The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

Poor Boys

Previously: "Help! There's a Girl in My Bed!" 

You gape at your reflection. Maria Vasquez gapes back at you.

How in the hell did I not recognize her face in the mask before? you wonder as you gently trace the curve of your new face with gentle fingertips. It's not like Maria's face is unfamiliar!

Of course it isn't. She's a cheerleader, for fuck's sake! You're looking in her direction every chance you get!

Maria Vasquez is Hispanic, with a light, almost milk-chocolate complexion, large eyes, and soft lips. Her nose is full but well-shaped, and is set between visible cheekbones. Her dark hair, thick and rough as a horse's tail, tumbles to your shoulders in gentle waves.

Your drop your hands to your boobs, which are large, ripe, and firm, with tips that are rosy. You gently clasp and lift them. Oh my God, you silently groan as you pucker all over.

Including—

You gulp and drop your boobs as your eyes fall to the patch of dark hair between your legs. You've got a bush! And inside that bush? Your arm stiffens as you reach down to touch it. Inside—

Feet sound on the stairs, and you whirl and dive back under the covers. But the steps pass your room, and you hear the door to Robert's room shut.

You bite your lip. How the fuck am I going to get out of this?

Of course, you have to get the mask off. But when you put it on you fell asleep, for hours! What if the same thing happens when you take it off?

Well, it's a risk you'll have to take. Better that than your mom or dad finding Maria Vasquez in your bedroom! You jump out of bed to check the magic word in the book again, and put your hand to your brow.

Then you hesitate, and on a wild impulse snatch up the book. Though you're naked—at some point in your sleep you tore your underwear off—you open your door and peek out. (And you have to push your hair out of your face when it falls across your cheek.) The hallway is empty.

In three fast, loping strides, you jump across the hall to the bathroom. You turn the shower on full blast—so it will sound like you're busy showering—then crouch in the floor with the book. One, two, three times as prescribed you pull at your forehead while murmuring the magic words. Nothing happens. A fourth time, then a fifth time, you try. Nothing. You're sweating hard as you check the book again. You lay on your back, stare at the ceiling, then cover your face with your hand and pull.

Something seems to catch beneath your fingernails, but you don't pause to wonder, and pull harder. You feel your face coming away, as though you're opening a cupboard door. It takes all the light with it.

* * * * *

"Made it by a whisker, Mr. Prescott," Mr. Walberg drawls as you fling yourself into your desk as the tardy bell rings. "Don't get too comfortable," he continues as you try to catch your breath. "We need a first presenter today, and you'll do as well as anyone else."

You gape balefully at the old walrus as the rest of the class titters; out of the corner of your eye you see Kelsey Blankenship openly smirking at you, and behind her Geoff Mansfield sneers. With a sigh you rip open your book bag and dig inside for the short paper you wrote last night. It's a one-page summary, cribbed heavily from Wikipedia, on the history of shampoo. It's part of Mr. Walberg's game for the week: Students have to give a short presentation on the history of something related to the item they put in the time capsule last Friday, and the rest of the class has to guess, based on the presentation, what the item was.

Of course, Caleb knows what you put in the capsule, so as soon as you're done and Mr. Walberg has called for guesses he shoots his hand up. But the teacher ostentatiously ignores him and instead lets Amanda Ferguson—Kelsey's iceberg of a best friend—correctly divine the answer: "It wasn't a hair dryer, was it?" she sniffs. You nod. "Oh, God, you're kidding, right?" she exclaims in a tone of horror and disgust. The whole class laughs, and with a burning face you return to your seat. Mr. Walberg doesn't even bother to shush the mirth.

"Just wait till it's your turn, cocksucker," you mutter at Caleb after the bell rings, "and you get to tell the class you sent porn to the future."

But Johansson is serene. "Yeah, I bet I'm gonna get some high-fives for that. Betcha Delacroix asks me to hang out with him and his peeps after school."

"I can't believe Walberg said he'd let you get away with it."

"Nice job with the presentation, Prescott," Mansfield snickers as he brushes past you. "I'd'a never guessed it was hairdryer."

"Yeah, well, stump the chump," you mutter back.

Lisa, who is following behind, says, "I think it was really clever, Will. I bet they'll find it pretty interesting when they dig it up in a hundred years."

