The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

The New Girl in Your Life

Previously: "Another Story From Cindy" 

"Yeah, I'll try it out," you mumble. You look around. "Not here, not where everyone can see—"

But Cindy is already sweeping the stuff back into bags. You help her, and together you carry the supplies back out to your truck, in the bed of which, in the corner of the parking lot behind the coffee shop, you prepare the glue you told her about.

* * * * *

"Urgk," you grumble to yourself when next you are aware of yourself as a constituent part of the universe. Your eyes are clenched shut, and you've an acrid-feeling headache. It's the feeling you have when you've woken from a too-short nap.

Though why you are napping when you've got a party downstairs that you've got to get back to ...

You feel yourself wedged up in a sitting position, and your clothes are bunched up all around you, and you twist around inside them as you pry your eyes open. It's all very confusing, and you frown as you look around. You're behind the wheel of a car or something, and you're parked in front of a brick wall, and when you look over you find Cindy Vredenburg sitting in the passenger side, staring back at you with a freaked out look on her face.

You're slammed with memories of the afternoon just past, and that headache flares into a searing migraine. You close your eyes again with a groan, and lean forward to rest your forehead against the wheel of your truck.

Then, like a cyclone that dies and dissipates, the chaos inside your head clears, and the whirling memories, like falling debris, collapses into a complex of neat, tidy patterns.

On the one hand there is you, Will Prescott. And on the other hand there is also you, Catherine Muskov. You just have to decide which you is you.

Which is easy enough to do. But it's still funny the way you can feel the pattern of Catherine's mind and memories next to your own, even after you've lifted your face from the wheel of your truck. It's like a coat, you decide, as you let that other mind briefly slip over and inside yours, before shrugging it off. On, and you feel Catherine's confidence and amusement with the world, and you feel the pull that comes with thinking of your friends, the desire to find them and hang out with them, to laugh over the hundreds of private jokes you share. Off, and you feel yourself a teenage boy with a few close friends but little social presence in the school. But even off you can feel Catherine nearby, and even on you can feel yourself beneath the lightly worn mind and memories of Catherine Muskov.

It isn't in an instant that you feel and learn this about yourself, but it comes pretty quickly as you smile crookedly at and through the back brick wall of 100 Twentieth Street. You're conscious of Cindy's heavy breathing, but she says nothing, and not until you have got comfortable with having Catherine Muskov draped lightly around you, so that you can sense her personality without being overwhelmed by it, do you turn your crooked smile back onto Cindy. Maybe it's because you've got Catherine's eyes in back of your own, but Cindy seems a lot less imposing now. She's just another girl at school ...

"Hey," you say, and your smile widens, "so I guess I've—"

You catch yourself at the sound of your voice. It is soft, light, and high in register.

That's when you remember that there's probably more about you that's changed than your set of memories.

It's not much of a surprise when some long, brunette hair falls across your face, for Catherine at least is used to that even if you aren't. But when you twitch a lock of it between your fingertips and study it, you find it has a lot less body. And when you look down, the front of your t-shirt is swelled out over a much smaller couple of boobs. And when you grab the rearview mirror and twist it around so you can study your face—

It's no one you (with two sets of memories) can ever remember seeing before.

It's like it's halfway between Jenny's face and Yumi's, you decide after you've recovered from the surprise, and come to grips with it.

Your new features are attractive and regular, with a strong (but not over-large) nose over a full (but not puffy) set of lips. You have cheekbones, but they are set in a face that is neither as narrow as Jenny's nor as round as Yumi's. Your eyes are dark, with a hint of Oriental almond to their shape—enough to be exotic without looking Chinese or Japanese. They are widely spaced, as are your dark eyebrows. Your hair is long and there is a lot of it, which is good because it hasn't got much body. It is the color of coffee that's been softened by a drop or two of cream.

As for the rest of your body, you can't tell, for it is lost in your comically overlarge t-shirt and cargo pants. Your feet swim inside your shoes when waggle them.

