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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Go-Between"  Philip Fairfax glares at you. "What part of 'I'm wearing a mask' don't you understand, Will?" "I didn't know it was you!" "Who else would it be?" Maybe you were the real Philip, you almost retort. Maybe you fucked up that mask you made. Instead, you just mutter, "Well, you took me by surprise. You didn't tell me you were going to— I thought you said he was disgusting!" "He's not disgusting!" Philip seemingly protests of himself. "He's just, you know." He pulls at the white t-shirt he's wearing under the beige windbreaker. A cold breeze is blowing, and it riffles his coppery crew cut. "He's just not someone I'd really care to be see around." "Well, you're being seen around him now. That's his face"—you point at his nose—"you've got stapled onto yours." "You know what I mean!" he hisses. Then— "Look out!" He grabs you and pulls you down behind a sedan. A truck grumbles past. "Oh, wait, what am I doing?" He clucks his tongue. "No one cares if this guy and Danielle are hanging out together." "Gee, thanks. But what's the idea? Why are you—?" "Look, can you skip first period? Go off campus with me?" Philip dances in place, like he has to pee. You've got Current Issues first period—a bullshit social studies class—but Danielle is a good girl who doesn't skip. "As long as we're back in time for second," you tell him. "Can Philip skip first?" "I don't know!" A red spot blazes out in his forehead. "That's the freaking problem, you dumb bint!" * * * * * You drive yourself and Chelsea/Philip a mile back in to town, and land at Salvation Donuts. As the time for classes approaches and then passes, you think you see a dark shadow of suspicion cross the face of the fat woman behind the counter, but she says nothing. You make sure to keep your and Chelsea's voices low. It's very odd thinking of the person opposite you as Chelsea. Philip Fairfax hasn't the most masculine face, but it is definitely a boy's face, with pasty skin stretched over the hard brow line and bones of his face. You idly try to imagine him with Chelsea's golden curls falling down the side of his face and draping over his beige windbreaker; and you have to stifle a smile, for no mere wig could soften the blunt nerdiness of Philip's face. At the same time, you can hardly believe this is the quiet, intense, logical Philip Fairfax that Danielle vaguely knows. His eyes bulge and dart, and his face blushes like he's been rubbing it in poison ivy, and he twitches and squirms in his seat. Worst is when his eyes screw up behind his glasses, like he's about to burst into tears. Haltingly, this ... person ... on the other side of the table tells you the story. The long and short of it is that Chelsea decided that Philip and his friends needed on-the-spot supervision if they were to turn out the kind of video she wants. "It's his stupid friends," she says, her eyes narrowing into slits of envy behind Philip's black-framed glasses. "They've got stupid-ass crushes Eva and Jessica or something." Her voice—a soft baritone—is ragged with fury. "Anyway, that's what Philip the Fake told me when we talked last night, and the way he described it, it sounds like they're going to make the Eva and Jessica Garner Fun-Time Variety Hour or some bullshit like that. "So that's when I decided to keep a close watch on things. You know, seize the controls, so to speak." Chelsea turns very prim, and sips her coffee in a way that would earn Philip a medal in an Olympic-caliber So-Gay-It-Hurts-To-Watch-Him event. "So I told the fake to meet me out at the parking lot early, so we could switch places." "So is someone covering for you?" you ask. "I mean, is there someone who, uh, looks like ... you who's—" "I have a mask that looks like me," she tells you. "I put that stuff in it and put it on Philip. Changed clothes and everything, naturally." Her brow furrows. "It was pretty freaking weird talking to myself," she mutters. Did you notice that you were kind of a bitch? you wonder. Aloud: "Yeah it is. So what happened after you, uh, put on Philip's mask?" "I went to sleep. And when I woke up I was, like, well, here I am again. I got dressed." She flinches. "I guess you guys are used to it, you know. Having that thing flopping around between your legs. Gyuh. I mean, don't get me wrong," she adds hastily. "I, uh, appreciate what you can do with it. But having it attached to you, dangling down there—" "It's no weirder than missing it after growing up with one," you retort. You regret the outburst when Chelsea blinks, draws back, and looks you up and down thoughtfully. "But you were saying you don't have the memories?" "Huh? Oh. No, I don't." Her lower lip practically drips into her lap. "How long did it take you