The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

Marching to a New Drummer

Previously: "The Piccolo Player" 

You blanch and almost back out of making the switch. Though Annabelle's being single (or so you'd assumed) had played no part in the decision to switch yourself into her place, you are almost completely thrown by the thought of having a boyfriend.

Particularly one who sounds pretty skeevy.

But it's too late now. Even if you chose a different identity, you'd likely have to leave Annabelle here a puppet, like Chelsea and Deanna, so you might as well turn yourself into her and have a look around first. And there's not much point in delaying the inevitable, either.

"You know this Luke guy?" you ask Deanna. She nods, looking pale. "Well, go downstairs and head him off. Tell him ... I dunno, something about how, uh, Annabelle sent you down to tell him that she'll be just a few more minutes. And you!" You point at Chelsea as Deanna skedaddles out the door. "Help me get her onto the floor and out of her clothes."

* * * * *

It takes nearly ten minutes for the mask to copy Annabelle, which gives you plenty of time to scrape your eyeballs over her naked form and body while you wait. She is toned and firm and smooth all over (save for some bug bites on her legs), with arms that are strong but not gross, well-shaped thighs and calves, a stomach that faintly shows ridge muscles, and a good ass. Her breasts disappoint, though, being small and rather flat. In fact, the longer you stare at her, the less girlish and the more boyish she looks. Save for the flaring hips and the underlying delicacy of her construction—there is something birdlike about her, as though she is all muscle and hollow bones—her body is not much different from yours when you were ... twelve?

Oh, but of course there is one other feature that marks her out as feminine rather than masculine, and your eye can't help locking onto the bush between her legs. Part of you, somewhat to your surprise, yearns thirstily to possess that bush and what's behind it—to touch and press and stroke it as part of your own body. Another part of you is revolted by the thought that there's a guy out there who might already be exercising a claim over it, and will try exercising that claim once it's in your possession.

Chelsea, standing beside you, prattles and giggles over Annabelle's body, until you tell her to please be quiet.

You are out of your own clothes by the time the mask reappears on Annabelle's face, and after snatching it up you drop the mask you made of yourself onto her. The change is less of a metamorphosis and more of a replacement: Now you see her; now you see him. A guy with your face blinks his eyes open and sits up with an astonished look on his face. That expression turns nervous and even a little ill as he studies you from beneath his stiff yellow bangs. "Er—" he starts to say.

"Get up and get dressed," you tell him gruffly. "You know where you are?" He shakes his head. "Chelsea—"

"Yes, Will!" The head cheerleader glints at you, with an eager to please look on her face.

"Help, uh, Will here into his things." You push your clothes, which are folded atop the conference room table, toward her. "And explain to him what's going on." You haven't the time, and certainly lack the enthusiasm, to bring your doppelganger up to speed. Instead, while Chelsea explains to him where he is and what is going on, you seal up and apply with shaking hand the enslaving paste to the inner surface of the mask, over which the name ANNABELLE JULIET EDWARDS blazes. That done, you slip under the table, lay on your back, and hold the mask over your face.

For a second you hesitate. Am I really going to do this? you ask yourself. Then you set your jaw and answer yourself, Yes.

You drop the mask onto your face. And the lights go out all over the world.

* * * * *

You wake suddenly, feeling very alert. You stare at the ceiling, which is very dark and low and close to your face, and listen. There are soft voices speaking nearby. One of them, a girl's voice, has a titter in it.

You sit up on one elbow, and discover that you are sprawling, naked, beneath a conference table, on a hard, nubby carpet that scratches and bites at your skin. Between the legs of the chairs that surround the table, you can see two other pairs of legs: the calves of two people sitting facing each other at the far end of the table.

You sit up straighter, and bang the top of your head on the underside of the table. The blow knocks this cockeyed world onto its side.

And then this cockeyed, sideways world looks right-side up to you. You suck in a deep breath, and exhale.

I am Will Prescott. But at the same time you know you are Annabelle Edwards. You look down past your small breasts at your toned body with a cool but alert interest. This is now my body, you think. At the same time: This was always my body.