"Oh my God," Cindy finally says.

"Wow," you agree. "I know, right? If it's freaky for you, imagine what it's like for me!"

"What about the, uh, the—?" Cindy wipes her fingertips across her brow.

"You mean Catherine? Like with you today? She's in here with me too." You look back into the mirror, and feel a second wave of surprise and pleasure washing over you. "I think she'd like having this face!"

"Oh, Jesus," Cindy says. There's a cringe in her voice. "Can I—" She puts out a finger, and hesitates before touching you.

You giggle. "Go on," you urge her. "You can play rougher than that."

Cindy flushes and pulls her finger back. "At least it feels real," she mutters.

"I think it is," you reply. "But I'd have to check out— Oh!"

"What?"

Slowly you drop your hands to your chest, and cradle your boobs through your t-shirt. They are like apples. "I've got breasts," you tell her. "I wonder if I've got— Or if I don't have—!"

"Ewww!" Cindy cries. "You wouldn't! You can't!"

"I think I have to."

"No! You—!"

"Chill out, Cindy. I mean, for fuck's sake, I've got Catherine's memories up here with me, if I know all about— And if wanted to I could—"

You freeze, and turn narrowed eyes onto Cindy, who is cringing in the passenger side of your truck. "Wait a minute," you say. "Today in English. You were scoping out Michael!"

"I was not!" Cindy shrieks.

"You were! I remember, Cindy, I even remember you talking to Seth before coming out here! Whoa!" you gasp. "I guess that thing you were wearing recorded everything you did while you had it on! But in English, you were scoping out Catherine's boyfriend! And weren't you—? Were you reliving their last camping trip out to Russian Lake?"

With a loud squeal, Cindy wrenches the truck door open and jumps out. You watch with amusement as she scampers out of the parking lot and down the street.

* * * * *

You've packed up all the stuff that you used to make the mask you are now wearing and are scrolling through your phone, wondering if you should use Catherine's passwords to get into her social media, when you are interrupted by a tap at your window. It's Cindy, returned from her brief flight. She signals you to get out.

"If you're going to go around looking like that," she says with a touch of mischief—and a lot more poise and confidence than she was showing just ten minutes ago, "then you'll need some clothes. Come on." She gestures you to follow her over to her car.

"I haven't got any money."

"I'll pay."

So she takes you a few blocks away to Nirdlinger's, a department store that has been a fixture of Saratoga Falls for more than a century. It gives you a thrill to go in there to shop in your new body, but to your disappointment Cindy leads you into the changing rooms in the back and thrusts you into one, telling you that you're not dressed fit to be seen in public. Over the next hour or two she brings you things to try on—jeans, shorts, and skirts; blouses, t-shirts, vests and sweaters—with her squeezed into the changing booth with you so she can examine you privately. She also buys you a package of panties and a bra.

She's not going to buy you a wardrobe, but after going through lots of choices, you finally settle on a pair of olive-green trousers that ride low on your hips, and a black t-shirt that (on a whim that leaves Cindy grimacing) you tie into a knot just below your ribcage to expose your belly. (It hasn't got any definition to the muscles, but it is flat and curves deeply inward, with a shallow scoop of a navel in its center. For shoes, you make do with a pair of cheap flip-flops. It is with a chin held high that you stride out into the parking lot afterward, your own original clothes bundled up inside a paper bag.

"Now you need a name," Cindy says after you're back in her car.

"What for? I'm not going to live like this!" you protest.

"I know that, but this girl still needs a name."

"Why?"

"For whenever we get together," Cindy says. "You can dress up this way when we need to meet. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she asks in a sleek, sly tone. "It seemed like you were having a lot of fun at the department store. Anyway," she continues as you are struck into silence, "you'll need a name to go with the face, in case someone sees us and I have to introduce you.

Next: "Girl Troubles" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 1)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)"