# chapters

path: 1111333211111142
author_id: seuzz
title: Operation: Fake Mom
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You fob Caleb off with a noncommittal answer. But later, after you've confirmed with Jamie that he's going to be busy this afternoon getting you a "sweet thing" with the mask, you tell Caleb you'll take him up on that offer to hang out at his place.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you decide not to say anything to him for now about your extracurricular project, and you just play games with him on the ancient Xbox he inherited when his dad left him. Tilley comes over too, and when Caleb's mother comes home from work you and he wind up eating with the Johanssons. It's not the most substantial meal in the world—oven-baked mac-and-cheese—but it's warm and homey.<br/>
<br/>
Afterward, as you and Keith trudge out to your cars together, one thought follows on another, and you ask him, "You ever think about your friends' moms?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like how?" Keith asks. "Like, if they can cook?" He rubs his belly.<br/>
<br/>
"No, like— Well, never mind," you stammer when you realize you don't really want to raise the subject.<br/>
<br/>
But it's too late. When you glance back you find Tilley frozen to the ground, staring at you with his jaw hanging open. <br/>
<br/>
"Dude," he murmurs, "are you asking me about <i>Caleb's mom?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"No! Well, not like that!" you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, so like how?"<br/>
<br/>
You feel yourself turning a bright red. In your confusion, you manage to say just about the worst thing possible: "I mean, we got other friends who have moms!" <br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but we're not over at Lamont's house, are we?" Keith retorts. "We're at Johansson's, and you just asked me—"<br/>
<br/>
"Wait, Lamont's mom?" you yelp. "Are you telling me you think Lamont's mom is—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hey! Don't change the subject!" Now it's Keith's ears that are reddening.<br/>
<br/>
"But that is what I'm talking about! Except, not about <i>Caleb's</i> mom! And I don't think she is, anyway."<br/>
<br/>
Keith glances back at Caleb's house.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I seen worse," he says. "I mean, if it came to repopulating the planet, I'd—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, God!" you cry. "Jesus! Don't make me think about what kind of monsters we'd get if we had to use <i>your pudding</i> to repopulate the human race!"<br/>
<br/>
"So I'd do it with <i>your</i> mom instead, asshole!" And he means it, you can tell, for he instantly pales and stammers out an apology. "Hey man, I'm sorry, I didn't—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, forget it. Fuck me for even raising the subject. All I learned is that you're just as disgusting as some other people I know."<br/>
<br/>
"Who was talking about Caleb's mom?"<br/>
<br/>
"No one! I just got into a conversation with someone about MILFs is all."<br/>
<br/>
"So who'd you wind up saying had a MILF?"<br/>
<br/>
You whirl to give him a hard stare. "No one. I don't know any," you lie. "What about you? Who do <i>you</i> think has a MILF?"<br/>
<br/>
Keith stares back. Then he says, "James Lamont," snapping his jaws shut around the name. He stalks off to his car on very stiff legs, and doesn't wave to you before driving off.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Jamie texts you to meet him in the student parking lot the next morning. You assume he wants to gloat over the mask he made. But when you find him hunched over and hiding between two cars, with a pale face and staring eyes, you feel your sphincter loosen. <i>What's he fucked up?</i> you wonder.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey man,"  he greets you in a low voice. "I got a super-gigantic favor to ask."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?" you demand, bracing for the worst.<br/>
<br/>
"My mom got a call from the school. One of the counselors wants to meet with her about my grades."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
He stares at you. "So I can't let her talk to them! She'll kill me!"<br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong with your grades?"<br/>
<br/>
"Whaddayu fucking care? So I been skipping most of my classes! Pthbt! No one gave a shit last year!" he whinnies.<br/>
<br/>
"So what do you want <i>me</i> to do about it?"<br/>
<br/>
You should have guessed the answer before you see it in the look he gives you. "So can you go in and meet with them, you know, pretending to be her? I brought her mask 'n stuff."<br/>
<br/>
You have to lean against a car to keep yourself from crumpling. "Why can't you do it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I'm supposed to go in with her for the meeting! But if you go in with me, you know, it looks totally legit!"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus!" You pinch the bridge of your nose.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll owe you forever for this. Anything you want! Anything with the masks!" A fast, terrified smile breaks out across his face, and a giggle bubbles up from somewhere beneath his diaphragm.<br/>
<br/>
You let out a deep sigh. "So how is this supposed to work? When's the appointment?"<br/>
<br/>
"Today, sixth period. They set it up with my mom by text."<br/>
<br/>
"Shit! It won't work, then! She'll show up the same time as me!"<br/>
<br/>
"No, 'cos I figured it out. I'll go in now to the counselors' office, and I'll tell them my mom said to ask them to move it to tomorrow, and ask them to text her telling her about the time change. Then <i>you'll</i> show up, saying that you changed your mind and that you <i>can</i> meet with 'em today!"<br/>
<br/>
"And what happens tomorrow, when your mom—?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll get a note from the counselor— Or you will. Saying I had the meeting with them and this is what we decided and that they don't have to talk to her for the rest of the semester." He unfurls another terrified grin.<br/>
<br/>
You stare at him. "That is the shittiest plan I ever heard."<br/>
<br/>
"Come <i>on,</i> Will!" He hops on the balls of his feet. "I'm the one who'll get in trouble if things get fucked up, it won't hurt <i>you</i> at all!"<br/>
<br/>
That is a point, you decide. As long as Jamie can guarantee that his mom won't show up at school today, nothing can go wrong for you personally.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you tell him. "But I can't go in until seventh period. That's when I've got my study hall."<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks, you're saving my life!" Jamie gives you a quick hug, which almost gives you a full body sprain when all your muscles simultaneously seize up. "And like I said, I will owe you <i>anything</i> if we pull this off!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are hot and sticky when you wake up, and you bang your head on the roof of the car when you sit up. <i>Dammit,</i> you mutter as you rub your crown. You glare out the window and try to place yourself.<br/>
<br/>
It takes only a second—much quicker than the last time you woke up inside the mask of Meghan Rennerhoff. You give your left breast a quick, appreciative squeeze, then hunker back down into the back seat. It's seventh period, and no one should be in the student parking lot. But yet, here <i>you</i> are, so it's best to be cautious.<br/>
<br/>
Quickly you dress yourself in the same clothes that you went shopping in last Saturday—exercise shorts and top; tennis shoes—and sling your workout bag over your shoulder. You have your cell phone with you, and text Jamie to say that you're on your way in. There's a cool breeze blowing under a cloudy sky—tomorrow's the first day of October. <i>Tanning bed season coming up,</i> you find yourself thinking.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie's eyes and grin light up when he sees you coming down the hallway toward him. Before he can say anything, you tweak him by the ear. "What kind of trouble are you in, kiddo?" you demand. He twists away and suppresses a gasp of laughter. You smile tightly at him, and pull open the door to the counselors' offices.<br/>
<br/>
They're arranged like fishbowls inside of fishbowls: personal offices enclosed by floor-to-ceiling glass walls, all packed in behind the floor-to ceiling glass wall that separates them from one of the school's main corridors. There's half a dozen counselors at work, most of them in earnest one-on-one conference with a student. "We have to see Ms. Welch," Jamie murmurs, and tugs you toward one of the offices in the back, where a small woman in a pinstripe jacket is bent over her laptop. <i>Oh, her,</i> you think as she looks up. <i>I've seen her in the halls. She's way cute.</i> So she is: youthful and fresh-faced, with large brown eyes under brunette hair (pulled back in a bun) that glows with ruby highlights. <i>Sexy librarian.</i> She turns a startled expression up at you as you enter.<br/>
<br/>
"Ms. Welch, I'm Jamie's mom," you introduce yourself as you put out a hand. "I know we were supposed to reschedule, but my other appointment got cancelled so it turns out I'm free." You smile and settle yourself into the chair opposite. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh," Ms. Welch says with widening eyes. "Okay." You've wrongfooted her, but you just lean back in your chair and smile expectantly. "Let me just, um—" She searches through some folders on her desk, and a pink spot shows on her forehead. "Just a minute." She pushes herself to her feet and exits.<br/>
<br/>
"This is so awesome!" Jamie gushes at you from the chair next to you. "This is so totally going to work!"<br/>
<br/>
"Remember, you owe me."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." He jogs his leg like a jackhammer. "It's Ms. Wymer," he says, leaning over to murmur the name. When you stare at him, he says, "The mask. I'm gonna use it on Ms. Wymer."<br/>
<br/>
"From my pottery class?" you exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie grins. "I knew you'd know who she was! You being my mom and all."<br/>
<br/>
You stare. He's right, you placed the name without even realizing it.<br/>
<br/>
"And if you let me wear it," Jamie continues, "I'll let you fuck me." Before you can react, he adds, "Only you have to wear that mask of me while you do it."</span></div></div>


path: 11113332111111421
author_id: seuzz
title: Do As I Do
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Well, here it is, out in the open. You wondered if it was going to come to this eventually.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie wants you two to fuck each other using the masks.<br/>
<br/>
The only twist—which honestly you never saw coming—is that he wants <i>you</i> to be <i>him</i> when you do it.<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry, I wasn't ready for this," the guidance counselor says as she bustles back in with a manila folder, and she speaks for both of you when she says it. "I put Jamie's file back when we rescheduled." She opens it up as she takes her chair. <br/>
<br/>
You're too dazed to say much as she relates Jamie's various academic problems—the plummeting grades, the tardies and the absences, notes from his teachers about his disruptive behavior in class. You listen with a lot of "Uh huhs" and "I understands" as your mind drifts and hovers over the form and memory of Ashley Wymer.<br/>
<br/>
She's a few years younger than Jamie's mom (Meghan snuck a look at her driver's license one day, out of a nosey need to know the precise age difference between them) and is in the same pottery class that Meghan has on Thursday afternoons. Ashley looks like a former cheerleader gone to seed. Straw-blonde hair with dark streaks, pulled back straight in a ponytail; firm boobs and butt and calves. She dresses in floppy sweats, though, and she's got a bit of a chin hanging out on the underside of her jaw, so Meghan can't help thinking (with some small glee) that she's getting a belly. Her skin is fair and still clear for the most part, but if you get close enough you can see the lines starting to form around her mouth and eyes. She could easily cover it up with makeup. But as the youngest woman in the class, she knows that she doesn't have to do herself up to make the other women feel frumpy and faded.<br/>
<br/>
Is she a MILF? Well, she's married with twin boys, so there's at least two people who'd like to fuck her, her husband and Jamie.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, wait. Jamie wants to be fucked </i>as<i> her.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Ms. Rennerhoff?"<br/>
<br/>
"What?" You retrieve your attention from very far away to find the guidance counselor giving you a very direct look. "I'm sorry, I was thinking about what you said earlier."<br/>
<br/>
"About what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Never mind. Is there something I have to sign?"<br/>
<br/>
A pause. "If we're done here," Ms. Welch says.<br/>
<br/>
"I think I've got the gist of it." You turn to Jamie. "He's just like his dad was in high school." Jamie's eyes widen and his mouth falls open.<br/>
<br/>
"Mm." Ms. Welch shuffles her papers.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie nudges you in the foot, and he nudges you again until you turn to see what he wants. He gives you a look that is clearly supposed to be meaningful. But meaningful of what?<br/>
<br/>
"I'd like to have a follow up with you at the end of the semester," Ms. Welch says, and now when Jamie nudges you a third time you get what he wants.<br/>
<br/>
"Can we schedule that now?" you say. "End of December? How about you send me a text giving me the time of our next appointment. Oh, and a reminder that we don't have to meet, er, tomorrow?" You feel a trickle of sweat drip down the back of your head as Ms. Welch looks at you with wide-eyed astonishment.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, okay," she says, and turns to her laptop. "If you need a note from me—"<br/>
<br/>
"It's on account of the calendar on my phone," you improvise. "It's so wonky. It'll give me all kinds of alerts if you don't send me a note cancelling our appointment tomorrow." As Ms. Welch stares at you, you pretend to dig inside your bag for the phone.<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks for coming in," the counselor says when all the papers have been signed and the texts and reminders sent. She stands to shake your hand. "I hope the next meeting will more pleasant."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I'm sure it will be." You turn to Jamie and brush a bang from his face. "Thanks for keeping me informed. It turns out there's a <i>lot</i> that Jamie's been keeping from me." Your "son" blushes deeply and grins with embarrassment. But his eyes are shining brightly as they hold yours.<br/>
<br/>
"So that was great," he chirps as he hops down the hallway alongside you. "We fooled her so totally. That was brilliant, getting her to text you—I mean, my mom—to cancel tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"Your mother's not so dumb," you warn him as you exit the school's side door leading to the student parking lot. "You're not home free yet. But you <i>owe</i> me now."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah!" he laughs. "So, my idea?"<br/>
<br/>
A flush runs through you, from the crown of your head to the cunny inside your bush.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, we'll do it," you tell him. "You copy Mrs. Wymer inside the mask. By the way, how are you going to do that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll just go over to her house this afternoon. Show her that mask." Jamie smirks hard. "You know, it looks exactly like the kind of thing you and her would make in that class."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yes it would,</i> you think. And you also think, <i>He's talking to me like I really am his mom.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You skip Astronomy because it would just be way too awkward seeing Jamie in there after playing his mother in seventh period, and drive out to Acheson to check on the fire in the basement. Your heart briefly leaps when you see that the flames have died out, but it relights with a simple flick of the lighter. You hang out for a while, watching the fire, as you ponder the way things are developing.<br/>
<br/>
You still don't feel like you're friends with Jamie, which is strange, because it seems like you know a hell of a lot more about him than you know about Caleb or Keith or any of your other friends. At least, you hope you know him better. You hope that Caleb and Keith don't have anything like the really twisted secrets that Jamie's got.<br/>
<br/>
But now you're going farther than just "getting to know him really well." You're going to be getting <i>intimate</i> with each other. You're going to be going further with him than you did at church camp with that girl, and a hell of a lot further than you ever went with Lisa. And she was your girlfriend!<br/>
<br/>
(And yes, God damn it, she was your girlfriend, even if she did break it off with you by telling you that you were never actually going out together.)<br/>
<br/>
Doing that thing with masks ... Is it going to make you and Jamie, like, boyfriends?<br/>
<br/>
<i>No,</i> you tell yourself. <i>We're only going to do this one thing this one time. Make it a special bonding experience. (If even that.) Just this once.</i><br/>
<br/>
And yet even as you tell yourself that, you can feel your will crumpling just a little. <i>If it's fun, and he asks me to do it again, what will I say?</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Jamie looks like he's going to burst when you see him the next morning. "This afternoon," he tells you in a strangled voice when he bounces up next to you at your locker. "Talk to you in Astronomy!" Then he bounces away, his head bobbing through the crowd.<br/>
<br/>
"What was that about?" Caleb says, for he's standing right beside you.<br/>
<br/>
"Guy I'm doing a project with in my science class."<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gives you a look.<br/>
<br/>
"First of all, man," he says, "your astronomy class isn't a 'science' class. It's a bullshit credit. Second of all, I never pegged Rennerhoff for a science groupie."<br/>
<br/>
"He's weird."<br/>
<br/>
"Weird enough that I'd find another science partner if I was you," Caleb agrees.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Too late for that now,</i> you think as you turn back to your locker.<br/>
<br/>
Last period comes, and you can feel Jamie grinning at the back of your neck all through class, and he runs up to as soon as the bell's rung. "Got it. All ready," he croaks. "Know where we can go, too."<br/>
<br/>
"Go?"<br/>
<br/>
He glances around with mad, glinting eyes, then leans in to murmur in your ear. "Huh?" you ask him when you can't understand him.<br/>
<br/>
"Just follow me out," he says. "Come on, let's split."<br/>
<br/>
So you tag along behind him, following him out into the student parking lot, and then following him in your truck into town. At first you worry he's leading you up to the Warehouse, and it's only when he turns into the parking lot of a Motel 6 just off the interstate does it dawn on you what he's proposing.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen," he says after summoning you over to his car, "I'm gonna change inside here, and then I'll go get us a room." His grin is like a mad half-moon full of teeth. "And here." He digs a mask out of his bag. "This is the one I want you to wear. After I go into the office, you get in my car and change into it, and into my clothes." His nostrils flare and flap as his breath quickens. "Then you can come in and find me. That's how I want us to do it."<br/>
<br/>
"Which room'll you be in?"<br/>
<br/>
His eyes dart about. "Well, I guess I'll have to text you after I get it," he stammers.<br/>
<br/>
You nod and return to your truck. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as his head sinks as he lays himself out inside his car. For ten minutes you distract yourself as best you can with your phone.<br/>
<br/>
But your concentration is easily broken when a head bobs back into view inside his car. You can't really make it out, not until a figure in a white, sleeveless blouse and white pants staggers out of the car and on uncertain tread stumbles off toward the office. The face is turned from you, but you've a vague memory of the blonde ponytail. When she disappears around the corner, you crawl out of your truck and climb into Jamie's car.<br/>
<br/>
His mask is laying atop a pile of neatly folded clothes, waiting for you.</span></div></div>


path: 111133321111114211
author_id: seuzz
title: You, Himself, and Her
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You wake with a grimace and a feeling like you've been folded up wrong and stuffed into a box. It takes you forever, it seems like, to untwist your spine and unfurl your arms. You blink and glare and sigh as you stretch and get comfortable.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh God, here I am in Jamie's body again,</i> you think. You don't even bother to look yourself over. <br/>
<br/>
You're still sitting in a quasi-daze as your bare skin itches and quivers when your phone buzzes with a text, from Jamie: <i>Awake yt?</i><br/>
<br/>
You don't bother to reply, but instead pluck up his t-shirt and start getting dressed. He left his underwear behind for you to change into, you notice, but you push it aside with a fingertip and leave yourself in your own boxers.<br/>
<br/>
You are trembling slightly as you saunter over to the door to Room 106. You rap sharply at it.<br/>
<br/>
The blonde woman who answers it gapes at you. "Hey," you say. You chuck your chin and smile down your nose at her.<br/>
<br/>
Her face freezes. "Oh my God," she mutters. "Oh my God," she says again.<br/>
<br/>
"So can I come in?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, yeah." She grabs the front of your shirt with a claw-like hand and yanks you inside. She glances outside, then slams the door shut.<br/>
<br/>
"So—"<br/>
<br/>
But the words die in your throat as you look into her face. With her mouth hanging open, the whites of her eyes showing, and her blonde hair flying out wildly from the sides of her head, she looks utterly freaked out. "Are you okay?" you have to ask.<br/>
<br/>
Still she stares at you. Then she shakes herself. "I'm fine," she mumbles as she brushes past you. "It's just— Well, it's fucking freaky looking at <i>yourself!</i>" She half-turns to give you a wondering side-glance.<br/>
<br/>
"We did this before, you know," you remind him. "Me done up like this, I mean. Though you weren't— Say, how's the mask working?" You point to her face.<br/>
<br/>
Her expressions turns guarded. "'S'okay, I guess," she mumbles. "I mean, the hooters are nice." She grabs a fistful of boob with each hand, then freezes. The words "Oh God" drift from the back of her throat.<br/>
<br/>
After a fractional hesitation, she lunges at you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was extremely awkward, and it wasn't at all the way you imagined losing your virginity. Jamie—<br/>
<br/>
And that was part of the problem. You kept thinking of the naked, blonde, thirty-something woman underneath you as "Jamie."<br/>
<br/>
—pulled you onto the bed and opened up her blouse to expose a pair of wobbling breasts. They were big and a little soft, like overripe fruit, but they made a satisfying handful. She also opened up her jeans and pulled them halfway down her thighs, exposing a large, dark bush. But there was nothing like lust in her face as she gazed up at you. Instead, she had the frozen expression of a deer caught in the headlamp of an onrushing locomotive.<br/>
<br/>
So you had to rely on your own instincts, which were of little enough use. It was the feel of the breasts, in your hands, against your cheeks, and between your lips; the caressing grip of her hands on your shoulders and back; and the tickle of your cock against her bush that gradually got you hard, and you hardly kissed for an unpleasant, metallic taste that was either in her mouth or in yours. (Or maybe it was in your imagination, for it kept coming to you that you weren't kissing Jamie, you were kissing a mask.) Even when you were finally erect, it was soft, and you grimaced as you tried to insert yourself into her. You didn't get much help, either, for it was like Jamie too didn't quite know how the bits were supposed to fit together. Eventually you did get inside, and then her liquid warmth fully stiffened you, but you had to dig and push and grind for a lot longer than you usually have to with your sock before you felt the familiar sting of rising sap.<br/>
<br/>
On the plus side, judging by his gasps and gurgles, you did bring your partner to climax, and brought her to climax before you finally spurted. Afterward, you balanced yourself above her on your elbows, staring down with saucer eyes into her face as you felt yourself deflating inside her. She stared back with saucer eyes of her own. When the moment finally grew awkward, you pulled out and rolled off onto your back. The ceiling was as blank as her face had been.<br/>
<br/>
Neither of you spoke, and she said nothing when she finally struggled out of the bed and tottered into the bathroom. After a few minutes you heard water running in the tub, and the splash of something large wallowing into it. You stayed in bed, paralyzed and a little torpid, to stare at the ceiling some more as the water ran and splashed. She wasn't in there long, though, before the gurgle of water told you she was draining the tub again. Still, it was another ten minutes or so before she came padding out with a towel around her.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey," you said.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey," she said as she sat on the edge of the bed.<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks," you said.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," she said.<br/>
<br/>
"It was interesting," you said.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," she said.<br/>
<br/>
"It didn't freak you out too bad, did it?" you asked.<br/>
<br/>
She half-turned to give you another side glance. "Were you freaked out?" she asked.<br/>
<br/>
"A little," you confess. "I mean, it was nice. You were good. I mean— Oh, Jesus." You rubbed your face. "I don't got no idea what to say."<br/>
<br/>
"It could'a been better," she said.<br/>
<br/>
"I was a little freaked out," you reminded her.<br/>
<br/>
"No, the trouble was," she said, "I was, you know, expecting, hoping, I'd have, you know, <i>Ashley's,</i> like, reactions and stuff." She gave you another quick, sidelong glance. "I was hoping that, uh, <i>she'd</i> be turned on by, you know—" She swallowed. "Doing it with ... me." A blush came into that pale face.<br/>
<br/>
You cringed sympathetically as his implied meaning sank in. "And she wasn't? I'm sorry, man, but you know, I don't think you, uh, you don't nothing to, uh, worry about. And like I said, I was freaked out, so I probably wasn't the, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"No, what I mean is," she interrupted, "I don't know if she <i>was</i> turned on by me!" She turned a worried face toward you, and pointed to her temple. "I don't got any of her, like, memories and stuff, the way you got with my mom!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So although the afternoon wasn't a disaster, exactly, it was a disappointment. Jamie was hoping that he'd get to sleep with himself while playing the part of a hot MILF, and without said MILF's enthusiasm for her bedmate, you also had a hard time working yourself up to a full enjoyment of the experience. You are also (both of you) mystified and frustrated by the fact that the mask works for you but not for Jamie. That's what you find when you switch them out, with yourself getting into Ashley Wymer's mask long enough to wake up and search its interior. Almost instantly you are able to tell Jamie everything that he wants to know about her. But when he switches back into it, he is met with a blank.<br/>
<br/>
But you don't have long to explore the puzzle, for each of you has to get home for dinner. Jamie, inside the mask again, checks you out of the motel, and takes "Ashley" home with him.<br/>
<br/>
You're still puzzling about the afternoon, and wondering how to find out what the problem when, when the next morning in third period you feel a poke in the shoulder from behind. You turn around, and just keep yourself from quailing when you see that Nicholas Horner, one of Jamie's lowlife friends, has taken the desk behind you. He smirks down his nose at you. "So you're like Jamie's best friend now," he chortles.<br/>
<br/>
You give him a long stare. Horner and Jamie are poured from the same mold—regular guys, but with a jeering attitude—and you idly wonder if you should give him the benefit of the doubt you've given to Jamie.<br/>
<br/>
But then Horner has to go and say, "He's gay, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jamie." His smirk deepens. "Are <i>you</i> gay?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Then where's your girlfriend? What are you hanging around with Jamie for if you ain't gay?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Christ,</i> you think, <i>it's like being back in middle school.</i> After your experience with Jamie, Nicholas Horner doesn't scare you but he does irritate you. "We're working on a school project together."<br/>
<br/>
"A gay school project?"<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes and turn back around in your seat. Horner pokes you again. "He wasn't gay before he started hanging out with you, you know. It's pissing us off," he adds when you just ignore him. "You turning him gay. Me and my friends, we're like—"<br/>
<br/>
Mr. Peters calls class to order, so Horner doesn't enlighten you on what he and his friends "are like." But now you do feel a hard chill of fear. Horner doesn't frighten you, but other of Jamie's friends do.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Maybe we should test it out, like, in pieces," Jamie suggests when you meet up with him that afternoon at the elementary school. "Like," he says, "just test out the doohickey by itself, see if that's where the trouble is."<br/>
<br/>
He's playing with the spare metal band that you have on hand, and his suggestion makes sense. If he's "allergic" or something to the thing that's supposed to copy memories, then that would explain why he changed into Ashley Wymer's form yesterday but didn't get her memories.<br/>
<br/>
But when you agree, he surprises you by holding the band out to you. "Put it on, so I can try it," he says.</span></div></div>


path: 1111333211111142112
author_id: seuzz
title: A Slapfight Among Friends
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Euuugh, no!" You flinch and slap the metal band away from your face. "Find someone else to try it on!"<br/>
<br/>
"There's no one else here!" Jamie protests.<br/>
<br/>
"So go find someone else! Take it home with you and—"<br/>
<br/>
"Whatsamatter?" Jamie grins. "Don't you want me finding out all about your gross, perverted fantasies?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do you want me finding out all about yours?" you retort. "Let's make another one of those things, and we'll copy you, too!"<br/>
<br/>
Jamie's grin widens through the slow blush that rises up his neck and into his face.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," he says. "I'll go find someone else to use it on. Oh, but shit! We gotta try it out with a mask, too!"<br/>
<br/>
"How come?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, for funsies, for one thing!" He giggles. "But also, like—" He fumbles his hands in the air, as though trying to fashion a 3-D model of his thoughts. "We need to try out everything to find out where the trouble is, right? So, we'll try me out with just the doodad, and then try the doodad out <i>with</i> a mask again—"<br/>
<br/>
"If it works without a mask, it'll work with a mask."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that's what we gotta find out, right? 'Cos it didn't with Mrs. Wymer's! Not with me, it didn't!"<br/>
<br/>
"But we don't <i>have</i> another blank mask. Oh, fine," you sigh, for there's nothing else to do. "We'll make you up a new mask to go with the doodad. Who're you gonna try it on? Another MILF?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe." A huge grin unfurls itself across Jamie's face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you make up another mask, and at Jamie's suggestion you also make up a second mask and a second metal strip. "As a backup," Jamie says. "You can take it in to school tomorrow too, so we can for sure have someone to try it out with." You grunt an affirmative, but don't commit any further. And though you polish up both masks before Jamie leaves for home (so he can take one with him) you don't work any further on the new metal band that night.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie's a little ticked at you the next morning at school when you tell him that not only didn't you use the new things to score a copy of someone, you didn't even finish working on them. But he didn't get a copy of anyone either, even though (he confesses) he hung out that night with some of his friends. Then he suggests hanging out at the Warehouse (it's Friday), because there you should be able to score copies of people, but you put him off with what you think is a clever suggestion.<br/>
<br/>
"Let's wait 'til we figure out how to get these full-body disguises working for you," you say, "then we'll go out there as other people and have fun in disguise." That's such a sensational idea that he squeals.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Horner doesn't bug you in third period, but you do get needled from an unexpected direction at lunch, which you take as usual out behind the school with Caleb and Keith. "So when are we gonna see you again?" Keith asks you with a carefully studied insolence.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno," you tell him. "Like, now? And now? And now and now and—?"<br/>
<br/>
"You know what I mean," Keith says. "When it counts. Outside'a school. Fuck, I been havin' to hang out with Johansson."<br/>
<br/>
You stop in mid-chew to look at Caleb, who seems to be ignoring you. "Are you two-timing me with Tilley?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
Keith answers. "Johansson needs someone to hold his dick, and since you're not available lately—"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb leaps to his feet with a curse and stalks off. You stare dumbly after him. "The fuck?" you ask Keith. "The fuck is going on with—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh he's just mad he's not fittin' in with my other peeps," Keith says. His jaw is gummy with peanut butter and half-chewed bread. "I tol' 'im it don' matter, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"What other peeps?" you demand. "Since when do you have peeps?"<br/>
<br/>
Now it's Keith who stops in mid-chew. "My friends Mike and Carlos," he explains to you after carefully swallowing. "The guys I'm making YouTube videos with."<br/>
<br/>
"What YouTube videos?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck you!"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I'm serious, what YouTube—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Their movie review channel!" he hollers. "For fuck's sake, man, I only told you about it a hundred times!"<br/>
<br/>
"Well tell me again, the first hundred times didn't take."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you! Where <i>are</i> you hanging out these days?" he peevishly demands. "'Cos you know, I got my YouTube peeps I can hang out with, but Johansson's—"<br/>
<br/>
"Is Caleb mad at me?"<br/>
<br/>
Keith stares at you, and he turns very red.<br/>
<br/>
"You know what?" he says as he starts shoving his half-eaten lunch back into his paper bag. "I ain't mad at you, but once in a while it'd be nice if you worried that I was. Like the way all of a sudden you're worried that Johansson's worried about you!"<br/>
<br/>
"Keith—!"<br/>
<br/>
"Forget it, man. I'mma go tell Caleb that if my video peeps ain't gonna put him on camera, then fuck 'em, him an' me'll go start our own channel! <i>Some'uns</i> gotta show a little loyalty to their buds!" he growls as he stalks off.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So the upshot is that you spend the afternoon with Caleb at his house. He's gruff when you connect with him just before last period, but he acts like he's more embarrassed than angry with you. As for Keith, Caleb tells you that he told Tilley to go hang out with his "YouTube friends" because they do have a project to work on.<br/>
<br/>
"It's Hollister and Montoya," he explains to you. "They've got a YouTube channel, they do movie reviews and stuff. Keith's helping them out. Because he's taking a film class, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't know that!" you confess.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gives you a look. "I thought you were taking that class with him. Mr. Hawks?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I know <i>that!</i> I just didn't know he's helping out with a YouTube thing." You make a face. "I don't <i>think</i> he's mentioned it to me."<br/>
<br/>
"He has, Will. You just weren't paying attention." Caleb swivels in his chair to wake up his laptop. "Keith tried to get me involved but, um—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
He makes a face as he types into his browser. "Well, I'm taking <i>real</i> classes, Prescott, so I don't know how to talk about movies!"<br/>
<br/>
You wince with sympathy. "Well, I don't know how to talk about movies either," you tell him. "And I <i>am</i> taking a film class. It's how come I'm getting a C in there." Caleb gives you a look over his shoulder, then beckons you off his bed to watch the video he's pulled up.<br/>
<br/>
It's nothing very special. Just three guys—Keith along with two guys you recognize from your English class, and other classes your junior year—sitting in a studio and talking about a movie. Mike and Carlos maybe talk a little more articulately about it than most people, but Keith doesn't say anything that he hasn't said when gabbling about movies that you've seen together.<br/>
<br/>
"They're off seeing a movie now," Caleb says as the video plays. "New one that just started today." He sighs and slumps in his seat. "So what are <i>you</i> doing these days?" He turns to give you a hooded look.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, nothing special," you stammer.<br/>
<br/>
"So not special that you haven't hung out with me or Keith since school started?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's not true!"<br/>
<br/>
"When was the last time we hung out together?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not your girlfriend, man! I don't have to tell you what I'm—"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb sits upright. "Is it a girl?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Is what a girl?" The question is like a punch to the jaw.<br/>
<br/>
"Is that who you've been hanging out with, doing nothing special with?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! I've just had some, you know, school projects." You can't keep the stammer from your voice.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb looks skeptical. "Like the one with Rennerhoff?" The name dribbles off his tongue like a slimy ooze.<br/>
<br/>
You give him a look. "Yes, as a matter of fact. He's not that bad," you insist, "when you get to know him. He just hangs out with a bad crowd is all."<br/>
<br/>
"Like you."<br/>
<br/>
"That's low, man. Low and obvious."<br/>
<br/>
"So what's this project?"<br/>
<br/>
"Look, let's do something tomorrow," you tell him. "You and me and Keith. You're right, I haven't been seeing enough of you guys."<br/>
<br/>
Caleb looks unimpressed, but he shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're woken the next morning—blissfully late—by a text from Caleb reminding you that you're supposed to meet him up at Don's Donuts, where Keith works. But as you're dressing, you get another text, this one from Jamie: <i>Meet me scool asap!!!!!</i></span></div></div>


path: 11113332111111421123
author_id: seuzz
title: When Friendships Collide
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You hesitate for maybe ten seconds before replying to Jamie: <i>Meet me at dons donuts meeting friends there n we can talk.</i> Your mom and dad are at the table eating breakfast when you tumble downstairs, and they are both surprised to see you up so early. "I'm meeting Caleb 'n Keith for donuts," you mumble at them by way of explanation.<br/>
<br/>
"You gonna comb your hair first?" your dad asks. You answer by slapping your cap onto your head and running for the door.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie's answer comes as your climbing up into your truck: <i>ok cool.<br/>
<br/>
When worlds collide,</i> you find yourself thinking with a sinking heart as you start the motor.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're not quite sure what possessed you to tell Jamie to meet up with you and your friends at the donut shop. It must be on account of a circle you wanted to square. You planned to meet Caleb and Keith this morning because they are feeling neglected, and Jamie it appears is desperate to meet up with you too. And by putting everyone together this way, your friends might get to see that Jamie really isn't such a bad dude, and they won't hassle you so much about him.<br/>
<br/>
Don's Donuts is a dinky little shop in a sagging strip center on the east side of town. There's only room inside for four small tables, the donut display case, and the register. Keith, in his apron and paper hat, chucks his chin at you as you enter. "Hey man, would'a bet for sure you were gonna skip." He doesn't sound happy at having lost that nominal bet.<br/>
<br/>
"Where's Caleb?" you ask as you scan the display case. Don's serves only the most basic kinds of donuts: glazed, chocolate, and raspberry; a few jelly- and cream-filled rolls; and bear claws. All of them look a little smushed and used, though they should be fresh-made.<br/>
<br/>
"He's coming."<br/>
<br/>
"I got a text from him, thought he'd be here waiting by now."<br/>
<br/>
"I told you he's coming. He's probably still home jerking off in bed."<br/>
<br/>
You make a face at Keith, and suddenly the cream-filled donuts, which you were leaning toward, don't sound so good. You indicate you'll take a chocolate, and ask for a small coffee. "Can you comp me?" you ask Keith.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck no."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, man. Aren't we friends still?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure we are. That's how come I ain't compin' you. It would make things weird. Oh fuck," he says, and glances over your shoulder. You glance back to see Rennerhoff hopping up to the door.<br/>
<br/>
Before you can assure Keith it's all cool, Jamie comes loping in. "Hey man," he greets you, and raises a slim hand for high-five. You oblige him. "Where's your posse?" He glances around the empty restaurant.<br/>
<br/>
"Not here yet. Uh, Caleb's not here yet. This is Keith." You indicate Tilley, who staring with a slack jaw. "Keith, you know Jamie from school."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah!" Jamie exclaims. His eyes light up. "Saw you in the E wing boys' room the other day. Javits was usin' your face as a back board. How many free throws did he score?"<br/>
<br/>
Keith says nothing, but his ears flush very red.<br/>
<br/>
"Keith's one of my best friends," you inform Jamie. "I'm working on a project with Jamie," you tell Tilley.<br/>
<br/>
"'At's right," says Jamie, who shows no remorse at having said what he said to Keith. He bends over to examine the display case. "What's the freshest thing you got?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm having a chocolate donut," you tell Jamie as Keith's jaw silently works. " And a coffee. Uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll have two of the same," Jamie tells Keith. "'Cep' for the coffee, I only want one of them. So you work here, huh?" he says to Keith as Tilley stiffly gets out the donuts. "Man, if I was workin' here, I'd weigh at least four hundred pounds by now. But I guess they count the merchandise so's you can't sneak any."<br/>
<br/>
<i>This is the worst idea I ever had,</i> you tell yourself as you rub a circle into your temple, which has suddenly started to throb.<br/>
<br/>
You're just taking your trays over to a nearby table when Caleb appears outside the shop. He stops dead on his feet when he sees you with Rennerhoff. "Hey man," you call over to him. "We didn't wait for you."<br/>
<br/>
"So I see." Caleb turns a poker face between you and Tilley and back again. "Uh ..."<br/>
<br/>
"You know Jamie from school," you sigh at him. "Jamie, this is Caleb. My other best friend."<br/>
<br/>
"Dude!" Jamie toasts Caleb with his coffee, and slurps it down.<br/>
<br/>
"I can't stay as long as I thought," Caleb tells Keith as he draws up to the counter. "Bag me a bear claw and a coffee to go." Keith mutters something at him, to which Caleb replies, "No, fuck you. You're getting paid to stay."<br/>
<br/>
"So I stopped by the place," Jamie say, but you only listen with half your attention as you fumble for a way of retrieving this unfolding disaster, "and the thing's all ready. You know? I couldn't get it to relight."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" you say. You're watching Caleb and Keith from the corner of your eye, but they seem to be ignoring you.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, so I pulled the book out. I guess it's done 'cos look here. I got the page to turn."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh."<br/>
<br/>
That's when you swing around and do a triple take at Jamie. He's brought the book—the fucking grimoire itself!—and he has it out on the table between you and is flipping between one page and another.<br/>
<br/>
"Also," he adds as he lays a glowing mask on top of the book, "one o' my mom's boyfriends stayed over last night, so I tried the dinguses out on him." He grins so wide it looks like the top of his head is going fall back, like it's on a hinge, and waggles his eyebrows at you. "I tried 'em out, and they totally work!"<br/>
<br/>
You can only stare in horror, eyes bulging and jaw frozen, as Caleb shuffles over to peer down at the project. "So what's this?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit me an' Will's been working on," Jamie tells him with cheerful abandon. "Sit your ass down an' we'll tell you about it."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Well, fuck, man!" Jamie exclaims later, when Keith and Caleb have both gone, and it's just you and him standing outside the community center. "I thought that's how come you wanted to meet up with 'em! 'Cos you told 'em or you wanted to tell 'em what we was doin'!" <br/>
<br/>
He still seems to be on some kind of high, like he's drunk or on speed. He vibrated with enthusiasm at Don's as he told your uncomprehending friends about the masks you'd made and the disguises you'd used, including how you'd disguised yourself as <i>his own mom</i> in order to fool one of the high school counselors. You could only sit there, petrified with embarrassment while the blood crawled and pulsed inside your face.<br/>
<br/>
Then, when Keith's shift was over, you all decamped to the elementary school, so that you and he could show the other two the thing you had made with four hundred pounds of cemetery dirt, and so that that Jamie could demonstrate the use of the masks by letting Caleb and Keith take turns putting on the mask of himself. Until that moment, you were sure, both Caleb and Keith had been skeptical and even horrified by Jamie's demented ravings. Afterward, they both were freaked out, and quickly made their excuses before bolting. Only then, when you finally had Jamie to yourself, and he asked you what their problem was, did you explain that <i>they had had no idea what you'd been working on, and that you hadn't meant to tell them.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's all out now," Jamie now says with cheerful complacency. "They'll be cool with it, you'll see. 'Cos it's really cool, isn't it? C'mon." He slaps you in the stomach. "We still need to check out what that thing is, what it's supposed to be." He skips back over to the door to the basement. You follow more slowly.<br/>
<br/>
He's already got the book out when you join him, and is reading it while perched cross-legged on a table. You hesitate before speaking.<br/>
<br/>
"You said you tried out the things you made this morning," you remind.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh yeah."<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't try out that mask, though. 'Cos we had to seal it up when we got back here."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, right. I just meant the metal doodad." He hikes up a hip and digs a metal strip out from his pocket. "Totally worked on me when I tried it," he says as he flings it to you.<br/>
<br/>
You examine the name that floats over it: CASSIDY PATRICK FLANAGAN. It's a copy of a brain to go with the copy of the body that he made, of the guy that you and Jamie ran into out at the soccer fields after shopping for supplies. You wonder a little that Jamie would want to copy a guy who he clearly hates so much, and who had just slept with his mom. <br/>
<br/>
Then you reflect that it actually makes perfect sense. He wasn't copying the guy, he was experimenting on him, treating him like a guinea pig.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie interrupts your thoughts with an exclamation. "Hey," he says as he studies the screen of his phone, glancing between it and the book. "This thing we made, I think it's like a magical robot."<br/>
<br/>
At almost the same moment your phone chimes with a text. It's from Caleb: <i>r u free to fucking talk?</i></span></div></div>


