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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Games That Some Girls Play"  So now you're apparently a guy who goes out to parties. Even better, you get invited to them by popular people like Sean Mitchell and Stephanie Wyatt. Who am I, and what have I done with the real Will Prescott? you wryly ask yourself, but instead of a laugh the question gives you a shiver. It wasn't all that long ago you were working with stuff that seemed like real magic, and used it to make a mask that could apparently let someone disguise himself as you. And it, along with the book and stuff that made it, vanished from your room. Remembrance of that leaves you uneasy. At least you haven't heard of any weird-ass doppelgangers of yourself showing up. Unless you yourself—a guy uncharacteristically getting invited to parties—is the real fake. * * * * * You talk to Sean at work about the party, and he says he's going too, so you arrange for him to swing by after supper on Friday to pick you up. He's in a cheerful mood when he shows up. Of course, he's always cheerful, but now it's like he's got a scent in his nose, and he excitedly tells you he's picking up a bunch of other guys too. "This is gonna be one bitchin' good time!" he promises you. He wasn't exaggerating when he said "bunch": it's like practically the entire wrestling team he picks up, one at a time. Soon you are squeezed in between Sean and Devin Haney, with another guy on the other side of Haney, while another half-dozen guys hunker in the back of the truck, hooting and yelling as Sean races along. They come spilling off even before Sean has brought the truck to a stop at Maggie's, and Sean is still shutting off the engine when Laurent Delacroix throws himself across the hood, makes some kind of twisted hand gesture as he roars at him through the windshield. Sean and the others jump out to follow; you follow more slowly. Too late, you realize as you look at all the cars parked on the streets and give ear to the music pouring out of the house, it's likely to be two or three or even four o'clock in the morning before you can get back home. The music is much louder inside, though it's not on blast, and the rooms feel dark and thick with sweat and body heat off the heaving mass of teenage bodies. Lots of letterman jackets, you note with mounting dismay, and when Steve Patterson, one of the biggest and nastiest assholes on the basketball team, looms suddenly before you, you fall back against the wall with a wince. But it's not all jocks. Some of the people, once your eyes get used to the dim light, look like you: guys slim of build with droopy shirts and sloppy pants, slurping from plastic cups while chatting up girls in tight halter tops and short skirts. In fact, some of them you even know! "Hey, Will!" It's Christian Knouse calling from a corner of the living room. Christian is a small, skinny guy with a fox-like face behind his glasses, and downy blonde hair; his billowing sweater is about ten sizes too large for him, and a stiff breeze could probably carry him of like a dandelion seed. Mostly you know Christian from running into him at the annex to the comic book shop, where he likes to play D&D with a couple of other geeky friends. One of those friends, Darrell Parsons, is with him; between them is a tiny girl with long, dark hair wedged under a tight ski cap, and black, horn-rimmed glasses. You slide over to say hello. "Hey man, what are you doing here?" Christian demands from under a sharply arched eyebrow. "You're not cool enough for this party." "I came with Sean Mitchell. What are you doing here?" "Role-playing, as someone who belongs." He looks past you. "There's sodas and wine coolers and shit in the kitchen." "So you're just crashing this thing? How'd you hear about it?" "Emily got us in." He indicates the girl, who is giving you a bright, steady look. "Hey, I'm Will," you introduce yourself. "Will, or willing?" she asks with a bright, hungry smile. "What?" "Ignore her," Christian says. "She's role-playing too, as a flirt. Wench," he mutters when she punches him in the shoulder. "You hang out with these guys?" you ask the girl. "Sometimes, but come on." She grasps you by the elbow and pulls you away. "I wanna mingle, but they're too chicken-shit." "I'm strategizing!" Christian protests, but remains in the corner as you stumble off with the girl. "He'll be back, man," you hear him mutter at Darrell. Emily pulls you into the kitchen, where the counters are stacked deep with plastic cups and bottles of soda, juices, punches, and other drinks. She pours you something, then drags you into the next room, where a big dining table is spread with chips, dips, cookies, and other snacks. She pushes past Kendra Saunders, one of the snooty cheerleaders, to get at the table. "Whaddayu want?" she asks as she picks up a plate. "I can get my own." You glance back at Kendra, who has spared you and Emily a disdainful glance before returning to her cell phone. "We're sharing a plate," she says as she starts piling stuff onto it. "If there's something you specially want, speak now or forever hold your peace." So you start grabbing items of your own. "So who do you know who's here?" Emily asks. "I dunno, I just got here. I came with Sean Mitchell and—" "Who's he?" "He's a football player or something. Oh, have you seen Stephanie Wyatt around?" Emily gasps. "Oh wow, lookit'chu, hanging out with real people! I was gonna take you out on the deck, but it sounds like you need to be taking me around! I don't ever get to talk to anyone like those guys." She peers around you. "Hey Kendra!" Kendra shoots her the briefest look of distaste before turning her back on you. You're going to protest that you don't really "hang out" with any of those people, but then figure, What the hell. So you take the lead out of the dining room and back into another living room, where you thought you saw some of the guys who rode out with you and Mitchell. It's Devin Haney you spot, standing with a bunch of guys built like a cross between a Brahmin bull and one of the monoliths at Stonehenge: great slabs of meat with bulging biceps and faces so hard and chiseled you could bounce pennies off their cheekbones. Most of them have lank girls with seaweed-like hair hanging off their shoulders, looking up dreamily into their faces while their guys laugh and chortle deeply at each other. You've just caught Devin's eye and are about to ask if he's seen Sean, when Emily barges past to plant herself in front of Erik Carstairs. It's like watching a squirrel go face to face and toe to toe with a German Shepherd. "Hey," she barks up at him, tilting her head back so she can stare him in the chin. He does a double-take, and frowns vaguely down at her. "I was at the Warehouse last weekend when I saw you and those other guys take that asshole down!" Carstairs's eyes dart, then he smirks. "Which asshole?" "That Eastman guy without the shirt. It was four of you took him down, hustled him out." "Yeah, what about it?" The others have fallen silent to watch and listen. "Why'd you need four guys to do it? I seen you on the field, man, and that guy was a twink, you could'a done it single-handed. Why'd you need the others helping?" Smiles and guffaws ripple around the crowd. Carstairs gets a pinched look. "Yeah, I could'a taken him, no problem," he says. "But, you know you don't want anyone getting hurt. So you wanna take 'em down hard and fast. That's what the extra—" "You like taking things hard? And fast?" His brow furrows. "Uh—" She goes up on tiptoes. "If I made trouble, would you promise to go down hard on me? Just don't do it fast." A frozen silence falls over the group. The guys all grin at each other, except for Erik, who looks petrified. Then he hands his paper plate to one of the other guys and, still grasping his drink in the other, bends to grab Emily under the butt with one arm, lifting her and throwing her head-first over his shoulder. "I got someone I want you to meet," he shouts over the sudden roar of laughter that engulfs the group. "Holy shee-ut!" someone chortles as Erik lumbers away with Emily, and punches you in the arm. You turn and flinch: it's Roy Nelson, who used to take malicious delight in shoving you around when you were a freshman and sophomore. "Who was that girl?" he asks you from behind a wide grin. "Emily? I dunno, I just met her." "Fuck!" Roy's eyes shine as he turns to look past you. You turn to watch too, as erik strides off, plowing through the crowds. Roy is still watching when you turn back around. Then, before you can react further, Roy's glance falls upon you. A faint light of puzzlement shines there as he regards you. Then it clears up, and his smile sharpens slightly. Shit, you think as your sphincter loosens. The fucker's recognized me! Next: "A Cook's Tour of Party Hell" |
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