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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Where No Body Knows Your Name"  You text him your locker combo, then arrange to meet him outside the cafeteria. * * * * * He's dressed like you dressed yesterday, in cargo shorts and an electric blue t-shirt. You ask him how he did last night. "Okay I guess," he says. His eyes dart about the hallway, which is almost empty at this early hour. (The doors were unlocked only about fifteen minutes ago.) "I told your folks I had a bunch of homework to do, then went and hid in your room and went to bed early. Got up early, too. You don't go jogging or anything in the mornings, do you?" You tell him you don't. "I might start," he says, "if we don't get this fixed. Something to get me out of the house early. What about you?" "Same. Did homework, then went to bed. Your brother came in late and woke me up—" "Shit, I forgot to tell you about him." "It's okay. You remember everything else I told you?" He runs quickly through your schedule and the basic facts about your friends, and you only have to correct him at one point—your study hall is seventh period, not sixth. "Don't fuck anything up for me," he warns you as you part. You smile tightly back at him, and refrain from remarking that he's more likely to fuck something up for you. Having snuck out early, you go to the gym to shower. Some of the basketball players are already in there, dressing out for pre-class practice. "Love, love, love," Dylan Lloyd sings as you pass. You shoot him a slit-eyed grin, but say nothing. The locker room is empty when you emerge from the shower to dress. You pulled out one of Chris's standard wardrobes: baggy shorts, loose muscle shirt, bandana, and sneakers. It's the kind of wardrobe that is both summertime comfortable and calculated to show off his frame, and you grimace with embarrassed pleasure as you pull the clothes on. If you weren't already semi-used to having this body, showering would have been a mortifying experience. As it was, as you only note enviously to yourself that Chris has strong, well-muscled limbs, a sleek stomach with well-defined abs, and a strong chest and shoulders. Why leave anything to the imagination? is his philosophy when dressing. And it has had the desired effect, you suppose. At your locker—showered now and dressed like him, with his deodorant, it is easy enough to slip into thinking of yourself as "Chris Love," and into thinking that all of his stuff is yours—you are goosed in the small of the back and whirl. Josie Holden grins at you. "We're having a party at my house Monday night," she says. "Monday?" you echo, confused. "A party?" "Well, a bunch of us are getting together with all our books. You gonna come?" "Well, sure!" Unconsciously, almost, you put out a hand and quickly stroke her side with your open palm. A little flush comes into her cheeks, and her eyes glisten before she turns and walks away. Your eyes fall to take in her ass, and the silly grin you feel on your face brightens even more. Your loins engorge pleasurably. Only after you've turned back to the locker do you realize how easy it was to slip into Chris's persona. A brief wave of dizziness washes over you, and you're in a thoughtful mood—almost one of trepidation—as you approach his first class of the day. Oh, this is stupid, you tell yourself as you hesitate outside the door. You did it with Josie just now without even thinking. And Chris isn't going to let you forget who you really are. You force yourself to relax. And as soon as the faint smile is on your mouth, the rest comes over you in a rush. Loose-limbed and casual, you saunter into the classroom. * * * * * You'll say this for Chris: He has one easy-peasy class schedule. He has slid through high school taking classes even less challenging than you ever did, and even in his senior year his classes are so backwards that most of them, like first-period French for Reading Knowledge, are filled with underclassmen. Second and third period are soccer practice, but even there is often able to take it relatively easy. Chris is a backup player—he gets put into any position where the first-string player is starting to fade—so while Coach Gellman puts most of the other players through serious, specific drills, you get to have fun keeping multiple skills sharpened by playing in free-form scrimmages. We got it so sweet, Chris likes to say to Nathan Ford and Brophy Maddox, the other backup players, and you use the line again today during a break when you all are staggering around, catching your breaths. Fourth period is US History with Mr. Walberg (ugh, you just can't get away from that guy!) where again almost everyone is a freshman, and as is usual with Chris, you shoot a finger gun at