# chapters

path: 1111112212111111111111111
author_id: seuzz
id: R8LGWSJ7Z
title: Party of Five--Side Chapter
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>The next morning (a Monday) you are shocked to find a private message from Sean when you log in to stories.net.<br/>
<br/>
Titled LATEST CHAPTER it reads, <i>Aww, I wanted see Alfie get skinned and put on. Oh well, nice job anyway. Is that Ironeyes inside him? Guessing it is from way he crushing on Tanya.</i><br/>
<br/>
You dance about your bedroom with excitement, for you've now got exactly what you wanted. You have not only made contact (under a pseudonym) with Sean, you've got the set-up for a one-on-one connection with him via PMs, and it's entirely his own doing!<br/>
<br/>
Your hands are shaking as you reply: <i>Lol sorry man just tracking the webcomic close I can and this is way chronicstuss did it.</i> And you are buzzing with excitement when you get out of the shower, for you've got an idea that will totally solidify the connection between you. <br/>
<br/>
So right after breakfast, you lock yourself in the bathroom and apply the metal band to your forehead. Then, at school, over your lunch and study hall periods, you write.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"KIND OF A STEEP CLIMB," Alfie observed as he pushed his way up the steep trail. It was giving him a strain in his legs. It was a good strain, though, the kind that an exercise buff like Alfie appreciated. He was just surprised that Susie and Scarlett had been willing to make the same climb. "What made you and Scarlett want to check these caves out?" he asked.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, Scarlett checked them out before me," Susie replied. Her breathing was coming in short gasps, and sweat had popped out all over her face and neck. (Alfie grinned at that. He liked sweat on a girl: it smelled nice.) "Then she talked me into coming to see them yesterday. We came up a different trail, though," she added after drawing and exhaling a deep breath.<br/>
<br/>
Alfie reached out to take her hand. She flinched at first, and he thought he saw a quick, dirty look in her eye. But it instantly broke and cleared, and she eagerly grasped his hand and gripped it with a smile. <br/>
<br/>
He paused and drew her to him. "Wanna take a break here for a little while?" he asked as he put his nose to her hair.<br/>
<br/>
But Susie pulled away and tugged him further up the trail. "We got lots of time for that when we get to the caves," she said. Her smile was beguiling.<br/>
<br/>
So Alfie followed her up, trailing a couple of steps behind so he would have a good excuse to ogle her ass as he mounted. Every once in a while, though, when they came to a clearing, he'd glance about the landscape. The island fell away below them to the lake, far across which, through the haze, the shape of the mainland could be glimpsed. It was utterly silent, except for the whisper of the spruce and pine, and the rustle of their own feet on the trail. Once, he thought he heard something big moving through some brush on the hillside above them, and he wondered if there were bears or deer on the island, but the noise wasn't repeated, and he put it from his mind.<br/>
<br/>
They finally came out on a wide shelf that stood in front of a rocky outcropping. Patchy grass ran off in all directions about them. Alfie wanted to stop to admire the view, but Susie pulled him along. He was puzzled at the way she seemed to be leading him into a dead end, until he saw the dark crevice that split part of the outcropping stone away from the main body of the hill. Almost he quailed as Susie, her hand still tightly clenching his, pulled him into it.<br/>
<br/>
The light failed utterly shortly after they were inside, but a circle of light sprang out and played over the wall: Susie had brought a flashlight, and with more confidence than he would have felt, she led him deeper into the hillside.<br/>
<br/>
She began to talk, and very loudly too. The close walls distorted her voice, but Alfie was glad for the conversation, for it distracted him from the more-than-slight claustrophobia that he'd never realized he suffered from.<br/>
<br/>
"Scarlett says that Indians used to live in these caves," Susie said. "It was kind of a hideout for them when the settlers moved into this area. And they performed all kinds of ceremonies up here."<br/>
<br/>
"How does Scarlett know this?"<br/>
<br/>
"She looked it up online. No, wait, she got told it by those guys she met the other night, the ones that told her about this place. And there's a hot spring in here, did we tell you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and that doesn't make a lot of sense." Loose stones and soil slipped under Alfie's feet. "There shouldn't be any hot springs in this part of the state, or this high up in a hill."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, there is one. Hang on." She stopped suddenly, and the flashlight beam waggled from one side to another. "There's fork here," she said, and she said it so loudly that Alfie winced. "Let me think a moment which way to go. Oh right, this way." She let go of his hand, and plunged suddenly into the passageway on the left. "Anyway, they had these magic ceremonies—" <br/>
<br/>
She had been prattling this way for only a few more minutes when Alfie heard the rustle of feet behind him. He paused and squinted back, and just had time to make out a figure, dim against the deeper darkness of the passage behind, rushing at him. He was knocked backward, and strong arms closed around him. Someone—it sounded like Susie—yelped.<br/>
<br/>
Alfie froze in shock as he was hustled down the passage, and he scrambled to keep his footing and his balance. He would have struggled, but he was mindful of Susie, and he feared to bash her against the wall or stumble and fall atop her.<br/>
<br/>
Suddenly he felt the walls fall away, and the gloom fled from a rippling light. Alfie's head was spinning, and he just had time to make out that he was in a semi-circular chamber lit by a single torch mounted on a wall bracket before another man ran up and also grabbed him. Alfie tried to strike out, but he was quickly pinned between them and held firm. Arms and hands slid around him, feeling for a better hold, and though he writhed he soon felt himself gripped in a strong headlock, and was wrenched into an upright position.<br/>
<br/>
A hard, white light shone into his face blinding him. It then fell, to reveal Susie directing the flashlight at him. Her grin was nasty. "Well, here we are, Alfie," she said. There was a jeer in her voice. "Having fun yet?"<br/>
<br/>
"So which one is this one?" a man's voice growled in his ear.<br/>
<br/>
"This girl's boyfriend." Her voice dripped with contempt.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck. Where's Killer?"<br/>
<br/>
"Out scouting around," said another voice. "Cops are on the island."<br/>
<br/>
"God damn it. I wanted the other girl's boyfriend."<br/>
<br/>
"Tanya?" Susie snorted. "She doesn't have a boyfriend. But if you want Dougie—"<br/>
<br/>
"So do we just hang onto this one until Killer gets back?" the other voice asked. "Let him have this skin?"<br/>
<br/>
Baffled and frightened though he was, Alfie saw no point in asking any questions. Instead, leaned to his right, then made a sudden lurch to his left. He thought he felt his captor's grip loosen, but then it tightened again as the man grunted.<br/>
<br/>
"No, we're gonna have to do it now." There was now a strain in the voice. "Fuck it, I'll take his skin." Alfie felt himself lifted backward, and his feet came off the floor. He kicked and writhed as he was slowly shuffled forward.<br/>
<br/>
"That's only gonna leave two for Killer to pick between," Susie said, "and he's not gonna like either one."<br/>
<br/>
"Then Killer should'a been here to take this cocksucker. Get his fucking shoes and pants off, and let's get this over with."<br/>
<br/>
Alfie was stripped of his shoes and socks and jeans and underwear, then was thrown onto his stomach and pinned there as he shirt was ripped off over his head. The whole time he could only thing <i>What the fuck, what the fuck?</i> and wonder at Susie's bewildering treachery.<br/>
