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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "An Offer You Should and Do Refuse"  Your hands and feet are numb as you pull into a parking space at the far end of the Westside student parking lot the next morning. The numbness has nothing to do with the chill of the morning -- it's not particularly cold -- and has everything to do with the person you'll be meeting in a few minutes. The call came while you were still on Porter. "I just parked," he said. "Where the fuck are you?" "Still on the other side of the river." "Jesus. Just get out here. I got nothing to do but jack off until you show." As you dismount from your truck you see him approaching: a guy who looks just like Caleb Johansson. The face and figure are the same, and he's wearing the usual dopey clothes: button-down shirt tucked inside Levis. But there's an uncharacteristic swagger in his gait, and his eyes are hard, and they prowl over the lot, as though searching out trouble. "There you are," he says. "How do I look?" "Normal." "Fuck. I was afraid of that." He pulls at the shirt. "I looked in the mirror while shaving, and it was all I could do to keep from drowning myself in the toilet." He does a little double-take, and cocks his head as he studies you. His hand darts out to grab your chin, and you jerk away. "Huh," he says. "You and me'll switch off tonight. You're nothing to brag about, but your face doesn't kill me, and at least you dress better than this." He tugs at his shirt again. It's a funny compliment to get, as you're wearing your usual combo of cargo shorts and t-shirt -- exactly the kind of ensemble that Eva derided as "dressing like you're still in fifth grade." "Thanks," you grumble. "I'll take my compliments where I can." "Let's get to first period. I don't want to run into Gordon Black." He smirks briefly before his face falls. "Shit. Does Johansson know how to play basketball?" "He knows the rules." "But how is he on the court?" You try to come up with a diplomatic euphemism, and fail. "He can't dribble the ball without hitting his feet. Usually both of them at the same time." "Fuck. Don't these masks copy muscle memory?" "They don't copy memories at all. Regular memory, anyway. For muscle memory, I don't know." He's lost a lot of the color in his face. "I don't mind the rest of it," he mutters. "But if he's bricking it on the court -- " A grim and ghastly expression settles on his face as he stares at the gym. "Then why did you let him take over for you?" That was a question you had dared only once to put to Gordon at the library last night, and which he hadn't answered. Instead, he'd just pressed you tell him everything you could about the life and habits of Caleb Johansson: Where does he live? Who with? What's his schedule? Who are his friends? What does he do in his spare time? With the help of photos on your phone you were able to pair names and faces so that he could navigate Caleb's social life. He had worked hard -- surprisingly so -- to master what you told him. He shows it now, by nodding his head at the approaching figure instead of answering your question. "That's Keith Tilley, right? What's he coming this way for?" "Probably because he saw us. We're his best friends, remember?" "Sure, but it looks more like he's running away from something." Yeah, Keith is looking over his shoulder. "Maybe he caught sight of Seth Javits." "Oh, that's right." Caleb -- for that's who he looks like -- snickers in an ugly way. "Yo, Tilley!" he shouts. "Javits pounded your ass today yet?" "Fuck you," Keith says as he falls into your company with a nervous hop. "See how you like it when -- " He gives Caleb a dirty look. "Yeah, you guys go on in. I'll catch up to you, like, later." He hustles off toward his car. "I don't like that," you say. "You're right, he was running from something. Let's take the long way in, through the athletic fields." You point off to the open grounds behind the school. "Don't be a fucking pussy," Caleb says, and sets off toward the gym. You watch him for a moment before running after to catch up. He's walking in a very un-Caleb-like way: head forward, arms out from his sides, a swagger. It's the kind of walk that Caleb might be able to get away with if pushing through the halls of an elementary school. You don't see it working in Westside. "Sociology Walberg, Calculus Kowalski," he's muttering when you jog up next to him. "Chemistry Gelding -- " "What are you doing?" "Reciting my schedule. English Gladstone -- " "Are you going to be able to handle Caleb's AP