The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

A Return to the Scene of the Crime

Previously: "Mind Over Money" 

"Mr. Prescott, I will see you after school."

You slump in your desk and glare at Mr. Walberg. Like it does any good. Not only does he have a mustache like a walrus, and a butt like a walrus, he's got the hide of one too, and he just glowers back at you from behind his tinted glasses.

"Cool it, Will," Caleb tells you after the bell rings and you're shuffling toward the door. "He's just going to yell at you. You've had teachers yell at you before."

"What if he gives me detention?"

"For fucking up a homework assignment?" Caleb cries. "Worst he'll do is write a note to your dad."

As if that wouldn't be a thousand times worse than detention.

It's all because you worked on that thing last night instead of doing your homework. You thought you only had a math assignment, and totally forgot you still had that two-page paper to write for Mr. Walberg's class, explaining why you chose (in your case) to contribute a hair dryer to the time capsule.

And so this morning—the day it was due—you had to shrug when the teacher asked where your paper was.

"I wish I knew where your head's been lately," Caleb continues you push into the packed hallway. "Dissing your friends, flubbing your homework. Applying for employment. You're losing focus."

I'm always flubbing my homework, you want to retort. But you bite your tongue.

* * * * *

But your after-school meeting, it turns out, is not so bad. Oh, Mr. Walberg barks at you alright. "How many days did I give you to write the paper, Mr. Prescott? Seven. You made a class presentation on it yesterday, so I know you didn't forget it was due. And I was dying to find out how come you picked a hair dryer. Why did you?" When you shrug and tell him it was a piece of junk you were going to throw out anyway, he gives you a lecture on treating your assignments—and him as a teacher and as a person—with more respect.

And no, he doesn't give you a chance to turn it in late. But neither does he give you detention and he doesn't give you a note to take home. He just throws you out of his classroom.

But you're tempted to run back to his room and kiss him on the lips when you round a corner and see Maria Vasquez taking a drink at a fountain. If you hadn't had to stay late, you wouldn't be here to see her!

Your hand goes to your pocket, where that metal strip is.

You hadn't been planning—not exactly—on trying it out on her. Your chances of finding Maria seemed pretty remote, for you don't have any classes with her and have never spoken to her. It was purest, stupidest luck that you tripped on to her in the theater the other day. You only brought the strip to school on the infinitesimal chance that you could use it on her, and you were already resigned to using it on someone at Salopek, or at home. So to find her still at school, alone, is a massive stroke of luck!

But that still doesn't mean you'll get a chance to try it on her. The hallways, though emptying fast, still teem with students. You duck behind a pod of sophomore girls and follow at a distance as Maria swings along past the office toward the student parking lot.

Your heart is beating fast as you tag along behind. If she goes straight, she will be heading for her car. But if she turns to the right and goes into the theater, then maybe—

Damn. She turns to the left instead and goes into the gym. Almost you give up and pass on by. But stubbornly you follow.

The gym entryway is empty, so you hop over to look into the eastern court, which already echoes with the squeak of rubber soles and the thump of basketballs. As you round the corner you almost plow into Maria, who is standing just inside and staring up into the rafters. You catch yourself at the last moment and jump back a few steps. When she starts to turn around, you leap back again and bump into a display case. You gape as she brushes past you, returning the way she came, but she gives you only a quick, vacant glance before sweeping by.

You feel like you're having a heart attack, but you follow her out.

Three-point shot and score! you want to shout as she crosses the corner of the quad and heads for the theater. You give a count of ten, then follow her in.

Your heart plunges. Today, the auditorium is completely lit up. Half a dozen people are milling about on stage.

But Maria has taken a seat in the next-to-the last row, her face bent over her cell phone. You hesitate, then slide into the last row and take the seat directly behind her. You pull the metal strip from your pocket and slap it a few times against your palm before making the final decision.

You're not sure what will happen, but after last time you feel better prepared. You cup the strip in the palm of your hand and reach out and around Maria's head to press it to her forehead. (That seems the best spot for copying someone's brain.) With your other arm you brace her about the neck and shoulders from behind, to keep her from falling over.

Of course, you're not certain that she'll pass out like she did last time, and there might be a bad scene if she doesn't. But her head falls to one side, and you have to struggle to prop her up and stop her from toppling over. Once you've got her stable, you hurry around to take the seat next to her. You chew your lip, then tip her head over to rest on your shoulder, where, you hope, it will look natural. You brush the hair from her face and look up at the stage.

They're busy moving stuff around up there, and don't pay any attention to you, except for a few times when you think you spot some of the guys squinting in your direction. But no one calls or comes to check.

How long will this take? you wonder. Last time, with the mask, it seemed to take forever. Will it take longer or shorter now? You're not surprised this time to have the thing vanish on you, and you position one hand under Maria's face, to catch it if and when it reappears. Every once in a while you reach up to touch her forehead, in case it has reappeared there and gotten stuck.

Five minutes in, and her cell phone buzzes. You'd rather ignore it, but when it buzzes again you pluck it from her nerveless fingers and open the texting app. There's a message from "CheerCooperWHS4Ever." It takes you a moment to decipher that it must be from Chelsea Cooper, the head cheerleader. Where r u? she asks.

You tell yourself it's not your business. But when Chelsea texts back three times (Hey. Then: Hey. Then Whre r u? again) you give in and reply on Maria's behalf: Gone home.

You hold your breath as three dots show. Then Chelsea's reply: See u tmite? *tnite You reply: Yes, then drop the phone back in Maria's lap like it's a live tarantula.

A minute later, something plops into her lap. It's the strip. You snatch it up and run from the auditorium.

And, outside, you almost run into Chelsea Cooper herself, who is striding along with two of her other cheerleader friends, Gloria Rea and Kendra Saunders. "Watch where you're going, dumbass," she snorts at you. "I swear," she mutters as she sweeps along toward the parking lot, "this school would be about ten times better if it had ten times fewer people in it."

"As long as it's the right ten people," Kendra agrees as she gives you a slit-eyed glare.

You wait until they're gone before galloping out to your truck. Once you've caught your breath, you take the strip from your pocket and examine it. Your heart almost pings off the back of your throat when you see the change.

Floating above the surface of the strip, like a hologram, are five words: MARIA REGINA VASQUEZ Y LORCA.

You'd let out a whistle, only your mouth has gone dry. If a girl knows anything, you reflect, she knows her own name.

* * * * *

Though you're not as worried as you were when trying out the mask, you wait a couple of hours after dinner before testing the metal strip. The spell comes with no instructions—which alarms you a little—but you take it to mean that you should do the obvious. You stretch yourself out on your bed and press the metal band to your forehead.

Something pinches; the world distorts; and you roll backward into unconsciousness.

* * * * *

You put your hands to your chest. Where's my boobs?

You look at your calves. Where'd all that hair come from?

And where's all the rest of my hair gone to? you add as you pat your head about your ears.

But you're not really confused. You're just bemused by the feeling of thinking with two different brains.

You woke, as best you can determine, after a ten-minute catnap, with a feeling of momentary confusion. This isn't my bedroom, you thought, followed by This isn't my body. But you weren't alarmed, for almost instantly you realized what was going on. You felt Maria's brain inside of yours, and were thinking her thoughts.

Now you are studying yourself in your closet mirror again, like you were the other morning. Only this time it's the reverse. Now you, with Maria's instincts, are wondering at the fact that you have Will Prescott's body.

You could fix that by putting on that mask.

Next: "The Cheerleader from Outer Space" 

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