path: 111133321111114211232
author_id: seuzz
title: People Who Do What They're Told -- Or Don't
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You feel yourself pulled hard in a couple of different directions, but you decide that Caleb can wait, for the last thing you want to do is leave Jamie alone with a lot of magical gear.<br/>
<br/>
So you quickly text Caleb back: <i>No busy w jamie gettn strate on things def see n talk to u n keith tnite.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Will!" Jamie calls, and you jump a little. "'Dju hear me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Uh. Magical robot?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I think." He slides off the table and shambles over to the thing. "Makes sense if you look at it."<br/>
<br/>
You join him for a look, and it's the first time you've taken a good look at the project that's been burning away in the school basement for the past week.<br/>
<br/>
What had been a pile of brown dirt has baked into a compact, cylindrical shape of an off-white color. It's cracked almost clean through in a couple of places, with one great rent up from the end to nearly the center, and two smaller rents on opposite sides farther up. At the top is a kind of bulbous knob. You wouldn't have recognized the form, though, if Jamie hadn't primed you to see it as a "magical robot."<br/>
<br/>
It does look like a person. A crude, misshapen, scarcely started statue of a person, but in its outlines it does look human, with legs, arms and a head attached to a trunk.<br/>
<br/>
"So I wonder how we turn it on," you wonder aloud.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie sniggers. "Give it a hand job."<br/>
<br/>
You make a face, but can't resist darting a quick glance at the things crotch. Blessedly, unless it is supposed to be flat-chested female, it is not anatomically correct.<br/>
<br/>
"It says something about putting a mask on it," Jamie says. "Except—" He snaps his fingers. "First we have polish it."<br/>
<br/>
You groan inwardly, for even with the car buffers it takes nearly an hour to polish a mask. This thing could take weeks. But when Jamie wipes a palm over it, a thin layer of dust comes away, exposing a gleaming surface beneath. If that's all that has to done—getting the dust off—then it might not take any time at all.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie is so eager to get his hands on the thing that he doesn't argue when you ask him to clean the thing up while you check over the continuation of the spell.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"It's fucking necromancy is what it is," Caleb growls as he turns the mask over and over in his hands. "Fucking necromancy," he repeats.<br/>
<br/>
"How do you figure that?" you demand.<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a look. "It's magic, right?" he says. "And you had to dig up a dead person—"<br/>
<br/>
"We didn't dig up a dead person!" you exclaim. "We just dug up dirt from a cemetery!"<br/>
<br/>
"Dirt that by this point is full of the dust of dead people. It's practically the same thing, Will." He drops the mask with a clatter on the table. Keith, who is standing nearby, jumps away.<br/>
<br/>
You're still in the elementary school basement, where you've been hanging out most of the day. Jamie has gone home, taking most of the masks with him, but he left Ashley Wymer's mask behind, and you've been using it to demonstrate things to Caleb and Keith, who you invited out to look things over again once Jamie was gone. Keith looked a little green in the face when he arrived, but Caleb just has a sour expression.<br/>
<br/>
His necromancy gibe actually has to do with the thing you made. The book calls it a "pedisequos," but Jamie insists on calling it "a magical robot." They are both mouthfuls, so you've just been calling it "the thing" and gesturing at it when you had to talk about it at all. It took Jamie only a minute or so to clean the thing off. Then, after arguing a little more about the translation, and then arguing about which mask to use, you had set Ashley Wymer's mask on it. The shapeless statue had transformed into an exact duplicate of the MILF herself. It had sat up, and only a quick "Quit it!" from you had stopped it from screaming its head off.<br/>
<br/>
"And you confirmed that it only obeys you?" Caleb asks you with a hard look. <br/>
<br/>
"I don't know what you mean by 'confirmed'," you tell him, "but you saw the way it was just now." You have, in fact, just removed Mrs. Wymer's mask from the thing for the second time, after giving Caleb and Keith a demonstration of it.<br/>
<br/>
"Dude," Keith moans, "that was so freaky!"<br/>
<br/>
"What I mean is," Caleb says, "it didn't obey Jamie at all? Did you try any other masks on it?"<br/>
<br/>
"We tried all the other masks," you tell him. "The one of his mom—"<br/>
<br/>
"That's so sick," Keith says in a near whisper.<br/>
<br/>
"—was like Mrs. Wymer. It did everything I told it to, but it tried yelling at Jamie. By the way, man," you tell Keith, "that freaked Jamie out hard. He didn't like it."<br/>
<br/>
"No, it probably turned him on," Caleb says. "He's one sick puppy."<br/>
<br/>
"Will you stop it?" you tell Caleb. "I keep telling you, he's not that different from us. Okay, yeah, he's got some quirks. But the rest of us got quirks too. Shut up," you add as Caleb lifts an eyebrow. "And you don't got any cause to be calling him a sick mofo, either," you tell Keith. "I've heard you say stuff a hundred times worse than anything I heard come out of Jamie's mouth." Keith glares darkly at you.<br/>
<br/>
"And the other masks?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing happened with them. I think it's on account of they were just masks, they didn't one of these things in them." You pick up Mrs. Wymer's mask and trace the outline of the metal band glued to its inner surface. "Jamie's mask doesn't have one of these things in it. And the other mask, of Jamie's mom's boyfriend, we got a metal dingus to go with him, but we haven't glued it into that mask. Yet."<br/>
<br/>
Caleb turns to the book, which is resting on the table, and flips through it. "Jesus," he mutters to himself.<br/>
<br/>
"So are we all gonna be cool with this?" you ask him and Keith. "Cool with this and, uh, Jamie?"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gives you a hard, steady look. You know what he's thinking, and you sigh. "I told you, I didn't <i>mean</i> to leave you guys out. It's just the way it worked out."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, what are we gonna do now?" Keith asks in a hollow voice. "I don't know what to be cool with if I don't know what's going on!"<br/>
<br/>
"We're going to put this thing on a proper, experimental footing," Caleb says in a very firm voice. "We've got three of us here—okay, four, if we include Jamie, which I guess we are—and we're gonna figure out exactly why and how this stuff works. We got a couple of mysteries to solve, like how come the dingus over there only listens to Will, and how come this mask here"—he taps Mrs. Wymer's mask—"only works for him too."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we don't know it only works on me," you correct him. "All we know is that it doesn't work for Jamie."<br/>
<br/>
"Good point," Caleb says. His manner is very crisp. "But let's start at the beginning. Absolutely fresh slate. We'll each of us make up one of these masks, and we'll each of us make up one of these, uh, metal things. The things that have names on them." His lip curls a little as he looks askance into the interior of Mrs. Wymer's mask.<br/>
<br/>
You sigh and shrug.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You only have enough material, though, to make two more masks. It's Caleb and Keith who cast them, with you supervising. Caleb is all business about it, while Keith yelps and dances around like he's been stung when the newly molded shell twists in his hand like a live thing. You also supervise as they make two metal strips. You then leave them in the basement to polish up the masks and to start carving the rune work into the bands, while you take some of their money to go out and scrounge up the stuff to make some more masks, so you can join them.<br/>
<br/>
While you're out, you text Jamie to tell him what you're doing. If you're all going to be partners together, it seems best to keep everyone in touch with what's going on. He replies by asking where you are. <i>Stay put,</i> he tells you, <i>im brngng u some money.</i><br/>
<br/>
But it's not Jamie who brings you the money.<br/>
<br/>
You're loitering near the front of Hobby Lobby when a scruffy figures comes loping up to you with a giant grin on his face. His reddish-gold hair is disordered and he sports a two-day growth of beard. His green t-shirt has stains down the front of it, and his jeans are ripped. "Hey, dog!" he calls to you. "Check it out, man!" He throws his arms out, as though expecting a hug.<br/>
<br/>
It's Chip Flanagan. Jamie's mom's boyfriend. One of them. The one that Jamie caught and copied in his living room this morning.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, crap!" you gasp as you look him up down. "What the fu— hell are you doing?"<br/>
<br/>
"Comin' to bring you some money. Here!" He digs into his rear pocket and pulls out a well-worn wallet. "Twenty, forty, sixty, sixty-five, sixty-seven in cash. An' that's not counting the spare credit card." He waggles his eyebrows at you.<br/>
<br/>
Terror grips your heart. "Whose credit card?" you ask, dreading the answer.<br/>
<br/>
"Chip's, man! Whole ensemble's his! Ain't no point goin' out in his face without the whole look! These are his 'sloppy Saturday' clothes! And whatever we wanna buy—"<br/>
<br/>
"How did you get into his 'sloppy Saturday clothes'?" you yelp in a strangled voice.<br/>
<br/>
"I raided his place. Yeah, there's a spare key out— Well, where only he knows. An' me too, 'cos—" He waggles his eyebrows and point to his temple. "So is this all you need to get?" He indicates the basket that's slowly slipping from your paralyzed hand.</span></div></div>


path: 1111333211111142112322
author_id: seuzz
title: Of Experiments and Test Subjects
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I dunno what your problem is," Jamie says as he sulks in the back seat of his car. "You could'a given your friends their money back, we had plenty with Chip's credit card, could'a bought—"<br/>
<br/>
He's outside the mask but still in Chip's clothes, for you forced him to change as soon as you'd dragged him back to his car. You interrupt his bitching by hurling his own clothes, which he'd left wadded up in a clump in the front seat, at his face. "Hey!" he yells.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I know you meant well, man," you tell him. "And I know you don't like Chip. And, well, if it was just you and me still, I'd probably say, yeah, let's go for it. But we got my friends Caleb and Keith on board this thing now, and they're <i>not</i> gonna like what you tried doing!"<br/>
<br/>
"Pfft? Whatsamatter with 'em?" Jamie snorts. He glances around the strip center's half-empty parking lot with a baleful expression.<br/>
<br/>
"They're not— Nothing's the matter with them! Only—! Look, you know this stuff is magic, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pft, yeah!" Jamie crosses his arms and folds his hands up inside his armpits. He slouches in the seat and glowers impatiently at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, this is huge, you know. Magic is real! It, like, upends everything we know about the universe and how it works!"<br/>
<br/>
Jamie only shrugs and looks away.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, Caleb and Keith, and me, we're interested in this stuff. But scientifically, I mean. We wanna figure out how it works and why it works. And how, like, the thing, the magic robot, how it works. And how come the mask—"<br/>
<br/>
Your eye falls onto Chip's mask, which is lying face down on the passenger seat next to you. You blink at it. There's no name in it. "Where's the doodad, the metal doodad that goes with it?" you ask Jamie.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" Jamie leans forward to look into the front seat. "Oh, I guess I'm still wearing it." His eyes goes distant for half a second. "Yeah, I guess I have to take it out separately." He falls back and resumes slouching.<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't glue them together?"<br/>
<br/>
"What? When would I'a done that?"<br/>
<br/>
"So how did you—? You just put them on separately, one at a time?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
You sigh. "Well, see, that's the kind of thing we want to figure out," you explain to him. "How this stuff fits together and how it works and what all you can do with it. After that—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" Jamie's tone turns hopeful. Guarded but hopeful.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, then we'll see."<br/>
<br/>
Jamie rolls his eyes and slumps even further.<br/>
<br/>
"You know," he says, "we wouldn't have to put up with this shit if it was <i>my</i> friends we showed this stuff to."<br/>
<br/>
You shiver. The last thing you want is his friends getting involved in it.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, just go along with me and my guys on this, okay?" you ask. "I promise you, we'll have some fun. Caleb and Keith, they definitely know how to have fun." <i>Eh. Keith, maybe. Caleb, maybe not so much.</i> "And you and me," you add, "if we go along with them, we can still have some fun on the side. You know, after stuff has been figured out. While we're figuring it out, even."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" At least Jamie's curiosity looks piqued. "What kind of fun?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, like we've been having. Like we've been doing."<br/>
<br/>
You hate the way his eyebrows go up. "Like with the masks we got? What we was doing with them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, sure." Your heart drops like a rock.<br/>
<br/>
Jamie rolls his tongue around in his cheek, and gives you an appraising glance.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, okay," he says. "Your guys are making up some new gear, right? We could have fun with that."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it depends on what they do with it," you tell it. "Who they, uh, use it on."<br/>
<br/>
"We could give 'em some ideas. Steer 'em. They're just looking at it, like, scientifically, right, you said? So it's not going to matter to them who the stuff gets used on. Right?"<br/>
<br/>
"It might matter to them," you caution.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, we'll see," Jamie tells you. "But so long as I'm around, I can try to steer 'em where to go."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," you tell him, but your heart remains heavy. "Sure."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You separate, with Jamie agreeing to return Chip Flanagan's things to his house while you resume shopping. He's done quicker than you, so that you find his car parked beside the basement door when you return to the elementary school. He's downstairs with Caleb and Keith, keeping them company while they work. The atmosphere between everyone is cool, but polite.<br/>
<br/>
Yet you're not as pleased as you'd like to be when Jamie cheerfully volunteers to make another blank mask and band, to help out with the experiment, for though his manner and attitude seem very open, you can't shake the feeling that he's up to something. But at least it means that the talk isn't strained as you work, for first you and he have to share the car buffer to polish up the masks, and then everyone concentrates on the rune work which, as you'd warned Caleb and Keith, is long and exacting work. Even after Caleb and Keith take a break to go get some food for everyone for a late-ish supper, you and Jamie don't talk much as you concentrate on the metal bands.<br/>
<br/>
Keith and Caleb have finished, but you and Jamie haven't, when you finally break up for the night, and agree to meet again at the old school the next day at around two. (You have church.) After you're home, Caleb calls you.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," he says, "that wasn't as much of a painful disaster as I thought it was going to be."<br/>
<br/>
"But?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause. "Well, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"I told you he wasn't a bad guy."<br/>
<br/>
"Eesh, jury's still out on that. But I'll grant he is more normal-ish than I expected. Uh, what does he want to do with the stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
None of the answers you could give Caleb would make Jamie sound "normal-ish," so you parry him with a question of your own. "Well, what do <i>you</i> want to do with it?"<br/>
<br/>
His tone turns wary. "Well, like I said, I want to experiment with it, figure out—"<br/>
<br/>
"No, after that. After you've 'figured it out.' And you're gonna have to use them on people, the way we used the first couple on, uh, Jamie's mom and her friend."<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause on the other end. "I was thinking we could try them on ourselves," Caleb says, a little primly.<br/>
<br/>
"You sure you want to do that?" you ask him. "You sure you want to make something that Jamie could use to, you know, impersonate you?"<br/>
<br/>
Now there's a dead silence. "What are you implying?" Caleb asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing. Not about Jamie. I mean, you don't want to make <i>anything</i> that <i>anybody</i> could use to impersonate you. Right? I'm not saying anything about what <i>Jamie</i> would do, not particularly. But if you left something like that around for someone, even Keith or me, or God forbid one of <i>Jamie's</i> friends to get ahold of—"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, okay, I get your point," Caleb says. "Well then, if not us, who do we—?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's my question, man. Considering that once you got someone copied into it, you're gonna want to, you know, try it out. Maybe even in public." You feel your face starting to burn. Caleb knows all about how you went shopping while disguised as Jamie's mom.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't see that we'd need to do that," Caleb says. He sounds even more prim.<br/>
<br/>
"So you'd just test it on some rando? Some old person, some fat old guy you ran into at the department store, shopping for—"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, alright! Jesus!" Caleb says. "But I haven't thought about it!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Bullshit,</i> you think. <i>You just don't want to say what you've been thinking.</i> Aloud: "Well, maybe you better. And maybe you better talk to Keith. Because I bet you anything, Keith is thinking about how he could use these things to get back at Javits. Or how to use them to get into some girl's panties. Either inside them or to wear them."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus," Caleb says again. "He probably is, isn't he?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>And now you are too,</i> you think. But you say nothing, and just tell him you'll talk to him tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But Jamie's the first one you talk to on Sunday.<br/>
<br/>
Because of course he is.<br/>
<br/>
The call comes while you're still at church, but your phone is off so you don't find his text messages until you turn your phone back on immediately after the service. He sounds frantic, so you get permission from your dad to skip lunch to go help a friend. You tell Jamie where to find you—St. Michael's Episcopal—and ask him to come pick you up.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, it's you guys's fault," he says as the two of you make a fast getaway. "You and your talk about 'experiments'."<br/>
<br/>
"What did you do?" you ask in alarm.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you guys weren't going to do anything. I could just tell."<br/>
<br/>
"Do what?"<br/>
<br/>
"The next spell in the book."<br/>
<br/>
You haven't even looked at it, and you demand to know what he's talking about.<br/>
<br/>
"I took the book home with me last night, when we left," he says. You sit up straight at that, for you hadn't noticed him palming it. "And I looked it over and it was pretty clear you guys wouldn't do it, and that would be the end of it. Because, you know, you have to do a spell in order to turn the pages in the—"<br/>
<br/>
"Why wouldn't we do it?" you yell. "What does the spell do?"<br/>
<br/>
Jamie gives you sidelong look.<br/>
<br/>
"Is this just between us?" he asks. "Or do you wanna get your guys involved? They're the ones who are doing it for science."</span></div></div>


path: 1111334
author_id: seuzz
title: Five Final Chances
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Ch'upto?</i> <br/>
<br/>
Is he serious? Did Jamie Rennerhoff just now ask what you're up to? Like, as if you and him might hang out together someplace?<br/>
<br/>
"Nothin'," you mutter, and pull your bag onto your shoulder. "Just gettin' ready to go home."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, me too." To your dismay, Rennerhoff also heaves himself to his feet. "Fuckin' Justin." He shakes his head and giggles, as though he's just made a joke. "Fuckin' Justin," he repeats.<br/>
<br/>
You're too freaked out to try making conversation as you and he trudge back together toward the school, and Rennerhoff seems preoccupied as well. To your relief, he doesn't follow when you cut sideways into one of the wings. He does call after you—"See you 'round, man"—and with a nervous jerk you return him a wave.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Freaky!</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your nerves are almost shattered, but you would still like to find a ... test subject ... for your experiment, so you make another trek around the school. But your mind is elsewhere, so after a fruitless and distracted circuit of the hallways, you mutter <i>Fuck it</i> to yourself and decide to go home. <br/>
<br/>
The teacher's lot is still half full, you notice as you exit the front doors, and Mr. Hagerman is standing next to a car. He's a buff young man with rugged good looks. Too well built, you can't help thinking, to be an English teacher (which he is), but maybe too pretty to be a P. E. coach. (Most of the P.E. staff, frankly, look as though they've taken a few too many basketballs to the face.) Though you've given up on looking for a ... test subject ... you keep glancing back as you stump along the sidewalk, and notice Mr. Hagerman sitting halfway inside his car, with the door open, reading his cell phone.<br/>
<br/>
Then you round the corner of the main office, and are distracted by the sight of a small crowd clumped up outside the school theater. You wouldn't pay much heed, except for the way they are all clustered around a central figure, paying him rapt attention. <br/>
<br/>
You do a slight double-take. <i>Whoever that guy is they're listening to,</i> you have to admit, <i>he is one handsome son of a bitch.</i> He looks to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with lush black hair and a very white smile, and he sports a black bomber jacket like he was born wearing it. Between the hair, the smile and the jacket, you decide that he exudes a "Tom Cruise" kind of vibe. Okay, it's a TV version of Tom Cruise, a straight-to-streaming version, not the IMAX-movie screen version. <i>Discount-bin Tom Cruise.</i> Still, you have wonder who he is. <br/>
<br/>
You're not given long to study for him, for as you watch, he claps a couple of guys on the shoulder and makes a break for the corner of the school. You follow at a distance, watching, as he leads his admirers—lots of girls, but more than a few guys too—around the theater toward the student parking lot. There again they all pause to talk, with Discount-Tom listening and smiling with a look of intense but friendly concentration on his face.<br/>
<br/>
You're considering going over to see what it's all about, but are distracted by two figures who come bursting from the gym. You quickly turn your back on them. Seth Javits and Roy Nelson are two of your least favorite people at Westside. Javits is a basketball player and one of the worst bullies in the school: a meaty, horsey-faced fucker who's screwing one of the cheerleaders when he's not giving your friend Keith (and you and Caleb when he can't find Keith) swirlies and wedgies. Nelson is a football player, and though it's been ... two years? ... since he pulled that kind of shit on you and your friends, you've gone out of your way ever since to avoid him lest he decide to renew the fun.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey Will!" You turn with a frightened start at the shout, then sag with relief when you notice it's just a girl—one of the girls lingering with Discount-Tom—calling your name. Kind of a fat girl. Okay, not <i>fat</i> fat, but—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yikes!</i> You jump a little when you recognize her. It's Laura MacGregor, who you used to hang out with back in middle school and early high school. You haven't really seen her around in a while, so it's a shock to see that she's put on weight. "Hey Laura!" you call back as she breaks away from her friends and trots over to join you. You flinch a little when she gives you a light hug, but hug her back.<br/>
<br/>
"Hangin' around, gettin' into trouble?" she asks you with a grin. "God, I feel like I haven't seen you in, like—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, what classes are you taking?"<br/>
<br/>
"The usual. And theater. God!" She grins back over at her friends and at Discount-Tom. "Isn't this, like, incredible?"<br/>
<br/>
"What is? That guy? Who is he?"<br/>
<br/>
She gasps and shoves you. "Get out! You don't know—! Paul Griffin?" You shake your head. "God!" She grins with obvious embarrassment. "Don't let <i>him</i> hear that!"<br/>
<br/>
"So who is he?"<br/>
<br/>
"Only, like, the most famous guy ever to graduate from Westside! Or to come out of Saratoga Falls!"<br/>
<br/>
"What is he, an actor or something?" you ask on a hunch. "Pop star?"<br/>
<br/>
She gasps again. "Hello? Didn't you ever watch <i>Enchanted U?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
The name rings a bell. Wasn't that some cheesy supernatural soap opera about vampires and wizards on the CW or something? "I never watched any of it," you admit.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, he plays Simon Magus—the junior exorcist—on it!" Laura's grin is almost blinding.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, so he's one of the stars?" You steel yourself against another exasperated shove.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, no," she admits. "But he still had a pretty big part! Except it got cancelled three years ago." The smile falls off her face, and she grimaces.<br/>
<br/>
"So what's he doing here?"<br/>
<br/>
She gasps again. "He graduated from here! Yeah, he's an alumni! He was in our drama program and everything! Mr. Wilkes is always talking about him!"<br/>
<br/>
"And he came back here to visit? Poor bastard."<br/>
<br/>
She pushes you again, almost knocking you off your feet.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen, it's a really cool thing he's doing," she insists, "coming out here to see Mr. Wilkes, looking around, talking to us. I guess he's here to see his folks. But he— Oops! Looks like he's getting ready to go. I gotta go say bye!" Without bothering to give you a farewell, she runs back over to join her friends and the TV actor.<br/>
<br/>
You edge out into the parking lot after her, but hang back when you see that Seth and Roy are in the parking lot now too, by their cars, on their phones. You wait for Laura to come back, but when whatsisname finally gets in his car and drives off, she and her friends all wander off toward the practice fields.<br/>
<br/>
This leaves you exposed to Seth and Roy.<br/>
<br/>
But are you exposed? Or are they exposed to you? You've got that mask you still want to try out. It might fuck up whoever you put it on, and you can only think of ten or twenty more deserving assholes—Westside is that bad of a school—than them.<br/>
<br/>
If you could get close to them, that is.<br/>
<br/>
You glance around, to see if the coast is clear, and that's when you see Mr. Hagerman, way off in the teachers' lot, stalking head down back toward the school. Did he forget something? Maybe you could follow him catch him in his classroom.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh but that would be the perfect way to be recognized, get caught, and get in trouble. Same with Seth and Roy,</i> you add to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you should just drive out to Eastman. No one there would know you.<br/>
<br/>
But you know who else wouldn't know you? That actor guy. <i>Paul Griffin? Was that his name?</i> Laura said he's visiting his folks. You bet you could find their address online.</span></div></div>


path: 11113341
author_id: seuzz
title: Jamming with Javits
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're sidling toward Roy Nelson, who is still leaning against his car, when with a snort he abruptly yanks his car door open and climbs inside. Though he lingers there a moment, you give up on him. That leaves you alone in the parking lot with Javits.<br/>
<br/>
The thought gives you a nasty jolt. If he called you over now, and explained that he was going to take your pants off you and throw them onto the gym roof, like he's done to some of your other friends—<br/>
<br/>
So you're edging away when out of the corner of your eye you see Javits climb into his own truck. You let your breath out with relief.<br/>
<br/>
And, somehow, that gives you the courage to turn around and sprint toward him.<br/>
<br/>
He's started his engine with a roar when you reach his window, and he does a double take at you, squinting with a curved lip. <i>Too late to turn back now,</i> you tell yourself as you knock gently on the driver's-side window.<br/>
<br/>
It comes down, but Javits doesn't deign even to ask you <i>What the fuck?</i><br/>
<br/>
Okay, what do you do now?<br/>
<br/>
It's like an out-of-body experience, as though you've been taken over by some instinct, as you drop your pack and bend over to unzip it. From between your books you yank out the mask. When you straighten up again, Javits is staring at you with sullen, spiteful curiosity. The mask seems to weigh your hand down—<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>It's a mask. You put it onto your face. There isn't any other way it's supposed to work. But I can't </i>ask<i> him to put it on. I'll have to put it on him myself. Like this!</i><br/>
<br/>
That's what you were thinking, it seems to you afterward, when you're sitting in the passenger seat of Javits's truck, trying not to throw up. <i>I knew what to do, but I didn't have time to explain it to myself so I just did it.</i><br/>
<br/>
And now look where you are.<br/>
<br/>
You slammed the mask into Seth's face. You had it balanced in your hand, and he had the window of his truck down and was looking scornfully at you. So you pasted him in the face with the mask. Like a pie in a slapstick movie.<br/>
<br/>
His head snapped back, and to your astonishment the mask vanished, as completely as though it had never existed. Seth's head lolled, then he toppled over, falling out of sight.  You stared at the place where he'd been, then went up on tiptoes to peer inside the truck cabin. He had fallen to one side, his back twisted at an ugly angle. His eyes were open, but unseeing. Your guts hopped and flopped around. Then you scampered around to the other side of his truck and clambered into the passenger side.<br/>
<br/>
That is where you are now, shivering hard. Javits is still splayed on his side, still staring up at the roof of the truck cabin. The motor is still running. After a minute, you reach over and twist the ignition off.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Okay, what the fuck happened, and what does it mean?</i> You review what you remember. You hit him with the mask. For a moment, you are sure, you saw the mask, held by you, against his face. Then it was gone, and your palm was mashing him in the nose. Where did the mask go? You didn't see it fall off him, and when you glance around the cabin you don't see it. Is it still on him, but invisible? You gingerly push and pinch at his face, but you feel only flesh. He's not dead, at least, for he's breathing—snorting even—like an engine. Did you fuck up? The book didn't come with instructions about what to do with the mask after you make it. What if Seth is now in a coma? How will you explain it?<br/>
<br/>
<i>Don't explain it,</i> you tell yourself. <i>Just run away!</i> After all, no one saw you!<br/>
<br/>
But you don't run, at least not yet. Instead, you give yourself—you take out your phone and check the time—ten minutes to see if anything changes. And when then ten minutes are up (you know) you will give yourself another five, and after that another two-and-a-half, and then another one-and-a-quarter and then another—<br/>
<br/>
Fortunately, you don't have to wait that long. You have a minute to spare for the original deadline when you are jolted almost out of your seat by a change in Seth: the mask reappears on his face. You lick your lips, and gingerly pick it up with a forefinger and thumb.<br/>
<br/>
Seth's eyes have fallen closed, and now he looks like he's asleep. Something tells you it would be very easy to wake him. You swallow hard, carefully open the truck door, and as noiselessly as you can slide out. You push the door gently closed.<br/>
<br/>
Then you grab up your pack and run like a son of a bitch back to your own truck.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You spend all evening terrified that Seth and his buddies will pull up to your house, bust in, and drag you out to give your ass a righteous beat-down. Well, okay, you're not <i>seriously</i> worried about that. But you jump every time your phone dings with a text from Caleb with a question about the reading in English class.<br/>
<br/>
Also, you're out in the garage working on some magic, and every noise makes you jump guiltily.<br/>
<br/>
As soon as you got home you pulled out the grimoire to read over the spell again. To your astonishment, you found that the book had altered in your absence. The page was disfigured by an oval-shaped stain, though not deep enough to hide the words beneath. You stared at it mutely, then again acting on instinct you pulled the mask from your bag and set it on the page. When you lifted it, the page beneath fluttered and came away. Your heart nearly burst from your chest in excitement. Eagerly you flipped it over.<br/>
<br/>
The reverse carried a seeming continuation of the spell. There was nothing more to be done to the mask apparently; now—only now, after it was too late!—it gave some instructions as to its use.<br/>
<br/>
The most relevant instruction had to do with "sealing" it. A mask, the book explained, will continue to "absorb" the images of those it is set upon, melding them into new faces and bodies, until it is sealed. Only then can it be worn.<br/>
<br/>
And how do you seal a mask? For that, you had to consult the next spell, now revealed. It didn't <i>say</i> that it was the spell for sealing a mask, but you had a hunch that it would. At the very least, you had the strong suspicion that you have solved how to get further into the book. The next page, and all the pages afterward, are still locked tightly shut. But if this afternoon is anything to go by, prepping and finishing the new spell will cause the page to unlock, and on the other side you might find further instructions.<br/>
<br/>
You had all the necessary ingredients for the next spell on hand, but you also remembered the stink you made the last time you played with the stuff. So after dinner—and after making sure that your dad was on the other side of the house, in the living room, watching TV—you snuck all the ingredients downstairs to the garage. You opened the main door, and near the entrance you've been mixing the stuff together into a bowl.<br/>
<br/>
Which brings matters to the now: You are holding a burning match over a bowl that is sitting on the sigil at the bottom of the page. You hold your breath, and drop it.<br/>
<br/>
A small fireball blooms, and a great puff of smoke goes up. When you delicately test the air, you detect no odor. Well, that's a relief, at least.<br/>
<br/>
The fire, meantime, has transformed the mess of ingredients into a kind of slurry. Better still, when you lift the bowl, the page flutters beneath. You grin to yourself at how easy it has turned out. You fetch a plastic tub from the kitchen, pour the slurry into it, close it, then bag everything up again and carry it all up to your room. Your dad is still watching TV as you pass through the living room, none the wiser for the occult stuff going on under his roof.<br/>
<br/>
Up in your bedroom you translate the reverse of the newly unlocked page. It confirms that you have made a "sealant" for a mask. If you apply it with a brush to the interior of a mask, you will be able to put on the mask and in that way "don the form" that it contains. You guess that means it will turn you into a copy of Seth Javits.<br/>
<br/>
Because that's whose form is inside the sealed mask.<br/>
<br/>
It was only by chance that you noticed that after you got home. After pulling the mask out of your bag you examined it for damage or changes. None were apparent. But as you tilted the mask this way and that, you noticed that some of the gleams inside its surface didn't change position. When you gave them a closer look you were amazed to see that they came together to make a ghostly image: the pale face and features of Seth Javits. It was like a 3-D image inside the surface of the mask, and as you tilted it this way and that you could see the sides and top of his head, and even, if you tilted it just right, a bit of his bare shoulder down below. <br/>
<br/>
<i>I just have to seal it,</i> you tell yourself with nervous excitement, <i>and I could turn myself into his twin.</i><br/>
<br/>
But will you seal it? There's another experiment you could perform with it: mixing another image into it, to create a hybrid person.</span></div></div>


path: 111133411
author_id: seuzz
title: The Kind of People Who Have Special Plans
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You might have tried mixing more than one face into the mask, if the horrifying phrase <i>The love-child of Seth Javits and me</i> hadn't occurred to you. <i>A thing that mixes my DNA and Seths?</i> You have to fight down your gag reflex.<br/>
<br/>
So, you return to the garage to fetch a paint brush. As you pass through the living room, your dad asks what you're doing. "Uh, working on that chemistry thing for Caleb?" you reply, remembering the quick lie you improvised for him when you set that fire up in your room. "Don't worry," you hurriedly add when he does a double-take at you, "I'm not burning anything."<br/>
<br/>
Your dad looks skeptical, but lets you go. You wipe away some flop sweat as you run up the stairs.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The sealant went on fast and dried even faster; and, thank God, there wasn't any more polishing. The stuff was like clear mucilage, and the interior of the mask is little changed from before, except that it might glisten a little more brightly. The ghostly image of Seth that floats inside is also unchanged.<br/>
<br/>
You would have tried the mask out that night, except that you were unnerved by the interest your dad showed in your project, so you hid the mask in your bedroom dresser along with the grimoire, and packed everything else up into the old backpack you used in middle school (which you still haven't thrown away) and set it beside your bed. Then you tackled your homework.<br/>
<br/>
Or you tried to tackle your homework. Of course, it's hard to concentrate on calculus and English when you've got a magical doohickey that you're dying to try out.<br/>
<br/>
The trouble is that, if it's easy enough to daydream about using it, it's also easy to imagine the trouble that might come from it. Leaving aside the really scary worry—like, what if you didn't make the mask correctly, and it turns you into a mutant freak, and you can't change back?—there's others. Suppose you do put it on, and it does turn you into a copy of Seth Javits. What if you can't get it off? (There are instructions for removing the mask, but what if they don't work?) Or suppose you do try it out, and it works, but you get caught? Or suppose you don't get caught, and it works perfectly—what would you do with it?<br/>
<br/>
It's that last worry that comes to prey on you most. <i>What use is the thing? What could I do with it? What good would come of making myself into Seth Javits's twin?</i><br/>
<br/>
You suppose that the magician who wrote the book would have some ideas, and it doesn't take much to picture what those might be. Either they were black magicians intent on subverting society, or they worked for princes or nobles. Either way, they would be people with a reason to make magical disguises—to spy and to steal, to create chaos, to attack and hurt their enemies. They would have goals and a plan, and they would also have the resources to back their plans.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ah, Alphonse! With this mask, which duplicates the features of the Archbishop, you shall infiltrate the Curia and impersonate our most implacable foe. Our assassins are hidden in the wood and will seize His Eminence the next time he travels to Cordoba. You shall accompany them, and replace him in his robes and in his coach. This letter, to be unsealed only when you have occupied his palace, will explain to the steps by which you will wreck the Treasury and cause His Majesty's armies to be disarrayed, so that our rebel forces can capture Toledo!</i><br/>
<br/>
Okay. But how could you do the same sort of thing at Westside High School? And do you really want to?<br/>
<br/>
Well, there is one thing you could do, if you were clever enough to set it up right. Seth is dating Cindy Vredenburg, one of the cheerleaders. She's a delectable thing with long, platinum hair and the strawberry-and-cream complexion of a Swedish dairy maid. (More importantly, she has, as they say, boobs and a butt that just won't quit.) If you got Seth out of the way—making sure somehow that he was busy with something else, which he couldn't get away from—maybe you could get up close to Cindy and get some of the action that Seth gets, by pretending to be him?<br/>
<br/>
It's an inviting thought, and you are long in indulging it, especially after you've put away your homework and brushed your teeth and and wriggled into bed with the lights out. Except it's not long before you've dropped the pretense that it's a Seth Javits lookalike that Cindy is sucking off. No, it soon evolves into the fantasy that it's you she's making out with, and she's congratulating you on your cleverness with the mask and is asking if you could make some masks of some of the other cheerleaders, for her to wear, so that she can suck you off from under a variety of faces and give you a variety of boobs to suckle on and pinch ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Tuesday morning.</i> You see Seth coming before he sees you. Not that it does you any good. You're stuck inside the writhing mass of students that seethes and squeezes through the school corridors, like a slurry of undigested pig parts wriggling down the gullet of a python, and have nowhere to run. Also, he's coming toward you, and you've been fighting your way toward him. So when you come face to face—<br/>
<br/>
For a long, hanging moment you think he's going to look through you and let you pass, for Seth is frowning with some kind of inner concentration, and when he looks at you his eyes register no recognition.<br/>
<br/>
And maybe if you hadn't been staring at him with open-mouthed fear and horror, he would have passed on by. But you <i>were</i> staring at him, and you are so close you can feel the hot steam blowing out of his horsey face when something clicks behind his eyes, and you realize that you are not only <i>in</i> shit, you are going to <i>be</i> shit once Seth gets through scraping you off the bottom of his shoes.<br/>
<br/>
You try to claw your way away, but Seth shoots out a strong arm and shoves you hard against a locker. "Hey, watchit, man!" someone hollers but Javits ignores them, to glare with a bright and hard grin into your face.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, <i>fuck you,</i> man!" he gloats. <i>Boom!</i> With a hard fist he punches all the air from you. "You wanna know how much trouble you're in, you little cocksucker?" Another blow, even harder than the first, glances off your arm, jarring and numbing it. "You're gonna need to hook yourself up to a machine just to shit straight by the time I'm—" He knocks the cap off your head and seizes a fistful of your hair.<br/>
<br/>
Javits whips you around, and with half of your hair gripped in one fist—like he's trying to tear the scalp off your head—and the hem of your pants gripped in the other, he rams you through the thick crowd like the prow of an icebreaker. Bodies bounce off you, bruising your shoulders and face. When you reach an open pocket, Seth breaks into a sprint and runs toward the double doors leading outside. Using you as a battering ram he knocks them open, then hustles you across open ground toward the ancient portable units that sit in a mouldering semi-circle in back of the school. Students squawk and scatter like birds; and more than a few of them heartlessly point and laugh at you.<br/>
<br/>
Javits throws you against the doorway to the nearest portable, folds you up with a punch to the kidney, then reaches past to twist the knob and push the door open. He kicks you until you tumble over the threshold, then slams the door shut on you both.<br/>
<br/>
And then he gets mean.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"What was the occasion?" Carson Ioeger asks you later. "It looked to me like a celebration. You and Javits have some kind of anniversary today?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, what's the deal?" James asks. "Hey Tilley, is Javits two-timing you?"<br/>
<br/>
Keith lays his sandwich aside and shows James two very stiff middle fingers.<br/>
<br/>
It's lunchtime. You're sitting out on the grassy quad out front with Carson and his friends. Keith is with you too, as is Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
It's not a rare thing, eating with Carson and James (and Jenny Ashton and Paul Davis). But today you felt a special interest in eating with them, for they like you have a history with Javits.<br/>
<br/>
(So does Keith. In fact, Javits is much more likely to torment Keith, against whom he has a special and obscure grudge. You can only pray that that grudge is has not been transferred to you.)<br/>
<br/>
"You know Javits," you growl back. "Does he need a reason?"<br/>
<br/>
"No," says Carson, "but usually he likes to pretend that he does. How did he explain it to you? What crime did you—?"<br/>
<br/>
"I looked at him funny. Or he thinks I did. Someone did, and he thought it was me."<br/>
<br/>
Carson shrugs, but you catch James giving you a long and thoughtful look, as though he's dissatisfied with your explanation. But he says nothing, and Caleb seizes control of the conversation and steers it onto the topic of the time capsule that your class buried last Friday. You all have to write papers on your contributions, due at the end of the week.<br/>
<br/>
But you're not paying attention. You're wondering— <i>If I got Carson and James to draw Seth off, could I get in to do some mischief with that mask I made?</i></span></div></div>


