This choice: You could really take advantage of this body swap! • Go Back...Chapter #11When Victims Meet by: Seuzz   Naturally, you're startled by the news that Jason Lynch is wandering around with your body and no idea what to do with it.
"The fuck is wrong with you guys?" you demand. "If he goes out and gets hisself killed or—" You almost shit yourself at the next thought. "Or if he goes lookin' for Gordon or Steve and tries tellin' 'em that he's really me— I mean, if he tells 'em that he's supposed to be himself! Lynch, I mean!"
But the others don't look too impressed. "What's the worst that could happen?" Small asks.
"Like I said! He could—! Fuck!" You whirl on your heel. "I gotta get outta here!"
"Hey! Prescott! Wait!" someone calls, but you're already out the door and sprinting down the hallway. You're at your truck—Lynch's truck—before Small catches up.
"Where are you going?" he demands.
"Gonna go find the fucking fool who's walkin' around with my face!"
"And then?"
You pause after turning the engine. "I dunno," you admit. "Play it by ear, I guess."
He stares at you, then shrugs. "Well, come tell us how it goes. We're gonna be over at Maize's place. You know where that is?"
"No, but I got his number on my phone." You slam the transmission into reverse and barrel out of the driveway and into the street.
* * * * *
For a mile or so you crackle with anger at the balls Roth and them have shown in pulling this "experiment" on you. Only when you catch yourself turning back into the school parking lot do you calm down and put some thought into what you need to do. Your truck—Will Prescott's truck, you have to call it, because names and personal pronouns have gone wandering—is gone.
If I was Jason Lynch and I woke up in Will Prescott's body, what would I do?
Freak the fuck out, you have to grimly conclude. But that's not helpful.
Think, Jason, think!
You rest your forehead on the steering wheel with your eyes closed. You've got Jason's brain with you, so you shouldn't have any trouble thinking like him. But you're all goobered up.
That probably means that Lynch is goobered up too. But once he got himself sorted out, where would he go?
Probably home, you decide after some thought. His house. To scope it out, at least, and to see if there's a guy who looks like Jason Lynch there.
You glance back at the gym as you turn the nose of the truck toward the parking lot exit. Gordon's VW Bug is parked by it, and the sedan that Steve drives isn't far away. You hope Jason at least had the wit to not go looking for his asshole friends while wearing your sad-sack body.
* * * * *
Your truck isn't parked in front of Jason's house, and it's not parked in front of your own when you check there, and you haven't spotted it on the drive between. You're at a stop light, beating your fist against the steering wheel, when you bark with anger at yourself. Fucking dumbass. The answer was right in front of you.
You dive into a parking lot and pull out Jason's cell phone. Your thumbs tremble as you tap in a text which you shoot off your phone: looking for teh guy whoes phone ive got.
You chew a thumbnail as you wait for a reply. Jason has had a lot more time to figure out this way of making contact. Why hasn't he texted his old phone, or called it? Has something happened to him?
And why haven't Gordon or Steve texted? you then wonder. Well, it's not a wonder that Steve hasn't. Fucking beanpole hates my guts. Jason's guts, you correct yourself. But Gordon ... Ah, fuck it! That's not something to worry about now.
But still, the back of your brain—Jason's brain—is hot with concern.
Your heart flips when the phone twangs. It's from an unknown sender, and your eyes water when you recognize your number attached to it. whos lookin for me?
look in mirror, you reply. im parked at canopies the grocery store where u?
The answer is a long time coming.
lets meet at starbucks on orlando, he finally replies
* * * * *
That's just down the road from where you are, so you are waiting outside when your truck pull in. You can't make out much of the driver except that he's wearing a white cap like yours.
You pull at the crisp ball cap you've got pulled down smartly on your close-trimmed head. Gonna be a real contrast between the hat and hair you're sporting now and the one he's got.
The other guy spotted you, but he just sits in the cab of your truck while you sit in the cab of his. Finally, with a sigh, you dismount and walk slowly over to him.
The window comes down, and a pinched face looks out at you. You quail a little at the sight of it.
It's a longish face, with narrow eyes that peer out from under stiff blonde bangs that are barely controlled by a shapeless white ball cap. More hair, stiff and curled at the ends, explodes out from either side of the head to covers the ears. Skimpy whiskers show on the chin and upper lip and cheekbones.
Is it a handsome face? There's nothing much wrong with it, you suppose, except for the way it's screwed up in a scowling glower. There is fear and hatred in the dark brown eyes.
"So," he says in a sneering whine. "You think you some kind of bad ass motherfucker? Think you—?"
"Where you been?" you calmly reply.
He licks his lips, and his Adam's apple bobbles as he swallows. "Been around. Went by my place, to see if—" He licks his lips again. His stare continues hard and hostile. "Where you been?"
You temporize. "Same. Went by my place. Went by yours."
He flares up. "How you know where I live?"
That's right. Jason hasn't got your memories, and he probably thinks that you haven't got his. Like Small—or whoever was looking like him—said, he probably thinks this is some kind of straight-up body swap, like happens sometimes in cheesy Disney Channel sitcoms, where kids have to pretend to be each other without knowing anything about each other. You feel the corner of your mouth twitch. That gives you a definite advantage here.
"I looked at your driver's license," you say, and tamp back that Lynch-like jeer you want to hurl in this guy's face. "Didn't you think to do that?"
His lips disappear. "I was concentratin' on findin' you," he retorts. You notice that he's filling your voice with more and more of his Texas twang. "So I can straighten out your fuckin' ass—"
"What do you want to kick my ass for?" you ask. "I ain't done nothin' wrong."
"Di'ncha?" he sneers. He blinks hard a couple of times—
—and you realize he is coming real close to tears.
"Naw, it was—"
You catch yourself before you can incriminate Justin Roth and his friends. You're not sure yet what you want to do about all this. "It was's much a surprise to me as I guess it was for you. You didn't do this to us, did you?"
"Pf-fuck! You think I'd—?"
"What makes you think it was me?"
"Wasn't it? After—" He breaks off.
"Yeah? After what?"
His eyes narrow, and all the color drains from his cheeks. When he briefly looks away, you can see the bruises on that side of his head.
The bruises he himself put there.
The bruises you remember receiving, and the bruises that (with his memories) you remember putting there. On account of the fact that he/you're a little rat-faced puke who is friends with James Lamont, who he/you caught lurking around back of the boys' locker room in the gym, which he ain't got no business hanging around.
"You some kind of fuckin' warlock?" he says.
"No. If I was a fucking warlock, you think I wouldn't of done something like this before? If I wanted to be like this—" You pat your chest. "You think I would've been walking around like that?" You jab him in the shoulder, and he winces hard. "Think I wouldn't turn myself int'a someone better'n you?"
"So who did it?" he says. "How'd it happen? Why us and why now?"
You know the answers to some of those questions, but you're still not ready to share them. In fact, the more you talk to him, the less you want to share what you know. There's fun to be had here.
So you play for a little more time. "What do you remember?"
"I dunno, what do you remember?" he retorts.
"I remember seein' you just before last period," you retort in turn. "You remember that? What d'you remember after that?"
"Goin' to class," he mutters. "Seein' Shep Tsosie after I got out, an' him callin' me over."
His words match the recollection in your head: Exiting the Agricultural Annex and hearing a whistle; looking over to see Tsosie with a frozen face standing by the portables; sauntering over to ask him what's up; him saying he wanted to talk about something and gesturing you out behind one of the portables; him raising his hand and then something dark closing over your face ...
"Think maybe it was Maize, he do some kind o' Cherokee body swapping trick on us?" your lookalike asks. He squints at you.
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