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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "One Party, Two Girls, Some Assembly Required"  Bailey Keane is very cute, and if you were still a sophomore or even a junior you'd be pretty interested in getting to know her better. She has a small mouth and a button nose and large brown eyes filled with a hopeful gleam. One cheek dimples when she smiles. But she looks so young ... Again, that wouldn't be a problem, except for the way you got paired with her. This girl, who is barely a junior, and who looks even younger and more immature than that, is apparently Stephanie's idea of a good match for you. And as that implication sinks in, it can't help but poison your impression of this girl. The word Bitch forms in your mind, and attaches itself to Stephanie. * * * * * Not that you act out on these feelings. You don't jump up and stalk off. But all your interest in Bailey drains away even as you're talking to her. After only five minutes or so -- during which you exhaust everything you have to say about school -- you fall into an awkward silence. It doesn't help that Bailey herself gets rather twitchy after the silence has descended, and starts avoiding your face. When that ear-pounding musical beat shifts to something a little faster, she perks up, though. "I think they're starting to dance in the other room!" she shouts over the noise. "Do you like to dance?" "No, I'm not really good at it!" "I'm not either, but -- " She folds and twists her hands, and squirms. "Do you want something to drink?" A desperate expedient, but desperate times and all that ... Her eyes widen. "Sure. I'll -- " "I'll get it!" You flee into the kitchen. Stephanie has gone, but most of her friends are still there. You have to squeeze through them to reach the counter with the sodas and juices, and you shut your ears as best you can against their conversation, though you hear enough to gather that they're talking about the Eastman basketball squad, and how those guys are much better-looking and more personable than the Westside crew. Or, as one of them puts it, "I'd love to bite him back if he bit me first." You almost spill 7-Up all over the place when you hear that one. You have your cell phone out when you rejoin Bailey, and pretend to be absorbed in one-thumbed texting as you hand her a cup. "Where's yours?" she asks. "I think I have to go!" you shout. "I got a text!" "Is something wrong? At home?" "No!" You're not so lame you'll pretend your mother is calling you. "I think I showed up at the wrong party! Yeah!" you continue, warming to the improvisation. "I was supposed to meet a friend, but he wound up someplace else! Either he's the dumbass or I am!" "So you're leaving?" Bailey's brow wrinkles up hard. "I might be coming back! I dunno! But he wants me to come out! He can't come here because he got a ride with someone else!" you hastily add. "So I have to go out there and -- Um, I'll try to talk him into coming back here, but I might not be able to!" Bailey's eyes drop, and you flatter yourself that she's crestfallen at your leaving. At the same time a sour feeling -- guilt -- invades your stomach. "Look, don't wait for me to come back!" you tell her. "If you find a guy to dance with, dance with him!" Then, on a violent impulse, you dart down do to peck her on the cheek. She jumps. "It was nice meeting you and, uh, if I don't see you later, I'll see you around!" You give a quick salute, and hop out of the room before she can try roping you down. An hour later, after driving around and letting your emotions seethe and sizzle, you are seriously annoyed at yourself and your headlong flight. You went to a party and was there for maybe fifteen minutes before bailing out. And for what? Because you didn't want to deal with a girl. A girl that Stephanie Wyatt foisted on you, to your humiliation. The whole mess only deepens your resentments of her. * * * * * Saturday morning you oversleep, so you're not able to meet Caleb and Keith at Don's Donuts, and when Keith begs off the afternoon with the excuse he needs to be with Carlos and Mike, that leaves you with Caleb. "Meh," he says when you ask about his Friday night. "We played some mobile games, and he streamed us a couple of movies. What about you?" By this point you're so embarrassed by your performance at the party that you just say you stayed home. Early that evening you're surprised to get some texts from Carlos Montoya: wats ur sked sunday? time to meet for vid talk mybe shoot? want to do sthing wit u. got chruch in morning, after two maybe? you reply. You're not enthusiastic, but it would be something new. PERFECT He gives you an address and a four-digit number "for the gate." You don't picture Carlos as living