<br/>
He was then again gripped again by four strong arms and forced over the lip of an oily and evil-looking pool. The water closed over his head, and he was held under by a strong hand. He tried to struggle, but the water felt heavy on his limbs, and he had none of the necessary strength to ward off the knife that felt for his throat.<br/>
<br/>
Shortly later, after pulling himself from the pool, Ironeyes rubbed the streaming water from his new limbs, and felt up the hard, youthful muscles. <i>Alfie,</i> he thought. That was the name of the kid he now was. It was a fucking awful name, but it came with a good body: One that had scored plenty of pussy for the one born into it, and which would score plenty more for the one who wore it now. He stretched and flexed and grinned with pleasure all over.<br/>
<br/>
He leered at Susie as he slid Alfie's jeans up his legs and buttoned them over his swelling boner. "So, d'ju have fun last night, sweetheart?" His new voice sounded strange in his ears.<br/>
<br/>
She scowled back. "I just did it for us."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck you say. Seems to me you really threw yourself into it. I remember this one bit—" His eyes gleaming, he threw his head back and howled softly, the way Alfie had last night.<br/>
<br/>
"We had to get him up here, that's all, and it was the only way to talk him into it." She shifted on her feet. "At least the other's will be a cinch. Scarlett will work on Dougie—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah yeah." Ironeyes found a comb in his back pocket, and used it to wrench his new hair into shape. "Tanya's the one I'm looking forward to, though."<br/>
<br/>
He slid the comb back onto his hip, and seized Susie by the arm.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you're gonna tell your little sister I wanna fuck her," he hissed at her. "And you're going to tell her it's gonna happen!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At work, Sean notices you're in a really good mood, and he asks what's up, but you just shrug and tell him you're feeling good about life. He chuckles and shakes his head.<span class="fngigffkgfj3610"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122121111111111111111
author_id: seuzz
id: FPFDTJPSB
title: Party of Five, Chapter 15
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>TANYA WAS ON THE LAPTOP when Mickey came out of the bedroom. Dougie was lounging on the sofa with a beer.<br/>
<br/>
<i>No fucking way I can get the girl up to the well,</i> Mickey thought to himself. <i>The faggot in the Hawaiian shirt, though ...</i><br/>
<br/>
"Hey Scarlett," Tanya said when she looked up and saw Mickey.  "Did you and Susie read up on those caves before you went in?"<br/>
<br/>
Mickey—who had just finished a long session playing with his bare boobs—did a quick mental readjustment.<br/>
<br/>
"Pfft, no," he said with a gargling laugh. He settled on the arm of the sofa and tried to catch Doug's eye. "Like I'm gonna do research before I—"<br/>
<br/>
"They have a really creepy history. They're called the 'Skinwalker Caves.' As in, like the old Navajo legends."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." Mickey tried to keep a smile on his face as Tanya continued" "There's legends that people who go in can literally come out again as someone else!"<br/>
<br/>
"Sweet," Dougie said as he sipped his beer. "Maybe I could go in and come back out as Chris Hemsworth."<br/>
<br/>
"No, seriously, it says there used to be rituals up there to change people, to literally change their skins!"<br/>
<br/>
"How do you change your skin?" Mickey asked. His laugh sounded forced even in his own ears.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that's what the ritual's for," Tanya said. "The guy on this website here says that he had a cousin who went into the caves as part of this, like, Satanic party, and when he came out he was all different, had a totally different personality. Like he looked the same, but he acted like someone else. Someone a lot worse."<br/>
<br/>
Mickey laughed. "Drugs'll do that to you."<br/>
<br/>
"Sounds like the plot to an 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers' story," Dougie said. He pushed the glasses up his nose. "You know, if I was on the run from the cops and was looking for a way to escape—"<br/>
<br/>
"You guys have been watching too many movies!" Mickey laughed. "Stop it before you give yourselves nightmares! Anyway, I'm going to go check on the two lovebirds!"<br/>
<br/>
He started for the front door, then ducked back into the bedroom to slide on some flip-flops. If he was going to have to have a serious talk with Randall and Ironeyes, they'd have to hold it far from the cabin.<br/>
<br/>
As he stepped back into the hallway, he heard Dougie say, in a low voice, "Do you think I have a chance with Scarlett?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, honey," Tanya replied, "Scarlett is just a tease. She just wants attention. Don't make yourself crazy."<br/>
<br/>
Mickey smiled to himself as he adjusted his prodigious boobs to better effect, and thrust them out as he swayed casually back into the living area. He smirked at Tanya as he passed through, but all his thoughts were upon the boy. <i>I'll give you give you every "chance" you want with Scarlett, you limp-dicked cocksucker,</i> he thought as he gave Dougie a trailing stare and smile. <i>If you'll just follow me up to the caves.</i><br/>
<br/>
But first he had to talk with the others.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey guys, I wanna go for a walk," he groaned as he stepped onto the porch. Alfie and Susie, who were lounging in the lawn chairs, squinted up at her. Alfie was shirtless, baking his hard-muscled torso in the sun, while Susie, in jeans cutoffs and a bikini top, curled up next to him.<br/>
<br/>
"So take a walk," Alfie said. "Just be careful not to run into any fugitives from the Super-Max," he added with a smirk.<br/>
<br/>
"So come with me, help them keep them off," Mickey retorted. He shot a meaningful glance back at the cabin, then stepped off into the yard, rocking slowly on his wide hips.<br/>
<br/>
A moment later, Alfie and Susie had caught up.<br/>
<br/>
"Your 'little sister' is getting real smart," Mickey snarled to Susie in a low voice. "She's on the internet now, reading up on the caves. Skunk didn't say anything about them practically being a fucking tourist attraction."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck you mean?" Alfie said. "What kind of tourist attraction?"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean those fucking legends about that well and skin-stealing and all the rest. They're all over the internet. Oh, and Alfie's little weasel friend is already doing the fucking math. 'If I was trying to hide from the cops and I knew where I could skin someone and put on their face—'"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," Alfie spat. "So we need to do something about them."<br/>
<br/>
"So we take them up to the caves," Susie said. "That was the plan—"<br/>
<br/>
"That was the plan till you took this dumb ox out there." Mickey poked Alfie with a sharp fingernail. "If you'd got Tanya up there first—"<br/>
<br/>
"You heard the way she was talking. Besides, we needed to take care of Alfie, he was the only dangerous one. And Francis—"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you to knock it off with the 'Francis' shit," Alfie snarled.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, <i>Alfie,"</i> she retorted.<br/>
<br/>
"Motherfucker," he fumed. "I swear I'm gonna get a new nickname for this guy if I have to beat it into people—"<br/>
<br/>
"Shove it, Francis," Mickey said. "You won't have a chance to, not if those two back at the cabin figure things out before we can skin 'em. And that's assuming Killer's gonna gonna go along with being Susie's little sister or that cock-muncher."<br/>
<br/>
"Calm the fuck down, man," Susie said. "Killer's not gonna have a choice. He might not like it, but between that and going back to Woodson—"<br/>
