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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Making the Most of Your Friends"  Hey, in ur last chapter u mention saratoga falls, Sean writes, u know thats real place lol. You're so excited that your hands are shaking. You throw your phone into the passenger seat, and race home. He took the bait, he took the bait, you mutter feverishly to yourself as you blast down the streets. I can't fucking believe it, he took the fucking bait! You punch the roof of your truck and Woot! aloud. In retrospect, it seems so unlikely that it seems a miracle that it came off. You actually wrote a story that Sean read and liked enough to direct message you about! And he liked it enough that when he saw his hometown mentioned, he actually reached out to reveal that about himself! You had been reconciled to failure, expecting the silence on Wednesday and Thursday and Friday lengthen and deepen into a void. And so this last-moment twist feels like a come-from-behind touchdown to win the game! (And your mind spins a little after you've voiced that metaphor to yourself. A football analogy? More of Sean must have soaked into you than you thought!) At home you milk the anticipation of replying to him—of getting him firmly on the hook—by delaying. You set the table for supper, and help clean up behind your mom as she fixes pork chops and mashed potatoes, and loiter helpfully until you're needed for more. But you can't help racing through the meal, and through clean-up, so that when you bound into your bedroom and lob yourself into your computer chair, you hit it so hard it slides sideways a foot and bangs into the wall. Sheepishly, you haul yourself back over to your keyboard, and with twitching fingers log into stories.net. There's an actual "review" of your story posted now, by a user named Ymmv, but you glance over it just long enough to get the gist. (Interesting mechanic, too much set up, some good passages, solid B.) You open up Sean's PM, flex your fingers, and— After all that anticipation, you'd think you'd take more than fifteen seconds to write a reply. But you know what you want to say, and if you fussed over it you might make it sound fake, so you just punch it out: lol yeah its about fifteen miles from where I live. How you know about it? After all that build-up, you are actually pretty numb when you hit "Send." But you almost instantly begin to feel sick with anticipation of a reply. What if now is the moment that Sean decides to ghost you? * * * * * To kill time (and keep busy) you drive back over to the old school, where you add the new mask to your spoils. After sealing it up, you study it ambivalently, trying to make out the ghost face whose form floats just under its surface. You feel oddly shy about testing it out, in case you messed it up. But finally, with a muttered "Fuck it," you lay yourself on the big conference table where you do your work, and lower it onto your face. You're woken by an uncomfortable squeezing sensation in your feet—a feeling like you've pushed them into a too-small pair of shoes—and sit up with a grimace. You stare down the length of your lanky frame at your feet. They do feel scrunched up inside your shoes, and with a grunt, you push them off—much better!—and take stock of the situation. Where are you and what are you doing here? Oh, right! You hop off the table, wobbling slightly after straightening up, and shuffle over to the big mirror that leans against a wall. By the light of your phone you examine the reflection it now holds. Huh. And that really is about all to be said about it. The basement is very dim—the sun has set—and the acrid light from your phone casts sinister shadows over your face. But even under the unflattering light, it doesn't seem bad; yet neither does it particularly handsome. But there is nothing of Caleb or Keith you can recognize in it—still less of yourself—and that's what counts. The most notable thing (you decide after glancing around the basement) is that you seem to be quite a bit taller. As Caleb and Keith are each about your height, that third person you caught in the theater must have been as tall as a light pole, if their three heights averaged out to this. There's no other reason to play around with the mask, though, so you hop back onto the table and take it off. Ten minutes later, you're home again. And there's no reply of Sean yet, but you wouldn't have expected one so soon. * * * * * But there is one the next morning, which you find as soon as you wake. In fact, by the time stamp, it appears that he sent it only two minutes ago! You excitedly mash your hands into the keyboard in your rush to reply, and have to force yourself to be calm. Wow I live in saratoga falls, Sean has