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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Bust Up"  You feel numb all over as you drive yourself to school on Tuesday morning. Part of it is the wind, which is raw and blustery. (There's a cold front coming through, and thunderstorms are expected in the afternoon.) But mostly it's a dreadful sense that you've fucked things up for yourself yesterday with that hyper-emotional explosion up in the loft. The helpless, hopeless thought keeps running through your head: I dumped my boyfriend. What the fuck am I going to do now? It does help, at least a little, that you are able to step back and look at the situation, inside and out, from the perspective of a guy who is only pretending to be Chelsea Cooper. Half of her reaction, you can tell, is genuine grief at the end of a relationship. Chelsea needs a boyfriend. She needs to be loved and adored and cradled and cooed over. She needs to have someone she can cuddle with and make baby-talk with. Someone she can wrap around herself like a warm rug. Someone she can fuck. Gordon was all those things, but he was also more. He was the king of the basketball court, the ace athlete, the biggest and baddest jock in the school. There was no one else at Westside who is even remotely as desirable as he was. And she had him. Chelsea had snagged him and held him and made him dance at the end of her line. What did that make her, who had trapped and muzzled and tamed the biggest and sexiest beast at Westside? It put her at least two levels above anyone who might have come in second place behind her. And now what have you done? You've thrown it away. One of the things that made Chelsea such a desirable impersonation. Well, you remind yourself with a sigh, it's not like there was much of a choice. Gordon was bound to fall off the top of the chart once it became clear that he wasn't the man he had been before, that something in him had broken for good and all time. Best to get out in front of it, so that it looks like Gordon broke down because you dumped him, not that you dumped him because he had broken down. Besides, what he did last weekend—those pictures!—was unforgivable. Everyone's sympathy will surely be with you! * * * * * And, sure enough, when you arrive at school you find that Kendra and Gloria have done the minimal preparations necessary. You make a show of putting on a very brave face during cheerleading practice, and you run it in a very business-like fashion, with none of the snark and back-biting that Chelsea usually lashes her squad mates with. (But you're not particularly gracious or supportive, either.) The other girls reciprocate by giving you lots of quiet, sympathetic looks. To your surprise, Cindy Vredenburg—the arch-bitch who is always scheming behind your back—comes up to you at your locker afterward. She rubs her arm as she says, "I'm really sorry about you and Gordon, Chelsea. I know you had a really great thing together, and it was—" She bites her lip. "It was a really shitty thing he did. And stupid, throwing away it away like that." "Thanks, Cindy," you reply. You hope it comes out polite, but you feel a cold place in your heart. "You and Seth have a really great thing too. I hope you really explain to him that he doesn't ever want to fuck things up the way Gordon did." Cindy visibly winces, but forces a smile before backing away. You approach your third-period French class with a feeling of dread. Gordon likes to meet you out front of it, because third-period is his study hall and he is always badgering Chelsea to skip and hang out with him up in the loft. The new Gordon wouldn't know that, but the new Gordon seems to be skipping all of his classes, so you half expect to see him outside Mr. Rodriguez's room again, like you saw him yesterday. But it's Steve Patterson loitering there instead, reading his phone. "About time you showed up," he snaps. "I wanna talk to you at lunch." "I talk to you at lunch everyday, Steve," you retort. "It's one of the things that gives me indigestion." "No, not in the cafeteria. Up in the loft." Your eyebrows arch. "You only have one thing on your mind when you're up in the loft, Steve. I'll tell Kendra you've got the itch again, if that's—" "It's about your ex-," he flares. "And if you don't want to go upstairs, at least meet me in the gym." He brushes past, knocking you three steps back, as he stalks away. Giant prick, you mutter at his back. * * * * * It turns out he wants your key to the loft back. That's the first thing out of his mouth when you meet him at the start of fourth period, at the foot of the staircase leading up to the loft. "I took Gordon's key from him," he explains. "He's off the VIP list. Which means you're off the list too." "What?" you exclaim. "Bullshit!" He leans over you. "You want to come up to the loft? You have to buy a ticket. Gordon was your ticket, but you tore that one up. Now you get in the same way Kendra and Gloria do." There's no gloating in his voice, which is as frigid as a slurry of ice. You can tell he wants you to beg, so that he can have the pleasure of telling you to go fuck yourself. But you ignore his implication, and just ask, "What happened that Gordon doesn't have a key anymore?" "I told you, I took it. He's off the squad. He says he's not coming to practice anymore. I'll give him a week to sober up. Then I tell Coach Brooks we need to replace him." He glares icicles into you. "You wanna keep your key to the loft? Then you need to explain to Gordon how he can get his key back. I'll give you until the end of the week, too." Again, he shoves his way past, almost knocking you on your ass. You seethe to yourself. There's no fucking way Steve would ever treat you like this if you were still going with Gordon! * * * * * Caleb wants to talk to you about Dane—he texts you even before school is out, asking you to meet—but you're pre-empted by the Danester himself. You're on your way out to the parking lot—no reason to stay after school and watch basketball practice now!—when a smelly, pajama-clad figure wheels out of the crowd and bumps into you. "I wanna talk to you!" Dane Matthias hisses. "Eww!" you exclaim, and jump back. "Get away from me, you freak!" "I'm not the freak, you—!" His eyes are feverish, and he shows you his teeth. "What are you gonna do? You broke up with—! I wanna talk!" You should probably just brush on past him. Even if he chased you, there's plenty of other guys around, any of them eager (you'd bet) to jump in and play white knight to save you from this pest. But you give in to a deeper, nastier temptation. The temptation to pull the real Chelsea aside and gloat over her fate. So you give him a look-over, then sniff. "Okay, you can walk me out to my car," you tell him. "But keep behind me. We're not together." Dane bristles, but falls in behind you. You bypass your car to walk to a distant corner of the parking lot, where you can have a bit of privacy while still being visible, in case "Dane" loses control of himself. "Well," you demand after coming to a stop. He puts his finger in your face. "I don't know who you are—" "I'm Chelsea Cooper," you snap back. "Who the fuck do you think I am?" His tousled hair almost stands on end. "I'm Chelsea Cooper!" he snarls. "You know that!" You laugh. "Funny! You don't look anything like me!" A wild light flames in his eyes. "I don't know what you did to me! But you're going to change it back!" "Make me!" you sneer. "Yes, I know who you are, Chelsea. And I'm the one who did it, and don't you think for a moment you don't deserve it!" He raises claw-like hands. "You fix things, you—" "You want me to scream, Dane, do you want me to scream? How will that look? What do you think will happen to you? Get used to it, Dane, get used to answering to that name. Because that's who you are now. You're Dane Matthias. And I—" You toss your hair. "I am Chelsea Cooper." He howls. So loud and sudden you have to take a step back. "You know what they're going to do me?" he yelps. "They're gonna send me away! Tomorrow! To another school! Outta town, outta state! You gotta fix things!" "Where are they sending you?" you ask. His exclamation has genuinely taken you aback. "Just fix things!" he pleads. "Put things back! Whatever— What did I do to you? Who are you? How can I—? What can I do for you to make you change it back?" Tears pour from his eyes. Next: "The Exit of One Chelsea ..." |
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