<br/>
"We could always leave him," Alfie said. "him and Finn. Fuck, that's what he'd do in our place. Tanya's hot to get out of here anyway, we could totally drive off and— Christ!" He shut his eyes, and his face briefly flashed purple. "Tanya. I gotta nail her, and I don't care if—"<br/>
<br/>
"Forget what Tanya wants," Mickey said, "she ain't going nowhere unless we let her, and we're not letting her until it's someone else in her skin. Hers and Dougie's. Trouble is, I don't know how we're going to get her up there, not with her head full of ghost stories about witchcraft and skinwalkers."<br/>
<br/>
"Can you get the doorknob up there?" Alfie asked. "I guess I could talk him into—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I got Dougie all figured out, don't worry. I can get him up there and back before supper. But you two need to think about Tanya. She's your sister, 'Susie'!"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright," Susie grumbled. "But there won't be any trouble after we get Doug, right? I mean, we could just haul her up there, the way we hauled Scarlett's skanky ass—"<br/>
<br/>
"That should work," Alfie said. "And maybe before that, when it's just us and her in the cabin, I could—"<br/>
<br/>
But Mickey had came to a stop, distracted, for Randall's words had brought it all back, brought back the memories of being grabbed by an ugly, red-headed escaped con with a viciously disfiguring scar running down his cheek, and of being hauled, writhing and yelling, up the hillside into a dank cave, and of being thrust into a pool and held there as a knife gouged at his throat.<br/>
That was the hell of having the memories that came with the skins: you got to remember the change from both sides.<br/>
<br/>
It had been bad enough that he'd bolted the cavern when Randall half-pushed, half-carried the screaming Susie to the well, and he'd crouched in the antechamber as it happened, hugging his knees, even after a babble of voices told him it was over. Not until Susie, a queer, half-crazed smile on her face, emerged from the inner cave, did Mickey scramble weakly to his feet. His skin—Scarlett's skin—had crawled and itched the whole time they were clambering down the hillside, and he'd had the queasy feeling that the person next to him wasn't Susie, and that it wasn't Randall, either. That it was a bag of filth, animated by bugs and vermin that, if it fell against a sharp rock, would split open, spilling a mass of millipedes and spiders and cockroaches and scorpions that would scurry away like a living carpet. Not until they were back at the cabin, and the two of them were in the bathroom and he could feel the girl's warm skin against his as they showered together, did the awful hallucination fade.<br/>
<br/>
And now he was thinking about taking another victim-to-be out there. He'd managed to miss Alfie's "baptism." But he could guess how contemptuous Killer would be if he ran out on Dougie's.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if we're gonna do it," Alfie said, startling Mickey from his reverie, "instead of just bugging out without Killer and Finn—which I still think we should do—we better get started. Never mind the two back at the cabin figuring out what's going on, the fucking cops are gonna make a sweep of the cave if they haven't already. Which, if we're lucky, they've already done, and we won't have to even worry about Killer and Finn."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, then let's go back," Mickey said. "But first—" She stopped Alfie with a hand to his chest. "Lemme have the car keys."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck for?"<br/>
<br/>
"For the way you been talking. If I'm gonna take Dougie up to the well, I don't wanna come back with him and find that you two 'lovebirds' have bolted back to town and left the rest of us to the cops. Especially since Finn says you just need the knife and a good grip to tear these skins off someone."<br/>
<br/>
Alfie glowered but dug a hand into his front pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He slapped them into Mickey's hand so hard that he winced.<br/>
<br/>
"Fine," Alfie said. "But you get right to work on that little dick fluffer when we get back."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
A PM from Sean is waiting when you log in to post Chapter 15.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Whao!</i> he writes in answer to the side chapter you sent him. <i>That was great! Did you write this just for me? Thanks if you did. You should include it or adapt it and make it a story of its own.<br/>
<br/>
Glad you liked it,</i> you write back. <i>Just something to tell you thanks for all the inspiraition you give me here.</i><br/>
<br/>
You smirk after sending it. <i>He's definitely hooked now!</i><span class="fngigffkgei3610"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111221211111111111111111
author_id: seuzz
id: YD3KWLDJY
title: Party of Five, Chapter 16
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>The PM from Sean jazzes you, so although you've got homework you're able to push out another chapter before going to bed.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
DOUG WAS OUT ON THE DECK, relaxing with a book, when Alfie and the two girls came wandering back up. He looked over as they mounted the steps for the door. Susie ignored him, and Scarlett gave him a gnomic smile. But it was Alfie's attitude that bothered him: his glance as he went inside was cold and unfriendly as it settled briefly.<br/>
<br/>
<i>There's so much drama going on around here,</i> Doug thought. <i>I thought I knew most of what was going on, but I'm totally lost.</i><br/>
<br/>
He was still trying to wrap his head around that scene earlier with Scarlett, and wondering whether to try talking to Susie about it, when Scarlett's voice sounded nearby: "Hey, whatcha doin' out here?"<br/>
<br/>
Doug nearly came out of his chair. Scarlett had come out again and was smiling down at him. <br/>
<br/>
Her appearance didn't shock him, but he hadn't been expecting her, either. After that colossally awkward moment with the mojita—thank God those troopers had shown up when they did—he had been both dreading and hoping that she would come looking for him. Hoping, because maybe he could get a straight answer from her about what she thought and felt about him. Dreading, because ... Well, because the answer he'd get probably wouldn't be the one he wanted.<br/>
<br/>
But he hadn't been looking for her to show up so soon. Yet here she was.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, reading a book," Scarlett said, and Doug winced to realize he'd just been staring back at her. "What is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's, uh—" Doug closed the book and blushed at the title. "It's one of Tanya's. I was getting sick of looking at a computer screen."<br/>
<br/>
"You like to read, huh?" Scarlett pushed the other lawn chair toward him, until they touched. "I wish I liked to read," she said as she lowered herself into it. "It would make school so much easier." <br/>
<br/>
She giggled and rolled sideway until one of her bosoms just touched his shoulder. She brushed back a long, stray lock of hair, and turned a bright stare onto him. Doug stiffened all over, and he gripped the book tightly.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen," Scarlett said in a low but thrilling voice. "I know what people say about me. That I'm a flirt. That I'm a tease. That I talk too much about ... sex. And I couldn't help overhearing you and Tanya earlier."<br/>
<br/>
"What about us earlier?" Doug squeaked.<br/>
<br/>
"You asked her if you ... had a chance with me. And she said I was just looking for attention."<br/>
<br/>
Doug swallowed.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know what's wrong with liking attention, Dougie," Scarlett said. "Don't you like attention?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm paying attention to you now. Don't you like it?"<br/>
<br/>