Brett Landon (a player on the freshman soccer team) when you come in, before slapping palms with Dane Matthias and flopping into a desk next to Shane Hilburn and Kyler Zook. And that's your only really serious class of the day. Sixth period is Intro to Acting; seventh is Visual Journalism; eighth is Creative Writing. I should have so much fun in my old classes, you marvel to yourself as you tramp out History on your way to lunch. I hope the other guy's doing okay with my classes! Then, as though thinking of him has summoned him, he intercepts you. * * * * * "Hey, you got time to talk?" he asks. His expression is vexed. "I got lunch this hour, you know that," you reply. "I got nothin' but time." With a kind of mischievous glee you drape an arm over his shoulders and steer him for one of the exits. "I'll tell you your troubles and you tell me mine." "You got in trouble?" he asks in a voice so low you can hardly hear him over the roar of the crowded corridor. "Nah, I'm chill. How about you? How'd your classes go?" You flash a peace sign at Jorge Rivera, one of the players on the JV soccer squad, as he passes going the other way. "I didn't have any of the homework done." "Bumzetron." You feel him tense. "Josie's having a study party Monday night—" "I talked to Susie Pineapple last period," he says. "She says she was with Leah all afternoon yesterday, over at Brianna's." "Uh huh." You guide Will through the double doors leading outside. "And that's got you nutted up?" "Susie doesn't know how to lie." He stops and turns to look you direct in the face. " "Ay-yah." You grimace past his ear, at the portables, where the stoners and slackers like to hang out. "When Susie tries to lie, she just gets the giggles." "She was totally serious when she was talking to me. She was looking at me like I had a pineapple for a head." You suck in a cheek. "But we saw Leah," you observe. "At the storeroom. We talked to her!" "Yeah! So why do you think I'm nutted up!" You look him in the eyes. His face is screwed up with anxiety. Probably a normal look for Will Prescott, but not one for Chris Love. "Dude," you say, and drop a hand onto his shoulder. "You need to destressify. We'll figure this out. Just get through the day, keep your mouth shut, listen for my name. We'll get together after school—" "You have rehearsal." "We'll get together after rehearsal. Until then, treat it like— Oh!" You snap your fingers, and he winces a little, for you snapped them right next to his ear. "Treat it like that improv challenge La Ella gave you. You got your character—me. Name, clothes, quirty bio. Roll with it until this afternoon, when we'll get together." "What are you doing now?" "Going to lunch." You smile at him. "Wanna come with?" You can see the wheels turning behind his eyes: a chance to dodge your friends—who he doesn't know—for some of his. But then he's seemingly caught by a thought, and his gaze shifts and darkens as he looks at you. You're not telepathic, but you can guess the thought: I'll be with my friends, but they won't know it's me. They'll think this guy is me. But he covers it with a tight smile of his own. "I got a character," he says. "I should work on it. I'll see you after rehearsal." * * * * * Chris wasn't interested in acting—hadn't even thought of it!—until last year, while hanging out Elle Moore. She was taking drama classes, and one night she got him to prompt her while she was learning her lines. He really got into the character, and she told him he was really good, and how he should try acting. He laughed it off, but then she got him to help her and Laura and Christian Padilla and some others to rehearse some scenes, and he had fun. He found it real easy to memorize lines, and to toss them off in a couple of ways, and to move while speaking. And when they started improvising, he fell into it with an easy spontaneity. Again, they urged him to take some drama classes, and again he laughed it off, but less certainly. He continued to help them out, and found the acting more and more fun. It didn't hurt that they told him that with his looks and physical presence, he could easily hold an audience's attention. So he signed up for the baby acting class this semester—Intro to Acting—and even auditioned for the mid-semester play. To his surprise, he got the part. Intro to Acting is sixth period, and you're on your way to the drama wing when you're intercepted by Laura MacGregor. "Chris," she mutters, and grips your bicep so hard that her nails threaten to break the bare skin. "Skip sixth period and hang out with me." "What's wrong?" "I didn't do my Latin homework, and if I just skip I'll feel like I'm lazy, but if I'm with you we can practice a scene." Next: "Enter Acting" |
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