Chapter #32Aftermath by: Seuzz   Come inside, I want to get a look at you. That's what Connor said to you in the car, but once inside his house it's more like I want to glare really hard at you.
Caleb too. He's sitting on the sofa next to Connor. Both of them are leaning forward, elbows on their knees, staring at you unwinkingly. "Are you sure you're sober?" Connor asks.
"Yes!"
"How do you feel? Feel sick or hung over, like you've been slamming shots all night?"
"I feel totally normal. You want me to walk a straight line, try touching my nose? You got a fucking breathalyzer you want me to—?"
Connor turns on Caleb. "You told me he was passed out drunk."
"He was! You saw him."
"What the fuck is going on?" you demand.
"You spent the last three hours drinking and dancing and partying and, uh—" Caleb colors. "Finally I gave up on waiting for you to get that mask on Karl and called Connor to come out and get you. You wouldn't listen to me."
"The fuck?" None of that sparks a memory. "I remember I was— Oh!"
"What?"
You don't answer right away, but put your face in your hands.
It was the first thing you said to yourself when you woke up in Hannah's mask this afternoon: Did I get hammered again last night? You look up at the others with a grimace.
"Hannah, uh, she and alcohol don't exactly, uh— Well, when she gets to drinking she gets a little wild and sometimes doesn't remember—" You trail off.
In the silence you can hear Connor's breath whistling through his nose. "That's right, blame the girl, Will," he says acidly.
"It's true! And I'm not—!" You turn to Caleb. "You tell him! I don't get drunk, I don't pass out or get blacked out—"
"We don't drink that much, Will," he replies. "Not like you were tonight."
"Exactly!"
"So I don't know what you're like when you get that drunk."
You slouch and return Connor's glare with one of your own. "Well, I'm sorry I caused a problem and you had to come rescue me. I was trying to get a mask of Karl—"
"I thought you wanted one of Kelsey."
"So I could use it to get a mask of her!"
"Is that why I found you on a mattress with two guys who weren't Karl Hennepin?"
"What?"
He smiles faintly. "I don't know who they were, but they weren't Karl Hennepin. Lucky for me one of them was as drunk as you and the other didn't care when I pulled you out."
"Jesus!" Your guts try to play musical chairs with each other. "I didn't—! Uh, was I—?"
"I think you were and I think you did. You want me to get you some other clothes?"
You're still in Hannah's things, and at the thought of what you were apparently doing in them—
You nod and swallow.
* * * * *
Conversation continues after you change. Maybe Connor and Caleb want to go easy on you after telling you the worst, or maybe they've gotten tired of being mad at you, but the talk becomes much less fraught. After some speculation, it's decided that you are sober because all the alcohol got poured into the image of Hannah Westrick inside that mask, and that removing the mask removed its effects. And when Caleb recounts how strongly you were channeling a foreign personality during the afternoon and evening, Connor grudgingly accepts that it might have been "Hannah" who got roaringly drunk and not you. He's still not happy with you—you ruined the "slumber party" that he and Justin had planned—but he allows that it was not completely your fault. He makes you sleep on the sofa instead of taking Justin's bed after Caleb goes home.
There is one silver lining: Caleb managed to get the blank mask away from you while you were at the Warehouse, and he got it onto Karl Hennepin. So at least he managed to accomplish the mission.
About nine o'clock the next morning the door bursts open and a very pissed-off Justin Carr comes in. And he's looking like himself too, though he's buttoned up in some of your clothes. He gives you a fast, hard snarl before charging into the bedroom he shares with Connor. You hear voices: Connor, sleepy, and Justin, angry. You can't make out the words, but you get a report a few minutes later when Connor comes out. He looks amused, though disheveled in his t-shirt and boxers and unkempt hair. He tosses some clothes—those Justin was wearing—to you. "You got chores at home. Justin volunteered you."
The blood drains from your face. "What kind of chores?"
