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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Dance Floor"  You dance with Kristy Suffolk. The rest of the night passes like a hallucination. * * * * * You don't dance long with Kristy—maybe two minutes; or maybe two hours, for time has a way of leaping and then crawling inside the Warehouse—before Jessica pulls you away and keeps you to herself awhile before passing you on to other girls. You drift back to the booth where Marc still holds court, and collapse next to a grinning Hispanic kid who steals and plays with your hat until Marc makes him give it back. You slam a couple of beers in quick succession. You are swept back onto the dance floor, and there are Jell-O shots, and someone tries taking your shirt off and someone else does get it off you, leaving you in a t-shirt and suspenders, and you wonder where your shirt has got off to, then find it tied about your waist. You drift away from Marc and his sisters into the company of that tall guy who drove out with them and you, and he introduces you to other guys—big guys with big hands and deep, loud voices who give you shots of stuff that burns and who laugh at what you say while you laugh at what they say. There have girls with them, and one of them tries sitting in your lap while you are still standing up, and another does get into your lap when you and those guys—or maybe it's a different bunch of guys—collapse into some beanbags in the corner of a back room; or maybe it was the same girl as earlier who fell onto you who puts her arms around your shoulders and engages her mouth with yours. That's where you are, sprawling, half-passed out, when the one bit of excitement happens. It doesn't register until later, for the evening has long since warped into a kaleidoscope of mirages that hang awkwardly together: dim, strobing lights; percussive, thrusting guitars; scents of sawdust and beer and sweat and vomit; and soft hands on your shoulders and hips and the back of your neck. But as you remember it later, you are almost horizontally splayed in the beanbag with a girl draped across your lap and her face in the crook of your neck when someone starts yelling—screaming—and a lithe figure with streaming blonde hair streaks into view. She pauses not three feet from your toes and wheels on the guy who is chasing her. "You're the biggest fucking dick in the world, Seth Javits!" she screams. "And I don't mean your cock! You shit! You goddamned shit, I'll—" The rest of her words are lost in a roar from the onlookers, and a burst of laughter when she slaps him hard across the face. "Go the fuck away, I don't ever want to see you again, you cocksucker! You goddamned cocksucker! Go back to sucking off Gordon and the rest of the squad!" The world has been tilting back and forth for awhile now, so maybe she runs off, or maybe the floor just tilts far enough over that she and this "Seth" guy go sliding and rolling away like boulders down a hill. You don't care. The girl in your lap has lifted her face long enough to watch the excitement, and now you bury your face in the crook of her neck. * * * * * Eventually one of your new friends drags you to your feet—you're in a booth now, draped across a table—and helps you weave a stumbling path across a floor that appears to be strewn with corpses. Your ears hurt badly, as though a rock band is trapped in your skull and is trying to bust its way out through your ear drums. You emerge into a grimy parking lot under a grimy sky pale with morning light. "Where you parked?" your friend asks. You have to cast a fishing line back into the previous century and drag the hook forward before you snag the answer: "Drove out with Marc 'n them." "Garner? Fuck, he's long gone. Where you live?" You blink and try to orient yourself and your house onto a common set of coordinates. Fortunately, some other part of your brain is thinking more clearly without your help. "My truck's back at the school. Eastman?" "You go to Eastman?" "No, Westside. Just parked there for—" "Gotcha. Come on." He puts a strong arm around your torso and half-lifts, half-drags you over to a beat-up sedan and throws you into the passenger seat. Some vestige of self-respect overcomes you at that point, and as your friend crawls in and starts the car, you slap yourself awake and sit up. The universe lurches and so does your stomach, but your head is clear enough that you can make out where you are, and who your benefactor is. Not that you know his name. But he's in a red t-shirt, and his biceps strain the cuffs of his sleeves. He wears a lanyard around his neck. He's got short dark hair and dark eyebrows, and his eyes are dark as well. He's clean shaven, and