinese-American gang-banger and drug dealer. "Fucker!" he yells in a strangled voice. "Cunt! Bitch!" he adds as his mica-like eyes snap onto Chelsea.

"Will, shouldn't you be doing your thing now?" Chelsea asks.

"Whuh?"

"The mask," she says. "Shouldn't you be ... whatever?"

"Oh." Yeah, the sooner you get things started, the sooner you won't have to worry about Chen—who is fighting Gordon like a demented panther—can get loose and cause any real damage. You sweep up the mask and jump for him. You push it toward Gary's face—

He kick it from your hand. As you scramble for it, he kicks you in the ribs, knocking you and all the air out of you sideways.

"Will!"

"I'm trying!"

"Chelsea!" Gordon yells over Chen's howls. "Whatever it is you and fuckface are trying to do—!" He grunts. "Get! It! Done!" he pants.

Chelsea snatches up the mask. "Get his feet! His feet!" she shrieks.

For maybe two seconds you're frozen, until the sight of Chen sinking his teeth into Gordon's forearm propels you into action. You dive for Chen's ankles and catch the side of a boot in your mouth before you can get them pinned. A fist glances off the side of your skull.

Then all the fight goes out of the prisoner. You look up.

Chen, his eyes sightless pools of inky blackness, is sagging in Gordon's arms. With a sigh, the slab-like basketball player lets his burden slump to the floor, where he sprawls like a tossed-away doll. "God damn it!" Gordon hisses as he clutches the broken, bruised and bleeding spot on his arm. "The fucker—!"

"Don't kick him!" Chelsea yells. She sinks to her knees to stare hard at Chen's face. Of the mask there is no sign.

Then she looks up at you. "If this works," she says, "who do you want to be, Will? Cindy or Yumi?"