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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previousy: "Dancing With Brenda"  Sunday. In another life, you'd be getting ready for church. In this life, you worship at the Holy Basketball Hoop. Patterson is too disciplined to sleep in late, as you do on Saturdays and would if given a chance on Sundays, so you're up by nine and dressed in absurdly long track pants and a jacket for a morning run. Then, after a shower and breakfast, you spend ninety minutes in the backyard shooting free throws from different angles and distances, honing and calibrating your aim and control of the ball. This sort of thing would probably bore (and frustrate) you senseless if you were doing as yourself. But Patterson is good, so you make the vast majority of the shots, and when you do miss the anger is a spur to practicing with an even greater intensity. At eleven-thirty you clean up again, eat a sandwich for lunch, then pack schoolbooks into your bag and drive up to Westside. Gordon's Bug isn't parked by the gym yet, but Jason Lynch's car is. You feel your jaw tighten as you park next to it. "Hey there, Stevie!" Lynch calls as he gets out of his car as you're getting out of yours. "Guess Gordon's runnin' a little late today!" You don't even grunt, you just stride around the gym to the side door, which you unlock with your key. "Was almost guessin' you might still be up in the ol' loft this morning," Jason continues as he follows you inside the dark and echoing gym. "Heard'ja had a hot date last night." Still you say nothing, but only stalk toward the staircase. "So maybe ya didn't get as lucky last night as—?" You wheel, grab Lynch by the front of his shirt and hoist him a few inches into the air. Before he can react, you hurl him away. He stumbles backward, but doesn't fall. You don't wait for him to react, though, but turn again for the stairs. At least Lynch keeps a fair distance behind as you mount to the loft and open it up. It's partly cloudy outside, so the loft is dim, but you don't put on a light. Jason stands in the doorway watching as you fluff the gym mats by kicking and cuffing them about. Then you squat at the dorm fridge to get yourself a beer. You don't offer him one, though, before flopping onto a mat with your phone out. He finally comes in, though, gets himself a beer, and settles silently onto a mat with a couple of yards between you. Fuck me, you think wonderingly to yourself as you flick your long, lean thumb over Steve Patterson's phone, pulling up his porn links. I'm sitting up here in the school's famous fuck room like I belong here—'cos I do—with Jason Lynch, and I'm not only not scared of him, I'm actually pissed off that he's here with me! There's only three people with a key to this room (provided by Coach Brooks, the school's bald, leering, bullet-headed, head coach as a reward and inducement to the senior-year athletes who show the most promise). There's supposed to be only two with a key—Patterson and Black—but Gordon, like the poor, pussy-whipped son of a bitch he is, let Chelsea badger him into making her a copy too. But Jason Lynch, the captain of the school baseball team, is always hanging out in the loft as well, because Gordon seems to like him. It's the odd thing about Black, you reflect. He's a mulish and unfriendly bastard, but there are a lot of people who would like to be his friend, and who will grit their teeth and put up with people they don't like in order to get into Black's orbit. Patterson and Lynch and Chelsea, for instance. Patterson is Gordon's best friend—they've hung out since middle school, covering each other's backs and helping each other to the top of the school's social hierarchy. But Patterson is too wary of pissing Gordon off to tell him what he really thinks of Lynch and Chelsea: namely, that Lynch is a giggling little suck-up who seems almost erotically attracted to Gordon, and that Chelsea is a psychotic bitch who uses sex to manipulate her boyfriend into indulging her every selfish little whim. And those two don't like Patterson either—why should they, when he treats them, even in front of Gordon, with undisguised contempt?