Doug would have swallowed again, but his throat was frozen.<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway, it's not attention I want. I know that's what Tanya meant, that I'm just a— an attention whore." Scarlett's mouth pulled down into a frown, and she blinked. "And it hurt me when she said that. But I don't blame her. I know why she said it, and I know she means well. She doesn't think that I— That I could—"<br/>
<br/>
Scarlett slid down a little in the chair, and went limp all over. She turned big, wet eyes up at Doug and said, "I don't want attention, Dougie. I just want a nice guy. Aren't you a nice guy?"<br/>
<br/>
Doug's mind whirled. From somewhere distant he felt words coming to him, and he said them: "What about Brad, isn't he a nice guy?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, why are you asking about Brad? When I'm asking about—"<br/>
<br/>
Scarlett reached for Doug. She clasped him firmly by the back of the head and pulled his face toward hers. Doug just had time to think, <i>I don't know how to kiss!</i> when she had her mouth on his.<br/>
<br/>
He hardly knew what to do, hardly had time to think. He was only aware of Scarlett's warm mouth, of her lips and tongue pushing at him. He opened his mouth a fraction, and she was inside, sucking at his tongue. Rallying, he just had the presence of mind to try imitating what she was doing. It left him dizzy and sinking.<br/>
<br/>
Then she broke off and pulled away. Doug stared with dismay as she got to her feet.<br/>
<br/>
"Not here, Dougie," she said. "I don't— Alfie and Susie, they— Look, let's go off, okay? There's too many people here, and I don't want them— Dougie. Doug. Please?"<br/>
<br/>
It was probably the "Doug" that did it. He nodded, and Scarlett went limp with relief.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen, there's a trail head a little ways down the road that way"—she pointed—"and I'll wait there. You go inside, just be casual, change your shirt maybe, just tell people you're going for a walk. Then they won't—" She bit her thumbnail. "I just don't— I want to do this with you, Dougie. But I don't want Brad finding out. It would make things ... weird ... between the three of us. You know?"<br/>
<br/>
That would have changed his mind back, maybe—he liked Brad too much to want to screw up a friendship—except that Scarlett pulled at her bikini top, giving him a good look at her smooth and creamy breast. And she ran a tongue over her upper lip before turning away.<br/>
<br/>
Doug hurried into the cabin and into his bedroom, where he quickly exchanged his Hawaiian shirt for a closer-fitting blue one. He also changed from sandals into sneakers. Tanya was in the living room when he came out again, but he dodged her eyes as he murmured, "Going for a walk" and ran out the door.<br/>
<br/>
Scarlett was down the road a ways, but she turned off into the woods as Doug jogged up to meet her. There was a trail, as she had promised, and she was well up it as he turned onto it to follow her. "Hey, wait up," he called, but she hurried on ahead. "Just come on," she called back when he called to her again. "I want to get to— Just hurry!" <i>Just what is the hurry?</i> Doug wondered to himself as he puffed up the steep path.<br/>
<br/>
It was hard going in spots, almost vertical in a few places, and Doug's legs were trembling with exhaustion when he finally came out onto a wide shelf. He looked around with a frown, for there was no sign of Scarlett. Then he saw the dark crevice that split one part of an outcrop from the main body of the hill. <i>Wait, is that a cave?</i> he thought.<br/>
<br/>
As if in answer, Scarlett's voice wafted from the dark depth of the cleft. "Dougie, in here!"<br/>
<br/>
He halted forward. "Is this—? Are these those caves?" he asked.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah! It's the best place for— Come on in!"<br/>
<br/>
Doug made a face. He did not like dark, enclosed spaces. They took his breath away and made him feel like he was being squeezed and crushed. But Scarlett—<br/>
<br/>
<i>It's just like going into a dark bedroom,</i> he told himself, and plunged in.<br/>
<br/>
He soon lost the daylight, and he tripped and nearly twisted his ankle against a rock. "Scarlett!" he called. "Scarlett!"<br/>
<br/>
"Where are you, Dougie?" she called, sounding very far off.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know! Where are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just stay where you are!" she called back. "Don't get lost, I'll come back and get you!"<br/>
<br/>
"How can you see in here?" he shouted back, but there was no answer. "Scarlett!" he called again. "Scarlett!"<br/>
<br/>
It felt like an hour before he heard footsteps, and he called her name again. She answered with a giggle.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, it's me," she said. "I went off to get a flashlight."<br/>
<br/>
"Flashlight?" Doug asked. "Where did you—?"<br/>
<br/>
Suddenly her face bumped into his, and he felt her groping mouth. He reached out to touch her, and his palm closed onto a naked breast. With wonderment, he ran his palm down her naked belly to her naked hip.<br/>
<br/>
"That's right," Scarlett whispered as she closed an arm around his neck. "I dropped all my clothes off back in— Oh, Dougie, I want you to do me! Right here, right now! Take off your own—!"<br/>
<br/>
He didn't need another suggestion. As she slipped from his grasp he tore at the buttons of his shirt while kicking off his shoes. He slid off his khaki shorts and boxers, and was just starting to tug his t-shirt off a bright, white light broke into his face. He squinted and raised a hand to ward off the glare. In its dim penumbra he saw Scarlett, sprawling on the cave floor, grinning up at him.<br/>
<br/>
Then he saw that she was actually grinning at something behind him. He heard a rustle of feet, and whirled.<br/>
<br/>
A man in a rough blue work shirt and pants was standing just behind him. His black eyes glittered in the flashlight beam, and his long, lank hair fell past his shoulders. His expression was hungry.<br/>
<br/>
Doug just had time to recognize the face he had seen in the photographs before the man raised a knife and slid it across his own throat. Then, as Doug gaped, he pushed his fingers up inside a gaping wound on his neck, and pushed the skin out. His features seemed to bubble and lose their shape as he pulled the skin loose, tearing it up and over the top of his head to reveal a quite different face beneath.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sean has left a comment on the previous chapter when you log in to publish: <i>Nice! I like seeing some of it from the side of the convicts who are doing it,</i> though another commenter is confused and asks, <i>Wait, so who is in which body?</i> You answer his question, and retire happily to bed.<span class="fnhfmnfeefnj3711"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112212111111111111111111
author_id: seuzz
id: D97NNYG88
title: Party of Five, Chapter 17
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>There's a gratifyingly large number of comments (well, four) on your last chapter when you log in at lunch. One is from Sean, congratulating you on the overall quality of the story, while the others (no less pleasing for being short) re just exclamations about how creepy the final moment in the previous chapter was. During study hall, writing as if you had a gun to your head, you are able to push out another.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
THE FRONT DOOR TO THE CABIN was just closing as Tanya parked the car. She killed the headlamps and waited for the porch light to come on. She muttered, "Figures" to herself when it didn't. She grabbed the sack of groceries and got out.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you doing?" Alfie had snapped when she'd asked Susie for the extra set of car keys; then, "I wasn't talking to you!" when Tanya said she wanted to drive down to the corner grocery to pick up some milk. Tanya had the impression he wanted to grab the keys back from her after Susie had handed them over.<br/>
<br/>
