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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Forage and Storage"  The sound of feet shuffling nearby sends your heart down into your stomach. You raise your head. You can't help flinching when you see him, swaying on his feet, behind a row of sofas. That guy who met you out here. Will Prescott. His face is a sickly white, and his jaw hangs open, and his eyes twist up into a terrified squint. His muscle shirt drapes over him like a shroud. But then, you're pretty sure you're as pale as he is, and you feel your own face twisting into a petrified flinch. How fucked up is this? you think. Because I'm here ... and I'm over there, too! * * * * * For what seems the longest time neither of you move. You desperately want to look away, but you can't tear your eyes from his, and his eyes remain locked on your as well. Finally, he breaks away. "Dude," he croaks. And just like that, it's as though as spell has been broken. "Okay," you sigh as you rise. Your knees creak. "You have any idea what's going on?" His eyes roll, and he flinches. "No," he says. "Where's Leah?" "Leah?" Then you remember. "Right!" You look around, then hurry to the storeroom door to look out. You see no one, and when you look back inside the storeroom, it appears to be empty of anyone but you and ... him. You make a quick search of the place anyway, tugging your cargo shorts as you do, for they bind you about the hips uncomfortably. The other guy helps with a desultory search of his own. You note that he has to clutch his shorts to keep them from drooping off him. "Okay, first things first," you say after finishing a round of the storeroom. "What's your name?" He jerks a little in surprise, and a look of loathing passes over his face. "Chris," he says, his lips twisting around the name. "Chris Love." You nod. "Yeah. And me, my name is—" You hesitate. There are two names you could claim, and both of them feel intuitive. But only one of them, you feel in your bones, is the correct one. "Will Prescott." You look down at yourself. You are in your own clothes—burgundy t-shirt, cargo shorts, ankle socks and sneakers. These feel tight, and you squirm in them. You touch your head, feeling for the shapeless white ball cap you usually sport, but it's gone. You glance around, and spot it on the floor next to the sofa where you woke up. Your eye catches the cluster of full-length mirrors collected in the corner, and with a flick of your hand you gesture the other guy to join you at them. He edges in, flinches, and you have to grab and pull him off reluctant feet so you can look at each other—and yourselves—in a large mirror. You've got two reflections. The one that goes with your real name is tall and skinny, and his muscle shirt looks more like a poncho. He is wearing flip flops. His grin is a sickly rictus, and his eyes are filled with horror and fascination both. The reflection that mirrors your own small, spasmodic movements is a shade shorter and more filled out with muscles. His face is also pale, but his skin is a golden tan. He's got strong calves, and strong forearms. His hair is blonde and very fine. His name—it's not yours—is Christopher William Love. * * * * * It's hard to talk, because it's hard to know what to say. How do you ask him what happened when he is clearly as bewildered as you? "Look," you finally say, "what we gotta do is find Leah. She was here when ... Well, she was here. If she knows what's going on, she can tell us." The other guy has gotten very quiet since looking in the mirror, but he nods. Separately, you return to where you woke up to retrieve your phones. You're scrolling through your contact list, looking for her number, when the other guy calls out, "What do we tell Elle and Laura when they get here?" "What?" In the moment of the crisis, you had totally forgotten about them. "Oh, we—" You stop when you see the same question on his face: Where are they? Shouldn't they be here by now? For that matter, where is Jack? You hurry again to the door to look out. The field of grass that separates the annex from the parking lot is empty. You look at the clock on your phone. It's after five, plenty of time for them all to have shown up. Well, you'll worry about it when and if they do show up. You scroll down to Leah's number, punch it, and put your phone to your ear. "Yeah, hey," she says when she picks up. "Hey Leah, this is"—you hesitate for a millisecond—"Chris. Where are you?" There's a long pause. Then she says, "This isn't your phone!" "Huh? No, it's— Look, where are you?" "Chris who?" Through a clenched jaw, you reply, "Chris Love." "Oh!" she gasps. "Hey! What's up?" "Where are you?" You pinch the bridge of your nose. "I'm at Brianna's, but I'm getting ready to—" "Well, can you come out and meet us?" "I gotta get home," she says doubtfully. "But where are you?" Where are we? you echo, incredulous. You glance at the other guy, who is watching you closely. "We're up at Eastman still. At the drama department storeroom." "Well, it's kinda out of my way. What are you doing up there?" You seem to be losing all the feeling in your hands. "We're still up here," you reply. "From when we met?" You put a little steel in your voice. "Why'd you ditch us?" "Ditch you?" she asks. "Yeah, we were all up here, you and me and ... Will Prescott. And then you ditched us. Why?" There's another of those long pauses. "I dunno what you're talking about, Chris. I been hanging out here with Brianna and Susie since school got out." * * * * * It's a tedious and aggravating conversation that follows, on both sides. Leah soon gets angry when you keep insisting that she met you and Will up at Eastman, and you just as quickly lose your patience with her. You ask her to put Brianna on, and you are further bothered and bewildered when Brianna also insists that Leah has been with her all afternoon. You finally end the conversation by snapping Leah's head off, though telling her you'll talk to her later. The other guy, meanwhile, has been having just as thin a time of it. He calls both Laura and Elle to ask if they're coming up to the storeroom, and both of them ask why they would want to do that: there are no plans, they say, to meet anyone up there. After that, you tell him to call Jack, to ask if he's still coming out. Jack, too, denies having DMed anyone about meeting at Eastman. That sparks a thought, and with a feeling of dread you check your x2z DMs, and you also check those on the other guy's phone. A cold, sickly anger swells in your gut as you recognize the latter as the same fake accounts that fooled you earlier; and although the DM you got from Jack uses his x2z handle, the account name is different. "The fuck is going on?" the other guy asks. He seems to have recovered his balance enough that he's starting to get angry. "Don't you know?" you snap at him. "We're being catfished. Or something." It's right about then that someone shouts "Hey!", and a groundskeeper appears in the doorway. "You guys gotta get going," he says. You glance at "Will" and answer, "Yeah, we're about done, can you give us five minutes?" "Five minutes," he replies with a dark, warning glance of his own. You sigh and summon the other guy over. He nods glumly when you tell him there's no point in putting it off any longer. You're going to have to switch clothes. * * * * * There's no denying that you feel better, and in some sense "more like yourself," after you've switched into baggy jogging shorts and muscle shirt and flip-flops, and have tied your hair down under a pink-and-lavender silk bandana. The other guy also looks more natural. It also feels more natural to call him "Will Prescott." "Listen," he says as you walk out together, with a couple of feet of empty air between you. "I don't wanna go anywhere there's people. I can't go back to my place, and I don't want to—" He swallows. "Go to yours." "Yeah, I know. But you might have to. Right?" He tenses. "But until we don't got a choice," you continue, "until we get this straightened out, talk to Leah, whatever— Well, let's hang out someplace and figure something out." You can tell that doesn't please him any more than it pleases you. "Someplace no one will find us, come looking for us." In a flash, you know exactly the place, and tell him. He nearly jumps out of his skin, and fear shows on his face. "Yeah, I know," you tell him. "Sorry." "How do you know about—?" he asks in a voice thick with horror. "I just do," you reply. "I guess because—" You point to your face. "What do you mean?" he demands. His expression is hard. "Well, I just do. Don't you know, um—?" You point to his face. "Know what?" His eyes glitter with anger. "Shit about you?" "Don't you?" "I don't even remember your name!" he shouts. "And that's even after you told me!" Next: "Where No Body Knows Your Name" |
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