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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Afternoon at the Improv"  "I"ll do it," you mutter under your breath as you put the cell phone back. "Like I said, it makes more sense." Sydney doesn't reply, but kneels over Ms. Johns to remove her bra and panties while you unbutton and take off your shirt. After you've got the last of your things off, Sydney locks the office door, and for a moment you silently look at each other. Then with a jerk of the shoulders you lie down on the floor. Before you can reach for your face, Sydney squats beside you and clutches your brow with one hand. "I'll take care of everything, Will," she says. "We have to hurry." You swallow and close your eyes. Sydney's grip tightens and pulls. It's like the front of your face is being wrenched off with a crowbar. * * * * * Waking is like swimming up to the surface of a deep pool of thick syrup: you feel yourself fighting to wake even before you are half conscious of yourself again. It's with a gasp of relief that you break the surface and feel yourself alive again, but you are stiff and cold all over, and want nothing more than to curl up and plunge back into sleep again. But something tells you to keep moving. Stiffly you lever yourself upright onto an elbow. A shudder ripples through you. You feel sick and exhausted, and your breath comes in gasps. You rub your face with one hand, and push the hair away from it. Hair. You freeze. I'm wearing Ms. Johns's mask. This time comes a shudder deeper and more nauseating than before. You reach down gingerly, and clasp a large, firm, and well-shaped boob. Something unlocks inside your head, and your mind is flooded with the sensation of another personality. Like a deep-welling tide it rises up and drowns all sense of self, leaving you lost and reeling. Everything goes dark as you fight to grasp anything that seems familiar—your parents, your house, your school, your friends, your neighborhood—but nothing remains firm, every thought melts into another and evaporates, leaving you alone with nothing but the thought I am but nothing to follow it. Then, like a picture coming into focus, everything returns and becomes solid again. The sense of sickness vanishes, replaced with one of hunger. Calmly, you open your eyes, and glance around the extremely familiar office. You know who you are again. You know who both of you are. You push yourself to your feet and, with boobs still jiggling out in the open, walk around the desk and yank open a drawer. You take out and rip open one of the granola bars in there, and hungrily tear a bite from it. Fuck the diet. You've been starving since the start of last period. * * * * * Becky Oliver—check that, Sydney McGlynn—must have gone off to do something or other, for you have the office to yourself. You don't hurry as you dress, but you don't waste time either as with a business-like sense of purpose you pull on panties and wrap the bra around yourself. But though it all feels so familiar, you also take a prickly-skinned pleasure in feeling and enjoying it for the first time. Take your boobs. They are big enough, and hefty and firm. You don't gloat as you clasp and tuck them into the cups of the bra, but your fingertips do linger on them, and you get a tingle as the tips harden. You have wide hips now, and a little bit of a back shelf, but that just gives the jeans something to rub at and grip as you pull the blue jeans on. Your long, thick hair falls over and covers your face as you pull the t-shirt on, and you spend more than a few unnecessary moments pushing and folding it back over your ears and the top of your head. You spend a moment or two perched atop the desk after you have the sandals on, clasping an arm around one upraised knee. And then, once you're dressed and have shaken things down comfortably, you feel a warm sense of belonging envelop you. My name is Gianna Johns, you tell yourself with a faint smile, and I'm the junior drama instructor at Rocky Beach High School. You open the door and put your head into the hallway. Becky Oliver, who is leaning against the wall opposite, looks up sharply from her phone. "There you are," you say to her. "Come in." You withdraw to the other side of your desk as she follows. "That was quick," Becky says as the two of you gaze at each other. "What was?" "Getting—" She waves her hand in front of her face. "I didn't waste time." You draw and expel a sharp breath. "So where's your dad?" "Paul?" You give her a look. "I sent him back to the car. I figured you and I could— That we didn't need—" "Okay. So, do you want to sit down?" you add as you take a seat yourself. "And close the door?" Becky