The Book of Masks (Vol. 4)

Vanishing Tricks

Previously: "Another Hairpin Curve" 

Interested but have other plans, you text back to David Johnson.

And maybe you should have just ignored it—though that would have been out of character for Dana Pak—because your reply provokes a round of texts from him asking what your other plans are (family thing, you tell him) and proposing other excuses for getting together this weekend.

A weight of dread settles over you as you bat texts back at him. David has a crush on Dana—has had a crush on her for a couple of years, maybe even longer—and he has only gotten more insistent since school started at wearing down her reluctance to go out with him. What a time to step into her life, you sigh to yourself.

Then once you've dealt with him, you text Will Prescott: Hey Will this is Dana Pak. I was with Yumi ths afternoon at Nirdlingers and just missed you. I really want to see you tonight to talk about the project.

The jerk sure takes his sweet time before replying.

* * * * *

"So Chelsea double crossed us?" Will Prescott says after climbing into the Pak family SUV with you. It's dark already, and you can't really see his expression. But you'd bet his eyes narrowed into a suspicious, cynical—or maybe amused—squint after you introduced yourself to him under your new name.

You're parked by the old elementary school down the street from your house. It should be a secret meeting, you felt, and this seemed like the safest and most convenient place for this rendezvous.

But you don't like having two vehicles—Dana's SUV and your truck—parked here, one behind the other, so turn over the motor and put on the headlights, and pull back out into the street to drive slowly around the neighborhood.

"I wouldn't call it a 'double cross'," you tell your duplicate.

"But she was supposed to get a Westside cheerleader for, uh, you," Will objects.

"I wanted her to switch places with one of the other cheerleaders," you remind him. "I— We— Got what we wanted. Just not the way we wanted it. Have you heard from Caleb?"

"Yeah, the fucker's accusing me of stalling him." He pulls your old cell phone from his shirt pocket. "You know, I'm starting to think one of us didn't think this plan all the way through," he adds. "What am I supposed to tell Caleb when I don't get him that mask of Chelsea?"

"Well, what would you tell him?" you retort. "You're supposed to be at least as smart as me." There's something eerie about sitting next to and talking to yourself, and it's getting on your nerves.

He doesn't answer right away, and you struggle for an idea as well. But maybe you and him really do think alike (as you should) because the thought he finally gives voice to is a lot like the one you were groping toward.

"I could tell him I changed my mind. That I talked Chelsea into getting rid of the book and the things, because they're—" He pauses. "Evil."

"Mm-hmm," you agree, then push the idea a little further. "We could tell him Chelsea was talking about swapping places with people at school, and that we—"

"We?" your doppelganger interrupts.

"You," you correct yourself. "You could tell him you had to talk her out of it. And that you talked her into burning the stuff," you add as you warm to the idea. "And you talked yourself into burning it, too. Because, yeah, it's bad stuff."

You shift in your seat; you're getting a feeling like there's fire ants crawling over your butt.

"He's gonna want proof," Will says.

"But you burned it all."

Your double sighs. "I'll tell him that," he says, sounding unconvinced. You don't feel very convinced either, but it's the best you can come up with.

He asks you about this girl you're pretending to be, and you tell him about her—a senior at Eastman, a good handful of friends, but far from being the most popular girl at the high school—until you have circled back to where he is parked. "Did you bring the rest of the stuff like I asked you to?" you ask as you pull up behind your truck.

"Yeah, and I picked up some more," he says.

"From where?"

"Chelsea. The other one. The one that's like me." It occurs to you that this … thing … is as uncomfortable in your presence as you are in its. "We, uh, got together this afternoon, and she told me—"

"What did you get together for?"

"I dunno," he mumbles. "It was something to do, right? Anyway, she said that she had some stuff left over, and I got it from her. Do you think that's going to cause any problems with the, uh, real Chelsea?"

"I dunno. I don't think so, I think it just means we'll have everything in one place."

"For what?"