path: 1111334112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Counterfeit Asshole
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Could Carson and James do anything to help you? You don't know. But even if you tried to get their help, they're a couple of nosy bastards, and they'd want to know what for.<br/>
<br/>
So that leaves you the problem of how to draw Seth away from Cindy so you can get close to her, and you don't know enough about his schedule or hers to know when you could do that, let alone how. You chew on the problem as you trudge off to math class.<br/>
<br/>
And it's during Calculus that you get a wonderfully evil idea, so wonderful that you bolt upright in your desk. Fortunately, no one seems to notice the wicked grin that spreads over your face as you contemplate the perfect way to have fun while destroying Seth Javits's life ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're stiff and achy all over when you wake, and you gasp and grunt as you pry and pull yourself out from the passenger-side footwell of your truck. Your leg muscles are cramping, and once you're seated on the truck bench, you arch your back as you make a mighty stretch.<br/>
<br/>
You bolted from school the moment the final bell rang, not even bothering to stop at your locker first. Sprinting hard, you got out to the student parking lot almost before anyone else, and so were able to get away from school before the exiting traffic got too thick. Your mom wheeled in surprise as you came running in from the garage. "Notstayingf'rdinnergettings'mthingdoingstuffwithCaleb'nKeith! 34; you yelled as you flew past her to the stairs. From your top drawer you snatched the last of your cash, and from your bottom drawer you grabbed the mask. Then you hurled yourself downstairs again.<br/>
<br/>
Thirty minutes later you were parked in front of Academy Sports, on the other side of town. Your heart was beating hard as you kicked off your shoes. Then, on an impulse—because you weren't sure how the mask was supposed to work—you peeled off the rest of your clothes and burrowed down into the footwell. Your breath was coming in quick spasms as you picked up the mask, and you closed your eyes and tried to settle yourself lest you hyperventilate. Only when you felt your pulse racing along somewhere below Mach 2 did you swallow hard and put the mask to your face.<br/>
<br/>
It was cool to the touch as it closed over your brow and nose and cheeks and chin. Then it got very warm and heavy, and you felt yourself being pulled down someplace black. You must have lost consciousness, for you felt something like the internal "reset" like you get when you wake up from a deep sleep. You were stiff and achy all over—no surprise, given how tightly you'd folded yourself down into the footwell—and you gasped and grunted as you pried yourself out from the ...<br/>
<br/>
So now here you are. You close your eyes and bite your lip and try to anticipate what you'll see when you open them again and look down at yourself. You do feel different, but maybe that's just imagination and anticipation ...<br/>
<br/>
You open your eyes and blink at what you see. <br/>
<br/>
A belly. Thighs. And a lot of hair with a pink sausage nestled inside. <br/>
<br/>
Okay, so far, not real different. Still, you tense.<br/>
<br/>
But it's when you examine more narrowly what you've got down there that the differences start to appear.<br/>
<br/>
There's a lot less hair on your legs, for one thing. The skin seems a little darker, too; more mottled. As for the muscles— Well, those are some serious pistons you've got down there now.<br/>
<br/>
Your stomach was already pretty flat, but now it's hard, and when you suck it in, four ... six ... eight ... <i>ten, maybe?</i> ridges show. And you've got an outie for a bellybutton, instead of a boring innie.<br/>
<br/>
And as for your cock— You suck in your lips as you pinch it between finger and thumb and pull it out. <i>Okay. It's a penis. Circumcised, like your old one.</i> Is this one any longer? Hard to say, with it being in such a flaccid state, and you're not turning yourself on any by playing with it.<br/>
<br/>
The rest of your body, you find when you turn examine it, is similarly hard and relatively hairless. You clap yourself all over, palming meaty pecs and biceps. As for the face—<br/>
<br/>
You twist the rearview mirror around, and that's when you finally get the shock. <br/>
<br/>
Seth's grey-blue eyes show startled surprise when you lock onto them, and wonderment shows on his horsey face as you run your gaze over his features. You've got a long, bony nose, and taut cheeks stretching between pronounced cheekbones and a lean jaw. Gently you touch your pale mouth with sensitive fingertips, and run them over the smooth skin on your chin. It feels real and natural, and a blush of excitement blooms in your forehead in tandem with the blooming thought, <i>I totally look exactly like Seth Javits!</i><br/>
<br/>
Only when the breath bursts from your lungs do you realize you were holding it in. You grin at yourself—lips peeling back to show strong, white teeth.<br/>
<br/>
Does anything else need testing out? You try out your voice, but it feels funny talking to yourself, and the words die on your lips. Nor can you think of something really pertinent to say. <i>I'm gonna kick your ass, Prescott?</i> That just sounds like a bad imitation of Javits.<br/>
<br/>
You don't seem to have much going on upstairs, either. No matter how much you concentrate, you can't grasp any of the things that Seth should know, like his parents' names, his address, his birthday, or anything about Cindy. All you've got, apparently, is his face and body.<br/>
<br/>
But that's quite enough for what you're planning. All you need now are some clothes to go with your new look.<br/>
<br/>
Which is why you drove up to Academy. Quickly you scramble back into your old clothes. which are a little tight and cling uncomfortably to you, and your shoes bunch up and pinch badly around your boat-like feet. <i>That's gonna be a problem,</i> you think, for you've got enough money to buy some cheap shorts and a cheap t-shirt. But shoes? You grimace as you limp across the parking lot toward the store.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You solve the shoe problem by getting some flip-flops, and it's a good thing those will work, because it was surprisingly expensive getting WHS Dragons-branded gear. After forking over the cash for some long, red-and-gold basketball shorts, a gray-and-white t-shirt, and a ball cap, all emblazoned with the Westside mascot, you've only got a few dollars and change left over. Still, as you saunter back out to your truck, you feel like a real high school jock. The only off-brand item you bought were some white-framed sunglasses like you've seen Seth wearing. Back in your truck cab, you take a selfie of your new face and look. <i>What a fucking asshole,</i> you can't help thinking as you study it. But you're grinning as you think it.<br/>
<br/>
And now that you're prepared to put your plan into effect, you point your truck toward Westside, in search of girls you can talk to, flirt with, hit on, and—if you're really lucky—get a blow job from.<br/>
<br/>
Because once word of what "Seth" has done gets back to Cindy ... Well, let's just say that you'd be happier being a fake Seth than a real one!<br/>
<br/>
Javits has basketball practice after school, but that should be breaking up by the time you get back to Westside. And, sure enough, you don't spot Seth's truck in the parking lot when you get back. Cindy's probably gone off with him too, which leaves the coast clear for you. The only problem you can see, as you survey the lot, is that there won't be a lot of girls left to pick from. But is that a problem? Though you'd really love to get it on with someone sexy, the point is to get some action while spreading trouble for Javits, and just about any girl could probably do for that.<br/>
<br/>
More serious is the sight of Gordon Black's orange VW Bug—the most recognizable car at school—parked up close to the gym. Gordon is the captain of the basketball squad, and if he or any of his friends are still around, it could be awkward if you ran into them. Or would that be another feature, if you fucked things up for Seth with Gordon and his friends?<br/>
<br/>
The only alternative you can see to cruising around Westside, looking to score with whoever is still on campus, is to drive into and around town, stopping to look in at fast food places in the hope of running into someone. Or going out to the river? That's a likely hang out as well. People go out there to drink and make out. But typically not on a Tuesday afternoon.<br/>
<br/>
It's while you're thinking about the river that you get an even wilder idea. Far and away the most dangerous party spot in the city is "the Warehouse," an abandoned industrial building downtown by the railroad tracks where teen-only parties are held on weekends. It's bad enough then, you've heard, with people getting beaten up and drunk and high off their asses. It's supposed to be far worse during the weekdays, when only the worst teen elements in town hang out there. What would happen if you went there, in disguise as Seth Javits? Could you cause trouble there that would rebound on Seth at school? Or would you just get yourself badly hurt instead?</span></div></div>


path: 11113341122
author_id: seuzz
title: The Girls at the Dairy Queen
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's probably the most chicken-shit of your options, but you decide to play it safe by looking for trouble back in town. But you figure there's no reason to run unnecessary risks while looking for people to get Javits in trouble with.<br/>
<br/>
Your plan, to the extent you have one, is to drive around the city, stopping in at various likely places in the hopes of running into one or more sexy girls that you can make some kind of move on. That mostly means ducking into fast food restaurants. But an hour of looking into various McDonalds, Burger Kings, Taco Bells, even Taco Famoso ... None of them have yielded anything.<br/>
<br/>
You don't give up, though. And when you step into the Dairy Queen you discover, if not the jackpot, a scene about as good as you could expect.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There's five of them clustered in a back booth, close to the restrooms. Soccer players, strong, tan, limber, and tawny of hair. So tongue-tied are you when you spot them, and your legs creak a little as force yourself to totter in their direction. <i>They don't know it's really me,</i> you have to remind yourself as, with a racing heart, you approach. <i>It's okay if I do something stupid. In fact, that's what I want!</i><br/>
<br/>
Three of them are facing you, and it takes you a moment to place their names. Barbara Powell is sitting on the end. Her long blonde hair hangs in a sheet down to her boobs, and it gives you a warm glow when her expression lights up when she sees you. You only wish it was "Will Prescott" she lit up like that for, and not the asshole you're pretending to be. "Seth!" she shouts even as the other two girls squeezed into that side of the booth—Josie Holden and Dominique Hughes—spot you. Josie, who's got a mane of brown hair, also lights up brightly at your approach. Dominque, who despite her surname is a full-blood Cree or Sioux or Apache or something like that, remains impassive, but there's no unfriendly light in her mica-like eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey girls, got room for me too?" you chortle as you drop into the booth opposite and push the other two girls in. "I was just passing through and thought—"<br/>
<br/>
Your voice dies in your throat when you glance over to see who you've sat down next to, and the smile freezes on your lips. Thank God you're wearing those cheap sunglasses you bought, so that—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Stephanie Fucking Wyatt!</i><br/>
<br/>
—doesn't see the terror that probably has filled your eyes. She's giving you a look of cold surprise.<br/>
<br/>
On the other side of her, Anita Nuevo, the captain of the Westside girls' varsity soccer squad, leans over to eyeball you. "Oh, hey," she says. <br/>
<br/>
But you're preoccupied with Stephanie. Her eyes—a hard green—seem to pierce you through, and almost you can believe that she has penetrated your disguise and knows exactly who you are. Her wiry, chestnut-colored hair, which is bobbed short into tight spit-curls, seems to writhe and bristle. Her lips are parted, but there's smile on them.<br/>
<br/>
How long you might have sat and stared at her—one of the toughest, most no-nonsense girls at Westside; a girl who could kick your ass almost without noticing—you don't know, but the impasse is broken by a giggle from Barbara. "How was practice?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" You break your gaze from Stephanie's. "Oh, it was great," you reply. "Real good workout. Fuckin' Gordon, though, you know?" You stretch your arms over your head and push your chest out. "I think he's trying to kill us." You've heard that Gordon Black, the team captain, is a real hard-ass toward his teammates.<br/>
<br/>
The other girls just giggle and dart smiles at each other. But a voice next to you says, "He just wants you to be good, right?"<br/>
<br/>
You find you can't look Stephanie in the eye. "Oh, well, pfft, we're already that," you say. "We're goin' to State, for sure." That's one of the few pieces of sports-related gossip you've heard. You grin at Barbara. "We got <i>me</i> on the squad, so we can't lose!" You twine your hands behind your head, bumping Stephanie with a stray elbow, and settle back in your seat.<br/>
<br/>
More giggles and shining eyes from Barbara and Josie, and Dominique says something about how people are saying the WHS boys' team hasn't looked this good in, like, ten years or so. But Stephanie cuts through the chatter. "Yeah, well, you're gonna have to still get by Eastman," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck Eastman," you retort. "Am I right?" you add with a bright grin at Barbara.<br/>
<br/>
"They're coming on strong this year too, I hear."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck Eastman," you repeat. "They can suck me off!"<br/>
<br/>
The grins on the other side of the table falter a little.<br/>
<br/>
"They got those two new guys." Stephanie's tone is cold, flat and even.<br/>
<br/>
"What new guys?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself. "Oh, them," you add, trying to cover the sudden silence. "Yeah, well, fuck them too."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, what've you heard about them?" Anita asks, leaning around Stephanie. You flinch after giving her the briefest glance.<br/>
<br/>
"Same as you all've heard," you reply. You feel yourself start to shiver all over. You came over here to flirt, not talk about a sport and a team you know nothing about.<br/>
<br/>
"Almida says that Eastman's building a whole new set of plays around them," Stephanie informs you.<br/>
<br/>
"Who, the new guys?" Dominique asks. Josie follows with, "Who are these new guys?"<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie ignores them. "What do Gordon and Steve know about them?" she asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"Ask Gordon and Steve," you retort. "Look, I don't want to talk about—"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," Stephanie says. She looks around the table. "You believe this shit? Our guys are gonna—"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't come over here 'cos I wanted to talk about fucking basketball or fucking Eastman!" you holler. "So fuck you, Stephanie!" She reddens under her tan. "Why don't you loosen up? Why don't you go get laid your something?" <br/>
<br/>
You heart nearly explodes with alarm at what you've said, and a shocked silence falls over the table. <br/>
<br/>
But then you're overwhelmed with a giddy feeling of relief. <i>I just cussed out Stephanie Wyatt in the worst possible way!</i> you realize with an almost frantic sense of joy. <i>A girl who's scared me for as long as I've known her! I just cussed her out, and I'm totally going to get away with it!</i><br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, why don't you go get yourself a good, hard lay?" you chortle. "Go have yourself a good, hard fuck. A good, hard, bed-breaking, teeth-rattling, lung-busting, scream-at-the-ceiling fuck? You know?" You feel like you're going to hyperventilate. "Something that'll make you <i>human?</i> Instead of a— Whatever the fuck you are. Jesus, go fuck yourself with a crowbar, if that's what it takes to bust the hinges open on your vijayjay!"<br/>
<br/>
You glance around the table to find the other girls staring in shock at you. You can't meet their eyes. It doesn't matter that it's not <i>your</i> eyes you can't meet them with. Despite the relief you feel, you're too embarrassed by what you've said.<br/>
<br/>
You half-expect Stephanie to punch your lights out. But no, after a long and brutal silence, she only says, "So who would you nominate for the job?"<br/>
<br/>
Now you do look her in the face. Except for a slight flush, she doesn't look any less friendly or any more flustered than when you sat down. The girl must be made of iron.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't give a shit, Stephanie," you tell her. "All I know is that you need about eight inches of steel pounded all the way up your cootch. Then maybe the rest of us'll be able to stand your company."<br/>
<br/>
"I think we're all about done here," Anita declares from the other side of Stephanie. No one moves, though, not even when Anita begins to push at Stephanie, who only holds your eye. But you can feel the others shifting nervously in their seats, and then slowly Barbara and then Josie wriggle out of the booth and to their feet. Dominique gives you a long and hooded stare before she slides out too.<br/>
<br/>
Still Stephanie doesn't move. You finally give up, and stand to let them out. You don't move aside, though, and force both girls to graze past you as they shuffle toward the exit. "You asshole, Seth," Anita spits as she brushes past.<br/>
<br/>
<i>My work here is done,</i> you think as the five girls, with murmuring voices, leave. <i>Well, not quite.</i> So—<br/>
<br/>
"Hey Stephanie!" you shout after her. "If you ever are in the market for some steel, call me! And we could make it a regular thing, too! 'Cos I think me and Cindy are, like, busto!"<br/>
<br/>
That gets you a couple of startled, backward glances from Barbara and Josie, but not from Stephanie, you notice. She just slides on her own shades and with a chin lifted high throws open the door to stalk into the parking lot.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have to pee afterward, and your knees almost buckle as you bend over the sink afterward. <i>What have I done?</i> you ask yourself.<br/>
<br/>
But you know what you've done, and you feel <i>great!</i> Exultant! Emancipated! Powerful!<br/>
<br/>
There's a bright light in your borrowed eyes when you look at yourself in the mirror, and the horsey face you've assumed is flushed with excitement. <i>Who else could I do this to?</i> you wonder. <i>Who are some other assholes I could fuck up like I've fucked up Seth?</i><br/>
<br/>
Oh, but you'd have to make some more masks before you could do that, and that would take forever. Maybe you should just stick to using Seth's face. Get him in more trouble? Or—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh!</i> You almost giggle out loud.<br/>
<br/>
You could maybe use Seth's face to prank some of your own friends!<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 111134
author_id: seuzz
title: The Leftovers
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>There's no point in finding a victim—er, a <i>test subject</i>—until the school has cleared out a little, so you camp out in the library with some homework. There's lots of students in there, too, and you watch from under your brows as they wander in and out of the stacks. A lot of them look familiar, and you know a few of them, like Howie Baylor, by name. But there's plenty of others who you don't know, and who by their looks will be sophomores or freshmen.<br/>
<br/>
Yeah, one of those would make a good victim. Someone <i>small</i> who can't fight back.<br/>
<br/>
Except that the library is a place you like to camp out, which makes it exactly the kind of place you're likely to run into your victim— er, <i>test subject</i> again. Particularly if they're in the library when you pick them out.<br/>
<br/>
So you pack up your stuff and head out into the school proper.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There's still lots of foot traffic, and as you lope through the halls you peer inside the classrooms. Almost all of them have a teacher inside—like a queen bee in a private chamber inside the gigantic hive that is Westside High School—and a few still have students. But in most of them it looks like group work going on—after-school club meetings and such like that—so you continue on.<br/>
<br/>
You go out the back of the school to eye the athletic fields. The tennis players are practicing inside their cage next to the gym; the track people are out jogging; and the girls' softball team is on the baseball diamond. The two big athletic fields are crawling with football and lacrosse players, looking like giant, colorful, hunchbacked beetles. No solitary victims to be had there.<br/>
<br/>
You circle the gym and come back in through the breezeway that separates the gym from the theater. On a hunch you look inside the latter. Laughter breaks out as soon as you put your head through the doorway.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment you're offended. Then you realize the laughter isn't directed at you. It's coming from the risers along the left-hand wall, far down toward the end. There's a cluster of a dozen kids down there—a mix of guys and girls. As you watch, one of them stands up and calls down to the stage, which is dimly lit.<br/>
<br/>
"Chris, love," he drawls, and now recognize him as the very gay (and very out) Charles Hartlein. "Think you could do something about the sofa so James doesn't trip over it when he makes his entrance?" He sits down again.<br/>
<br/>
A moment later a blonde guy come out on stage. His handsome face is a stony, expressionless mask as he pushes a sofa around. "Back!" Charles calls. "Back! More! To the right!"<br/>
<br/>
"How about James comes down and tries it," the blonde guy yells back. Someone calls from backstage, and he glances over his shoulder. But what that person says and what Charles says is lost in the crosstalk, and you don't stick around to see what comes of it all.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, you return to the main school building, where you glance inside the cafeteria long to see that there's no one in there but cleaning staff. You're about to return to the library but make a U-turn instead and duck into the Tutorial offices. Half of them are closed; two of the open offices have a tutor inside; but inside the last is a girl sitting at a desk and writing in a notebook. There is no sign of—<br/>
<br/>
You glance at the name plate on the door as you knock, and the girl looks up. She's quite cute. "Is, uh, Ms. Johnson here?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
The girl looks at you like you're an idiot. "No. Do you see her in here?"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, is she around?" The girl just shrugs and bends back over her work.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment you're tempted to grab her, out of spite and because she's available. But your position seems too exposed.<br/>
<br/>
You pass the library again, and turn into A wing when you hear voices. They're coming from Ms. Heaney's classroom, and you spot a trio of girls—but no teacher—when you look inside. They have their cell phones out, and are giggling and gossiping. You catch a few references to Nirdlingers (the department store) and Starbucks, and it occurs to you that you might find some vic— Some <i>test subjects</i> in town: alone in a coffee shop booth or in a changing room at a clothing store.<br/>
<br/>
So you're clomping through the halls to your locker, head down, wondering how the hell you're going to get someone alone, when you stop dead with an epiphany. Slowly you take half a dozen steps back until you're looking inside the open door of a classroom.<br/>
<br/>
It's Mrs. Hoagland's room. She's working at her desk.<br/>
<br/>
Alone.<br/>
<br/>
There's, like, a hundred classrooms in the school, most of them with a single teacher at work inside. You'd like to try the mask out on someone who doesn't know you, and who certainly couldn't get you in trouble. That ought to rule out using a teacher as a test subject. But the teachers seem like your best chance of getting someone alone. </span></div></div>


path: 1111341
author_id: seuzz
title: The Stage, Your World?
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Every place you've checked at school looks risky, but the theater looks like a less risky bet than any of the others. So that's where you return.<br/>
<br/>
The lights in the auditorium are off, except for a single dim spotlight focused on the empty stage, and you stand in the back, blinking as your eyes adjust to the dark. You strain your ears toward an inarticulate murmuring the spills out of the front rows.<br/>
<br/>
Gradually you start to make out that there are two people seated down there, their heads visible only as humped silhouettes against the dim puddle of light on stage. One of them looks around, and you dive into the back row. When you peep out again, you see that the figures has risen and is making its way toward the back. You hold your breath—will you get in trouble for coming in? But the figure turns the other way just as it reaches your row, and goes out the door you came in. You squint against the sunlight that comes pouring inside, and can only make out that whoever it was that went out, it's a guy.<br/>
<br/>
"Elle?" a voice drifts up from down below. "Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Elle?" it drawls. <i>Must be Charles,</i> you think. It's too languid to be anyone else.<br/>
<br/>
A girl in a white sweater and a tan skirt comes out on stage. She's got a round face curtained on both sides by flat drapes of hair that might be brown and might be a dark blonde. She could be pretty if she smiled, but she's not smiling now. From the front row, Charles says, "While we're waiting for your co-star to finish unpinning her mittens from her sleeves, could you show us how you're going to take Lord Bottomley's phone call?"<br/>
<br/>
The girl—Elle, is that her name?—looks around the set. Charles says, "Ddrrring-ddrrring!" Elle gives him a look, and puts a cell phone to her ear. Charles says, "It's nineteen-forty, Ellie dear, you won't be getting any reception on <i>that!</i>" Elle makes another face at him and shifts her hand to mime holding an old-fashioned telephone receiver.<br/>
<br/>
Before she can start, Charles says, "There's a transatlantic call for you, Lorraine. It's London."<br/>
<br/>
For the third time, Elle grimaces. "That's not my cue," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Pretend it is."<br/>
<br/>
Elle rolls her eyes, then puts on a simpering expression as she talks into the tip of her pinkie finger.<br/>
<br/>
"Hello, London?" she says. "Hello ... Cedric? Why Cedric, is that you?" She gasps and throws her head back. "Why Cedric," she crows, "what a <i>surprise,</i> how'd you know I was <i>here?"</i><br/>
<br/>
You almost bolt from the theater.<br/>
<br/>
But your eye is caught first by a glow from a seat a few rows down in front of you. It looks like it's coming from a cell phone screen. With a start, you realize that there's someone else hiding back here in the dark, watching the rehearsal.<br/>
<br/>
"Darling, don't talk so fast, and you won't stutter so!" Elle exclaims.<br/>
<br/>
You creep further down your own row, trying to get a better look at who is back here with you, but you can't make out anything of them.<br/>
<br/>
"What? Oh, darling!" Elle cries out. "A ha ha ha ha ha!"<br/>
<br/>
"Is that a laugh or a hiccup?" Charles snarks.<br/>
<br/>
"Is that direction or heckling?" Elle retorts. Without waiting for a reply, she stomps off into the wings. Half a minute later she reappears with a backpack on her shoulders. She marches across the stage, jumps off the far edge, and hauls ass up the aisle toward the exit. Charles says nothing. She bangs the door open, and it bangs shut after she's gone.<br/>
<br/>
Well, it seems that you've got a choice of targets in here, assuming you catch or isolate any of them. The person a few rows down is the most isolated, but who knows if Charles will, at any moment, turn around to shout up to them. There's Charles himself, maybe and there's probably people back stage. Or you could go chasing off after Elle, or that guy who left earlier.</span></div></div>


path: 11113411
author_id: seuzz
title: Masks and Rough Play
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You creep into the row behind the person with the cell phone, grimacing at each squelching step you take. But your target seems oblivious, bending his or her head over the cell phone screen.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Looks like a girl,</i> you decide when you're right behind them, for they seem to have long hair. But of course that doesn't settle the matter conclusively.<br/>
<br/>
You set your bag down and softly unzip it. The mask rattles against your books as you pull it out. Still, the person in front of you doesn't stir. You lift the mask, then hesitate. Can you just settle it on the back of their head? It doesn't seem likely. So you palm your mask in your hand and you reach around to take them from the front.<br/>
<br/>
Too late they lift their head. With a jarring blow, you grab them from behind and slam the mask into their face. Your heart goes into your throat as you find your hand pressing against warm flesh, and you leap back into your own seat.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment nothing happens. Then the person in front of you sags and flops to the side. Sweat pops out on your brow, and on the palms of your hands, as they slip down in their seat.<br/>
<br/>
There's some activity on stage now, but you ignore it to hustle around to join your victim, who is now bonelessly sprawling sideways across two seats. It's still too dark to make out their features, but you put your ear close to their face to listen. You're relieved to hear soft breathing.<br/>
<br/>
But where's the mask?<br/>
<br/>
You gingerly paw around over and around them for it, but you can't find it. (On the other hand, you do feel a pair of taut, well-shaped boobs, so that settles that it's a girl.) You feel about under the seats, but the floor, though slightly sticky, is also bare. With mounting fear and vexation you kneel on the floor and peer and peep for it, and you take out your own cell phone and use the light from it to scan for the mask. But it is nowhere nearby.<br/>
<br/>
How could it have bounced away without making a noise?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Minutes and more minutes pass as you search for it with trembling hands and shortened breath. You cuss to yourself. How could you be so stupid? You're playing around with something you don't understand, and you fucked it up, and you must have fucked up that girl, because it's like she's in a coma! For sure, no one could just sleep through it with you pawing them from the neck to the knees, tripping on their feet, and pushing and pressing them as you search for the mask on the chance that it has slid under them.<br/>
<br/>
And as you work, you cast terrified glances back at the stage, fearful that someone will notice what's going on in the back of the auditorium. Thankfully, they seem to be preoccupied with the rehearsal. And that girl Elle, you notice, has come back.<br/>
<br/>
You're slumping in the chair next to your unconscious victim, trying not to hyperventilate, and wondering if you should just bolt for home, when your eye is caught by a blue glow on her face. For a moment the front of her head goes waxy and blank as it shines with an inner light. Then the light winks out, and you hear something fall with a soft thump into her lap. You put out a hand and find the mask resting there.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Score one for Team Prescott!</i> You stifle a yelp as you grab the mask and leap over the back of the seats to the row where you book bag is. You snatch it up and, at a loping run, gallop for the door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Hi Mom, be up in my room!" you shout as you run past the kitchen on your way in from the garage.<br/>
<br/>
"You're late getting home!" she calls after you.<br/>
<br/>
"Stayed at school, talking with guys, working on a project!" you shout as you thunder up the stairs. Your breath is coming in quick, short puffs, and your heart feels like it's about to explode from excitement.<br/>
<br/>
Your little brother steps out of the hall bathroom directly in front of you. <br/>
<br/>
It's like hitting a deer on the highway. Your backpack flies from your hand and explodes against the far wall as you trip and knock him and you both to the ground. He squawks and yelps as the carpet rises to meet you, and you grunt as something bony punches you in the chest.<br/>
<br/>
"Son of a bitch!" Robert yells. "Get off me!"<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, stop kicking!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Get off!"</i><br/>
<br/>
"Well if you'll get your fucking knees out of my—!"<br/>
<br/>
You claw and struggle and finally disentangle yourselves. Robert, who isn't much shorter than you, and whose brown hair seems to spit electricity from its curled tips, glowers at you. For a moment you think he's about to rush you or sucker-punch you, and you hunker down to receive him.<br/>
<br/>
Feet sound on the stairs, and your mother appears, brandishing a spatula. "What is going on?" she bellows.<br/>
<br/>
"Will came barreling up here and he knocked me down!" Robert howls.<br/>
<br/>
"I was going to my room and you jumped out in front of me!"<br/>
<br/>
"You ran me over like a bulldozer!"<br/>
<br/>
"Quiet, both of you!" your mom barks. "Anyone hurt? Any bones broken? Bruises, teeth knocked out? Good!" she says when you both murmur a negative. (But you've a sharp pain in your side, as though a horse tried kicking your ribcage in.) "Then pick yourselves up, go to separate corners, and I don't want to hear from either of you till it's time for supper." She waves the spatula at you both, then turns and marches downstairs.<br/>
<br/>
"Motherfucker," Robert mutters at you after she's gone.<br/>
<br/>
"Cocksucking little brat."<br/>
<br/>
"Cunt."<br/>
<br/>
"How'd you like me to push your teeth in?"<br/>
<br/>
"You and what—?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"You better be cleaning that mess up!"</i> your mom hollers from downstairs. You bend over to start picking up your books and pencils.<br/>
<br/>
Also the mask, which has fallen out. Your heart goes into your throat as Robert grabs it. "Hey, put that down!" you yell. "Give it here!"<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, I'm just trying to help!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Do I have to come back up there again?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"I don't <i>need</i> your help," you hiss at Robert as you snatch the mask from his hand. "Just go to your room and let me handle this! The sooner you fuck off, the sooner—"<br/>
<br/>
You don't have to say any more. He stomps into his room and slams the door so hard the pictures on the walls jump and rattle.<br/>
<br/>
<i>One of these days I'm going to kill him,</i> you swear to yourself as you stuff your things back in your pack.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Inside your bedroom you study the mask for marks of damage, but you can't find any. No nicks or scratches or flakes knocked from it. <br/>
<br/>
But you discover one change. It now contains a face.<br/>
<br/>
At first you take it for a trick of the light, which streaks and pools and puddles in the depths of the mask. But as you turn it this as and that you notice that some of those streaks don't shift even as others scatter. Then, like when the random shapes inside a magic-eye puzzle resolve into a picture, you see it. There is a face inside the mask.<br/>
<br/>
It is the shape of a face only, and it is hard to make out, for its features line up almost perfectly with the mask's curves, so that its nose is partly obscured by the nose of the mask, and the mouth is blurred by the mask's mouth. It has no color, either, so that they are lines and shadows only that suggest a forehead, eyes, nose, cheekbones, lips, chin and—blanketed beneath what looked like curtains of hair—a pair of ears. You don't recognize the person, but that might only be because it is so hard to get a good angle on the image.<br/>
<br/>
But confirmation that the magic has worked comes when you open the grimoire to find that an oval-shaped stain has appeared on the page with the spell. Your heart is in your throat as you lay the mask atop it. You think you hear a slight <i>click,</i> and feel a thrill of electricity through your fingertips. You pick the mask up again, and the page beneath flutters. You pull at the corner, and turn the page.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Is that the way that it works?</i> you wonder. <i>Finish a spell, then touch the completed item to the page to turn it?</i><br/>
<br/>
Well, whatever. Eagerly you pore over the rest of the spell, now revealed. As before, you have to use an online translator to make it out, but when you've finished ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Why don't you boys find a project to work on together?" your dad asks at dinner. The meal has been mostly silent thus far, with only the clink of silverware against the dishes, and some noisy chewing from your brother.<br/>
<br/>
It takes you a moment to realize that your dad is addressing you and Robert both. You're sure that Robert's stare of horror is a match for your own when the penny drops.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm serious," your dad continues, though neither you nor Robert has said a word. "Your mother tells me the two of you got into a fight this afternoon."<br/>
<br/>
"We just bumped into each other is all," you protest. Robert, for once, nods in vigorous agreement with you.<br/>
<br/>
"That's not what <i>she</i> said it sounded like. There's too much friction between you two lately. It has to stop."<br/>
<br/>
"Then why do you want us doing a project together?" you exclaim. "If we do that—"<br/>
<br/>
"If you do that maybe you'll learn how <i>not</i> to get up in each other's noses. You have to live together," your dad says as he dollops a great pile of mashed potatoes onto his plate. "You can either cooperate, or kill each other. I'd rather it not be the latter," he dryly concludes. </span></div></div>


path: 111134111
author_id: seuzz
title: Help! There's a Girl in My Bed!
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"So then you know what my dad says? He says, 'You boys need a project to work on together'! Can you believe that? I mean, fuck! <i>Me!"</i><br/>
<br/>
You glare down at the metal bowl and the stuff you've been pouring into it. "Okay," you tell Caleb as you put out a hand, "I'm ready for that clothespin."<br/>
<br/>
It's Monday night, an hour after dinner, and you're in Johansson's back yard, working by the yellow glow of his porch light. He hasn't said much since you burst in on him twenty minutes ago, demanding his help with an "experiment," and he has the baffled and angry look of a guy who didn't ask to help, doesn't want to help, doesn't know how he's helping, and yet somehow has found himself hip-deep in someone else's business. <br/>
<br/>
Which more or less describes what's going on.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he drawls. "But it's this clothespin business I don't get," he says as he hands you one of the two clothespins he's holding.<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, it's because this stuff is gonna stink up something awful."<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't say anything about it stinking!"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure I did! That's how come I can't do it back at my place!"<br/>
<br/>
"You told me—" His eyes bulge as you snap the clothespin onto your nose. "You told me you had to do it over here 'cos you didn't want your brother and dad catching you!"<br/>
<br/>
"Thad do! 'Gos I don' wanna wind up doig no broject wid Roberd!"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb stares at you, then looks down at the other clothespin, still in his hand. "And this one's for me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Right. 'Gos dhis 'duff sdinks when you burn id."<br/>
<br/>
"Will—"<br/>
<br/>
But you've already snapped the lighter and thrust it into the bowl. A great flume of smoke pours out, then quickly dissipates. "Well?" you ask Caleb, whose great honker is still unadorned with a clothespin.<br/>
<br/>
He sniffs delicately, then sucks down a deeper noseful. "Smells a little like burnt hair," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Is dhat all?" You take the clothespin off your own nose and make a tentative sniff. It smells like grass clippings to you. "Huh. Guess this recipe is just enough different—"<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>is</i> this shit?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's what I've been telling you, it's—"<br/>
<br/>
"You haven't been telling me jack nor shit," Caleb squawks. "You come busting in here with some bizarro story about getting in a fight with your brother, and about your dad and a project. Is this the project that he wants you and your brother to work on together?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, this is the project I <i>don't</i> want to work on him with! I don't wanna work on <i>any—</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Just clean this shit up!" Caleb waves his arms in disgust. "Will, you're the most spastic, random—"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay fine, I'll clean it up!" You glance inside of the bowl that you stole from home and find it full of a grayish-white slurry. It seems cool to the touch, so you pour it into a plastic container and seal it up. "I'll get out of your hair, too, since you're obviously uninterested in showing any sympathy for—"<br/>
<br/>
"Will," Caleb groans. "I might show some sympathy if I <i>freaking knew what I was supposed to be sympathizing with!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You ignore him and just start slamming your stuff into your back pack. Caleb watches with a visible wince, and doesn't speak until you start pushing the book into your bag. "What was the book for?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"It had the recipe in it," you growl. "What do you care?"<br/>
<br/>
"So why'd you put the bowl on top of the book while—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you didn't want me to getting shit all over your porch, did you?"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb stares. <br/>
<br/>
"I take it back," he says. "You're <i>not</i> the most random, spastic person I know. You are, all by yourself, <i>three</i> of the most random and spastic—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, bite me. See you in class tomorrow?" You swing your pack onto your shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
"Why wouldn't I?"<br/>
<br/>
You roll your shoulders in a shrug and stalk off toward the side gate.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was lucky that the second spell, which you executed over at Caleb's, used exactly the same ingredients for making a mask, so that you could go ahead and execute it. And you were eager to do it because that seemed the only way to find out what exactly you accomplished this afternoon inside the school theater.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you know in a general way what you've done. The rest of the first spell, which you uncovered this afternoon, explained that by placing the mask on a person you have copied their "image" into it. It further explained that you could, if you wanted, add the images of other people to the mask by placing it on them, mixing them all together to make new forms and faces. But, it concluded, you won't be able to wear the mask until you "seal" it. <br/>
<br/>
And when you place a sealed mask on your face, it will transform you into the duplicate of the person whose image is contained in the mask.<br/>
<br/>
Cool, right?<br/>
<br/>
On the facing page was a second spell—which like the first only tells you how to execute it, not what it does—so you decided to try it out on a hunch. It seemed safest to do it at Caleb's, though, so that you wouldn't upset your dad with another terrible stench, or tempt him into forcing Robert on you as a partner in this extracurricular "project."<br/>
<br/>
Back home, upstairs, you are disappointed to find that there's been no alteration to the page you are trying to unlock, but you set the plastic container on it anyway, and are pleased when the page subsequently flips over. Greedily you set about translating the reverse of the page, and are cheered to learn that this slurry you've made is, as you hoped, the sealant the first spell spoke of. So from the garage you steal a small paintbrush and, acting on the remainder of the instructions, paint the inner surface of the mask, turning it a grayish-white. To your relief there are no instructions about polishing the new surface. Instead, the thing now appears to be ready for wearing.<br/>
<br/>
But you don't put it on yet, for you have enough sense and self-control to know that you shouldn't use magic to turn yourself into someone else while the rest of your family is up and awake. So instead you hide the mask under the covers of your bed, and spend the rest of the night trying to concentrate on your homework. But you twitch and jump each time you think of what you've hidden in your bed, and the hours crawl toward bedtime as you anticipate what you'll find when you try the mask out tonight, after the rest of the house is asleep.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a little after two in the morning when your cell phone alarm wakes you, and you scramble to shut it off. Then you lay for a few minutes, panting in the dark and blinking at the ceiling as you listen with a thumping heart for other sounds. But there is nothing but a light rustle of wind at the eaves.<br/>
<br/>
You crawl out of bed and creep over to your closet. From a top shelf you pull down the mask, then hop with a bouncing leap back into bed. You pull the sheets up over yourself and shiver with excitement. You're about to do it!<br/>
<br/>
You hold the mask up over your face, then change your mind and lay it facedown on your pillow. You flop over, balancing yourself above it, then gently lower your face into the mask.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment you feel nothing except the hard, porcelain-like material squashing against your nose and forehead. Then your face warms, and you are overwhelmed by vertigo. It's like a pit has opened up inside your pillow, and you are falling face first into it. A hot radiance washes over you. You have just time to wonder if you've opened a portal to Hell when you lose all sense of yourself.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Will!"<br/>
<br/>
You flinch from the voice, and wince at the sharp rap on your door. "It's seven-thirty!" your mom calls from the hallway. "You don't want to be late to school!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Who says I don't?</i> you grumble to yourself. Aloud: "Okay, I'll be right there!"<br/>
<br/>
"Did your alarm not go off?"<br/>
<br/>
"I said I'll be right there!"<br/>
<br/>
There's a silence from the other side, then you hear your mom moving off. You roll onto your back and blink.<br/>
<br/>
Then you jump up with a yelp and bat at your face. Something like a spider web is draped across it, and you have the momentary, horrible impression that a giant bug has been weaving a nest around your head. You gasp and snort and gradually catch your breath.<br/>
<br/>
Slowly, it dawns on you that it's not spider webs. It's hair. Long, black, thick hair, draping to your shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
And when you look down, you find that you have boobs the size of mangos, and shaped like torpedos. <br/>
<br/>
You stifle another yelp. But this one is from excitement.<br/>
<br/>
<i>The mask! It worked! You turned yourself into that girl!</i><br/>
<br/>
Then your excitement turns to terror. <i>And I'm trapped inside my bedroom with my mom about to bust in at any moment!</i><br/>
<br/>
Where's the book? You scramble out of bed and grab the grimoire off your desk, and with trembling hands search out the spell. There was a magic word or something that you have to say to take the mask off. Frantically you scan the first spell, and your heart sinks when you find the word. <i>I don't know how to say that!</i> you want to scream.<br/>
<br/>
But you have to try. You grab your forehead, as the spell prescribes, form the words on your lips, and get ready to pull.<br/>
<br/>
Then you pause. <i>I put on the mask to find out who I copied,</i> you tell yourself. <i>I should check that first.</i><br/>
<br/>
With trembling knees you cross to your closet door, to look at yourself in the full-length mirror that hangs on inside it. You gasp hard at the reflection that shows there.<br/>
<br/>
You've  turned yourself into Maria Vasquez, high school cheerleader!</span></div></div>


path: 1111341111
author_id: seuzz
title: Poor Boys
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You gape at your reflection. Maria Vasquez gapes back at you.<br/>
<br/>
<i>How in the hell did I not recognize her face in the mask before?</i> you wonder as you gently trace the curve of your new face with gentle fingertips. It's not like Maria's face is unfamiliar!<br/>
<br/>
Of course it isn't. She's a cheerleader, for fuck's sake! You're looking in her direction every chance you get!<br/>
<br/>
Maria Vasquez is Hispanic, with a light, almost milk-chocolate complexion, large eyes, and soft lips. Her nose is full but well-shaped, and is set between visible cheekbones. Her dark hair, thick and rough as a horse's tail, tumbles to your shoulders in gentle waves.<br/>
<br/>
Your drop your hands to your boobs, which are large, ripe, and firm, with tips that are rosy. You gently clasp and lift them. <i>Oh my God,</i> you silently groan as you pucker all over.<br/>
<br/>
Including—<br/>
<br/>
You gulp and drop your boobs as your eyes fall to the patch of dark hair between your legs. <i>You've got a bush!</i> And inside that bush? Your arm stiffens as you reach down to touch it. Inside—<br/>
<br/>
Feet sound on the stairs, and you whirl and dive back under the covers. But the steps pass your room, and you hear the door to Robert's room shut.<br/>
<br/>
You bite your lip. <i>How the fuck am I going to get out of this?</i><br/>
<br/>
Of course, you have to get the mask off. But when you put it on you fell asleep, for hours! What if the same thing happens when you take it off? <br/>
<br/>
Well, it's a risk you'll have to take. Better that than your mom or dad finding Maria Vasquez in your bedroom! You jump out of bed to check the magic word in the book again, and put your hand to your brow.<br/>
<br/>
Then you hesitate, and on a wild impulse snatch up the book. Though you're naked—at some point in your sleep you tore your underwear off—you open your door and peek out. (And you have to push your hair out of your face when it falls across your cheek.) The hallway is empty.<br/>
<br/>
In three fast, loping strides, you jump across the hall to the bathroom. You turn the shower on full blast—so it will sound like you're busy showering—then crouch in the floor with the book. One, two, three times as prescribed you pull at your forehead while murmuring the magic words. Nothing happens. A fourth time, then a fifth time, you try. Nothing. You're sweating hard as you check the book again. You lay on your back, stare at the ceiling, then cover your face with your hand and pull.<br/>
<br/>
Something seems to catch beneath your fingernails, but you don't pause to wonder, and pull harder. You feel your face coming away, as though you're opening a cupboard door. It takes all the light with it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Made it by a whisker, Mr. Prescott," Mr. Walberg drawls as you fling yourself into your desk as the tardy bell rings. "Don't get too comfortable," he continues as you try to catch your breath. "We need a first presenter today, and you'll do as well as anyone else."<br/>
<br/>
You gape balefully at the old walrus as the rest of the class titters; out of the corner of your eye you see Kelsey Blankenship openly smirking at you, and behind her Geoff Mansfield sneers. With a sigh you rip open your book bag and dig inside for the short paper you wrote last night. It's a one-page summary, cribbed heavily from Wikipedia, on the history of shampoo. It's part of Mr. Walberg's game for the week: Students have to give a short presentation on the history of something related to the item they put in the time capsule last Friday, and the rest of the class has to guess, based on the presentation, what the item was.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, Caleb knows what you put in the capsule, so as soon as you're done and Mr. Walberg has called for guesses he shoots his hand up. But the teacher ostentatiously ignores him and instead lets Amanda Ferguson—Kelsey's iceberg of a best friend—correctly divine the answer: "It wasn't a hair dryer, was it?" she sniffs. You nod. "Oh, God, you're kidding, right?" she exclaims in a tone of horror and disgust. The whole class laughs, and with a burning face you return to your seat. Mr. Walberg doesn't even bother to shush the mirth.<br/>
<br/>
"Just wait till it's your turn, cocksucker," you mutter at Caleb after the bell rings, "and you get to tell the class you sent <i>porn</i> to the future."<br/>
<br/>
But Johansson is serene. "Yeah, I bet I'm gonna get some high-fives for that. Betcha Delacroix asks me to hang out with him and his peeps after school."<br/>
<br/>
"I can't believe Walberg said he'd let you get away with it."<br/>
<br/>
"Nice job with the presentation, Prescott," Mansfield snickers as he brushes past you. "I'd'a never guessed it was hairdryer."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, stump the chump," you mutter back.<br/>
<br/>
Lisa, who is following behind, says, "I think it was really clever, Will. I bet they'll find it pretty interesting when they dig it up in a hundred years."<br/>
<br/>
Mansfield gives her a look, the quickly recomposes his expression.<br/>
<br/>
"That could be," he says. "They might be illegal in the future. You know, waste of electricity and resources. They're not very green." He gives you a quick look up and down. "Good on ya for getting rid of yours, Prescott." He puts his arm around Lisa's shoulders and draws her out into the hallway.<br/>
<br/>
"I oughta buy a new one, a big, industrial-sized one, you piece of shit," you mutter after him, "and beat you to death with it. Buy one as big as a jet engine, and throw you into it."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, shut up, Will," Caleb says. "He can't even hear you. Fortunately."<br/>
<br/>
"If he did—"<br/>
<br/>
"He'd just smirk at you. Haven't you figured out that nothing fazes him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I bet if I pushed his face in—"<br/>
<br/>
"Whose face you talkin' about pushin' in, man?"<br/>
<br/>
You jump and whirl at the voice. It's Laurent Delacroix, the popular wrestler that Caleb stupidly thinks might invite him to hang out. You feel yourself blushing. "No one," you murmur. Delacroix gives you a puzzled look, then with a short laugh pushes ahead of you and plunges into the hallway.<br/>
<br/>
"Pussy," Caleb says.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck off."<br/>
<br/>
"And it's real funny that you wrote a presentation about shampoo today," Caleb calls after you, "considering you smell like you didn't take a shower."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's true that you didn't shower, for you woke in the bathroom, back in your own skin with the mask beside your head, and the tub half-full of water from the still-running shower head. You shut it off and drained the tub, wrapped a towel about your waist, and ran back into your bedroom to dress. Even without the shower, you were late getting down to breakfast and out the door to school.<br/>
<br/>
The rest of the day passes slowly and normally, meaning that you get shoved up against your locker twice, once by Lester "The Molester" Pozniak and once by Seth Javits. (But in the latter case, it might be because he mistook you from behind for your friend Keith.) It's a slow day, made all the more agonizing by a keen desire to get back home to the book. When Caleb asks if you want to hang out after school, you quickly brush him off. Only later, on your way home, does it occur to you that Caleb didn't look very disappointed at your demurral.<br/>
<br/>
Oh well. That only means you don't have to feel guilty.<br/>
<br/>
Up in your bedroom you fall into your chair with the book. Hopes that the next spell will prove as easy to execute are dashed when you see that it calls for a completely new set of ingredients. And your heart sinks further when you do some spot-checking of prices and availability online, and discover that those ingredients will cost more than what you've got left in your cash stash. You spend the balance of the afternoon wracking your brain for ways to get some money, before falling back on the only obvious means.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey Dad?" It's after dinner, and he's watching TV when you work up the nerve to approach him. "Can I borrow sixty dollars?"<br/>
<br/>
"What for?" he asks without looking over.<br/>
<br/>
"School supplies?"<br/>
<br/>
That gets his attention. "School supplies for what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Um, that chemistry thing I was working on? For Caleb?"<br/>
<br/>
His brow furrows. "Whose chemistry project is it?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "Well, his."<br/>
<br/>
"And he can't pay for it himself?"<br/>
<br/>
"Dad! Caleb's got— Well, he hasn't got any money!" Which is true. Caleb lives with a single mother, and he only has a car to drive because one of her co-workers was going to donate it to a church otherwise.<br/>
<br/>
"So you're subsidizing him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well—"<br/>
<br/>
"And you want <i>me</i> to subsidize him?"<br/>
<br/>
You don't answer.<br/>
<br/>
"Tell you what," he says, "if you apply for that job at Salopek, and you get it, I'll advance you the sixty. In fact, I'll advance you your full first paycheck."<br/>
<br/>
"And if I don't get the job?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you'll get it," he says, turning his attention back to the TV.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Caleb wants that job, </i>he<i> should apply for it,</i> you want to say.<br/>
<br/>
<i>And maybe he should,</i> it occurs to you a moment later. By giving your dad this excuse about Caleb having a project, maybe you can get him off your back by recommending Caleb for the job.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, that would leave you without the salary. But maybe if you got Caleb that job, and showed him the book (as you've been thinking of doing anyway), you could partner with him and he could invest in it.<br/>
<br/>
Except, as you told your dad, Caleb is poor. Maybe you should look for a different partner, one with more ready cash. And how hard would that be to find one? Why, all you'd have to do is show them that mask of Maria—let them put it on and fondle her boobs—and they'd probably thrust every dollar they had at you!<br/>
<br/>
You have to hide a smile when the goofy thought occurs: <i>Wouldn't it be funny if </i>I<i> started hanging out with Laurent Delacroix and his "peeps" after what Caleb said?</i></span></div></div>


