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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Party Crash"  It's the cold that wakes you. A stealthy, clinging chill that plucks at and seeps under your skin. You grimace and twist and hug yourself as look around. You're in a bathroom—a nice bathroom of peach and aquamarine, but what the hell? And you're naked! You grab the edge of the vanity and hoist yourself onto swaying feet. You catch a glimpse of the face in the mirror, and of a dark and angry glower on it. There's a pile of clothes on the corner of the vanity, and you feel some slight relief at touching them to find that they're yours. But still— What the hell? A memory tugs as you rest a hand on your sweatshirt. A memory of clothes—other clothes—in a messier pile, sitting on a bathroom vanity. Not this vanity, of course, you've never been in this bathroom before. Except even it is starting to feel familiar, the more you frown at it. Stupid deja vu. You push aside the sweatshirt and find your panties and socks beneath, sandwiched atop your jeans. You're just fluffing the panties out when it hits you. Underwear. Your underwear. A memory of stripping it off and piling it on the vanity with the rest of your things for Sydney to pick up. In this— You whirl to boggle at the bathtub. In this, Sydney's bathroom. A hard chill slips down your spine. A chill that has nothing to do with the cold, dead air that clings to your skin. You twist to give yourself a furtive look in the mirror over your shoulder. Kelly O'Brien—looking frightened and angry—glares back at you. Oh my God. You close your eyes and lower your chin and turn all the way around to face the mirror. You take a couple of deep breaths as Kelly's memories—now that you know whose they are—well up, filling your brain like water filling a sponge. * * * * * "So is she one of the girls you've got a hard-on for?" Blake takes his eyes off the road long enough to give you a sidelong, slit-eyed glance. "Where'd you learn that word? Hard-on?" "From one of your friends. Listening to you and them sitting around talking about who gives you guys hard-ons." "P'tch!" But that's all he says, and turns his attention back to driving. So, yeah, your big brother wasn't at all interested in giving you a ride out to this Sydney McGlynn's place until you told him that's where you needed a ride to. Before that, he was all about getting himself into his work shirt and jeans, and grousing that you should just call one of your other friends to give you a ride out, because it's not like he was going to be able to pick you up afterward and there was no freaking way he was going to sit out in the street and wait for you to finish whatever your business was with Bridget. Then you said the magic words "Sydney McGlynn," almost on accident, and he froze and blinked, and then he said, "Fine, whatever, just as long as you get a ride home from someone else," and he plucked the car keys down from off the hook by the garage door. "So do you got a hard on for her?" you ask again. Blake sucks in his lips and brakes to a smooth stop at an intersection. "You really want me to tell you what my cock does when I see her?" "You're so fucking gross, Blake." "You're the one who wants to talk about my penis, Kelly. You gonna study to be a proctologist or whatever it is that—?" "So fucking gross." You cross your arms and turn to stare out the passenger-side window. Why can't he buy himself a car of his own, leave me this one to drive? you think. What's he doing working at the Warehouse if he isn't making money he should be saving up to buy himself a car? And one thought leads to another, and you wonder if Bridget isn't going to try getting you to go out to the Warehouse tonight. You were supposed to be going out to Catherine Muskov's house, but Bridget's been trying to get into the Warehouse ever since your freshman year, and maybe she thinks tonight's the night she can swing it. You shiver a little. What would Blake say if he caught you out there? It would almost be worth it, just to piss him off ... * * * * * You lean over the vanity to give Kelly O'Brien a long, hard look in the mirror. Because you are her now. This is you. This is the face and body and person you are going to inhabit as you get your revenge on Blake O'Brien. She is on the small side, even for a sophomore girl. Even in elementary school and middle school, when boys and girls are more evenly matched, Kelly was shorter than most of the guys. Not that she's a midget or anything. But even with her memories and instincts, which are hardening into second nature as you study yourself, you are struck by how different the world feels when you have to raise your eyes to look a guy in the face. She has long, brown hair that is twisted up in a single, messy braid hanging halfway down her back, and large, dark eyes. Her nose and mouth are small; the former turns up in an impudent little pug; her lips are chapped. She has hardly begun to lose the tan that burned her face and arms and legs and shoulders over the summer, and you twist your left arm over to rub at the scabbed-over scrape on your elbow. And below the neck? You can't help wincing a little, for you see yourself also with Kelly's eyes. Madison Crawford's eighth-grade jibe—"Why don't you try out for the boys' teams, Kelly, you look like you'd fit right in"—still hurts. It is a very "boyish" body you've got now. Your boobs are small and pointed, like undernourished pears, and your hips are very slim and you've no butt to speak of. Your legs and arms are toned by exercise, but they're too toned, and wouldn't look out of place on, yes, one of the sophomore guys. Even your stomach, which curves slightly in between your chest and your hips, is less "hourglass" and more "boy who runs a lot and does fifty crunches a day." You tug at your braid. At least I won't have any guys hitting on me, you try to reassure yourself. But even in your own mind, the thought sounds mournful. There's a knock at the door. "Will?" "Just a minute," you call back. "I'm getting dressed." You slide your (boyish) legs into the panties and draw them up. You gasp a little as they snap tightly to the one spot where your femininity cannot be mistaken. * * * * * "Yeah, we're not taking you out anyplace until you can do a better Bridget impression," you tell Sydney after you've given her a good, long, hard look. You're sitting in the back yard, at that ornamental table, eating an apple while Fake-Sydney lingers nearby, watching with silent amusement. "So I don't get why the thing works for you but not for me," your girlfriend grumbles. "The face works," you remind her. "The rest of it— Well, I don't know." You tilt your head to frown at her intently. "You're freaking out on me," you tell her, then point at Fake-Sydney. "She isn't. Bridget I think would freak out. So maybe you are getting her, a little." Bridget—it's hard not to think of her as Bridget, even though she doesn't act much like her—rolls her eyes. "So what should I be doing?" she whines. "What should I be doing about this?" She shows you her cell phone again, and the text messages that are piling up on it. "Here. Let me." You lay the apple aside as you take her phone. You scroll through the names, and can't help making a face at them. So many people she knows and hangs out with. Not like you, not like Kelly, who'd rather stay in with a movie and some popcorn and one or two friends. You sigh as you start thumbing in some texts. Bridget scoots her chair over. "What are you telling them?" "Nothing that'll get you in trouble," you assure her. "I'm telling them you decided to do something with me. Oh God." Dana DiBenedetto has instantly replied, asking what Bridget will be doing with you. Way to be obvious about trying to wangle an invitation over, you snort to yourself. "What are we going to do?" "Hang out at my house. You can sleep over if you want. Blake'll be at—" The thought of Blake, and what you intend to do to him, washes over you. "He'll be at work all night," you finish. Bridget noticed your stumble, but she hesitates before picking up on it. "You still want to do something to him?" she quietly asks. "Using Kelly?" You turn to give her the same direct stare as he gave you in the car earlier. "I want to cut his heart out with a spoon." "Is that how Kelly feels?" she asks with widening eyes. You shake your head and go back to texting. "He's overprotective of her, that's all," you murmur. Which will make it all the more perfect to use Kelly against him. A guy. Kelly hasn't got a boyfriend, but there's lots of guys in the sophomore class you could use to give Blake heartburn. Some of them even on the JV football squad. You freeze at the sequel thought: What about using one of Blake's own friends instead? If one of them got it on with Blake's kid sister ... The cell phone dings: a text from James Randolph, mock-pleading with Bridget to come out to Catherine's. Yeah, with Bridget as bait, you could start moving tomorrow on getting Kelly the kind of boyfriend that Blake would want to kill. Next: "A Conundrum Called Kelly" |
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