The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)

Office Hours

Previously: "Sunday Is for Scheming" 

by Masktrix

“We have a problem with Ian,” Shelly announces to you at lunch, having stormed up to you from across the cafeteria while you’re halfway through a bite of fries. It's one of the rare occasions that you and your friends are eating inside the cafeteria, and you are acutely aware how weird this interruption seems.

“OK, tell me.” You stand up and go to empty your tray, listening to Shelly’s frantic conversation as your friends look on, bemused.

“He says he doesn’t want to get too involved. He’ll join the circle, but doesn’t want to know how we do things or ever wear a mask. It’s just like Ian to only half-commit to something. I think he’s worried I’m going to rip a hole in the fabric of the universe, but of course I’m not going to do that.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“It isn’t.” Shelly’s eyes narrow. “The problem is blackmail. The price for his silence is we make his life easier. Starting with a free ticket out of detention.”

You close your eyes. “How are we supposed to do that?”

“If only one of us was faculty!” Shelly says sarcastically. “It’s a new secondary objective in Operation Doppelganger. Now, go be a spy. We’ll meet tonight at 6pm. I’d want it to be the witching hour but my mom insists on an 8pm curfew, so it’ll just have to be more or less after dark.” And with that, the surprisingly self-confident Witch of Westside walks off, for the first time not one ‘freakin’’ in the whole conversation. You’re barely half-way through your turn back to your table when you almost collide into yet another derailment to your peaceful existence.

“Hey, Will.” Kim Walsh’s smile is pleasant and charismatic, even as she springs her curiosity driven quiz. “People are still talking about your summons on Friday. Whatever happened, I’m on your side, all right?”

“Kim, nothing happened,” you say, before hitting on a brilliant idea. Maybe you can get rid of her and explain your mealtime interruption too. “Look, if you really need to know about it, talk to Coach Acuna after classes. She can explain everything…”

***

Shelly’s plan is simple, and only made possible by the ability to know your target’s mind. Carmen Acuna has a full roster of morning classes, but a free afternoon as the cup meet on Wednesday means her schedule is lighter than usual. It’s with relief that you see her head off campus at lunch, making directly for the side road where she parks her Mazda.

Time to set your plan in motion. After last period, you make for the sports centre restrooms. About 15 minutes later, a Coach Carmen Acuna puts a pair of studs in her ears, straightens the long strands of silky black hair over her collar, and smooths the wrinkles in her top. To anyone else, it’s just a woman checking herself in the mirror. To you, it’s the first glance at a new life you’ve subsumed.

It’s an incredible sensation. You have your own thoughts, but the coach’s too. Your ruse is flawless; so much so that you imagine if you ran into your double you’d react with the same religious fervor at the supposed demon with your face. You can’t help but laugh diabolically. There’s something about being Carmen Acuna that is so wonderful you’re tempted to do it – to drive her car, sleep in her bed, say her prayers. If only the original wasn’t walking around.

The malicious grin slips into Acuna’s welcoming, patient and pleasant curl without effort, and you caress the bottom of your chin as you appraise your appearance. Still got it, chica, you think, as you remember the sensuous touch there from your first serious boyfriend, or how your mama used to cup your chin as a child. Closing your eyes, you can summon any thought you need: you can’t drink coffee because you get migraines; you were a doubles champion in your youth, but you didn’t pursue it as you were just never good enough for elite level; the best part of teaching is when you see someone do something they think they can’t, and the worst is when they lose the heart to even try.

“Che! Enough vanity for one afternoon!” You stop staring at the mirror, throw Will Prescott’s backpack over your shoulder and step into the life of Carmen Acuna, walking back to her office with her usual, confident and open stride. You love every second of your walk down the corridor, from the warm smile to the students, the professional nod to Coach Tesla, and even fulfilling your new ritual of tapping the little self-deprecating motto above your office door as you go inside: “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. Those who can’t teach, teach P.E.” You settle into your chair, ergonomically positioned for your new height, and wait for your first guest to arrive.

***

“Coach, you got a minute?” as you predicted, Kim Walsh is in your office as soon as her timetable and legs allow. You look up from last week’s cup results, your new mind easily picking out the 6-2, 6-1 demolition of Appian Lake High’s best player by a private school called Bosworth, somewhere two counties over.

“Of course,” you say, letting that fantastic accent roll around your mouth, hints of Argentine ancestry tripping on the syllables but nowhere near as clumsily as you’d applied it in the past. “Take a seat. I have a court session soon, but I can spare a minute or two.”

“It’s about Will Prescott,” your visitor begins. You allow yourself to shift perceptibly in your seat, which Kim picks up on. “The student body is concerned that he was called to the office on Friday, and rumors are starting. I spoke to Will, and he gave me permission to talk to you.”

Kim sounds sincere, although of course you remember that conversation differently, and Carmen Acuna’s mind is practically in fits of laughter. Oh, Kim. Admit it, you just want to know what’s going on! You summon up your teacher calm and set your pen down, letting Acuna’s thoughts dictate the stiffer tone you take. “Kim, I’m not at liberty to discuss any student with another, you know that.”

“But this is…” You stop her in mid-sentence with a stare your grandmother used to shoot you as a misbehaving child. Usually you only deploy it when lessons threaten to get out of hand, along with a snap of the fingers and a twist of the neck toward the guilty party. Carmen Acuna adores her job, actually likes her charges, but she is no one’s pushover.

“Che!” You cut her off, raising a finger. “In this instance, I suppose it falls outside of school bounds, and if Will said to ask, it’s OK. You have to promise me this goes no further than my office.”

Kim nods.

“As you may know,” you begin, feigning reservation and even a little blush but, in truth, enjoying every moment of your mind game, “faculty parking has been an issue for a few years. Some of us, myself included, have to park on the street. On Friday I went out for lunch and left my keys on the roof. Will must have passed by soon after, took the keys and left his contact information on my dash. I had him called to the admin office to get my car keys back.”

It’s a dumb story, full of holes you could drive a truck through and missing details, but coming from a figure of authority makes it sound totally sincere to Kim’s usually perceptive ears.

“Wow. I don’t know why he didn’t just tell me that. It’s just the kind of community spirit that we should be applauding at Westside.” You wonder how long she’s going to keep this to herself. I’d give it two hours, Carmen’s mind chuckles. Maybe two minutes.

“He’s a good kid. He’s even mentoring one of the freshmen, Michelle Nolan, who’s had a little trouble fitting in this term.” Two birds with one stone.

“I didn’t know we had a mentoring program,” Kim replies a little too quickly than she intended, clearly piqued she wasn’t asked to be involved. “I’d be happy to volunteer as a mentor if you need recruits.”

“Excellent. I’ll mention you’re interested.”

“Thanks Coach.”

You smile back with your new face, pleased to have defused a potential time bomb. “No problem, Kim. My door is always open.” You pretend to get back to the fixture list, your deep, dark irises falling toward the spreadsheet. You still need to rescue Ian from detention. Then, you have a tennis lesson. Shelly said she wanted to be Kelsey Blankenship, although it could be tricky to get a mask on her tonight, even in your current guise.

But perhaps you’ve got a better target than Kelsey already. Kim Walsh is here, stood in the privacy of Coach Acuna’s office. You couldn’t ask for a better opportunity. And wouldn’t she be an even greater identity to assume?

Next: "Mixed Doubles" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 2)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)"