This choice: Stay focused on Westside • Go Back...Chapter #3The New Boss by: Seuzz   "Jesus, Joe!" you explode. "I-- I--" He just looks amused as you stutter. "I don't know how to run an investigation! You need to be in charge!"
"Dad's in charge," he says. "And if Dad says you're in charge, then you're in charge."
"But I don't know what to do!"
"You can always ask me for advice."
Okay, that's true. His observation calms you down considerably. "Okay, so what do you think we should do?"
Joe just purses his lips; his eyes glint.
You groan. "Don't be like this. I don't know enough to--"
"You know everything I know," he says. "We've talked over the case. Hours and hours of talk. Once we get started, I'll be full of advice. But as for the overall plan-- Look, I've told you what I think, and you've offered your own opinions. You make the decision. I'll be with you a hundred thousand percent."
You feel terribly guilty, of course, and that by itself almost drives you into saying that you'll do what he wants and stick to investigating Eastman. But as you look at him--and the mad gleam in his eye--you realize that would be a double mistake.
Something tells you that Westside is the place to be looking. That third guy Joe mentioned: Maybe it seems like he wasn't involved in the accident that felled his friends, but he went running; and your own experience tells you that when you've got a mask it is very easy to run away from bad things. And second: Joe wouldn't respect you if you gave up and just went along with his opinion.
You pace slowly about the kitchen, head down and arms folded; you can feel Joe's eyes on you. "We'll go to Westside?" you finally say, and can't keep it from coming out like a question. "We'll get the stuff that you found at Eastman, and we'll go to Westside, and we'll see if the pieces fit together? Does that seem like a good idea?"
Joe snorts, and you wilt. Dammit, this is awkward. You are not used to being in charge. "Who was that third guy?" you ask in a quiet voice.
"Scott Bickelmeier. Football player."
You nod. "I know him. I mean, I know who he is--"
"Okay then," Joe says. "So Westside it is. How do we get in?"
You swallow at the way he seems to be pushing you, even as you're just thinking aloud. You chew at your thumbnail, then shrug. "We've already got someone on the inside there. Will Prescott--"
And then it hits you, with full force: You're not "Will Prescott" anymore, and you never will be again. You can never put that mask back on, and even outside a mask you will have to be someone else because the role of "Will Prescott" will be taken by someone--or something--else.
And with your bizarre elevation to being in charge of this investigation: Well, if you're anybody now, you're the third "Durras brother."
You suppress a wry smile. Or maybe you're now the third Stooge.
Either way, you suddenly have the odd feeling of slipping like a peg into an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable hole.
Because maybe "Will Prescott" didn't have the gumption to be in charge. But you've a new face and you'll have a new name, and you might as well try to make a new start with them. And one way to start is by sloughing off your more rabbit-like tendencies.
"We use Will Prescott to get back in," you repeat more firmly. "We don't want to hurt anybody if we can help it. But I can't play that part anymore." You look up to find Joe grinning. "Do you mind taking over as Will?"
"I'll do what you tell me, and no, I don't mind. Not if you don't mind me being inside your head and all."
"But I'm not Will Prescott anymore," you tell him, and surprise yourself anew at how easily the disclaimer comes out. Joe blinks, and with still more surprising ease you find yourself fluidly explaining what you mean.
Joe's eyes glint brightly as you talk, and when you're through he puts his arm around your neck. "That's a pretty impressive display of contextual self-awareness," he says quietly. "And suddenly Dad's decision makes a lot more sense to me." You wait for him to explain, which he does with a sidelong glance.
"You're having to learn how to be a new person. You're just getting started, but the sooner and the harder you work, the faster and easier it will be." He leans in close. "That's how come Dad put you in charge, I see now. He can see over horizons and around corners and past unturned pages. He knows what's happened to you and what needs to happen to you. And the best thing he can do is to make you grow into your new role as quickly as you can. I'll help if I can," he adds.
He pulls you close. It's awkward, but you embrace him back.