—and they can't stand each other any more than Patterson can stand them. Jason takes almost every chance he can to talk shit about Chelsea with you, and Chelsea has tried getting Patterson's help in getting Gordon to ban Jason from the loft. (Just to spite her.) "Why'ncha get t'use the place last night?" Lynch asks after he's dug himself out one of the battered and tattered old porn magazines that have been handed down, from one generation of top jock to the next, for at least twenty years. (The supply is now in such bad shape—and been so completely surpassed by what's available online—that it should be tossed out; but no one has the heart to get rid of it.) "Gordon'n Chelsea were using it?" "No. Or maybe. I didn't ask them." "They been up here a lot lately, you notice?" "Why shouldn't they be?" "'Cos he'd be a hell of a lot happier wi'out her." You lift your eyes from the screen of your phone long enough to glare at him from under your brows. We'd be a hell of a lot happier without you, you think. And then you remember—and it comes almost like a lightning bolt of joy from above—that far from being rivals for Gordon's attention, you and Chelsea are now on the same side. You fight down a smirk. "Better enjoy that beer while you can," you tell him as you go back to flicking through porn galleries, looking for just the right pictures to stimulate yourself with. "Huh? Why, whassamatter?" "You know Chelsea's tried getting Gordon to ban you from this place." "Pssh! Yeah. Bitch." "I hear she's going to try it again." "Whut?" "You heard me. Kendra told me, last time we were—" You loudly suck a tooth. Lynch snorts. "Yeah, well, she can try. And then she can try bending over and licking out her own asshole." "She's flexible enough." Lynch giggles. "Yeah, I guess she is!" "Yeah. And you think someone that flexible can't twist Gordon around so far he'll give her what she wants?" There's a long silence. "Yeah, well I trust Gordon t'do the right thing," Lynch finally says. "And what's the right thing, you tiny little pimple on the tip of an ugly little prick? What you think's right, or what Gordon thinks is right?" Another long pause. "He ain't gonna do it. He ain't done it yet when she's asked." "'Cos last time she asked, I told him I didn't want you up here either. Like right now. You don't got a key and I didn't invite you up here, yet here you are. I told Gordon you act like you got a goddam claim on this place same as the rest of us, and that I was as sick of it as Chelsea is. That was a mistake," you continue when Lynch says nothing. "Telling him that just pissed him off, so he let you stay. "But this time," you finish, "if Chelsea says anything to him, I'm just gonna keep my fucking mouth shut. Then we'll see what happens." Lynch says nothing to that, but you can feel the anger boiling off him. * * * * * For thirty minutes you and Lynch tolerate each other's presence without speaking. You both look up, though, when you hear a heavy tread on the stair. The door opens, and Gordon comes in. He's not alone, though. Even though on Sunday afternoons it's supposed to be a boys-only club in the loft, Chelsea has come with him. She's dressed in purple tights that cling tightly to the curves of her strong thighs and calves, and a midriff-baring shirt under an unzipped jacket. Her soft, golden hair bounces around her shoulders. Her lips are plumped in a smug smile. You flare with a barely bridled resentment at the sight of the bitch. Then you flare with lust. "Hey guys," Gordon says in a subdued voice. His expression is pinched as he glances around the loft. "Hey Gordon," Jason replies. You just nod your chin at him. "So, uh," Gordon says. He jumps a little as Chelsea nudges him in the small of the back. "I wanna talk to Chelsea and Steve alone." There's a hanging pause. Then Jason, with tight-lipped fury, gets to his feet and stomps out of the loft. After his footfalls have faded, Chelsea turns her smirk onto you. "Hi, Steve," she coos. "Hi Chelsea," you mimic back at her. Her face falls. "Jeez, I don't think I deserve that!" she mutters. "Come sit on my face, and I'll give you what you deserve." "Ewwwww!" she squeals. Gordon, his face reddening, takes two heavy steps toward you, but Chelsea catches and restrains him. "It's alright, pookie," she tells him. "Steve's just having fun. Aren't you, Steve." "Having a blast. Haven't had this much fun since Friday, when Maria accidentally touched my boobs during cheerleader practice." Chelsea looks puckish. "Well, anyway," she says, "I wanted to talk to you two alone 'cos we've got business. Pookie," she addresses Gordon while putting her hands on his hips and stroking him lightly. "Tell Steve what I told you in the car." "We're cutting Javits from the squad," Gordon says. And he says it very flatly. "What?" You've been sprawling on your side, balanced on an elbow, but now you sit all the way up. "The fuck?" "You're cutting Seth from the basketball squad," Chelsea says. She simpers cutely. "Unless—" She bites her tongue between her teeth, grins, and pokes Gordon in the back. "Unless he promises to dump Cindy," Gordon says. You look from Gordon to Chelsea, back to Gordon, then back to Chelsea. "You're not serious," you say. "Try me," she says, and sucks on the tip of her thumb. Next: "The Deal with Chelsea" |
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