But there is no time to sit and explore and adjust: You need to move. Nor is there any need to adjust, for you feel perfectly at home in this body and with this new mind—

This new mind. You pause in mid-scramble, for you find you have two quite distinct senses of yourself. There's the self that is Will Prescott, that remembers finding and getting rid of a book of magic spells, then being drawn back into it by Chelsea Cooper, and forming the intention of using those spells to replace and impersonate other people, including Annabelle Edwards. You remember your mother and father and brother; your friends Caleb and Keith; your class schedule and your locker, and your home and neighborhood and truck. All of it as immediate and real and familiar as it ever was.

And just as immediate and real and familiar are Annabelle's memories. Her father and mother (the one a captain and the other a lieutenant stationed at Fort Suffolk), and their runty little house on the southeastern part of town behind the chain-link fence and the old plastic slide in the back yard. The new (but used) Lexus her parents just bought, and the boxy Nissan Stanza they have just handed off to her. Her schedule and locker, and her friends Harmony and Veronica, the Foss cousins, and Mackenzie Fuller.

And yes, her boyfriend, Luke Romero.

Speaking of whom ... you murmur to yourself as you scramble out from under the conference table.

Yes, you've got two complete sets of memories, and you instinctively feel you have two distinct personalities to go with them. But one of them is real, and the other is ... Well, it's like a pair of tinted glasses through which you are looking at the world, giving it an Annabelle-coloring which you can ignore, but which you can also use to think and feel and act with. Easily. Naturally. Instinctively.

As though you'd been born and grown up this way.

You feel the eyes of Chelsea Cooper and Will Prescott (who have fallen silent) upon you as you snatch up panties and bra from off the table and quickly snap them on. With your baggy jogging shorts in one hand, you thumb a quick text to Deanna telling her to tell Luke you're on your way. He's gonna whine, I bet, you think as you pull on the shorts and wrench the tank top down over you. He always whines when I keep him waiting. You hop onto the table to pull on ankle socks and the ratty sneakers. And he's gonna want a good story about why I'm late. I guess I can blame it on Chelsea, you decide as you knot up the shoes. She just kept yammering on about that "band concert-car wash" fundraising idea, so I couldn't— You hop off the table, pull back your hair, and jam the hair band onto it.

"So, how do I look?" you ask Chelsea and Will, who are still staring.

"Fine, I guess," Chelsea says with a bright but tight grin. "Um, just like the girl?" Behind her reply you sense the judgement Not that there's anything special about the girl, and you can't help bristling a little. Chelsea is one of those girls, like Stacy and Christine, who's all shallow and opinionated about shit that doesn't matter.

"Okay, I'll be in touch," you say as you swing your backpack onto your shoulders.

"About my idea?" Chelsea eagerly asks.

"No, about other stuff. The plan."

Yes, the plan, you think as you march for the door. Except there isn't one, is there? This realization angers you—what a fathead you've been to rush into something like body-jacking without a plan behind it. But then you remember what Deanna said about Annabelle—what drew you to pick her as your alias: Maybe someone with her leadership skill and discipline would be good for us. A tight, hard grin fights its way onto your face.

But right now there's Luke to deal with.

It's a date night for you and Luke. He's busy at the Warehouse on Fridays and Saturdays, so Thursdays and Sundays are your nights to get together. Deanna was pestering you to meet with Chelsea, so you had him drop you off at the city library while he ran over to the Warehouse to take care of a little business. You had promised him you wouldn't be long.

A hard thrill runs through you as you remember all the ways Luke has of making Annabelle feel tender, sexy, and desirable. It would be out of character to fake a headache or some other excuse for canceling one of the high point of their week.

But there's the plan, and as devoted as Annabelle is to Luke, she also has a very disciplined mind. Got to come up with a plan, you think, and the instruments for it. Masks and metal bands need to be prepped. And there's no time like the present to get started.

Next: "The Boyfriend" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"