has a large mole on his jaw. You've seen him around school before, but can't place him. "Sorry," you mumble. "I don't remember your name." "Surprised you remember anything," he replies with a sly grin. "Blake." "I'm Will." "I know who you are." "Yeah?" Fear rises in your gullet. His smile widens. "Oh yeah. You're famous, Will." He holds up his palm, and after the invitation registers, you slap it with your own. "This your first time at the Warehouse?" "Uh, yeah." "Thought so." "Fuck." You hang your head and rub your eyes. "Wha'd I do?" He laughs. "No, you were cool. We were asked to keep an eye on you, make sure you didn't get in any real trouble." You frown at his shirt and lanyard. You saw a lot of them around last night, worn by big guys with Don't-Fuck-With-Me stares. You bury your face in your hands again. "Shit. You needed to babysit me?" "Nah. Not much. I think we only saved you once when you cut in and started dancing with Susie Pineapple." You grunt. "What happened?" "She was dancing with Chase Hoffmeister, and Erik had to grab him to keep him from clocking you." None of these names mean anything to you, so you remain silent. "But it worked out. You moved over to dance with some other girl, and Chase and Susie went off in a corner to— Well, I didn't watch." You are intrigued by the implication that you had more fun last night than you can remember. You rub your forehead, and are startled (and pleased) to find you're still wearing your new hat. You take it off to rake your hair. "Well, thanks." "It's our job," Blake says. Then he adds, "Not really our job to play taxi cab when the morning comes, though." "Sorry." "It's alright." He changes lanes to dodge a street cleaner rumbling slowly along the boulevard. "You can pay me back by taking a selfie with me." "What?" "Sure." He looks over to grin at you. "I told you, you're famous." * * * * * You oblige him when you're at the Eastman lot—which is still crowded with abandoned cars—and are both abashed and absurdly pleased when Blake praises your truck. You pose with him on the hood while he takes a picture of the two of you clasping arms around each other's shoulders. It's not a bad picture, you have to admit when he checks it. You look like a bantam-weight bad-ass in your white t-shirt and suspenders, with the hat cocked back and your chin in the air, and you don't look out of place next to a guy who is either a football player or a wrestler. But panic finally penetrates the fog in your brain when you're inside the cab of your truck, the keys in the ignition, and you idly noodle around with the thought of taking a couple of more selfies of yourself. That's when you realize you don't have your phone with you. * * * * * "Dude, I am in such fucking trouble," you moan when you're slumped at a table in Don's Donuts, where Tilley is working his Saturday morning shift. It's just around the corner from Eastman, but you were shaky enough on the drive over that you thought it best to stop there instead of continuing home. Besides, you need someone to share your panic with. "Comp me some coffee, will ya?" "You know, it costs us money to make this stuff," he says. "I'm not asking for a free donut," you retort. You have the place to yourself, so you feel free to argue loudly. "And you got a fucking urn of java, and I just want a tiny Styrofoam cup to—" With a cuss word Keith fills you a small cup and brings it over. You make a face as you sip it. "Maybe I don't wanna sober up," you gasp. "I'm in so much fucking trouble." His grin is nasty. "Yeah? Tell me about it." So you tell him about going to the Warehouse and getting blasted—you're woozy, and though you've the start of a headache you're pretty sure you're still drunk—and how you can't find your phone and your dad is probably out looking for you to kill you on account of you were supposed to be with Caleb and ... And where is Johansson anyway? "Beats the fuck outta me," Keith laughs. "And I toldja you'd get in trouble if you started hanging out with those cunts." You bury your face in the crook of your arm. "Call him, will ya? Or text him. Ask him to meet me out here." "It's too early for him to be up." "Well, I'm gonna hang out here until he gets here, don't care if it's noon before he shows up." Keith snorts. A minute later he tells you he's sent the text. There's no reply, naturally. Then Keith is shaking your shoulder. "Dude," he says. "You gotta see this. You're texting me." He shows you his phone. Sure enough, there's a text there from a "Will Prescott." * To go find the person with your phone: "When a Body Meets a Body" * To ask Keith to find the person with your phone: "The Famous Will Prescott" |
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