written. Can I ask where u live lol? East of Saratoga Falls, you type. Outside Roryvale. Then you take a deep, gulping breath and add, Wanna meet and talk? I'm not busy this afternoon. A violent tremble runs through you as you hit "Send." For a minute or two you stand hunched over your keyboard, trying to still the quaking in your bones. Is this actually going to happen? you ask yourself. Am I actually going to do this? You withdraw from the computer with a hard swallow, and hustle into the bathroom, to distract yourself with getting ready for church. Naturally, you've got your phone with you, and naturally it's on, though you do have the presence of mind to turn the alerts off. Between early and final service, you duck into the bathroom to check it, and have to clutch the edge of the sink when you read Sean's reply: Sure u know sf? I don't know rorvyale. You chew on your lip, come to no decisions, meditate distractedly on the question all during the service, and while waiting to leave finally send a reply: Yeah I can drive into town meet at the crystal cave around 3? its across from college, next to big bookstore. "You're awfully quiet back there, Will," your mom observes on the drive back. "I am?" you reply, and lift your head from the headrest. You look around, and notice that you are slumping, limp and boneless, in your seat. "Guess I didn't get a lot of sleep last night," you reply. Out of the corner of your eye you notice Robert looking up from his phone to give you a sullen look. You just close your eyes, and smile in anticipation of what is to come. * * * * * You're a little late getting out to the coffee shop—it took you longer than you'd planned to make the change at the old school—and Sean's truck is already parked behind the building. Inside, a quick glance around is enough to discover Sean in the dining area, elbows on the table, as he studies the screen of his phone. You get the cheapest coffee you can—your financial reserves are almost depleted—and shuffle nonchalantly over to his table, doing your best to hide your nervous excitement. Oddly, you have no fear of being recognized, for you feel completely different in your disguise. Part of it, of course, is knowing that it's not your own face you will be showing Sean. You double- and triple- and quadruple-checked it in your rearview mirror on the way over and after you parked. The more you looked at it, the better you liked it, for there is something strangely anonymous about it. Regular features, but not real handsome, under a full but well-trimmed body of mousy brown hair. About the only notable thing is your new height—you must be close to six-three or so—and that also helps you feel like a "new man." Also, you are dressed extra sloppily, in thin jogging shorts, a rag of a t-shirt, and flip-flops: the only things in your wardrobe that seemed likely to fit your elongated frame. "Sean?" you ask after you are looming over him. He glances up with a keen but quizzical expression. A half-smile pops onto his face. "Aston Martin Seven-oh-Seven?" he asks with light irony. "Heh, yeah." You flop into the booth opposite him, and try folding your spidery arms and legs so they are more comfortable in the slightly too small space. "Cool to meet you." "You too," he says. An awkward pause envelops the table, and you realize you are studying each other closely. It surprises you a little to find yourself treating Sean, who you have been working beside for more than two weeks now, as though he's a stranger. But in a sense, that's just what he is to this new "you", and you struggle a little to reconcile the clean-cut, fresh-faced Sean Mitchell, with his round, smiling face, his relaxed gaze, and his confident, well-muscled frame, with the "SeanMtM" who posts stories online about twinks and nerds stealing the bodies of burly schoolmates, and making out with each other. Suddenly, for the first time, you find yourself wondering about him, and what makes him tick. Which is bizarre, because you have spent hours with a copy of his mind intertwined with your own. How have you not managed to figure him out? Who is this guy? Really? And presumably he is asking the same thing of you. For he puts his chin in his hand and smiles slyly at you as he asks, "Can I ask you a personal question?" "Uh, sure." You blink. "What's your real name?" You laugh in relief. "Will," you reply without thinking. "Will—" You catch yourself, horrified, before you can blurt out your real last name as well. Or maybe I should, you think with a beating heart. Now that the moment is at hand, you have a sudden urge to make a clean breast of the whole thing. For a moment, the universe seems to dangle by a thread. That's all for now. |
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