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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Faces Behind Faces"  You don't reply to Chelsea's demand to meet fifth period, and she doesn't wait for one. "I have to get back down to deal with my bitches," she says. "Give me a minute to distract them, and then you can get out." She leaves. And she's as good as her word. You sneak down the stairs, and when you get to the bottom you find the cheerleaders—all dressed out—standing in a semi-circle at the far end of the court with their backs to you. You use the opportunity to get into the boys' changing room, where you switch into your soccer clothes. You spend the rest of the period jogging and walking around the field, thinking. So Chen has figured out who you are. What can he do? Turn Chelsea's mean girls on you? As long as you're running his life, he has to do whatever you say, and if he makes your life hard, that just gives you a greater incentive to hunker down inside it. He's just trying to put himself over you, you decide. You can survive that. You just have to make sure he can't lay his hands on the grimoire or any of the toys it can make. You'll need a hiding place for them, though. He knows about all of his hiding places, and your hiding place at the elementary school too. Speaking of which, you need to check on the progress of the latest spell after school. * * * * * You put all these thoughts from your head during soccer practice, and concentrate on exhausting yourself for two periods with exercise. Then comes lunch, and you decide to scour the school for signs of Caleb, Martin Gardinhire, and/or Dane Matthias. They all seem to be in class, for you see no sign of them in fourth-period lunch. You're heading back around A wing, looking for some other company, when up ahead you spot Erik Carstairs, squatting in the grass with his fingers to his lips. He gives you a sharp glance at your approach, then with a smile takes another hit off the toke. You don't remember ever seeing so much weed consumed as you have during the last week. Oh, right, when you were still yourself you always avoided places where it was done in the open. "Weekend's comin' up, man," you say to Carstairs. "Set you up for some more?" "I'm good," he says. He wets his fingertips and extinguishes the joint. "Set your friends up?" "We're all good. Next time we're short a little, we'll talk to you." "Okay. Hey, you seen Matthias around?" "Dane?" Carstairs looks around, as though it's a trick a question. "Yeah, I think. Maybe a day or two back." And Carstairs is one of the smart football players. No wonder this season is shaping up as a disaster. "You see him, tell him I'm lookin' for him." "Why don't you text him, Chen? I'm not your fucking messenger boy." "Fucker's too wasted most times to check his phone. And if you were my messenger boy, I'd tell you to smack him around. That's what I need to see him about." Carstairs laughs, and you leave him. You are briefly stymied, until on a hunch you slip back around outside B wing and peer through the window into Walberg's class. And there he is, staring straight ahead with a look of intense concentration. You can't make him out clearly, but he seems to be wearing full-length pants and a button-down shirt. You don't remember Matthias even having a button-down shirt. And where's his sport coat? "Yeah, can you fuckin' believe it?" a gruff voice says behind you. You jump and spin. It's Gordon Black, gazing with boggle-eyed fascination into the same classroom. He glances down at you, then returns to staring at Matthias—or, rather, the apparition that has replaced him. "I saw him coming out of Mr. Peters' class second period, you know, 'cos I was comin' out of Boykin's?" He pauses, and giggles. "Boykin," he says again, and giggles. "What was I saying?" "How are you doing in your classes, man?" you ask him. "I dunno," he says. "Is that even me in there? Doesn't look like—" "Not him, you." You poke him in the chest. "The classes you're going to, how are you doing in them?" He shrugs. A cold feeling forms in your chest. "Who are you?" Gordon's eyes go vacant, and his face goes slack. "Fuck if I know any more, dude," he says softly. For a moment he ruminates on that very profound question, then trudges away. He's only gone a few steps, though, when he stops to look over his shoulder. "Oh yeah, Chelsea sent me to find you. She said to remind you about seeing her this afternoon." And he turns back toward the building. So she's pretty goddamned serious about. You decide to oblige her, and even go so far as to eat your lunch at the top of the stairs leading to the loft. * * * * * You don't have to worry about being caught out so close to the loft during the lunch periods because the gym courts are taken up with freshman