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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Fallen Angel"  by Masktrix You’re hesitant, but Abi’s mind is telling you that she doesn’t stand a chance against Kelsey without some magic of her own. If you’re going to pretend to be Abi convincingly, you’ll have to embrace all of her lifestyle. You take a deep breath, tie your hair back into a ponytail with a scrunchie, and slip a yellow disc out of a pocket in the racquet case. You hold the little bit of bliss on your tongue. Nothing. You trace a pattern on the soft hairs at the back of your neck until it prickles all tingly. It doesn’t do anything. You crunch your jaw and feel wonderful. Silly useless pill. Now, what are we about to do? We’re going to humiliate this plebeian bitch. Kelsey is waiting for you, and hits the double yellow ball to start warming it up. You do likewise, smacking it around, letting it gain heat, letting it feel as warm as the glowing little furnace now burning in your chest. A heart pounding fire… “Ready?” You blink. It’s been almost five minutes already. You spin the racquet to determine serve. Best of three so others can use the court. “C’est moi,” you say with a giggle as it lands pointing in your direction. “Oh, would you like to play in French?” Kelsey asks in the language, almost a little too casually. “Why not?” You reply in kind, before serving without warning. It’s harsh, but Kelsey is more than up to it, darting forward and returning straight, inches above the board. You let it bounce and drive a backhand, retreating as Kelsey moves forward to control the T. She returns again, dropping it right against the far corner. You rush over but can’t get there. First blood Blankenship. You slap the ball back to her for service. You blink again. Time is in effluence. Is that from a song? What was that song… “Out. 4-1, I retain service.” The world judders and jolts. You can hear the glass flowing like a supercool waterfall as this whore dares to defy you. Not a chance. Focus, Abi. Let time slow down… Slow. Down. Watch. The. Ball. “Your serve.” Better. Keep it going, supercool liquid, burning fire, supercool liquid, burning fire. Sweat trickles off your brow. Sweat all over the mask of this lovely face. A mask of Abi Steiner. No. You’re Abi now. Abi doesn’t wear a mask unless it comes with a whip. “9-5. Your game.” Kelsey’s face looks like thunder as she catches her breath, walking over to wipe her hands on a towel, chest heaving as she pants heavily. “You’re better than last time,” she says in English. “Been training?” “Un peu.” You bow with a smile and a laugh, eyes wide and wild as you feel the power, insane power, surging through you. You flick away a sweat-slick strand of hair, combing it down into your ponytail. God you fucking love being Abigail Steiner. You love being me. I love being me. I love being you loving being me… “9-2, and that one’s mine.” Kelsey says, barely out of breath, a little smirk as you’re back talking French. You just zoned out for an entire game. You’re both equal again. Why haven’t I put this spoiled trash in the gutter where she belongs? Rage. Frustration. Sweat beads on your arms, trickling around in shapeshifting drips. You grip the handle of your racquet so hard you feel like it’s going to snap in your hand. Crumble like stone. Stone. Shelly. Stone cold Shelly. All Will Prescott’s fault. Nothing to do with me. You open your eyes. The ball has flown from the front wall and is bouncing on court just ahead of the short line. Kelsey is rushing to the T. You back up, swing a vicious forehand and drive the ball straight into her spine. “Agh!” Kelsey slams to the floor and looks at you with rampant ire, nostrils flaring. “Let,” you say without apology. “5-5, I retain serve.” Kelsey gets off the floor. The gloves are off now. 6-5. Swap service. 6-6. Swap service. 7-6. 8-6. “Match point.” Swap service. 7-8. 8-8. “We play to 10,” you hiss through gritted teeth. She hits the ball so damn hard it goes bouncing through your legs. You scowl. Kelsey smiles. “Match point.” You skid across the court and manage to whack the ball hard into the right corner. It falls perfectly, spin costing it momentum, and bounces twice. Kelsey comes to a halt. Squeaks of trainers on the floor. You’re both soaked in sweat, shaking with fatigue, both at the edge of everything you can do. I wonder if she wants to make out as badly as I do? Backhand. Forehand. Forehand. 9-9. “Match point,” you say, mimicking her inflection. Who cares about magic and masks when you can feel this good every day? And, serving with a final, deep swing, you watch as Blankenbitch can’t get to the ball in time. I am Abigail Steiner, and I serve aces. I am Victory. Now kiss me, Kelsey. You throw down your squash racquet and inhale, sucking all of the color out of the room to fill your mind with rainbows. You rotate, and see that the hundreds, thousands, millions of onlookers you thought were hanging on your every movement are absent: there’s no one behind the court’s glass. The only person who saw this, will ever know about this beyond a score posted on a notice board, is Kelsey Blankenshit. And that’s more than enough for you. You cough, lungs full of hot air, then gather your racquet and walk over to shake her hand. She takes it warily, eyes narrowed. An enemy for life. How fun. Let me slip my tongue down your throat. “Good game,” you both say, smiling. Neither of you mean it. You jolt yourself back to reality in the shower, warm water and dry mouth that tastes of vomit. In your car, a little too fast down Highway 37, windows down so you feel the wind in your hair and laughter in your throat, then through two stop signs in Lattyville and over to the ‘44. Into the single dorm room, door closed, bag containing some old book and your gym clothes down on the floor. Alone. You stare at your reflection, pulling off your pink polo, sliding out of your jeans. “The body of an angel,” you mutter, shimmying in a little dance, a deep smirk on your astonishing face. “I’m a devil in the body of an angel. I’m the devil in a devil in the body of an angel.” Welcome to the world of Abi Steiner, Will Prescott. Fuck it up with your stupid book and I’ll tear out your goddamn eyes. You can’t really remember who Will Prescott is, or why that old book matters, but you mean every word. Doesn’t that make it a glorious night to be alive? Next: "Of Masks and X-Men, Part 1" |
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