%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "One Well-Armed Research Project"  The next day is Saturday, and you figure there is no point in looking for that professor up at the university. When your sons drag themselves downstairs you pointedly ask Will if he has any plans for the day. "I 'unno," he mumbles. "Good," you reply. "Because I've got plans for you." You hold his eye—ignoring Robert's stare of horror—as you outline a mammoth set of projects, both indoor and outdoor, to be accomplished during the day. A glare of haggard hatred briefly sweeps across Will's face before submerging itself in a hard, sullen stare. * * * * * It's remarkable how much fun you have over the course of the day. Some of it is not very creditable. You yell at Robert a couple of times when you catch his butt sagging, but mostly you confine your barking and slave-driving to Will: Rake the yard, pick up the dead branches, mow the grass, haul the junk out of the tool shed and spread it out, help you sort it before putting it back. But you find yourself enjoying the work too: the gutter cleaning and the power washing and the replacing of divots and screws for hanging up the lights for Halloween and Christmas. That's because your dad enjoys it, and you're deeply steeped in his mind. He likes it because it's much simpler than his work at Salopek; the tools don't argue back with him, and he can see immediate results. There's no break for lunch, and the family—including Martha—are drooping when at around two-thirty you declare yourself ninety percent satisfied with the exterior work (because nothing is ever one hundred percent for your dad) and that before moving on to the interior part of the day you will drive downtown to pick up a barbecue feast. "You come with me," you order Will. "I want to talk to you." He's a limp, skinny thing that drapes himself in the passenger seat of the family sedan, but he vibrates like taut rubber band that's been plucked hard. "God damn it, Will," he roars once you're in the street. "I don't give a fuck about being in character, you cocksucker, and I don't care who the fuck you look like or who you're fucking pretending to be, except it's goddamned obvious you're getting off on giving me all these chores!" "I just didn't want you running off," you calmly reply. "I wanted to talk to you." "Fuck you! We could'a talked without all this—!" "You miss your dad?" You glance over at Caleb. His eyes widen. Then he turns very purple. "Fuck you," he murmurs in a trembling voice as he turns away. "I know why you're pissed," you tell him. "I'd be pissed too. Well, not pissed. But you know my dad puts me to work like this every couple of weeks, and you know I didn't like it either." Caleb says nothing. "Thing is, I understand him better, having to be this way." You pause, wondering slightly at how your mind and mouth veer away from phrases like "having to be my dad" or "having to pretend to be my dad." "When we get all this mixed fixed, and he's back—" Your throat briefly threatens to close up as an emotion that feels suspiciously like grief washes over you, like a wave of surf. "I don't think I'm going to mind it nearly as much when he has me doing this stuff." "Well, fucking good for you," Caleb sneers. "Like that'll have anything to do with me." "I'm sorry I mentioned your dad," you reply. "I guess I was just wondering if it— Well, what it was like for you to have a dad again." "I've got a father," he says very coldly. "At least I assume so. Fuck, maybe he's dead in a ditch someplace. But I don't give a fuck. And for your information, I'm just pretending to be you, Will, I'm not getting all, like—" His voice turns goofy. "Oh, look at me, I'm Will Prescott and suddenly I'm, like, super sympathetic with what it's like to be him! Shit." He slumps, and his tone turns plaintive. "When we got into these things I figured we were going to have some fun. I didn't expect to spend it breaking my fingernails while breaking up mud clods." His outburst hurts you, but you ignore it. "I was just wondering what it was like for you, being me," you say, and you can't help from sounding a little wounded, a little insulted. "And this wasn't the kind of fun I was expecting either." A silence falls between you for a couple of blocks, before Caleb speaks. "You said you wanted to talk to me. What about?" He still sounds very sulky. You sigh deeply. "I did a little research online, looking for people who could maybe help us out. There's a professor up at Keyserling who teaches anthropology. Some of the classes he's taught make it sound like he might know something about this stuff. "The masks?" "No. Magic in general. The sigils we've been using. You know, we've just been using the book like an instruction manual, like a cook book." You feel your mouth settling into a grim line. "We need some deep expertise." Caleb's voice is a hard sneer: "I don't think we want to show any of this stuff to anyone else." "I was thinking more along the lines of 'mind reading'," you reply. Caleb stares at you, then shrugs. "Do whatever you want," he says, and turns away. "And if you don't need my help anymore—" * * * * * Yeah, the "chore" thing seems to have backfired on you, and you make a mental note to go easier on Caleb in the future. At the same time, though, you resent his resentment, especially the way he seems resigned to letting you handle the research chores from now on. And so you very seriously consider the possibility of cutting him loose, and of tackling this professor directly. On Monday you can find an excuse to leave work and go up to the university when that professor is in his office—he has office hours posted on the department website—and talk to him to figure out if he would be worth copying. But the main reason you wanted to talk to Caleb was to consult on making an indirect approach to the professor. You're not sure you want to consult with someone about magic while using your face or the face of anyone in your family. Caleb has made up a bunch of masks, and he wants to have "fun" with them. If you made a copy of someone at your school, you could use it to approach this professor, and then Caleb would get a mask to have "fun" with afterward. On the third hand, though, you don't have to cooperate with Caleb to do that. In fact, you don't have to get a mask of anyone to use as an alias, because you've already got one. Thanks to that fight at the school, you have a mask of Lester "The Molester" Pozniak, and you could use that alias to approach the professor. That's all for now. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