in a gated community, but you forget about it until the next afternoon, when at a quarter to two you pull into a parking lot and check the address again. No, it seems to be correct. And there's the gate. It's a self-storage complex. You pull up to the entrance and punch the code into the keypad. With a buzz and groan, the chain-link gate draws back. You gun the engine impatiently. You park just inside and text Carlos: im here i think where r u? A few seconds later a door at the end of one of the rows of storage sheds opens, and Carlos steps out. He points to a parking space next to him, and you jack-rabbit your truck into it. "Seriously, is this where you live?" you ask as you jump out of the cab. He laughs. "Practically. It's my family's business. Well, my uncle owns this one, my step-dad owns another one over in Parsonboro. I help out here, and my uncle Phil lets me have two units to keep my stuff in. Come on in." He holds punches a four-digit code into the keypad by that door he came out through. You're confused until you step inside, and then you understand. It's a set of temperature-controlled storage units, with their doors on the inside of the building instead of the outside. The air is very cool -- almost chilly. There are some handcarts in the corner of the entryway, and a long hallway that plunges straight down the center of the building. It's lined up and down both sides with sliding metal doors painted blue. Carlos bangs a fist on one of these as you pass. "Got my weight set in this one," he says. "Cheaper than a gym membership." Now you notice you broad and strong his back is. Two doors down is a unit that's open. It's small, and dominated by a large desk set against its back wall. Before this stands a video camera on a tall mount and a couple of photographers lamps that brilliantly light the space. In one corner is a mobile stand with a flat-screen TV mounted on it; in another, a saggy futon. "Welcome to our studio," Carlos says. His "us" encompasses the company already there: Michael Hollister, Josiah Shank, and Philip Fairfax. The first two, who are perched on the edges of the desk, look up brightly at your entrance, and Mike raises his hand for a high-five; Fairfax smiles in a reserved way. "Ey, Will, finally!" Mike hollers, and his yell bounces off the floor, the ceiling, and all the walls to meet again directly at your head in a way that makes you wince. "How you feeling? Any side effects from the other day?" "What? Oh, you mean out in the portables. No, I'm fine, I almost forgot about that, actually. So, uh, are we doing that thing here, today?" Memory of being mugged last Tuesday suddenly makes you feel rather shy. "Nah, I think we're going to watch a movie," says Mike. He looks around. "Right? A movie?" "That's right," says Carlos. He rests a heavy but friendly hand on your shoulder. "We're thinking about bringing in, like, a rotating band of guest hosts to help out, so if you're interested, you know -- " He shrugs. "This could be like an audition for joining." Your chest tightens. "Well, I've never done anything like that before," you admit. "And I don't talk about, or, you know, analyze -- " Carlos looks mirthful. "You don't talk about movies with your friends after getting outta one?" Philip Fairfax speaks up. "I thought you were taking Hawks's film class this semester." "Sure, but -- " "You could probably get extra credit with him for doing this," says Carlos. "We did, when we took him last year." }Extra credit? Hmm. That is one of the classes you're nervous about. You signed up for it thinking it would be a blow-off class -- what's so hard about watching movies? -- but Mr. Hawks is making you work. So you shrug. "Yeah, okay. What do you need from me?" "Just your eyes and mouth," says Mike. His ruddy face turns even redder, maybe from excitement, though you have no idea why he should be so excited. "See, we'll watch this movie this afternoon, then we'll talk about it, you know, just to get our ideas out there and get used to them. Then tomorrow, after school, we'll get together here again and do a shoot. That way you can think over what you want to say." "And we'll figure out some gags," says Carlos. He grins. "You know. Something to humiliate you." It sounds like a joke, but the shrill way that Mike laughs makes you flinch. Only Fairfax, resting casually with his hand on his hip, remains sober as he regards you from behind his black-frame glasses. You agree, so the large flat-screen TV gets wheeled into the middle of the room and Josiah is sent out to pick up some snacks. Then you all settle back on the sofa to watch Lawrence of Arabia. All three hours and forty-eight minutes of it. * To continue: "Four Offers" |
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