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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Party Crasher"  Alexis Krystal Lachance. There's a copy of that girl inside this mask you're holding. When you put it on, you'll turn yourself into a copy of her. Then you'll be able to take her place. What will it be like? Will it feel like you're wearing an extra layer of skin over your own? Will it itch? Supposedly, the metal band in the mask will give you her memories. What will that be like? Will you be able to tell which memories are yours and which ones are hers? Will you forget who you are, and start to think that you really are Alexis Lachance? Well, Chelsea will probably keep that from happening. A lump rises in your throat as you squat inside the bathtub, and it pulses like a second heart. You lift the mask over your face and set it on yourself. Drowsiness overwhelms you, encasing your limbs like a suit of lead. But is it drowsiness, or is it the mask? Is it spreading over you and turning you into ... ? * * * * * Again, you're woken by the cold, and you hug yourself as you roll onto your side. You bang your head on something hard, and grunt. But it's like the blow has jarred something loose in your head. You scramble up with your heart thumping. You're sitting up inside a cold bathtub. Your skinny legs don't even reach the end of it. What happened to my legs? you think numbly as you gape at them. Those aren't my legs! They're too short! But a calmer voice says, Of course they're your legs. Dur. You see them every day. A cold, numb spot forms around your heart and spreads out through the rest of your body. A light sweat pops out all over you. You look down. Boobs are dangling from your chest. They're small, but firm and taut. They're shaped like pears, and your nipples are hard from the cold. As you stare at them, they harden further, and prickle lightly. You reach up, hesitate, then touch one with a fearful fingertip. Nothing explodes. Only you shiver hard. I have boobs! Of course you do, that other, calmer voice snorts. On trembling legs you scramble up. You put out a slim arm and hand—wow, your fingers are small, with polished nails at the end—and slide back the shower curtain. You squint against the light, then do a double take at the figure in the mirror behind the vanity. It's Alexis Lachance. You recognize the face, of course, but in a double-vision kind of way. It's a face that Alexis sees every morning and every evening and several times a day in between, as she's prepping for school, prepping for bed, or primping between times. A head that seems just a little too large for the slight body and the slender neck. The bosom with its small, torpedo-shaped breasts. The inward sloping curve of the stomach and the narrow bowl of the hips. The— You boggle. Alexis boggles a little with you. She doesn't often stare straight at the dark tongue of fur now licking your genitals. In something almost like a trance you take it between your fingers and rub it, and brush at the tender spot beneath it. Your complexion is a little paler when you look back up into the mirror, and your mouth is hanging open. Ugh. My hair, you think. My flat, bodiless hair. It's just one of the things about herself that bothers Alexis—you!—but it's the one she—you!—sees all the time in the mirror. How horribly thin and bodiless it is, and horrible the way it lays very flat! It takes a stylist—Robert (pronounced "Ro-bair") at La Audace—to style it so that it flatters her—your!—face without embarrassing itself. Those blade-like bangs that you noticed before, that now hang so casually from your temples and over your ears, as though they've accidentally and momentarily escaped the hair tie? Totally intentional, and carefully styled into place each morning. But hanging limp and loose like this? Ugh! You glance around for a brush and comb and hair tie. You had a scrunchie when you arrived! That's when you notice the clothes folded up neatly on the corner of the vanity. Chelsea must have brought them in while you were unconscious. You paw through them until you find the white terrycloth hair scrunchie you came in with. You then spend a good minute combing your hair into shape, brushing it over to the side and pulling it back into a ponytail before carefully tugging loose and arranging those few intentional strands. Chelsea Cooper. You think about her as you work. Now at least you know why she invited you—Alexis Lachance!—out to her place. You—Alexis!—have never talked to Chelsea before, and Michelle has nothing but horror stories about her. But when the captain of the cheerleader squad invites you out to her house for a little talk, you don't say no, and you don't leave, either, when it turns out she's got nothing but a lot of silly questions and inane prattle for you. And when that guy came jumping in— You pause in mid-brushstroke. Alexis didn't get a good look at you when you burst into the bedroom with Chelsea, and the only impression you have through her eyes is of a scarecrow-like guy in baggy pants and a floppy t-shirt charging in with a crazed grin on his face. And that's the guy you're supposed to find a girlfriend for? You shiver. Well, time enough for that later. Mostly you agreed to meet Chelsea because you were out and about anyway, picking up food for the little party you're throwing tonight, and you still have that to do. The sound of your ringtone in the bedroom beyond—why didn't Chelsea bring your phone in here with the rest of your stuff? Is she snooping on it?—reminds you of your responsibilities. You slip on panties and a bra, and only after you've got your breasts tucked into the cups do you realize how naturally, even thoughtlessly, you handled that garment. You pull on jeans and socks and tennis shoes, button yourself into the crisp white blouse, and wrap the tan windbreaker about yourself. You tug at a few stray locks of blonde hair, settle yourself into the clothes, and smile at your reflection. Fear shows behind your eyes, and you have a terrible case of butterflies in your stomach. Calm the fuck down, you tell yourself. Remember your— Oh God. Your mouth falls open, and your eyes widen. No wonder Alexis looks so fragile. You gulp, but give yourself that brave little talk she's so used to giving herself. With your chin held high, you twist open the bathroom door and step out. But your fingers can't help twitching and trembling a little. Chelsea—looking much taller than the last time you saw her; her eyes are now on a level with yours—looks up. She breaks out in a wide smile. "Oh my God!" she squeals. "Will?" "Yeah." You gulp again, and feel a nervous rictus spread across your face. "You look just like her!" Chelsea's eyes, shining with obvious admiration, slide up and down your frame. She walks around you, and your knees tremble under her inspection. A hard shiver shakes you all over, and instinctively you cover your nose and mouth with your hands, breathing in deep, warm draughts of air through your fingers. "Is it weird?" Chelsea asks. "I mean, is it like you've got on another skin?" You shake your head. "It feels totally normal," you say. "Like, this is me and this is my skin and these are my ... fingers." You knead them and rub their tips. They do feel exactly like they're your hands, not like gloves. Chelsea beams, then tugs a little at your clothes, straightening them out. "How about, like, what you remember and stuff?" she asks. "Do you think you can imitate her?" "Sure. It's all, just, like—" You fumble with your hands. Well, what is it like, having Alexis's mind and memories inside yours? It's like having that double vision. Like a permanent sense of deja vu. The world looks one way. But at the same time it also looks a very different way. Like with Chelsea here. With one set of eyes, she is your partner, a girl who summoned you out to help her with her stupid boyfriend and who has been goading you into making masks and using them to help yourself (and her). At the same time you see her simply as the head cheerleader, a distant senior you have nothing to do with, and you find it very strange to be here, with her, talking in her bedroom. It gives you the shakes. You realize that Alexis had the shakes—just under better control—when she was up here with Chelsea before your arrival. "I don't know," you finally say when you notice Chelsea giving you a quizzical look. "I just have them. I can't tell you what it's like." "You're not going to get mixed up, are you?" she asks. "I don't think so." "Well, if you want to hang out here tonight and talk—" "No," you say, and surprise yourself a little with the firmness of it. "I've got plans. Alexis has plans, I mean. In fact, I have to get going." You look around, and spot your— Wow. Yes. Your purse and phone. They're on Chelsea's desk. "Listen, I'll talk to you tomorrow," you tell Chelsea as you sweep them up. "After I've got settled in." "Are you sure, Will?" she asks. "Because you seem a little, um ... fragile." Next: "Heartstrains" |
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