path: 11113411111
author_id: seuzz
title: Mind Over Money
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Double-crossing son of a bitch," Caleb mutters.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, Will." Keith grins at you. "You're a double-crossing son of a—"<br/>
<br/>
"What are you cussing at me for?" you demand of Caleb. "And you can just shut it," you tell Keith. "This doesn't have anything to—"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you I wanted that job," Caleb says. "And you told me—"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't promise you anything!"<br/>
<br/>
"You told me that <i>you</i> didn't want it!"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I <i>don't</i> want it," you exclaim. "But I need the money."<br/>
<br/>
"You need the money like I need a hole in the head!"<br/>
<br/>
It's Wednesday afternoon, and as usual you're taking lunch with your friends in back of the school. You didn't want to tell Caleb about the deal you made with your dad—taking that job out at Salopek in return for an advance on your salary—but when Keith asked if you wanted to see a movie after school, you had to demur. One thing led to another, and you had to confess that you were going out to Salopek to meet your dad.<br/>
<br/>
And then Caleb had to ask if he could come along too, so that he could talk to your dad about applying for that job at his work. So through gritted teeth you were forced to admit that you were going to Salopek to apply for that very job.<br/>
<br/>
"Look," you tell Caleb, "I didn't think it was going to work out this way. But last night—"<br/>
<br/>
"But last night you saw a way to slip a shiv between my ribs," Caleb says, "and so you took it."<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, it's not the only job in town!"<br/>
<br/>
"Then why don't <i>you</i> take one of those other jobs? " Caleb retorts. "You didn't want this one and I did!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want <i>any</i> job!" you holler. "Not this one, not— Look, it's too late now! Besides, my dad won't give me an advance unless it's the job out at his work," you add. "And I need the advance."<br/>
<br/>
"For what?" Caleb thrusts his lower lip at you, and a patch as black as a thundercloud appears on his brow.<br/>
<br/>
"Just for some stuff I need to buy."<br/>
<br/>
Caleb glares hot murder but says nothing.<br/>
<br/>
Which is better than what Tilley does. "Jesus, Will," he gasps, "you're not buying <i>weed</i> or something, are you? Or you owe a guy for—"<br/>
<br/>
"What? No!"<br/>
<br/>
"Then what do you need the money for so bad?"<br/>
<br/>
"Listen, it's my business, not yours!" You grab up your lunch and lurch to your feet. "It's my business, it's my dad's work, it's my job! I don't owe you a fucking thing, Johansson, so leave me the fuck alone about it!" You storm off.<br/>
<br/>
But you quickly cool down because you do feel guilty. Caleb really did want that job, and you sort-of-kind-of wanted him to have it (just not enough to talk to your dad about it), and it's only this chance thing with that book that has led you to knuckle under to your dad.<br/>
<br/>
So you go looking for Caleb at his locker when school is over. "I'm sorry I blew up at you earlier," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you apologizing for?" he replies. "You didn't do anything wrong." When you continue to press an apology on him, he punches you lightly in the shoulder. "C'mon, man. I was just giving you shit. You wanna apologize, apologize for taking me seriously. Okay? Pax?" He puts out a fist.<br/>
<br/>
You smile and bump it back.<br/>
<br/>
"Get a room, you homos," growls David Kirkham as he shuffles past.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
In accord with the deal you made with your dad, you drive out to Salopek immediately after school. He's busy, but he's left word with the receptionist, who with a friendly smile hands you an application form.<br/>
<br/>
And when you've finished filling it out, she lifts the phone to call someone inside the complex. "Andy Keyes will be along in a moment to show you around," she tells you after hanging up.<br/>
<br/>
"Show me around for what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Your dad asked us to give you a tour, tell you about the job."<br/>
<br/>
Even though your dad basically promised you the job so long as you applied for it, a cold chill runs down your back. "Do all the applicants get a tour?"<br/>
<br/>
"All the ones named 'Prescott'," she says, and turns back to her computer monitor.<br/>
<br/>
A few minutes later a tall, rangy man with a tanned face and crinkly smile comes in. "Will?" he addresses you. "Andy Keyes." He puts out his hand. "Welcome aboard."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, thanks." You don't correct his impression that you have already got the job.<br/>
<br/>
The tour that follows is very short and direct. Basically, he just points out some of the buildings as he leads you deeper into the plant. You've never been out to Salopek, and you never cared to, but even you're impressed by the size of some of the buildings. It's into one hanger-like building, at the very back of the property, that Keyes takes you. "There's not much orientation for a job like this," he tells you, "though we will be giving you a pretty thick safety manual to digest. Sean!" he calls. "You'll be kind of a gofer, kind of a mechanic. You like working with machinery?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nn-nn," you say under your breath.<br/>
<br/>
"That's good," he replies, "because we'll be giving you a greasy handful. Oh, here's Sean," he adds as a meaty blonde guy appears. You vaguely recognize him, and peg him instantly as a football player. "You're at Westside, right, Will? So's Sean." You and the blonde guy shake hands. "Well, I'll leave you in his capable hands," Andy continues. "Will just got hired. Although your first day isn't until—?" He gives you a quizzical look.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not sure," you stammer. "Have to ask to my dad."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, tell him about the job, Mitchell." Andy claps Sean on the back. "You two'll be working together."<br/>
<br/>
At first you're not sure whether to take that as a promise or a threat, but you soon find yourself relaxing in Sean's presence. He's a bluff, cheerful guy with a twinkle in his eye, and an easy laugh. He takes you back into something called the "distribution center." "It's air conditioned," he says with a wink. "If I'm gonna take the afternoon off to tell you about the job, might as well do it in comfort." He soon has you relaxed and laughing, though he tells you hardly anything about what the work at Salopek will be like.<br/>
<br/>
Your dad comes and finds out at quitting time, with a gruff apology about not being able to turn loose earlier. "Let's take your truck home," he says as he leads you out. "We can talk about the job."<br/>
<br/>
"What about your car?"<br/>
<br/>
"You can give me a ride to work tomorrow. So how does the job look?"<br/>
<br/>
You gulp and tell him it will probably be okay. You like Sean and Andy, you assure him.<br/>
<br/>
"That's good," he says. "Job'll be good for you." He gives you a sidelong, critical glance. "You might actually put on some muscle." Your heart sinks.<br/>
<br/>
You're halfway home before you pluck up the courage to ask for the advance he promised in exchange for taking the job. "I'll go by the bank tomorrow on my way home," he says. "I haven't got the cash on me."<br/>
<br/>
"Can we stop by the bank now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why do you need to the money now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I was hoping to go into town and pick some stuff up."<br/>
<br/>
His lips twist into a sardonic frown. "That video game will still be on the shelf tomorrow," he says.<br/>
<br/>
His retort stings you. "It's not a video game! I told you, it's—!"<br/>
<br/>
But you cut yourself. If your dad wants to think you're blowing the money on a video game, let him. It's better than him knowing that you're experimenting with the dark arts.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He's better than that vague promise, though, and when you get home from school the next day your mom has five twenties waiting for you. You run upstairs, make up a fast shopping list, and run out to get the stuff for the next spell. You make it back just in time for dinner.<br/>
<br/>
Afterward, upstairs, you risk another fire to make the basic item. It yields a metal band, about the size and shape of a bookmark, whose surface runs with an oily rainbow of colors. You clear off part of your desk and, with some jeweler's tools that you had to buy and bless inside the book's sigil, you set about carving a set of runes in the band.<br/>
<br/>
An hour later, you've hardly got the first rune done, for it's like carving a trench in granite with a nail file. You realize that you can either work on the thing, or you can finish your homework.<br/>
<br/>
You decide to work on the thing.<br/>
<br/>
It turns out not to take as long as you'd feared, but it's not until after one in the morning that you carve the last rune into the metal strip. You lay it across the book, then lift it. The page comes loose, and with eyes that have lost all heaviness you bore into the rest of the spell. It consists of only one phrase. <i>To know the mind of another,</i> it translates as.<br/>
<br/>
It comes to you as you lay in bed afterward, puzzling over its meaning. If a mask copies a person's image, does the metal band you make copy their mind? It stands to reason.<br/>
<br/>
But who should you try it on? Someone nearby and available? Someone that can help you at your new job?<br/>
<br/>
Or should you complement the mask you made with a copy of the mind that goes with it?</span></div></div>


path: 111134111115
author_id: seuzz
title: A Return to the Scene of the Crime
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Mr. Prescott, I will see you after school."<br/>
<br/>
You slump in your desk and glare at Mr. Walberg. Like it does any good. Not only does he have a mustache like a walrus, and a butt like a walrus, he's got the hide of one too, and he just glowers back at you from behind his tinted glasses.<br/>
<br/>
"Cool it, Will," Caleb tells you after the bell rings and you're shuffling toward the door. "He's just going to yell at you. You've had teachers yell at you before."<br/>
<br/>
"What if he gives me detention?"<br/>
<br/>
"For fucking up a homework assignment?" Caleb cries. "Worst he'll do is write a note to your dad."<br/>
<br/>
As if that wouldn't be a thousand times worse than detention.<br/>
<br/>
It's all because you worked on that thing last night instead of doing your homework. You thought you only had a math assignment, and totally forgot you still had that two-page paper to write for Mr. Walberg's class, explaining why you chose (in your case) to contribute a hair dryer to the time capsule.<br/>
<br/>
And so this morning—the day it was due—you had to shrug when the teacher asked where your paper was.<br/>
<br/>
"I wish I knew where your head's been lately," Caleb continues you push into the packed hallway. "Dissing your friends, flubbing your homework. Applying for employment. You're losing focus."<br/>
<br/>
<i>I'm always flubbing my homework,</i> you want to retort. But you bite your tongue.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But your after-school meeting, it turns out, is not so bad. Oh, Mr. Walberg barks at you alright. "How many days did I give you to write the paper, Mr. Prescott? Seven. You made a class presentation on it yesterday, so I know you didn't forget it was due. And I was dying to find out how come you picked a hair dryer. Why did you?" When you shrug and tell him it was a piece of junk you were going to throw out anyway, he gives you a lecture on treating your assignments—and him as a teacher and as a person—with more respect.<br/>
<br/>
And no, he doesn't give you a chance to turn it in late. But neither does he give you detention and he doesn't give you a note to take home. He just throws you out of his classroom.<br/>
<br/>
But you're tempted to run back to his room and kiss him on the lips when you round a corner and see Maria Vasquez taking a drink at a fountain. If you hadn't had to stay late, you wouldn't be here to see her!<br/>
<br/>
Your hand goes to your pocket, where that metal strip is.<br/>
<br/>
You hadn't been planning—not exactly—on trying it out on her. Your chances of finding Maria seemed pretty remote, for you don't have any classes with her and have never spoken to her. It was purest, stupidest luck that you tripped on to her in the theater the other day. You only brought the strip to school on the infinitesimal chance that you could use it on her, and you were already resigned to using it on someone at Salopek, or at home. So to find her still at school, alone, is a massive stroke of luck!<br/>
<br/>
But that still doesn't mean you'll get a chance to try it on her. The hallways, though emptying fast, still teem with students. You duck behind a pod of sophomore girls and follow at a distance as Maria swings along past the office toward the student parking lot.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart is beating fast as you tag along behind. If she goes straight, she will be heading for her car. But if she turns to the right and goes into the theater, then maybe—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Damn.</i> She turns to the left instead and goes into the gym. Almost you give up and pass on by. But stubbornly you follow.<br/>
<br/>
The gym entryway is empty, so you hop over to look into the eastern court, which already echoes with the squeak of rubber soles and the thump of basketballs. As you round the corner you almost plow into Maria, who is standing just inside and staring up into the rafters. You catch yourself at the last moment and jump back a few steps. When she starts to turn around, you leap back again and bump into a display case. You gape as she brushes past you, returning the way she came, but she gives you only a quick, vacant glance before sweeping by.<br/>
<br/>
You feel like you're having a heart attack, but you follow her out.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Three-point shot and score!</i> you want to shout as she crosses the corner of the quad and heads for the theater. You give a count of ten, then follow her in.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart plunges. Today, the auditorium is completely lit up. Half a dozen people are milling about on stage.<br/>
<br/>
But Maria has taken a seat in the next-to-the last row, her face bent over her cell phone. You hesitate, then slide into the last row and take the seat directly behind her. You pull the metal strip from your pocket and slap it a few times against your palm before making the final decision.<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure what will happen, but after last time you feel better prepared. You cup the strip in the palm of your hand and reach out and around Maria's head to press it to her forehead. (That seems the best spot for copying someone's brain.) With your other arm you brace her about the neck and shoulders from behind, to keep her from falling over.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, you're not certain that she'll pass out like she did last time, and there might be a bad scene if she doesn't. But her head falls to one side, and you have to struggle to prop her up and stop her from toppling over. Once you've got her stable, you hurry around to take the seat next to her. You chew your lip, then tip her head over to rest on your shoulder, where, you hope, it will look natural. You brush the hair from her face and look up at the stage.<br/>
<br/>
They're busy moving stuff around up there, and don't pay any attention to you, except for a few times when you think you spot some of the guys squinting in your direction. But no one calls or comes to check.<br/>
<br/>
<i>How long will this take?</i> you wonder. Last time, with the mask, it seemed to take forever. Will it take longer or shorter now? You're not surprised this time to have the thing vanish on you, and you position one hand under Maria's face, to catch it if and when it reappears. Every once in a while you reach up to touch her forehead, in case it has reappeared there and gotten stuck.<br/>
<br/>
Five minutes in, and her cell phone buzzes. You'd rather ignore it, but when it buzzes again you pluck it from her nerveless fingers and open the texting app. There's a message from "CheerCooperWHS4Ever." It takes you a moment to decipher that it must be from Chelsea Cooper, the head cheerleader. <i>Where r u?</i> she asks.<br/>
<br/>
You tell yourself it's not your business. But when Chelsea texts back three times (<i>Hey.</i> Then: <i>Hey.</i> Then <i>Whre r u?</i> again) you give in and reply on Maria's behalf: <i>Gone home.</i><br/>
<br/>
You hold your breath as three dots show. Then Chelsea's reply: <i>See u tmite? *tnite</i> You reply: <i>Yes,</i> then drop the phone back in Maria's lap like it's a live tarantula.<br/>
<br/>
A minute later, something plops into her lap. It's the strip. You snatch it up and run from the auditorium.<br/>
<br/>
And, outside, you almost run into Chelsea Cooper herself, who is striding along with two of her other cheerleader friends, Gloria Rea and Kendra Saunders. "Watch where you're going, dumbass," she snorts at you. "I swear," she mutters as she sweeps along toward the parking lot, "this school would be about ten times better if it had ten times fewer people in it."<br/>
<br/>
"As long as it's the right ten people," Kendra agrees as she gives you a slit-eyed glare.<br/>
<br/>
You wait until they're gone before galloping out to your truck. Once you've caught your breath, you take the strip from your pocket and examine it. Your heart almost pings off the back of your throat when you see the change.<br/>
<br/>
Floating above the surface of the strip, like a hologram, are five words: MARIA REGINA VASQUEZ Y LORCA.<br/>
<br/>
You'd let out a whistle, only your mouth has gone dry. If a girl knows anything, you reflect, she knows her own name.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Though you're not as worried as you were when trying out the mask, you wait a couple of hours after dinner before testing the metal strip. The spell comes with no instructions—which alarms you a little—but you take it to mean that you should do the obvious. You stretch yourself out on your bed and press the metal band to your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
Something pinches; the world distorts; and you roll backward into unconsciousness.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You put your hands to your chest. <i>Where's my boobs?</i><br/>
<br/>
You look at your calves. <i>Where'd all that hair come from?<br/>
<br/>
And where's all the rest of my hair gone to?</i> you add as you pat your head about your ears.<br/>
<br/>
But you're not really confused. You're just bemused by the feeling of thinking with two different brains.<br/>
<br/>
You woke, as best you can determine, after a ten-minute catnap, with a feeling of momentary confusion. <i>This isn't my bedroom,</i> you thought, followed by <i>This isn't my body.</i> But you weren't alarmed, for almost instantly you realized what was going on. You felt Maria's brain inside of yours, and were thinking her thoughts.<br/>
<br/>
Now you are studying yourself in your closet mirror again, like you were the other morning. Only this time it's the reverse. Now you, with Maria's instincts, are wondering at the fact that you have Will Prescott's body.<br/>
<br/>
You could fix that by putting on that mask.</span></div></div>


path: 1111341111152
author_id: seuzz
title: The Cheerleader from Outer Space
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're still studying your reflection—a reflection that seems both familiar and unfamiliar—when footsteps sound in the hall and a fist bangs against your door. "Will!" Robert bawls. "Mom's been calling you for, like, twenty minutes now!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Gotta hide!</i> you think. <i>Can't let them find me like—!</i><br/>
<br/>
Then your own native sense reasserts itself: <i>As long as I don't say anything about cheerleading practice, they'll never suspect there's anything different about me!</i> "Coming!" you shout, and fight down a grin.<br/>
<br/>
Robert follows you downstairs, treading on your heels. "Sorry," you tell your parents, who are nestling together on the sofa. "Just catching a quick nap." You pretend to stifle a yawn.<br/>
<br/>
Your mom says, "I was just wondering if you wanted to run over to Kendra's and pick up some ice cream for us all."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ice cream? I can't have ice cream!</i> you think. "Sure," you stammer. "What do you guys want?"<br/>
<br/>
Then you exult: <i>Wait, I can have ice cream as long as I'm looking like this!</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You pull the metal strip out of your brain before going to bed—the same trick that pulls a mask off also pulls off the strip—because you don't want to wake up confused. But the next morning (which is a Saturday), you take it with you when you drive up to the university library.<br/>
<br/>
The choice of destination suggests you are still feeling a shadow of its influence from last night.<br/>
<br/>
You almost didn't make it over to the gourmet ice cream shop last night, and you almost didn't make it home. On the way out you made several wrong turns because you were momentarily baffled about how to get out of Acheson, and on the way back you drove halfway to Maria Vasquez's house before catching yourself and adjusting your course. Afterward, you spent a thoughtful half hour at your desk, scooping up spoonful after spoonful of a softening sundae while scrolling through social media sites that you never check. What you found, not online but in Maria's borrowed memories, left you wanting to take a closer, more careful look at her in the light of the day.<br/>
<br/>
Because Maria Vasquez is not the girl you and your friends always took her for.<br/>
<br/>
Though it's a weekend, you still have to park half a mile from the university library and hike over. Scruffy college students—the guys in shorts and sandals and weird facial hair; the guys and girls both in unflattering buns—shuffle in and out of the foyer with worried, distracted frowns, but you ignore them to take the stairs two at a time up to the third floor. Something like instinct, not memory, draws you to the bay window that looks westward toward downtown. You drop onto the dumpy sofa that sits in front of it, open your bag, and take out the memory strip. You study Maria's name for a moment, then stretch out on the sofa and return it to your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You feel as though you've woken from deep and restful sleep when you open your eyes, and you smile to yourself as you stretch. <i>My favorite spot in the library,</i> you think, <i>but how did I get here?</i> Then you remember who you are and what you are doing here. <i>Well, good. Now for some good, unhurried thinking,</i> you tell yourself as you draw your knees up to your chin and wrap your arms around your shins.<br/>
<br/>
(And then you force yourself to unbend. The pose felt natural but also way too girly.)<br/>
<br/>
It's a funny thing, to find yourself concentrated in this way on the puzzle and surprise that is that grimoire and its magic. Up until this point you have only concentrated on the very practical problem of what you could make and what you could do with it. The philosophical and scientific ramifications—<br/>
<br/>
Like: <i>Magic is real, and it can do all kinds of unnatural and impossible things!</i><br/>
<br/>
—you have scarcely noticed.<br/>
<br/>
But Maria Vasquez would notice them.<br/>
<br/>
And that's the other funny thing. You would never have thought of Maria Vasquez as the sort of girl who would even be able to formulate the phrase "philosophical and scientific ramifications," let alone be bothered by it.<br/>
<br/>
That's because Maria Vasquez has the reputation for being the <i>dumbest, ditziest, and most empty-headed girl at Westside.</i><br/>
<br/>
Maria is a girl who, when called on in an English class, once went up to the blackboard and started doing algebra problems.<br/>
<br/>
She is a girl who, in the middle of the school cafeteria, once exclaimed, out of the blue, "Why would you even <i>say</i> there isn't a rhinoceros under the table?"<br/>
<br/>
She is a girl who sometimes has to be reminded to <i>chew the gum in her mouth.</i><br/>
<br/>
Not that you've witnessed any of this behavior yourself. You've only heard about it, in sniggers and snatches of gossip, from friends like Carson Ioeger and Jenny Ashton, who either saw it themselves or heard about it from other friends. Your own impression of Maria, aside from her having awesome boobs, great hair, and a pair of thighs you'd love to suffocate yourself between, is that she is very quiet, likes to stare off vacantly into nothingness, and usually has to have her attention summoned back with a snap of the fingers in her face.<br/>
<br/>
But now—<br/>
<br/>
—as you stare vacantly into space, your attention so far away its distance can't be measured in light-years, parsecs, or any other physical unit—<br/>
<br/>
—you understand that she's usually just preoccupied with the kind of thoughts it doesn't pay to share with others.<br/>
<br/>
That time in English? She was bored with the poem they were supposed to be reading, and was entertaining herself by trying to recast the quadratic formula with <i>b</i> as the solved-for term. Impatient with herself, she had take the problem with her to the board when called, and only realized where she was and what she was doing when called on it by the teacher.<br/>
<br/>
That time in the cafeteria? She had been reading an essay online about a problem in philosophy, which tried arguing that sentences like "There is no rhinoceros under the table" aren't actually meaningful. She didn't understand why that should be, until it occurred to her, in the middle of lunch, that it though a sentence like that was grammatical and each word had a meaning, it would be almost always be a <i>meaningless thing to say.</i><br/>
<br/>
And as for forgetting to chew her gum— Well, don't most people stop doing whatever they're doing when they're concentrating on a tricky question, like what would happen if you tugged on a taut light-bulb chain that was a light year long? Would you see the bulb—a light year away—light up a year later? Or two years later? Or would you have to wait even longer than that?<br/>
<br/>
Anyway, her reputation for being a ditz and a ding-a-ling ought to be refuted simply by the fact that she's taking AP Calculus, AP Chemistry II, AP English IV, and AP Forensic Sciences. And she's getting A's in all of them. (Okay, except for the English class, where she's getting a B, but literature bores her.) Not that she particularly cares what people think, and when her friends giggle and call her a space cadet she just sighs and goes back to pondering questions like, <br/>
<br/>
<i>If it's possible to stereotype people, isn't it possible to stereotype the world? Like, isn't that what false scientific theories are? Bad stereotypes? And if stereotypes of people are common and lazy, wouldn't stereotypes about the world be similarly common and lazy? But then, how do you tell the difference between a true theory and a lazy stereotype? Or is there no difference? Like, if we we just treat true scientific theories as things so obvious that no one even thinks about them, isn't that just the same kind of thing as treating people according to a stereotype, as a type so obvious it isn't even worth noticing when the stereotype is false? "Of course the theory of evolution is true! And of course all blondes are dumb! Everyone knows that, and there's something wrong with you if you argue otherwise!" So if stereotypes are bad, shouldn't you not stereotype in science? And how do you stop doing that?</i><br/>
<br/>
You jerk your attention back to reality. (Or to the stereotype of it.) <i>It's right about now that Chelsea or one of the other girls would be shouting "Think fast" and too late I'd see the volleyball hurtling at my face. "Jeez, Maria, where were you, on Mars? Wherever you were, it sure took you long enough to get back!"</i><br/>
<br/>
You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes, then check the time on your phone. What felt like two minutes of concentrated thinking turns out to have consumed closer to twenty. Vaguely, you wonder if that means you really are a ditz. <i>Or does it only confirm that subjective time is different from objective time? Well, of course it is, everyone knows that! But then, what does it mean to distinguish between "subjective" and "objective" time? If the experience is different from the thing, how do you ever get outside the experience to see the objective thing? In saying that I'm now experiencing "objective" time and not just "subjective" time, am I not just saying that I'm now subjectively experiencing objective time, which is to say I'm only experiencing subjective time when I think I'm experiencing objective time? And doesn't that make the difference between them—?<br/>
<br/>
Gah!</i> You clench your eyes, settle your hand across your brow, and chant an incantation under your breath.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Okay, you've learned this much about Maria Vasquez: She's a lot smarter than she appears. Also, it's easy for her to get lost inside questions about the difference between the way things are, and the way they appear. Such a girl would probably be interested in these masks, and in the magic of them.<br/>
<br/>
And if you're right, and you showed this stuff to her, you'd soon be hanging out with a cheerleader!</span></div></div>


path: 11113411111521
author_id: seuzz
title: Maria Meets Magic
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You? Talk to Maria Vasquez?<br/>
<br/>
You? Try to become friends with her?<br/>
<br/>
It's such a stupid idea that you'd have to laugh. Bitterly Aloud. <br/>
<br/>
Anyway, why do you need her as a friend (or even girlfriend!) when you have a complete "Maria Vasquez" disguise in your bedroom?<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
<i>God yes,</i> he texts back. <i>thx fr remngind me i was stuck fr smone to fap to ths aftnoon.<br/>
<br/>
Y dont u ask her out?</i> you reply.<br/>
<br/>
<i>lol fuck u.</i><br/>
<br/>
You warm to the thought. <i>Im serius u have her for math rite? shes not that dumb i think.<br/>
<br/>
Who cares f shes dumb shes hily fappable.<br/>
<br/>
What u rather do fuck her or fap to her?<br/>
<br/>
Luv to both but i know my limits.<br/>
<br/>
Ok i will ask her out.<br/>
<br/>
Lol lololololololol lol dies</i><br/>
<br/>
"Get fucked," you mutter at the phone. "Just for that I <i>am</i> going to ask her out."<br/>
<br/>
Well, ask her to meet you. Which would seem almost as impossible.<br/>
<br/>
But you've got a copy of her memories, and with them you are able to set up a Sunday afternoon meeting.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your hand trembles as you take another slurp of coffee, and you slop it all down the front of your shirt. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck!</i><br/>
<br/>
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 <i>and</i> sopping. Back in the dining room you flop into the booth and stab angrily at the scarred wooden table top with a spoon.<br/>
<br/>
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. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Hey this is Will Prescott from school,</i> you texted. <i>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</i><br/>
<br/>
(Ten minutes of thought as you tried to come up with a plausible name or title.)<br/>
<br/>
<i>Plato this semester. If you're interested, I am too.</i><br/>
<br/>
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. <i>Tomorrow?</i> you suggested with a wildly thumping heart. <i>3:00? The Flying Saucer?<br/>
<br/>
Ok,</i> she replied, and that seemed to be that.<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
"Hi," she says. (Her voice is very soft.) "You're Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. And, uh, I know you're Maria." You feel a terrified smile spreading across your face.<br/>
<br/>
She nods—a little vacantly—and slides into the seat across from you.<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
"So, uh, this is the book that I picked up," you say, indicating the worn paperback of Plato's <i>Republic</i> 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"—<i>Rich? Where the hell did you get that name from?</i>—"said he heard you were, um, into Plato. And wanted to do a book club."<br/>
<br/>
"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?"<br/>
<br/>
"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.<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
"Well," she starts to say.<br/>
<br/>
"Look," you blurt out, "all that isn't true. Okay, that's probably obvious." (<i>Shutupshutupshutup!</i> 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—"<br/>
<br/>
You draw a deep breath as you make what you've heard described as a "Hail Mary" play. "It was <i>this</i>." 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."<br/>
<br/>
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 <i>me</i> about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I thought you might be interested in it."<br/>
<br/>
"What is it?"<br/>
<br/>
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?"<br/>
<br/>
A light frown creases her forehead, and she leans forward to give them a closer look.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh," she says, but she doesn't sound impressed.<br/>
<br/>
"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 ... <i>metaphysical</i> stuff." (Yeah, that's the word! <i>Metaphysical!</i>)<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
"I've translated it, it's not hard. In fact, I've done the first couple of spells."<br/>
<br/>
"Spells?" Her tone turns sharp.<br/>
<br/>
You nod. <br/>
<br/>
"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.<br/>
<br/>
Now she looks like her feelings have been hurt, and her shoulders sag.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright," she says with a deep sigh. "Come show me."<br/>
<br/>
Your stomach plunges even as your heart leaps. <i>Moment of truth!</i><br/>
<br/>
If you only don't fuck it up.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"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.<br/>
<br/>
"No trick. It's magic."<br/>
<br/>
Her lips purse. "There's no such thing as—"<br/>
<br/>
But then she catches herself. You hold your breath.<br/>
<br/>
"Not sleight of hand," she murmurs. "Something in the chemical reaction? Except—"<br/>
<br/>
"Except why does it change shape?" You point. "It was, like, half a sphere, then it turned into that."<br/>
<br/>
Maria's lips whiten, then disappear.<br/>
<br/>
"Let me borrow the book," she says. "I'll bring it back in a couple of days."</span></div></div>


path: 111134111115212
author_id: seuzz
title: Show and Tell at the Old School
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Lend it to her?</i> You wish you could trust Maria with the book out of your sight.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you probably could. But then you'd be missing out a chance to hang out and explain it all to her.<br/>
<br/>
"Why do you want to borrow it?" you ask. "I mean, I can show the stuff with it. You know, the experiments I've done with it."<br/>
<br/>
Maria returns you a thoughtful stare. "Okay." She looks around. "Back inside the coffee shop?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're amazed that you thought of the old elementary school in Acheson on such short notice. It just sprang into your head.<br/>
<br/>
The old Acheson Elementary School sits a couple of blocks from your house. It's an ancient thing, built a hundred years ago or more, of brick and tile. The windows are now dark, and the walls and roof are stained with time. But the structure is still sound, for a few years ago part of it was converted into a community center.<br/>
<br/>
A year ago, in a fit of boredom, you were exploring the grounds when in a corner where two wings met, at the bottom of a short flight of steps, you found a padlocked door. You were in a mood of angry mischief, so you went home, got a crowbar, and wrenched the lock off. Inside was another short flight of steps leading down into an expansive but gloomy basement. It was packed tight with school junk—heaps of desks piled atop conference tables, with old book cases and cabinets jammed in between. There was even some old gym equipment, and a couple of cast-iron sinks. By the light of a line of dirty windows high up the wall, peeping out through the tall weeds on the other side, you explored the space and pulled the stacked furniture into new shapes, making a kind of "fort" of them. Then, after you were good and grimy, you left and came back with a padlock of your own for the door.<br/>
<br/>
You showed the place to Keith and Caleb, and for a couple of weeks that was your trio's "clubhouse," where you kept a bottle of whiskey and some cigarettes and old sleeping bags. You even spent Halloween night there, telling each other ghost stories and getting drunk.<br/>
<br/>
But you eventually forgot about it, and as you lead Maria back to Acheson you realize that you don't even know if your padlock is still on the door. Chances are it isn't. Surely the staff has been down there since, and replaced your lock with a new one of their own.<br/>
<br/>
You might as well check, though, so you stop at your house long enough to find your padlock key (still in your dresser), then lead Maria out to the school. She watches silently as you trod down the stairs to check the door. There, to your astonishment, the key fits the padlock, which springs off. Has no one been here since the last time you left it? You push the door open and look in. A musty smell of grease, oil, and dirt fills your nostrils.<br/>
<br/>
"It's really filthy in there," you report. "Maybe we should sit out here on the grass."<br/>
<br/>
She shrugs and drops onto a patch of nearby grass. You dash back to your truck to fetch the book.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you start as you settle in cross-legged beside her. "What we did back in town, that was just the first part of the spell. After you make the mask, you have to polish it."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos it won't work if you don't."<br/>
<br/>
"'Work'?" she echoes. "What does it do?"<br/>
<br/>
"The mask? Well, the short version is, if you polish it, and then you put on someone, it copies them into it. Um, kind of like running a person through a Xerox machine. Or like storing data on a flash drive. Or a picture in your phone. Yeah, that's what it is!" You light on the analogy with a flush of relief. "Putting a mask on someone is like taking a picture of them, and it stores their image inside it. Face and body, everything."<br/>
<br/>
Her lips fall into the smallest pout of a frown as she ponders this. Her brow furrows. She says, "Okay, then what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, after that you have to seal it up." You flip the next page in the book. "That's what this spell does, it makes the sealant."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh."<br/>
<br/>
And then—"<br/>
<br/>
Your heart sinks as you realize what you're going to have to say next. It will sound incredible and unbelievable. "And then if you put the mask on, if you put it to your face—"<br/>
<br/>
You grit your teeth.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's like the mask is a full-body disguise," you finish in a gasp. "It turns you into a copy of the person inside the mask. You know, like in TV shows or movies where people turn themselves into, uh, duplicates of other people?" Sweat pops out all over your body.<br/>
<br/>
Maria's eyebrows go up. Faint amusement shows in her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"And then—" Your blush deepens as you turn the next page in the book. "Then this next spell makes this metal band that if you put it on someone, it copies their memories, and then if you put it on it gives <i>you</i> their memories. Like putting a copy of their brain inside yours."<br/>
<br/>
Her brow furrows. <br/>
<br/>
"Wait, let's go back," she says. "You said the first spell copies their body. And that if you put it on—" She trails off.<br/>
<br/>
"It turns you into a copy of them."<br/>
<br/>
"Inside and outside?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "On the outside, at least. Hair, face, body, uh ... body parts." Your face burns anew as you remember some of the "body parts" that changed when you put on that mask of her. "I don't know about the inside."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. And this one"—she flips forward two pages—"copies their brain." You nod. She sucks in a lip. "So I guess the first spell <i>doesn't</i> copy them inside. Otherwise it would have already copied their brain. Right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Um, yeah, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"And if it copied their brain, you'd already have their memories and stuff. Because the memories are inside their brain."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ... Sure?"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay." She lifts her face to stare vacantly over the top of your head. After a moment's thought, she says (softly, almost to herself), "And if you've got their brain and not yours anymore, wouldn't you stop thinking like yourself and start thinking like them? You'd even forget who you were and start thinking that you <i>are</i> them."<br/>
<br/>
"Except it doesn't work that way."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes find yours. "How do you know?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because—" You gulp. "Because I tested it out." <br/>
<br/>
Now it's like your insides are liquefying. You know where this is going, and are dreading when it arrives.<br/>
<br/>
"Show me."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't have the thing here. It's back at my house."<br/>
<br/>
"Can you go get it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ye-heh-hes."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. Go get it. I want to see. By the way, whose memories did you copy?"<br/>
<br/>
You cringe, and mutter the word. "Pardon?" she says.<br/>
<br/>
"I copied <i>you.</i>" The confession comes out like a cough. "That's how come I knew you'd be interested in this stuff. Because I copied your brain and I got a look at the way you think."<br/>
<br/>
You almost faint from the stress. You wish you would faint. You wish that the school would fall over on top of you, or a that a Yeti would jump out of the nearest tree and tear your head off. Real death, fast and gruesome, would be better than the mortified embarrassment you are now feeling.<br/>
<br/>
Maria stares at you. Then she says, "Prove it. Go get the thing. I'll wait here."<br/>
<br/>
You hang your head and start to get up.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I'm not some sicko," you protest. "This is just some stuff I was playing around with, and it just happened to be— Well, it could have been anyone! It just happened to be you!"<br/>
<br/>
She looks amused, but says nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll be right back," you mutter, and each foot as you lift it feels like it weighs five hundred pounds. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Wow," Maria says as she walks around you, looking you up and down. She touches your hair with her fingertips. "It even feels real."<br/>
<br/>
You're sweating and trembling all over as you submit yourself to inspection. You are standing in the middle of the basement, gripping the edge of a table to keep from falling over. You tuck a long strand of thick, black hair behind your ear. Your shirt scratches your tits, which without the support of a brassiere are sagging heavily. But you don't dare adjust them, or touch yourself anywhere.<br/>
<br/>
"You had, what, ten minutes to look me over after I put the mask on," you tell her. "Didn't it look real then?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's more impressive when you're awake and standing up. Do I really slump like that?"<br/>
<br/>
You straighten up. "I don't know. Maybe if I also put on that thing with your memories."<br/>
<br/>
"Can you do a backflip?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "I wouldn't even want to try. But if I put that on—" You point to the metal band sitting on a nearby table.<br/>
<br/>
"Why didn't you? When you put on the mask?"<br/>
<br/>
You make a face. "I just wanted to show you the mask. So you'd see I wasn't bullshitting you."<br/>
<br/>
"You had to put it on me to copy me, right? When did you do that?"<br/>
<br/>
"The mask? Last ... Monday?"<br/>
<br/>
She paces around you again. "How many times have you put it on since then?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just once!" you exclaim as the sweat pours off your brow.<br/>
<br/>
She snickers. "Why? Are you gay?"</span></div></div>


