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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Who Goes There?"  "I don't think he'd do that." You're very cautious in saying it, though. "At least, I think he would have done it already if he wanted to do something like that." "So why's he hanging out with us?" Caleb asks, and his face shows skepticism. "Don't tell me he likes us better than his goon squad." That's even harder to figure out, and you've tried. When you don't answer, Caleb nudges you with his foot. "Come on, big guy. You were bragging earlier how you could do him perfectly." You flush. "It's a little harder than that. I got his instincts. You ask me to give his fucking opinion, though, and that's harder. It's like I don't know what's my opinion and what's his." Caleb snorts. "In other words, you're talking out of your ass when you say he wouldn't grab the book and take it off to his friends." "Well, it's not a sure thing that he would. That's why we should try to keep things the way they are, don't give him a reason to. Anyway, there's one thing I've noticed," you add as you stand up again, towering over Caleb. "He doesn't treat us any worse than he treats Patterson and Lynch. It's just that they can take it and throw it back at him." Caleb snorts again. "Then you should be the one in charge of keeping him happy. You sound like you're gay for him." You're resting on your own foot, so to speak, but your inner Gordon pushes you off balance at Caleb's gibe. You clutch him by the throat and force him backwards, feet scrabbling on the concrete floor, to the wall. "Keep making those cracks, Johansson, and I'll pop your head off." His feet kick and his voice is a croak. "Yeah, you're a big man." You drop him. "Have a little fucking sympathy, alright? And if you can't keep from pissing off Gordon, at least have the brains not to piss off me." * * * * * That's basically the end of your conference, and since you're now tired of Caleb's company it leaves you with nothing to do. So you drive up to the school again, let yourself into the gym, and work out in a desultory way on the weight deck for awhile. After that, you get the basketball back out and do some solo drills. You're pleased to find that yesterday was not a fluke: your moves are fluid, graceful, and feel entirely natural, and your reflexes seem familiar. You look around the gym and picture tomorrow morning's practice session. It leaves you with a darkened brow. Gordon is the captain of the squad, and Patterson is his right-hand man, and together they run the team with tyrannical zeal. You will yell and scream and bully and threaten the guys into performing, and you will humiliate them if they don't. They're a good bunch, with some exceptions, but they need drilling and polishing until they achieve the machine-like perfection you want from them. Then as a body you and they will trample every other team on your way to the state finals. You're still relaxing with drills -- sprinting up and down the court while pounding the ball -- when the door opens and Patterson comes in. You wheel and hurl the ball at his face. He must have been blinded by the change from daylight to interior light, for he is slow to react, and instead of catching it, he bats it away hard into the bleachers, where it bangs out echo on echo in the gym. "Fuck you!" he yells. "Yeah? What happened to Kendra? You weren't here when I came in this morning to run." "She wouldn't stay for the whole night," he grumbles. "You mean you let her tell you 'no'?" He gives you a sour look. "Do you let Chelsea tell you 'no'?" "Kendra's not your girlfriend, you pussy. Get the ball, then go change. Beat me by five, or I'll pack you down to the girls' squad and you can let Almida pussy-whip you too." He cusses hard, and hurls the ball at your head after he's got it, but you catch it with a grin. Things must not have gone well for your best friend last night. It's no surprise, really. Kendra Saunders is one of Chelsea's crew -- a cheerleader who clings to the squad captain's skirt and does whatever she is told, and one of the things she is told to do is to pleasure Patterson when Chelsea thinks there is a reason to get on his good side. So it was last night: She wanted to get Patterson to put in a word on her behalf when she feared Gordon was going to break up with her, so she sent Kendra to do some sexual lobbying. You doubt it would have worked: Chelsea and Steve loathe each other, and Patterson has for a long time been quietly urging Gordon to break up with her. But at least he got laid, though not as well laid as he hoped, it sounds like. He comes