"I think gutters are involved. I'm sure your dad will remind you when you get back."
He does, and you spend the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon doing outside, upper-story work: not only cleaning out gutters but washing windows and vacuuming. There's no use grumbling, and you do a good enough job that your dad gives you forty dollars pay for the work, which is welcome, and a gruff set of thanks. To dodge any additional work he might think up, you rush from the house at around four-thirty, and run over to the elementary school basement to check on the new spell.
It looks bad: the thing, whatever it is, seems to be falling apart. More fissures have opened up in it, so that it now looks like a blob of dog shit onto which four more cylinders of dog shit have been attached at odd angles. It's also developing a weird knob at one end. The fire has also gone out; though you wonder if it is any use, you relight it.
Then comes the call from Connor: You are to wait there at the school for him and Justin and Caleb, in order to have a conference. You're sure you're going to get yelled at, and spend the next half hour moodily waiting for the others to show up.
* * * * *
"Okay, first of all," says Connor, ticking the item off with a forefinger, "we use one more mask to make a copy of Kelsey, and after that we stop with the copying. That'll give us four girls, and we don't need any more. Will, your chore is to make that last mask. Have it ready to go by Monday."
"Is that all?" You don't try to blanket your sullen tone.
"You also come in here and check on that thing—" Connor looks past your shoulder at the burning pile of crap. "Jesus. You check on that thing every day. When the fire doesn't relight, well— Shit, we might have to start over again."
"And I'll have to go digging up the cemetery by myself."
"Stop your wanking," Caleb growls.
"Then you and Caleb show up at our place at eight o'clock Monday morning," Connor continues. Justin just glowers at you. "Will, you go in to work as Justin while he covers for you at school. I'll go to the school too, for you, Caleb. You can cover for me at home, but I don't work in to work until two in the afternoon, so that won't be hard for you."
"How long am I covering for you?" Caleb asks.
"And how come you're going in to the school?" you add.
"We're going in to get the mask of Kelsey, or at least to set it up," says Connor. "We don't want any more fuck ups."
You stifle a groan of anger.
"After school, the four of us will meet at Starbucks to do a trade off. Caleb, you can go home after that, but Will's gonna cover for me until the end of my shift."
Your jaw falls to your breastbone. "You're gonna have me working— What is that, a fourteen-hour shift?"
"That's right." Connor's mouth tightens into a line. "You fucked things up for all of us on Friday night, so you pay the price. That fourteen-hour shift pays your debt. All right?"
A furious resentment claws at your chest, but you nod. Curtly. Once.
* * * * *
This is a crap punishment, as far as you're concerned. It's like Connor thinks he's your dad or something. So as to break this bullshit "conference" up quickly, you tell the guys you'll get started on the blank mask right away. Caleb waits with you while they leave to fetch the car buffer. It seems like he's on their side, but you test him anyway while you mix up the basic ingredients. "I liked it better when it was just us playing with this stuff," you mutter.
"It's your own fault," he retorts.
"You're the one who crashed their party with that fucking Mansfield mask."
"I mean what you're having to do now," he says. "If you'd stayed focused—"
You bump into a table as you turn, and Caleb turns beet red. "Fuck you, Will," he says, and stalks off toward the door. "If you're going to be a fucking dick about it—"
"Caleb!" you call, but he flips you off and goes out. Then you do kick the table on purpose.
* * * * *
You finish the mask and stew at home. Sunday morning services and lunch don't improve your mood, though by two o'clock, when you head over to the school to check on the new spell, you're so worn out with anger that you don't feel much of anything any more. You shove the cigarette lighter against the stony mass in the back corner of the basement.
Nothing happens.
You catch your breath and try again. Nothing. No matter where you put the flame, the pile refuses to relight.
There's a tremble in your limbs as you open the grimoire. The page holding the current spell refuses to turn. Then you have the idea of pressing it against the thing the spell has made. When you lift the book again, that page lazily flips over all on its own.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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