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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Things Best Left Buried"  You think about calling Caleb and getting his help, the way you helped him when he dug up the capsule. But you quickly decide that would be silly: He wouldn't understand what you were trying to do. So on Saturday night, when it's dark—but not so late that your parents will think it strange or suspicious that you're going out—you drive back to the school. You park in the farthest corner of the student lot and make the long journey to the other end of the school, to the spot where the time capsule is buried. There are two of them, actually: You heard that Walberg's other Sociology class also buried a capsule. You wonder a little at that. You're taking Sociology II, and the other class is the Sociology I class you took last year. (You should have learned from that experience not to sign up for Walberg, but there was nothing else first period this semester that looked better.) You don't remember doing a time capsule last year. It must be some hare-brained idea he got recently, you decide as round the corner of A wing. This part of the grounds can't be like a graveyard, packed shoulder to shoulder with time capsules. You find the spot with no difficulty: It's the same pile of earth that Caleb half dug up last night, and there are no other piles around. The other class must not have buried theirs yet. It's not hard work, exactly, but it's tedious and your shoulders and arms quickly get very tired. You're glad that the ground isn't packed hard, and that the capsule isn't deeply buried. Your mind wanders, and you wonder why there aren't any markers. How is anyone supposed to know that something is buried here? Or is that the idea, that it'll just get stumbled over at some point? Probably Mr. Walberg explained all this, but you weren't paying attention. You often don't. A couple of times you pause, hunkering down when a car sweeps past: there is more traffic at this time of night than there was last night. You also think you hear voices a few times, but when you pause you hear nothing. It must be the breeze bouncing off the walls. After what seems like an hour but which is probably closer to twenty minutes, the tip of the shovel scrapes the top of the box. You clear it all away and pull the box from the earth. It's locked. For a moment you toy with dropping the book down into the hole, putting the box on top, and not worrying any more about it. But if wanted to do that, you could have just buried the book in a hole by the river. So you bang and pry at the metal chest with the edge of the shovel until it flies open. There's not a lot of room inside the chest, but after redistributing some of the contents you are able to fit everything snugly inside. You close it up, drop it into the hole, and with more speed than finesse cover it all over again. As you drive out of the student lot you notice two dark, humped shapes: cars. They hadn't been there when you'd arrived, or if they were you didn't notice them. That gives you serious pause for a moment. But you didn't see anyone, and if anyone had seen you, you're pretty sure they'd have come over to see what you were up to. You now wonder again about those voices. But you shake it all from your head because, after all, you hadn't got caught. * * * * * "So what did Walberg say about it in class?" Jenny Ashton asks. Her eyes are wide. "Nothing," says Caleb. "I don't think he knew." "Oh, he knew," says Carson Ioeger, taking a hard bite from an apple. You're eating lunch with him and Lamont again, and Jenny and Paul Davis are also in attendance. "I heard they found it first thing this morning." "It" is the hole in the quad, out of which a metal chest had been pulled and its contents scattered over the grounds. You only found out second period, from Andy Tackett. "I hear there's going to be an announcement, or even an assembly about it," he'd told you. "Well, he didn't say anything to us first period," Caleb says. "No one asked him about it either. I'm sure if anyone had heard, Kelsey or Amanda would have, and they'd have to pry those two off the ceiling with a crowbar, they'd be so mad. Like it matters." "Did Walberg look like he was mad?" Paul Davis asks. "Walberg always looks pissed off," says Lamont. "I bet he's in trouble with the administration, though. You don't just bury valuable stuff on school property in full view of the whole body and expect none of the lowlifes—" "There wasn't anything valuable in the box," Caleb sneers. He slaps you in the chest. "Will only put in a bottle of cologne. I only put in a thumb drive." "Well, that's fifteen bucks or so," Keith Tilley observes. "Add it all up—" "It doesn't matter if it actually is valuable," Lamont says. "Some of the guys around here—too many of the guys around here—would see that box in