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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Girls and Other Complicated Things"  "Oh my God," you murmur. "Are you serious?" Gordon shuts his eyes and punches the pillow he's hugging to his chest. "Gordon, you and Chelsea were— Why?" He doesn't answer, but snorts and blows like an animal. You are stiff with fright and anxiety, but you manage, with creaking joints to settle yourself into the chair at his desk. "I'm so sorry," you say. "Fuck!" Gordon gasps, and finally masters his emotions. "You know what she was like. You're—" The tendons in his neck pop out as his mouth spreads into a rictus. "You're like the only guy who probably does." You swallow. "I know she could really make you happy," you say. Then you try to give yourself a fatal stroke when you realize the implication of what you said. I only meant that a lot of times you were happy with her around! Not because she, uh— "Yeah, but she could piss me off," Gordon says. "You know that, too!" "Did she piss you off tonight? You sure you can't get back together with her?" "Oh, I could," he says. "I know I could! But—" He grimaces, fighting to hold back tears. "You remember how she changed? How she said she was going to be different, better? Well, it was a fucking lie. She's the same—!" His jaw and his mouth work, as though each is trying to say a different word. You pull the chair up a little closer to him. "You, uh, almost broke up with her before. And she changed." "She said she would, but she didn't." He turns his head, to look at you with a strange, bright light in his eyes. "And it was you," he says, "who got her to do that much." "Um—" "I'm not gonna believe her. She can't change. Even if she promises again—" "Did she do something?" you ask. "Say something?" He gives you that strange, piercing look again, then turns away. "Yeah, but I don't wanna talk about it. It was ... personal. You know," he says after a moment's struggle, "you're just about the only guy I can talk to about this with." "Anytime you need to talk," you promise him, "about anything—" "Yeah," he grunts. "I don't talk, though, is the problem." "It can help." "Yeah, but not right now." With a grunt, he sits up and plants his feet on the floor, but he rests his forearms on his knees. He sighs and rubs his face. "This is about all I can manage right now." "I'm sorry I couldn't help you." "No, you did. You did as good as you could. It's me." He claps you hard on the shoulder, and gives you a wan smile. "I needed to tell someone, and you're the only one I could tell who would understand. Because you know." You can sense he wants to wrap things up, so you get up to go. "Well," you repeat, "you can always talk to me." "Yeah, thanks," he mumbles, and you can tell he's embarrassed. On your way out the door, though, you ask one question: "If you broke up with Chelsea— I mean, you're going to tell Steve and Jason, right?" "Well, yeah," he says. "Everyone's gonna find out, eventually. But— Oh, fuck me. I know what they'll say. I needed to tell you first." His gaze goes distant and his expression starts to darken. It looks like he's about to have another emotional storm, but he's not going to want it in front of you, it looks like. So you give him a quick pat on the shoulder, and tell him that you'll look for him tomorrow, per your weekend plan. He gives you a crooked half-smile, and with a "Later" falls back upon the bed. You shut the door behind you. Caleb looks freaked when you tell him what it was about, and asks (only half-joking) if he can spend the night at your place. You tell him not to be a baby, that Gordon will be alright but that he needs to be there and be nice to him. Caleb makes a face, but lets you go home. You don't hear from either of them for the rest of the night. * * * * * The next morning, after a good breakfast, you and your dad drive in to Salopek, for you've got work and he's got some office stuff to polish off. The morning is spent with Sean Mitchell on a variety of physical jobs, the biggest of which involves repairing and replacing the window that was busted out of that storage unit. You don't ask him about Cameron Huber or the football squad, both because you still can't find a "hook" for the query, and because you figure Gordon's now got something a lot more important to worry himself about. Speaking of which, you make a quick call to Caleb at around ten o'clock, while you're taking a piss-break, to ask him how Gordon's doing. "I don't know," he tells you. "I haven't seen him today. He's usually up earlier than me, to go running, and I guess he went in to work after that." "I thought he was going to send that