out a few minutes later in clothes like yours: athletic shorts and an over-large sleeveless tee -- and the two of you settle into a vicious game of one-on-one. There are no such things as fouls when Gordon and Steve play, and each of you winds up bouncing his ass on the court more than once. It's so intense, in fact, that there's no trash talk, just murderous stares as you try to out-alpha and dominate each other. But point by point you claw ahead of him, for though he's taller than you, you have weight and a deadly accuracy on your side. Finally, after an exhausting duel you hit the ten point advantage that traditionally marks the end of these bouts, and Patterson relents with a snarl. "You're losing it," he says as he pants with his hands on his knees. "You used to win faster than that." "You saying you're not improving? 'Cos I thought it was from me working you hard at practice." He shows a smile -- a cold and mirthless thing -- but the on-court rivalry is a thing that begins and ends only on the court. "If I'm that good, get me a beer." "You're not that good, but I'll get you one anyway. Come on." You lead him up the stairs to the loft, and he flops onto the mat while you bend next to the refrigerator. You pull out four cans, not two, and set them between you and him as you flop onto the mat alongside him. You are hot and stinky and sweaty, but you'll cool off this way instead of with a shower. You and Steve crack open the cans, wordlessly toast each other, and chug the first beers down thirstily before opening up the second cans to nurse. "So what the fuck is your problem with Kendra?" you ask. "She bend your cock the wrong way?" "She only gives blow jobs," Patterson says glumly. "Aww." "And only one last night." He falls back with his arm behind his head. "She didn't even take her clothes off, didn't give me a chance to fondle her." "If I didn't know better, I'd say she doesn't like you." He turns chilly gray eyes on you. "So you managed to nail your girlfriend," he says. "After a drought of how many weeks? And that gives you the nerve to talk about -- " "Kendra doesn't like you. You know that." He shrugs. "She doesn't have to. She just has to wet my cock." "Why don't you get a girlfriend, see what the rest of us poor assholes have to put up with." "Why don't you break up with the cunt, grab the kind of pussy I get to play with?" You lean against the pillar, marveling that you're having this kind of conversation with this alpha jock. "'Cos I just want the pussy, not the drama that goes with scoring." "Jesus! Hello!" He pounds you in the side of the leg. "You're getting none of the one and all of the other now! Besides, you can get the pussy without the drama if you're on the market. You've gotten it before." You shift uncomfortably, for Patterson's alluding to the times Gordon has been unfaithful to Chelsea. "Well, I can't do that now. I've told her we're staying together, and she's promised to change." "Shit. And you believe her?" "No." "So why keep your promise when she's obviously not going to keep hers?" "Because I figure I can get at least two or three more freebies off her until she stops being scared we're gonna bust up. And then the next time she fucks me around with that attitude of hers, I'll -- " "No you won't. You chickenshit. You fuckwit. Christ, Gordon, she plays you like a goddamn fiddle." "Well, maybe this last time I learned how to play her." You tip back some beer. "No you didn't. No guy ever got the better of the girl, not after he started going steady with her. Which is a shitbrained thing to do, so it's no wonder a cunt can make rings around a guy dumb enough to settle. And Chelsea's scary good at it, even for a dumb bint. You didn't get the better of her this time. You almost did, but -- " He snorts again. "You called her yet today?" Shit. That's right, Gordon calls Chelsea regularly to tell her how much he loves her and misses her. You're interrupted by a knock at the door, and Lynch comes in. "Hey, sorry I'm late -- " "I'm not," mutters Patterson. " -- but I brought us -- " He ducks back around the corner, and with a grin brings back out a boxed pizza. "Nice!" you exclaim. "Hey, that reminds me, I need sixty bucks from you." Lynch's face falls. "How come?" "My business, not yours. Pay you back sometime." He grumbles, but sets the pizza down and pulls three twenties from his wallet. You tuck them into your sock. You catch Patterson's expression as you do so, and you can tell he's still thinking about his question: Have you called Chelsea yet today? Next: "Defending the Life You've Made" |
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