path: 1111341111152121
author_id: seuzz
title: How to Get to Know Someone
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Are you gay?</i> Did Maria really just ask you that? <br/>
<br/>
"No!" you sputter. "I mean—! Look, I told you, I'm not a sicko or a pervert!"<br/>
<br/>
"You think gays are perverts?"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>NO!</i> I just— You're flustering me!" You push a long, lank lock of hair from your face before it can plaster itself there with the sweat that's pouring off you.<br/>
<br/>
Maria laughs. The sound startles you. It comes to you that this might be the first time you've ever heard her laugh.<br/>
<br/>
"I guess I am," she says. "But—"<br/>
<br/>
"Look, do you want to try this out yourself?"<br/>
<br/>
She blinks, as though she's been slapped. "What did you say?"<br/>
<br/>
"You heard me! Do you want to try this out yourself? Because turnabout's fair play," you gabble. "If I'm going to turn myself into you, it's only fair you get a chance to turn yourself into me! Then you can maybe get the appeal. Or," you hastily correct yourself, "you'll understand how come—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I think I get the appeal. For you, I mean." Maria puts her fist to her mouth to hide a smile. "I don't think it would be the same for me. But still," she adds before breaking off to rake you up and down with a querying gaze.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh God, she's going to ask me to make out with her,</i> you think, and you don't know whether to slap yourself or to faint from ecstasy. <i>She's going to ask me to make out because she sees how gorgeous she is and she can't resist it, or maybe she's wondering what it would be like to make out with herself but Jesus Christ would I be able to make out with myself if she insists on—?</i> <br/>
<br/>
"Zursj fitr sd pmh sd upitr pggrtomh," Maria says. <br/>
<br/>
"Uh, pardon?" you gasp. You hardly understand your own words through the roaring in your ears.<br/>
<br/>
Maria gives you a puzzled look. "I said, sure, as long as you're offering." She takes a step back. "What do we have to do?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It takes you a surprisingly long time to explain the procedure to her, because she's full of questions, not only about how the stuff is supposed to work, but why it works that way and why the book sets things up the way it does. It embarrasses you to have to admit how little of it you know or understand, and Maria grows impatient, both with you and with the book, particularly with the fact that the pages won't turn until you execute a spell. You can tell that she'd like to press on deeper into the book and doesn't seem to be really interested in your offer to set her up with a "Will Prescott" disguise to match the "Maria Vasquez" disguise that you made. But when you try backing out, she replies, in an abstracted way, "I think I should, though. It'll make you feel better." It sounds like an insight into your feelings of guilt, and it leaves you feeling worse.<br/>
<br/>
For a mask you have the one that you made in the coffee shop parking lot, but you will have to make another one of those brain-copying strips if you're going to give her the matching experience. You also caution that it will take a full week, probably, to polish the mask before it can be used. She offers (rather sweetly, you think) to do the polishing if you'll make the metal strip. When you part for the day, you present her with the mask of herself, and promise to bring in the copy of her brain to school tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks," she says as she starts to get in her car. "So I guess I'll see you in class."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, we don't share any classes."<br/>
<br/>
"We don't?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. But you have my friend Caleb in a couple of them, so I guess I could—<br/>
<br/>
"I'll just text you and set up a time and place," she says, then pulls her car door shut. You bite your tongue, and nod and wave as she turns on the motor.  <i>Maybe I'll still go find her,</i> you're thinking, when she rolls down the window and beckons you over. "There's one more thing I should ask you," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's your name again?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There's no reason to finish the new brain-thing before the mask is done, but you want to show your good faith, so you pour all your energy into it that night, and the next morning you are able to take with you to school a metal strip with the name WILLIAM MARTIN PRESCOTT floating over its surface. In first period, as you're waiting for class to start, you text Maria, telling her you have something for her. <i>Got thing for u too,</i> she texts back. <i>Meet in theater after school?</i><br/>
<br/>
You get more and more frightened and excited as the school day trundles forward, so much so that both Caleb and Keith ask if there's something wrong. You just tell them you've got something on your mind, then change the subject. By the time the last bell rings, your hands are trembling so hard that all your books fall from them as you're changing your stuff out at your locker; and a minute later, in front of the office, when you think you hear someone calling your name, you bolt out the nearest exit and sprint around the front of the school rather than risk getting caught and delayed. Only when, panting, you hit the theater portico does it occur to you that it might have been Maria calling.<br/>
<br/>
But it wasn't. When you wrench open the theater door, you spot her sitting in the back row, staring at the stage. She looks over and gives you a small smile and wave.<br/>
<br/>
"You got her fast," you gasp as you collapse into the seat next to her. Sitting beside her this way, here at school, makes this new acquaintance feel both more and less real. More real, because school itself feels like a more real place than a coffee shop; less real, because the hard reality of Westside High makes your new acquaintance feel even more improbable.<br/>
<br/>
She only shrugs. "I finished that mask," she murmurs as she pulls her bag into her lap. As you gape, she unzips a pocket and pulls out a mask that glows with a soft blue light. <br/>
<br/>
Your jaw drops. "How'd you get it done so fast?"<br/>
<br/>
"I used a car buffer. Did I do it wrong?"<br/>
<br/>
"No." You're feeling faint as you take the mask from her, and your eyes bulge as you turn it over and over in your hands. It seems even more beautiful than the one you made. You groan. "I wish I'd thought of that!"<br/>
<br/>
"Did you make the other part to go with it?" she asks. You pull two metal strips from your bag: one with her name and the other with yours. "Wow," she says as she takes them. "Vasquez y Lorca," she murmurs as she studies them. "That's funny. That's not really my name, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"But what?"<br/>
<br/>
She bites her lip, then shrugs. "That would be the very old style of doing it, I think. Huh. So how do these things work?"<br/>
<br/>
"You put one of them onto your forehead. It'll knock you out. Then, when you wake up—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, right you've done this before. With the one that has my name on it."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes." You feel your face redden.<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a small, puckish smile. "Then let's see what it was like for you."<br/>
<br/>
Before you can react, she puts one of the metal strips to her forehead. You suppress a cry as her eyes lose focus, and catch her as she sags in her seat. Luckily, there are only a few people down on stage below, moving furniture about, and none of them are paying attention to you. You prop Maria up, and then as you did last time you pull her head onto your shoulder so that she will look more natural. For the next ten minutes you stare vacantly at the stage below, sweating hard and waiting for her to wake up.<br/>
<br/>
You first realize she's woken up when she lifts her head. She ignores you though, to stare with a hard frown down at the stage. "Maria?" you croak. "Maria?"<br/>
<br/>
She turns that hard frown on you, and you cringe. It's like she's seeing you for the first time. <i>Oh God,</i> you think, <i>she really knows me now, doesn't she? Everything about me. And it's—</i><br/>
<br/>
She jumps up, tripping hard on your feet, and runs for the door. You come half out of your chair to follow her, then remember to grab her bag and yours. She's racing toward the main building by the time you emerge onto the grassy quad. You follow her back into the school and just glimpse her before she vanishes into a girls' restroom. You fall back against the wall opposite to catch your breath. <i>What is she doing in there?</i> you wonder. Your scalp prickles as the answer comes. <i>She's scoping herself out, like I'd do if I was inside her body.<br/>
<br/>
Or she's throwing up.</i><br/>
<br/>
But she's not long in emerging, and her expression is still very hard. She does a double take at you, and marches up. You steel yourself for a punch in the balls.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, she says, "Come on, we should switch clothes and make that mask of you."<br/>
<br/>
You jump. "What? Why?"<br/>
<br/>
She gives you an annoyed look. "You're joking, right?" She glances around and drops her voice. "So we can turn ourselves into each other. For fuck's sake, don't tell me you don't want to."<br/>
<br/>
"G'uh? Umngh!"<br/>
<br/>
"We'll do it in your truck, it'll be faster that way." She grabs a fistful of your t-shirt. "Come <i>on,</i> Will."<br/>
<br/>
"What's the rush?" you squeak.<br/>
<br/>
"The rush is, first, I don't wanna get caught here by Chelsea. Second, because today's your first day at your dad's work, and you're going to be late if we don't get a move on."<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes nearly pop from your head. Your first day at Salopek! You totally forgot!<br/>
<br/>
"And it's pretty obvious you don't want to go in," Maria is saying as your knees buckle. "Or are you such a fucking airhead that it totally slipped your mind?"</span></div></div>


path: 11113411111521211
author_id: seuzz
title: The Girl Who Wants to Be You
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You stumble after Maria, your head in a whirl.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll need to call your dad," she says as she pulls you out a back exit and hauls you past the tennis courts. "Tell him you're gonna be late because ... um ... Mr. Walberg kept you after school again!"<br/>
<br/>
"How did you know about—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Shit! And we'll have to seal up your mask before I can put it on. You didn't bring it to school, did you?"<br/>
<br/>
"What? No, I didn't know we—"<br/>
<br/>
"Then we'll have to stop by your place. Do you have an extra change of clothes here? No, I'm pretty sure you don't," she answers herself. "So you'll need to pick up some." <br/>
<br/>
She stops in her tracks, and you almost crash into her. She doesn't seem to notice.<br/>
<br/>
"God <i>damn</i> it!" she barks. "I've gotta swing by my place too, pick up that mask I— You— Gave me last night." She wheels on you, but her eyes are unfocused. "So we'll have to take separate cars. You go by your place, I'll go by mine, and we'll meet at—" Her eyes burn with thought. "The Presbyterian church. The one on Albion. You know, down the street from Schuyler."<br/>
<br/>
"A church?" you exclaim. "Doesn't that seem kind of, um, for doing magical—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, dude, it's not like we're not gonna do it in the sanctuary! It's got a big-ass parking lot out back and we'll— Get a fucking move on!" She seizes your shoulder and propels you toward your truck.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a fraught and terrifying business. While Maria races back to her place, you clamber into your truck, crouch in the footwell, and put the new mask to your face. When you wake, you text your dad, saying you'll be late on account of a teacher wants to meet you after class, then race home. Your mom barks as you sprint through the living room—"You're going to be late to your work, Will!"—and you yell something back as you thunder upstairs and thunder back down with the sealant and a fresh pair of cargo pants and a long-sleeve t-shirt. You're shaking hard as you turn into the parking lot of the giant stone pile that is the South Creek Presbyterian Church. But Maria isn't there yet.<br/>
<br/>
Only after you've sealed up the mask, and have nothing to do but wait, that you start to wonder.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Why in the name of all that's holy would Maria Vasquez want to switch bodies and identities with you?</i><br/>
<br/>
Like, she'll have your hairy body—one that <i>gross!</i> comes with a dick and a ball sack—with your weird facial hair and your bad haircut and sloppy clothes. Your boy stink. Your weirdness and lack of popularity. Why in the hell would a gorgeous, popular cheerleader want <i>that?</i><br/>
<br/>
It baffles and even scares you a little. Is she up to something? Until a day or two back, Maria Vasquez would be the last person you'd suspect of being "up to something." (Unless "up to something" was a polite way of saying "floating like a weather balloon somewhere in the troposphere.") But now you know that she's really pretty smart. Is it possible she has some sort of plan? A icy fist closes around your heart as you wonder if she's planning to frame you for some kind of crime.<br/>
<br/>
Most of these suspicions flee, though, when Maria pulls up and gets out. She is tall, slim, buxom, and can really rock nothing more complicated than a pair of skin-tight Levis and a white, sleeveless blouse. Surely no one who looks like that could be up to something.<br/>
<br/>
Right?<br/>
<br/>
But the fears return when you see her face. Her jaw and brow are set in that same, hard expression.<br/>
<br/>
"Get out," she orders as she climbs into the passenger side of your truck. "I'll change in here. That way I can take off right away for your work."<br/>
<br/>
"And I change in your car?"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you think? Move it, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Now hang on just a minute!" She's been bulldozing you ever since you left the school theater, but now, before it's too late, you want answers. "I want to know— Look, I'm already late, so another minute's not gonna make a difference!" you holler as she pushes at you. "I wanna know why we're doing this!"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean switching places? Don't you want to?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well. Um."<br/>
<br/>
"Because I know you want to, Will." She jabs her temple. "You know that I know what you know."<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw wobbles uselessly before you can find your voice. "But— But that doesn't mean we have to—"<br/>
<br/>
"Will." Maria grabs your head by both ears. "Have you ever heard the expression 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth'? It means this."<br/>
<br/>
Her lips and teeth close about your mouth. You're so shocked that even your cock forgets to spring to attention.<br/>
<br/>
She lets go. "Now get in my car while I make this change."<br/>
<br/>
You fall out of your truck and have to hang onto the hood and bumper as you stagger drunkenly over to her sedan. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your truck is gone the second time you wake.<br/>
<br/>
It was still there the first time you woke, after you pushed the metal band with Maria's name into your forehead. You were groggy when you sat up, but it took only a moment to sort yourself out. <i>This is me and that's her over there,</i> you reminded yourself as you stared at your truck, and it gave you a funny feeling to see the skinny guy with the scarecrow haircut bobbing up and down as he dressed himself. <i>That's her but it's also me. That's me but it's also him. She's over there but I'm also here. Pronouns sure are funny,</i> you reflected as you touched your hair and felt the familiar (but also very strange!) stiff, straw-like thatch. <i>Almost as funny as trying to count people when there's two of them inside one skin!</i><br/>
<br/>
With numb fingers you plucked up the mask from the passenger seat, and hoped that things would be less confusing once you got it on again. You felt less excitement than last time, in your bed, as you anticipated the change to come. Indeed, you felt relief more than excitement as you lifted the mask to your face.<br/>
<br/>
And your truck was gone when you woke.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yes, this is better,</i> you think now as you sit up. <i>I feel like ... myself.</i> A chill, like the edge of a fresh, keen wind, ruffles the tips of your nerves.<br/>
<br/>
You have boobs again, as you confirm after ripping your t-shirt off over your head. (This sends your long, thick hair tumbling in a wild mess about your ears and shoulders.) Maria doesn't play with her boobs much, and the only time she ever studies them is when she's looking herself over in an outfit. But after the events of this afternoon, it feels safe to indulge. You bite your lip and push your breasts up with a forearm while gently touching your boobs with a fingertip. They are a pale brown and dusted with very faint freckles—which Maria covers with a light brush of face powder when she goes out with exposed cleavage—and the tips plump and rise. A long bang of hair falls into your face. <i>I should get dressed,</i> you tell yourself, but can't tear yourself away from the sight of your bare chest and bare arms; you rub your thighs together and wriggle your toes as a warm flush spreads through you. <i>It's not a good idea to be sitting here, topless, even in a deserted parking lot behind a church. I wish whatsisname had found a better place for us to do this,</i> you tell yourself.<br/>
<br/>
You sigh and drop your boobs and cast about for another set of clothes. You find them in the passenger seat, and only after you are half into them does it occur that Maria must have dropped them there, beside your—her—form after changing into your clothes.<br/>
<br/>
You slide into them without hurrying. Flimsy, violet panties and a bra. Ankle socks. Skinny jeans that scrape and bind tightly to your thighs and calves. A snowy, sleeveless, button-up blouse that is almost corset-tight around your flat stomach but blooms around your chest. Your hair, when you check it, is a mess, but without even thinking it you extract a brush from the glove box and give your tresses a dozen stiff strokes, then toss the brush aside to beat and shape the mass into a mess that at least looks deliberately tousled. You squeeze your feet into the sneakers, then climb out of the car to walk around and shake things loose.<br/>
<br/>
<i>So this is what it's like to be a girl,</i> you think as you roll your shoulders and neck, and shake your joints loose. <i>Just a little—</i><br/>
<br/>
You swing around to glare at the house next door. It's a small bungalow, with two windows facing the church parking lot. The curtains in one are closed; darkness shows behind the other. The side yard is weedy and empty, save for a dirt bike balanced against the dirty white wall. But you have the unmistakeable feeling that someone is watching you from inside. The feeling came over you suddenly, like being hit between the shoulder blades by a water balloon. It gives you a clammy sensation.<br/>
<br/>
<i>I should get out of here,</i> you tell yourself, and you quickly get back in the car. With a beating heart you search your purse for the car keys, and fear mounts as you fail to find them. It's with a gasp of relief that you discover that Maria left them in the ignition.<br/>
<br/>
<i>So that's probably why she wanted to switch,</i> you decide as you pull back into the street. <i>Because guys who look like you don't have to worry about being ogled by creeps.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There are half-a-dozen texts on your phone when you check, but you don't find them until you're parked in front of the Starbucks. All but one are from Chelsea, asking where you are. The last is from Gloria Rea, warning you that Chelsea's getting pretty steamed at your absence. You're supposed to be in the gym with them, watching her boyfriend and the other basketball players practice.</span></div></div>


path: 111134111115212111
author_id: seuzz
title: At Home as Maria Vasquez
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Hang out with Chelsea and her other friends? Funny to say, you really don't feel like doing that.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe it's Maria who doesn't feel like it. You work through your feelings—her feelings—on the slow drive back home.<br/>
<br/>
Maria didn't try to become friends with Chelsea. (So you discover as you let her memories pulse and ebb through you, like the waves against the beach.) It just sort of happened, when they were in middle school. Chelsea was very popular with the boys even back then, for she had curves and sass and great, heaping clouds of blonde hair. Maria was also popular with the boys. But she didn't like the attention. She felt she was too skinny to be pretty, so why were they always getting up in her face and grinning at her? She vaguely felt like she was being picked on.<br/>
<br/>
Maria kept mostly to herself back then, but Chelsea always had lots of friends around her, so it was harder for the guys to get in at her, and her friends could help her beat them back (when she wanted them beaten back). Then she and Maria shared a science class one semester, and they started hanging out more and more often after that. Until one day Maria looked around and realized that Chelsea friends were treating her exactly like she was one of them: someone who was part of Chelsea's group. And she found a little more protection inside it.<br/>
<br/>
She still felt felt lonely, even in a crowd, but something about Chelsea also struck her as being lonely. She didn't seem able to relax with her friends; rather, she constantly pushing them into doing things, and into to finding more people to hang out with, as though she was afraid of quiet and solitude, and yet couldn't fill a fearful silence no matter how many distractions she surrounded herself with.<br/>
<br/>
But maybe she learned to find something restful in Maria's silences. She took to inviting her for private time together, to prattle and chatter about this and that while checking her social sites and messages. Gradually she'd opened up, offering confidences that Maria had accepted even if she didn't quite understand. "I'm the goose girl," Chelsea once sighed, "and you're the stove." But Maria didn't ask what she meant by that.<br/>
<br/>
But lately it's felt there's been a growing divide between her and Maria. <br/>
<br/>
<i>No, that's not true! But is it?</i> Your fingers tighten on the steering wheel as you flinch under a sudden storm of conflicting emotions.<br/>
<br/>
<i>I like Chelsea. We're BFFs. Just last week she broke down crying and told me how scared she was about her and Gordon, how she didn't know if she was strong enough to help him with all the shit he has to go through with his family. We held each other, and I told her I'd always be there to help prop her up, and she started bawling all over again and told me how glad she was to have me for a friend!</i><br/>
<br/>
And yet ...<br/>
<br/>
That still doesn't stop her from calling you an airhead and a birdbrain at cheerleader practice. Oh, she's not mean about it. Well, not usually. <br/>
<br/>
Except she has been meaner about it, it seems like. She looks angrier now when she calls you on your screw ups, and there's an edge to her insults where before there was a laugh.<br/>
<br/>
<i>She's feeling the pressure.</i> That's what you overheard Gloria telling Kendra a week or so back, after Chelsea threw one particularly vicious tantrum, and Kendra had nodded back. That was odd, and you didn't like it. Kendra and Gloria don't like each other, and here they gossiping about Chelsea's problems. You thought about telling Chelsea what they said, but decided not to. It would feel weird—you don't like all the gossip that the other girls get up to—and it would make Chelsea feel bad.<br/>
<br/>
Then you wondered if maybe, as her friend, you ought to tell her anyway even if it did make her feel bad. <br/>
<br/>
And then you wondered why you were worried so much about such a thing. This sort of stuff didn't use to worry you before. So you did your best to forget about it completely.<br/>
<br/>
You're halfway to the next town over before you realize that you got in the interstate without even realizing it, and have been heading west for the last twenty minutes.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"There's my princess!" your dad exclaims when he drags himself in through the front door at a little after six. You're setting the table and he still has to change out of his constricting business suit, but he stops long enough to take your hands, beam into your face, and give you a light hug.<br/>
<br/>
You smile and hug him back. Even for Maria it feels awkward. But she is and always will be her daddy's little princess.<br/>
<br/>
Bruno Vasquez is a mover and shaker in Saratoga Falls—an important property lawyer <i>and</i> a member of the school board—so they live in a big house in a tony subdivision less than a mile west of the country club. When you got home you spent a good few minutes looking over the two-room suite (bedroom plus a study/sitting room, with a private bathroom) that you have inherited from Maria. It takes up one whole corner of the second floor, and Maria more or less takes it for granted. For you, it's like having your own private apartment.<br/>
<br/>
"How was practice today?" your mom asks when you're seated at the table and dropping heaping spoonfuls of a flavorful ratatouille onto your plates.<br/>
<br/>
"It was fine." That's all Maria ever says when asked about almost anything at school.<br/>
<br/>
"Is Chelsea settling in okay?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you going over to see her tonight?"<br/>
<br/>
You pause with a forkful halfway to your mouth. You realize that you never did reply to Chelsea's texts this afternoon. "I don't think so. I've got lots of schoolwork tonight."<br/>
<br/>
"That's my girl," your dad says. "Oh, I got a call from Jack Cheney this afternoon. He said they might have an opening soon at the museum. If you put in an application now you can probably get a position there. Pass the salt?" he asks your mom. "I can't imagine it's an onerous job. You'd probably have time even to do your homework there. And it would look good on a college application."<br/>
<br/>
You feel your head sink. <i>Not this conversation again.</i> "I'd rather hold out for the animal shelter."<br/>
<br/>
"I know, sweetheart. But I don't think there's going to be a job for you there, not before you graduate."<br/>
<br/>
"I could just volunteer."<br/>
<br/>
"We've talked about it, honey, and it's not that simple. You can't just show up and volunteer. They have to have something for you to do."<br/>
<br/>
You suppress a sigh. "Okay, I'll think about the museum." After stabbing your food with a fork, though, you have to ask: "Which museum?"<br/>
<br/>
"The railroad museum. Downtown, in the old train station?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, right." You have a vague memory of him saying something about it before, but it didn't register with Maria.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
In your bedroom, after dinner, you sit down at your desk with your math homework. You dread working on it—math has always been your worst subject—even though Maria only has good associations when she thinks of it. You're tempted to text her, to see how things are going at your house and how "your" first day at Salopek went (you have a suspicion about how it went, but you don't want to credit it), but you force yourself to open the math book instead.<br/>
<br/>
But you're only seven problems in and marveling at how easy calculus can be when your phone buzzes with a text. You wince—thinking, <i>Chelsea</i>—and ask yourself how come you are so unhappy when only yesterday you would have shat yourself with excitement to get a text from her. But when you look over, you see the text is from "Will Prescott." <br/>
<br/>
<i>Can I kill your litl brothr pls?</i> he asks.<br/>
<br/>
You have to smile. <i>Sure whats he done?</i> you reply.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Got all in my shit *yor shit *yor stuff<br/>
<br/>
Yeah he does that how was work<br/>
<br/>
Rly good kind of scary yur dad mad I late but o well</i> Then, while you're tapping a reply: <i>btw u want good grade on math hwrk?</i><br/>
<br/>
You make a face and erase the text you were typing. <i>Sure<br/>
<br/>
Dont fukc up my math pls ok?<br/>
<br/>
I wont I'm getting all right answers for you<br/>
<br/>
Cool.</i> Again, you are caught in the middle of a long reply when Maria asks <i>Can u do backflip or rutnies for practic tmorw?</i><br/>
<br/>
Again, you erase what you wrote to say, <i>Havent tried.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe u shud n case we hav to swich back tmorw bfor school.<br/>
<br/>
Brb.</i> You set the phone down, stretch your back and shake out your limbs, then execute a flawless series of backflips. <i>Did three perfect,</i> you text back.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Son of a bitch I cant I bangd mysfef into wall lets swich back aftr school do whole day as each other.</i><br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, then reply, <i>Ok.</i> You watch anxiously for a further reply, then push the phone away when it remains silent. <br/>
<br/>
It makes sense, you tell yourself, that Maria wants to try a relatively anonymous day at school, as an anonymous guy and not a center-of-attention cheerleader.<br/>
<br/>
It surely has nothing to do with going into Salopek again. Like, she only said she wanted to play you at school. She didn't say anything about playing you at Salopek.<br/>
<br/>
But maybe you should text her, to see if that's what she wants to do?<br/>
<br/>
At the very least, you could find out—as you meant to find out before you chickened out and erased those texts—if she enjoyed her time with Sean Mitchell.<br/>
<br/>
The guy she has a secret crush on.</span></div></div>


path: 1111341111152121112
author_id: seuzz
title: Maria's Crush
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Sean Mitchell.</i> You try to push the name away and return to your homework. But it just keeps floating to the forefront of your brain, like a balloon caught in a draft.<br/>
<br/>
Maria noticed him last year, at a party. Sean and his twin brother, Taylor, were there, along with a lot of other people from Eastman High. She didn't pay much attention to Sean at first. He and his brother were just a couple of guys in a roomful of other guys, all of them stamped from the mold. Meaty, blonde football players, with whitish, three-day-old growths of beard and dirty ball caps pulled down low over their brows. She knew the type well. The kind of guys that laugh too loud and jostle the other guys; who lounge and spread themselves across the patio with beers and wine coolers; who push in close to the girls and breathe hot, salty air in their faces and brush hairy arms against them.<br/>
<br/>
That was Sean and Taylor Mitchell too. Only they weren't as gross and close about it as the other guys.<br/>
<br/>
At least Sean wasn't, when he got close to Maria, and talked to her.<br/>
<br/>
He had a plastic cup he was sipping from, and when he offered her some she found it filled with nothing stronger than Seven-Up. He looked her in the face and asked her name and which school she was from, and his eyes lit up as they fell to talking about mutual acquaintances. He looked her in the face and eyes, too, and only once did his gaze fall to her breasts. (And when she caught him, he blushed a little and grinned, then went right back to talking about the camping trip he was planning with his brother and friends.) He had bright blue eyes, and though she could tell he was interested in her, he didn't push, and only suggested they might run into each other later, and that it would be cool if they did.<br/>
<br/>
That was all. But it was enough. He polite and he wasn't tacky and he didn't brag. (Unlike Chris Ratliff, for instance—another bluff and blonde guy, who roamed about the house clasping guys around the waist and picking them up to show off how strong he was.) Even if she wasn't smitten with him, she made a point of not forgetting him. Before leaving the party she pointed him out and asked Lin Pol who he was.<br/>
<br/>
They ran into each other a couple of weeks later, at the mall. Maria was with Eva and Jessica Garner, but Sean was by himself. He was coming out of Academy Sports when Jessica saw him and called him over; the four of them wound up in the food court, with Sean munching down two orders of chili fries. Eva and Jessica, being the two girls in a set of triplets, naturally talked to Sean about being a twin, and he laughed and told them about all the pranks he and his brother had played in their time. (They looked so much alike that even their parents had a hard time telling them apart.) But his eye kept flicking back to Maria, and he went out of his way to pull her into the conversation. "God, he was <i>so into</i> you," Jessica teased Maria afterward, and she and Eva goaded her mercilessly about giving him a call to set something up. And though Maria dug her heels in, she did find herself thinking more about him.<br/>
<br/>
Then came the morning when her mom, reading her tablet at the breakfast table, gasped and looked up and told her that a high school student had been in an accident. It was Sean's brother, Taylor.<br/>
<br/>
To her own surprise, the tragedy touched Maria very deeply. It preyed on her: the thought of what Sean had lost, and the pain he must be going through. She made a point of scanning the paper for news about his family, and she made sure to go to Taylor's funeral. It was a big affair, for Taylor and Sean were popular athletes at Eastman, and all of their friends (and their friends' friends) were there, in jackets and ties and plastered-down hair. Sean looked lost in the midst of them, and when Maria offered her condolences he accepted them only with an air of melancholy distraction. She gave long and wracking thought afterward to calling him up, to offer more condolences, and to suggest getting together. (She would be a shoulder for him to cry on, she thought.) But then she thought it would be a tacky thing to do so soon after a funeral, so she put it off, and put it off some more, and by the time she decided she had waited long enough, it felt like she had waited too long.<br/>
<br/>
By that point, school had started, and she got another surprise. Sean had moved over to Westside, where he joined the football and wrestling teams. He and Maria shared no classes. But she watched him out of the corner of her eye; was always almost on the point of speaking to him when they chanced to brush by each other; but always crumpling at the very moment of decision. Still, he was soon wedged firmly in her imagination as someone kind and gentle; strong but sensitive; touched and made thoughtful already by life; but still boyish and brave and bold and unbending.<br/>
<br/>
And she goes to the theater after school every chance she can sneak away from Chelsea, because she has heard that he has gotten a part in the theater department's next production.<br/>
<br/>
But she's not seen him there yet. Of course she hasn't, not when he's working after school at Salopek. <br/>
<br/>
Where Will Prescott works.<br/>
<br/>
Where Will Prescott is working more or less under his direct supervision, if your impression from last week is correct.<br/>
<br/>
Well, she's entitled to take advantage of the coincidence, you decide. And the same tender yearnings she feels also pulse in your temples and in the hollows of your heart, so that you inevitable jealousy is palsied by the guilt that leprously speckles it.<br/>
<br/>
So you pass a cold first night, as Maria, in her bed. She is not shy about relaxing herself with probing fingers. But as you try stroking yourself, you are haunted by Maria's fantasy that they are Sean's fingers, preparing her for the planting and blooming of another, thicker stalk, and soon give up.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Chelsea is cool to you at practice the next day, and you pull yourself into Maria's shell so that you don't have to talk to her or any of the other girls. (But not so deep that Chelsea has to snap at you to get your attention.) Even in the changing room, where there are nine other shapely cheerleaders, each peeling off one set of clothes and squeezing into another, you keep your eyes to yourself and your own locker. When Eva Garner asks to borrow a brush, it's not until you've handed it to her and turned away that it registers she was wearing nothing more than a bra and panties.<br/>
<br/>
Second period finds you in AP Calculus, with silky legs crossed under your desk, scrolling through Twitter on your cell phone, when out of the corner of your eye you see two scruffy guys enter the room. The one in the urine-yellow t-shirt and baggy jeans is Caleb Johansson, who you have no memory of ever noticing in here before. The other, in the burgundy t-shirt and cargo shorts, with blonde hair sticking out in every direction from under a filthy and shapeless ball cap, is Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
You affect not to notice as Will nudges Caleb. But even at this distance you can make out his wicked grin and read his murmured aside: <i>Dude, watch this!</i> As Caleb looks on with a frown, Will swaggers across the room and drops into the chair in front of you. "Hey," he says, and leans over your desk to put his face close to yours.<br/>
<br/>
Instinctively you pull back from his leer. "So," he says, "we getting together again after school?"<br/>
<br/>
You stare at him, then shiver slightly. "Sure. School theater?"<br/>
<br/>
"How about tonight instead? Starbucks or someplace like that. Study group?" He glances over at Caleb, and jerks his chin at him. "I got a friend in here, you know, was talking to him about doing some math homework together. I told him, 'I seen Maria Vasquez in here too, how about we ask her along?'" He sits back with a smirk, nods at you, and resettles his cap. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Jesus,</i> you think as a gaping hole of horror opens up in your heart. <i>Is that what I'd look like if I tried coming on to Maria Vasquez?</i><br/>
<br/>
The reply, when it comes, is no comfort: <i>Don't flatter yourself. You'd shit yourself, drool all down the front of your shirt, and fall to the floor in spastic convulsions if you tried coming on to Maria Vasquez.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I guess we could do that," you tell him. "But we should meet before then."<br/>
<br/>
"How come?"<br/>
<br/>
"School theater," you murmur through frozen lips. "Right after classes."<br/>
<br/>
His expression tightens, and he shakes his head. <br/>
<br/>
"No time. I can't be late to your work again. Then I'll have to get home."<br/>
<br/>
"After Starbucks, then? Or before?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why are you in such a hurry? Is something wrong?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. I just—"<br/>
<br/>
"Then we'll talk tomorrow after we see how it goes tonight. Dude!" He gets up with a grin. "Your friend over there is <i>shitting</i> himself with jealousy!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Jesus,</i> you think as he struts off, <i>if she wants so bad to go in to work for you, she must really be going all out to get close to Sean.</i><br/>
<br/>
Or is she? Because if she was chasing after Sean Mitchell, your skin would not be the place to do it from.<br/>
<br/>
Besides, if she's chasing Sean, why is she setting up this "study date" and trying to impress Caleb for you?<br/>
<br/>
It can't be, but there it is: Could it really be possible she's impressed with you? Could she seriously be trying to set up what you could never have set up yourself?<br/>
<br/>
Could she be trying to construct a math equation that reads <i>WP + MV = 2gether x 4ever?</i></span></div></div>


path: 11113411113
author_id: seuzz
title: The Unusual Suspects
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I told my dad you wanted to apply for that job at Salopek," you tell Caleb the next morning when you fall into your desk in first period.<br/>
<br/>
Instead of looking grateful, he looks indignant. "I thought you told him about that weeks ago!"<br/>
<br/>
"It wasn't weeks ago!" you retort. "I didn't even hear about it until the start of the month."<br/>
<br/>
"That <i>was</i> weeks ago, you dinglehammer!"<br/>
<br/>
You're about to snarl back at him, but are distracted by a guffaw from behind you. It's Dean Stratton. He smirks at you. <br/>
<br/>
You make a face back at him. <i>Fucker thinks he's so cool.</i> With his rakishly stylish 'do—blonde locks blown forward like he got blasted in the back of the head by a jet engine—he looks like he's just going to (or just come from) a dance club. <br/>
<br/>
Come to think of it, you have heard he spends most of his nights partying.<br/>
<br/>
And then, (come to think deeper of it, for you have been thinking of who you might show your book of magic to) it occurs to you that Dean Stratton might be just the kind of cool guy you whose mind would be blown and world would be rocked hard enough to become your friend if you showed him what you're working on.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"The fuck are you rubbernecking at?" your friend Keith demands next period, before class has begun.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not rubbernecking," you retort.<br/>
<br/>
"You're rubbernecking," he insists. "It's at Mia, isn't it? Oh, yeah, she's fine."<br/>
<br/>
You give him a dirty look.<br/>
<br/>
It's second period, Mr. Hawks's "Film as Literature" class. You signed up for it thinking it would be a blow-off class. But the bony old asshole takes it seriously and makes his students take it seriously too, making the lot of you to watch a bunch of dusty old black-and-white films or movies with subtitles, and forcing you to learn terms like <i>mise-en-scene</i> and telling you to pay special attention to where the director has placed the camera. And you feel like you and Keith are the only guys who didn't know what you were getting in to.<br/>
<br/>
Take Andy Tackett, for instance, who is the guy you were actually rubbernecking at. He may dress like you and Keith—today as most days he's in battered Levis and a fleece hoodie—but his hand is constantly in the air and he asks questions about "parallax" and "subtext" and "Hitchcock's criss-cross motif." You have the impression that—<br/>
<br/>
But Keith asks a good question of his own. How come you were looking at Andy Tackett and not at Mia DeWitt, who is female and a lot cuter?<br/>
<br/>
Oh, right. Because you'd be terrified of asking a girl to go in on the dark arts with you. But Tackett takes lots of creative writing classes, and you've heard he's working on a screenplay for a fantasy movie about urban vampires.<br/>
<br/>
Which, on the one hand, makes him a possible partner. On the other hand, it also marks him out as even more of a dork.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At least Tackett would be someone you have talked to, and there's a couple of more guys like him in second period. There's not one person in your third-period "Career Planning" class that you even want to sit next to. This is another class you took as a blow off. You pegged this one right—the only kids who look like they might even be vaguely interested in it are the freshmen—but that means everyone else is the kind of lowlife loser who idea of "career planning" probably consists of figuring out which convenience store they're going to knock over on the way home after class.<br/>
<br/>
The only consolation is that few of them attend every day. Today, for instance, you only have put up with a monkey-faced skateboarder who stinks of weed. That's better than dealing with the odious Nicholas Horner or the genetic abnormality Jeff Spencer, who typically sit across from you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
In fourth-period English you connect with Caleb again. Laurent Delacroix, who first got you thinking about showing your magic book to other people, is in there too, along with a lot of other jocks, most of them football players. <br/>
<br/>
But Andrea Varnsworth, the shapely captain of the swim team, is in there too. You'd be even more frightened of talking to her than to Mia. But hell, most of the girls in fourth period are out of your league, being not only sexy and beautiful, but a lot of jockettes as well. Only Cassie Harper, who catches your eye and waves at you, would likely talk to you.<br/>
<br/>
And, knowing Cassie, she would talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk at you.<br/>
<br/>
"You were real quiet in class today," Caleb observes when you leave together for lunch.<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't have anything to say."<br/>
<br/>
"That usually doesn't stop you," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"You want to brag some more about your porn project?" you retort. "That usually doesn't stop <i>you.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"That's why I was on my way to eat with Carson and them," he says. "But you're welcome to go eat with Tilley and tell him some more about that hair dryer you gave Walberg for the time capsule."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"You talk some more with Caleb about his porn project?" you ask Carson Ioeger in Calculus, which you have after lunch. You'd like Carson more if he respected you more. But you like him well enough, and there's no one else to talk to in math. Just more football players. Oh, well, there's a couple of band girls in there—easy to pick out because they carry their instruments around with them in little black cases—but the band girls are even worse than the volleyball girls who are also in the class. At least the volleyball girls, who are in better shape, have a reason to be snotty. The band girls, as far as you're concerned, don't.<br/>
<br/>
"Did you say something?" you ask when you realize Ioeger has been talking to you.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," he sighs. "You know, there's a reason most of the school wants to hit on you, Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Who wants to hit on me?" you exclaim. You look around. It couldn't be one of the band girls, could it? At least you're not foolish enough to think it might be Cindy Vredenburg, the cheerleader who is sitting with them.<br/>
<br/>
Carson's jaw falls open. Then he smacks you on the side of the head.<br/>
<br/>
"Hit you!" he snarls. "Not 'hit on you.' And I wasn't one of them until just a minute ago."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Seventh period is a study hall for you, but eighth period is like a culmination of all the classes that have come before. Lounge lizards like Andrew Harding and Lee Reynolds, who ooze an unmerited cool. Jagoffs like monkey-face from Career Planning, who is in there too. Band girls like Becca Daley and Ashley Scott. Asshole jocks like Shawn Sax and Scott Frazier. Scary, sports-playing girls like Stephanie Wyatt and Dani Sumner, and flocks of sophomores and freshman.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, and—<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, Will, was there something you wanted to ask me in English? I saw you looking over at me like there was something you wanted to come over and talk to me about, and I waved over at you but I don't think you saw me. Oh, but then I got distracted when Leah tapped me on the shoulder. You know Leah Simmons? Do you know Leah? Anyway, she had a question about the reading and then <i>I</i> had a question about the reading because it turned out I read the wrong thing for today. Not that it mattered because I didn't get called on, but it's not like <i>that's</i> a risk I want to run every day! But so, what did you want to talk to me about?"<br/>
<br/>
You return Cassie Harper's bright look with a dazed one of your own. Cassie is sweet but scatter-brained, maybe because her mouth scatters her thoughts the way a tornado scatters mobile homes. She's cute enough, in an orange-y kind of way. (She's a red-head, with lots of freckles.) If only James Lamont hadn't once said (after seeing her wearing a Cheeto-colored sweater) that she looked like a traffic cone.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't remember," you tell her. "I guess it wasn't important."<br/>
<br/>
She dimples and starts to tell you something about one time that <i>she</i> forgot what she was going to tell someone, and how she remembered at last by walking her way forward through a chain of free associations from the last thing she remembered thinking about, but Mr. Cash calls the class to order. As you watch Cassie return to her desk, your eye catches Stephanie Wyatt's. Stephanie holds your eye, gives Cassie a sidelong look, then rolls her own. You fight down a wry grin. This is probably the first time you and Stephanie—a basketball-playing bulldozer who could kick the asses of most of the guys in school—have ever shared a moment.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You linger a little after school, getting some homework done in the library, then trudge out to your truck. The day feels like a bust. Not because you failed to think of—let alone find—a partner for your project, but because all your days lately have felt like busts.<br/>
<br/>
School feels like a bust. Home feels like a bust. <i>Everything</i> feels like a bust.<br/>
<br/>
Except for that book you found, and that mask you made. And you won't be able to get any further with it unless you get some money, and that means showing it to someone who can put some resources into it.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, you could show it to Caleb or Keith or Carson or one of your other friends. But lately it feels like they're part of what's holding you back. <br/>
<br/>
Showing it to someone <i>new</i> would be a further way of breaking yourself out of your recent rut.<br/>
<br/>
So, the next morning, you decide to show it to:</span></div></div>