golem thingie in, and we were going to work on the next spell this afternoon." "I dunno." Caleb ponders. "I just got up a few minutes ago, man. I guess I should go out to the school and see if that thing is still in the basement." He texts you about thirty minutes later: Thing still there gordon must gone to work. You check in with him again when you're home, after lunch, but he still has no updates. He suggests getting together to look at the book, but you demur, saying you want Gordon there too. Then you argue about which of you should text Gordon to check in with him, or if you should check in with him at all. You're still wrangling with that when (thank God!) Gordon himself lands in your chat, to tell you that he's going to spend the evening and night with Steve and that he'll see you Sunday night after work. Which leaves your Saturday night free to spend with Cassie, but you tell her you're stiff and achy from work and just want to chill at home. You also tell her you'll look her up on Sunday afternoon. But the next day, when you turn your phone back on after church, you find a terrifying text waiting for you. * * * * * The side door to the school gym is locked, so when you arrive you have to text. A minute later, the door opens, and Steve Patterson lets you in. Patterson is a rangy six-and-a-half-plus feet tall with a strong build, but he has nothing of the ox-like bulk of his friend Gordon. His hair is a light brown and he has strong, regular features. But his eyes are a cold, gray color, and when he looks at you it's like he's searing your very soul with freezer-burn. "So," you stammer as you follow him across the gym floor, which, with the lights off, is dusky even with the afternoon sunshine filtering in through the windows set high under the ceiling. "You said we had to talk." "Yeah. Oh, before I forget." He dips his hand into the deep pocket of the long athletic shorts he's wearing, and pulls out something that he tosses to you. It's a small keyring with two keys on it. "That's for the side door and the loft, so I don't have to let you in next time. Gordon wants you to have them." You stop short, then hurry to catch up when Patterson casts a cold glance back at you. Almost you ask him Why? but think better of it in time. He leads you up a staircase to the mezzanine that separates the two basketball courts, where the gym's weight-lifting equipment is. "Gordon wanted me to show you this stuff, too," he says. "He said Lynch was supposed to show you on Monday during your break, but I said I'd do it. Sit there." He points. There follows a twenty- or thirty-minute introduction to each of the machines and to the free weights. He shows you how to change the weights for each machine, describes which muscle groups they work on, gives a short talk about reps and sets, and also tells you about the importance of dividing up exercises amongst various days. "Gordon and Jason overdo it," he tells you. "They're gonna hurt themselves." As you move from station to station he also invites you to try each one, to get a feel for it. At first he offers some pointers on form, but eventually he gives up on that. "First time you want to do a workout," he tells you, "set it up with me. Or Gordon or Jason. We'll walk you through it, how to do each one." His tone all through is very cool and neutral—polite, with only a trace of impatience. But he doesn't really talk to you until the end, when you're sitting on a bench press and he's leaning against the railing that runs around the mezzanine. "Gordon's taken a real shine to you," he says. "I guess." His lip curls. "You guess," he snorts. "Any idea why?" You hesitate. Obviously you can't tell the truth. "I'm friends with the guy he moved in with," you say. "Johansson?" "Yeah. And ... Last week I, uh, got into a thing with David Kirkham." "Yeah, I heard about that. But lots of people get into a ... 'thing' ... with that cocksucker, and they don't walk away with a key to the loft." His expression is clear but glacial. "I guess we hit it off while talking over at Caleb's." "Huh." Patterson holds your eye for a very long time. Your own eyes are soon watering. "Okay," he says, "I'm going to tell you something you need to know, only because it's the fair thing to do." He leans forward, and he voice drops about twenty degrees in temperature. "None of Gordon's friends like each other. None of 'em, and never have. It's like he goes out of his way to pick up people who can't stand each other. You're in for a hard ride." A gleam of cold hatred comes into his eye. "And that's a promise from me to you." Next: "The Continuing Misadventures" |
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