to, uh—?" She points at your face. "Instantly, practically. Actually, when I woke up I had to remind myself that I wasn't actually—" You mouth the name: "Danielle." "Really? Because that night up in my bedroom I didn't think you were much in character." "Danielle's a polite girl. I didn't feel much like being polite." A wounded light comes into Chelsea's eyes. "Was it something I said?" "Never mind. I was just disoriented. Because I had two people fighting it out inside my skull. But you don't know anything about Philip?" "Nope." "Home address? Parents' names? Brothers or sisters? Class schedule?" She shakes her head to all of these. "Do you know what you have second period? You have it with me. Well, Danielle. AP Calculus." Her eyes pop. "I can't do that! I don't know anything about anything with x's and y's and those root thingies!" Boy, if that's what she thinks calculus consists of, she'd be really lost in it. * * * * * You don't have much time to figure out what the problem is with Philip's mask before you have to return to school, for you really can't afford to miss second period. Chelsea, on the other hand, can't afford to go, not with the kind of "amnesia" that she's suffering. So she skips the whole day. You're distracted all through math and your third-period study hall as you puzzle it out. There shouldn't be a problem with Philip's mask—the fake Philip that Chelsea made acted just like him, so it must contain his memories. The trouble must be on Chelsea's end. Maybe she's got some kind of psychological block about inhabiting the role of Philip Fairfax? Still, it doesn't seem ... politic ... to suggest that the problem is with her. You're on your way out of the cafeteria after lunch when someone calls you—a Hispanic guy whose dark hair is trimmed into a kind of fauxhawk. Not until he says, "Philip texted me, said I needed to talk to you," do you recognize him. It's Carlos Montoya, one of the guys who helps Philip run that YouTube channel. One of the "on-camera talent." "Oh, uh huh," you say. "What's up?" "Well, you know this thing we're making on the cheerleader squad?" he says. "Philip says you're helping out." His brow furrows. So does yours. "I am?" "That's what Philip says. Did you talk to him?" "Um, I guess? Kind of? I think, maybe, I talked to him about maybe making something about the cheerleaders?" Sweat breaks out up and down your back. "Well, Philip says you're involved. We're gonna have a meeting after school. Can you come?" "Sure. I guess." You scratch your scalp, which has begun to badly itch. "Where?" "I'm not sure, probably my place. But Philip's sick, says he might not be able to make it." "Maybe we should put it off then." "He says he wants us to go ahead." Carlos shrugs, broadly. "You're friends with some of the girls on the squad, right?" You nod. "I guess that's why Philip thinks you should— I mean," he adds, turning a little red, "it would be great to have you helping. But also, uh, maybe you could, you know, introduce us and stuff." He squirms on his feet, and you realize he's probably as sweaty and confused as you. "Well, text me when you know what's going on," you tell him, and you exchange contact information. Just don't text me before I get together with Chelsea to figure out what's going on with her. You do a double-take at a small blonde kid with glasses who has crept up behind Carlos and is staring at you hard from behind his shoulder. Carlos glances back. "Oh, this is Josiah," he says. "You know each other?" You shake your head. "He's our sound guy." "Okay." You finally tear your gaze away from Josiah's. It was like trying to outstare a cat. As you stumble from the cafeteria, you sweatily wonder what you've got yourself into with this "YouTube video" idea. * * * * * Your house is empty, so that's where you meet Chelsea immediately after school. She's still in Philip's mask, but she's a lot calmer than she was this morning. "I think maybe I'm getting something," she says. "Like, little flashes that are sort of like memories? Like dreams you half remember?" "Yeah? That's good," you say. Just not good enough. "Are you going to meet up with the guys tonight? That planning session?" "I can't. Uh, maybe we should switch masks? You could go to it as Philip. Maybe the mask will work for you, and Danielle's will work on me?" You shrug. It would be a good test. Upstairs, Chelsea shuts the bedroom door on you both. After a pause, you pull off your jacket and sweep off your sweatshirt, exposing your bra and torso. You're about to undo your jeans when Chelsea cries out. "Oh God," she shouts. You gape at her, then follow her gaze as she stares down at herself in horror. The front of Philip's trousers is tenting. * To continue: "The Crisis in Chelsea's Trousers" |
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