The Book of Masks (Vol. 4)

Unpacking Your Life

Previously: "Persecutions and Photographs" 

by Masktrix

You look up from a huge stainless steel trunk sprawled across your new bed. Your mom paid for summer storage with a local company, which also saw your items delivered to your dorm room. Uniforms, bedding, towels, casualwear and even a small fan for hot nights. Anything really important – laptop, chargers and toiletries – came with you in the rucksack, which you’ve since tipped onto your study desk in a heap. Top of the pile, next to your texts for law and politics classes, is the red book with its little pentagram. What the hell is it, anyway? Probably a first edition of something lame.

Mary Occam is standing in the doorway. Short, imperious, dark brown hair parted precisely down the middle, your friend’s arms are folded tight. “Hurry up, JM.”

“I only got here half an hour ago,” you protest. “I can’t exactly sleep with this thing on my bed.”

“You can finish up later,” Mary says. “We’re having dinner together.” As usual, Mary isn’t asking but ordering. You sigh and slouch toward her. “And what are you wearing? That’s not regulation.”

“I wasn’t going to fly from California in dress code,” you reply. The faculty always give students a pass on the first night, anyway. “Don’t tell me Corinne did?”

“No,” Mary concedes. “She’s just as…” there’s a pause while she searches for a word with the right level of in-built disapproval, “casual.”

You shove the lid of the trunk closed and follow Mary downstairs. Sixth formers live on the first floor of Founders Hall, the school’s original building; fifth formers on the floor above, and all the lower forms in a modern, purpose-built block across the quad. Everywhere is chaos, with girls trying to find their new rooms and catch up with friends, all with their steamer trunks outdoors, blocking the already narrow corridor, waiting to be taken down to storage. Mary, tiny as she is, navigates with sharp turns and ruthless sidesteps that cause others to halt in their tracks. You just follow in her wake as she turns into the school's cavernous, high-ceilinged dining hall. It's like something out of a Robin Hood movie, except with cafeteria-style steam tables.

“Good summer?” you ask the back of her head.

“Exceptional,” she says. “Spent most of it in the Hamptons, of course, and father got rid of his stupid curfew.” She doesn’t ask about yours, but then Mary wouldn’t. You’re about to start a new line of questioning when a light body bumps into yours, and you turn to see Corinne Kennedy’s huge teeth grinning. The three of you, back together as always. You give her an affectionate bounce in return.

“Can’t believe she stuck me in with Acker,” you grumble as you all collect a tray and line up.

“Who stuck you?” Corinne asks.

“Steiner.”

Corinne’s brow furrows. She knows Abigail Steiner isn’t prefect for either of your houses, so should have no say on your dorm assignments. “How?”

“Todd Baldwin,” Mary interjects. “Abi must have told him to mess with us. That or tricked Kate into it.” She spoons on a slither of mashed potato so fine it could be a slug’s slime trail. “You see, Corinne, it’s not about JM. It’s about me. Abi wants to stay top of the social pile, but knows that we are more popular than her little gaggle. They might have the staff eating out of their palms, but they’ve burnt too many bridges among the sixth form. She couldn’t touch me, so she went after JM.”

You grab a banana for dessert and follow Mary to one of the seats. “Why couldn’t she touch you?” you ask, following close behind.

“My room assignment was – how can I put this? – pre-determined,” Mary says with a flourish, flicking her hair a little as she sits down. “I didn’t know I’d be sharing it with Sam Tait, but G9? Garden view, away from the prefects, and a little larger than most of the other rooms too? It’s the best dorm in the school.”

Both your and Corinne’s mouths fall open. “You bribed someone?” you say, staggered Mary would be so brazen. Her smile tightens, indicating it’s even better. “You blackmailed someone?”

“I have plans for the year. Plans I can’t afford to have interrupted with an unfortunate room assignment.” She flicks her eyes over to a table on the far side, and both you and Corinne turn your heads, trying to see who she’s looking at as casually as possible.

