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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Cheerleader from Outer Space"  You? Talk to Maria Vasquez? You? Try to become friends with her? It's such a stupid idea that you'd have to laugh. Bitterly Aloud. Anyway, why do you need her as a friend (or even girlfriend!) when you have a complete "Maria Vasquez" disguise in your bedroom? And yet, as you work through the next spell—another easy one, it looks like, requiring only a few, easy-to-get ingredients—you yield to the temptation far enough to text Caleb, asking him to confirm that he shares a couple of classes with her. God yes, he texts back. thx fr remngind me i was stuck fr smone to fap to ths aftnoon. Y dont u ask her out? you reply. lol fuck u. You warm to the thought. Im serius u have her for math rite? shes not that dumb i think. Who cares f shes dumb shes hily fappable. What u rather do fuck her or fap to her? Luv to both but i know my limits. Ok i will ask her out. Lol lololololololol lol dies "Get fucked," you mutter at the phone. "Just for that I am going to ask her out." Well, ask her to meet you. Which would seem almost as impossible. But you've got a copy of her memories, and with them you are able to set up a Sunday afternoon meeting. * * * * * Your hand trembles as you take another slurp of coffee, and you slop it all down the front of your shirt. Fuck! It's Sunday afternoon, three-fifteen, and Maria was supposed to meet you here at The Flying Saucer a quarter-hour ago. Between the coffee and your nerves you are feeling wrecked. And now you look wrecked too. You dab frantically at the white dress shirt you donned for the occasion, then fling the paper napkin aside and sprint for the restroom. But a handful of sopping paper towels and a sink full of water only result in a shirt that is both stained and sopping. Back in the dining room you flop into the booth and stab angrily at the scarred wooden table top with a spoon. Even with the help of her memories, it seems like a minor miracle that you even got Maria to agree to come. She had (you "remembered") listened with alert interest last year when she overheard Eric Harlen telling a friend that they should start a "Philosophy Club" at Westside, but she hadn't said anything, and then she'd (mostly) forgotten about it. But with that and with the sense of her personality that the brain-band gave, you crafted a story that you thought might intrigue her enough into meeting with you. Hey this is Will Prescott from school, you texted. I was talking to a friend of mine at the college, and he told me you were thinking about forming a book club or something to read (Ten minutes of thought as you tried to come up with a plausible name or title.) Plato this semester. If you're interested, I am too. You almost had a heart attack after hitting "Send," and severe palpitations as you waited five friggin' hours for a reply. But she bit the hook, and asked where and when. Tomorrow? you suggested with a wildly thumping heart. 3:00? The Flying Saucer? Ok, she replied, and that seemed to be that. Today, after church, you thought about texting her a reminder, but chickened out. When three o'clock came but she didn't, you wished that you had. Now you are hoping that she actually did ditz out on you. That way you could be in a clean shirt tomorrow when you go find her in one of those classes she shares with Caleb, and right in his face set up a make-up date with her. In fact, you're just gathering up your stuff to leave when you look up to see the girl herself standing by the register, looking into the dining room with a distracted expression. For an instant you're tempted to dive under the table. But though you are shaking all over, you raise your hand to gesture her over. "Hi," she says. (Her voice is very soft.) "You're Will?" "Uh huh. And, uh, I know you're Maria." You feel a terrified smile spreading across your face. She nods—a little vacantly—and slides into the seat across from you. Only now, when it's far too late, do you wish you had left that memory-strip implanted in your head. It would make it easier to talk. But at the time you worried it would make the conversation far too weird. "So, uh, this is the book that I picked up," you say, indicating the worn paperback of Plato's Republic that you found just an hour ago at the used book store. "I only just got into it, and I got to thinking it might be, you know, easier if I read it as part of a study group. And then my friend Rich"—Rich? Where the hell did you get that name from?