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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Project Master"  You're late getting home for supper, and your dad raises his eyebrows when you explain that you were up at the university library doing research. "On what?" "Um, kind of a chemistry thing," you stammer. "You're not taking Chemistry." "I'm helping a friend out." "Is he helping you out with any of your schoolwork?" "Sure," you improvise. "Kind of an exchange of favors." Your dad still looks skeptical, but he grunts approval. That was kind of a narrow escape, but for what? The afternoon's research didn't help you much—the guys who write those books on magic are really good about promising what you can do with magic, but as far as explaining the theory behind it? Just a lot of hand waving. And precious little in the way of actual spells. As you get ready for bed you decide: I'm gonna need some help. * * * * * "Sure," Caleb tells you the next day in Walberg's class. He's giving the teacher a gimlet-eyed stare. "After you help me out with my project." "What project's that?" He glances around with a wary expression. "Tell you at lunch." "Okay. Well, my project, what I need help with—" "I'm not gonna commit to anything unless I can count on your support." "Uh, sure. You got it." He gives you a sharp look. "Is that a promise?" Now it's you who are wary. "What is it you need help with?" "I said, I'm not gonna tell you till lunch." "Well, can I tell you what I need help with?" "Knock yourself out. But I'm not gonna commit 'til I get a commitment from you." You roll your eyes. "Look, I'll just talk to you at lunch." "Good. That was my original idea." * * * * * But before you have lunch with Caleb you have fourth-period English class with him. Caleb has kind of pissed you off, so you ignore him for the moment to watch Braydon Delp out of the corner of your eye. Delp is a warlock. Okay, he doesn't call himself that, and if he is one then he's underdressed for the part. But he's got a reputation for being seriously into the occult. So seriously into it that he doesn't have to overdress for the part. Right now, for instance, he's dressed out in black jeans and black sneakers, but he's wearing nothing more Satanic than a gray t-shirt advertising a local barbecue joint. He's pale and on the small side, with a waif-like build, so he's not scary-looking that way either. Only dark mascara, which makes his eyes pop, and his dark hair (dyed to an ebony shade by shoe polish, it looks like) give him anything like a spooky air. You haven't had many dealings with Delp during your high school career. You've shared other classes with him, and talked to him a few times. You weren't impressed with his world-weary air, or the tilted-chin arrogance that implied he knew things that you didn't. You have no idea what it would be like to work with him. Maybe he would be enthusiastic about getting his hands on an authentic magical grimoire. Maybe he would try hogging it. Or maybe, you think as he drops a pencil, then knocks his books off the desk as he bends to retrieve it, then falls halfway out of his desk, he won't be nearly as competent as a warlock ought to be. * * * * * "Where's Caleb?" you ask as you saunter up to Carson's group out on the quad at lunchtime. This will be, like, the fifth day in a row that you will have eaten with them. Pretty soon it's going to become a new habit. "I dunno," Carson replies. "A minute ago I wasn't even wondering where you were." He puts out a hand, and James pours some chips into it. "I thought I was supposed to meet him out here for lunch." Carson replies, but it's probably something snarky, so you don't pay attention. Instead, you're wondering if you were supposed to meet Caleb behind the school, where you usually have lunch. When you parted outside Ms. Gladstone's classroom, he'd only said he'd "meet you in a few." "What are you two up to?" Carson asks when you're done scoping out the quad. "Up to? What makes you think we're up to something?" Carson and James exchange a quick, excited glance. "Oh, so you are up to something," James chortles. "Guilty conscience before you've even started," Carson teases as you sputter. "It must be something godlessly fucked up, and I want in on it." You insist that you're not "up to something," which Carson receives with a sarcastic "Sure, you're not." When Caleb still doesn't show up, you text him: where r u? dwing rstrm, he replies. Then: shut up. The hell? "Be back in a minute," you tell the others. "Maybe." "Just remember, Prescott," Carson yells as you sprint off. "You're not allowed to get in trouble! Unless I'm there