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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Two Consultations Without an Answer"  Pfft! Caleb thinks he's so smart, using this "go between" trick to break the ice with some girls who wouldn't even glance in his direction. Two can play that game! Still, you quail a little when you step into Mr. Cash's classroom. Stephanie's already in her seat, feet planted firmly, head bowed slightly as she concentrates on her cell phone. In her cherry-red polo shirt and white gym shorts, she looks even more like a gym-teacher-in-training than usual. The expression "screw up your courage" never felt more descriptively apt than as you shuffle up to her. Your insides feel like they're twisting and rotating. This is the girl that almost kicked your ass last week when you accidentally spilled your bag at her feet; who tried to brain Rennerhoff; and who did frighten Joshua Call away. "Hey," you say when you're standing over her. She doesn't respond. "Hey. Stephanie." She looks up sharply, just in time to catch you bending sideways to awkwardly wave at her. She stares at you like you're a crazy person. "Hey. Hi. Stephanie." Still she stares at you. If you poked her in the eye, you'd probably break a finger. "Uh, I was talking to Eva at lunch today. Eva Garner? You know?" Obviously Stephanie knows Eva. You clear your throat and try to lower your pitch into the tenor range, at least. "And she mentioned that you and some friends, like Almida? And Barbara? You wanted to hook up -- I mean, meet up with Braydon Delp? And Eva was going to try to find a way to, you know, through Gillian, you know, Braydon's girlfriend, to -- " You have to break off. A crease has appeared in Stephanie's forehead. Eva did mention Stephanie's name when rattling off that list of girls, didn't she? What if she didn't, or was mistaken? What if Stephanie has no freaking clue what you're gabbling about? Worse yet: What if she does know, but can't figure out what the fuck you're bugging her about it for? "I was just gonna say, I know Braydon -- " You don't, but you can fix that. "And I can set it up for you guys to get together to talk to him." Still, Stephanie stares at you like she's coolly trying to calculate the precise angle at which a kick to your head could separate it from your neck and send it sailing through the window. Then she opens her mouth, just enough to say, "Uh huh?" "So, if you could give a time that it would be, you know -- " You shrug; it feels like a shoulder spasm. "Convenient for you to see him, I could set up -- " "Yeah, I dunno," she says. "Any time after school, probably." "Oh. Well, if you could give me, like, your number or some way to text you after I talk to -- " To your absolute astonishment, she clicks a pen, scrawls on the corner of a piece of paper, and tears it off. Gingerly -- so as not to touch her fingertips with yours; who knows how violent she might get if you touched her -- you take it. "Cool, thanks. I mean, uh, I'll be in touch." You swallow as Stephanie's stare hardens just a little more. "Uh, one more thing, what do I tell Braydon this is about?" "Professional consultation," she says. "We wanna hex someone." "Really?" It comes out as a squeak. "No, it's none of your business. Just tell him we're interesting in finding out what kind of stuff he knows. You know, about that stuff he's into." "Oh. Alright. I won't mention the, uh, hex thing." You pretend to zip your mouth shut, and Stephanie's eyes widen like she really does now think you're crazy. "I'll be in touch with you, you know, when I -- " You retreat three steps, bump into and step on something -- "Ow! Jesus Fuck!" You spin around. A girl -- a freshman -- glares up at you, then kicks viciously at your shin. "Watch where you're putting your stupid fat feet, you fuck!" "Sorry! Sorry!" You stumble back, and narrowly avoid falling into the lap of a guy who's laughing at you. "Sorry!" You toss off a quick, sloppy salute at Stephanie, whose lip and left eyebrow have twisted up into an expression halfway between horror and incredulity. "Catch up to you later, uh, Stephanie!" You hustle your way back to your own seat, where you can slump down and fantasize about quick and merciful deaths. * * * * * After that disaster, you don't want the Stephanie thing hanging over your head, so you hustle off to see if you can find and talk to Braydon. Before that, though, you stop at your locker to swap out books, and Keith corners you there. "So, what are we doing this afternoon?" he drawls at you from under heavy lids. "Dunno about