classes?" "No," he says. "You and him were switching out faces when it came to those classes, right? We'll do the same thing starting tomorrow. We'll meet this afternoon, figure out a schedule for swapping around during the day." You stop, then run to catch up again just as he enters the breezeway between the gym and theater. "We're going to be doing this permanently?" But he doesn't answer before Gordon Black appears out of nowhere, grabs him by the neck and the belt, and hustles him away. * * * * * It's just like you've seen before, except that Gordon's grasp is a little clumsier, and Caleb is fighting back. But he can't break free. Normally you'd be running the other way, lest Steve Patterson or Jason Lynch or one of the other psychos that Gordon hangs out with should grab you next. But this time you follow, though at a distance, while dancing anxiously from foot to foot. Gordon and Caleb go around the back of the school, past the baseball diamond and the Agricultural Annex, to the portables -- in other words, where you all wound up yesterday at lunch. The small cluster of students sitting in front scatters when they see Gordon coming. Behind the portables, cut off from view from the school, Gordon slams Caleb up against a wall. "Take it back," he snarls. Caleb grins at him. Like everything else today, this isn't a normal Caleb grin either. It's serene and mischievous, and when he laughs there's a snigger in it. "Take what back?" "Your fucking life. We're gonna go inside one of these portables and take off the masks -- " "Did you see Chelsea yet?" "Fuck Chelsea! I mean -- " It's very weird to see Gordon turn pale and swallow. "I don't care! I'm not spending the day like this!" "The day's the best part. What happened at practice?" "I told Patterson I was sick. I couldn't hold onto the fucking ball when I tried bouncing it." "Jesus." Caleb's smile turns into a sneer, and he looks over Gordon's shoulder at you. "What about you, Prescott, can you handle a ball?" "Not good enough for the team," you squeak. Gordon drops Caleb and grabs you. "I don't care. You and me'll switch if this fucker won't take his life back. Where's your mask?" "Back in the school basement." "Fuck! I'm not -- !" "Stop shitting yourself, Johansson," says Caleb. "Get to the end of the day and it'll all be fine. Here, what's your last class of the day?" "Physics." "Not your last class, shithead." Caleb pokes Gordon in the chest. "The last one you're supposed to go to. You're supposed to have my fucking schedule memorized." Gordon thinks a moment. "History, right?" he says, and he says it the way you'd imagine Gordon saying it: with a furrowed brow, and confused and angry eyes. "That's right. So after class, meet me in the C wing boys' bathroom. We'll switch there so I can handle practice after class. Then we'll all meet at that basement to switch back again." Gordon chews his lip. "Could I still have a shot at Chelsea?" "Only until you take that mask off." Gordon looks between you and Caleb, and his face is black. "Alright," he snarls. "I'll handle the rest of today, but I'm not spending another night like this." He stomps off, and Caleb's gait as Gordon is much more in character than Gordon's gait as Caleb had been. Caleb laughs and brushes himself down. Your gulp. "What did he see at your house last night?" The smile remains on Caleb's face, but it vanishes from his eyes. "You'll find out. 'Cos like I said, I'm going home as you tonight." * * * * * In Walberg's class, Caleb relaxes in his chair with his feet up on the desk in front of him, and scopes out the girls. He's so open about it that Kelsey Blankenship snarls at him to take his eyes off her. He responds by biting his thumb at her and blowing a kiss. She turns crimson. "Stop shitting yourself," he says when he catches you gaping at him. But he is alert all through class and takes good notes, though his handwriting looks nothing like Caleb's. You're shaking your head in wonderment when you part after class. You share second period with Keith, and he asks with a snicker what happened when you reached the gym. "Did you know Gordon was waiting for us?" you ask. "Why didn't you warn us?" "I would've, but Johansson had to be a dick. So what happened?" "Fuck you, that's what happened." But though he presses, you refuse to say another word on the subject. So when you meet "Caleb" at his locker at lunch, you are inclined to propose another eating place he when talks about grabbing Tilley for the "usual" lunchtime routine. Next: "A Theory of Bully Management" |
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