"Okay, now that we got the gay stuff out of the way," Joe says, and he pushes you roughly back. "So I'm gonna be Will Prescott. Who are you gonna be?"
"I guess I can go as this new guy. How long would it take to get me enrolled?"
"A couple of days. Rick can fake up the documents you need." He cocks his head. "It would be faster, though, if, uh, Joe Durras transferred. Frank will probably have to withdraw from Eastman, and it would be a good cover if Joe transferred at the same time. So you could go in as me."
You've already had the awkward, emotional scene, so you decline to make another one over this trusting suggestion, and only nod.
Then another thought occurs to you. "But if 'Joe' stayed at Eastman, he could continue to investigate there."
"True," he says in a tone that suggests he had the idea first and was waiting for you to catch up. "Playing me at Eastman would keep you busy. You could retrieve that box. And it would keep us together even while we were apart, in a way. I was opposed to us splitting up. But if we're playing each other I'd be with you, inside your old self at Westside, and you'd be with me, playing me, at Eastman."
It sounds like a genuine and intelligent offer and not just a sop, so you agree to give it a test. If it seems not to work, then later on you can transfer to Westside.
"I'll call Prescott," you tell Joe, "and get him out here now so we can make the switch. And I guess we can get you copied into that mask you made." Joe bites on his smile.
* * * * *
You wake the next morning feeling disoriented. Something is different.
Oh yeah. You are.
You shut off the alarm and throw off the bedclothes and will the morning wood distending the front of your pajama bottoms into wilting. You drop to the floor and do some long and enjoyable stretches and crunches and a few push ups. Frank should be fixing breakfast in a few--
Oh, but Frank's gone to see Dad. There won't be any awkward phone calls, at least; Joe called Dad back last night, just before he stepped into Prescott's mask, and told him where he'd be, so if anyone wants to talk to your partner they will be calling on Prescott's phone, not the one at this house. You grimace as you stand and twist at the waist, stretching your back muscles; Frank wouldn't be happy to know that someone else is taking over for his "brother," so Joe has left the impression that a golem will be covering for him in his absence.
You boil up a couple of eggs and drink a glass of juice, and while the eggs are cooling you take a short, shirtless jog around the neighborhood; the air is very cool but not cold, and you feel happily invigorated when you get back. The eggs are good, but they'll be better tomorrow after you've made a store run to extend your splurge with condiments like Tabasco sauce.
Wardrobe? You slap on a t-shirt because you'll have basketball practice first period, but you pack your kit with slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a corduroy jacket. The girls love you in your casual-formal look.
Frank took the truck, so you have to wait out down at the end of the street for the school bus. You catch yourself lightly humming an old German chorale--"Jesus Christus, unser Heiland"--then grin and switch from the melody to one of the madder counterpoints old Johann Sebastian wove around it. Fuckin' Johnny B. Perelandra-Kenandandra, though no one knew about the latter at the time. Twenty kids, hundreds of students, thousands of compositions, and he still found time to put down a couple of werewolves and a French vampire-slash-organ virtuoso. "Boop-deep, boop-deep, boop-deep, dah-dah-dah-dah, dah-dah-dah-dah, DAH-dah-dah-dah," you sing aloud as you mount the bus steps, then shift into a less-eccentric "I like to move it, move it, move it" as you dance-jerk your way down the aisle. You drop into a seat next to Amy Rhodes and nudge her lightly in the arm. "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood," you croon in a silly voice. She smiles tightly, turns a little pink, and looks out the window.
You're a goofball all day: taking a basketball to the face during practice; singing "Dem Bones" during biology class; mislabeling the American legislature as "bi-caramel" in social studies. And all the time you're doing this, your mind is working furiously at the angles on the box in the sub-basement.
Harrison Sawyer is the kid in the coma. With your knowledge of masks, a trip to the hospital to give him a close examination might pay big dividends. On the other hand, there's that box. Joe and Frank kept quiet about it; maybe you should make a public ruckus over it.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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