This choice: Help Caleb test the dingus ... and no more! • Go Back...Chapter #5A Cry for Help by: Seuzz   "Okay, I'll help, but just this once," you grumble. "What do I do?"
"It'll knock you out for a few minutes," Caleb says. "Better lay back on your bed." You gape. "You'll be fine," he adds peevishly. "Lookit me, I'm okay."
"Debatable. Very debatable." But you comply. He lays the metal strip across your forehead.
And before you can make any more cutting remarks, all the lights in the world go out.
* * * * *
When next you open your eyes, you are very groggy. "Wh'appened?" you mutter.
"Oh, you're back with us." Caleb materializes in your field of vision. "Yeah, it leaves you feeling kind of woolly, doesn't it? Well, I guess I'll be going." He scoops up his backpack. Something inside it clinks.
"Wait, I thought you were—" You sit up, then catch yourself as a stabbing pain throbs through your skull. "Didn't you say something about letting me peek inside your head?"
Caleb edges toward the door. "Eh, not necessary. I just had to put the thing on you to see it was going to work So, you know." He shrugs. "Best to stay out of each other's heads."
You squint at him. "But can't you see inside my head now?"
"Of course not. I'd have to put the thingy on myself, and I’m not going to. And here, and just to show you can trust me—" He tosses you a strip of metal. "Keep it in a safe place. Bury it or something. You don't want anyone getting ahold of it if you don't want them reading your brain. Anyway, see you at school tomorrow." He practically runs out the room.
You look down at the strip. It is thin and flexible, and shows no markings of any kind. Gingerly, you put it to your forehead. Nothing happens.
Well, he said you couldn't use it to read your own mind.
To be safe, though, you follow his advice, and shove it deep inside the kitchen garbage.
* * * * *
Lisa, and your relationship with her, continue to prey on your mind. Or perhaps one should say your former relationship with her.
It had started in May. From hanging out things had progressed to where she'd put her arm around your waist and nestle her head against your chest and let you lean your own head against the top of hers. Her eyes would dance with pleasure when she saw you.
But then, shortly after school started again, she abruptly reminded you that you'd never formally decided to date each other; what's worse, she said it while throwing off the friendly arm you'd put around her shoulder.
And if that wasn't bad enough, Geoff Mansfield started hanging out with her.
"Moving up in the world, huh?" Mansfield observes to you a few days later, at school. To your chagrin, you'd found him at Lisa's locker.
"Dunno what you're talking about," you retort. "Hey Lisa, what about a study session—"
"I saw you talking to Gordon Black after classes yesterday," Mansfield says. "You thinking about going out for basketball?"
"Are you?" you retort. "Or are your brains just too far from your feet?" He has at least half a head on you.
"At least I can keep my feet on the ground," Mansfield grins. "Black had yours a good six inches in the air."
“Will, did you get in a fight with Gordon?" Lisa frowns. Gordon Black is the alpha-est of the alpha bullies that roam the halls of Westside.
"This guy is so high," you reply. "I steer clear of assholes. But I was going to ask if you—"
"I don't blame you for being embarrassed," Mansfield says. "Though being taken by Black isn't as embarrassing as— Oh, hey Lester!"
You whirl, but your personal tormentor is nowhere to be seen. Mansfield laughs.
"I'm sorry, Will," Lisa says. "But I'm going to a piano recital this evening." Mansfield grins at you. "You'll do fine on ... whatever you need to study for."
She closes her locker and walks off. Mansfield jostles you as he follows her, his arm over her shoulders.
* * * * *
A week passes. Lisa continues to be hard to pin down. Caleb is also shy. In fact, he now seems to be avoiding you.
And then, on a Friday night more than a week later, your cell phone rings. "Prescott," a clipped, girlish voice says. "It's Chelsea. We need to meet."
You sit up on your bed. You know of only one Chelsea, and it couldn't possibly be-- "Chelsea who?" you ask.
There's a frigid pause, which all by itself practically answers your question. "Chelsea Cooper," she snaps. "Don't be an idiot. I need to see you. Now. At the school." The line cuts off.
