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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Two Girls, One Mask"  You've no idea what's wrong with the mask that Katy was trying out. But you lay it aside for the moment, as you've another project to work on. Somehow it's not a surprise—it's creepy, but not a surprise—when the shapeless stone lump you made turns into a duplicate of yourself when you drop your mask onto its turnip-shaped head. His eyes instantly pop open, and he sits up with a start. His flaccid penis flops about, for he is naked as well. "Holy shit," he exclaims as he goggles at you. "What's your name?" you ask, for no better question occurs to you. "Will Prescott," he instantly replies. His eyes bulge. "And what's yours?" "Same thing. Do you know where you are?" He glances around. "I think we're in the old school basement." His tone is uneasy. "What's the last thing you remember?" "Uh ... making a metal doohickey and putting it onto my forehead?" The color in his cheeks is flashing and flushing between crimson and chalk, and he crosses his legs and hands to cover his bare crotch. "I think I was— Look, what the fuck is going on?" he whines, and his eyes screw up. Jesus, he's about to cry, you think. He's me and he's about to cry. Fuck me. "We finished that thing we were making," you tell him. "That I was making," you correct your pronouns. "That burning pile of shit?" "Yeah?" His voice is very faint. "Well, um, it turned into you." The other you stares, then leaps up like he was sitting on a pincushion. From under his bony ass pulls out the sheet of paper that you used to make the thing. "It, uh, made a 'lackey'," you tell him. "Well, the word was in Latin, but it means 'lackey'. Like, slave." "Uh huh?" Now he looks really alarmed. "Okay, it wasn't you exactly, it was a rock statue," you stammer. Jesus, I can't believe I'm standing here trying to explain to this thing what he is. "Um, but I guess it just lays there until you put a mask on it. So I put a mask onto it. My mask. Your mask. The mask that I— We—" Dammit, the pronouns just aren't getting any easier. "That you remember making. Right?" "I guess so." He sounds unconvinced. "Well, I glued them together, and put them on that thing, and you popped out." He blanches, and looks around with a furtive, worried expression. It's probably the mirror of the expression you feel on your own face. "The spell says you have to do what I tell you," you inform him. "Yeah?" The fear in his voice deepens. You ponder what you might order him to do, as a test. Then you decide that that would be mean. Besides, it might not be a fair test. He might do whatever you ask anyway, just because he is you. "I'll have to figure out later what to do about this," you tell him with sudden decision. "Lay back down." "What are you going to do?" "I'm gonna if I can take your mask off," you say as you reach for his face. "Put your hands down," you order when he tries brushing you away. He complies. You grab him by the temple, mutter the magic phrase that removes a mask, and pull. Something comes away in your hand, and you find yourself bending over that lumpy stone thing while trying not to drop the mask. You wipe away the flop sweat from your forehead. Maybe you proved the thing's obedience when you told it to drop its hands. But you decide to test another mask on it, just to be sure. The mask of someone you're pretty sure won't want to do what you ask. * * * * * And boy, didn't she. When Stephanie Wyatt materialized in front of you, her initial shock at finding herself in a cold and greasy school basement with you was quickly replaced by horror at her nakedness and fury at your presumption at questioning and ordering her around. So you didn't keep her around long, for even though she did everything you asked, she never stopped cussing you out. So after asking her a couple of questions, you bent over and removed her mask from the pedisequos, restoring the basement to silence and only the faintest whiff of sulfur from Stephanie's blistering curses. She also left some puzzles behind. Unlike Katy, the Stephanie who materialized on the table could answer every question you put to her, about her birthday, her mother's birthday, her passwords, and so on, and she could also remember being woken up earlier by you, and could remember going to the mirror to stare and touch at herself in it. So why couldn't the girl who looked in the mirror remember things like her first-grade teacher's name? I don't know, she said through gritted teeth while boring hot holes in your chest with her glare. I don't know what I was thinking. All I remember is telling you that I didn't remember! But you remember her name now? Sure. Mrs. Delisle. You would have loved to talk more with her, so as to get a better eyeful of her naked form. (Though, like your own doppelganger, she twisted herself around to cover her nakedness as much as possible.) She had large, firm breasts shaped like artillery shells; an hourglass figure that curved in to a hard tummy, and strong, supple thighs and calves. Even now, as you think back to the interrogation, your brow pops out in a light sweat. I could put on the mask and test it myself, you think, and you have to wipe your face as you think it. In fact, I have to, you tell yourself. It's the only way. And if Katy finds out what you did with the copy of her friend's body? Well, she'd know you had to test it. And as long as you don't do anything really sick inside it— Oh, but how would she find out? She might find out, you tell yourself as you loosen your jeans and kick off your shoes and hop up onto the table. So ... into it just long enough to see if the memories will kick in for me. And after that ... * * * * * "You know what would be perfect for doing with those masks, right?" you say. "Pranking that girl Hannah. Hard." Katy's eyes widen and her mouth falls open. You're back up at the Dairy Queen, which is a place that Stephanie's friends like to meet up, so naturally Katy suggested it. Is she hoping to run into some of them? Maybe. You wouldn't mind, to get them used to the idea of you hanging out with Katy. But for now it's just the two of you, with two small shakes. "Like what?" Katy asks. "Like what could we do?" You rub your nose with the palm of your hand and shrug. Then you drop your hand into your lap before Katy can recognize the characteristic gesture. You're having a hard time getting Stephanie out of your head. How long did you lay on that table, in the dark, inside her mask, staring up at the ceiling? You're not sure. Maybe it was only for five or ten minutes. Maybe it was for forty. It was cold, but that was okay. You liked the feel of her flesh prickling all over, and it gave you an excuse to cross your legs and cross your arms across your chest, and to pinch here and there at the firm flesh when an itch or two skittered across. It was a shock to wake up inside her mask, the same way it was a shock to wake inside Coach Schell's, and there had been the same momentary confusion as to your identity—and a flash of searing anger when you found yourself "again" in that dank basement. Where the fuck did Prescott get off to? you wondered. Then: Oh. Right. Oh, God damn it! That all by itself should have told you that the mask was working. But you lay back and let your second set of memories unfurl. Again, you had more than the memories, you had the personality and dispositions to go with them. So you didn't just "remember" Stephanie talking to her friend Meghan about Caleb and about how serious she might be about him. You also remember the pleasure she felt at seeing them hang out, and her worry that Meghan might hurt Caleb by becoming too quickly bored with him. You also remember looking at Will Prescott and Katy Conlee, and thinking, That could work. Assuming Prescott doesn't fuck things up with her. But you don't want to talk to Katy about that. Instead, you talk to her about someone else, someone who consumes nearly every waking moment of Stephanie's life. A hatred that burns like a thousand suns would well describe Stephanie's feelings about Hannah Westrick. It's not a complicated hatred either. The plain fact is that Stephanie crushes hard on Marc Garner, and was going to try going with him this year, before Hannah blithely swept in and carried him off. "We should show this stuff to Stephanie and them," Katy says. You meditatively suck on your straw—another Stephanie mannerism—and marvel at how much awe Katy feels for Stephanie. That's something else you sensed from inside Stephanie as you wore her mask: her knowledge that Katy admires her so much, and Stephanie's own embarrassment at it. Next: "It's a Boyfriend-Girlfriend Thing" |
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