complies. There's a look of trepidation on her face. "So," you say. "Here I am and here we are. I assume you want to move out from under Becky's mask." The girl nods. "So do you want another student, in the acting class, or maybe you—?" There's a knock at the door. "Come in," you call, and a burly man with a close-trimmed beard opens the door and puts his head in. You tense all over as you greet him. "Hey Tyler. I'm with a—" "Have you called Malcolm at USC yet?" he demands. "It's on my to-do list." "Because they're going to be making decisions early, and Andre—" "I said it's on my list, Tyler. I'll do it first thing after I'm done with Becky here. Have you met Becky yet? She's new." You smile at the girl, who twists around to smile uncertainly at the department him. But he only gives her a quick, tight smile and nod before turning back to you. "Come see me after you've got done talking to Malcolm," he says. "Because I've promised Andre—" "The sooner I'm done with Becky, the sooner I can talk to Malcolm." He takes the hint, but it's with a sour look that he withdraws, closing the door behind him. "That's Mr.—" Becky says uncertainly. "Tyler Hardin. Professor Tyler Hardin," you add, "and don't let him catch you calling him 'Mister.'" "He's the head of the department, right?" "Yes." "Uh huh." Becky hesitates, and searches your face. "Will?" "Yeah?" She lets out her breath. "Just checking. You're ... You're being really good at being her!" You feel yourself plump at the compliment. "Why, thank you, Becky. I'd love to hear you say that in front of Tyler, but that wouldn't be a good idea, would it? Oh, by the way, thank you for bringing your dad around," you can't help adding with a smirk. "He left me a changed woman." * * * * * But Sydney doesn't seem to appreciate the joke, and she is squirmy and uncomfortable all during the short interview that follows. She ends it early by gathering up her things and muttering that maybe she'll talk to you tomorrow. Even when you press her on talking about the next step in the plan, she only mutters, "Tomorrow, Will," and practically runs from the room. Well, you think to yourself. After that, with nothing else to do, you reluctantly buckle down to take care of some business that Gianna has been putting off. You start by calling Malcolm White, of the USC film school, to put in a plug for Andre Salazar, a Rocky Beach senior who will be applying to the college next year. You make similar calls to UCLA and to a small theater company in Long Beach on behalf of other students. It's all very hard and ugly. Networking and wire-pulling is not something that Gianna Johns enjoys, even on behalf of students she likes (and Andre Salazar was one of her least favorite students, though he's a darling of Tyler's); and though you feel instantly comfortable in her persona, you are also still very conscious that this is a new impersonation, and you feel a real difference between this new "skin" and the old one that you grew used to while being Paul. Paul. Your thoughts turn to him after you are done with your calls, and after you have seen Tyler Hardin off again. Gianna did not know Paul Griffin and did not recognize either him or his name, but she did get a small thrill when he came in, for he is darkly handsome in a way that she likes. Sydney's suggestion comes back to you now: If you're so worried about finding a place to live, how about you move in with Ms. Johns after we've added her to the Brotherhood? It would be out of character for Gianna Johns to let a new boyfriend move in with her so soon after meeting him; and besides, you are not exactly enamored with the idea of "dating," let alone "living with" one of your own robots. But Sydney does have a point, and it would be a very convenient way of keeping close to him and Becky after Sydney has moved under a different mask. And yet ... You take out your cell phone and look at the missed call from Michael Riordan. He's the manager at the gym where Gianna works out, and this is probably him calling to ask her out on a second date. Gianna is thirty-four years old, and is beginning to feel a little desperate for someone to settle down with. Not that it's really necessary for your impersonation that you keep her on the market. (And inside of two weeks, probably, you will be inside yet another mask.) But it might be safest to keep Gianna Johns on the same course as before. Well, you sigh as the clock sweeps toward five, and you start closing up shop. I don't have to decide all this now. Though maybe it would be a good idea to talk about it all with Sydney tonight instead of waiting until tomorrow. Next: "The Life of Gianna Johns" |
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