The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

Mugged by Magic

Previously: "When Three Is Two Too Many" 

"Dude," you tell Caleb, "if I'm not gonna help you lift your dingus from out of Walberg's desk, what makes you think I'm gonna help you dig it up?"

"Well, fuck me for thinking you might wanna act like a friend, Will," Caleb honks back.

"That's got nothing to do with it!" you holler, and you're about to explain a few more things to your best friend when you realize that he's hung up on you. You hurl your cell phone onto your desk and throw yourself back onto your bed. Stupid Caleb!

It's some time before you remember the reason you called him— to tell him about your weird afternoon with Jeremy and Seth—but now you're too steamed up to care.

Besides, if you told him about it, he'd want to see the mask-making operation in action, and that would piss Seth off.

You toss and turn after going to bed, and it's past midnight before you fall asleep ...

* * * * *

... which makes waking up early the next morning for church that much more of a chore. Your dad speaks sharply to you a couple of times, once in the car and once at church, and not even time spent afterward with your sexy cousin Umeko makes you feel much better.

You had to turn your phone off, and it's nearly two-thirty before you find the text from Jeremy: try using car buffer on masks. You text him back to ask what the fuck he means, and he calls you back directly.

"You know what a car buffer is," he says. "One of those things, like a motor that's got a mop head on it? You use it to buff a car."

"Oh, sure," you bluff.

"Well, try using that on the masks. It'll polish them up quick. Takes about forty-five minutes."

"That's quick?" you exclaim.

"Quicker than using a chamois cloth. Seth and me figured that out last night, got our two masks done."

"So can I bring mine over to your house and use your, uh, buffer?"

"Don't you have one? Listen, Will—" Jeremy's tone turns guarded. "It'd be a really good idea to have yours polished up before you come out here again."

"Why?" you blurt out before the obvious answer occurs to you: Seth.

"It just would be, okay? Can you come out this afternoon when you're done?"

"If I've got a buffer."

"Okay." His tone is glum. "Text me if you need to use mine. But you probably want to use yours. If you've got one."

It sounds almost like a hint that you should go buy yourself one if you don't.

* * * * *

Fortunately, your dad does have one out in the garage, and he shows you how to work it and watches with a puzzled expression as you set to work on one of the masks. (It's an art project that you're helping a friend out with, you tell him.) It's dull work, but you get through it—it takes nearly two hours to get both masks done—by plugging some ear buds into your phone and watching videos as you absent-mindedly hold a mask to the whirling rag.

It's five before you escape to Jeremy's with the excuse that that's where you have to deliver the "art project" and that you'll be eating with him.

Jeremy doesn't look very happy when he lets you in. "You get those things done?" he asks, and glances into the plastic bag that you thrust at him. "Cool. Um—" He starts when his mother looks around the corner into the foyer. "Hey, um, Mom, you remember Will."

"Hi Will," Mrs. Richards says. She smiles broadly. You return her greeting with a nervous one of your own. "Haven't seen you forever. How've you been?"

"Great."

"What classes are you taking?"

An agonizing eternity passes as you make small talk with Jeremy's mom, catching her up on your life—academic and social—while Jeremy's grip on your elbow tightens and tightens. He finally has to interrupt by telling her that you and he have to get to work on your school project. "It's great seeing you again," she cheerfully calls after you as Jeremy pulls you down the hallway.

"Jesus, it's like she misses me or something," you grumble at Jeremy.

"Or something," he agrees.

"My mom misses you. Last night she was all—"

Habits you haven't followed in years guide you around the corner to Jeremy's bedroom. You're still talking about your mom as you step through the doorway.

Where Seth Javits looms up in front of you and shoves something blue into your face.

* * * * *

Your head is throbbing when you're next conscious of yourself, and the brown-gray fog that envelops you dissipates as you pry your eyes open. You raise your head and squint into a blurry room. "Are you okay?" someone asks.

"Wha'?"

"Jesus, Will. How many fingers am I holding up?"

