Chapter #16The Discovery of Gordon Black by: Seuzz   There's no way you're going to head into Gordon Black's life without preparation, but that doesn't mean you have to ditch school. So you just raise the blinds to let some light into the portable, and squat in a desk with Gordon's backpack.
You're surprised at how neatly his notes are organized—more neatly than yours. Times and period numbers aren't recorded, but he's got Spanish, Psychology, US History, Career Planning, and something called CAD Technology. You've had the history class before; it looks like he's taking the beginning Spanish and psychology classes; you also have that bullshit "Career Planning" class on your schedule, with the same teacher, just at a different time. So at school, the challenge is going to be the mysterious "CAD Technology" class and Gordon's athletics.
Shit. You've got Gordon's body, but not his memories. But what about his basketball skills?
You glance out the window at the sound of loose chatter and shrill laughter. Dane Matthias, Adrian Semple, and Karl Hennepin come into view. Dane wobbles toward the portable across the way, but Karl opens the door to yours, and his eyes lock onto your face. You say nothing; he says, "Oh, shit," and slams the door.
Heads bob outside, and Semple catches you watching through the window. Like Hennepin, he looks quickly away. He and the others disappear into the other portable. You return to Gordon's bag.
In his wallet are about twenty dollars in bills. His cell phone has a dozen or more numbers in the address book: two obviously belonging to his parents; one belonging to Chelsea; most of the rest belonging to people you associate with the basketball team: Steve Patterson, Seth Javits, Jeremy Richards, Jonas Martin, Luke Bennett, Darren Green. Etc.
You return everything to his bag and ponder. What do you know about Gordon Black, and what do you need to find out? You know where he lives, and you know what he drives—a very incongruous classic VW Bug, orange in color—and you know what some of his classes are. He's dating Chelsea Cooper, the cunt who got you into this predicament by taking your teasing so personally. He captains the basketball squad, and you usually see him hanging out with Patterson and Lynch and Javits and Chelsea. He has basketball practice before and after school. He shoves people around.
But you don't know his schedule and you don't know where his locker is and you don't know its combination. You don't know if he has a job or where he works. You don't know anything about his family life or how he acts when he's alone with his friends. You don't know his hobbies or his likes or dislikes. You don't know if he plays any musical instruments, or if he has any mechanical aptitudes.
Oh yeah. He also has access to a loft over the gym: the fabled "fuck room" where he and a privileged few can hang out and do God knows what but all can guess. You pull out the lanyard with Gordon's keys on the end. House keys, car keys, keys to padlocks, and keys that look like they go to special deadbolts. At least one of these can get you into the loft, and you've a strong desire to see what's up there. And it will be a safer spot than this portable.
You wedge Gordon's ball cap onto your head—backward the way you've always seen him wear it—and sling his pack onto your shoulder. It has at least as many books as yours, but it feels much lighter. You duck outside, glance to see that the coast is clear, and trudge off toward the gym. The ground seems very far away, but you don't stumble.
The bell rings as you're walking along, but if Caleb has done his job right, the real Gordon should be on the other side of the school building in one of your classes. You pass the tennis courts and natatorium and approach the gym at its side entrance. The floor is empty, but students are coming and going through double-doors at the front. Your gut clenches when you recognize some of the basketball players leaving, including Patterson. What did you miss?
The stairs leading up to the loft are to your left, by the folded-up bleachers, and they creak beneath your feet. At the top, around a corner, is a small landing with a wooden door. The white paint is badly peeling from it, and it has an old deadbolt up high, near your shoulder—what would be eye level to anyone but a Goliath like Gordon. You fish out the lanyard and test a few keys before finding the right one. You push the door open.
