Chapter #30The Fallen Angel by: Masktrix   You arrive at the country club as Ruth. It makes things more of a hassle when it comes to sorting out the masks, but Will Prescott really doesn’t have much chance of convincing the staff he belongs. Nor, sadly, does Carmen Acuna, given she has the wrong skin tone for the old money elite that frequent this place. You saunter up to the desk in unisex sports clothes that, at a stretch, that will also fit Golem-Will once you make the switch. The Random Body Generator has a little bit of weight on her belly, but her arms are athletic and she looks WASPy enough to fit in.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist is experienced enough to recognize who’s new and who’s not. While the country club has an extensive membership, guests are typically accompanied by one of the known families. It’s too late for golf, and you’re not dressed for the salon or veranda.
“Hi,” you say, still disoriented by Ruth’s voice. There’s enough of Mrs Nolan in there to give it familiarity, along with a little flick of Irish, presumably from Tina Stirland. “I booked a day pass for the spa tonight. Ruth Hedgecote-Wilde?” You got the name from a random upper-class generator on the internet and already regret it, but you figure double-barrelled buffoonery doubles your chances of getting in.
The receptionist types your name. “Ms Hedgecote-Wilde. Yes, we have you for a two-hour pass. It’s down the corridor, changing rooms on your right. Towels are to be returned to the baskets provided, and the use of the sauna and steam room is included. Have a pleasant evening.”
You smile and take the towel as suggested, tucking it over your bag. Even with the online discount, the spa wiped out every last penny you had, including the remains of Shelly’s science fund. Shelly Nolan and Will Prescott are flat broke. Not that it really matters. You take the card and walk to the changing rooms to scout the place. It’s not going to work – too many people are coming and going. Your best bet is the disabled toilet in the main corridor. There, you loiter for a short time, smiling as guests walk past. The only person who bothers you is one of the older gentlemen, dressed in a navy suit, his back arched into a hump and frail hands shaking as he points to you and exclaims “That woman is wearing jogging bottoms!” Fortunately, his wife leads him away.
Your target arrives after 10 minutes. You hear her before you see her, cheery voice greeting the reception desk as if they are lifelong friends. Then she’s coming at you, strolling down the corridor with a beatific grace. She’s in a pink polo shirt and skirt, a squash racquet under one arm, kit back in the other. You feel turned on just seeing her, as out of breath as if Lester had just socked you in the gut.
“Hello!” she says as she approaches, giving you a wave as if she’s walking past the oldest friend she’s ever had. It’s a complete transformation from the bitch in the cellar, as different as night and day.
“You’re Abigail, right?” you say. It’s all you can think of to stop her, and you’re guessing no one would just call their child Abi. She comes to a bouncing halt in front of you.
“Yes, m’am. Abigail Steiner.” Butter wouldn’t melt.
“Ruth Hedgecote-Wilde. I attended the St Francis Xavier School,” you say. “Not as a prefect, mind, but I’m on the board of trustees.”
“Really?” She beams dazzling white teeth. Her personal magnetism is incredible. You feel as if you’ve just found a long-lost daughter. “Thank you so much for everything you do. We know how lucky we are. If it wasn’t for your support, we wouldn’t have been able to send the fourth form Spanish class to Mexico this summer.”
“You’re very welcome. Here to hit the courts?”
“Squash league,” she confirms. “It’s club-organized so I’m sure who I’m playing. I don’t suppose it’s you, m’am?”
You shake your head. “No, I’m just here for the spa. I’ve been working all day at St Francis Xavier’s church. We’re trying to get funds for the outreach program, and I’ve been making an inventory of the storage spaces. Dusty work. And you’ll never believe what I found down there.” You reach into your bag.
“I couldn’t begin to guess.” Abigail looks genuinely curious, hanging on your every word. You thought that would get her attention.
“You.” It’s enough a shock to her system that she doesn’t have time to react as the mask goes on.