you, I have to go find Braydon." "Cool," he nods. "Wait. Delp? What for?" "Set up a thing with him and some girls." "Awesome. What girls? Hot ones?" "Weren't you paying attention at lunch? Oh, right, you weren't, you were watching videos or something." "'At's right. But what's this about hot girls and Braydon?" "Nothing to do with you," you snap as you slam your locker door. You glance around the seething hallway, in case Delp's head happens to be bobbing by. "It's with Eva. And you really weren't paying any attention to her?" You spare Tilley a snort. "That video was better-looking than her?" "It was a new one with Mike and Carlos. Pretty fucking funny." He grins. "Yeah? Were you in it again? Under another mask?" You push into the crowd, straining to see around and over heads and backpacks. From behind, Tilley's reply -- which sounds vaguely affirmative in tone -- is muffled. "Well, I won't bust in on it next time you make one." His reply is again indistinct, but you don't care. "Right. Later. Call me, text me, whatever." You have a vague idea that Braydon's locker is in C wing. It seems like that's where you've seen him lingering before, but maybe that's because he has a class there, or maybe it's because you associate the math wing with other things that are gross and off-putting, like calculus. But that's where you start your search. It turns out to be an inspired choice, not because that's where his locker is, but because you pass him on your way. But he's not alone. Caleb is trailing at his elbow. You turn and trail right alongside them, earning you a quizzical glance from your friend. But no one says anything until you exit the double doors facing the back of the gym and the tennis courts. "Awright," drawls Braydon once you're all outside. He saunters along the wall a dozen yards or so, then drops his pack and crouches next to it. "You were saying something about setting me up with some girls?" He grins at Caleb. Braydon Delp has a girlfriend, but that's not the main reason you can't imagine a girl like Stephanie -- or like Stephanie's friends -- hanging out with him. He's skinny and ghostly pale all over, a pallor that his dark jeans and black short-sleeve t-shirt only emphasize. His tousled hair looks like he oiled it with ebony shoe polish, and his large, dark eyes are set off with mascara. As he zips open his pack, you see that he's painted the nails of his index and pinky fingers black; the former also sports an ugly silver ring of gargantuan size. "Right," says Caleb. "Almida Jones and Barbara Powell." "And Stephanie Wyatt," you interrupt. Caleb frowns at you. "Yeah?" Braydon's eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. "I got a couple of those girls in my classes. If they wanna talk to me -- " "Outside class," Caleb says. "After school," you add, and now Caleb glares at you. "So?" Braydon says. He's dug out a cigarette -- hand-rolled, by the looks of it -- and he puts it in his mouth. "They can always set it up with me in class," he mumbles around it, and raises a lighter to its tip. "I guess they will," says Caleb. "They just don't want to barge up to you." "Give us a time you can meet them after school," you tell Braydon, "and we'll pass the message along, and then you can just meet them then." Caleb shoves you. Smoke curls over Braydon's head, and a scent of cloves hits your nostrils. "Yeah, sure, whenever." He shrugs sloppily. "Tomorrow's fine with me. Oh wait, I got a campaign tomorrow. Eh, what the fuck, for Barbara and Almida and ... Stephanie?" He grins again. "Yeah, I'll skip it to meet up with them." "Time and place?" you ask before Caleb can say anything, and you take out your cell phone. Caleb grabs at it, and you wrestle with him. "Say, four o'clock?" Braydon's voice seems to float from far away. "At Besandwiched. I like to land there anyway, won't be a waste if no one shows up." "I'll make sure they do," Caleb snarls over his shoulder at Braydon. As he's slightly distracted, you succeed in tearing away from him. "Someone'll be there," you say. Braydon's eyes crinkle up as he draws on the cigarette. "You guys getting a commission for setting this up, or something? A percentage of -- ?" He licks a fingertip and strokes an eyebrow. "'Cos it seems like maybe you are." "Prescott's trying to horn in on something that isn't his business." "It wasn't your business until you horned in on it!" "You guys gonna be there?" Braydon asks. "'Cos it sounds like there's gonna be enough girls for all of us." * To continue: "Messages Into the Dark" |
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