The phone drops from your numb hand Chelsea Cooper? The Chelsea Cooper? The head cheerleader? The queen bee of the school? The blonde bombshell with the hard, thrusting boobs and the sculpted ass? That Chelsea Cooper?
"I have to go out for a bit," you shout to your mother as you run through the kitchen. As usual when she's bending over a pot that's about to boil over, she shouts something unintelligible. One of these days it will turn out she's not giving you permission to leave.
Your mind spins on the drive out to the school, but naturally you can't figure out what Chelsea would want with you. Unless it's a horrible prank, but you're not far enough up the social ladder to be a victim of that kind of thing. And she sounded ... businesslike.
The student parking lot is deserted in the falling dusk, except for a single vehicle that you recognize as Gordon Black's VW Bug. Not a good sign: in addition to being captain of the basketball team, and a psychotic, punch-happy jock, Gordon is Chelsea's jealously possessive boyfriend. So your nerves jangle hard when a small figure detaches itself from the shadows by the gym as you get out of your truck.
It's Chelsea.
Her expression is pinched, and her brow is furrowed. "Took you long enough," she snaps, and opens the side door to the gym, beckoning you in.
The cavernous interior of the gym is black (and echoey) as you cross the deserted floor toward a back staircase. Your stomach flip-flops as you mount it, for it leads up to the fabled "fuck room": a VIP-only loft that is used by the school's top jocks as a kind of clubhouse. Officially, of course, it doesn't exist, and you suppose the administration doesn't know how it is being used. But every student has heard of it, and seethed with envy of what goes on behind its locked door.
Chelsea fumbles a key into the latch and pushes the door open. "You sure as fuck better know how to fix this," she growls.
It is very dark under the attic rafters, and only a single small light hanging from the ceiling illuminates the cramped spaces within. It is stacked up with crates and boxes and broken gym equipment—parallel bars and pommel horses and the like. But the middle of the floor has been cleared away, and gym mats laid out. A dark mass lies atop one of the mats. Chelsea pushes you at it, until you are bending over it.
It's her boyfriend, all six-and-a-half feet of nasty muscle of him. No, scratch that: It's a life-size and very life-like statue of him, carved or molded of some stony, ash-white material. Its mouth hangs slightly open and its eyes are closed. You peer closer. The thing is executed with such skill that you'd swear you see its chest shallowly rising and falling.
You glance back at Chelsea, who is frowning and blinking furiously. "Okay," you stammer. "I don't get what this is all about—"
She grabs something off a crate and thrusts it at you. To your shock, you recognize it as that book of magic that you sold to Caleb. You stare at it, then look back up at Chelsea.
"It's this stupid book," she snarls, and her breath comes in gulps. To your astonishment you realize she's on the verge of crying—that she actually has been crying. "Gordon— he did something to himself! You have to fix it!"
You look at the statue and look at the book and look at her, and gape. "I don't get it. What—?"
"I said he did something to himself!" Her voice rises to a shriek. "That!" She points. "He tried one of those stupid spells and that's what happened!"
She's pointing at the statue. Still, it takes you a moment to register what she means—it's just too crazy.
"Wait. Are you saying that's Gordon?"
"Of course, you fuckwit!"
Then she seems to catch herself.
"I'm sorry," she says in a very small voice. "I shouldn’t yell at you. I tried to stop him, but—" She gulps for air. "How far did you get into the book? Before we— we—"
"We what?"
"It wasn't my idea!” she exclaims. Though she seems repulsed by her own action, she steps up and strokes the front of your shirt. "I wanted to keep you around, to help. If we had, maybe this wouldn't have happened."
Your head, naturally, is spinning. How did Chelsea and Gordon get ahold of Caleb’s book? And why does Chelsea think you know anything about it and can help? And what the hell happened anyway?
"If you help," Chelsea says in a low voice, "if you get Gordon back, I swear I will totally make it worth your while. In ways that—” She gulps. “In ways that Gordon doesn't need to know about."
You hear her offer, but you're too preoccupied with the thought that you need to find and confront Caleb—maybe he can provide the missing clues. On the other hand, Chelsea is being awfully persuasive, and is unlikely to continue being persuasive if you tell her you have no idea what she's talking about.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
| Members who added to this interactive
story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Get MORE!
Shop Memberships
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
