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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Cook's Tour of Party Hell"  Is there any point in returning to the party? Things just seem weird there, and it's full of people (like Steve Patterson) that you'd rather not deal with. So you call Caleb and ask him to come get you. "So what were you doing out here?" he asks when he picks you up twenty minutes later, at a spot two blocks from Maggie's house. You'd just told him you were stranded someplace and needed a ride back home. "Dude, you're skipping out?" he asks, incredulous, when you tell him you're leaving a party. So you tell him a little of what was going on back there, but it all sounds hazy as you try to put it into words. Even the last straw—the fight, and Patterson literally throwing you off the property—doesn't sound so bad when you describe it, and Caleb snorts over it. "Now I know why you never hit any parties," he says. "You can't handle them." "What parties do you hit, motherfucker?" you challenge. He makes a face. "I don't, 'cos I got about twenty different things I'd rather be doing at home on a Friday night, none of them involving a girl who could vomit on me or a football player who could—" "So what were you doing when I called?" "A project," he says, evasively. "Yeah, what kind?" "Just a project, you wouldn't be interested. Something extracurricular. You know, some of us really do want to get into a good college, and—" "Oh, bullshit. You were jerking off while watching porn." "Believe whatever you want, Prescott. Makes no motherfucking difference to me." "I mean, anytime I've wanted to do something with you on a weekend, you've been up for it. You and Tilley." "Well, sure. All work and no play. But you don't got any work to speak of, so—" "I got that job out at Salopek." "And thank you for reminding me that you stole it from me. Fucking wasted on you. But are you working there on weekends?" "I gotta go in tomorrow morning." He gives you a quick double-take, then says, "My point is, you just drift, man. And you're not even doing anything fun while you're drifting, like not even going to parties." You glare at him, but he takes no notice. When you're tired of being ignored, you ask, "So what's this project you're working on, that's so much more fascinating than—" "Just a project," he sighs. "Above your pay grade. Don't forget, I've seen your class schedule, and given what you're taking—" "I can't help out?" "I don't need you to. Besides," he adds, "I'm not ready to show it to anyone. And when I do, it'll probably be Carson and James I show it to." Then you all can go fuck yourselves with it, you mutter to yourself as you sink down in your seat. * * * * * You're expecting Sean to be in a mood on Saturday morning, when you see him at Salopek, but he's his usual, cheerfully serene self, until you ask him about that fight. "None of your business," he snaps. "That's between me and Bickelmeir." The moral, you take, is to leave well enough alone, so you decide not to text or call Stephanie either, to ask about her deal last night. But then, just before quitting time, you get a text from Barbara Powell—the girl last night who took Stephanie off your hands—asking if you're free to meet up for lunch someplace. The query fills you with trepidation, but you arrange to meet her at Panera. (And you have to cadge some money off your dad to do so. He looks vexed and distracted when you find him in his office, and for a moment it looks like he's going to say something to you. But his phone rings, and with a grimace he answers it while fishing his wallet out and pushing a couple of bills at you.) Barbara is looking very tan and healthy when you connect up with her at the restaurant at a little before one. The lunchtime crowd is still in force, and you have to spend a few awkward moments waiting to place your order, then finding a spot, before you're able to relax and start talking. At least it gives you time to surreptitiously drink her in. Barbara is a tall but well-proportioned girl with long, strong, smooth legs; a hefty bust; hips that look great in the tight, blue shorts she's wearing; and long, straight, dirty-blonde hair. She's no great beauty in the face, but there's nothing odd about her looks either; in fact, she probably looks better out of makeup (as she is now) than she would wearing any, for she has a healthy, outdoorsy, horse-riding-girl kind of appeal. After you're settled, she tries to catch up with you by reminding you of some of the classes you had together your sophomore and junior years, and gossiping about some of the people that were in those classes. She then asks about the classes you're taking now, and you ask about hers. They sound pretty standard—Statistics, Physics, a Spanish class—except for the Creative Writing class she's taking last period of the day. She gets a little embarrassed, too, when she speaks of it, and squeals that there's no way she's showing anyone any of the poetry she's written for it. But shortly after you've fetched your food, she settles in to the main topic. "So tell me," she asks while turning her salad over with her fork, to mix the dressing. "What's going on with you and Stephanie?" She looks up at you with a bright smile. You were expecting something like this, but you didn't expect her to be so blunt. "Uh, I dunno," you tell her. "I didn't think anything was." "That's not what it looked like last night." "I don't know what that was about. She was, uh, drinking, right?" "Yeah," says Barbara. "But she wasn't hanging on anyone else. A lot of people noticed that," she adds. "Haven't you been online?" You mutter something about not paying much attention to that stuff. "Well, it's going to be all over school on Monday," she says. "Well, don't you know what that was all about? You took her off me." "She just made me take her home, and she didn't want to talk about it. Though she has been talking about you." Your heart skips. "What's she been saying?" "Well, nothing huge. Just about how she's done a few things with you, done some studying with you. But Stephanie wouldn't say anything if—" Barbara looks puckish. You blush. "Well, that's all that I think is going on with us. Just schoolwork stuff. We got Astronomy together. And last night, she just wanted me to go off and find Phoebe." "What for?" "To tell her that she was looking for her. You heard her." Barbara gives you a hard stare before concluding, "Well, I was just wondering if there was something going on with you and her." "She's never paid any attention to me before," you reply. "Except to kick me out of her path when I got in her way." Barbara looks startled, then laughs. "Well, welcome to Planet Earth," she says. She then changes the subject to ask if you found Phoebe like you were supposed to. You lie (it would be embarrassing to give the story about your encounter with Patterson) and say that you didn't. And after that, you go back to talking about school. As you part, though, Barbara has one word of advice: "Don't call Stephanie or message her or anything," she says. "Don't post anything online. If she wants to talk to you about last night, she'll come talk to you." Great, you think. I can't wait. * * * * * It makes for a weekend fraught with anxiety and boredom as you wait to hear from Stephanie. But you never do, not until Monday afternoon, when you catch her eye on your way into Astronomy. You nod at her, and she nods at you, but a minute after you settle into your desk you get a text from her: hey u bn to x2z? No I hate that place nvr go, you reply. Which is true, and after what Barbara told you on Saturday, you even more purposefully stayed away. Ok, Stephanie replies. Can u forget abt fday nite? You toy with being cute, by telling her you don't know what she's talking about, but reply with, Already did. Cool thx owe u big will. But you can't leave well enough alone, and as class is breaking up you text her again (even though she's not twenty feet away). What u doing now? "Will!" she shouts a moment later, and jerks her head at you to follow her into the hallway. After you come to rest in a corner of the hallway, you notice, she keeps a good five feet of space between you as she talks. "I gotta go out to my pop's store," she says while looking everywhere except into your face, "so I can't hang out. But, um, you know that people are talking about us, right?" "I heard, but I don't know what they're saying. I try not to pay attention to shit sites like—" "Yeah, that's good. A good idea, I mean. Shit, I should get off them too. But you know there's, um, nothing between us. Right?" "Yeah, I know." It hurts like fuck to have to say that, but because it's humiliating and not because you want there to be something between you. "Cool," she says, and looks relieved. "So, I mean, I think you're a great friend and all, but, um, it just seems like a good idea not to, um, do anything that could just lead to more talk. Right?" "Right." "So, okay then. I'll, uh, see you around." She darts away without even giving you a last glance. And all during the time she was talking, she kept blinking and flinching and wincing. Next: "Aftershocks" |
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