Mansfield gives her a look, the quickly recomposes his expression.

"That could be," he says. "They might be illegal in the future. You know, waste of electricity and resources. They're not very green." He gives you a quick look up and down. "Good on ya for getting rid of yours, Prescott." He puts his arm around Lisa's shoulders and draws her out into the hallway.

"I oughta buy a new one, a big, industrial-sized one, you piece of shit," you mutter after him, "and beat you to death with it. Buy one as big as a jet engine, and throw you into it."

"Oh, shut up, Will," Caleb says. "He can't even hear you. Fortunately."

"If he did—"

"He'd just smirk at you. Haven't you figured out that nothing fazes him?"

"I bet if I pushed his face in—"

"Whose face you talkin' about pushin' in, man?"

You jump and whirl at the voice. It's Laurent Delacroix, the popular wrestler that Caleb stupidly thinks might invite him to hang out. You feel yourself blushing. "No one," you murmur. Delacroix gives you a puzzled look, then with a short laugh pushes ahead of you and plunges into the hallway.

"Pussy," Caleb says.

"Oh, fuck off."

"And it's real funny that you wrote a presentation about shampoo today," Caleb calls after you, "considering you smell like you didn't take a shower."

* * * * *

It's true that you didn't shower, for you woke in the bathroom, back in your own skin with the mask beside your head, and the tub half-full of water from the still-running shower head. You shut it off and drained the tub, wrapped a towel about your waist, and ran back into your bedroom to dress. Even without the shower, you were late getting down to breakfast and out the door to school.

The rest of the day passes slowly and normally, meaning that you get shoved up against your locker twice, once by Lester "The Molester" Pozniak and once by Seth Javits. (But in the latter case, it might be because he mistook you from behind for your friend Keith.) It's a slow day, made all the more agonizing by a keen desire to get back home to the book. When Caleb asks if you want to hang out after school, you quickly brush him off. Only later, on your way home, does it occur to you that Caleb didn't look very disappointed at your demurral.

Oh well. That only means you don't have to feel guilty.

Up in your bedroom you fall into your chair with the book. Hopes that the next spell will prove as easy to execute are dashed when you see that it calls for a completely new set of ingredients. And your heart sinks further when you do some spot-checking of prices and availability online, and discover that those ingredients will cost more than what you've got left in your cash stash. You spend the balance of the afternoon wracking your brain for ways to get some money, before falling back on the only obvious means.

"Hey Dad?" It's after dinner, and he's watching TV when you work up the nerve to approach him. "Can I borrow sixty dollars?"

"What for?" he asks without looking over.

"School supplies?"

That gets his attention. "School supplies for what?"

"Um, that chemistry thing I was working on? For Caleb?"

His brow furrows. "Whose chemistry project is it?"

You hesitate. "Well, his."

"And he can't pay for it himself?"

"Dad! Caleb's got— Well, he hasn't got any money!" Which is true. Caleb lives with a single mother, and he only has a car to drive because one of her co-workers was going to donate it to a church otherwise.

"So you're subsidizing him?"

"Well—"

"And you want me to subsidize him?"

You don't answer.

"Tell you what," he says, "if you apply for that job at Salopek, and you get it, I'll advance you the sixty. In fact, I'll advance you your full first paycheck."

"And if I don't get the job?"

"Oh, you'll get it," he says, turning his attention back to the TV.

Caleb wants that job, he should apply for it, you want to say.

And maybe he should, it occurs to you a moment later. By giving your dad this excuse about Caleb having a project, maybe you can get him off your back by recommending Caleb for the job.

Of course, that would leave you without the salary. But maybe if you got Caleb that job, and showed him the book (as you've been thinking of doing anyway), you could partner with him and he could invest in it.

Except, as you told your dad, Caleb is poor. Maybe you should look for a different partner, one with more ready cash. And how hard would that be to find one? Why, all you'd have to do is show them that mask of Maria—let them put it on and fondle her boobs—and they'd probably thrust every dollar they had at you!

You have to hide a smile when the goofy thought occurs: Wouldn't it be funny if I started hanging out with Laurent Delacroix and his "peeps" after what Caleb said?

* To take the job at Salopek: "Mind Over Money" 
* To show the book to some possible partners: "The Unusual Suspects" 

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