—"said he heard you were, um, into Plato. And wanted to do a book club." "No," she says, and your heart stops. But she pulls the book toward her, and idly flips through the pages. "I mean, I've heard of him, but I haven't read any of his stuff. What's this one about?" "Um ... republics?" You grin as she fixes you with a frown. "Look, this all is kind of new to me, I have to admit," you continue. (Stop gabbling, you tell yourself.) "But I was thinking, you know, I'm going to be going off to college soon, I should do some prep, maybe read some good books, and it seemed like it was either this or, um, Shakespeare, and I didn't want to ..." Your voice dies away as Maria continues to stare at you in a very fixed way. You can see it in her eyes. She thinks you're lying, that you're telling her all this only as a way to mack on her. At any minutes she's going to get up and leave. If you're lucky, she won't pick up your coffee cup and fling what's left of it in your face. "Well," she starts to say. "Look," you blurt out, "all that isn't true. Okay, that's probably obvious." (Shutupshutupshutup! you shout at yourself. But do you listen?) "But what I mean is, I did want to meet you and to talk to you about a book, but it wasn't Plato or whoever. It was—" You draw a deep breath as you make what you've heard described as a "Hail Mary" play. "It was this." From your backpack you pull out the grimoire and drop it with a loud thud on the table between you. The coffee cup jumps and rattles. "It's not philosophy and it's not science. But it's something, well, kind of in between. Maybe. I guess." Maria looks down at the book, but she doesn't touch it. Even after you turn it around and slide toward her, she only stares down at it with a cocked head. When she looks up, she asks, "Why do you want to talk to me about it?" "Because I thought you might be interested in it." "What is it?" You open the front cover and point to the faces—the ones that change features and ages and sexes as you stare at them. "Pretty neat, huh?" A light frown creases her forehead, and she leans forward to give them a closer look. "Huh," she says, but she doesn't sound impressed. "Listen, it is true"—except it isn't—"that I heard you're interested in stuff that's, um, weird. No, wait, that's the wrong word," you correct yourself as she turns that frown on you. "But into stuff that's hard. Like philosophy. You don't just, like, accept what people tell you." You lean forward, and pray that she doesn't notice the film of sweat popping out across your forehead. "You're interested in ... metaphysical stuff." (Yeah, that's the word! Metaphysical!) Maria continues to regard you doubtfully. Almost she looks pitying. But with a sniff she does start to turn the pages. "It's all in Latin," she says. "I've translated it, it's not hard. In fact, I've done the first couple of spells." "Spells?" Her tone turns sharp. You nod. "It's a book of magic. Not illusions," you hastily add, "not like David Copperfield or Penn and Teller. Like, real magic. Please, I'm not bullshitting you," you plead as her gaze hardens. "Outside, in my truck, I've got all the stuff to do one of the spells, the first one. If you just let me show you. Out in the parking lot. We don't have to leave, we don't have to go anywhere. Only, you can leave afterward, if you're not impressed. Or if I piss you off. Please?" You feel your eyes starting to water. Now she looks like her feelings have been hurt, and her shoulders sag. "Alright," she says with a deep sigh. "Come show me." Your stomach plunges even as your heart leaps. Moment of truth! If you only don't fuck it up. * * * * * "So how's the trick work?" Maria asks as she gingerly turns the mask over and over in her hands. The acrid odor (which despite all precautions engulfed you both as you set the stuff on fire) has only just begun to dissipate. Maria, on your instructions, picked the half-spherical shell up off the mirror, and picked up again after dropping it. But she doesn't seem impressed, even though she's studying it closely, with hard eyes and a hard mouth. "No trick. It's magic." Her lips purse. "There's no such thing as—" But then she catches herself. You hold your breath. "Not sleight of hand," she murmurs. "Something in the chemical reaction? Except—" "Except why does it change shape?" You point. "It was, like, half a sphere, then it turned into that." Maria's lips whiten, then disappear. "Let me borrow the book," she says. "I'll bring it back in a couple of days." Next: "Show and Tell at the Old School" |
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