The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)

Six Weeks

Previously: "Flight of the Prodigal" 

"Whadja get there, Matthias?" Bossard asks. "Matthias?" he repeats.

"Huh? Oh, just a book," you reply, and quickly shut the box up again. "It's a surprise, is all," you add.

Of course it's a surprise. In the six weeks since your exile to Oregon and the Fort Putnam Military Academy—

Six weeks of reveille and drills; of hard classes and daily sports and dorm inspections; and of learning that the flabby body of Dane Matthias and the wilting stamina of Will Prescott can toughen up considerably when there's a prefect or a commandant to bark at you—

No, not even in six hard-packed weeks has a day gone by that you've not thought about the book that landed you in all this trouble. And it's not like you're ever likely to forget about it.

But the last thing you ever expected was to open a box from Saratoga Falls and find the damned thing grinning up at you.

You're too dazed to think clearly, but you're not so out of as to miss the glances and grins that your friends exchange. Suddenly, you're on the alert. There's a lot of respect for private property at the Putnam Academy. But if one of the guys here decides to grab the book and share it, the talk would quickly get pretty goddamned awkward.

"I'm gonna go back to my dorm room, get my homework done," you mutter as you scramble to your feet. "Catch you guys later." As you leave, someones sniggers "Porn," setting off a round of snickers and snorts.

You're halfway down the hall when you hear your name called. It's Tess Miller. "You sure cut out in a hurry," she says as she hurries up. "It's not bad news from home, is it?"

"No. It's just something I wasn't expecting to get is all. I—"

You're stopped in mid-stream by the worry in her wide, china-blue eyes. She's a tiny thing—she hardly comes up to your chin—and her mousy brown hair is done up in a small, disorderly bun. She's in fatigues, and they sit on her tiny body like pajamas. You have the urge to reach up and undo that bun, shaking her hair out and caressing it.

"I'm just worried about my mom," you tell her. "And I have to do a little thinking."

The furrow between her eyebrows deepens. "Your mom or your stepmom?" she asks.

Oh, Jesus. You feel your cheeks pale. "Stepmom," you reply. But now that she's mentioned it ...

Miller goes up on her toes and puts her mouth near your chin. You put your hand to the small of her back.

"Well, I'm not gonna pry," she says. "I mean, Lord knows your life's complicated enough without me mixing myself up in it. But if you need to talk, you know where to find me."

"Thanks."

The moment hangs. Then you lean down to peck her on the upper lip. She returns you the tiniest smooch on your chin.

Then she hops back and gives you one quick, bright smile over her shoulder before scampering (hands tucked behind her back) to the commons room.

* * * * *

Back in your dorm room, you prop yourself on your bed and check out the box. It was sent under her name from Dane's mom's address, and it holds nothing but the book and a lot of wadded-up newsprint.

That worries you. Because you could maybe, just barely, with a lot of stress and strain, believe that Dane's mom might, somehow, in some bizarre way, while mailing you something else (like a batch of marijuana brownies) accidentally mail you the SAME GODDAMN BOOK you used to impersonate her son. But there is No. Fucking. Way. you can imagine her LOL-mailing you just the book, as though she thought or knew that you needed and wanted it.

So.

What the hell is going on?

Footsteps sound outside in the hallway, and you fly over to your footlocker, where with trembling fingers you hide the book under your clothes and gear for later examination. Then you wheel yourself up to the laptop and open up email.

Six weeks of life at Fort Putnam, and you're still not used to not having a cell phone.

But you have to think long and hard before you are ready to hit "Send" on the email you compose to Caleb. And even then you only write a short note: Hey, is there anything weird happening back home? Weird in you know what way?

Johansson is the only person back home (except for the three sophomore assholes, obviously) who knows what happened to you, and how, and you've keep in pretty close touch with him. Naturally it was a shock to him when, three days after your induction into the Fort Putnam Military Academy, he got an email from you telling him about it all. He was even madder—and more scared—when you told him about Andrew and his friends, and how you lost the book to them.