path: 111134111133
author_id: seuzz
title: The Video Stars
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Laurent!" you call out as the class rises as one at the end of first period. "Laurent!" Still the wrestler ignores you as he sweeps his backpack onto his broad shoulders. Probably he's ignoring you because he's grinning at Wendy Silbert. "Hey," you pant as you stagger up behind him.<br/>
<br/>
He does the tiniest of double-takes at you. "Hey, Prescott. Got yer paper done?" He winks at Wendy, who only returns him a very prim smile as she makes to go.<br/>
<br/>
"Paper?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"What?" Laurent settles his pack more firmly onto his shoulders, and looks blank as he turns his full attention on you.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent isn't very tall—he might even be a shade shorter than you—but he makes up for it in bulk and attitude. His chest and shoulders strain against the fabric of his gray t-shirt, and his trapezius muscles bulge. He has a dark complexion—rumor has it he's part Iroquois—with oil-black hair trimmed short and coal-black eyes. His teeth shine very white in a wide mouth that splits easily into a cheeky grin.<br/>
<br/>
"You have a free period or anything today?" you ask him. "Like a study hall?"<br/>
<br/>
"Third period," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"That's perfect!" you exclaim. "Can we get together then?"<br/>
<br/>
Still he looks blank. "Sure. Come find me in the gym if you want. The classroom."<br/>
<br/>
"There's a classroom? Where's that?" The word <i>gym</i> has hit you like a hard slap of cold water across the face.<br/>
<br/>
"Under the weight deck." He looks vastly amused. "Just me and a coupl'a girls." He smiles and chucks you in the shoulder, then swaggers off.<br/>
<br/>
"What was that about?" Caleb asks when you rejoin him. He's been waiting by the door.<br/>
<br/>
"What's it to you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not a fucking thing, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm looking for someone to hang out with third period."<br/>
<br/>
"You got class third period."<br/>
<br/>
"What's it to fucking you?" You dive out into the hallway and quickly lose yourself in the jostling crowed.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You hide in the G wing boys' restroom until the third-period tardy bell has rung, then make your way to the gym. You approach it from the back, circling around outside to come in from the student parking lot in order to avoid passing the main office, where you might get caught for being out of class without a hall pass. You can't believe you're going to all this trouble to meet up with Laurent, particularly as it sound like he won't be alone. <br/>
<br/>
And—ugh—he's going to be in the gym.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Under the weight deck,</i> he said. The "weight deck" must be the mezzanine that separates the two basketball courts—Westside was built during a local craze for athletics and adolescent fitness—and you vaguely remember seeing a doorway into it back when you took P. E. classes, but you never thought anything of it. You find that door now, and thank God it's near the main entrance, so that you can dodge the gym class in progress.<br/>
<br/>
The doorway leads to a corner, around which is a long, carpeted hallway running the length of the mezzanine with doors on either side. <i>The coaches' offices,</i> you realize when you see the name plates on them. Somehow you'd always thought the gym teachers kept all their stuff—grade books and planners and teachers' whatnot—in the changing room lockers along with their grimy sneakers, mossy workout shorts, and filthy shirts.<br/>
<br/>
But one of the rooms does turn out to be a classroom. The door is open and voices spill out.<br/>
<br/>
Inside, half a dozen tables are arranged in a U shape, with a lectern and projection screen facing the open end. Sprawling across the tables at the other end are three students. One of them is Laurent. The other two are girls.<br/>
<br/>
You almost bolt back outside when you see who they are.<br/>
<br/>
You remember Bonny Trask and Josie Holden from your freshman P. E. class, which was split almost evenly between kids who were there because they enjoyed it and kids who were there because they had to take it. You were in the second group. Bonny and Josie were in the first. They didn't just like P. E., they were good at it, and you almost died of embarrassment at they way they outclassed you at everything. They're on the girls' soccer team now.<br/>
<br/>
They're all sitting close together, Laurent in the middle, with their books and notebooks out. But there doesn't seem to be any studying going on. Laurent has tipped his chair back to lean against the wall, and they've got their cell phones out.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent catches sight of you. "Hey, Will. Come on in!" Josie and Bonny look up at you. They're already grinning, so when they smile it's not like they're glad to see you. But at least the smiles don't fall off their faces. "You bring something to work on?" Laurent asks.<br/>
<br/>
You've got that crazy book with you, and that mask you made of Maria. That's what you wanted to talk to him about. But with Josie and Bonny here, you're not sure you want to break them out.<br/>
<br/>
And in the moment you hesitate, it's like Laurent forgets all about you.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh hey, you seen this?" he says, and falls forward to turns his phone to Josie. She lays her phone aside to raptly watch whatever he's showing her. She giggles and snerks. Bonny stretches over to watch too. Neither girl is shy, you notice, about brushing up against Laurent.<br/>
<br/>
You shuffle over to take a chair on the other side of Josie, who's the prettier of the two. Bonny is tall and kind of bony, with her hair pulled tightly back in an unflattering ponytail. Josie is smaller and softer all over, and her thick brown hair hangs freely over her ears and shoulders. She doesn't pay any attention to you, though, as you drop your bag on the table.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you guys looking at?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Stuff," Laurent says. Josie and Bonny go back to their own phones as Laurent scrubs through whatever he was watching. "Here." He turns it around to show you. You lean forward to watch.<br/>
<br/>
You've just time to take in a shot of a fat kid slowly riding a skateboard before the picture changes. A woman in a kitchen is taking a tray of cookies out of the oven. As she turns around, a male voice off camera says, "Hey mom, think fast." The woman screeches and drops the tray with a clatter. The picture wobbles as whoever spoke starts laughing. Then the picture abruptly changes again, to a small boy hanging a spoon on his nose.<br/>
<br/>
"That's Ethan's mom," Laurent tells you as he takes his phone back. "You know, Nieves?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's his <i>mom?</i>" you echo, even though you can barely comprehend what you're supposed to have seen.<br/>
<br/>
"Not actually," Laurent says. He kicks his chair back against the wall again. "But that's what she's like. Looks like her too." Bonny bursts out laughing at something she's watching on her phone.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, I guess we're looking at random videos,</i> you decide. <i>Well, when in Rome ...</i> You take out your own phone.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The next thirty minutes isn't a lot of fun. Everyone is watching and sharing snippets of videos, and they're every one a big hit. Except with you. Sure, videos of people falling over, or putting on funny glasses, or saying funny things, are kind of amusing, but they're not nearly as funny (you think) as Laurent and the girls seem to find them. Bonny and Josie shriek and giggle, and Laurent guffaws, but you don't see anything that deserves more than a smile. And as for the snippets that you share—which you admit aren't that funny either—at most they only earn a tight smile from the girls, and a curt "Funny" from Laurent.<br/>
<br/>
Eventually it dawns on you that there's some kind of private code or private joke being shared. Lots of them. "Christian," says Josie as she shows her phone to the others. "Kelly," says Bonny when she shares one of her own. "Dortch," says Laurent says of one he shares.<br/>
<br/>
And when that fact sinks in—that they are inside a circle and you aren't, that these videos are references to people and things you don't know or understand—you put your own phone away and take out some math homework to check.<br/>
<br/>
And for some reason that gets Bonny to notice you.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, you have any old vines of yourself?" she asks, and it takes you a moment to realize she's talking to you. You shake your head. "Tss! Yes you have!"<br/>
<br/>
"What? No, I—"<br/>
<br/>
"Everyone does!"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>I</i> don't," you correct her.<br/>
<br/>
"What's your x2z handle?"<br/>
<br/>
You wince. "I don't go on there."<br/>
<br/>
Bonny shrieks. "Oh my God, are you a <i>virgin?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You feel all the blood drain from your face, which makes it ten thousand times worse. Bonny and Josie almost fall out of their chairs laughing.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent grins and scratches himself under a pit. "Oh, fuck," he gasps. "No, man, that's <i>smart o' you</i>" he says, "staying outta <i>that</i> shithole."<br/>
<br/>
"Wai'wai'wai'wai'wait!" Bonny exclaims, and Laurent asks, "You showin' 'im that thread about Anita?" as she frantically starts thumbing at her screen. She shouts, "No!" and he says, "How come not?" "It's not—!"<br/>
<br/>
"Is this all you guys do?" you ask. "Look at vines and videos and memes?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, sure." Laurent shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
"You should try making some," Josie tells you. There's the faintest sneer in her voice. "I bet you'd be funny at it."<br/>
<br/>
You clench your fists under the table. If you didn't know how stupid and childish it would look, you'd stalk out now.<br/>
<br/>
Bonny throws herself over the table to thrust her phone at you. Her grin almost splits her head in two. "Here!" she says. "<i>Everyone</i> makes embarrassing vines!"<br/>
<br/>
Laurent's face craters, and he lurches forward to grab the phone. "No!"<br/>
<br/>
It's too late. The screen shows him, in a tank top and shorts, dancing to a techno beat. He's wearing a long blonde wig, and he pauses every few seconds to make kissy faces at the camera.<br/>
<br/>
<i>This is my guy to show that mask to,</i> you decide in that instant. But what about Josie and Bonny?</span></div></div>


path: 1111341111332
author_id: seuzz
title: A Drive-By Ambush
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Even if this was your last chance to show the book and mask to Laurent, you wouldn't do it in front of Bonny and Josie. Luckily, you share English with Laurent too. When the bell rings, you make a point of trailing him back into the main building.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you doing after school?" you ask as you push along through the crowds behind him.<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking around with friends, probably," he says. He glances back at you over his shoulder, and you have the impression he didn't even know you were there.<br/>
<br/>
"I got this project I wanna show you," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"Your thing for Mr. Walberg?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, something else. It's—" You momentarily lose him as a pack of boys separates you, and you're almost to Mrs. Gladstone's classroom before you catch up again. "It's like a weird chemistry project!" You have to yell it at the back of his head over the roaring murmur of the crowds.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not taking chemistry!" he shouts back.<br/>
<br/>
"It's not for school!" Together you fall into the relative emptiness of your English classroom. "Look, it's got great potential for, like, videos and vines and stuff," you assure him. "Or pranks." <i>Yeah, magic disguises that turn you into duplicates of your classmates? There's probably tons of prank material there.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, sure," Laurent says. He sounds distracted. "Come hang out with me tomorrow in third. You can tell me about." <br/>
<br/>
He greets Erik Carstairs and another football player by slapping their hands. You shrink back as they start talking and guffawing, and after an awkward moment you slink over to your usual seat next to Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Probably you should have just given up, but by this point you feel like a dog that's got a rope between its teeth. When school lets out you lurk by the breezeway that spills out into the student parking lot. When Laurent emerges, he's in a pack of other meaty gym rats. But after slapping them on the shoulders, he swerves off alone. You run after him. "Hey! Laurent!" you call. "Got a few minutes?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh hey Will." He doesn't sound annoyed as you scuttle up, but he sure doesn't sound enthusiastic. "Where you off to?"<br/>
<br/>
"I wanted to talk to you some more about that thing I mentioned earlier. That project?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. I'm on my way out to the soccer fields, me and some of the guys are—"<br/>
<br/>
"Can I get a ride with you? Talk to you about it? I promise, if you're not interested, I'll find my own way back up here to pick up my truck."<br/>
<br/>
Laurent stops in his tracks, and gives you a skeptical, sidelong look. "You're not selling band candy or something, are you? You sound like you're working on commission."<br/>
<br/>
"No!" You force out a laugh. "It's just— Like I said, it's a project that's got, like, prank possibilities."<br/>
<br/>
Laurent grunts and says, "Okay."<br/>
<br/>
He leads you over to a black truck—one that's a lot manlier than yours—and you climb in with him. The radio comes on as he turns the ignition, and a country-western song starts playing. He doesn't turn it off or turn it down while idling and waiting for the traffic out of the lot to clear a little.<br/>
<br/>
You unzip your pack and pull out the book.<br/>
<br/>
"This is the book I'm working out of," you tell him. "I got it at the used bookstore. It's, um, a book of magic."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah? Like card tricks?" He sounds bored.<br/>
<br/>
"No, like—" You swallow. "I think it's real magic."<br/>
<br/>
Laurent doesn't reply. He's much more interested in the convertible with the three cute girls that is slowly gliding by his front bumper. "I made something with it," you start to say, but you're interrupted by a cell phone chime. Laurent digs his phone out of his pocket and checks the screen. <br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, man," he laughs when he answers it. "Tell me you're not boned." He listens. Then his eyes pop. <br/>
<br/>
"No shit?" he exclaims. "Oh, fuck me! You need a ride out to meet 'em? Well, how long you gonna be?" He listens with glinting eyes, then howls. "Oh, you fucker, you fell into it this time! Yeah? Well, what if they all get in the back and stick you riding shotgun?" You shrink back in your seat as this obscure, one-sided conversation unspools. <br/>
<br/>
And it just goes on and on, interrupted with barks of laughter and good-natured cussing, until Laurent has got out of the parking lot and is speeding into town. In fact, he's halfway across town and still talking when he shouts, "I see 'em!" and lurches across a lane of traffic to turn into a parking lot. The truck bounces and jostles as he lunges back out onto the street, back the way he came. "Yeah, I'm on their bumper now," he chortles into the phone as he punches the accelerator and dodges around cars. "See you out there." He drops the phone.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuckin' Brownie," he laughs. "Ratliff didn't have room in his car for 'im, but while they was arguing he gets this call from some girls out at Eastman, s'posed to meet us out at the fields." He pounds his steering wheel with mirth. "They're on their fucking way over to Westside to pick him up!" He points to a red subcompact that's just in front of you. "God <i>damn!</i>" He punches the trunk console with the heel of his hand, and bounces in his seat.<br/>
<br/>
"That's cool," you admit without enthusiasm. Almost you give up and tell him to drop you off at Westside again. But you make one last stab: "Um, that thing I was talking to you about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh?" Laurent is concentrating his full attention on the car ahead, and his grin is blinding as he tailgates it. "Oh, yeah."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I made something with it, and I thought you'd like to see it."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah sure. You said it was a chemistry project." He laughs and waggles his finger at someone in the car ahead. You glance up in time to see a blonde girl in the back seat turn her head and duck.<br/>
<br/>
"No, it's a magic trick. Real magic."<br/>
<br/>
"Cool."<br/>
<br/>
You sigh, and pull out the mask you made. There is no way, you realize, that you're going to get Laurent to pay attention. And yet the more he flirts with girls and cusses with his friends, the more you want him to pay attention to you. The more you want some of that attention directed at you.<br/>
<br/>
There's only one way to do it.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey man, can you look at me a minute," you ask him, and he turns to give you a quick glance. "It's <i>me</i> in here with you, right? And we're driving down the street? Well, don't freak out, but watch this."<br/>
<br/>
You suck in a deep breath and lift the mask to your face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Someone is shaking your shoulder, and then you feel sunlight on your face. You wince and squirm. <i>Go away,</i> you grumble beneath your breath. <i>Wanna slee—</i><br/>
<br/>
You're shaken more rudely, and pry your eyes open. Your head is muzzy and you feel half-paralyzed, as though you've been woken suddenly from a very deep sleep. You sit up and blink stupidly as you look around.<br/>
<br/>
You're in a truck cab, parked and facing a boulevard. <i>Oh, right,</i> you remember. You were getting a ride from—<br/>
<br/>
You look over. Behind the wheel, Laurent Delacroix is staring back at you. The whites of his eyes show, and his lips are peeled back in a fearful leer. A sickly green glows beneath his brown cheeks. <br/>
<br/>
It's when a lank lock of black hair falls into your face that it all floods back. You look down, to find your shirt bulging out with a great pair of globes.<br/>
<br/>
You can't help smile as you look back up at Laurent. "Hey man," you say. "I told you I had a kick-ass magic trick to show you."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div> <br/>
Laurent is properly freaked out of course, but the evidence of his senses is so strong that he can't really question it. Though his eyes nearly start from his head, you are able to quickly prove to him that you are, despite appearances, the same Will Prescott who begged a ride from him, but that the hair and hands and boobs that you are now sporting are real and solid. He can hardly speak, though, which at least gives you a chance to pull out the book and show it to him and tell him about it. How much he understands, though, you're not sure, for his hair stands on end, and he starts to tremble. When you offer to "change back," he can only jerk his head up and down in a mute nod.<br/>
<br/>
You wake again to find yourself still parked, but back in your own form. Laurent is holding the mask, and gingerly examining it with his fingertips. "I told you it was a mask," you remind him when he neither speaks nor looks up. "A magical mask."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." He swallows hard.<br/>
<br/>
"You can try it on yourself."<br/>
<br/>
He jerks his head up to give you a hard look. You add, "But only if you want to."<br/>
<br/>
Laurent swallows again, and goes back to examining the mask. "Why'd you want to show me this?" he asks in a hollow voice.<br/>
<br/>
"I thought you'd be interested."<br/>
<br/>
"How come?"<br/>
<br/>
"Aren't you? I mean," you continue when he doesn't answer, "it's the kind of thing you can do pranks with, you know? Pretending to be other people? Or just have fun pretending, like, you've ... got that kind body? Better than dancing while wearing a wig," you can't help adding.<br/>
<br/>
He slowly raises his eyes to regard you from beneath his brows. You can see the question in his eyes: <i>Have you been pretending like you've got Maria's body?</i> You hope he can read the answer in yours: <i>I bet anyone would like to pretend they've got her body.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Show me how to put it on and take it off?" he quietly asks. After you nod, he says, "Let me take the thing home and try it out?"</span></div></div>


path: 11113411113321
author_id: seuzz
title: Wrestle Mania
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What are you going to do with it?" you ask Laurent as he examines the mask with a mesmerized look on his face.<br/>
<br/>
"Check it out," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"You're not going to show it to anyone, are you?"<br/>
<br/>
He looks up long enough to say, "Pff! I'm not an idiot!"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, maybe we should—" You pause as his cell phone chimes. "Maybe we should go someplace and talk about it?"<br/>
<br/>
His phone chimes again, and he starts at the sound. "I'm s'posed to meet Brownie and the guys at the soccer fields," he murmurs without looking at his phone. "Bunch'a girls s'posed to be there."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we can—"<br/>
<br/>
"You need a ride someplace?" He shakes himself, and hands the mask back to you.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, my truck's back at the school."<br/>
<br/>
"That's fine," he says. "We can talk on the way back." He twists the key in the ignition, and the motor roars to life.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He's very quiet and attentive as you tell him about the book and how you found it at the used book store. You describe making the mask, and sneaking it onto Maria Vasquez when you found her in the school theater. You also mention—very casually, you flatter yourself—that there are some other spells to uncover, but that they'll cost money to perform. Laurent doesn't nibble at the hint, though.<br/>
<br/>
Back at the school he insists on practicing the "remove mask" maneuver by putting it on you and taking it off. After he says he's got it, he drives off. And he takes the mask with him.<br/>
<br/>
Though you feel relief at recruiting a partner for your project, you also have a nagging anxiety, for although he promised that he won't show it to anyone, you're very conscious of the fact that you've let the mask out of your hands and into those of someone you barely know.<br/>
<br/>
Up in your room, after dinner, you go through the book and make a list of supplies you'll need for the next spell. It eases your heartsickness, a little, to imagine that Laurent will be paying for them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Friday morning.</i> You're loping through the school hallways toward first period when you're seized from behind by powerful hands. More than one set, it feels like, as you're hoisted into the air. You  wince and cringe as you're hustled through the shouting crowd, and are almost crushed as you are rushed at a set of heavy doors that lead outside, and you have just the presence of mind to kick them open instead of being splatted against them like a bug.<br/>
<br/>
You are carried across the open spaces toward the abandoned portables, and a flock of sophomores scatters from your path. You are dropped at the door to the nearest portable, and someone reaches past to twist the knob and push it open. A strong arm shoves you into the musty old trailer. <br/>
<br/>
It's dim inside, and smells of dirt and old wood. There's a teacher's desk at the front, with a pile of broken classroom desks heaped before it like a sacrifice. The door slams, and in the close air you turn to blink at your kidnappers. There's three of them that brought you here: Laurent and two friends. Both of them are as big or bigger than him, and they're grinning at you with the same excitement that he is.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck,</i> you think with a sinking heart. <i>I know where this is going.</i><br/>
<br/>
It's Alec "Brownie" Brown and Chris Ratliff that Laurent has brought with him, and though you vaguely know their names, Laurent introduces them to you anyway. Like him, they are wrestlers, and look it. Brownie is a solid but not grossly distorted stack of a muscle in loose-fitting jeans and a gray hoodie, with brownish-blonde hair trimmed evenly across his crown in a glistening brush cut. Chris is taller than the other two, and wider at the shoulders, with short blonde hair over black eyebrows and dark eyes. He's dressed in jeans and a black pullover sweater. Though all three exude nothing worse than a happy, dog-like excitement, they are big dogs, and you have to fight to keep from flinching as they loom at you in the dim portable.<br/>
<br/>
"So, I showed these guys your dinga-ma-job," Laurent says as he pulls Maria's mask from his backpack. "They all think it's tray-cool and wanna know more."<br/>
<br/>
"You're a fucking Harry Potter, you know that?" Chris exclaims.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not—"<br/>
<br/>
"You bring that book?" Laurent asks. He paws at your shoulder to get at your pack. "You get my text?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes." You slide your pack off, and Laurent wrenches it from you. The other two push you away as they crowd around it. For a moment, you fear that they're going to mug you and take it from you. But these aren't those kind of guys, you reassure yourself. And yet, if they did take it from you, what could you do?<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck me," Chris says as Laurent pulls the book from your pack. "It's Satanic! Look, there's a pentagram on it!"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up!" Brownie shoves him. "It's just a, you know, like a logo."<br/>
<br/>
"The devil's logo," Laurent chortles, and they all laugh. "Hey Prescott! Show us the spell you used to make the whacka-thing!"<br/>
<br/>
They won't part for you, so you have to squeeze between Brownie and Chris when Laurent turns and lays the book on the old teacher's desk.<br/>
<br/>
At least they're attentive as you go over the spell with them. You explain how to mix up the ingredients and fire them over a mirror and polish the results; how you have to put the mask onto someone in order to copy them; and then (after turning the page to point to the next spell) how to seal it up so you can wear it.<br/>
<br/>
"What else can you make?" Laurent asks, and pulls at the pages of the book.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. There's some kind of trick to the book, you can't turn a page until you do a spell." You tap the third spell. "I'd have to do this one before we turn the page."<br/>
<br/>
"So what's it do?" Chris asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know that either," you have to confess again. "The front of the page tells you what to do, but it's the back of the page that tells you what it does and how to use it. Um—" You tap at the page again. "I'd've done this one already, except I don't have the money to do it. I need money," you tell them, so they won't miss your point.<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause as the three wrestlers exchange glances. "How much would it cost?" Laurent asks cautiously.<br/>
<br/>
"About sixty bucks?" That's a generous calculation, based on what you could find last night when you looked up the ingredients online.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent's eyes pop. "Pff" he says, "is that all?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't get much of an allowance," you tell them.<br/>
<br/>
"You have any more of these things?" Brownie taps the mask, and his lips peel back into a hungry smile. "I mean, ones you <i>haven't</i> put on cheerleaders? Yet?" You shake your head. "Well, how much to make one?"<br/>
<br/>
"Make two," says Chris.<br/>
<br/>
"Six," says Laurent. "Three apiece," he says when the others give him startled looks. They stare, then burst out guffawing.<br/>
<br/>
Meanwhile, you're thinking, <i>Holy fuck! Is there money to be made here?</i> "Sixty dollars a mask," you tell them. Sixty is enough to buy enough supplies to make half a dozen masks, probably, but you figure you can afford a profit.<br/>
<br/>
The others gape, and for a moment you think you've miscalculated. But then Brownie bursts out laughing. <br/>
<br/>
"Fuck!" he exclaims. "You could sell these suckers for six hundred apiece! Six thousand!"<br/>
<br/>
"Six million," Chris says. "Sixty million!"<br/>
<br/>
"You got sixty million, Ratfucker?" Laurent demands.<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, it's sixty bucks for supplies," you say. "I'm not selling you guys any masks!" You falter as they wheel on you. "I mean, what I'm saying is," you stammer. <br/>
<br/>
But what are you saying? The air seems to close around you as you grope for a way out of the hostile stares that are now turned on to you.<br/>
<br/>
"What I mean is," you stammer, "I'll make some masks, if you want to try them out. But this is a research project." You wet your lips. "I'm testing this stuff out. I wasn't— I wasn't thinking about <i>selling</i> these things. I was thinking it could be a group project." You feel yourself starting to shake all over. "We work on it all together, put the money in, experiment with the, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I get it!" Laurent exclaims. He claps you on the shoulder, so hard he nearly sends you flying off your feet. "Sure! Group project!" he tells the other two, who return his grin with looks of astonishment and puzzlement. "A research project. Like for a science fair. But it's a group thing. And we do our own experiments with the stuff."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit!</i> you think. <i>Did Laurent just </i>wink<i> at his friends?</i><br/>
<br/>
But Brownie and Chris are now all smiles again, and they clap you on the arm and assure you they're keen to help. "Just get us the stuff," Brownie tells you, "and we'll help you make up some more."<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, then acquiesce. After all, by paying you sixty dollars apiece for their masks, Brownie and Laurent and Chris will be able to finance the next step in your project. And, you figure, it will take three weeks or more for you to get them made and polished. By that point, who knows how far you'll be into the book?<br/>
<br/>
But then you wince when you think of how much work that polishing that will be.</span></div></div>


path: 111134111133212
author_id: seuzz
title: Guys in Dolls
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>One week or three? Does it really matter? Eventually these guys are going to get their masks, and you might as well spare yourself the agony of polishing them up.<br/>
<br/>
At least, that's your reasoning when you agree to supply them with unpolished masks, and set up delivery for later that afternoon.<br/>
<br/>
"Can we help you make 'em? Watch, at least?" Laurent asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. Except we can't do it at my place."<br/>
<br/>
"Mine neither," Brownie says. "My mom'd kill me if she saw me playing around with Satanic rituals."<br/>
<br/>
"We can do it at my place," Chris says. "I got it to myself till five."<br/>
<br/>
"It makes a stink," you warn him. He thinks a moment, then says you can come over anyway.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll give you a ride out," Laurent tells you. "Here." He shoves Maria's mask at your chest. "You can wear it on the drive out again." You blush as the others laugh.<br/>
<br/>
Walberg marks you and Laurent both as tardy when you get to first period, but as Laurent doesn't seem to care, you pretend not to as well.<br/>
<br/>
"Where the fuck were you?" Caleb murmurs in your ear when Walberg's back is turned.<br/>
<br/>
"Hanging out with Delacroix. Oh yeah. We're gettin' to be like <i>that.</i>" You twine two fingers together and thrust them into Caleb's frowning face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Laurent does not make you wear the mask as you drive from the school, but he does want to talk about it. "You got any clothes to go with it? How come not?" he asks when you tell him you don't. "You don't want to go out in your own clothes, looking like that!"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean go out in public? I wasn't going to do that!" You feel yourself pale. "Why, were you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck yeah, man!" he exclaims. "What's the fucking point of—? Isn't that the point, to go out and be seen, lookin' like that? Okay," he adds, "besides, you know, fingering yourself hard in bed." He leans over to leer wickedly in your face. "But God damn, you know? Go out! Be seen! Swagger down the street in little shorty-shorts and no bra! Damn!" He sucks hard on his lower lip and strains in his seat. It's pretty obvious, even without looking, that he's made himself rock-hard with this fantasy.<br/>
<br/>
"What if someone saw you?"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Fuck!</i>" Laurent almost swerves off the road. "That's the <i>Goddamned point!</i>" He punches you in the shoulder, so hard it almost feels like there's real anger or frustration behind the swing. "Don't you want to have any fucking fun?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh God,</i> you think. <i>What am I in for?</i><br/>
<br/>
But you don't know if you feel frightened at the thought, or delighted. It's like you feel both, at once.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Laurent talks to your mom in the living room while you run upstairs to gather up the supplies. He seems to have oozed a lot of charm at her, for she's all smiles and laughs (and so is he) when you come back down again. When she asks if you'll be home for supper, Laurent answers by telling her, "Probably not." You fight down a bashful smile and don't gainsay him.<br/>
<br/>
Chris Ratliff lives in an apartment complex a couple of blocks from where your friend Keith lives, and it gives you pause to see that there's no garage or anything to do the work in. There's only a small back yard shared by his family and his neighbors. It's a tiny space, bound on two sides by the back of the apartments, and on the other two by a tall brick wall. There's a grassy patch in one quarter of the yard, but the rest is taken up by concrete patios holding a grill, an overturned tricycle, and a weight bench and weight set. Ratliff tells you to use the latter as a work table, then grins and blushes as his friends tease him for being a pussy when he strains himself by lifting the barbell to the ground. You doubt you could have lifted more than a third of the weight yourself.<br/>
<br/>
You're all coughing and waving away the smoke and stench when, to your shock, another Westsider comes swaggering out to join you—Noah Lepley, another of the school's jocks. "The fuck?" he exclaims. "You barbecuing dog turds again, man?" he teases Chris.<br/>
<br/>
"You're just in time," Ratliff tells him. "I think. Hey, how much longer till you get one of 'em done?" he asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ...." You gape at Chris and Noah, who is dressed in skimpy black running shorts and a pea-green cable-knit sweater. A dirty-gray ski cap is pulled down over his sandy hair, and his leg muscles are hairy and knotted with muscles.<br/>
<br/>
But no one bats an eye, so you return to your work: the first of a series of masks, now poured out and fired over the mirror.  <br/>
"Um, just about done," you squeak, and set down the bowl of batter so you can peel the new mask off. It comes away as a hemisphere, which you hand to Laurent. "Be careful," you tell him, "they kind of—"<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck?" he says. "This doesn't look like— Yah!" He flings mask away, and it narrowly misses taking Brownie's ear off as it sails past. Everyone cusses, then laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"It likes to surprise you," you tell them, and with a sigh you to retrieve it from the grassy corner where it has fallen. "See?" You hand it to Laurent, showing him it now looks like a face.<br/>
<br/>
"It's the wrong color," he protests.<br/>
<br/>
"Remember, I said you have to polish it."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck are you guys doing?" Lepley asks Ratliff. "What's this 'tray-cool thing' you wanted me to see?"<br/>
<br/>
"Take him inside and show him Maria," Brownie says. "Hey Prescott, you did bring Maria, didn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
You come <i>this close</i> to face-palming, but catch yourself in time. From your bag you pull out the mask and give it to Chris. He takes it and pulls Noah back inside. Laurent and Brownie don't seem to notice your discomfort, and just ask you to pour out another mask. You're able to make five more before you run out of batter.<br/>
<br/>
Which is just as well. Brownie and Laurent are admiring four of the masks—one in each hand—when the back door of the neighboring unit opens and a fat lady in a sundress comes out. She wrinkles her pear-shaped nose. "What kind of shit are you burning out here?" she snarls. "I'm gonna call the manager—"<br/>
<br/>
"It's okay, we're all done, ma'am," Brownie tells her.<br/>
<br/>
"You clean up whatever shit you're—!<br/>
<br/>
"Yes ma'am, we're on it."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm calling the manager if—!" <br/>
<br/>
She grumbles and swears at you the whole time you're picking up the mess, and she hollers even after you've taken it all inside. Even after you've shut the back door, you think you can hear her yelling.<br/>
<br/>
But you forget all that when Maria Vasquez comes sashaying out of another room. "Oh My. God!" she chants. "Look. At. Me! Wheee!" She spins around on her feet, then swaggers about the room, rocking her hips like a pendulum on a storm-tossed tugboat. She shows plenty of leg, for she's dressed in skimpy black running shorts and is barefoot; but her boobs are lost in the pea-green cable-knit sweater; a dirty-gray ski cap is pulled down over the crown of her head.<br/>
<br/>
But you've just time to figure out what's going on before all your expectations are upended again as a white-faced Noah Lepley follows her into the room. He's changed into canary-yellow knee-length shorts and a red hoodie, and until you rearrange the scene a third time, you're convinced that somehow Chris Ratliff has turned himself into his friend Noah.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent and Brownie howl and clap as "Maria" prances about the room, making duck faces and twerking her ass at them. And Brownie almost passes out laughing when Laurent grabs Maria from behind and starts bumping and grinding in tandem with her. Noah, meanwhile, watches with open-mouthed astonishment, his face passing through various shades of white, pink, violet, green, and back again, even as he grins broadly at the spectacle.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"See, that's what we need to be doing with these things," Laurent announces an hour later, after he and the others are nearly passed out from laughing themselves stupid. Hot salsa music is still pumping from Ratliff's stereo; he and the others have each taken a turn in Maria's mask, to dance and twist and bump and grind and flirt outrageously with his friends. You're the only one who demurred, for you felt too self-conscious to try.<br/>
<br/>
But now the mask is off and everything is cleaned up, for Chris's mom is expected home soon. New masks have been passed out to everyone—even to Lepley—and you've explained how to polish them and how long it will take. Between them, you've collected nearly seventy dollars in down payments on the three-sixty they've collectively agreed to pay you for the six masks you made.<br/>
<br/>
"We should take Maria to a party," Chris says. "Take her out to a dance club, to the Warehouse—"<br/>
<br/>
"Will's worried someone'llsee her," Laurent jeers. He cradles the mask in his lap.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck," Brownie laughs. "Ain't no one would think it was Maria, not the way we was doing her. Just give her a new name and—" He starts twerking again.<br/>
<br/>
"Shi-i-i-i-i-i-t!" Noah exclaims. His eyes go wide. "You know who's having a party tonight? Dominique!"<br/>
<br/>
The room practically levitates in a collective gasp, then explodes in laughter.<br/>
<br/>
"We gotta do it!" Brownie howls. "Who gets to be Maria?"<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott does!" Laurent punches you in the shoulder. "He's the only one's didn't have a shot at her!"</span></div></div>


path: 1111341111332121
author_id: seuzz
title: The Party Crasher
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You? Wear Maria's mask to a party? Is Laurent insane?<br/>
<br/>
"I'll pass," you gasp. "I don't—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>I don't think I could pull it off, people wouldn't think I was a new girl, they'd just think I was Maria and was lying about who I was.</i> <br/>
<br/>
At least, that's the excuse you were going to give.<br/>
<br/>
But Chris just runs you over, like a truck squashing a frog. "I'll do it!" he yells, and lunges for the mask.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent shoves him. "Rock paper scissors!" he exclaims, and puts out his hand.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Rock paper scissors!"</i> the others shout in unison. It comes out one rock and three scissors. "Rock smash scissors!" Brownie roars, and bashes his friends hands with his fist.<br/>
<br/>
"You know how to get to Dominique's?" Laurent asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, no."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll give you a ride out, then. Okay, Ratfucker," he snarls at Chris. "It's between you and me, who gets to be Maria 'til Brownie takes her to the party." He crouches. "Best two falls out of three!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wind up going home shortly afterward, while the others run into town to pick up some cheap, sleazy clothes for Brownie to wear to the party. Noah Lepley is the one who gives you a ride back to the school to pick up your truck. On the way, he asks you about the mask and the book you used to make it, and you give him the story.<br/>
<br/>
"You think they got any more books like that up at Arnholms?" he asks when you're done.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm pretty sure that's the only copy they had."<br/>
<br/>
"I mean in general," he says. Then: "So you're, like, into this stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"What stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"Magic and shit. Wow. I can't believe I just said that."<br/>
<br/>
"Said what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Magic." He shifts in his seat. "Pretty fucking crazy to think of."<br/>
<br/>
"What did you think when Chris showed you the mask? And put it on?"<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs. "I dunno. It just kind of blew my mind." His brow furrows. "I think it's still blown. I still can't believe that shit that was happening back there!"<br/>
<br/>
You'd agree, though it's not the magic you can't quite grasp. It's what the others were doing with the mask.<br/>
<br/>
It was kind of exciting, really, and you wish you had the guts to play along. Or at least you wish you weren't so self-conscious about being so different from everyone else in Laurent's group of friends.<br/>
<br/>
Noah drops you off next to your truck, but before driving off he rolls down the window to call you back over. "So what's your name again?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
You fight to keep the grimace off your face. "Will Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"So you know Maria, huh?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not really, no."<br/>
<br/>
"So how'd you manage to get that thing onto her face?"<br/>
<br/>
"By accident. Well ... I kind of snuck up on her in the dark."<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa!" Noah's eyes widen, and a grin spreads across his face. "That's all kinds of pervy! I'll have to remember that. See you at Dominique's." He leers at you, then rolls off.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your mom is already not expecting you home for supper, so you double-check your supply list against the next spell in the book, and go shopping. It's getting on toward seven by the time you've rounded up all the stuff you need for the next spell. Laurent texts you while you're grabbing a burger and fries, to tell you he'll be along about nine to pick you up. You ask, <i>How longs th party sposed to go?<br/>
<br/>
Til we drop,</i> he texts back. You press him a little on details—surely Dominque's parents don't plan on hosting a party that runs until morning—and he tells you that when Dominique's party winds down, they'll go looking for another one.<br/>
<br/>
You don't tell him you've got an eleven o'clock curfew, even on Fridays. You don't want to seem lame.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Lamer,</i> you reproach yourself, after you pathetic non-performance at Chris's apartment.<br/>
<br/>
You've got ninety minutes until Laurent arrives, and you go home to wait. You tell your parents that you'll be going to a party. Your dad, who is watching TV with your mom, only grunts and reminds you of your curfew. Upstairs, you study the next spell to get a head start on it. It requires cutting up some thin metal strips with some shears you bought special, and coating them with some kind of oily mix before carving a set of runes into them. You content yourself with preparing five of the things—one for each mask, even though you have no idea what they are supposed to do or if they are connected to the masks at all—but don't start on any of the runes. You also field some texts from Caleb and Keith, who are looking for something to do. You bat them away without telling them that you're going to a party.<br/>
<br/>
You make a point of changing into a long-sleeve shirt and fresh jeans, and wait outside for your ride. It's almost nine-thirty when Laurent's truck pulls into your drive with a very guttural, masculine roar. There's three figures in the cab, but one of them—Ratliff—leaps out of the passenger side and lofts himself into the back to let you ride shotgun. You flinch when you see what's waiting for you inside the cab.<br/>
<br/>
"Ay, lookit'chu!" exclaims the girl in the middle of the bench. "Well, what're ju waiting for?" she asks in the most offensively caricatured Puerto Rican accent you've ever heard. "We gon be late if'n ju don' get in!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, Christ, is this really going to happen?</i> you ask yourself as you clamber in and shut the door. "Brownie?" you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
She's dressed in a blue, sleeveless cotton shirt that drapes off her boobs like a waterfall and pours into her lap. Out from under the hem stick her bare, smooth, brown legs—it looks like she's not wearing any pants at all. Her black hair hangs lank down to her shoulders, and she's cinched it in place with a backward-turned ball cap. She snaps bubblegum in your face.<br/>
<br/>
"Ay, no!" She exclaims. "My name's Ximena!"<br/>
<br/>
Laurent snickers. "It was 'Rafaela' when I picked you up." He guns the engine and punches the truck backward into the street.<br/>
<br/>
"It is! Ximena Rafaela Bonita Renata Victoria Daniela Gabriela—"<br/>
<br/>
Laurent howls. "You'll never remember all those names!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don' got to! All those names, I'll just say <i>Si</i> to anyone'll talk to me!"<br/>
<br/>
"And answer <i>Por favor</i> to anyone who wants to fuck you!"<br/>
<br/>
Ximena—or whatever her name is—pounds Laurent in the thigh, but he just laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"Are we picking up anyone else?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"No, just us," Laurent says. "Noah's coming separate."<br/>
<br/>
"I go in wich'u," Ximena says, and you freeze as she throws an arm around your shoulder. "You my boyfriend, so I don' get hit on." You almost shit yourself, and Laurent laughs so hard he almost steers into a street light. "Wha'ju laugh at?" Ximena demands. "You t'ink I can' get boyfriend? I show you," she says as Laurent laughs until he shakes. She turns to you. "If Lauren' hit on me, I wan' ju punch 'im out."<br/>
<br/>
At that, Laurent actually has to pull over to the side of the road until he can get his breath back. "Oh God, it hurts," he howls as he clutches his stomach.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Dominique lives in a nice house on the western side of town, not too far from the high school. There's a line of cars up and down both sides of the street, and music thumps out into the night, but the party doesn't look too big or loud.<br/>
<br/>
Despite her teasing, "Ximena" doesn't go in on your arm, and for your part you don't try to hold her hand or otherwise signal that you and she are "together." In fact, you are so mortified by Brownie's performance out in the truck that you make a break for it as soon as you are inside, bolting for the dining room to get yourself something to eat and drink.<br/>
<br/>
A little later you find Josie Holden in the kitchen with some of the other girl soccer players. She does a double-take and gives you a quick smile, then turns back to Phoebe Beauchamp. "Well, it's bullshit anyway," she says with a snort. "If she was trying to tell <i>Anita</i> what to do, do you think Anita would stand it for one minute?"<br/>
<br/>
"She <i>is</i> trying to tell Anita what to do," Phoebe says.<br/>
<br/>
"No, she's telling Anita what Anita wants to hear. If Stephanie was telling Anita to sit on her cleats, do you think—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Are you talking about Stephanie Wyatt?" you interrupt.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," Josie snaps, then turns back to  her friends. They close all together. "Just 'cos she used to be on the soccer squad—" Josie continues.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh God,</i> you think. <i>It's just like being at school.</i><br/>
<br/>
You're only saved from utter humiliation when you hear your named called. It's Noah. "Hey, c'mere," he says, and gestures you over into the kitchen doorway. "Got something to show you," he says. "Not in here," he adds, and pulls you after.<br/>
<br/>
It takes ten minutes for you and him to find someplace to talk, for half a dozen guys and girls try to intercept him as you move from room to room. One of them is "Ximena," and she pulls him into the center of the room to dance and writhe and grind against him to the hot beats pounding out of the stereo. She's already made herself popular, you can tell, for the guys in the room are all grins as they stare at her with rapt intensity. <br/>
<br/>
But eventually Noah succeeds in pulling you into a hallway bathroom, which gives you some small privacy even with the door open.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, check it out," he says, and unzips the pack he's been lugging around. He tugs a bluish object halfway out. It takes you a moment to recognize it as a polished mask.<br/>
<br/>
"I used a car buffer on it," he says. "I'm gonna use it on one of the girls here, if you think it's all done."</span></div></div>