He had been in a weird mood ever since he and Susie got back from the caves. The two of them had spent most of the day hiding out in the bedroom behind a closed door, but there had been no frolicsome noises as there'd been last night, and when Alfie (shirtless) emerged to raid the refrigerator, there'd been a sour look on his face, and he'd turned a hard, cold, and searching eye on Tanya as he popped the top off a beer. After chugging back most of it while holding her eye, he'd belched and said, "That wasn't very sexy of me," and when she shrugged he'd said, "But I bet you'd like to give me a chance anyway." She'd suppressed a shudder and gone outside.<br/>
<br/>
Tanya wondered if it was on account of those escaped convicts. Maybe Susie and Scarlett are putting the screws on him to leave the island early, and Alfie was just upset at having to cut the vacation short, and not just letting his inner douchebag show. God, she hoped that's what it was. In fact, it was for news of the escapees that she had really gone down to the store. One of the deputies near the ferry had brusquely informed her that there had been no further developments.<br/>
<br/>
Tanya made a point of putting on the porch light when she went in, and locked the door behind her. The living room was empty as she crossed to the kitchen, but she heard voices from down the hall. After putting the milk away, she went in search of the others.<br/>
<br/>
The voices were coming from the master bedroom, whose door was open. "There's other people on the island, you know," she heard Susie say.<br/>
<br/>
"We don't have time and we don't have a choice." That was Doug, and there was a hard, impatient tone in his voice that Tanya didn't recall ever hearing before. "Killer says we have to finish this tonight. The cops are just too close."<br/>
<br/>
"Alfie says we should fuck Killer over," Susie said. Her tone was ugly and sneering. "Leave him up in the caves for the cops to find."<br/>
<br/>
"I only said it that one time, right after the cops came by," Alfie retorted in a cold voice. "And I also told you we're cutting out that 'Alfie' shit. When we get to town you guys are gonna start calling me—"<br/>
<br/>
"Were you going to fuck me over too?" Doug said. His voice was hard. "Sounds like you were, when you had that fucking brain wave—"<br/>
<br/>
"You'd'a found someone else to skin. Don't tell me you're in love the one you walked back here in."<br/>
<br/>
"I can do something with it."<br/>
<br/>
"And Killer's gonna have to do something with that hot little number we're gonna be bringing him. God <i>damn</i> it!" Alfie's voice was haggard. "He's waited this long, he can wait until I—"<br/>
<br/>
All of this passed faster than Tanya could process, and was so absorbed that she didn't hear the bathroom door open behind her. <br/>
<br/>
She jumped, though, at Scarlett's voice: "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop?"<br/>
<br/>
Tanya whirled, her mouth agape. Scarlett stood there with a leering smile twisted onto her face. Her shirt was open and her bra was missing, so that her boobs bobbed free. Their tips were swollen and red.<br/>
<br/>
Footsteps sounded behind, and Tanya whirled again as Alfie—a fell expression on his face—and Doug piled into the hallway. They glowered at her.<br/>
<br/>
Tanya stepped back, staring with mounting horror.<br/>
<br/>
"Who?" she stammered. "What—?"<br/>
<br/>
She flinched and came to life, though, when she felt Scarlett's fingers on her arm. She tore away and ran for the front door.<br/>
<br/>
Feet pounded behind, and a cry tore from her throat as she felt a hand grabbing for her. She banged into the front door, sobbing as she tried to pull it open, but vise-like arms were about her, and she was wrenched around and held tightly. A hot breath enveloped the side of her neck as she was lifted off her feet, and her glasses tumbled off. But she could still make out the faces of Doug, Scarlett, and Susie as they clustered in front of her.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, well," Susie gloated. "And just where did you think you were running off to, 'little sis'?"<br/>
<br/>
Alfie gripped her tight while the others fetched clothesline from a drawer to bind her ankles and wrists, and a t-shirt, torn into rags, was rudely stuffed into her mouth and bound there with a gag. Then she was thrown face down onto the sofa and Susie sat on her, pinning her down by the neck with one hand, while the others argued over what to do with her.<br/>
<br/>
<i>We have to take her to the caves.</i> On that they agreed. Also, that "Killer" would have to make do with her skin. What troubled them, though, was how to get her out of the cabin without being seen and stopped.<br/>
<br/>
Cold sweat poured off Tanya as she groped to the only, though horrible, conclusion that made sense. These were not her friends. These were the convicts who had escaped from the Super-Max prison. They had been hiding in Skinwalker Cave, and—Tanya nearly vomited as she struggled both to frame and avoid the thought—they had killed her friends and her sister and were now wearing their skins.<br/>
<br/>
And she would be next. Though, terrible as that was, it hardly seemed worse than what she now knew had already befallen the others.<br/>
<br/>
They finally agreed that they would take her out after it had gotten darker, and that they would drive her in the SUV to the base of a different trailhead, which would be  an easier route up to the caves. Doug—or rather, the one who now wore Doug's face and skin—was the last holdout to this plan, for he warned that he and Killer had seen the cops exploring that trail earlier in the day, and that it might still be under surveillance. Alfie cursed him out hard, saying that if he wanted to take the safer but harder route, then he could be the one to haul her ass up the face of a cliff.<br/>
<br/>
Tanya struggled when they moved her into the back of the SUV, but it did no good, and she tried shutting her mind against the horror that she knew was to come as the car growled up the road. Please let the cops find me, please let them find me, she prayed, though she also wondered how she could convince them as to the truth of the situation if they did stop the others. But the trail turned out to be deserted, and Alfie carried her, slung like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder, up a dark and steep trail.<br/>
<br/>
It was pitch black inside the caves, and Tanya, jostling on Alfie's shoulder, couldn't even make out the floor. Eventually they came into a room lit by torchlight, and she was flung onto the floor. She blinked up through the last of her tears into the leering faces that clustered over her.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," spat the older man standing in their midst. He had a hard, ugly face, whose skin was stretched tight over his bones, and black, oily hair. "This is what you brought me?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not like we had a fucking choice, man," Alfie spat. "Five of them and five of us, and she's the last. Besides, she overheard us talking back at the cabin, she knows everything that's going on."<br/>
<br/>
"Gimme your skin, then," the man growled. "It should'a been mine anyway."<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, we can't do that, Killer," Doug said. "After you tear a skin off, no one can wear it again. And we don't have time to find you another one. Cops'll probably come searching this place in the morning."<br/>
<br/>
The one called Killer cursed again.<br/>
<br/>
"Well then," he said, "prep our little coney for skinning." He turned away with obvious disgust. "Maybe I'll use her to get a better skin later."<br/>
<br/>
Tanya was flipped onto her face, and the cords binding her were sliced away. Her arms and legs were frozen and numb, though, so she could only shiver and and shake all over as her clothes were stripped from her. She did let out one last scream, however, as she was lifted and dropped into a pool of water. It filled her mouth and lungs, and she was shuddering with one last, racking cough when the knife slid across the front of her throat.<br/>
<br/>