The loft is fairly narrow, maybe twenty feet deep, but it runs all along the side of the gym. Wooden beams support a ceiling that slopes down to a line of windows just below the rafters, which are so close—and you're so tall—that you probably could palm them without having to raise yourself on tip toes. The floor is a jumble of big wooden crates and cardboard boxes; of broken-down gymnastic equipment; of metal pipes and other hardware that's been thrust into corners. There's an open space in the middle of the loft that has a couple of gym mats laying out; they are ripped in spots, showing yellowed stuffing. Nearby is a dorm-size refrigerator, its black cord trailing over to a wall under the window, and an open cardboard box. A garbage sack contains some old pizza boxes and beer cans and bottles.
Beer? You kneel at the fridge, and find it contains three six packs. It's a cheap brew, but— With a transgressive thrill you crack open one of the golden cans. You sip, and swallow, and chug back half the contents. Cheers, man! You wipe your mouth on the hem of your shirt—as you imagine Gordon would—and give a contented sigh. Before going any further, you close and lock the door.
You snoop inside some of the crates, and only find more equipment, some athletic, some scientific, some simple classroom supplies. The cardboard boxes contain lots and lots of old textbooks, for the most part. The great exception is the open box next to the gym mats. It contains lots and lots of porn, ranging from soft-core to the very, very hard. It also contains boxes of condoms, bottles of whiskey and vodka, packs of gum, and a carton of cigarettes.
So it's very nearly the clubhouse of your dreams. You sit and lean against a wooden pillar and stretch your legs. So here you are: In the body of the biggest bad-ass in school, screwing the head cheerleader (judging by the condoms), sitting in any teenage boy's idea of heaven. If Caleb is right, you'll have a couple of days to enjoy it before you have to give it back to its rightful proprietor.
Provided you don't screw it up somehow.
* * * * *
The tardy bell rings for the last period of the day, and you look up from the porn magazine. Forty-five minutes until the last bell, and then you'll have to see if you can fake your way through after-school basketball practice. Maybe you should leave before then. Would you get in trouble if you skipped practice? On the other hand, does it matter? You can get Gordon into as much trouble as you want, if you're going to be putting him back in a few days. But screwing things up might make your stay here unnecessarily unpleasant.
As you temporize, you hear footsteps outside. The door handle jiggles, and there's a soft knock. "Gordon?" a voice calls.
Chelsea?
You scramble up, but the lock is already turning before you reach the door. You open it with a jerk, and Chelsea stumbles in. She catches herself against you, putting her hands on your hips, and looks up into your face. She smiles.
You almost faint. You would climb mountains, slay dragons, put your hand inside a fiery furnace just to have that smile turned on you. It transforms her whole face. For one thing, it gives her dimples.
There's a light in her eyes, a light of adoration and ardor. She gazes deeply into your eyes, and you gaze deeply back into hers. The longer you stare, the more deeply rapt her expression grows. And the more deeply rapt she stares at you, the stiffer your cock gets.
Abruptly, she buries her face in your chest and rubs her face in your shirt. "I looked for you at Fernandez's classroom, but you weren't there. And you weren't in the library. So I knew you'd be up here," she says. She squeezes you gently, and you put your arms around her. "You must have done a really good job on that little shit."
Right. So that's what this about. Gratitude for killing "Will Prescott."
"I didn't do anything to him, not really, not what anyone could see," you reply. "I just scared him, made him cry."
She giggles. "Did you? Did you make him say he was sorry? Over and over again?"
"Yeah. In fact," you add, improvising, "I made him invent new ways of saying it."
"I hope you hurt him at least a little bit, pookie. I mean, those things that he said about me." She looks up, and her expression has completely changed: Her eyes are red, and she appears about to burst into tears. She sniffles hard, and a little gasp comes into her voice. "I've never heard— Anyone— Say those things to me." Tears slip down her cheeks.
"I'll do it to him again tomorrow, if you want."
"Tomorrow." She grabs you behind the shoulders and lifts herself up to eye level, wrapping strong legs about your hips. "Right now, though, I know what you deserve. And I'm aching to give it to you."
You stifle a yelp. Caleb thinks he can talk Gordon into leaving you alone after you switch back. But would Gordon really not kill you if he found out that you fucked his girlfriend?
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