THERE'S SEVEN BILLION PEOPLE IN THE WORLD, WILL! HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO BE THE BIGGEST FUCK-UP OF THEM ALL?

He passed a nervous week or two, during which nothing apparently happened that seemed too weird or frightening. With any luck, you and Caleb finally agreed, Andrew and his friends had managed to kill themselves, or had moved to Hollywood and were now impersonating movie stars. You had given them no clue that Caleb existed or knew anything about the book.

But now that it has turned up again, you're nervous about telling Caleb about it. Six weeks have gone by, so who knows what has changed at home, and in what way.

So when Caleb eventually replies with, No, everything's normal around here, why? you reply: No reason, bored, just checking in. You don't know that he'll buy your excuse for emailing him, but you don't much care if he does.

Twenty minutes later you're finishing up math homework when your roommate, Timothy Carmona, shuffles in, and you brace yourself for questions about that mysterious package that sent you running. But he only slumps in front of his own laptop with a sigh, before stripping down to his tidy whities and sliding into his bed. "Don't stay up too late, okay man?" he asks before putting his head under the covers.

* * * * *

You're up at seven the next morning for reveille, mess and inspection, followed by six hours of classes and two hours of physical training and sports. Then comes evening mess, formation, and study hall. It's not until twenty-one hundred hours that you have time to pull out the book to re-examine it. You're on your bed, flipping pages, when Carmona comes in. But you've got your back to him, hiding the book with your body, so you ignore him and keep concentrating on the book.

You recognize the first few spells, the ones that you yourself uncovered. The ones that make a mask, the sealant for a mask, and a strip of metal that can copy the inside of someone's brain. It's almost as if the words had imprinted themselves on your mind, so that you don't even need to translate the ingredients and instructions to know what they say.

But someone's been busy with it in the meantime, for more spells have been unlocked. You haven't translated them, to see what they do, but there's only a handful of them before the book's style begins to change. After one very short spell, which takes up only half a page, come pages covered in blocks of print that don't look like ingredients or instructions, and which don't even come with sigils. And then—horrors!—come pages that have sigils but no words!

Page after page you flip deeper into the book, wondering what the spells do, and how much mayhem they've caused.

You've only spent about fifteen minutes on it, though, when there's a tap at the door and Miller puts her head in. "Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to take a quick walk around the track," she tells you.

"Don't you get enough running during the day?" you grumble. But you can't help smiling as you push the book under the covers and roll off the bed to join her.

The soft rush of traffic from the highway lends the otherwise still night air a feeling of restlessness, but the darkness is soothing. The blazing lights of the main hall slant across the grass, but the arc lights are out, and circular track, when you come to it, is a pool of gray twilight. Side by side, you and Miller take the circle at a brisk pace.

She was one of the first to make friends when, scared and disoriented, you arrived at Fort Putnam. At first you only took her friendliness for pity and charity, because Carmona and most of the other cadets were also encouraging as you adjusted to early hours, quick-time regimentation, inspection and regulation, and (groan) physical activity. But it didn't take you long to realize the twinkle in Miller's grin was more than sisterly.

And because you were lonely, desperate, frightened, and grateful all at once, you pushed away your usual reticence and incredulity, and returned her interest.

Not that you and Miller have been able to do more than exchange a few still-chaste kisses—there's no place on the campus for more than that. And, in truth, there's no hint that she does want more than that. It seems to be enough for her that you're able to sit and touch and lean against each other without embarrassment.

And that's okay with you. Like she mentioned yesterday, your life is complicated enough.

"Have you thought about what you're doing for Christmas?" she asks now.

"I was thinking about just staying here over the break," you admit.

"Don't you want to go home?"

"You know I don't."

She says nothing for another quarter-turn around the track. But it's a pregnant silence, and you tense.

"Damn it, Will," she says softly. "Don't you want to see your real family again? Even if it's just from across the street?"

Next: "Invalid Entry" 

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