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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Braydon Builds a Time Machine (Of Sorts)"  The more you hesitate, the less you want to help Braydon. The full Latin name of the book has brought back to you the prickling fear you had when handling it. You're naturally reluctant to credit it with actual magical powers, but in case it does ... Well, it's probably less dangerous in the hands of whoever has it now than it would be in Braydon's. After all, there's a pretty good chance that its current owner has just tossed it into a corner of the room with his dirty clothes. Which, coincidentally, is where you find your English book when you go looking for it later that night. * * * * * Braydon comes looking for you the next day, and the day after that, and each time you tell him you've tried remembering what you can about the book, but you can't. Caleb is standing nearby during the second conversation, and after Braydon has gone he asks you what that was all about. "A book I lost. About magic. I told you about that, didn't I?" "Maybe you did." Caleb shrugs. "But Braydon's like your friend now?" "No, he's just after that book. What are we doing this weekend?" "Tilley's staying at my place Friday night. You wanna stay over too?" "Two's company, three's a crowd. But I thought he wasn't one for staying over with people. I've never had him over." "He was moaning about never seeing us," Caleb says. "So I told him he could stay with me Friday night and we'd go in to his work together on Saturday. He could give me free donuts. We'll see if that happens." "Right. He was giving me the sad song a week ago. You know he's started hanging out with Carlos Montoya and Mike Who-the-Fuck? I told you about that too, didn't I?" "Maybe you did," Caleb says tonelessly. So that talk reminds of Montoya and Hollister -- that's right, it's "Michael Hollister" -- and in English you ask them if they're still going to do that video bit they wanted you for. "Yeah, I think we're doing something else," Carlos says evasively. He seems very shy and doesn't look you in the face. "If we want to use you in something else, though, we'll talk. Okay?" So that feels like a window closing. And Carson and James are similarly noncommittal when you talk to them at lunch about whatever "project" they're working on. "Oh, we're all done with that," Carson says. He's lounging on his side, and he leans over to high-five James, who's sitting cross-legged behind him. "A raging boner of a success. In fact, I'm getting a hard-on just thinking about it again." "You guys are so gross," observes Yumi, who is taking lunch today with the group. "Well, the next time you guys are gonna do something -- " you start to say, but Carson interrupts. "I think we'd like to keep all our ops at the two-man level," he says. "More secure that way." You blink. "You don't trust me?" "Don't trust you not to squawk if Black or Patterson puts the squeeze on you. You're lucky they haven't paid much attention to you so far." "And that could change at any moment," says James. "After this last one, they're gonna start getting paranoid, I bet." You change the subject before they can start bragging again about how high-class their bullies are. * * * * * So the week ends on a note of dissipated drama. When you get home, you do a web search on that crazy title you got from Ted Arnholm. You only turn up one place on the internet where it looks like there's some talk about the book, but it's only mentioned in passing, and what it says makes very little sense, so you flush the title from your iPhone. And then, since you're at home, when you raise your head it's to confront the teetering mess atop your desk. The urge to do a little cleaning overpowers you, and you start sorting the garbage. The slip of paper with Stephanie's contact number flutters to the floor. The sight of those loopy curls -- like balloon-animals -- gives you a pang. You pick it up. Before you can stop yourself, you're back on your bed with your iPhone out. sorry i am pethetic and stupid and not interesting n dont know how to b better than i am, you type, but then you delete all that and replace it with a simple, what do you do on fridays? Because it is Friday afternoon, and you're facing a bleak and empty Friday night. You're so miserable you are texting Stephanie Wyatt. Then because you can't stop yourself from being pathetic, even though you can stop yourself from saying so, you send a follow-up text: sorry to bug u. just looking for ideas The next five minutes pass with mounting horror and regret. Why doesn't real life come with check points and auto-saves and possible reloads? It's not the first time you've wondered that. Your phone dings, and your heart tries to stand on its head. Your hand loses all feeling when you pick up the phone. party at catherine muskovs tonite. try there. The phone slides from your nerveless hand. Jesus. Oh, Jesus! For the first time it occurs to you that you could actually fall in love with Stephanie Wyatt. For beyond the fact that she has sexy boobs and sexy legs and a no-nonsense attitude that -- yes, if you're going to be honest with yourself -- arouses you a little even as it terrifies you a lot, she has this one amazing, astounding, unbelievably incredible quality going for her: Maybe she doesn't hold your stupid, pathetic shit against you. * * * * * ok thx, you'd texted back to her. (You worried that you'd look even more needy if you replied, then worried you'd be worse than you actually are if you didn't respond at all.) Then you take a long shower that, despite the water being just short of boiling, leaves you shaking and shivering all over. A careful consideration of her text had shown that she didn't say that she would be at the party, and you certainly wouldn't put it past her to send you to a party that she knew she wasn't going to be at. And you thought that maybe you should treat her text as a reason to text around to some other people to see if they knew of any parties going on -- of which there had to be many, you were sure. But on more mature reflection, you decided that it would be best to hit this one. Your reasoning was simple. If Stephanie wasn't going to be at it, then you need not worry about her and how it would look to her if you showed up at it. And if she was there, you could show her that you're mature and confident enough -- As if! jeers a malicious part of your psyche. -- to show up at a party where she is and not try to hang off her. You could simply be one of the guys who goes to things like this and has the confidence to contact an acquaintance -- and Stephanie is certainly an acquaintance -- to find out where the happening stuff was happening this Friday night, and then she'd see that you're not obsessed with proving you're not a skinny dork because you've got the confidence to Oh Christ Christ Christ Christ Christ just get on with getting ready and stop rehearsing all these dumbass excuses that even you don't believe! You change into fresh Levis and a white denim shirt before going down to dinner. Your dad asks why you're dressed up, and with some trepidation you tell him you were wanting to go to a party later this evening. He just grunts and tells you to be home by eleven-thirty. Which is probably when the fun will really be starting, but oh well. If it does, you'll just come home when you damn well please and pay the consequences then. Back upstairs you kill a few hours by getting ahead on your homework, then shoot a few texts around to other acquaintances to get Catherine's address and a clearer idea of when the party will get going. Nine o'clock is the consensus, and as it's almost eight-thirty by the time you get it, you put the books away and finish getting ready. That means experimenting by putting a tie with your ensemble. You eye yourself critically for a bit in the mirror, trying to decide if it makes you look hip or stupid. With deep ambivalence you decide to give it a try -- you're already diving head-first out of your comfort zone by even attending this party -- and are pleased when simply by jamming your shapeless ball cap onto your straw-like hair you give the ensemble exactly the look of studied, sloppy edginess you were hoping to achieve. Your mom does a double-take at you as you reach the door, but you run out it first before she can say anything that could spoil the self-pleased mood you've put yourself in. * * * * * Catherine Muskov lives in the southeast part of town, not too far from where your aunt and uncle live, actually, and it doesn't take you long to get there. "Consensus" either got the start time wrong, or people are so excited for the party that they started showing up early. The street is already crowded with parked vehicles. It's a nice part of town, with leafy yards and large houses, and a soft but insistent beat is already thudding away as you cruise by Catherine's, looking for a place to park. The presence of a police cruiser nearby is either a coincidence or a caution, but whichever it is, you take it as a sign that things won't get too rowdy.. On the other hand, maybe it won't have to get rowdy to make you feel uncomfortable. Catherine is on the track team, and if Stephanie is recommending her party, you shouldn't be surprised if it's overflowing with jockstraps. But the sight of big guys in letterman jackets lounging on the porch gives you serious pause. * To continue: "One Party, Two Girls, Some Assembly Required" |
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