path: 11113411113321211
author_id: seuzz
title: Back Seat Shenanigans
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Holy fuck!</i> Did Noah really get the mask polished in one afternoon, just by using a <i>car buffer?</i> Your jaw slackens.<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme see it," you say, and tug the mask free. A girl laughs just outside the bathroom door, and you jump so hard you almost drop it.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you'd have to admit that the thing looks like a finished mask. It is a deep, burnished blue on both sides, as though it's been carved out of solid sapphire, and there are no streaks. Still, you turn it over a couple of times in your hands before you speak.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," you have to confess. "It <i>looks</i> like it's done—"<br/>
<br/>
"Cool!" Noah exclaims. "I'm gonna go find—"<br/>
<br/>
"Except I don't know if—" You bite your lip. "You used a car buffer? That's ... modern. Mechanical."<br/>
<br/>
"So?"<br/>
<br/>
"So I don't know if— Well, I don't know if it counts."<br/>
<br/>
"Counts?" Noah demands. "What do you mean, if it counts?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I used a cloth, and maybe that's the way the magic is supposed to ..."<br/>
<br/>
But you trail off. It sounds like a dumb objection even to you.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck are you guys hogging the bathroom for?" A short, chubby girl with violet-and-green hair and multiple piercings shoves her way into the bathroom with you. "You wanna give each other blow jobs, go sit out in your fucking— Oh!" She catches herself just as she's pushing her way between you and Noah. "Hey!" She shows you the back of her head as she looks up into his face.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey Sienna," Noah says. Deep dimples—more like creases—ripple in his cheeks as he smiles down at her.<br/>
<br/>
"I saw your sister and her friends playing out at Reagan's big party the start of the year," Sienna Goldman says in a voice that has turned very syrupy. "They sounded pretty good."<br/>
<br/>
"They're gonna be out at the Warehouse next Saturday."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know. You're gonna be out there too, right?" She fumbles at her shirt pockets. "Show her some support?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure."<br/>
<br/>
"An' keep the creeps and perverts off her. Jesus, I remember the first time <i>we</i> played the Warehouse." She slips a cigarette between her lips. "Would'a been fucking scary 'cept I was looking to get laid anyway. But you're gonna look after Jody, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," Noah says without enthusiasm. "You need to pee?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not a crisis. You know, I'll be out there Saturday too." She sways slightly, and catches herself against Noah's chest. "We should—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, we should. I'll catch you outside," Noah says. "If you wanna smoke."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I was just gonna turn on the blower in here. But if you wait for me out on the back deck—"<br/>
<br/>
Noah gently pushes Sienna aside, and you and he collide with each other as you rush to get out of the bathroom. Noah makes sure to pull the door shut behind him, and takes the mask from you. You glance around nervously, for the hallways is crowded with people talking and drinking.<br/>
<br/>
"So if you think it's okay," he says as he tucks the mask back into his bag, "I'm gonna try it out on someone here."<br/>
<br/>
"You won't be able to put it on," you caution him. "Not right away."<br/>
<br/>
"How come?"<br/>
<br/>
"Noah!" someone shouts from the far end of the hallway.<br/>
<br/>
"Because it has to be sealed first." <br/>
<br/>
Noah looks puzzled, but Stephanie Wyatt shoves her way into your company before he can reply. "You know if Marc's coming out here?" she asks him, completely ignoring your presence.<br/>
<br/>
"Garner?" Noah asks. "I dunno. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, would he be bringing Hannah along?"<br/>
<br/>
"She's his girlfriend—"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck!" Stephanie rubs her nose with her palm. "Well, you should text him if you think he's coming out here with her. Dominique is <i>pissed off</i> at Hannah, and—"<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie stops dead and her expression hardens as she does a double-take at you. "You need something, Prescott?" she snaps.<br/>
<br/>
"Me and Will were just talking," Noah tell her.<br/>
<br/>
"That's okay," you say, "you can come find me later." You make to squeeze past Stephanie, but she's blocking the middle of the hall and refuses to shift her well-planted feet, and you nearly take the paint off the wall as you scrape past. She goes right back to yelling at Noah.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You meant for Noah to come find you after he got done with Stephanie, but it's an hour before you hear from him, and the message comes via Laurent, who finds you lurking in your own invisible cocoon on the back patio. "Noah's looking for you," he tells you. "He's out front."<br/>
<br/>
"He can't come find me here?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno, he just texted me for you to come find him. Whatsamatter?" he asks as you sigh.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing. Are you having fun?"<br/>
<br/>
"Having a blast. You been keeping up with Brownie?" He grins.<br/>
<br/>
"Is <i>he</i> having fun?"<br/>
<br/>
"The best." Laurent punches you in the shoulder. "Could'a been you in there, mackin' with Green."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Darren Green? The basketball player?</i>You wince. "I'm not into that."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not either, an'neither's Brownie. That's what makes it fun!"<br/>
<br/>
You have no idea what that could mean, but you don't linger to ask. You lope around the house—easier than fighting your way through it—to the front yard and glance around. There's plenty of people on the porch, but none of them appear to be Noah.<br/>
<br/>
You're about to give up when you hear a car horn blowing. You look over, and see a figure waving in your direction. Behind you, one of the football player laughs rudely. "The fuck is Lepley's problem?" You hesitate, then jog out to meet Noah. He is parked half a block away.<br/>
<br/>
"For fuck's sake," he gasps as you join him. "Is this normal?" He opens the back seat of a car and half-pushes you in.<br/>
<br/>
There's a girl back there. There's a deep shadow across her face, so you can't make out who it is, but she is very limp and still.<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?" you ask Noah.<br/>
<br/>
"I put that mask on her, that's what happened," Noah hisses. He pants like he's out of breath. "Is <i>that</i> supposed to happen?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "Passing out? I think so. That's what happened with Maria."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, for fuck's sake, how long is she gonna be out like this?" He gulps.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Five, ten minutes. When did you put the mask on her?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck if I know!"<br/>
<br/>
"Look, just calm down,. We'll wait five minutes, and see what happens."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus," Noah groans. "If I have to explain to my mom how come there's a dead girl in the back seat of my Buick—"<br/>
<br/>
Fortunately, he doesn't have long to worry. A subtle glow soon shows at the girl's face, and you catch the mask as it falls off her. You show it to Noah, who grabs it from you and snuffs and snorts over it like a bull. "Now what?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Check to see if the girl's okay."<br/>
<br/>
"I mean with the mask. You said something about—"<br/>
<br/>
"I have to seal it up before you or anyone can wear it." You hesitate, then think better of asking him who the girl is. "It's like a paste you have to coat the inside of the—"<br/>
<br/>
"You have it here?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, it's at home."<br/>
<br/>
Noah says nothing, but shoves the mask at you and climbs into the back seat of the car. A few minutes later you hear voices: soft, sleepy and irritable. Noah gets back out of the car, and with a narrow look sends you scuttling backwards. He helps the girl out of the car, and with her leaning on his shoulder they slowly make their way back to the house.<br/>
<br/>
You have a feeling that you're going to be wanted, and stroll around the street between the cars, wishing that Sienna would come out and offer you a cigarette so that you had something to do while waiting. <i>What a fucking waste of a party this is,</i> you reflect to yourself. <i>No, what a fucking waste of a partygoer </i>I<i> am.</i><br/>
<br/>
Noah comes hurrying out ten minutes later. "You still got the thing?" he asks. "Can we go get that sealant stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's at my house."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you told me," he snaps. "I'll drive."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's just as well that Noah wanted to pick that stuff up, for it gets you away from the party and home by your curfew. Outside, in the driveway, you seal up the mask for him, showing him how to do it. He doesn't wait to try it on, though, but races off, and not until he's gone do you realize he's taken the tub of sealant with him. You trudge upstairs and go to bed.<br/>
<br/>
You wake late the next morning—it's Saturday—and kill an hour or two waiting to hear from someone. When you hear nothing, you drag yourself up to your desk and get to work finishing one of the new items.<br/>
<br/>
That takes you until nearly three in the afternoon. When you are done, you are left with a metal band with Viking-type runework scratched in it. You lay it across the spell, and when  you lift it the page flutters. On the other side you find but a single sentence: <i>Teneo mentem alterius.</i> "To know the mind of another," the internet translates it.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't take much pondering to figure out what it means. If a mask copies a face and body, this thing must copy the mind and brain.</span></div></div>


path: 111134111133212111
author_id: seuzz
title: More and Merrier
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Hey Will," Laurent says as soon as he answers the phone. "You have fun last night?"<br/>
<br/>
You don't know how to answer that. <i>How do I say "Yes" without him asking for details about stuff I didn't do?</i> you wonder. <i>How do I say "No" without sounding like an asshole?</i><br/>
<br/>
Laurent saves you from humiliation by laughing and asking what's up.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I was waiting to hear from you—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I was just gettin' ready to face the day," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"You just got up?"<br/>
<br/>
He laughs again. "Nah, I just got back from my run. So what kind'a action're you lookin' for tonight?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Well. I was calling to tell you I've got a, uh, new thing to show you. For our project."<br/>
<br/>
"Cool, what is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's—"<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on a minute. <i>Ma!"</i> he yells, and it sounds like he's shouting at someone in the next state over. "<i>Ma! Yeah, I'm in—!</i> Hang on a minute, Will." <br/>
There's a rustling, and then Laurent's voice sounds distantly. You pinch the bridge of your nose.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, tell you what, Will," Laurent says when he picks back up, "can I meet you someplace? Or— Hang on." The line briefly cuts out. When he comes back on, he says, "I'll pick you up in ten minutes. Your place?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," you say, and drop into your chair to still your spinning head after the line has gone dead.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's closer to thirty minutes before Laurent's giant black pickup truck pulls into your driveway. He's not alone: Chris Ratliff climbs out of the cab to let you squeeze into the middle next to Laurent. You've got the book with you, and a backpack full of the supplies and tools you need to make more of those metal strips. But you feel shy about talking in front of Ratliff.<br/>
<br/>
Not that either he or Laurent seem much interested in hearing from you. They just shout and laugh hoarsely at each other over the top of your head on the drive out to ...<br/>
<br/>
Well, they don't tell you where you're going. Instead, they just compare notes on the previous night, with Laurent jeering at Chris about his inability to get close enough to a girl to get a mask onto her, and Chris jeering at Laurent about the girl that he managed to copy. Her name, you gather, is Mackenzie Fuller, and Ratliff wants to know if Laurent snagged her because he's hungry for Michael Wilson's cock. Judging by his laughter, that's the funniest thing Laurent has heard in days.<br/>
<br/>
The conversation leaves your skin prickling in embarrassment at being so completely ignored. Even when sitting between them, it's like you're invisible.<br/>
<br/>
But your skin prickles all the harder when Laurent pulls up in front of a large two-story house and kills the motor. There's a shirtless, barefoot figure in the front yard, playing a solitary game of hacky sack: Marc Garner, the captain of the school's soccer team. He grins and kicks the sack at Ratliff's head as Chris dismounts. Chris catches it, bounces it off his bicep, and tosses it back. Marc catches it in the crook of his foot and resumes playing without missing a beat.<br/>
<br/>
Short greetings are bandied about, followed by Laurent asking, "Brownie late?"<br/>
<br/>
"He had to pick up a coupla guys, he said," Marc replies. "Come on in. We got the place to ourselves." He catches the sack out of mid-air. "Mom and the girls are out shopping. Dad's with his buddies watching the Mets game."<br/>
<br/>
"Your dad likes the Mets?" Ratliff asks in disbelief.<br/>
<br/>
"And they left you alone?" Laurent laughs. "Shit, man, par-tay!"<br/>
<br/>
Marc squints at him over his grin. "I didn't tell Hannah I had the afternoon free. You got my undivided attention for whatever your deal is."<br/>
<br/>
Your heart freezes and sinks like a lead weight at those words. And only then do you notice that Laurent picked up your backpack as he exited the truck. "How much'd Brownie tell you?" he asks Marc.<br/>
<br/>
"He just said it was more fun than getting laid. Shit, man!" Marc laughs and pumps his arms in the air. "Doesn't speak well of Brownie's prowess, does it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, wait'll you see. It's goddamn close, though." Laurent grabs you by the shoulder. "Show 'im, Will."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The next hour is lost in hijinks. First, Laurent has to put on the Maria mask and show off for the astonished Marc. Then Marc has to have a go at it. Then Brownie and Noah arrive and pile into the house. They're not alone, either, having brought Ethan Nieves, another wrestler, with them, and he has to be shown the thing and have a go with it. Then Laurent gets to show off Mackenzie Fuller, who is a small-boned girl with a creamy tan, dark hair cut in a short bob, and a white smile bracketed by deep dimples, and Noah gets to show off Kendra Saunders, a gazelle-like cheerleader of Kenyan ancestry. The three girls entertain the rest of the crowd for a bit, and then masks are switched around for further fun.<br/>
<br/>
The laughter is still boiling over when Laurent remembers that you have a new toy to show them. He quiets the others and they all crowd around as you take out the metal band you made. You explain that you haven't tried it out yet, but you show them the book, translate the description, and tell them what you think it means.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck," Mackenzie (Chris) gasps. "We could find out if Mackenzie really likes Michael or just his cock!"<br/>
<br/>
"We could find out what kind of bubbles Maria's got in her brain," Maria (Ethan) exclaims.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit, man, get one of those on Mr. Muniz or Mr. Krohling," Marc says, "and forget ever having to study for a test again!"<br/>
<br/>
Brownie snorts. "Only <i>you'd</i> wanna use this stuff to get better grades!"<br/>
<br/>
Marc turns as red as a cherry tomato, but his grin is very white. "Well, we know what <i>you'd</i> want one of 'em for, Brown-nose," he jeers. "Get a thing like that on Chelsea so you can find out what Gordon's cock tastes like!"<br/>
<br/>
There's howls of laughter all around—including from Brownie—but if you're not mistaken, there's an edge of nervousness to them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Like yesterday, you feel like you're "in" the group but not "of" it. Your laughs are forced, and no one banters with you like they do with each other. Which isn't such a bad thing, maybe. You don't think you'd know how to banter back. But it does leave you feeling a little lost and alone after they go back to playing with the masks of Maria, Mackenzie, and Kendra.<br/>
<br/>
You're in the kitchen, nursing a glass of water, when Laurent comes in to get a beer from the fridge. He nods at you and asks how you're doing. You tell him you're doing fine. But instead of returning to join the braying, guffawing crowd in the living room, Laurent settles back against a countertop and gives you a long look. "Haven't heard from <i>you,</i> Will, what you'd do with this stuff," he says.<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "Same as you guys, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah? We're gonna hit the Warehouse tonight. You coming?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, then shake your head. Then you blurt out: "I've never been to the Warehouse."<br/>
<br/>
You expect to get chaffed, but Laurent turns a warm grin on you.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, there's a first time for everything," he says. "First time to wear one of those mask things. When are you going to? With us, I mean." His glance turns keen.<br/>
<br/>
Again, you hesitate. "I don't know," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
He cocks his head and gives you a very long look. Then with a soft grunt he pads out of the kitchen. <i>Well, I've fucked it up now,</i> you think. If you had your truck here, you'd probably bolt for home.<br/>
<br/>
You kill a few minutes with another glass of water before returning to the living room. Some kind of argument seems to have broken out, for voices are raised. It takes you a moment to realize that Marc's got the embarrassed grin of a cornered animal, and that his friends are, verbally at least, prowling and batting at him. "No," Marc insists from behind raised hands. "No way! I can't!"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure you can!" "Fuck that!" "Chickenshit!" the others yell back. "You wanna fuckin' die a virgin?" Brownie howls at him.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent whistles through his teeth. "Garner just needs someone to cover for him, is all!" he shouts. He holds up one of the masks, and his grin turns wicked. "So one of <i>us</i> needs to take Hannah for a spin tonight while Garner goes to the Warehouse with—"<br/>
<br/>
A great, roaring wave of laughter engulfs the room. Marc, his eyes bulging, protests wildly, but he's shouted down. "Who gets it?" someone yells. "Who gets to—?"<br/>
<br/>
Laurent's eyes lock on you. You know what he's going to say even before he says it. "Will'll cover for him!" he shouts over the crowd.<br/>
<br/>
All heads swivel toward you. The room seems to catch it breath. There's some scattered laughs, but some snickers too. <br/>
<br/>
"Will!" Laurent beckons to you. He lays his hand on your shoulder when you stagger over. "Garner wants to come to the Warehouse with us, but he's got a date with his girlfriend."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't do it, man," Garner says. His mouth is twisted up into a rictus.<br/>
<br/>
"He needs someone to cover for him," Laurent continues. "You up for it?"<br/>
<br/>
You gape. "I— I wouldn't know— How to— What to—"<br/>
<br/>
"You just need his face." Laurent shows you the mask and waggles his eyebrows.<br/>
<br/>
"But I don't know how to— How to—"<br/>
<br/>
"Neither does Garner," Brownie hoots. You feel yourself blushing furiously.<br/>
<br/>
"This thing you made." Laurent snatches that metal band off the mantle. "We can use it on Garner, and then you can use it with the mask. If it works like you say, then you <i>will</i> know. Well, you'll know whatever <i>Garner</i> knows," he corrects himself to guffaws from the others.<br/>
<br/>
You catch Marc's expression. Agony shows in his grin. Is it fear that you'll say yes? Or fear that you'll say no?<br/>
<br/>
Indeed, you could cover for Marc. But who would cover for you? You've got a tight curfew.</span></div></div>


path: 1111341111332121111
author_id: seuzz
title: Maker's Marc
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The pressure in the room is overwhelming. <i>Do it, Prescott!</i> everyone is saying, even if it's only with their eyes and grins. <i>Do it, do it, DO IT!</i><br/>
<br/>
Even Marc, you sense, secretly wants you to do it, though he protests.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, alright," you say, "but only if—"<br/>
<br/>
Your conditional—"only if Marc's okay with it"—is drowned out by the cheers and laughs. Marc turns a shiny red, and buries his face in his hands.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay! Okay! <i>Hey!</i>" Laurent shouts. "Shut up, you cocksuckers!" The hoots and hollers fade to snickers and snorts. "So, I guess we get to try this thing out." He pokes Marc in the shoulder. "And you get to be our guinea pig."<br/>
<br/>
Marc's eyes widen. "What? No!"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be a chickenshit, man. Will knows his stuff." Laurent winks at you, and you feel your own eyes go saucer-wide. "Rest o' you fuckers, outside! Back yard! Give us some fuckin' room to work here!"<br/>
<br/>
The others—Brownie, Ratliff, Lepley, and Nieves—haul themselves to their feet and swagger off, clapping Marc on the shoulder and laughing as they go. When they're gone, Laurent pushes Marc onto a sofa. Your own buckling knees carry you down into an easy chair opposite. "So, how's this doohickey work?" Laurent asks, and waggles the metal band at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Um, the book doesn't say," you confess. The color drains from Marc's face. "But I'm betting it works like the mask? You put it on him—forehead probably—and then—"<br/>
<br/>
Laurent looks down at Marc, who has gone a chalky color. "No," Marc says as Laurent pushes him onto his back. "No!" Your own stomach heaves as Laurent sits on Marc's chest and lays a palm across his forehead. The soccer player jerks once, then relaxes. His eyes go vacant, and his jaw sags.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent stares down at his friend. "It looks like that when you do the mask," he says. "So I guess that looks normal." You'd conceded it does, if "looks normal" means "looks like a drooling vegetable." "I hope it doesn't take too long to copy him," Laurent continues. "Marc's a bird-brain, but I assume even bird-brains take time to copy. Okay, now it's just you and me." Laurent fixes you with hard stare.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't fuck around, man," he tells you in a don't-fuck-with-me tone of voice. "You're just going in to cover for him. You're not going in to screw his girlfriend or screw things up for him. You get out of here without fucking anything up with his parents or family, you take his girlfriend out for food and talk and a little light petting." He stabs at you with a forefinger. "You keep her fucking happy with her man, and <i>that's all!"</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>But what if she wants her man to fuck her?</i> you wonder miserably to yourself. Still more miserably: <i>What if she wants her man to take her up the ass?</i><br/>
<br/>
"You be a gentleman with her," Laurent continues. "You know, the opposite of the rest of us." He allows himself a quick smile. "Then you come back here. Rest of us'll probably be out with Marc all night, so you'll have to cover for him tonight and in the morning, too. We'll text and fix up a way of switching you guys back tomorrow. Oh, and are you gonna be alright staying out all night?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. This is the point where you can say "No," by pleading a tight curfew and a hard-ass dad.<br/>
<br/>
But that would disappoint Laurent and them. "I can fix it up," you say.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent nods. "Boo-yah. I guess that's all. Don't worry, man, you'll have fun." He winks. "Garner always does."<br/>
<br/>
You gulp.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's twenty minutes before all the copying is done, for it takes ten for the metal band to reappear on Marc's forehead, and another ten after that for the blank mask to copy him. During that time you text Caleb and badger him into "agreeing" to let you sleep over at his place. You then send your mom a text telling her of your plans. She accedes to them, but with the warning that you'll need to be back home in time for church tomorrow. (You promise you will, even though you're pretty sure you won't.) Marc is still unconscious when Laurent hands you the mask and metal band, and with a clap to your shoulder points to the stairs and tell you which bedroom you'll want. Your feet are very heavy as you haul yourself to the second floor.<br/>
<br/>
Marc's room is almost stereotypical for a high school jock. The bed is unmade and the desk and dresser piled over with books and papers. The laptop is open. There's a soccer ball in the corner, under a shelf that displays half a dozen trophies of various sizes, and three framed photos showing Marc surrounded by teammates. On the walls are pinned posters of half-clad women in provocative poses with come-hither expressions on their narrow faces. A musty odor of sweat and dirty clothes hangs in the air.<br/>
<br/>
You plop onto the bed with a feeling of disbelief. <i>In a minute I'm going to turn myself into the guy whose room this is.</i> It will be only the second time that you've put on one of those masks. But you won't just be playing around with a foreign body, as you briefly did with Maria's mask, and as Laurent and his friends have been doing. You will be impersonating him. With his family. And with <i>his girlfriend.</i><br/>
<br/>
You shiver. That's funny enough to think about. But sitting in this room, on this bed, breathing in the odor of one of your classmate and raking your eyes over his trophies and pin-ups, makes it all the more vivid.<br/>
<br/>
You kick off your shoes and fall back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. You hold up the metal band. It changed after coming out of Marc's forehead. The runes are still there, but now there's a name to go with them, in glowing blue letters that seem to float over the surface: MARC DAVID GARNER.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes and lower the thing onto your forehead. Not until the warm metal touches your skin do you think, <i>I should have Laurent up here watching, in case something goes wrong.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake with a start, and come halfway off the bed before you catch yourself. <i>I overslept!</i> Then: <i>What a fucking weird dream!</i><br/>
<br/>
There was a dream, wasn't there? But what was it? You stare and blink and try to remember. <i>I was downstairs with Laurent and Brownie and those guys, and we were all laughing and having fun because Maria and this other girl were—</i><br/>
<br/>
Your head spins, and you have to put out a hand to catch yourself from falling over. You feel the memories approaching, like an engulfing tsunami, even before they hit you. And when they do crash over you, they shatter your mind, leaving it broken and clogged with the flotsam of another personality. You curl up into a ball, clenching your eyes against the pain of having your brain torn out of one shape and wrenched into a new one. You are left numb and gasping on the other side. When the world stops spinning, you flop onto your back and stare at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
That's your ceiling. It's Marc's ceiling, but it's also yours. Because you're Marc Garner. Well, half of you is him. And half of him is you. It's like clasping your hands together and twining your fingers together. Two people, completely mixed up with each other. <br/>
<br/>
Or like looking at the world through your left eye, then through your right. <i>Now I'm Marc Garner looking at the ceiling. Now I'm Will Prescott looking at the ceiling.</i> You sit up. <i>Now I'm both guys looking at the room.</i> The result really is like having stereo vision. The room looks and feels deeper, somehow. You see it as a strange and unfamiliar jumble of surfaces. At the same time, you see the depth of its history. The dresser that once belonged to a late grandmother. The trophies picked up in middle school and high school soccer. The vintage Elle Macpherson poster that is half ironic and half jerk-off bait.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh God!</i> You pale as you remember when Marc keeps his jerk-off rag.<br/>
<br/>
The strangeness intensifies when you lift your hands and study your fingers. They're long and skinny, exactly like your hands but also not at all like them. Your forearms are far too skinny but also just as skinny as they've always been. You pat your chest, and nobody doesn't regret the absence of muscle mass.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Well, we know what we can do about that,</i> tell yourself as you pick up the mask. This time, though you know you should worry whether it will work, you are quicker to put the thing on. Not because you have any real confidence in Will Prescott, but because Marc Garner doesn't worry nearly so much about sticking his fingers in things to find out what's in them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Yeah, that's looking pretty good,</i> you tell yourself as you admire your form in the mirror. <i>Hannah will like it too. This is her favorite shirt of mine.</i><br/>
<br/>
You're dressed nice and casual in clean clothes from Marc's dresser. Stiff, tight Levis, and a red, short-sleeve polo over a white t-shirt. Hiking boots. You flex strong biceps and rub smooth but meaty forearms. Your short, spiky hair is freshly stiffened with a dab of gel.<br/>
<br/>
Marc's cell phone buzzes on the bed again. You woke to find it by your side with a text from Hannah, asking what you wanted to do tonight. <i>Yor call babe,</i> you texted back. You stiffen with anticipation as you pick it up to see her reply.<br/>
<br/>
Your face falls when you read it: <i>Howbout warehouse</i></span></div></div>


path: 11113411113321211112
author_id: seuzz
title: Hitting the Marc
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You chew your lip as you study Hannah's suggestion. It's not really a surprise. Hannah loves going to the Warehouse, where she can get hammered on cheap liquor and make out with her boyfriend. It gets you horny just thinking about it. And temptation tugs hard at you. <i>I should totally take Hannah there,</i> you think. <i>Just to mess with Marc and his friends.</i><br/>
<br/>
But you promised Laurent that you wouldn't fuck around, so you reluctantly but firmly put the temptation behind you. <i>Besides,</i> you think, <i>if it's just me and Hannah, out somewhere lonely, she's more likely to—<br/>
<br/>
No!</i> You flinch again. <i>Be a gentleman!</i> And yet that's going to be hard to do when Hannah herself isn't exactly ladylike.<br/>
<br/>
You're pounding down the stairs when it occurs to you that maybe it's not <i>you</i> who's thinking about fucking around with Marc by going to the Warehouse or taking Hannah out to the river. You'd be too terrified to fuck around with Marc. But you get the feeling that fucking around with a friend is just the kind of thing Marc himself would do. So has the magic copied only Marc's memories, or has it also copied his personality? You'll have to keep an eye on that.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, where's everyone else?" you ask when you find only Laurent and Chris down in the living room. "Still in the back yard?"<br/>
<br/>
They only stare at you, open-mouthed, for a minute, before Laurent finds his voice. "No," he says, "they all took off already. Uh, Marc too. Figured it would be weird if, uh ..." He trails off as he stares at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, makes sense." You rub your nose. "Oh, hey, I just got a text from Hannah, she wants to go the Warehouse tonight. Can you beat that?" You hold Laurent's eye a moment, then add, "But I figure I'll just take her out to, you know, Panera or someplace like that."<br/>
<br/>
"How about you take her up to one of those places at Fell's Lake?" Chris asks. His eyes glint with mischief.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you! I'm not made of— Hey wait." You feel yourself pale. "I don't got any money! Or a driver's license! Did Marc—?"<br/>
<br/>
"He left his wallet with me." Laurent chucks a black wallet at you. "Cocksucker's a bird-brain but only mostly."<br/>
<br/>
"Sweet." You check the contents, and confirm it's stuffed with twenties. "Just can't go someplace too expensive."<br/>
<br/>
"How about Taco Famoso?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm gonna fuck you up," you warn Chris. "Hey, what's the time?" You glance at the clock on the mantle. "Shit, the girls'll be back here soon. You guys better get going too."<br/>
<br/>
"We're gone," Laurent says. Yet he hesitates. "You gonna be able to do this?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
You give him a lop-sided grin. He draws back a wary step as you swagger up, but you grab him by the back of the neck and mime ramming a fist into his stomach. Then you wheel and mime a roundhouse kick at Ratliff. He jumps back and tumbles over the sofa. "Jesus," you chortle. "It's been, what, five years since I took tae kwon do, and I still almost took your head off! And that was <i>Marc</i> who took it, not me!"<br/>
<br/>
Laurent grunts. "Well, just as long as you don't lose control with Hannah. Remember what I said." He shakes his finger at you.<br/>
<br/>
Instinct takes over, and you grab him by the wrist and bend his finger back. He gasps and wrenches himself free. "Fuck!" he exclaims, and stares at you. He glances at Chris, who returns him a wide-eyed stare of his own. "Okay, we'll get out of here," Laurent says. "You look like you know what you're doing."<br/>
<br/>
"You guys have fun," you tell them as you lead them to the door. "Like, too much of it, you know?" You wave at them as, muttering to each other, Laurent and Chris depart.<br/>
<br/>
Back in the house you puff and flex and ball a fist into the palm of your hand. <i>Fuck, how to keep busy until it's time to go pick up Hannah?</i> You kill a minute texting her that you'll pick her up around seven to take her out to eat, but that leaves you an hour to go. So you wander around the house, reacquainting yourself with it.<br/>
<br/>
It's a big house, and it would have to be, for it has to hold two adults and three rambunctious teenage kids. Marc is one of a set of triplets, and his two sisters, Eva and Jessica, are cheerleaders. They are all blonde, athletic, outgoing, and smart. (Jokes about Marc being a "bird brain" are entirely a function of his fondness for weed, and the kind of forgetfulness that would afflict anyone who has dozens of friends and enthusiasms to keep track of.) Luckily, the Garners make enough money to keep everyone equipped for fun and comfort. Downstairs, besides the kitchen and dining room, there's a large living room, a den, a study for Marc's dad, and a weight room that got added onto the back of the house beside the deck. Upstairs is a master bedroom and bath, two bedrooms (one for Marc, the other shared by the girls) and a large full bath with a jacuzzi and separate shower, specially installed to minimize fights for bathroom space among the kids.<br/>
<br/>
You're standing on the back deck, drinking in the lowering sun as it pours sunlight across the yard, when the sliding glass door opens and Jessica comes out to join you. "Hey," she says. "You're dressed up."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm taking Hannah out tonight. Where do you think we should go?"<br/>
<br/>
"To eat? How about Le Metropolitain?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pssh. Only if she's paying her share. What about Red Lobster?"<br/>
<br/>
Jessica makes a face and joins you at the railing. "That's not much cheaper and it's full of old people. Are you guys getting serious?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"We <i>have</i> been serious!"<br/>
<br/>
"No! Really?"<br/>
<br/>
"Go suck a soursop." <br/>
<br/>
Jessica shrugs. "I dunno. If you take her to, like, Panera, it's just a date. Take her to Outback, and it's, Will you go to prom with me?" She pauses. "Take her to Locarno, and you'd better have a ring in your pocket."<br/>
<br/>
"Osaka, maybe? Arriba?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ethnic's not bad. But not Mexican." She gives you a sidelong look. "Not if you're planning on <i>doing</i> anything afterward."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh God!" You can't help flinching at the image of Hannah Westrick, her tongue and tonsils coated in hot pepper sauce, suckling the tender tissues of your cock.<br/>
<br/>
Jessica sighs. "Well, whatever. I guess it's just me and Mom and Dad tonight. Maybe we'll play Scrabble," she grumbles.<br/>
<br/>
"Aren't you and Eva going out to Kelsey's?" Kelsey Blankenship's house is where the Garner kids (including Marc, before he started dating Hannah) have typically spent their Saturday nights.<br/>
<br/>
"Eva's got a date too, and I don't feel like dealing with Kelsey and Amanda. They've turned into a couple of real <i>bitches</i> lately."<br/>
<br/>
"Who's Eva got a date with?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jeremy. Richards."<br/>
<br/>
You keep a neutral face, even as you wince inwardly. Marc, you sense, hasn't got an opinion on Jeremy, who is a tall, loping center for the WHS basketball team. But you've got a grudge against him. He was one of your best friends back in middle school, until he hit a growth spurt and decided to be a basketball player and an asshole. He's now best friends with Seth Javits, who is your friend Keith's most devoted bully.<br/>
<br/>
"Are <i>they</i> serious?" you ask Jessica.<br/>
<br/>
"Eww. I don't know."<br/>
<br/>
"Why 'eww'?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I don't like thinking about <i>you</i> thinking about <i>them."</i> She makes a face. "I don't want you being a dick to him."<br/>
<br/>
"What makes you think I'd be a dick?" you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"Because of who you hang out with." Her voice turns ragged with impatience. "What would you think if one of your horndog friends tried going out with Eva or me?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'd cut their brake lines and invite them to go drag-racing out on Plumtree Road."<br/>
<br/>
"Exactly. You'd be a dick to them."<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes narrow. "Are you telling me that Richards—?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I'm not! I'm not telling you anything! Just because <i>your</i> friends are a lot of horndogs who can't keep their sausages to themselves, don't go assuming that <i>every</i> guy is—"<br/>
<br/>
"I know that!" you holler. "I just wanna know if <i>Richards</i> is like that!"<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't even know they were going out until I just told you!"<br/>
<br/>
"So they <i>are</i> going out together?" you exclaim. "Like, seriously-seriously?"<br/>
<br/>
"You know, talking to you is like talking to the world's dumbest parrot!" Jessica snaps. "All you can do is repeat back what you've heard, and nine times out of ten you can't even get <i>that</i> right!" She stomps back into the house.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Mm, you taste good," Hannah murmurs after pulling her tongue out of your mouth.<br/>
<br/>
"I remembered to use mouthwash," you murmur back. You're stopped in traffic, and Hannah took advantage of the pause to pull your face around and try sucking your tonsils out.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, don't tell me all your secrets," she retorts. She squeezes your knee, and you get even more erect. "Except where we're going."<br/>
<br/>
But you can't. You haven't settled on anyplace. Instead, after picking up Hannah, you've been cruising down Twentieth Street, hoping for inspiration to strike.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll let you pick," you tell her.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, no!" she laughs. "I want <i>you</i> to tell me how much you love me."<br/>
<br/>
"I  haven't got that much money."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you <i>are</i> smooth," Hannah jeers. "But if you're not just lying, that settles it, right? Take me to the nicest place you can afford."<br/>
<br/>
That would be smart. But there's another reason you've not picked a place. You spotted Jeremy Richards a few blocks back, and you're tempted to see where he's taking Eva.</span></div></div>


path: 111134111133212111121
author_id: seuzz
title: Dining In and Dining Out
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Are we going up to the mall?" Hannah asks after you've followed Jeremy a block up Twentieth. "You're not taking me to the <i>food court,</i> are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you like corn dogs?" you tease back. "With a dollop of mayo at the end you can lick <i>ah ah off?</i>" You gasp as Hannah pinches and twists a fold of your thigh.<br/>
<br/>
"Only for dessert," she retorts. "And only after you treat me good."<br/>
<br/>
"When don't I treat you good?"<br/>
<br/>
Hannah only replies with a side-glance and half a smile.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What the fuck was Laurent thinking when he told me I had to be a gentleman with Hannah?</i> you wonder to yourself. Hannah is easy, and Laurent knows it. Laurent actually <i>warned</i> Marc about her at the start of the school year, when Marc asked Hannah out. He told Marc about her reputation at Eastman High for sleeping with any guy with a strong pair of legs, and how she hardly ever went on a third or even a second date with any guy. <i>You can count on having fun,</i> Laurent told him, <i>but don't count on more than that.</i><br/>
<br/>
Apparently what Laurent didn't count on was Marc's ability to keep her satisfied. And it's not like he doesn't know that Marc and Hannah can hardly keep out of each other's pants. So how does he expect <i>you</i> to keep out of them, when Hannah can be counted on to make the first move?<br/>
<br/>
So preoccupied, you almost miss it when Jeremy turns into the parking lot of Sadler's Famous Steakhouse. You have to hook a hard left to follow him in. Hannah raises her eyebrows when you park. "Well, this <i>is</i> a surprise," she allows.<br/>
<br/>
"You want to go someplace else?" you offer.<br/>
<br/>
"No, it's fine. But you were making such a mystery about it— No, it's <i>fine,</i> Marc." Hannah pulls your face to hers, and kisses you wetly. "I'd love a good steak. Or surf and turf. Do they have molten chocolate cake for dessert?" She snaps at your lower lip. "Do you need to go back home and borrow your folks' credit card?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I'll just have a little bit off your plate."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll stab you in the hand if you try." With a giggle, she jumps out of the SUV.<br/>
<br/>
You have your arms around each other's waists as you swagger into the restaurant. Eva and Jeremy are waiting to be seated when you enter. "Oh my God," you exclaim. "What are <i>you</i> doing here? Was that you in front of us? In that shitty little red car?"<br/>
<br/>
"Marc!" Eva exclaims.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm kidding! How do you fold yourself up in that thing?" you ask Jeremy, who stands more than six and a half feet tall. <br/>
<br/>
"I manage."<br/>
<br/>
"You must have your knees up around your ears. I hope <i>you</i> don't," you tell Eva.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Wind up with your knees up around your <i>owww!</i>" Hannah pinches you in the side.<br/>
<br/>
Before things can get too awkward, the hostess leads Jeremy and Eva off to their table. "Who was that?" Hannah asks as they trudge off after her.<br/>
<br/>
"My sister."<br/>
<br/>
"<i>I know that,</i> you goose! I mean—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you mean the goose she was with. Jeremy Richards. He's on the basketball team."<br/>
<br/>
"I knew <i>that</i> too. I just wanted to know his name. Are they serious?"<br/>
<br/>
"I hope not," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't like him?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's okay. It's who he hangs out with I don't like." Before you even realize it, you're glancing around, then leaning over to whisper in Hannah's ear. "He's looking to <i>score,</i>" you hiss. "Make himself look good to his asshole friends by making it with a cheerleader."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God." Hannah looks queasy. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you, sweetums?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like what?" The question genuinely takes you aback.<br/>
<br/>
Hannah makes a face. "Look, I know you're her brother and all. But if you get any ideas about interfering— Well, you're not going to make yourself popular."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, okay, just forget I said anything," you reply. It comes to you that you've crawled out really far onto a branch that Marc himself doesn't even know exists. "You're right, I'll just bite my tongue."<br/>
<br/>
Hannah grabs a hunk of your ass and squeezes. "It's <i>my</i> tongue I want you biting," she murmurs, but breaks off as the hostess approaches.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You do bite her tongue, and you bite her in lots of other places after you leave the restaurant. You're in a flop sweat as you leave—<i>Where do I take her? What do I do with her?</i>—which Hannah thinks is very cute, which makes it more awkward for you, which makes you cuter, etc. You nix a trip to the river, which will be covered up with lots of other high school students making out, and wind up driving way off east of town to Russian Lake, where you park near the recreation center. You're not the only couple out there, but it's less crowded and you're not likely to be recognized. You and Hannah crawl into the back of the minivan for a lot of petting, fingering, and—<br/>
<br/>
Oh God. You strip down to your socks, and Hannah gets on her knees and puts her face between your thighs and gives you a blow job. You almost scream your fool head off as you come.<br/>
<br/>
You tell yourself afterward that it was Hannah's idea, and that she gives Marc an awful lot of blow jobs, and that he has never turned her down and that it would be totally out of character if you didn't let her swallow your shaft past her tonsils. You make sure to be very sweet and cuddly afterward, so that she is cooing happily when it's time to take her home. That way, if Marc does get pissed at you, you can argue that you were just doing your best to make her happy with him. And, after all, it's not like he couldn't have known that something like that was bound to happen if he let you take Hannah on a date while covering for him. <i>He</i> knows what Hannah is like!<br/>
<br/>
But your head is awhirl with doubts and fears when you return home. You are very quiet going into the house, for it's nearly two in the morning. But there's a light in the living room. You expect to see your mother when you look in, but it's Eva. She's in a housecoat and is curled up on a sofa watching TV.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey." You jerk your chin at her. "What's wrong?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing's wrong," she grumbles. "What do you care?"<br/>
<br/>
"Can't you sleep?"<br/>
<br/>
She hugs herself and sulks.<br/>
<br/>
"Where's Jessica? You two didn't have a fight, did you?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, we didn't have a fight. I just can't sleep is all. And I <i>hate</i> listening to her snore when I can't sleep."<br/>
<br/>
"You got something on your mind?"<br/>
<br/>
She closes her eyes. "No, Marc. Go to bed."<br/>
<br/>
You grimace at her, but it's a wasted expression, for she keeps her eyes tightly shut. You turn around and trudge upstairs.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The Garners have church the next morning, so you don't get a lot of sleep. The girls hog the bathroom, naturally, so you have to content yourself with a very fast shower and lots of hot, bitter coffee to wake yourself up. Marc's church clothes are pretty nice, though. Will Prescott wears itchy black pants and a white shirt, but Marc wears a dun-colored suit and green necktie. The suit is itchy too, and the tie constricts your windpipe. But there's no denying that he looks sharp in it, and it gives you a boost of confidence. (It also gives you a boost of confidence knowing that Anna Adams and Clarice Jones will be at the church, flirting hard with you even though they know that Marc has a girlfriend.)<br/>
<br/>
It's not until the break between Sunday School and the morning service that you answer your other phone—Will Prescott's—which has been chiming with angrier and angrier texts from your dad, demanding to know where you are. In the church restroom you text back from inside a stall, telling him that you overslept at Caleb's and will try to get home by lunchtime. You turn the phone off after that.<br/>
<br/>
When services are over you get a text from Laurent, telling you to come meet him at his house. It means breaking a lunch date with the rest of the Garners, but you obey. Laurent himself meets you out in the driveway of his dinky little house, and you are surprised—and a little ticked—to find that Marc himself isn't there, for you were expecting to undo the switch.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I asked you over early," Laurent says. He seems distracted "How'd it go?" Nervously, you confess to getting a blow job from Hannah, but he only grunts. "Yeah, I figured something like that'd happen. Can't be helped. But listen, I got a favor to ask of you."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh?" Your heart sinks—a sensation that you're getting familiar with.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent pushes you back into the SUV, then circles around to climb into the passenger seat. He's brought a backpack with him, and he unzips it.<br/>
<br/>
"I got one of your masks here," he says. "And I got home early last night, spent it and this morning working on one of those metal bands." He takes out a mask, a metal strip, and the plastic tub containing the sealant that you made. "I think I did it right."<br/>
<br/>
Your hand tingles as you take them from him. In all the excitement, you lost track of the book and other things, and it dismays you a little to find that Laurent made off with everything while you were playing the part of Marc Garner.<br/>
<br/>
"There's someone I want you to use 'em on. As long as you're being Garner here."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?" you ask through frozen lips.<br/>
<br/>
"One of his sisters. Or Hannah. I'll leave it to you."<br/>
<br/>
<i>The fuck?</i> you want to shout.<br/>
<br/>
It must be some kind of test. But what kind? To prove that you're loyal to Laurent by doing this ... <i>gross thing</i> ... to Marc? Or to prove that you're loyal and trustworthy by telling him to go fuck himself?</span></div></div>


