The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

The Whole New You

Previously: "The Offspring of Two Cousins" 

"I'm gonna go hang out with Caleb!" you holler as you pass through the living room for the garage.

"You don't have to shout," your dad growls from the sofa, where he's curled up. "You gonna be back in time for school tomorrow?"

The question staggers you. "Uh ..."

But when your dad raises his head to glare at you, you quickly turn that drone into a "Yeah!" With a snort, your dad puts his head back down.

Maybe I shouldn't have diddled with the mask by putting Umeko in it, you think as you run for the garage. I could'a git someone to cover for me at home while I stayed out all night!

Oh, but who would want to cover for me?

* * * * *

You drive around, looking for a quiet spot where you can change into the mask, and finally find one in the parking lot behind a shopping strip. You are stiff all over and your face feels funny as you pry yourself out of the passenger-side footwell, where you hunkered down out of sight to put the mask on. Anxiously, you twist the rearview mirror around and look into it. The face you saw in your bedroom blinks back at you. Gingerly you touch and pull at it, then give it a good, hard rub. It feels completely natural.

I'm someone else! you keep telling yourself as you drive slowly around town. You have to keep repeating it because you don't feel any different. Only when you brush back your hair—you've discarded the sloppy white ball cap you usually sport; your hair feels too thick and bushy to be tamped down under it—are you reminded that you don't look like yourself.

Maybe if I got some new clothes, you think, that would make me feel like I'm someone new. But your money is back at your house. Still, there's nothing to stop you from going shopping and trying stuff on. You could find some new clothes, then come back later to buy and pick them up.

So you drive up to Northgate Place, a giant complex of strip centers by the mall. There's a number of clothing stores there, including Old Navy. You've never liked shopping for clothes before, but you feel a hard pulse of excitement now.

A scent of soft fabrics envelopes you as you step inside, and you flare your nostrils. What should I start with? you wonder. Shirts? Pants? Shoes? You instinctively swing toward the jeans department, then wheel away at the last moment. Why am I buying something I already own? you chide yourself. The shorts you're wearing fit your new frame fine, so the jeans you own should too. By the same token, you shouldn't be looking at new shorts or slacks. Unless— You move over to where they keep the trousers. All your pants are a boring beige or tan. What about a wilder color? Something in ... green? gray? You roll your eyes at your own timidity, but the pink-orange trousers that catch your eye seem a bit much.

What about tops? Again, habit pulls you over to rack after rack of t-shirts before you remember that you should be looking for something different, something to make you feel like you're a different person. But how far to go? What would look good on you? Again, you feel pulled back toward the racks of sloppy t-shirts like you're already wearing.

What if someone sees me and laughs? That's the thought that keeps beating at the bottom of your brain as you look through the racks, and it's not until it's beaten its way to the very front do you stop to consider how ridiculous it is. So what if they laugh? you remind yourself. They won't be laughing at me. They'll be laughing at the guy I look like. And when I see them again at school, they won't point me out to their friends and say, You won't believe what I saw that asshole wearing the other day. They'll just walk right on by. Because they won't see the guy they were laughing at.

Still, you can't keep yourself from shaking a little as you take a white-and-black checkerboard hoodie, a gray v-neck t-shirt, and those pink-orange pants you spotted earlier back to the changing rooms to try on.

* * * * *

You are holding up and examining a pair of distressed overalls—and are almost giddy with amazement at the courage you're showing by doing so—when you hear girlish giggles nearby. Instinctively you flinch and almost drop the overalls. But then you catch yourself: They don't know it's me, you remind yourself, and look around.

There's five of them, a couple of racks over, at the edge of one of the girls' sections. They don't seem to be paying attention to you, and it's not you but one of the outfits that they're laughing over.

You're still staring when one of them raises her eyes and locks onto yours. For a moment you stare at each other. Then she looks away.

Your heart is hammering in your chest as you turn to put the overalls back. You move crab-wise to another rack, so that you keep half-turned toward the girls. You don't look at them, though. Instead, you catch your own reflection in a nearby mirror.

That's what they see, you tell yourself. Hot Euro-Asian guy. (You are hot, aren't you?) Guy they don't know but maybe wouldn't mind getting to know? 'Cos there probably aren't a lot of guys out there who look like you?

Then you catch sight of your clothes. Fuck. Why do you have to be dressed out in a boring burgundy t-shirt, cargo shorts, and sneakers? You need to be dressed out in ... Well, in distressed overalls. Otherwise they're gonna think you're what you are. Just another dorky boy timidly thinking about changing his image.

You're still trying to psyche yourself up when the girls' voices are raised again in laughter. You look up and do a small double take. A short, grinning red-head—Cassie Harper—has joined them.

You've known Cassie forever, and you've got her this semester in one of your classes. She's a chatterbox who talks a mile a minute while hardly ever saying anything interesting, but she's sweet and friendly and surprisingly easy to tolerate so long as you know you won't be stuck in an elevator or on a road trip with her. She's talking now, but only half the girls are paying any attention to her. Not that she seems to mind, so long as some of the girls are an audience.

And even though she can't recognize you, her appearance now gives you the courage to approach the girls.

"Hey," you say, and your heart thumps hard when half a dozen bright, querying faces swing in your direction. "This is gonna sound like a weird question, but do you all know of any good places in town to go, uh, clothes shopping at?" You feel a prickling sweat break out on the back of your head.

They stare at you, then break into giggles as they exchange glances. "You're standing in one," says a brunette girl you know but whose name you can't quite place.

"Well, I know that!" You hope your grin looks like a laugh and not the rictus of pants-soiling terror it really is. "But I mean, like, not as, uh, boring? I'm new in town," you hastily add as the lie just pops into your head. "I just moved here. My family just moved here," you stammer. "So I don't know, uh—"

More giggles and exchanged glances. "Well, there's Nirdlinger's downtown," says one girl. "The Shoppes next door if you can afford them," says another. "What's wrong with boring?" challenges an impudent third, while a fourth says, "Where'd you move here from?"

"California," you improvise. Well, it's far away, and it sounds fairly exotic in Saratoga Falls. "San Diego."

"Ooh!" says one of the girls, and the others look impressed as well. "What school are you going to?" asks another, and a third adds, "How long've you been in town?"

School? Shit! You can't answer that! "Uh, none. Yet. I mean, we— I think I'm being homeschooled. This year only, though, I mean. But I'd be a senior if I, uh—" You break out in an itch as they all look puzzled. Too many lies! "It's a complicated story," you lamely conclude.

One of the girls—the impudent one, who has long, dark-red hair—looks you up and down. "Whaddayu think's wrong with the way you're dressed now?" but before you can even begin to answer, the brunette elbows Cassie in the side and says, "Why don't you take him over to Thrifty Nifties. We could all go over there!"

Cassie, it suddenly occurs to you, has been uncharacteristically silent all this time, and as you look at her, you find her giving you an intent, wide-eyed stare. For one horrible moment it seems to you that she must have penetrated your disguise, and you have a terrible vision of her pointing and laughing and challenging you: "Will Prescott, take that ridiculous thing off right now! Who do you think you're fooling?"

But then you realize—and this is almost worse—that she just likes what she sees. So much so, she's lost her voice.

Confirmation comes when the others take up the suggestion—"Yeah, take him to your place!" "Give him a discount!" "We'll all go!"—and she blushes hard.

Talking to girls did not include Talking to Cassie Harper when you had the idea. And maybe you'd be doing Cassie a favor if you deflected the gang from whatever store it is they're talking about.

Next: "Clothing Makes the Man" 

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