You can only shrug in answer. He grunts, and gets out.

A minute later he's back with a couple of plastic sacks that clink when he hands them over. "Why couldn't Chelsea have swapped you with Jenny Ashton?" he asks in a peevish tone as he shoves the bags through the open car window at you. "Because," he answers when you ask him why he's asking, "Jenny is friends with Yumi too, and she hangs out with Caleb and Keith—and me—sometimes, and then you'd be along to help me out with them."

It is a point, you allow, but it's too late now.

"Yeah, well, there's that extra blank mask, right?" he says. "It's in there with the other stuff. You could still use it on someone. Like Jenny."

"I thought we agreed this stuff was really bad."

"If we thought that," he retorts, "how come I'm driving home in your truck and you're driving home in this Dana chick's SUV?"

You make a face at him, and tell him to keep alert for texts and phone calls from you.

* * * * *

Back home, you lock your bedroom door and unload the loot you got off your doppelganger. It makes a surprisingly large pile.

Most of it is stuff you had in your bedroom, or carried with you up to Nirdlinger's. The blank mask for instance. (Apparently Chelsea trapped Yumi's cousin under the mask that Caleb had made of you.) There's also the book, of course. But it looks like Chelsea had been trying to make some spare crap as well, because there are a couple of extra containers of sealant and glue, and some metal strips. One of them, you're amused to see, is fashioned from a tarnished metal ruler: numbers and tick marks on one side, and runes on the other.

You set the extra crap aside and turn to the book. You've been too busy with Caleb and Chelsea to worry any more about finding a cure for Gordon. Is Chelsea even interested any more? You decide to do some research just in case.

You open the book, noting again that you can only open it as far as the last spell you completed; the rest of the pages are tightly sealed shut. You compare the thickness of the portion you've completed with the portion you haven't: you're only a fraction of the way into it. What other spells could it contain? What more could you do?

On a whim you pick up the metal ruler and lay it against the spine of the book, to measure its thickness.

The ruler twists and writhes in your fingers. You suck in a sharp breath and drop it.

It vanishes.

You blink, and for a moment you can only stare.

It's like you pulled a conjuring trick on yourself—and you don't know how you did it. You look at your empty hand. You look at the spine of the book.

The flesh atop of your skull starts to crawl. It's like the book sucked it from your grasp. It's nowhere in your lap, and it's not under your legs or ass. You look around, under the bed and desk. It would have fallen on carpet and wouldn't have bounced away. But it's nowhere to be found.

Carefully, you lay the book on the floor and stare at it. With your fingertips, you pull back the cover, then flip one page at a time through it.

But even though it felt exactly as if the book had pulled that metal strip from you and sucked it inside itself, the strip isn't inside the book.

Unless it is inside the book the way a mask goes inside a person, you think with a shiver.

So, somehow, you are not really surprised when, with a soft plop, the strip falls out of the spine of the book onto the carpet.

You stare at it and drum your finger on your knee before gingerly picking up again. It looks unchanged—a metal ruler—until you turn it over to examine the runes.

Blue letters are floating there, the way they float over a metal strip that's been attached to the inside of a mask. But you don't recognize these letters—they are no alphabet that you know. In fact, they make your eyes hurt to look at them.

You lay it aside, rune-side down, and turn back to the book. With the same gingerly care you open it and go through it page by page again.

It seems to be unchanged. Silently, you tick off each spell as you pass it. The one that makes a mask. The one for sealing up a mask, so it can be worn. The one for making a mind strip, and the one for attaching a strip to a mask. The one for making a lumpy statue-thing, and the one that Gordon used to petrify himself. The one for making the sealant that you and Chelsea used to get yourself some new identities.

That was as far as you'd gotten before. But now, to your surprise, you find that it has turned loose. Something has happened to release the page, allowing you to continue deeper into the book.

You hold your breath as you turn the page to the next spell.

Next: "Dramas, Private and Public" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 4)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 4)"