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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Hired Help"  Something is sticking to the back of your throat. It takes you a moment to realize that it's your voice. Not that you've got a lot of words stuck back there. You're not sure what you'd say here, now, before the dead-eyed gaze of George Mendoza, Joe Thomason and Tanner Evans. So when your voice finally breaks free, all that comes out is a noise like, "Gyuuuhmmm." Luckily, they don't look like they're much interested in you. Evans' expression suggests he's trying to remember where he's seen you before. Thomason, you're pretty sure, recognizes you and is weighing you're worth bothering about. Mendoza just looks expectant. "Hey. Justin." Your voice -- to your mortification -- breaks in a squeak. You put out a foot to nudge him in the back, and almost lose your balance. Roth turns. His eyes are a little red, and he looks kind of pissed off. His sour frown doesn't relax when he sees that it's you. He doesn't even look like he recognizes you. You wish you could just run away. You came out here to ask Justin if he'd got that old book back from Rennerhoff and his friends, and it's totally not a good idea to ask him that question in front of the guys who took it from you. But it's too late now. If you ran, they'd chase, like hyenas after wounded prey. "Yeah, so, hey," you stammer. Your eyes water as you keep them locked on Justin. "You remember that thing we were talking about the other day?" You stare at him intensely, willing him to understand what you're talking about. "No," he rasps. "There was a book you wanted to buy from me," you remind him. "You wanted to buy it, but you didn't have enough money." His eyes freeze, and his jaw tightens. "I don't remember any -- " Then he blinks. "Oh. Yeah." His jaw works. "I'm, uh, not interested in that anymore." "I know." You seriously want to blink -- your eyes are starting to hurt -- but your eyelids seem stuck in the "up" position. "But I told you I don't have it anymore anyway, and if you wanted it you'd have to talk to some other guys? Because they had it?" Evans murmurs something at Thomason, who snickers. But Justin only furrows his brow. "Yeah, but I'm not -- Oh!" He passes his hand over his eyes and shakes his head. "Right. Who did you say has it?" You moisten your lips. "Rennerhoff. I think." "Huh. Well, I haven't -- " He swings around to question the others. "You guys know anything about any book that Rennerhoff's got?" "Rennerhoff doesn't read," says Thomason. "I know that," Justin retorts. "But this is a book -- How big is it?" He twists around to look at you, and fumbles with his hands. "It's like, this big? And it's all in leather, right, and it's got -- I dunno." He turns back to the others. "It's, like, really old." Christ, what's the point of this? You should just ask them about it yourself. But Mendoza has started to laugh. It starts low, somewhere near the bottom of his belly, and rolls out in a series of heaving sniggers. "Hrgh hrgh hrgh hrgh hrgh. Yeah, I know the one you're talking about," he says, and turns a sly, sidelong look at you. "You wanna buy it back from him? Rennerhoff?" Justin squints up at you. You give up. "Sure," you say, and you give the grunt no more enthusiasm than it deserves. How much is this going to cost me? you wonder. "Can't," says Mendoza, and he smirks. "He don't got it anymore. You remember the book he means," he says to his friends. "That old book he picked up after those bitches came at us." He falls back on his elbows and laughs openly at you. "Okay," you say. "So who -- ?" "I took it from him," says Mendoza. "So he can't give it to you. Not like he could do anything with it. He can't read." He holds out his fist, and Thomason pounds it with his own. You suppress a deep sigh. "So what about you, would you -- ?" "You want it back, huh?" His smile seems infinitely menacing. "Yeah. I guess." "Should'a talked to me before Saturday. I don't got it anymore. Sold it to a guy." "Okay. Who?" Mendoza makes a great show of searching his pockets before snagging a cigarette from Justin. "Gimme two Ben Franklins and I'll tell you," he says. All your muscles sag. "I don't have two hundred dollars," you say, "and even if I did -- " "Then you don't get your book back." "Don't be a prick, man," says Justin. "Tell him who you sold it to." "Bet they don't wanna sell it back anyway," says Mendoza. "Whose book is it, exactly?" Justin asks, but Mendoza just concentrates on his cigarette. "Did you sell it to one of your friends?" you ask. Please say no, you pray. Please tell me you didn't