path: 1111341111332121111212
author_id: seuzz
title: Hangover Sunday
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Why do you want me to score a copy of one of these girls?" you ask Laurent.<br/>
<br/>
He grins and shrugs. "Well, you know, like you said when you showed me this stuff. It's perfect for pranks."<br/>
<br/>
You feel your hair bristling, and ask yourself what Marc would think of this. <i>He wouldn't like it,</i> you decide.<br/>
<br/>
But at the same time: <i>He'd totally pull a prank like this on Laurent or Brownie or one of the other guys.</i> So ...<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, okay," you tell Laurent. You poke him in the chest. "I'll do it. But this is a <i>big deal,</i> so you gotta do something for <i>me.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know yet. But this is a <i>major</i> owe, and I'll think of something."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, sure." Laurent grins and starts to get out of the car, but you catch him by the arm. "So what happened last night? At the Warehouse?"<br/>
<br/>
He guffaws. "Marc got it on with Marcos."<br/>
<br/>
You feel your eyes pop.<br/>
<br/>
"No! Whaddayou mean? Like, how far?" You feel yourself blushing in sympathy with Marc.<br/>
<br/>
"Like, far enough that me and the guys figure he needs to feel a little hurt himself." He claps your arm and gets out. You watch him go inside before backing out into the street.<br/>
<br/>
So that must be how come Laurent wants to prank Marc so hard, because he went really overboard with Marcos Rivera. You feel yourself blushing furiously as you wonder: <i>What could Marc have done with Marcos and a mask that would provoke Laurent so bad?</i><br/>
<br/>
Garner and Rivera have been best friends since middle school, and they play on the soccer team together. Marcos is a self-proclaimed "swordsman," a lean, lithe, panther-like pursuer of girls and girlfriends. The son of a bitch actually has three of them. Three girlfriends! But Marcos is so restless, and so in thrall to a cock that bobs and ducks like a dowsing rod, that there's no way he could resist a pretty girl who came on to him hard. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Is that what happened?</i> you wonder. <i>Did Marc come on to him from under a mask? As Maria or Kendra or Mackenzie? And how hard did he come on to him? Could he have—?</i><br/>
<br/>
You have to gulp, and your scalp and face flush so hard they feel like they're on fire.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Could Marc have </i>gone all the way<i> with his best friend in order to pwn him?</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
If this really is about pranking Marc with a girl, it would be better to get a copy of Hannah. But Jessica is the first named target you run into when you return to the Garners' house. You're coming in from the garage, with the mask and metal band in a plastic bag you snagged from the recycling sack, when you glimpse her through a doorway. She's in the den, with school books spread out around her, but is tapping at her cell phone. "What's this?" you. "You didn't you do your homework last night?"<br/>
<br/>
"When were <i>you</i> planning on doing yours?" she retorts.<br/>
<br/>
"I 'unno. Eventually." You've no intention of doing Marc's schoolwork for him. "I forgot to ask, whadja do last night?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hung out with Yumi and Jenny."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah? Talk about guys and do each other toenails?"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up. Better yet, go shut up someplace else."<br/>
<br/>
"You are <i>tense,</i>" you tell her. "What about?" You get an idea and step around behind her. "You and Eva were snapping at each other all through church, I noticed." You set the bag on a nearby end table, so you can grip Jessica's shoulders and neck and start to knead them.<br/>
<br/>
You expect her to slap you away, but her muscles really are tight and knotted, and she groans and arches her back as you work. "She's mad at me because I didn't follow my own advice," she tells you.<br/>
<br/>
"What advice is that?"<br/>
<br/>
"About not being a dick about Jeremy."<br/>
<br/>
"You were a dick to her?" You grip and rub and work at her shoulders, and she rises to your touch like a cat being stroked.<br/>
<br/>
"She wasn't happy when she got home last night. Her date didn't go so good."<br/>
<br/>
"How so?"<br/>
<br/>
Jessica grunts. "I'm not telling <i>you.</i> You'll go and say the wrong thing to her."<br/>
<br/>
"So tell me how it went wrong, and what the right thing to say to her is."<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Anything</i> you say will be the wrong thing. You're the last person she wants to hear from."<br/>
<br/>
"Why, what did <i>I</i> do?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing. It's who you are."<br/>
<br/>
You mull this. "You mean it's because I'm her brother."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't take this the wrong way, little bro, but it's just easiest for us to assume you're wrong about everything."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, thanks. So, you're saying that if I told Eva that Jeremy's a great guy and she should see as much of him as possible—"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't for one freaking minute think you can use reverse psychology. We both of us know your idea of the perfect boyfriend for us."<br/>
<br/>
"And who's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Crispin Fontana."<br/>
<br/>
It takes you a moment to attach the name to a fey, floppy-haired waif with doe-like eyes and a taste for colorful scarfs. "Wait. Isn't he gay?"<br/>
<br/>
"Exactly. Hey, don't stop," she grouses as you pull your hands away. "That actually felt good."<br/>
<br/>
"You need a chiropractor. <i>And</i> a psychiatrist," you add as you dip into the plastic bag for the metal strip. "But just relax. There's a move I want to try on you."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God," Jessica gasps. "What are you—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hold still." You grip the base of her neck with one hand and reach around with the strip with the other. "I just want to—" You put the strip to her forehead, and she slumps where she sits. You let her fall half out of the chair, then drag her over to throw her onto the nearby love seat. Then you shut and lock the study door to wait for the thing to copy her.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"You have any problems?" Laurent asks you later when you call him.<br/>
<br/>
"Not until I got home."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened then?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm grounded for the next two weeks."<br/>
<br/>
After making the mask and memory strip of Jessica, you changed into some of Marc's workout clothes and went for a jog, with a backpack stuffed with clothes jostling on your shoulders. At Potsdam Park you hid inside some shrubbery, took off Marc's mask, and changed back into your own clothes. Then, with money lifted from his wallet, you paid for a cab to take you home. Your dad absolutely lit into you for coming home half a day after you promised you would. You ought to be upset, but enough of Marc's personality lingers in you that you don't particularly care.<br/>
<br/>
At least not yet.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh," Laurent says. "Is that how come you didn't stop at my place to drop off the stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I got caught here. Can't go out except for school, and can't have friends over. For two weeks," you repeat.<br/>
<br/>
"So you'll bring the stuff in to school tomorrow? Who'd you get?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jessica. By the way, how many blank masks do you have left?"<br/>
<br/>
"I 'unno. How many'd you give us?"<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes. "Well, do you have any left? 'Cos I need one. I also need you to make another one of those metal strip thingies, since you've got all my shit over there."<br/>
<br/>
"How come? Oh!" You hear the grin in his voice. "You're gonna use it on—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm gonna use it on myself, man. I told you, what I did for you today is a <i>major owe,</i> and 'cos of it— Well, 'cos of it <i>and</i> 'cos of me covering for Marc, I am in big trouble at home. Two weeks, cocksucker. I'm grounded for <i>two weeks!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Laurent guffaws. It doesn't bother you, though. <i>Jesus,</i> you wonder. <i>Am I finally getting used to hanging out with him? Or is because I've still got a lot of Marc left in me?</i> You do have the oddest feeling, the faint but lingering impression that you are <i>not</i> Will Prescott, but are Marc Garner wearing a Will Prescott mask.<br/>
<br/>
"So what do you want?" Laurent asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I want someone to cover for <i>me.</i> For two weeks."<br/>
<br/>
"No! Fuck you!"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, not for the full two weeks. But for—" You hesitate as you try framing an offer in your head. "Five days. To be named later."<br/>
<br/>
"Two days!"<br/>
<br/>
"Four. Two Fridays and two Saturdays."<br/>
<br/>
"Two days," Laurent insists. "One Friday, one Saturday, different weekends."<br/>
<br/>
"You ungrateful piece of shit. If I only get two days out of jail, I'm not giving you Jessica's mask."<br/>
<br/>
Laurent is quiet for a long moment. "I'll give you four days," he says. "Three on weekends, one a weekday. You get to keep Jessica's mask. But <i>you</i> have to do the prank we were going to pull on Marc."<br/>
<br/>
"What's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"You come on to Dalton Douglas, as Jessica. At the Warehouse. In public. Get <i>really messy</i> with him."<br/>
<br/>
You mull this. "How come? Is this about Marc getting it on with Marcos?"<br/>
<br/>
"Partly. It's also to fuck with Dalton. He'll think he's making it with Jessica, then when he tries coming onto the real girl she'll kick him in the balls. Marc hates Dalton, so that'll be the payoff that makes it okay."<br/>
<br/>
You mull it some more. "I'll think about it. Tell you tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"It'll be awesome," Laurent assures you "You'll see."</span></div></div>


path: 11113411113321211112121
author_id: seuzz
title: Everyone Wants You to Be Jessica
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You still haven't decided what to do when you go in to school the next morning. You're trudging toward Mr. Walberg's class, head down,  when you're yanked from the churning crowd. Instinctively, you flinch.<br/>
<br/>
But it's a friendly face that thrusts itself into yours. Well, it's a smiling face, at least.<br/>
<br/>
"Ay," the guy says. His teeth shine very whitely in a narrow, fox-like face under glittering black eyes. "You're Will Prescott, right? I seen you around. Say, listen, Garner says you're the guy who's settin' 'em up with those things. You know." He traces an oval around his face. "Things 'at give you a set of mommy bags to play with." His smile curves so sharply you could shave meat with it.<br/>
<br/>
You're long past being surprised when a new friend of Laurent's shows up to talk about masks. But you do make a mental note to tell Laurent to stop sending out invitations.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, that's me," you sigh. "And you are?"<br/>
<br/>
He blinks, as though surprised by the question.<br/>
<br/>
"Marcos Rivera. I'm buddies wi' Garner and them, they tol' me about those things." He splays his fingers. "I wanna buy five of 'em off you."<br/>
<br/>
Again, you sigh.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. That'll be three hundred dollars. Payable in advance." The other guys still haven't got you the balance of what they owe you.<br/>
<br/>
"Give the bill to Garner. Fucker owes me for Saturday night." He grabs you by the side of the neck and puts his lips to your ear. "Tell me you banged Hannah hard, man," he whispers.<br/>
<br/>
"That's between Marc and me," you tell him stiffly.<br/>
<br/>
"And Hannah." Rivera grins.<br/>
<br/>
"Did Marc tell Hannah about that? Or about these things?"<br/>
<br/>
"I 'unno. Pro'ly."<br/>
<br/>
"For fuck's sake. I gotta go talk to someone."<br/>
<br/>
"Five of 'em, man!" Marcos calls after you. "Give you an extra thirty if you have 'em for me tomorrow!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You text Laurent while waiting outside Walberg's room, but he shows up before you finish typing. You grab him and try hauling him outside, but it's like yanking a tree out by its roots. He follows you only at his own pace.<br/>
<br/>
"First," you tell him when you're away from the crowds streaming in and out of the school doors, "you need to get everyone to <i>stop the fuck</i> telling all their buddies about these things!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know," Laurent shrugs. "But the guys—"<br/>
<br/>
"You want the cops hearing about them? Or, I dunno, the fucking CIA? The <i>Russians?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Laurent rolls his eyes. "Okay, I'll talk to them."<br/>
<br/>
"You better! Second, Marcos Rivera just talked to me. He said he wants, like, five masks. And he told me that <i>Marc</i> is going to pay for 'em, on account of Marc 'owes' him. So—"<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa whoa! Wait!" Laurent holds up a hand. "<i>Rivera</i> asked for masks?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Five of 'em."<br/>
<br/>
"So <i>Rivera</i> knows about this shit too? Fuck!" Laurent grimaces at the sky. "Garner, you fucking bird brain!"<br/>
<br/>
"Is there a problem with Rivera knowing?" you ask. "I mean, I'm not thrilled about it, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"No, it's fine. I just need to kick Garner's ass. Kick <i>all</i> their asses. You're right, Will," Laurent says, and he sounds a lot more sober. "We need to tighten our shit. No one else gets to hear about this. I'll tell the guys."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you better tell Marc first, because Rivera says he thinks that Marc's gonna tell Hannah about these things, if he hasn't told her already."<br/>
<br/>
Laurent's eyes pop. "So Rivera knows that you and Hannah—? Jesus!" he explodes when you nod. "He <i>told</i> you that he knew? And he was okay with it?"<br/>
<br/>
"About me and Hannah? I guess he's okay with it. He was all, like, 'Tell me you banged her hard.' So I think <i>he's</i> setting up for getting back at Marc for whatever happened Saturday night."<br/>
<br/>
"Shit. Not much point in doing the thing with Jessica's mask now," he muses. "Not if Rivera's gonna handle it himself."<br/>
<br/>
"So you don't want me doing that thing with Jessica's mask?"<br/>
<br/>
Laurent pulls at his nose and thinks.<br/>
<br/>
"I guess not," he says. "Can you get her stuff back to me? And Marc's? Like, today?"<br/>
<br/>
"Tomorrow. I'm grounded, remember? Also, I want my own stuff back. You know, the book and the shit we use to make the masks. 'Cos if I'm gonna make some more of those things for Rivera—"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, we'll swap things back tomorrow. Laurent glares off over your shoulder, then with another muttered cuss word he turns back toward the school. You follow him inside.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Naturally, it startles you to see Jessica sitting out on the front quad with some of your friends when lunch rolls around, and for a panicked moment you are certain it must be one of Laurent's friends in disguise as her. Not until you remember that you left her disguise at your house does your heart stop pounding.<br/>
<br/>
She and Jenny Ashton, who she's talking intently at, get up and leave, though, after you and Caleb and Keith plop down on the grass with them. "What, do we stink?" Caleb demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," Carson Ioeger says. He's stretched out on his side. "But that's not how come they're taking off," he remarks of Jenny and Jessica's retreating backs. "Just be glad they are."<br/>
<br/>
"What's it about, then?"<br/>
<br/>
"Boyfriend trouble."<br/>
<br/>
"Jessica's got a boyfriend?" you exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Jessica's got a boyfriend?</i>" Carson mimics. "Don't get too excited, Prescott, or you'll burst your hymen."<br/>
<br/>
You clap your mouth shut, and the topic instantly dies.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're coming out of sixth-period Calculus when you nearly collide with Marc Garner coming out of another classroom. His expression brightens. "Hey Will," he chirps. "What are you doing after school?"<br/>
<br/>
"Going home. I'm grounded. On account of Saturday night."<br/>
<br/>
He nods, as though this doesn't surprise him, and asks when you will next have some free time at school, and jumps at the chance to talk to you in the library this period, when you have a study hall. He's got English, but he doesn't mind skipping. "I didn't get my homework done this weekend anyway," he says. You look away so he won't see you rolling your eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I got a huge-ass favor to ask of you," he says in a low voice after you're seated in the library. He leans across the table and puts his head close to yours. "About these masks."<br/>
<br/>
"And I got a huge-ass favor to ask <i>you.</i>" you retort. "Stop telling every-fucking-body in the school about them!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah yeah, it's done," he says, and waves a dismissive hand. "Laurent already yelled at me. Oh, and I'm totally good for the three hundred I owe you for Marcos's shit. Just don't give 'em to him early, I'm not paying for no bonuses. But Laurent also tells me that you, uh, made a mask of one of my sisters?"<br/>
<br/>
You go cold all over. "Yeah," you say, "and I can give it to you tomorrow if you want it out of circulation."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, hang onto it for now," he says. "That's the huge-ass favor."<br/>
<br/>
He looks around, then pulls up close.<br/>
<br/>
"Look," he says in a near whisper, "I'm in real shit with Eva and Jessica. I don't blame you for it, for anything you might'a, you know, done while— I mean, fuck knows <i>I</i> get in all kinds of shit with 'em without meaning to, or knowing what I did wrong. You have any sisters?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just a little brother."<br/>
<br/>
Marc nods. "Well, I hear you made a deal with Laurent," he says, "for him to cover for you a couple of nights at home. I'll make the same deal with you, cover for you a couple of nights so you can get out, have some fun. But one of those nights, you gotta do something for me."<br/>
<br/>
"What's that?" You skin is prickling hard.<br/>
<br/>
"Be Jessica. Find out how come her and Eva are so mad at me, and fix it with Eva."<br/>
<br/>
You feel like you've just been doused in a firehouse of icy water.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you serious?" you hiss. "You want <i>me</i> to—? Why can't <i>you</i> just find out from Jessica what it's all about?"<br/>
<br/>
Marc rears back. "I'm not gonna—!" He catches himself. "I'm not gonna, like, use one of those things of my sisters!"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, why not talk to her?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because by the time she's not too mad to talk to me, it'll all be over with."<br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong with that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sometimes her and Eva are mad at me for weeks! It becomes just fucking unlivable at home! Please!" He grabs your arm, and agony shows in his face. "You can use these things to fix things!"<br/>
<br/>
"Why ask me? Why not Laurent or Brownie or—?"<br/>
<br/>
"You fucking kidding? Put one of <i>those</i> horny toads in—? That's one my sisters you're talking about!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Thanks for the vote of confidence,</i> you think. <i>Thanks for telling me I'm some kind of dickless wonder you'd trust with a copy of your sister's body.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Well, how would this work, and what would you give me?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You don't agree to his terms, not yet, but they are tempting. Four days to cover for you, including a Friday, a Saturday, and a Sunday, plus a weekday. The day that you play Jessica will be a fifth day that he'll cover for you. He will also collect all the money that his friends owe you and pass it along to you. And if you provide him with two masks, he will fill them with the faces and forms of two people, subject to your approval.</span></div></div>


path: 111134111133212111121211
author_id: seuzz
title: A Switch in Time
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Holy shit!</i> Marc Garner is asking you to impersonate one of his sisters!<br/>
<br/>
You can hardly believe it. Laurent wanted you to impersonate Jessica in order to prank Marc—now here's Marc asking you to impersonate her in order to help him!<br/>
<br/>
It leaves you feeling a little nauseous. Your every instinct is to turn him down.<br/>
<br/>
But he looks and sounds sincere. His eyes are wide and pleading, and his smile anxious. And though the memories you had while impersonating him have faded, you do recollect, beneath his brotherly bluster, the sense that the opinion of his sisters is very important to him.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, okay," you mutter, and you feel like you've stepped over a cliff as you say the words. "I'll do it. If you really want me to."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck me," Marc gasps, and his expression relaxes with relief. "Thanks. I owe you, man!"<br/>
<br/>
"You owe me a couple of nights is what you owe me," you retort, "and a couple of hundred dollars! What the other guys are supposed to have paid me."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure thing, absolutely." He raises his hand in pledge.<br/>
<br/>
Then he scoots forward. "So, how are you going to do this?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You intercept Laurent in the parking lot after school, to remind him to bring you the book and mask supplies tomorrow. But later that night, as you're surveying your garage as a possible work space, you change your mind. You're already in deep shit with your dad, and he nearly came unglued when he caught you making that first mask up in your room. So you text Laurent: <i>Keep the book fr now. Need u to make me a mask and metal band thingie, give thm to Marc Garner assap.</i><br/>
<br/>
Laurent replies: <i>???<br/>
<br/>
Specal side deal w marc, </i> you explain.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ok,</i> he texts back. Then: <i>U bringign in marc and jessca thingd u made? *things<br/>
<br/>
Part of deal w marc,</i> you reply, <i>givng thm straigt to him.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And that's what you do the next morning, presenting Marc with a plastic sack containing not only the stuff for a "Marc Garner" disguise but for a "Jessica Garner" disguise as well, and you urge him to check out Jessica's memories directly to find out why she and Eva are pissed off at him. But he recoils in horror. "I told you, I don't want to get in my sister's head! Besides," he adds, "I'm paying <i>you</i> to fix things for me." But you continue to press Jessica's things on him, telling him to try getting them onto her again to see if they will refresh and update with new memories. He reluctantly agrees.<br/>
<br/>
So it's Wednesday before things are ready to go. Marc is loitering with Laurent outside Walberg's classroom when you arrive, and you can feel Delacroix's eyes on your back as Marc leads you outside. His backpack is bulging to bursting when he squats to unzip it. "You want to do the thing today?" he asks as he extracts a fat plastic bag like the one you gave him yesterday.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, if you can set it up."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll get Yumi or one of them to take Jessica off after school, go shopping or something," he says. "Then if you can get changed while you're up here at the school, you can ride home with Eva, talk to her. Go get coffee with her, do some girl shit like that."<br/>
<br/>
"And you'll cover for me at home?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like we said. I already told them I'd be going off after school with Brownie. Just get your gear to me. And I put my gear in my bottom dresser drawer at home, for when you're done with Eva, and are ready to be done being Jessica." He shrugs. "Then you can be me, cover for <i>me</i> at my house."<br/>
<br/>
He squints off toward the athletic fields, then gives you a sharp look.<br/>
<br/>
"You know," he says, "Laurent <i>really</i> wanted to know what I wanted that stuff for, the stuff you asked him to make and give to me. You know how you told him you were giving Jessica's gear back to me? Well, I think he thinks I wanted the new stuff so's I could copy Eva, too." He shudders.<br/>
<br/>
<i>It must suck,</i> you think, <i>to have two such sexy sisters, and to be </i>turned off<i> by them.</i> But aloud, you only ask, "So when do you want to meet to make the switch?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Marc can't afford to miss any of his classes, so you don't use the blank mask and memory strip to copy yourself until your seventh period study hall (when you slip into a boys' restroom to do it in a locked toilet stall), and it's not until the start of eighth period that you slip them to Marc along with an extra set of clothes that you came prepared with. "Things set up at your end?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
He nods. "Whole squad of 'em are taking Jessica into town. I told them to leave Eva out of it because I wanted to talk to her."<br/>
<br/>
"What happens when Eva and Jessica compare notes afterward?" you ask. "You know, when Eva thinks that Jessica was with her but Jessica comes home with a bunch of new clothes?"<br/>
<br/>
Marc grins. "Why do you give a shit? I don't. That'll be their problem if they wind up arguing about it."<br/>
<br/>
So that takes care of that, apparently. You skip your own eighth period class and trudge out into the student parking lot. Inside your truck you strip down to your boxer shorts before unpacking the things you got from Marc: a mask, a metal strip, and a pile of clothes. The metal strip has a name in blue letters floating over its surface: JESSICA AMELIE GARNER. <i>Amelie?</i> you briefly wonder.<br/>
<br/>
You give the parking lot another nervous glance around, then lock the truck doors and wedge yourself in the passenger-side foot well. Your keys and wallet you place in the driver's seat, for Marc to find when he comes out to your truck after class to change into you. Then you close your eyes, and press the metal band to your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eva gives a start when she comes around the back of the SUV to find you leaning with folded arms against driver's-side door. "I thought you were getting a ride from Jenny," she bluntly informs you.<br/>
<br/>
"Change of plans," you reply. "I decided I wanted to spend the afternoon with you."<br/>
<br/>
Eva looks slightly disconcerted but says nothing, and the SUV squawks as she unlocks it with her key fob. <i>Please don't ask me why I changed my clothes,</i> you pray as you go around to the passenger side. <i>Please don't ask me why I changed my clothes!</i><br/>
<br/>
"Why'd you change your clothes?" Eva asks after you're inside the cabin.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Stupid Marc,</i> you cuss to yourself. You cringed after you woke up with Jessica inside your head, and saw what he had packed for you. Bra, panties, and sneakers, yes. Also some tiny short-shorts and an XXXL Keyserling University football jersey that drapes halfway down your bare thighs. You look like you're wearing a burgundy-colored sack, some sneakers, and nothing else. "I wanted to be more comfortable," you tell Eva.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh. So how come—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Look, can we not talk about how I'm dressed? I didn't ditch Jenny and them so I could hang out and let my own sister could slut-shame me!"<br/>
<br/>
Eva gives you a look.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," she says as she turns the motor over. "So why did you ditch Jenny and them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Where's Marc?" you reply.<br/>
<br/>
She makes a face. "Weren't you paying attention this morning? He's off with Brownie and his friends."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that's how come I ditched Jenny and them. I mean, how freaking often do you and me get some alone time without our dear brother along?"<br/>
<br/>
The fact is, Jessica and Eva do manage to get a lot of sister-time with each other. After all, they share a bedroom. <br/>
<br/>
So Eva looks skeptical. "Alright," she says, and visibly tenses. "So what's this about?"<br/>
<br/>
You don't reply right away, but only watch as Marc—who, with the strange double-vision that those memory strips give you, appears both as a classmate you barely know and as a brother you grew up with—trots over toward your truck. He catches sight of you as Eva pulls out of the parking space. You raise a hand, and waggle a single-finger wave at him. He grins, and chucks his chin back at you.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Eva needs to figure out her own shit.</i> That's what Jessica's instincts were telling her last night when Marc got the memory strip back onto her and successfully refreshed it with more recent memories. {So maybe it's a bad idea to keep poking at Eva over a topic that's got her back up. She's had it up past her eyebrows with her siblings saying or implying that Jeremy Richards is all wrong for her.<br/>
<br/>
But while Jessica's instincts tell you to back off, you see a chance to further pry Eva away from a guy you still resent and dislike.</span></div></div>


path: 1111341111332121111212111
author_id: seuzz
title: Jessica Explains It All
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>He sounds like a real prize.</i><br/>
<br/>
That's what Jessica told Eva on Saturday night, after she finished grousing about her date with Jeremy Richards. And that's when Eva stomped downstairs to sleep, which is where <i>you</i> found her when you got home from your date with Hannah. The sisters poked and snapped and scratched at each other all during church the next day, and when Jessica tried to make nice that afternoon, she only made things worse by explaining why she wasn't that keen on Jeremy as a boyfriend for Eva.<br/>
<br/>
And it all goes back to when <i>you</i> ran into Eva and Jeremy at the steakhouse. <i>Was that you in front of us in that shitty little car?</i> you asked when you found them waiting at the hostess station.<br/>
<br/>
You'd meant it as a joke, mostly, because it's the sort of thing Marc would have said. Or, at least, it's the sort of thing he might have said. But maybe you blurted it out because you don't like Jeremy and saw a chance to jab at him from a blind. But it sounds like he took it seriously, and he complained about it at dinner to Eva. <i>Your brother thinks he's so cool,</i> she reported him saying in what you can easily imagine was a bitchy little whine. <i>Shitty little car. Where does he get off saying shit like that?<br/>
<br/>
Marc was just teasing,</i> Eva told him. But it put Jeremy in a moody funk for the rest of the meal, and there was no question of them going out to do anything together after that. So that put Eva in a mood, and when Jessica goaded her into explaining what was wrong, Eva bitched to her about Jeremy being a pill, and bitched about Marc being the one who had put him in that sour mood. Which—to bring it all full circle—is when Jessica sarcastically observed that Jeremy sounded like a real prize.<br/>
<br/>
You're almost proud of having screwed up so many people with one small, casual remark.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I'm sorry you had a bad date the other night," you tell Eva now. "And I'm sorry I said anything about it. But can things please be okay between us again?"<br/>
<br/>
Eva concentrates on the traffic, and it's a minute or two before she answers. You fill the silence by fiddling with the satellite radio. "I thought we <i>were</i> okay," Eva finally says.<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, can we please be <i>okay</i> with each other," you retort, "instead of being a couple of passive-aggressive bitches."<br/>
<br/>
Eva mutters under her breath.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I just gave you my honest reaction the other night," you continue. "And the way you were talking, I thought you were looking for someone to agree with you. You sure as fuck didn't sound like you were in the mood for anyone to stick up for Jeremy."<br/>
<br/>
"Pfuh," Eva says. "Maybe I was looking for a little, you know, sympathy?"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, so that's my fault for not giving it to you." You slouch in your seat and put your feet up on the console. Jessica has great legs—smooth, firm, and tan—and you clasp your knees and run your palms up and down your calves in a way that gets you excited. "But don't go around expecting to get any sympathy from Marc."<br/>
<br/>
"Why, what's he got against Jeremy?" Eva demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing that I know of. Like you said, he was just being a fat-headed jerk when he said whatever it was he said to Jeremy. So why don't you go tell him that?"<br/>
<br/>
"That he's a fat-headed jerk?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. And then tell him you love him anyway. Tell him, 'Marc, brother dear, sometimes you are the fattest-headed jerkiest jerk in the world, but I know you don't mean to be, and I love you anyway'."<br/>
<br/>
Eva almost swerves off the road. "Why should I do that?" she demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Because he's been moping around like a kicked dog these last few days. Haven't you noticed? We're both mad at him because he got you mad at Jeremy, and he doesn't have any idea what he did wrong. Not that you should explain it to him. God! Can you imagine how much he'd fuck things up if he tried fixing things between you and Jeremy? Jesus, I need a cigarette, I'm stressing myself out just thinking about it."<br/>
<br/>
Eva snickers.<br/>
<br/>
"But that's how come you don't tell him what he did wrong. Just tell him he's a jerk but you love him anyway."<br/>
<br/>
Eva sighs. "Okay."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you going to do it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ye-es!"<br/>
<br/>
"Good. 'Cos that's all I really wanted to say. You and me can get square later, but Marc's so dumb you can settle things with him now by just smiling at him. So tell you what." You sit up, look around, and notice that you're not far from Chris Ratliff apartment complex, which isn't far from where Lin Pol lives. "You can drop me off at Lin's," you tell Eva. "She might still be home, and I'll get a ride out with her to meet the others, like I was supposed to."<br/>
<br/>
Eva says, "Can't I come along too?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck!</i> Fortunately, Jessica's instincts carry you smoothly through the momentary crisis. "Wouldn't you rather find Jeremy?" you reply. You hate to suggest it, but it seems the only way out of the ambush you've accidentally set for yourself. "Have you even talked to him since Saturday?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not really, no."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit!</i> The last thing you want is to restart a relationship that sounded like it had died. But it looks like you'll have to risk it. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, maybe you should," you tell her, and try to hide the misery you feel. "Maybe you'll get a new, better start with him."<br/>
<br/>
Eva ponders this as she turns toward Lin's. "I guess I could try that," she says. "But don't you think I'd look desperate or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"No," you say, hating the word. "Just act like, you know, you want to be friends with him, see what happens." It sounds all wrong, even to Jessica's instincts. "Just show him you're not pissed at him from the other night. He sounds like he's kind of sensitive." <i>As sensitive as a wooden post,</i> you silently add.<br/>
<br/>
You have Eva drop you off at a 7/11, saying you want to pick up a Diet Coke or something, and that you'll just walk the rest of the way to Lin's. After Eva's driven off, you jog down a side street toward Ratliff's.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Oh my God!" Emily Sparks squeals as she dances with you. "It's like having a real, live cheerleader with us!"<br/>
<br/>
Of course it's not really Emily Sparks—whoever "Emily Sparks" is—who shimmies and shakes her booty at you. It's Chris, and it's a real change of form and face for him. Gone is the six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound monolith of blonde muscle. In his place is a pert, five-and-a-half-foot girl with a big nose, long brown hair, and a mild squint. Over a pair of baggy jeans drapes a black-and-white plaid shirt that falls halfway to her knees, and a black-and gray ski cap keeps slipping down over her brow and eyes.<br/>
<br/>
You don't ask who she is or where Ratliff got her. You just assume he cornered her at a party. What the appeal for him is you have no idea, unless it's that she is so exactly the opposite of who and what he actually is.<br/>
<br/>
It's not just you and Emily dancing to the old rockabilly song that Chris put on. Mackenzie Fuller—a. k. a., Noah Lepley—is here too, swaying and clapping and giggling as she watches you and Emily. Mackenzie is a lot fuller and riper than the other girl, maybe because she's wearing a bikini. Her boobs swell and blossom inside a couple of floral-patterned cups, and her thighs and calves are smooth and succulent to behold. Her tummy is a little flabby, but that just gives it flesh to dimple as she dances.<br/>
<br/>
"I <i>am</i> a cheerleader," you retort as you bump asses with Emily. "I'm more cheerleader than any of the rest of you assholes put together."<br/>
<br/>
"Brownie 'n Delacroix are bringing Kendra and Maria over," Mackenzie giggles.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," you sneer. "Why can't they go out and get someone new instead of the same old—"  <br/>
You catch yourself, but it's too late. The last thing you want is these guys running around copying every girl they can get their hands on. <br/>
<br/>
"What I mean is, what a fucking stereotype," you stammer as you catch Emily in your arms. She pants when she finds you holding and staring at her. Jessica is as straight as you are, but you have the urge to fondle and stroke this girl, and to kiss her. "What I mean is, way to think outside the box, Ratliff," you tell Emily. "I approve." You rub her in the small of her back, then push her away. "And I bet anything Brownie can't do a backflip, even in Kendra's mask. Bitch only does backflips in bed."<br/>
<br/>
Mackenzie guffaws. "Is that really what Jessica thinks?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure 'nuff. Oh, and watch this." You try to do a handstand, but that tent-like jersey Marc provided you falls over your head and face as you throw your feet in the air. "Hang on," you say as you gracefully fall onto your feet again.<br/>
<br/>
So you're stripped to bra and panties and balancing on your hands when Laurent and Brownie arrive. After they've recovered from several kinds of shock, you explain that you just got through doing a favor for Marc, and that in return he's covering for you at home.<br/>
<br/>
"So where are you gonna crash?" Brownie asks after he's recovered from laughing his guts out with delight.<br/>
<br/>
"At Marc's. As him. Again."<br/>
<br/>
"Pff, that's boring," Emily snorts. "You should tell Marc's family he's crashing with me." She grabs your hand. "Then we could all go out and do something! Jessica and the rest of the girls!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's the middle of the week," Laurent reminds her. "Besides, Jessica's a little to recognizable." He cocks his head and gives you a long look. "You can come crash with me, man."<br/>
<br/>
Something in the way he says it suggests that Laurent has an ulterior motive in asking you over.<br/>
<br/>
But maybe you don't have to crash with anyone. Now that you've finished your mission for him, you could get back to your place and undo the switch with Marc.</span></div></div>


path: 11113411113321211112121113
author_id: seuzz
title: The Girls That Guys Obsess Over
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You are only able to spend another hour or so at Ratliff's until the party has to break up before his mom gets home. You change out of Jessica's mask, but are forced to wear that giant football jersey and short-shorts when Laurent takes you back to his place. Only there is Laurent (grinning the whole time) able to provide you with less embarrassing clothes to wear.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He lives in a tiny place in a shabby part of town, where the houses look like chicken coops and the yards are stamp-sized patches of weeds and trash. But his mom is very cheerful, and though the casserole she provides for dinner is very long on pasta and short on meat, it is filling.<br/>
<br/>
Afterward, you and Laurent hang out in his cramped bedroom, whose floor is carpeted with discarded clothes, talking as he does homework.<br/>
<br/>
"So you got things straightened out with Marc and his sisters, huh?" he asks, for you only gave him and the others the barest outline of your mission. "What was the deal?"<br/>
<br/>
"Girl shit," you reply. Now that you're out of Jessica's mask, the whole thing seems very silly and stupidly emotional. "Eva had a bad date, and everyone managed to say something that made her mad about it." Laurent grunts. "I don't know if I made it all better, but if I tell Marc to just not say anything, then—"<br/>
<br/>
"Who was her date with?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Uh, Jeremy Richards." You must have made a face when you said it, because Laurent asks you what's wrong. "Nothing. I just don't like Jeremy. He used to be a friend of mine, but then he turned into a jerk."<br/>
<br/>
"You wanna get back at him?"<br/>
<br/>
"What?" The question startles you. "How? What are you talking about?" But the flesh up and down your backbone ripples and prickles with anticipation of his reply.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm talking about getting back at your friend. Fuck, man, you've played Marc and you've played Jessica. Prank your friend with a mask of Eva, and you'll have three of a kind."<br/>
<br/>
You feel yourself reddening. "I don't think Marc would like that."<br/>
<br/>
Laurent shrugs. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, you got your pick of faces to hit him from behind," he says. "Just put one on, get up close enough to cradle your friend's balls, then disappear. You know. Really fuck with his head."<br/>
<br/>
You demur for now, and Laurent turns back to his homework with another shrug. "Well, it's your loss. Oh, hey, if you want to do me a favor and keep busy," he says, "you can make some more of those metal dinguses. Your book's in the bottom drawer of my dresser."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Is that how come he wanted me to come home with him?</i> you wonder. <i>He wanted me to do some work for him?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Are they for Chris and them?" you ask as you turn to the dresser. "You know, they all seemed pretty interested in those things, after seeing what all I could do as Jessi— Holy fuck!"<br/>
<br/>
You stare into the drawer you opened. It's like a treasure trove in there. Besides the book, there's seven ash-gray masks and one of those metal doohickeys like Laurent wants you to make.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh yeah." Laurent grins. " I made up a fuckload of masks last night, enough so's each of us gets to have two to play with. Still gotta polish 'em, though."<br/>
<br/>
"And you wanna make a metal thingie to go with each of them?"<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs. "I guess we could. Though I dunno I'm much interested. Not me, personally. Like you said, some of the guys— And Marcos is definitely interested. He was specially asking for some, after I told 'im what they could do."<br/>
<br/>
"Why's that?" Marcos was one of the few guys who didn't show up at Ratliff's.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuuuuuuuck, man," Laurent says, and he rolls his eyes. "So, you know, I had an extra mask from the batch you made, and I went ahead and gave it to him, to keep him happy. 'Cos I told him I wasn't gonna be makin' him no half-dozen masks. He can have two, like the rest of us. Anyway, I gave him that mask, and you know what he did? He used it on his girl Cristina. You know Cristina?"<br/>
<br/>
You've been out of Jessica's mask for a few hours now, but although most of her memories have evaporated from your head, you can vaguely connect the name to an fat Hispanic girl with a great mane of black hair. "That's his girlfriend, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"One of 'em," Laurent says. "There's Trina and Alana too. And he wants masks of <i>all</i> of them."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay."<br/>
<br/>
"And he wants to get inside <i>their heads,</i> too."<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa," you say.<br/>
<br/>
But you are still not sure why Laurent is sounding so scandalized until he says, "I'm pretty sure it's 'cos he wants to know what it's like to be fucked by him. By himself, I mean. That's why he wants to dig around inside their heads." He gives you a very knowing look. "You know, so he can get inside the body of a girl he's fucked, and finger himself in bed while remembering what it's like to have his own cock up her—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus!" You jump.<br/>
<br/>
"That's right. Well, it's the only thing I can figure. I guess I shouldn't judge. Oh, all the stuff for making things is out in the garage."<br/>
<br/>
You stare. "And you want me to— to make some of those things for Marcos? Even though he's—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, sure." Laurent looks puzzled. "Why not? I mean, it's not something I'd like to do, you know. But if that's what <i>he</i> wants to do—" He shrugs and turns back to his school work.<br/>
<br/>
You blink, then get to your feet, and in a distracted state pad out of the bedroom and through the house to the one-car garage. <i>Yes, there are things to be done with these masks,</i> you reflect as you check the recipe in the book and put the ingredients together. But not until this moment do you realize that you've been avoiding thinking about them, and have been waiting for other people—Laurent and Marc and Chris and the others—to suggest them to you.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent is texting when you return to the bedroom with the book and the metal strips, and he continues to text off and on over the rest of the evening and into the late night hours as he finishes his homework and you scratch runes into the metal strips. But you are only able to complete two of them (the second with Laurent's help) before your host calls a halt to the work at a little before midnight.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's dark when Laurent rousts you from sleep the next morning. He has a date to go jogging with Brownie, and offers you the chance to join him. You demur, but have to get up anyway. Together you drive out to a convenience store on the south side of town, and Laurent leaves you there with his truck and his keys when Brownie swings by to pick him up. You drive back into town to find an early-hour donut shop, where you revive yourself with a coffee and glazed donut, but you're back where Laurent left you by the time he returns.<br/>
<br/>
It's you, Laurent and Brownie in the cab of his truck on the drive up to the school, and you finally find it easy to fall into a conversation with them about girls and tits and which girls' tits you'd like to play with, and whether you'd like to play with them from the outside or the inside. This at last gives you a feeling of really belonging in their company. (Or, at least, not being a weird outsider who is loitering nearby.) You share with them the theory you propounded to Chris, that you all should be avoiding the obvious choices—cheerleaders and the like—of girls to copy, and should instead pick up copies of some of the weirder ones, like that Emily girl. It pleases you to find that they seem excited by the idea.<br/>
<br/>
The school parking lot is practically empty when you arrive, save for the white pickup truck that you recognize as your own. But Marc is already changed back into his own face and form when he springs out to meet you. Laurent and Brownie linger and listen with vague interest as Marc asks for your report on your afternoon as his sister, but they soon saunter off, suppressing their laughter as you tell Marc what the problem is and was. <br/>
<br/>
"Just ignore it," you tell him. "They think you're a dope, and they think you'll do something dopey if you try to fix what you did wrong. Anyway, it wasn't <i>you</i> who did anything wrong, it was me." He looks mostly puzzled and exasperated when you're done, but he also looks relieved.<br/>
<br/>
And as for his time at your house, as you? "I did your homework," he says. "I think you'll get a better grade on your math than you usually get." You make a face as he claps you on the arm. Besides having a girlfriend, and being the captain of the soccer team, and being super-popular, does he <i>have</i> to better than you academically as well?<br/>
<br/>
You're miffed enough that, when third-period comes, you decide to skip your Career Planning class again and hang out with Laurent—it won't feel weird now—while redoing your homework so you can earn an authentic C-plus in math instead of the A-minus Marc has probably gotten for you. But as you're pushing through the hallway, you see Eva in front of you, and watch her turn and go into the library. <i>Is this her study hall?</i> you wonder.<br/>
<br/>
You pause. In theory, you know nothing about her love life, and have no good reason to barge in and start talking to her about it. And yet, how hard would it be to go in and casually join her in the library, and casually steer the conversation around to the subject of Jeremy Richards, and to casually tell her all the reasons why he is a jerk she should have nothing to do with when there are so many better guys she could be dating instead?</span></div></div>


