The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

The Girl Who Wants to Be You

Previously: "How to Get to Know Someone" 

You stumble after Maria, your head in a whirl.

"You'll need to call your dad," she says as she pulls you out a back exit and hauls you past the tennis courts. "Tell him you're gonna be late because ... um ... Mr. Walberg kept you after school again!"

"How did you know about—?"

"Shit! And we'll have to seal up your mask before I can put it on. You didn't bring it to school, did you?"

"What? No, I didn't know we—"

"Then we'll have to stop by your place. Do you have an extra change of clothes here? No, I'm pretty sure you don't," she answers herself. "So you'll need to pick up some."

She stops in her tracks, and you almost crash into her. She doesn't seem to notice.

"God damn it!" she barks. "I've gotta swing by my place too, pick up that mask I— You— Gave me last night." She wheels on you, but her eyes are unfocused. "So we'll have to take separate cars. You go by your place, I'll go by mine, and we'll meet at—" Her eyes burn with thought. "The Presbyterian church. The one on Albion. You know, down the street from Schuyler."

"A church?" you exclaim. "Doesn't that seem kind of, um, for doing magical—?"

"Jesus, dude, it's not like we're not gonna do it in the sanctuary! It's got a big-ass parking lot out back and we'll— Get a fucking move on!" She seizes your shoulder and propels you toward your truck.

* * * * *

It's a fraught and terrifying business. While Maria races back to her place, you clamber into your truck, crouch in the footwell, and put the new mask to your face. When you wake, you text your dad, saying you'll be late on account of a teacher wants to meet you after class, then race home. Your mom barks as you sprint through the living room—"You're going to be late to your work, Will!"—and you yell something back as you thunder upstairs and thunder back down with the sealant and a fresh pair of cargo pants and a long-sleeve t-shirt. You're shaking hard as you turn into the parking lot of the giant stone pile that is the South Creek Presbyterian Church. But Maria isn't there yet.

Only after you've sealed up the mask, and have nothing to do but wait, that you start to wonder.

Why in the name of all that's holy would Maria Vasquez want to switch bodies and identities with you?

Like, she'll have your hairy body—one that gross! comes with a dick and a ball sack—with your weird facial hair and your bad haircut and sloppy clothes. Your boy stink. Your weirdness and lack of popularity. Why in the hell would a gorgeous, popular cheerleader want that?

It baffles and even scares you a little. Is she up to something? Until a day or two back, Maria Vasquez would be the last person you'd suspect of being "up to something." (Unless "up to something" was a polite way of saying "floating like a weather balloon somewhere in the troposphere.") But now you know that she's really pretty smart. Is it possible she has some sort of plan? A icy fist closes around your heart as you wonder if she's planning to frame you for some kind of crime.

Most of these suspicions flee, though, when Maria pulls up and gets out. She is tall, slim, buxom, and can really rock nothing more complicated than a pair of skin-tight Levis and a white, sleeveless blouse. Surely no one who looks like that could be up to something.

Right?

But the fears return when you see her face. Her jaw and brow are set in that same, hard expression.

"Get out," she orders as she climbs into the passenger side of your truck. "I'll change in here. That way I can take off right away for your work."

"And I change in your car?"

"What do you think? Move it, Will."

"Now hang on just a minute!" She's been bulldozing you ever since you left the school theater, but now, before it's too late, you want answers. "I want to know— Look, I'm already late, so another minute's not gonna make a difference!" you holler as she pushes at you. "I wanna know why we're doing this!"

"You mean switching places? Don't you want to?"

"Well. Um."

"Because I know you want to, Will." She jabs her temple. "You know that I know what you know."

Your jaw wobbles uselessly before you can find your voice. "But— But that doesn't mean we have to—"

"Will." Maria grabs your head by both ears. "Have you ever heard the expression 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth'? It means this."

Her lips and teeth close about your mouth. You're so shocked that even your cock forgets to spring to attention.

She lets go. "Now get in my car while I make this change."