to get in trouble with you!" The D wing boys' restroom is right next to the cafeteria, and a line of students snakes out one door almost to the other. That should have been a warning, but like an idiot you just charge in. You freeze in horror on entering the boys' restroom—a failure of nerve that costs you the 1.2 seconds during which you could have wheeled around and made your escape. Five basketball players are lined up at the sinks, laughing hoarsely as they fix up their hair and scope themselves out in the mirrors. Ryan Shuler—who makes up with muscle and meanness what he lacks in height—is nearest the door, and he turns to give you a cold stare. You can see the gears and pulleys working behind his eyes as he weighs whether you are worth the bother of molesting. He and his friends have the restroom to themselves. Before you can back out and run—before you can even remember that backing out and running would be the worst thing you could do—another of the quintet does a double-take at you. "Hey Will," shouts Scott Frazier, your erstwhile writing partner in Astronomy. "We gonna pair up again next time Cash gives out an assignment?" "Er, sure," you croak, and feel your mouth stretching into a rictus as Brendan Tummler and Darren Green turn curious glances on you. "Wha' wuzzit, chemistry?" Green mutters at Scott. "Astronomy," Scott mutters back. "How's the line out there?" Dylan Lloyd shouts. When no one answers, he turns on you. "Yo!" He snaps his fingers. "I asked how the fucking line is!" "Er—?" "Fuck!" Dylan hurls his comb into the sink. You back away as he advances to seize you by the shoulder and shove you out the door. "You see that line?" he says, pointing to the line of students snaking outside the cafeteria. He grips your shoulder so hard it will probably raise a bruise. "How's it doing? Is it getting longer or shorter? Is it still out here in the hallway or is everyone inside now? Well?" He grabs the back of your neck. "Guh, it's getting shorter?" you stammer around your heart, which seems to have lodged in your throat. "How much shorter?" He tightens his grip. "Uh, it's still out in the hallway?" "That's right. Dumbass." He shoves you back into the restroom and returns to his station at the mirror. "How's the line?" Green asks. "Uh, getting—" "Still as long as fuck," Lloyd says. "Wanna hand me a paper towel there?" Shuler lifts dripping hands from the sink. He doesn't even look at you. But the paper dispenser is at your shoulder and—crimsoning all over—you rip a few brown sheets from it and hand them to him. He wipes his hands while still staring at himself in the mirror, then crumples the towels and hurls them in your face. "I'll go get us a place up at the front," he says, and bumps past you hard. You're still trying to figure out if you're coming in or going out when Scott again addresses you. "So you did a great job catching those typos," he says as he adjusts his shirt and checks out his sideburns in the mirror. "I's thinking, next time we have a paper due in English, we could check each other's work." "Uh, sure." You hop out of the way as Green swaggers past and out the door. As the number of assholes seems to be diminishing, you take a chance on pretending to do some real business, and hobble over to a urinal. You unzip yourself, but your dick has shriveled up inside itself, and you doubt you could relax enough to loose a stream. Sneakers squeak on the tiles, and the door creaks on its hinges. There's a blast of water into the sink, and the sound of towels being ripped from the dispenser. The door creaks again. You're about to relax when a meaty hand claps you on the shoulder, and you almost launch yourself into the urinal. "Don't let 'em fuck around with you, Prescott," a reproachful voice sounds in your ear. Scott mauls the side of your head and trudges out. You take a couple of deep breaths, and tuck yourself back in. "Fuck," you sigh. "Are they gone?" a hollow voice calls out. "Jesus!" You spin around. "Caleb?" "Will?" You waddle back over to the sinks and look under the stall doors. A pair of sneakers drops into sight behind one of them. * * * * * It turns out that Caleb actually does want to get you into trouble. He has changed his mind on what to put into the time capsule, and he wants to sneak into Walberg's desk to do a swap out. He needs you to be a distraction while he does it. You've got other options for getting help on your project, though. Carson is a candidate, and Braydon definitely is one too. And it occurs to you that Scott Frazier might be one as well. Next: "The Court of the Basketball Kings" |
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