***
You stare at your new reflection in the mirror. You’ve known some beautiful girls in your time, but 18-year-old Abigail Steiner is a whole new category. You don’t just know her, you are her. And you are gorgeous. Your chestnut hair falls down naturally like a model’s, while your blemishless face naturally falls into a smile that lights up the room without effort. Your nose is perfect (although, admittedly, not your original – a birthday present); your eyes are hypnotic. You trace your hands down your new body, turning to the left and right, chewing on your finger and thinking of how many people have fallen for those curves.
Bite down harder. So hard you almost draw blood.
Despite appearances, Abigail Steiner is messed up. She enjoys two simple pleasures in life: being adored (including by herself) and doing whatever she wants. The good girl act comes from hundreds of hours in front of a mirror, talking to herself, learning how to fake sweetness and light in an instant. It’s astonishing just how ignorant St Francis Xavier’s staff are of her true character – and just what she gets away with. When she was picked to be one of the six prefects last year, the school thought they were selecting a (literal) choir girl. How wrong they were.
The responsibilities of a prefect: school discipline under an honor system; signing exeat forms so students can go into town; ensuring students do not have any contraband (especially related to drugs or alcohol); overseeing study hall.
The responsibilities of Abi Steiner: bullying everyone else with threat of the honor system; demanding services for exeat forms so students can go into town; ensuring you and your friends have all the drugs and alcohol you want; overseeing study hall.
Behind you, Will Prescott stirs, blinking into life. You turn around and look at the former Abi, now you, and wonder if your control is complete.
“Nice, boss!” the new Will says, gesturing to your body with a cheesy thumbs up. It’s all the confirmation you need. For the next few moments you both scramble to get your clothes on in the disabled bathroom: Will the attire you arrived in, you into your gym kit. While you do so, you give the new Will the same briefing you gave the Shelly golem. He leaves a few minutes later with the Ruth mask and clothes, and you take a deep, satisfied sigh. It feels very good to be free of the burden of the past weekend. Tonight you’re just going to enjoy your new life.
It’s with this thought that you skip down to the squash courts, racquet in hand, to see who you’re playing. You have to track down the masks, of course, but Abi’s mind knows they’re in the possession of Todd Baldwin, who’s planning a Halloween bash in the Xavier Backwoods. She didn’t ask where Baldwin got them from, but it won’t be hard to convince him to give up the masks.
In fact, it’ll be a lot of fun for both of us. It was the last time.
The thought of Todd occupies your mind so completely that you virtually forget about your former life… which makes your encounter at the courts so jarring.
“Hello, Abigail.” The words aren’t particularly warm and friendly as you meet Kelsey Blankenship again, now as a fourth different person in two weeks. You access Abi’s thoughts, and know these two have gone head to head enough times for Kelsey to penetrate Abi’s good girl impersonation. It’s a shame; Abi ticks two of Kelsey’s friendship criteria of ‘beauty, brains and wealth’. Unfortunately, Kelsey only meets one of Abi’s ‘rich, stupid and someone I can use’.
The car salesman’s princess. How quaint.
“Hi, Kelsey,” you chirp, maintaining your perky masquerade as Abi would. “Are we playing tonight? That’s so great, we always have a good match.”
“Let’s hope so,” Kelsey says, returning your smile if not your body language.
“I heard Westgate managed to make it through to the next round of the cup, congratulations!”
“Westside. And thank you. Sorry to hear you were eliminated.”
Fuck. You. “You can’t win them all, I suppose.” Because Hope O’Malley’s nowhere near as good as she thinks she is, and I can’t carry a team by myself.
“Of course,” Kelsey says. “Let’s get started, shall we?” She steps through the glass door into the court, pleasantries over.
“Just give me a moment to tie my hair back,” you say, smiling warmly as you mentally assess your chances. Kelsey is supreme on the tennis court, but Abi’s much more evenly matched in squash. Even so, Kelsey has the edge…
Unless you give yourself a little advantage.
You feel a tightening in your throat as you search Abi’s thoughts. She’s got a special boost in her racquet case for such emergencies. Take one, and Abi is confident that she can beat Kelsey with only a few, fun, side effects. But although she’s an experienced hand at recreational substances, you aren’t; do you really want to start popping pills just to win a squash match?   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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