and sophomore classes; and today the class that normally occupies this court is out jogging around the school track. The only danger would be if Patterson or Lynch or someone else with semi-official access to the loft came up and caught you loitering. But when the stairs creak, it's Chelsea coming up. She only gives you a sidelong glance as she unlocks the door and walks in. You follow and close it behind. Her ass, in those skin-tight Lees, is delectable. So is her face when she turns around, though she's wearing a stony expression. Your heart beats and your cock rises. "Okay, to business," she says. "And I know you got the brain for it, Prescott, 'cos it's my brain in there with you, apparently. First, we're going down to see Karol Mathis tomorrow morning. Starting today, you'll give me all the money from your sales, and I'll deposit it with him." What? "I don't think he'll like that," you stammer. "I've been dealing with him longer than you, I know he'll be fine with it. He only cares about the money, not the package that delivers it. You just explain that you won't be able to come in anymore, but that you trust me to turn the money over to him." "Why would I trust you? I mean, look at you." "Yes, look at me," she says. "That's why you trust me. And if you play ball with me, Prescott, I'll make sure that tomorrow he sees exactly why you trust me with the money." She smiles, and you almost swallow your tongue. "Okay, that's first. Second, you're gonna start getting really aggressive about dealing. No more of this six eighths a month from the dipshits. I want Evans and them pushing at least three ounces a month. Each." Fuck? "They haven't got the stones!" "They will, because you're going to put them behind some new faces, better faces, smarter faces. Like you were telling me yesterday, about growing the business by moving into some other position, some other—" She pauses. "Some other identity. You're going to do that with them. Like you did with me, you're going to put them inside—" "That's impossible!" you explode when you finally find your voice. "Why? You did it with me." You take a deep breath. "Okay, first, where do I put the people they replace? Like, right now you're pretending to be Chelsea, so Chelsea is—" "You do like with you did with Gardinhire and Johansson. Johansson became Gardinhire, and Gardinhire became Johansson. Switch them." "But Gardinhire didn't know the first thing about how to be Johansson! And it wasn't going to be a permanent thing, it was only for a little while, only to get some— And Gardinhire was smarter than Caleb, he couldn't fuck up Caleb's academics, so it wasn't going to hurt Caleb's life. I can't swap Evans and them for just anyone!" "I don't give a shit about anybody's academics, Prescott, least of all the dipshits. They're dumbasses. Anyone can take their classes, pass them. Fuck, swap the dipshits in for smart people, and the smart people can pass their classes for them." And while you're choking on that, she continues. "I'm thinking that one of them needs to go in for Trantham, I like the idea of building a network in Eastman. Another one needs to go down in the sophomore class, start setting up a network there. Last one can go in for Roth. I think you said he could be a good—" "And what if I just tell you no, I'm not going to do it?" She smiles mirthlessly. "Ask what happens if you say yes. If you say yes, then I don't fuck you up after you give me my life back." "That just gives me an reason not to give it back," you retort. Her smile widens. "Fine. Keep my old life for yourself. I'll keep this one. Why wouldn't I want to keep it?" She thrusts her bosom out. "Look at me." You do, and groan. "And the third thing," Chelsea continues, "you and Johansson are going to swap yourselves out with some of those rich fucks, like Gardinhire and those guys again. Just one-day jobs, long enough to lift all their loose change and—" "Leave Caleb out of this," you say firmly. "This is just between you and me." "If it's just between us, what was he doing with you at that school yesterday?" "He fucking quit on me. He couldn't handle it anymore." "Then make him handle it, Prescott. If you can't, then you're an even bigger pussy than him, 'cos you at least got this—" She jabs you in the chest with a sharp fingernail. "As a crutch." "I'm not doing it," you say firmly. "Caleb is out and he stays out." "That's too bad," Chelsea says. "Because that means you have to go see Kirkham, show him all this shit like you're going to show Evans and them, and then you and him start fucking over the rich twats." You lurch on your feet. Kirkham? If you don't use Caleb to steal from the rich kids, you'll have to pair up with Kirkham? Next: "Whose Life Is It Anyway?" |
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