Ten minutes later Killer was binding hislong, thick tresses back into a ponytail. That done, he shook his new boobs to settle them, and pulled his tight t-shirt so it bound more comfortably to the curves of his breasts and belly. Doug, with a twitching smile, handed him a pair of slanty-eyed glasses, which he slid on.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, boys and girls," he purred. "The cops want everyone off the island. And who are a bunch of law-abiding little lambs like us to argue?"<br/>
<br/>
He twirled and on swaying hips marched for the cave exit; the others, grinning to each other, trailed behind.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At work, you notice Sean checking his phone a couple of times, but you resist the urge to ask what he's checking up on. It's probably not your story, and he wouldn't tell you if he was.<span class="fngigffkgeh3610"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122121111111111111111111
author_id: seuzz
id: TJWWNP6LX
title: Party of Five, Chapter 18
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>You had planned on writing two more chapters, showing the escape from the island, and then an epilogue. But your "writing gut" (though technically it is Sean's writing gut, you suppose) tells you to polish it off in one. Besides, the story just has one more detail to add in order to accomplish its purpose, and you're impatient to wind it down.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
DEPUTY ROBERT DONOVAN cussed to himself as the SUV rolled to a stop before his outstretched hand. He remembered this car, and he remembered the high schoolers that went with it.<br/>
<br/>
There were no "islanders," strictly speaking, in Saginac, for no one was ever born on the island. But everyone in one way or another identified with it.<br/>
<br/>
So like almost everyone who grew up in a tourist destination, Donovan nursed a cordial dislike of outsiders.<br/>
<br/>
And these five were something special on top of it.<br/>
<br/>
"Morning, officer," said the tow-headed kid who was driving. He was shirtless, and his hard-muscled shoulders were lightly filmed with perspiration. "You catch those guys yet?" He grinned, and there was a light sneer in his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"And what takes you off the island this morning?" Donovan asked. His eye roved past the driver to the other occupants of the car. A blonde girl, her hair done in two ponytails that trailed down the side of her head, smirked at him from the passenger-side seat; in the back, a boy with brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses was relaxing between a lithe, tawny-headed girl and a bosomy brunette: his arms were thrown casually around their shoulders. All three gave him variations on the cheeky smiles of the two up front. "Running into town for supplies?" he added, disliking these kids the more he looked at them.<br/>
<br/>
"No," said the blonde in the passenger seat. "We're taking your advice, officer." Her voice was sweet and honeyed, but she was laughing at him behind her smile, he could tell. "Getting off the island before those convicts can murder us in our sleep."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God," groaned the brunette in the back. "I had nightmares last night!"<br/>
<br/>
"You got everything you brought with you?" Donovan asked. "Didn't leave anything behind?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why?" The driver sniggered. "You not gonna let us back on the island after we go?"<br/>
<br/>
Donovan skipped over the insolent question. "Where you kids from?" <br/>
<br/>
There was a momentary pause, and the driver looked taken aback. "Saratoga Falls," he stammered. "We were here on spring break."<br/>
<br/>
"Was that your cabin?"<br/>
<br/>
"It belongs to a friend of a friend of ours." His gaze turned hooded. "What's with the questions?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just get on the ferry."<br/>
<br/>
The driver's expression briefly darkened, and he squinted sidelong at Donovan as he touched the gas and slowly pushed the SUV forward. Donovan glanced over at the pilot house; Wasson, at the wheel, gave him a thumb's up and started to lower the gate. Donovan hesitated, then leaped over onto the ferry. He crooked his neck to speak into the mike at his shoulder. "Ray, I'm going ashore, will come back with it. Over."<br/>
<br/>
He stalked past the SUV on his way to the front, and he almost expected a brawny hand to come out and slap him. There were three other cars being taken, and he glanced over their occupants again. A family with two kids; an elderly man and woman; a guy and a girl about college age or a little older. None of them had set off his bullshit radar the way the kids in the SUV had.<br/>
<br/>
Which was weird. They didn't immediately look like the kind of high school kids who liked to get up a cop's grill. Even the one with the muscles, despite his mop of hair, was pretty clean-cut. He wouldn't have given them a second glance before yesterday if he'd passed them on the street.<br/>
<br/>
But assholes come in all shapes. The kid with the muscles, Donovan decided, was a hot-dogger: a high school jock who liked to swagger big in front of girls. He and Ray had run into that kid yesterday, him and the girl riding up front next to him. The kid had looked shocked—scared, even—when Ray called to him, and had stood white-faced and staring while stammering a lot of "Yes sirs" and "No sirs" in answer to Ray's questions. Not until the girl had gripped his bicep and stroked his arm did the kid, though momentarily startled, calm down. But the change, once it happened, had been quick, and he'd gone in just a few seconds from a frightened helpfulness to cocky confidence and even into a veiled insolence. If you need any help looking for the bad guys, he'd bragged at the conclusion of the interview, just come and ask!<br/>
<br/>
Ray hadn't said anything after they resumed their round, and Donovan  had told himself it probably wasn't anything. Worst case he could think of, the kid had a stash of weed growing out in the woods, and after his first panic had gotten cocky at the thought that he was putting something over on the deputies. <br/>
<br/>
Which was bad enough. Donovan hated attitude.<br/>
<br/>
From the front of the ferry he gazed back at the cars. Most of the drivers and their passengers ignored him, preoccupied with their own concerns, and probably not wanting to draw his attention. (He understood that people get nervous around badges.) But the kids in the SUV, he could tell, were watching him and talking about him and even laughing at him, judging by their grins. The driver kept pointing at him, and turning around to say something to the ones in the back. Donovan just watched them. He didn't know what he was watching for, but if there was something, he was determined to catch it.<br/>
<br/>
And then the driver gestured him over. Like a diner summoning a waiter, he put his hand out the window and crooked his finger. Donovan bit down on another curse word, and slowly wound his way back to the SUV.<br/>
<br/>
"Scarlett wants to know your name," the kid told him when he drew up opposite the window. He hiked his thumb at the brunette in back. "She thinks you're hot!"<br/>
<br/>
"I do not!" The girl blushed deeply, and her face split into an embarrassed grin.<br/>
<br/>
"She can't stop talking about you, officer," said the boy in the glasses. "She says you're the hottest cop she's ever seen. And Scarlett's got a thing for cops."<br/>
<br/>
"I do not!" She slapped him in chest.<br/>
<br/>
"I think you should arrest her," said the driver. "Slap some cuffs on her. She'd cum."<br/>
<br/>
The girl covered her grinning face with her hands and tried to sink down into the footwell.<br/>
<br/>
"Do you mind if I look in the back of your vehicle?" Donovan asked.<br/>
<br/>
"What for?" The driver sobered up a fraction.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just asking if I can look in the back of your vehicle."<br/>
<br/>
The kid twisted around to look at his friends, who didn't say anything. "Sure thing, go ahead," he said. "Got nothing back there 'cept our dirty laundry."<br/>
<br/>