You blink at the hand that's been thrust into your face, then follow the attached arm up past the shoulder to the face of Jeremy Richards. Wet worry shows in his eyes. "Fuck, man," you groan. "What happened?"

He glances back over his shoulder with a scowl, then asks you again how many fingers he's holding up.

"Four of 'em," you snarl, and slap away his hand. "An' I'll show you a middle one of my own if you don't—" You sit up, which for some reason makes you feel much better. Your limbs are stiff, but your head instantly clears. "What happened?"

You're in Jeremy's bedroom, sprawled on his bed. Most of the posters that you remember—of various Star Wars and Marvel movies—have been cleared away, to be replaced by posters of basketball players, but other than that it's still much the way you remember it: messy desk, untidy dresser, and a bookshelf that has more cups and plates balanced on its shelves than actual books. Javits is hunched in a chair at the desk, reading a book that's balanced in his lap and consulting his cell phone.

"Seth was trying something out," Jeremy says.

"Yeah, what? His right hook?" There's no residual pain, but otherwise you feel like you've been punched in the head.

Jeremy kicks Seth's chair. Without looking around, Seth says, "I told you, I'd make it up to him."

"He was trying out one of the masks we made," Jeremy says. Then: "I didn't know he was gonna do it!"

"Well it worked," Seth says. "Here."

He snatches a mask from off the desk and without looking around holds it out to you. You flinch. Then with a feeling of loathing you take it from him.

It's a deep and gleaming blue all over, and seems to glow with an inner light, just like the masks that you polished up. "So?" you ask as you turn it over in your hands.

"It was the next step in the, uh, spell," Jeremy tells you. His face is pale. "You have to put it on someone. So it can—" He licks his lips. "Copy them."

You feel the hair rising on the back of your neck, and you get out only one word: "You—?" before the wind dies in your lungs.

"It had to be done, Prescott," Seth barks. "Someone had to volunteer to test it out, and you were that volunteer."

Your jaw slackens. Again you can only get one word out: "You—?"

"It wasn't my idea," Jeremy insists. "I thought we were gonna do rock paper scissors."

"It was better this way," Seth says. He spares you a glance. "Better from your point of view too. You couldn't have handled being freaked out."

Only your shock keeps you from being freaked out now. So you've nothing to say as Jeremy explains.

"It knocked you out," he says. "Knocked you cold on your ass. And it, um—" He sucks in his lips, and darts his eyes about. "The mask, it kind of went into you. Like— I don't know." He hangs his head. "It was on your face and then it disappeared."

"You were unconscious for about ten minutes," Seth says. Still he studies his phone while talking. "We laid you on the bed and waited to see what would happen. Which was nothing if you don't count Richards spazzing hard." Jeremy scowls at him. "Then the mask came back onto your face. We picked it up off you and Richards shook you awake. Now here you are and you're up to speed."

Your joints turn to jelly, and you fall back to stare at the ceiling. They used me like a fucking guinea pig, you think, but in you're in too much shock to get mad about it.

"We're not gonna do it again," Jeremy says hotly. "From now on it's real volunteer work, none of this 'volunteering people'."

"Whatever," Seth says. "And I'll make it up to you."

"Yeah?" You finally feel strong enough to speak. "How?"

Seth leans back to stare up at the ceiling.

"We got the page to turn," he says. "You know how you said the pages don't turn unless you do something? Well, copying you into that mask got the page to turn. I've been translating the other side, and it says these things can copy people."

"We already figured that out," Jeremy growls.

"Well, this confirms it. But we gotta seal it up first." Seth taps the book. "I figure this next spell tells you how to do that. We'll get the stuff to do it tomorrow. We'll seal it up, and then one of us can put it on and pretend to be you."

Now all hairs on your body are standing on end.

Jeremy makes the retort for you: "How the fuck is that 'making it up to him,' you fucking douche?"

Seth smirks. "We can go to school as him. How'd you like to have a day off, Prescott? Me or Jeremy—one of us, you pick—will go to school as you on Tuesday, and you can have the day off."

That's all for now.

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