sell it to Call or Kirkham or Chen or someone like that. "How much money you got on you?" Mendoza asks. You're searching your pockets before you can stop yourself, and pull out a couple of dirty ones. "Three. And change." "Don't be a fucking douche," Justin snorts. He glances between you and Mendoza, so you're not sure who he's talking to. Maybe both of you. "Yeah, for three bucks I'll tell you if I sold it to a friend," Mendoza says. You almost tell him to go fuck himself, but good sense prevails. You almost toss the money at him, but better sense prevails there, too. You lean over, like a scarecrow bending before a high wind, and hand him the bills. He straightens them out and folds them before slipping them into his jacket pocket. "Well?" you say. "I'm friends with everyone," says Mendoza. "So yeah, I sold it to a friend." * * * * * Their harsh laughter is still ringing in your ears. It's three hours later and you're three dollars poorer and you're no nearer getting that book back. The final bell has rung, and you're pushing your way to your locker through the surging crowds. They're already infected with weekend fever so that a nervous energy thrills through them. It's like a rave or a riot might break out at any moment. You're swapping out the books you need for weekend homework when a skinny figure leans into your peripheral vision. "Dope," says Keith Tilley. "What?" you snap at him. "Dope," he repeat with a heavy-lidded grin. "You know. Wassup?" "Where do you pick up your slang?" "Where do you pick up yours?" he retorts. "Not in the discount bin." Someone pushes you in the small of your back, almost pitching you inside your locker, but to your relief it was only a short girl straining under a giant backpack. "Didn't see you at lunch," says Tilley. "What are you doing now?" "Getting out of here." "Me too." "Obviously." You'd be more patient with Keith -- who is, after all, your second-best friend, after Caleb -- but you're still edgy from that dumb, dumb, dumb scene at lunch. "Gonna go home and work off some rage on the Xbox, or something." "What you got to be raged up over?" Tilley's got his ball cap on backward, and he resettles it as he leans back to study the crowd down the bridge of his nose. "Nothing," you mutter. "Just sick of this place." "Dope," Keith agrees with a nod. And the repetition of that word is what does it. You were just about to ask him if he wanted to join you, but now you add him to the list of people you're mad at. "See you Monday," you mutter, and slam the locker shut and push yourself into the crush of bodies. * * * * * Friday afternoons aren't meant to be productive, but this Friday it's like you've set a new record for lack of effort. Not until Caleb calls at around eight -- by which time you've thrashed a score of videogame bozos, hustled your bike around the neighborhood, and methodically kicked the walls of the garage until your toes were numb -- do you acquire plans. And even then they're not what you'd call "productive." A little after eleven you sneak out of the house to meet Caleb at the school so he can dig up the time capsule and substitute items. He's got some bullshit excuse for this caper -- something about how he has to replace a thumb drive full of porn with a CD full of music, on account of Mr. Walberg making the class write papers about what they put in the capsule, and why, and he can't confess to having contributed a couple of gigs of pornographic jpegs. "You wanna do something about that bottle of aftershave while we're here?" he asks when he's got the metal box out and opened, but you only shrug. "You ever think we're in a rut?" you ask when you're shoveling dirt back into the hole. "We were in a hole, but we took care of that," he says. "Or I did, at least. You've still got to explain to Walberg why you're sending a bottle of aftershave to the future." "I mean, don't you ever feel like it's the same stuff with us, all the time?" "Yeah, it feels like I'm out here every night, digging up shit." "Oh, fuck it. What do you wanna do tomorrow?" "I wanna wait until tomorrow before making plans," he says. "In case you can't tell, this has not been my ideal kind of Friday night, and I'd just as soon get home and put it behind me." "So what is your ideal Friday night?" That seems like a hook to get back to what you wanted to ask -- is you and your friends' existence in a rut? "One where I don't have to ask myself what my ideal Friday night would be, because I'm already doing it. What's your malfunction tonight, Will?" * To continue: "The Girl Most Likely to Kick Your Ass" |
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