You fall out of your truck and have to hang onto the hood and bumper as you stagger drunkenly over to her sedan.

* * * * *

Your truck is gone the second time you wake.

It was still there the first time you woke, after you pushed the metal band with Maria's name into your forehead. You were groggy when you sat up, but it took only a moment to sort yourself out. This is me and that's her over there, you reminded yourself as you stared at your truck, and it gave you a funny feeling to see the skinny guy with the scarecrow haircut bobbing up and down as he dressed himself. That's her but it's also me. That's me but it's also him. She's over there but I'm also here. Pronouns sure are funny, you reflected as you touched your hair and felt the familiar (but also very strange!) stiff, straw-like thatch. Almost as funny as trying to count people when there's two of them inside one skin!

With numb fingers you plucked up the mask from the passenger seat, and hoped that things would be less confusing once you got it on again. You felt less excitement than last time, in your bed, as you anticipated the change to come. Indeed, you felt relief more than excitement as you lifted the mask to your face.

And your truck was gone when you woke.

Yes, this is better, you think now as you sit up. I feel like ... myself. A chill, like the edge of a fresh, keen wind, ruffles the tips of your nerves.

You have boobs again, as you confirm after ripping your t-shirt off over your head. (This sends your long, thick hair tumbling in a wild mess about your ears and shoulders.) Maria doesn't play with her boobs much, and the only time she ever studies them is when she's looking herself over in an outfit. But after the events of this afternoon, it feels safe to indulge. You bite your lip and push your breasts up with a forearm while gently touching your boobs with a fingertip. They are a pale brown and dusted with very faint freckles—which Maria covers with a light brush of face powder when she goes out with exposed cleavage—and the tips plump and rise. A long bang of hair falls into your face. I should get dressed, you tell yourself, but can't tear yourself away from the sight of your bare chest and bare arms; you rub your thighs together and wriggle your toes as a warm flush spreads through you. It's not a good idea to be sitting here, topless, even in a deserted parking lot behind a church. I wish whatsisname had found a better place for us to do this, you tell yourself.

You sigh and drop your boobs and cast about for another set of clothes. You find them in the passenger seat, and only after you are half into them does it occur that Maria must have dropped them there, beside your—her—form after changing into your clothes.

You slide into them without hurrying. Flimsy, violet panties and a bra. Ankle socks. Skinny jeans that scrape and bind tightly to your thighs and calves. A snowy, sleeveless, button-up blouse that is almost corset-tight around your flat stomach but blooms around your chest. Your hair, when you check it, is a mess, but without even thinking it you extract a brush from the glove box and give your tresses a dozen stiff strokes, then toss the brush aside to beat and shape the mass into a mess that at least looks deliberately tousled. You squeeze your feet into the sneakers, then climb out of the car to walk around and shake things loose.

So this is what it's like to be a girl, you think as you roll your shoulders and neck, and shake your joints loose. Just a little—

You swing around to glare at the house next door. It's a small bungalow, with two windows facing the church parking lot. The curtains in one are closed; darkness shows behind the other. The side yard is weedy and empty, save for a dirt bike balanced against the dirty white wall. But you have the unmistakeable feeling that someone is watching you from inside. The feeling came over you suddenly, like being hit between the shoulder blades by a water balloon. It gives you a clammy sensation.

I should get out of here, you tell yourself, and you quickly get back in the car. With a beating heart you search your purse for the car keys, and fear mounts as you fail to find them. It's with a gasp of relief that you discover that Maria left them in the ignition.

So that's probably why she wanted to switch, you decide as you pull back into the street. Because guys who look like you don't have to worry about being ogled by creeps.

* * * * *

There are half-a-dozen texts on your phone when you check, but you don't find them until you're parked in front of the Starbucks. All but one are from Chelsea, asking where you are. The last is from Gloria Rea, warning you that Chelsea's getting pretty steamed at your absence. You're supposed to be in the gym with them, watching her boyfriend and the other basketball players practice.

Next: "At Home as Maria Vasquez" 

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