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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Portable Bodies"  You turn away in disgust. "Don't leave me!" shouts the person who now has your face. You pause. You weren't going to leave him. You just needed to master your own emotions. It still takes you to the count of five or so before you feel like you can turn around and face him without throwing up. His face—your face—is pale and staring, and the little whiskers that stick out on his lip and chin and upper cheek stand out against the chalky pallor of his skin. His mouth is open and he's breathing hard, and his stiff hair springs out from under his sloppy ball cap like it's trying to escape. "I'm not going anywhere," you tell him. "I'll help you out, okay? I'm scared too, you know." You put out your hand, but still he makes no move toward taking it. "Come on, we have to go," you tell him. "I'll tell you how to get to my house, and I'll even take you there. I'll talk to my parents. I mean, I can't tell them what happened—like, no one'll believe us, you know! But I'll make it as easy as possible. Okay?" He whimpers a little, but suffers to put his hand in yours. It is rough and hot. * * * * * You have to drive out separately—yourself in Kendra's little red Sentra and her behind the wheel of your truck. Your heart is in your throat all the way on the drive back, and you spend most of it watching her in your rearview mirror, expecting her at any moment to lose control and plow into the oncoming traffic. But you make it home okay. "Listen," you tell Kendra when you're in your driveway, "you're going to be in trouble, alright? You're supposed to be grounded, and you were supposed to come straight home after detention." Her eyes bulge. "I'll take the blame. Just let me do the talking." Your mom is in the kitchen (where she usually is, it seems like), and she does a double take at you and the guy you're with when she hears you come in. Her expression is very measured. But Kendra says nothing, and after an awkward moment you sigh and step into the silence. "Hi, Mrs. Prescott?" you simper at her with a wide smile. "I'm Kendra? Kendra Saunders, from school? I'm a friend of, uh, Will's?" Your hand instinctively finds his, and you grip it tightly. He grips it back. "Listen, I know Will is supposed to be grounded— I mean, I know he is. But it's totally my fault he's late getting home today, and I promise it won't happen again!" You hear footsteps behind you and glance back. Your little brother, Robert (a pestilential thirteen-year-old) is standing behind you, and raking your up and down from behind with undisguised, lustful interest. You catch his eye, but he doesn't look away, and only brightens a little with obvious pleasure at having caught your attention. You turn back around, to find your mom still giving you a long stare. "Um, it was on account of cheerleader business?" you desperately improvise. "We— I was trying to move some stuff outside the gym? And I knocked it over and I couldn't get it moved because it was so heavy and hard to move?" You hate the interrogatory sing-song you've fallen into. It sounds sweaty and unconvincing, but you can't shake it. "And Will was coming along right then, 'cos he was getting out of detention? And I asked him to help me, and he was so sweet and he totally helped me. And then we got to talking and we totally lost track of the time. And I know he's really late, but he was already going to be late because he was helping me, and, um, well ... Sorry?" You actually go up on tiptoes as the last word squeaks out. Your mom still says nothing for a moment. Then her eyes flick over to the person who looks like her oldest son, and she says, "You can wash up and set the table. Robert!" she calls over your head. "You can help too." Both boys shuffle off, leaving you alone with your mom. You grin at her with embarrassment, and feel your eyes rolling around in their sockets. "Well, thank you for coming along and explaining, um, Kendra," she says. "I guess I'm glad he stopped to help you." "He is soooo sweet, Mrs. Prescott," you gush. "You did a really great job raising him!" Sweat prickles on the back of your head. Her eyebrow flexes just the tiniest amount, and you can read her thought. No, he only stopped to help you because of what you look like. "Um, about his being grounded," you hurriedly add, for you've had a new thought. "Does that also include having friends over? Can he—? Because he said something about—" "He can't have friends over." "Oh." You pout at her. "That's too bad. Because, um, he's taking a Calculus class. And I'm taking calculus too." (Which is a lie. You have Kendra's class schedule at your fingertips, just as, somehow, you have her address, and her passwords, and secret friends and secret enemies lists at your fingertips as well. But Kendra isn't even taking a math class this year.) "And I was just thinking, or hoping—" Again you go up on point. "We could do a little studying together tonight? My quiz scores lately haven't been that good." Your mom looks stunned, and even after the wheels in her head have begun spinning again, you can see that she has no idea where to come down on your request. "Well," she says, "I suppose—" She's interrupted by a harsh hissing from the stove: water boiling over out of a pot. She hurries over to sweep it off the burner, and you have catch yourself from running over to help. "Yes, I suppose that would be fine," she tells you. "Set a time with— Will!" she calls over your shoulder, and you turn to find that Kendra (and Robert) have rejoined you. "Kendra's going to come back over after supper to to study math with you." Kendra gives you a quick glance. "We'll be done eating and cleaning up around seven-thirty. So—" "I'll be over around eight," you say. "Is that okay, Will?" You turn a bright but worried glance onto him. He looks panicked, but nods his head. "Thanks, Mrs. Prescott," you tell your mom, "and I'm so sorry again that I made Will late!" "That's alright. We'll see you later," she says as she fights to regain control of the meal she's preparing. Kendra accompanies you back out to the garage, to tell you her address and to give you some quick instructions on how to handle her parents. You don't tell her that you felt like you knew exactly what to do—namely, call them and tell them that you'd be eating and studying with Chelsea Cooper, the head cheerleader, who Kendra is typically joined at the hip with—and only nod. "I'll see you around eight," you tell her, and can't resist tugging and straightening your old shirt on her frame. "I think my mom will take care of my dad. I mean, my mom and dad here. You should Just nod and tell him you'll do better and that you're sorry." "I don't have a calculus class," she reminds you. "You do now," you tell her. "That's another reason I want to come over. So we can do your homework. You're in enough trouble without you start flunking my classes." In enough trouble? That must be some kind of world record for understatement, you think, as you drive back to the Kendra Saunders's house in Kendra Saunders's car, and in Kendra Saunders's clothes and body. * * * * * You're back at your old house by eight—having camped out at Panera in the meantime, to do some thinking—and you and Kendra spend the next hour-and-a-half working silently at the dining room table. Once or twice your father wanders through on his way to the kitchen, and you can tell he's checking on the two of you to make sure you're busy. And you are, though in different ways. You are doing Will Prescott's homework, even though your handwriting keeps wanting to imitate Kendra's, while Kendra fields the texts and DMs that keep popping up on her phone. You are exhausted when it is time to go, and because you didn't feel free to talk while studying, you are only able to talk a few minutes on the front porch when you go to leave. "Stick to your room," you tell Kendra. "Get out of the house tomorrow as soon as possible, and let's meet at—" You consider where to rendezvous, and settle on Salvation Donuts, which is on the way to school. "We'll go over our class schedules then." "I don't think I'll be able to get through your classes," she stammers. "Let's just see what happens. You didn't think you could get through tonight with my parents, and you did. Right?" She makes a face, but nods. "You'll see, it'll work out." You wish you were as confident as you are trying to sound. She was totally useless at doing any school work. No surprise, as she is taking nothing but blowoff classes this year. And that is all you are able to say to her before a tap at the window tells you that your dad wants to call a halt to this interruption of your grounding. You squeeze Kendra on the forearm, and skip off to the street where you parked. So you didn't get a chance to talk to her about what you were thinking about at Panera, which may be just as well. When you left there, you were full of fire and determination to find Justin Roth at school, and force him to confess what he's done to the two of you. But now, after seeing what a limp noodle Kendra is, you're less inclined toward bold action. Next: "Derp with a Side of Donuts" |
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