the ground and decide to dig it up even if they knew it was all a lot of junk." They continue talking in this manner, and you continue listening, saying nothing, for with a very heavy and guilt-stricken heart you are certain that you were cause of it. Those cars you saw, those voices you thought you heard: It must have been the vandals. They must have seen you, and instead of interrupting you, they'd waited until you were gone and then dug it up again themselves. But is it guilt that you feel, or fear that an investigation will lead to you, and you'll take the blame for it? Caleb must be feeling the same sense of unease, for he keeps shooting you dark looks. When the bell rings and everyone gets up to go to class, he follows you in. "We're going to keep our mouths shut, right," he says in a low growl. "Of course. I'm not an idiot." But it casts a serious pall over the rest of the day, a pall not much relieved when you notice that Thomason and his friends have apparently grown bored with their game of last week, and are no longer appearing at your locker. * * * * * Mr. Walberg makes an official statement the next morning at the start of class. "I'm sure you've all heard what happened to our time capsule over the weekend," he says. "For those of you who happen to care, the material was recovered and reinterred, this time in a location that will not be disclosed. Yes, Ms. Blankenship," he says as Kelsey hurls her hand into the air. "Was everything recovered?" she asks in a shrill, hot voice. "A complete accounting was made," he replies. "But was everything that got put in the time capsule recovered?" "We made a careful accounting—" "Because I contributed a pair of silver spurs that were really valuable, aside from their historical value, and if they're missing my family—" A groan goes up from the class, and Kelsey glares waspishly around the room. "Anyone who wishes to know if their contribution has been accounted for can see me after class or after school," Mr. Walberg says. "Meanwhile, this doesn't change the nature of the assignment. You all contributed an item, and on Friday I want an essay from you describing that item and why you contributed it." Another groan goes up, but Mr. Walberg only smiles puckishly, then turns to the day's lecture. * * * * * You come real close to dropping the whole thing: It seems like every time you try to do something about that book, it rebounds on you. But after school you stop by Walberg's room. For a moment you're taken aback by the sight of Dane Matthias sprawling in a desk in front of Walberg's, but then you remember that he has detention here. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Prescott," the teacher asks from his desk. "You have a question about the time capsule?" "Well, kind of." You're slightly taken aback by the rapt interest Dane is showing in this impromptu conference, and during that pause Mr. Walberg pulls a notebook from his desk. "William Prescott," he says in a strong voice, dragging his fingertip down a page to your name. He draws it across to a column. "Contributed, one bottle of aftershave." He gives you a sidelong look. "Can't wait to see what you have to say about that." His fingertip slides over another inch. "Recovered, one bottle of aftershave." He closes the book with a thump. "All accounted for. The future will have body spray, or whatever that stuff was." He folds his hands and regards you evenly. "Uh, was there anything else found by that hole?" "Most everything was found, Mr. Prescott," he says. "I'm not at liberty to divulge—" "What I mean is, was there anything ... extra found out there?" His eyebrows shoot up. "Extra? What do you mean?" "I mean, things that weren't supposed to go in the time capsule but were mixed in with the stuff anyway." Now the teacher looks very puzzled. "Nothing went into the time capsule that wasn't on my list." "But maybe there was something laying nearby, something that got found when you were picking up all the time capsule stuff?" "Oh! Are you saying you lost something nearby, wondering if it got picked up by mistake?" "Well, sort of." It's going to sound very silly, and you don't like the expression—one of hooded glee—that has crept onto the teacher's face. "It, uh, was a book, about this big." You fumble with your hands. "And it was bound in red and gold leather. I think I might have left it out behind the music wing—" You trail off as Mr. Walberg's expression changes radically again, to one of incredulity. "No, Mr. Prescott," he says. "We certainly did not find anything like that. We did find this, however." From the desk he takes a necklace made of metal links, looped through which are five heavy rings made of what looks like silver or steel. The kind of thing that someone like Thomason would wear. Next: "Guilty Consciences All Around" |
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