Donovan stepped to the rear of the SUV and popped the hatch. He pushed around and glanced over the backpacks, knapsacks, athletic bags, and rucksacks while ignoring the passengers. But he didn't miss the way the kid in the glasses turned around to watch with a mild curiosity, or the way the driver craned his neck to watch in the rearview mirror. He didn't make a thorough search, though, for he just wanted to rattle these dipshits.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't suppose you have any alcoholic beverages back there," Donovan said when he'd returned to the driver's side window.<br/>
<br/>
"No sir, drank all the beer and left all the bottles back at the cabin."<br/>
<br/>
"Any weed?"<br/>
<br/>
"Smoked it all last night." The kid grinned, and his eyes gleamed.<br/>
<br/>
"You clean up that broken drinking glass?" Donovan glanced past the driver to the other boy, who frowned. "You dropped and broke it when my partner and I came out to speak to you yesterday."<br/>
<br/>
The boy blinked, and the car turned very quiet. Then he said, "Oh, yeah!" and snapped his fingers. "We got it cleaned up. It was a non-alcoholic mojito," he added.<br/>
<br/>
"Bullshit!" exclaimed the driver. "Officer, Dougie back there got Scarlett totally wasted last night on rum and coke. Then he took her back in the bedroom and committed multiple felonies on her. So if that prison's got some vacancies—<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up!" The brunette smacked him in the back of the head. "We didn't do anything we'd be ashamed of, officer!" she said.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing <i>you'd</i> be ashamed of," the driver snickered.<br/>
<br/>
"That's good," Donovan said dryly He started to move off.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you attached to the local sheriff's office?" It was the boy in back—Dougie?—who'd shouted the question. "I mean, you weren't brought in special to track down those escaped cons?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm with the Saginac County Sheriff's office," Donovan confirmed.<br/>
<br/>
The boy whipped around to look at the last girl, the one with the tawny brown hair. Of all of them, she alone hadn't said a word the entire time, but seemed preoccupied with her phone. The boy muttered something to her, and she looked up long enough to give Donovan a quick but searching glance. Then she nodded, once, before returning to her phone.<br/>
<br/>
"We're planning to come back out here next weekend," the boy resumed, "assuming there's an all-clear on the escapees."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm sure we'll have them back in custody."<br/>
<br/>
The driver hid a quick grin, and Donovan's dislike for him deepened.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe we'll see you then," the boy in the back said.<br/>
<br/>
The brunette, almost crawling out of the window to give Donovan a wide, open-mouthed grin over her dangling boobs, added, "I hope the other deputies are as hot as you are!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You can't resist smirking to yourself at the clever way you inserted a reference to your home town. It's the final and most important bit of bait for Sean, and it will be a hell of thing if he doesn't nibble at it.<span class="nggejfkhggk2610"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111221211111111111111111111
author_id: seuzz
id: BNXNBQP6B
title: Shadowing Sean
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>Wednesday comes and goes without any PM from Sean. The silence leaves you anxious and angry. <i>I spent ten days writing that goddamn story,</i> you fume to yourself. <i>If the cocksucker doesn't take the bait, then fuck him. I'll use his face to get the stuff from Salopek, and I'll get him in trouble while I'm there!</i><br/>
<br/>
But angry as you are—and hurt, too; you put a lot of work into that story, so why doesn't Sean at least send you a PM congratulating you on it—you hold off on doing anything yet.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, you take to shadowing Sean at school.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's not hard, not when you've got a copy of his brain that you can wear to Westside. Not only does it give you knowledge of his schedule, it also tells you how he gets around the school, so you can shadow him directly in the hallways.<br/>
<br/>
So on Thursday youduck into Current Issues, which your friend Keith has, and nod at Sean with pretended surprise when he comes loping in to settle himself beside one of his friends from the wresting squad. Then you return to your own first period, giving Laurent Delacroix, the wrestling team captain, a quick side eye when you enter.<br/>
<br/>
After first, you trail Sean toward the gym, where he has wrestling practice, but have to veer off early for your own Film class. There's no one in that class that you and Sean share as acquaintances, but in your Career Planning class you are startled to recognize Ryder Hillberger, who is a thug playing on the JV football team. On your way to English you make a deliberate circuit into the math wing, and watch as Sean comes out with two football/wrestling friends, Ethan Nieves and Chris Ratliff. You narrowly avoid bumping into the horrible Steve Patterson, who is also in the Statistics class Sean just left, and glimpse Scott Bickelmeier, a football player to whom you are indifferent, but whom Sean hates like death.<br/>
<br/>
In English you have Laurent again, along with two football players who (like Ryder and Scott) Sean lumps into the "enemy" camp: Blake O'Brien and James Bridges. Class is boring, and during it you idly daydream about the lunch Sean is sharing with friends: Eli Anders, Marcus Johnson, and Devin Haney, along with Devin's girlfriend Bonny Trask and a bunch of her girlfriends.<br/>
<br/>
Including Haley Flanagan, a basketball player whom Sean has a small and secret crush on.<br/>
<br/>
Most of these troop off to Psychology I after lunch, and you dawdle in the hallway to watch them go in: Sean, Ethan, Marcus, Eli, Devin, and Haley. But also Scott Bickelmeier. In fact, Sean seems to purposefully clip Scott in the shoulder when they meet at the doorway, and without apology brushes past to stop at the drinking fountain while Scott, flushing hard, goes into the classroom.<br/>
Scott you see next in your own Calculus class, which he shares with fellow assholes (that's Sean's judgement) Brian Kelly, James Bridges, and Roy Nelson. The latter is someone who bullied you your freshman and sophomore years, but has seemed to forget you since. Cameron Huber, the quarterback, and his girlfriend Anne are in the class with you: these are friends of Sean's, and you do your best to eavesdrop as they talk about the coming weekend, to see if Sean's name figures in their plans. But it doesn't, so far as you can hear.<br/>
<br/>
Meanwhile, you can guess that Sean, in Creative Writing, will be relaxing with two guys who wouldn't seem to share his clean-cut, student athlete style: the scruffy Darrell Parson and the slacker Connor Davison. But he grooves with them creatively. He may also be bantering with Reagan Hackett, a chubby girl on the volleyball team who (he fears; or maybe he flatters himself) flirts openly with him, but in whom he is not much interested.<br/>
<br/>
Then comes your study hall and Astronomy, while Sean has football practice for two periods straight. You know what the latter is going to be like: Team Huber vs. Team Carstairs. You can't help flinching grimly when you imagine some of the fights that might break out, with Sean in the thick of them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
That was Thursday. Friday morning you shadow Sean again, but give up after lunch. It seems pointless, and leaves you feeling like a stalker.<br/>
<br/>
So when things go down, it's totally unplanned. Last period:<br/>
<br/>
Dumbass that you are, you forgot your Calculus book at home, so at lunch you borrowed Keith's copy from him. (You and he share the same teacher, but have it different periods.) You are just coming out of Mr. Kowalski's class after having returned it to Keith when you bump hard into Ryan Shuler, who is just coming in. His phone flies from his hand and bounces off the floor.<br/>