“Marius?” you whisper. He’s sat a few tables down, a football Adonis, head boy with that easy quarterback smile. Already his dad is grooming him for Washington. Get your hooks into Marius Hall, and who knows? One day you could be First Lady. Your own sights are slightly more modest. You briefly look at the tight, tight shirt being worn by Rolf Draxler, but your eyes continue to the next table over, where a bunch of students are laughing and joking. Emily Dustal, Tyler Van Buren… and Mark Pederson. You almost swallow your tongue. He’s even hotter than he was last year. That easy smile, and scruffy hair, and that bomber jacket he’s always wearing…

“Jesus, JM, learn some subtlety,” Mary snipes. You turn your head back, and pretend to listen to her as she explains, in overblown detail, how she intends to make Marius hers.

***

Tammy-Lynn Acker is in the room when you arrive back a short time later, having resolved to finish unpacking as quickly as possible. At first you figure she must have confused which desk will be hers, but with growing annoyance you realize she’s doing something else entirely.

“What the hell are you doing with my stuff?” you demand, stepping in and shutting the door.

Tammy-Lynn, all Mid-West fake-nice, simpers at your coming. “Calm down, I was just looking. That book caught my eye, is all.”

Looking for mischief, you think. Since the second form, Tammy-Lynn has been a notorious snoop, on a gossip level with someone like Hallie Lamb. But unlike Hallie, who can keep her mouth shut when it matters, Tammy-Lynn won’t stay quiet about anything.

“Well, it’s mine, not yours,” you say, walking over.

“What is it? Some kinda paganism guide? You joining Margot Corrigan?”

“No,” you say, not really sure yourself what the book is but with no interest in joining the school’s resident wiccan. “Just something I picked up in town today, from the rare books store. Cost $225, so it better be good. You can look at it when I’m done reading it.” You pick up the book and open it up… only it doesn’t open at all. You’re caught off guard: it’s like the pages have been stuck together. Furiously, you open up to the title page, and try and push it to the next. It moves, revealing a page beneath that isn’t even written in English. Beyond that, all the pages seem stuck together.

“Ha!” Tammy-Lynn says. “Looks like someone got you good. It’s just a fancy theater prop.”

“Piss off, Acker,” you snap at her, color flushing to your cheeks and breast tightening. By lunchtime the entire sixth form is going to know you were conned. You think of that white-bearded bastard down in his hick bookstore, laughing at you. You snort with fury, shoving the book back on your desk. You’re going to storm down there on Monday evening and demand a refund.

Your mood continues to sour as you finish unpacking, then haul your trunk into the corridor with the others, ready for it to be taken down into storage. And you’re still furious with the world when you head to the showers, and let the scorching hot water flow down your back, kneading away the tension of a day that began far, far too long ago. Towel wrapped around your waist, you look at your reflection in the mirror and wonder how the hell you got stuck with this shitty life: red hair, plain face with a nose that’s a little too long, and parents that think it’s fine to ship you across the country to some $40,000 a year school.

You stifle a yawn and head back to your room. Tammy-Lynn’s got her nightlight on, but it’s not enough to bother you. You just hope she doesn’t snore in the night – you haven’t bought any earplugs with you. You’re about to dive under your comforter when a thought begins to itch in your brain. What language was that in the book? You know a little French, a little Spanish too, but the only language you’ve really studied (including weekly sessions with an online tutor) is Mandarin. Sitting on your bed, you lean over to the desk and grab the book, flicking it open to its fastened page.

Latin. It’s got to be Latin. If you can’t get a refund, maybe you can sell it to someone like Scott Ricci. It looks creepy and he could probably have a field day scaring the crap out of some first formers with it. You flick back to the title page, preparing to close it, only there’s something on the inside sheet. You could have sworn it was blank when you bought it, but now there is a large, intricate symbol that looks straight out of a horror movie. It gives you the creeps.

And, as you type the sentence beneath it into an online translator, you’re even more disturbed… and intrigued.

Claim me with money; possess me with blood.

A stupid thought pops into your head. It’s ridiculous, like something out of a horror movie…

Next: "Outsourcing a Mystery" 

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