The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

Date with Another's Destiny

Previously: "Taming a Big Dog" 

You give your new reflection a long, cool stare.

You are tall and lean and muscular all over, with a flat stomach with softly visible abs, and a strong chest matted with dark brown hair. There's hair on your forearms too, and a lot more on your calves.

As you twist about to check yourself out from various angles, you accidentally catch your own eyes, and freeze. Behind them you can see the chill and unfriendly thought forming: Go ahead and scope yourself out. Faggot.

You reply with a snort, and one side of your mouth goes up a little as you taunt the shade of Steve Patterson by cupping your balls at him. Of course, he does the same to you, and his expression softens into a cold leer.

But you're wasting time. You're on a schedule, and that phone call from Gordon—not to mention the fuckery with the masks—has put you behind.

* * * * *

It was nice of Yumi to fold your clothes for you, and after you pull out the change that Patterson brought from his kit, you shove the others into the bag. Quickly you dress, pulling on fresh boxers, a stiff pair of rugged Levis, a white t-shirt, and a plaid button-up dress shirt. You sit on the dorm refrigerator to pull on socks and to tie on a new pair of red canvas high-top sneakers. Then you shrug yourself into the letterman jacket and move the wallet into your hip pocket. You step back over to the mirror to straighten your hair a little. (Steve's hair is as stiff as your own and is good at holding its shape, but it's also short and well-trimmed, with wave at the front and top that makes it easy to manage.) So groomed and primped, you flash yourself a quick, mirthless smile, and turn to scoop up your backpack. You're down on the gym floor, pumping along on legs that still feel a little unnaturally long, before you pull your phone.

There's a text from Gordon, which must have come in while you were still unconscious: Chels wants know if your good.

Tell her ok, you reply, leaving now. A hot and sour memory comes to you, of mounting to the loft to find out what Gordon wanted to see you about, and of being caught unexpectedly in a bear hug by him. It surprised you, but you were fast to twist and fight back, not even bothering to yell a What the fuck? at him. But something banged into the side of your head, and the next thing you knew you were waking up naked in the loft with the sense that something very strange had happened that would either excite or alarm you if you could just remember what it was. When you did remember, of course, it did both, for a long and intense few seconds, until you settled down and just let it play cool. Outside, you pitch your pack into the back seat of the car and fold yourself up behind the wheel. You slide on your sunglasses before settling in to thumb a text to Brenda Decarlo.

That's the girl you have a date with.

* * * * *

She's in Patterson's first-period English class, and she's one of the high points of his day. She is not a particularly beautiful girl, and she is well over on the chunky/flabby side. She's a poor dresser, too, and not in an exciting "trashy" way, either: just jeans and long-sleeve t-shirts and hoodies, with trailing hair and minimal makeup. She is—he supposes, and so you suppose too—just a diligent, dull middle-class high school senior on her way to a state or community college where she will major in some kind of business degree so she can get an office job while looking for a husband.

But she's got one thing going for. Or, rather, two things.

You close your eyes now and visualize them. They give you a hot shiver down your spink and into your pelvis, then out the front.

They are big, billowy, snowy things, like two heaping scoops of vanilla ice cream. Brenda doesn't flash them, and her tops are always fairly demure. But her breasts are the size of cantaloupes, and she at least favors blouses and shirts with wide, low-cut necklines that expose just enough of her chest that you can see her cleavage. And because there is no disguising their size, even that taste of flesh is savagely enticing. Her breasts seem to hang heavy off her, sagging and shifting when she walks or squirms in her desk, and Steve's palms burn when he thinks, not of kissing them, but of simply holding and lifting them. The girl herself doesn't excite him that much, but the thought of palming her breasts, and putting his face into her chest with his nose between them, does.

For the last two months or so, since the start of school, he has contented himself with slumping in his desk and watching her from under half-closed eyes while Ms. Gladstone drones on at the front of class. He didn't feel himself obsessed with them, and sometimes he watched them with nothing more than the dull satisfaction one gets from staring out the window at a pleasant afternoon. But gradually he became aware that she had become aware of the attention he was giving her. He didn't let that put him off, but he gave no signal that her shirt puppies meant anything more to him than what they were: eye candy and masturbation fuel.

Besides, he had plenty of other, sexier girls that he was chasing.

But then about two weeks ago, on a Monday as he leaving class, he had to brush past her in the doorway, where she was standing and chattering with some other girls who were as plain and unprepossessing as she. Without thinking, he did as he usually does when someone is in his way, and put his hand on her shoulder to shove her aside. He only caught himself at the last minute, though, and gave her the gentlest of nudges. He didn't even glance at her as he passed, but he was very conscious of the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her gray cotton shirt, and of the way she half-turned and started when she saw him, and of the faces of her friends—suddenly silent—as they turned to watch him. He walked away down the hall, parting the crowded hallway like Moses parting the sea, and felt their eyes on his back.

There was no change in Brenda's posture or position the next day, but he again had to put a hand on her to move her aside because she was again standing in the doorway when he left, this time with her head bent down at her phone. Again, he didn't look at her as he passed, or afterward, but he knew she was looking at him.

It happened two more times that week, and in both cases she again pretended to be preoccupied with friends or with her phone, but he did nothing to give her a sign that he knew what she was doing.

The following Monday, though, she was not standing in the doorway, some few feet off, her profile to him, as she talked to a friend. Patterson was feeling mischievous, and maybe he was even feeling a little aroused by her obvious interest in him. So instead of wheeling and heading down the hall, he walked over to her, put his hand on her shoulder, and gently pushed her into her friend so that he could pretend to study the number of the locker she was standing in front of.

Then he turned and walked away without looking back.

But he was thinking of her. That'll be about the biggest thrill she's ever got, he told himself.

The next day, as he sank into his desk, he looked over at her—settling in with something nice to look at during class—and found her staring directly back at him. Her expression was intense, and she looked a little worried. He just returned it calmly with his own cool gaze, until she scooted around to face the front.

He thought long and deeply through class about what he might do.

He probably would have let it be, but he was in a dry spell—almost ten days since last getting laid and without immediate prospects—so he decided to follow up with her.

This time he didn't even wait until she was outside the classroom. He came up behind her and carefully grasped her shoulders. She started, but then let him steer her over to the windows on the far side of the classroom, marching her along in front. When they hit a corner, he let her turn around while he leaned casually against the wall.

Hey, what's your name? he asked her, as though he didn't know.

Brenda, she said, staring.

I'm taking you out to dinner, he said. This Saturday. When would be a good time to pick you up?

She stared at him. Dinner? she stammered.

This Saturday, he repeated. What time do you want me to pick you up?

When she still didn't reply, he said, We'll say six-thirty. Tell me tomorrow if that doesn't work.

Then he left her.

He ignored her the next day, and the next, not until yesterday, when she still hadn't said anything, did he point-blank ask her for her address and phone number. He didn't even bother to reconfirm the time, or even to say See you tomorrow.

* * * * *

There's no question you're going to keep the date. Patterson was going to keep it, and you're not going to make yourself a bigger asshole than him by canceling at literally the last minute. Almost you decide not to text her—that would be the most chill thing to do—but you are probably going to be late and you don't want to give her unnecessary worry. So you compromise with yourself by sending the most casual-but-businesslike text you can: Just leaving for your house now.

Then you toss the phone into the passenger seat and turn the motor over.

Next: "Dinner with Brenda" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"