The Book of Masks (Vol. 4)

Punks and Persecutions

Previously: "Of Pranks and Punks" 

Again, you are driven by a presentiment of imminent catastrophe to choose the more cowardly option: Give the book back to Carson, you decide.

Having experienced one "reset" already, you are less confused when the story again returns to its starting point. Grimly you thrust aside the sense of deja vu that settles oppressively upon you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"There it is, honey," your mom says. "Your new school."

You turn away to shut out the sight. Your stomach, already quivering with anxiety, turns over.

For a long moment the gush of the air conditioner is the only sound in the cabin. "You know," your mom says gently, "you're going to have to look at it when school starts next week."

You slouch lower into your seat, but open your eyes and turn your face toward Westside High School. Its white buildings, domed with blue roofs, gleam and waver like the clouds in the hot August sky. Your stomach quakes.

"It's one of the best schools in the state," your mom says. "AP classes and computer science classes, and they've even got a program where you can take college classes at the local university for credit."

Like that'll do me any good, you mutter to yourself. What ninth grader takes college classes?

And, anyway, the college would be just as new and just as unwelcome ... and just as temporary ... as the high school. You'll probably be in it only a year, and then your dad will get transferred to another military base and you'll be off to another school, that one also with AP courses and computer science classes and college credits up the wazoo.

* * * * *

"What say we drive around town today, sport, check out the happening spots," your dad suggests with a wink a few days later. You instantly perk up, for you don't get to see much of him anymore since his promotion to major. All last week, for instance, it was just you and your mom unpacking things while he was busy at Fort Suffolk from seven in the morning until eight at night.

It's a special day for you, too, being the last Saturday of the summer before school starts. No way! was your horrified reaction when you found out that all the schools in Saratoga Falls start on the next-to-the-last week in August instead of waiting until after Labor Day. It was like finding out that your day of execution had been moved up so the guy who flips the switch on the electric chair could leave town for an early vacation.

At least your dad gets you laughing a little as you tour the town and he jokes about its various absurdities. The coffee shops by the university with crazy names like "The Flying Saucer" and "The Milagro Beanfield Warehouse." The restaurant that advertises "Spider Sandwiches." The abandoned hospital that looks like it was modeled on Arkham Asylum from the Batman comics and video games. "And they say the phantom doctor still roams the empty halls," your dad whispers hoarsely, "with his fizzling electrodes and his giant syringe, and the head of his last patient tucked under his arm!" You giggle at the ghost story he has clearly just made up on the spot.

But your smile fades as the car turns past a green and grassy athletic field where squads of sun-burnt teens are running up and down kicking soccer balls. "You gonna try out for one of the teams?" your dad quietly asks. "Football again, maybe?" You shrug. "You're really good at it," he says. "I know you think you aren't, but you are."

He's wrong about what you think, actually. You do know you're good at it. You just can't work up any enthusiasm for it. It's a team sport, after all, and team sports need team spirit and camaraderie, everyone working and pulling together. And there was a lot team spirit at the middle school back in Maryland last year, and in Utah the year before that, and in Georgia the year before that, which was when you first tried out for football.

But no team spirit has never enveloped you.

Because, somehow, you were always the "new kid." You were always the outsider. Sometimes you were even "the weird kid," which especially hurt. The other students went out of their way to remind you that you were new in town, even when they embraced other "new kids" and happily added them to their gangs. They did things to your last name "Hosey", turning it into "Hoser" or "Horsey" or "Ho-sucker."

And they held it against you even when you did good on the field, and when the coaches praised you as one of the best players. After the next-to-last game of last year's season, when you scored half the touchdowns, the other guys hauled you into the showers, ripped your clothes off, and told you that you'd better be too sick to play in the last game, if you knew what was good for you.

Your dad has to drive past your new school as you make your way home afterward. Your chest aches as you stare dully at it. If only you could disappear before school starts. Or disappear into the school, so that no one would notice you or suspect you had ever been there ...

* * * * *

On Monday your mom takes you shopping for school supplies. Then, as compensation for that revolting task, she takes you first for ice cream and then to a used book store that your dad read about online. It's a huge place, taking up a couple of stories in an old brick building across the street from the university, and you happily dive into the stacks in search of science-fiction, horror, and fantasy books. You bring a stack of them to your mom after an hour, and she doesn't even ask you to cut them down. While she's paying for them, your eye is caught by a nearby glass case.

It's full of old books, and one in particular, with a cover of red leather, catches your eye. Or rather, it's the pentagram, embroidered into the spine with gold thread, that mesmerizes you.

* To pull out the book, turn to page 45,344
* To leave it alone: "Persecutions and Photographs" 

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 4)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 4)"