Chapter #6Multiplying Masks by: Seuzz   "If we use a go-between, you'll have to polish up another mask tonight," you say, and your arms ache with sympathy when you think of the effort Joe will have to put into it. Your partner also grimaces as he returns your glance, then shrugs. The moment hangs as you weigh each other's reactions, and then by some unspoken agreement you both leap to your feet and head into the dining room.
The kitchen clock shows a quarter to eight as you pass. "Fuck, we're not going to get it done in time to grab anyone tonight," you sigh. "Even if we knew who."
"I can work fast," Will says. "If you buy me a couple of pizzas for afterward."
"Yeah, but it'll take me a couple of hours to get the mask and mind band made. And pizza's just junk food." You pull out the sheets that are already inscribed with the sigils. "I should burn these after using them," you remark. "It's dangerous leaving them around."
Will watches with great interest as you mix the ingredients; he gags on the stench as you set fire to them and pour them over the concave mirror. "Want me to time you?" you ask after the mask is done. "One, two, three, four--"
He vanishes in a blur, and the door to the bedroom bangs like a rifle shot.
"Five, six--"
Another hard crack, and he reappears. He collapses into a chair with a gasp, and his arm trembles as he holds the finished mask out to you. "Food," he says weakly. "And lots of it."
"You'll have to get it yourself. I've got a mind band to make." You start pulling out the new set of materials. He groans and slumps, and it is several minutes before he gets up with a sigh. "And no pizza, okay?" you tell him as he shuffles toward the door.
"Who are you, and what have you done with the real Joe Durras," he grumbles back, and doesn't wait for a retort.
* * * * *
"If you've gotten yourself sufficiently refueled," you say, looking up from the band, which you are still inscribing with runes, "we could make another mask. In case you also want to, uh--" You point to his face.
Will pauses in mid-chew. He's surrounded by Styrofoam containers holding the remnants of salads and breadsticks and soups and lasagna and spaghetti and cannoli and chicken parmesan; only the tiramisu remains untouched. He swallows. "What are you trying to do, kill me?" he asks.
"I think I'm trying to keep you from killing yourself. That stuff is fuel, and you should burn it instead of storing it away as fat."
He sits back. "You really are getting into this 'boss' thing, aren't you?"
"I'm just saying what you'd say if the situation were reversed."
"Ditto. Actually, I'm kind of glad you're being the boss. I never woulda admitted it to Frank, but--"
"I like being the irresponsible one," you help him finish, speaking in unison. He gives you the finger. "You don't want Frank saying 'I told you so,' if and when he comes back and finds out we've gotten up to absolutely no good. Like you ballooning up to three hundred pounds."
"You know," he drawls back. "You don't need to make up another mask just for me. I can go back to being myself if you're going to be someone else. So, don't think you have to, just to save me from this shit life." He slaps his chest.
"I might need you to help. Best to be prepared." You'd contented yourself with a second peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and study the remains of his feast with a mix of envy and bemusement. "Besides, if you make up another mask, and I will send you on a second food run."
"Pizzas?" he asks hopefully.
"What is it with you and Italian food? Frank's the dago."
"Ain't no good German food in this burg." He glances over the table. "But you're right, I should burn the calories," he sighs. "If I'm hungry afterward I'll just get something from the pantry."
"I hate to say it, but you should make it Prescott's pantry." You push aside the mind band and start working on another mask. "How are things at home, anyway?"
"Teh suck. I tried being good last night with your dad, but--" He makes a face. "School's fucked things up, and I've taken the attitude home, and it's just poisonous. Really, you're well off being out of it."
You don't reply; it would seem like bad grace to say you're glad you fucked your life up so hard that you can't go back to it even if you wanted to. But he seems to understand. "It'll just be a golem taking it over again in a few days," he says quietly. "It's a good thing they can't feel anything." Actually, you're not so sure they can't; certainly they do a very good impression of acting like they do. But maybe it's a metaphysical question without an actual answer.
* * * * *
The plan had been for you to call up and challenge some Westside basketball player for a game of one on one, but the plan simplifies the next morning when Steve Patterson himself shows up at Eastman, albeit briefly, to everyone's surprise.
"You guys all know this asshole," Ian grins as he slaps Steve on the back. "He's one of the Westside dicks who keeps us shitting in fear." There's silence from you and everyone else. "Well, starting next week," Ian says, and his eyes glint, "it's Westside that's going to be shitting itself when he trots onto the court, because he's moving over here!"
The air freezes for a moment, and then murmurs of astonishment break out. You let out a rebel yell--a noise that draws Patterson's attention, and he returns your grin with a smile of his own. "He's only here this morning," Carpenter continues, "and when he shows up for afternoon practices it's only going to be to watch for the next few days. So let's show him he's joining the winning team, the team that's going to take the championship whether he joins us or not!" That does raise a roar from the other guys, and even Patterson laughs.
Still, there's a tension in the air, and only a few guys push forward to clap him on the arm. You're the last, but you make sure you're the most enthusiastic. "Dude, you're, like-- Awesome!" You pump his hand hard. "You and me should make, like, a playdate for after school!" He murmurs something back, and you can't tell if he said "Fantastic" or "Fuck that."
"Way to be a suck up, Durras," Brett Dutoit mutters after Patterson has retreated to the bleachers.
* * * * *
You put on your strongest show for him, and maybe it has impressed him, for Steve does draw you aside afterward and agrees to come over to your place at around five. You text your partner to be there so he can help you take him down.
The rest of the day passes without incident, though Will calls you at around four to say he will have to be late: his dad is being a dick. You are yourself also late, for you need to score a ride home yourself. Ian provides it, and the talk about Patterson is enlightening, though Ian can't explain the sudden move by one of Westside's stars. When you reach the house, Ian asks if he can come in. "Is Frank still sick?" he asks as you walk up to the front door.
Illness has been the explanation for Frank's absence, but under the circumstances you will have to change excuses. "That's just a story," you say quietly. "Don't spread it around, but he had to leave town to see our mom. I don't know when he'll be back." You twist at the door knob as you put the key to the deadbolt; to your surprise, it opens without needing to be unlocked. You pause, then dismiss it. Maybe you only forgot to lock it this morning.
Still, you find yourself distracted as Ian, once inside, cautions you about being careful around Patterson. "He really is an asshole," he says. "Don't get too friendly."
"I'm friendly with everyone and everyone likes me," you shrug. Your eye wanders over the living room. Everything seems in place.
"I know you don't take things personally," Ian says. "But if Patterson is true to type, well ..." He puts his hands on his hips. "You might find yourself taking it personally." He gives you a meaningful look.
You thank him, and try not to be too obvious about hustling him out the door, but it's getting late. In fact, he's just left when Prescott parks out front, and you've barely got him inside when Patterson pulls up. "You get one of the masks," you tell Will. "I'll bring him inside, grab him from behind, and you slap it on him. Right?" He nods. From his expression you can't tell if he's thrilled at doing this or sickened by it. Maybe it's both.
"Steve!" you shout as leap into the front yard, arms wide. "The man!" You shake hands again and exchange pleasantries, yours markedly more enthusiastic than his. "You should come in and say hi to Frank. He's been sick, but he wants to meet you too."
But as you lead him toward the house your cell phone buzzes. Luckily, you pause long enough to answer. It's your partner, from inside the house. "Where's the masks?" he asks. "I can't find them."
Something catches in your throat. You'd left them in plain sight on the kitchen counter.
The unlocked door--. You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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