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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Replacements Three"  You relax on the workout bench for a few minutes, gently cupping and squeezing your breasts until muffled voices sounding through the wall remind you that the others are waiting on you, and might come busting in on you if you don't get a move on. With a sigh you sit up— And you suck in a short, sharp breath at the sight of the bush between your legs. Just looking at it causes it to warm. But there will be time tonight to get to know it better. You look about for your clothes. There aren't many of them. Andrea Varnsworth never dresses up. But when you've got a body like Andrea's, you don't have to. You pull some panties up over your scissor-like legs and snap them about your hip. You pull the bra straps over your shoulders, hook them into place, then twist them around and tuck yourself into the cups. She had changed into jeans for this movie night, but they are old, broken-down things with frayed cuffs and worn spots, and they hang loosely off your hips once you've got them on. You drape a loose, black t-shirt over your torso, then—hardly noticing what you're doing—pull your loosely tangled hair behind your neck and shake it out. You push your long feet into the discarded flip-flops. All this time you've avoided looking at yourself in the floor-length mirror that Carlos has propped against a wall. But now you do turn to give yourself a once-over appraisal. Andrea Varnsworth looks back at you from under a hooded brow. Her face is narrow and a little hard, with eyes that settle naturally into a wary gaze. Her brown hair is thick but manageable, and you pat and pull it now so that it drapes easily and casually onto the tops of your shoulders. Her torso is slim and sculpted, as though smoothed by the flowing water that she loves to cut through. You hug yourself, and shiver a little. Then, with only one quick glance back into the mirror, you shut off the light and step out into the corridor. * * * * * "Is that you, honey?" your mom calls after you've shut the front door behind you with a click, and shoved the deadbolt back into place. "How was the movie?" "It was fine," you call back, and cross the darkened living room to the short hallway out of which spills a stream of yellow-orange light. Andrea's mom—your mom, now, for the time—is propped up in bed with a book and a cup of tea. "It was boring," you add softly. "What did you watch?" You shrug. "I don't remember. Just a movie." "Who was there?" "Just some people. Some of the cheerleaders." You grind your toe against the floor. All the floors in the house are bare wood, and not of the expensive hardwood kind, just bare boards sanded smooth. "I think they were trying to set me up with someone." She smiles. "Did it work?" "No." Even you can barely hear the word. "He wasn't my type." Your mom shrugs. "It doesn't always work out. As long as you weren't disappointed." She hesitates. "I hope it wasn't too awkward for you." "It wasn't. It was just boring. I'm going to go to bed now. Can I bring you anything?" "No, honey, but thanks. I'll see you in the morning." You nod, and pull her door half-closed behind you. Andrea's bedroom is at the other end of that very short hallway, and you duck inside it and close the door only long enough to strip off your jeans and change into a pair of linen pajama bottoms. Then it's into the bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth. Back in the bedroom, you throw off your t-shirt and bra and pull on a pajama top. Then you slip into bed. You stare at the ceiling as you waver between indulging and resisting the urge to do a little spelunking with your fingers. It's not a temptation that Andrea often resists, but it's also not a temptation that persistently comes to her. At the moment her body feels cold and unyielding, like stiff clay, and you're too shamefaced to put in the work you'd need to in order to loosen it up. In the end, you compromise by putting a hand down the front of your pajama bottoms and digging your fingers into the bush. But you only lightly stroke and press at it, and let your mind play back over memories of the evening. They urged you to stay—Carlos and Philip and Keith and Mike, in their disguises—and to make a party of it. We're staying out till one or two, at least, Carlos boasted. We found out how late our guys can stay before having to be back home. Couldn't find out how long Andrea could stay out, though. But you should stay out late with us, go home after everyone's gone to bed, don't get caught before the memories start coming. What do you mean? you asked. It takes a couple of hours for the memories to start coming, Philip explained. I thought we mentioned that. They don't really come until after you've had a chance to sleep inside a mask. Being unconscious seems to ease the merger process. You felt like you had all of Andrea's memories—at least enough of them to fake your way at home—and said you thought you'd take a chance on going home and going straight to bed. Come on, party, Carlos urged. We're gonna take our clothes off, get to know each other inside and out. No we're not, Mike shrieked. Pervert. Carlos laughed. I know you just got your first beta, Philip said, and you still have to get used to it, but you're going to be able to get a second. You can start thinking about who that will be. Do you know who yours will be? you asked. Not yet, but our, uh, first set of betas will still be around to help the, uh, beta you in the, uh, project. But mostly it's going to have to be you and your betas working on it. We're going find another project to use our second betas on. Like taking our clothes off, Carlos chortled, and— So that school project—the Make Will Popular project—is in your hands now. That's okay. Andrea can help now. Can't she? That's why you picked her. You shut your eyes and stroke yourself a little harder. Things are warming and loosening down there. She's got a lot of friends, but they don't overlap with you and your friends much. And though she cuts a very visible figure at school, it's not a figure that pulls a gaggle of people in her wake. Mostly (you see now that you've got an inside view) she acts as a hostess. You can't place exactly when and how it happened—because Andrea can't. Maybe it started picking up during her sophomore year. It seems like maybe that's when the house started filling up most days after school with friends and acquaintances. Some of them, like Jelena Petrovic and Sienna Goldman, started hanging out because they had homes they wanted to stay away from. Others, you suppose, hung out because Jelena and Sienna hung out. And Andrea's place is a convenient hang out. Her mom works at Ristorante Locarno, the toniest eatery in Saratoga Falls, as a waitress and manager. It's long hours—though with fantastic pay—and it keeps her out of the house all afternoon and most of the evenings until late, six days a week. With no father or siblings around, it means Andrea has the place to herself and to anyone she lets in. Lets in. Yes, that's probably the best way of putting it. Andrea never invites anyone over, she just lets in most anyone who shows up. Invitations, when they're made, are usually made by Charles Hartlein. Your face doesn't twitch a muscle, but inwardly you grimace. Charles Hartlein— president of the drama club; out and proudly gay—probably thinks of himself as Andrea's closest friend. He certainly acts like it, confiding everything in her and dropping asides that make it sound like she confides everything in him. He's always dropping by, letting himself in without knocking, and shooting off texts to let people know that her house is open and expecting company. With him comes his other gay and bi- friends, like Christian Padilla and Adrian Semple. Andrea doesn't mind. But between Charles and his gang, and Jelena and her punk-themed musician friends, Andrea's scene is a very hip and bohemian one. And this is the scene you want to insert yourself into, not only as Andrea (which is easy enough; you're in it already, inside her skin) but as yourself? It's not your kind of thing. Even with a makeover, could you really fit in? You try to think of what Andrea knows about you, or what she's heard, particularly since Keith and Philip and them took you in hand. Nothing comes. You can't even recall Charles saying anything, and Charles has something to say about nearly everything. Maybe you didn't make as much of a splash as you thought you had. You take a deep breath and sigh into the darkness. Even with both hands down your front, kneading and pressing and probing, you can't get stimulated, maybe on account of thinking about yourself and your situation and how you're going to use it to advance yourself socially. (It's not a sexy subject.) For a fleeting moment or two you even give some thought to ignoring your beta, leaving him where he is, and on just being Andrea. It would certainly be less work. There's hardly any work at all when it comes to being Andrea, except for swimming, which isn't work at all for her. It's morning when next you're aware of anything. The alarm on your phone is chiming softly. Next: "Bodies in Motion" |
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