<br/>
Ryan Shuler is one of the basketball players. He's not tall—maybe a shade taller than you—but he's got bulging muscles all over, and he has a bad reputation for using them. His nose and cheeks flush hard as he glares at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Pick it up, cocksucker," he hisses. "And it better not be broken."<br/>
<br/>
Normally, you would have meekly bent and picked up the phone—or have bolted for the nearest exit. But you're still wearing that copy of Sean's mind: a fact you don't remember until well after things have started happening.<br/>
<br/>
So instead of complying, you ostentatiously kick the phone away and snarl silently back at him.<br/>
<br/>
He grabs you by the front of your shirt and shoves you against the door frame. You punch him in the side of the head—a blow that would have meant more if you'd had Sean's muscles to go with his instincts. As it is, Ryan just winces, blinks, and turns white with fury. Froth shows on his lips.<br/>
<br/>
Things might have gone really bad except that Mr. Kowalski is only a few feet away, and he steps up quickly. "What's going on here?" he demands. After a fractional hesitation, Ryan drops you. But all his teeth are showing in a grin of anger as he searches out your face, and you know that he is memorizing it. Without answering the teacher, he shuffles back into the hall to get his phone. You don't bother to step aside when he squeezes through the doorway, but watch him swagger in to his seat, and hold his eye after he's thrown himself into it.<br/>
<br/>
As you withdraw, you catch a fleeting glance at Laurent Delacroix, who is also in that class. He is looking at you, covering a gaping grin with his mouth as his eyes dance with delight.<br/>
<br/>
And so cocky and juiced with testosterone do you feel that not until you are in seated Astronomy do have the inevitable <i>Oh shit!</i> moment. You feel Sean's disgust as your own sense of fear settles like a bolus in your guts.<br/>
<br/>
So after class, at your locker, you nearly come out of your skin when a heavy hand falls on your shoulder. You whirl expecting the worst. But it's only Laurent. His grin is friendly, but his teeth are very white and his jaw is strong, and his gaze is unflinching.<br/>
<br/>
"You're gonna need a bodyguard starting Monday," he tells you in a laughing tone. "Nice job, though."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean Ryan?" you ask. You fight the shakes that threaten to envelop you. <br/>
<br/>
Laurent snickers. "If you're lucky, he'll only duct tape you to the gym ceiling." He glances back at Alec "Brownie" Brown, who has materialized behind him. Brownie's grin isn't quite so mirthful as Laurent's, but his eyes glint with the same amused admiration. "Like you and me did to that one kid back in middle school?" he says to his friend.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah!" Brownie laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"It's gonna take more than just him to do it," you retort.<br/>
<br/>
"Then he'll do something else to you. See you around, man." Laurent claps you on the shoulder again, ostentatiously cranes his neck to look up at the ceiling, and with a final wink-and-grin swaggers off, Brownie loping along behind.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are still wearing that metal band when you get to Salopek, and you don't have time to take it off (as you usually do), so it's like Sean is double-tag-teaming you at work. Though he is his typically relaxed self, he is also all business, and doesn't even ask about your day at school. Meanwhile, the Sean inside your head is yelling at you for feeling like such a pussy. Angry at both of them, you lash out uselessly in the only way you can think of: "I nearly got in a fight at school," you blurt out of nowhere.<br/>
<br/>
Sean looks up from the floor-mounted engine block he is patiently disassembling. "Oh yeah?" he says before returning to his work.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Ryan Shuler. Bumped into him as I was coming out of Kowalski's classroom. We nearly got into it."<br/>
<br/>
"Kowalski stop it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. But Shuler's gonna come back for me."<br/>
<br/>
"Well," Sean says, "some things can't be helped."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fucker,</i> you think, <i>so fucking calm.</i> You can't help resenting him, even though you understand why he's acting this way. It's because he doesn't see any point in trying to baby you with sympathy. <i>A man's gotta fight his own fights:</i> that's Sean's attitude.<br/>
<br/>
Still, it does surprise you when he asks, "You got plans this weekend?"<br/>
<br/>
"Um ... no, not yet."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, lemme know if you wanna do something." And that's all he says.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Plans for the weekend.</i> You turn the phrase over in your head, there at work, and at home afterward.<br/>
<br/>
You doubt Sean would want to do something alone with you. He'd probably just invite you to tag along if and when he did something with his own friends. But why would you want to do that?<br/>
<br/>
<i>Because maybe I could copy one of them into a mask,</i> the answer comes in a shock. <i>Then use the mask to lure him away from Salopek.</i> If that stupid story didn't work to get him away from Salopek, maybe that would.<br/>
<br/>
But that might be too complicated. You can afford to wait until the start of next week. <br/>
<br/>
Or maybe you should just charge in with a mask of Sean and get it done.<span class="fngigffkfnl3610"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112212111111111111111111113
author_id: seuzz
id: U36K6S2ZL
title: Making the Most of Your Friends
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>You have been diligently executing your plan for the last two weeks (almost), and you are impatient to launch it. But not so impatient that you lose all control.<br/>
<br/>
So you spend a good chunk of Friday night reviewing your options and taking stock.<br/>
<br/>
What tools do you have? Besides that copy of Sean's mind, you've got another metal band all prepared. You made it with no real plan, but you've a potential use for it now: If you want, you can copy the brain as well as the body of one of Sean's friends. But you could also keep it back in case some other use comes up.<br/>
<br/>
You've also got three masks, but only two of them have been polished. One of them is for copying Sean; the other is for copying someone so you can approach him from under some other face. Again, that could be the face of one of his friends, but your original plan called for you to copy a couple of random people into it, making a totally new face.<br/>
<br/>
So your choices aren't unlimited, exactly. But you've got a lot of slack you can play with.<br/>
<br/>
You go to bed still undecided, and are still undecided when you wake the next morning. You know yourself well enough to know what that means: that you are going to play "the waiting game" over the weekend. Without much hope you log in to stories.net, where you find that views of your story have topped off in the low thirties (which is depressing), and that Sean still hasn't sent you a PM (which is even more depressing).<br/>
<br/>
And on top of that, you have to work that morning at Salopek, where you will see Sean.<br/>
<br/>
So you are not in much of a good mood when Caleb texts late in the morning—while you are still at work, in fact—to see if you want to get together with him and Keith.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"So how have you been keeping yourself busy?" Caleb asks after you and he and Keith are seated with your burgers. Normally you'd be at McDonalds, but Keith talked you into meeting at the Carl's Jr. on the east side of town instead. You never eat at Carl's Jr., but a burger is basically a burger, so you didn't kick.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?" you ask. There is a note of insolence behind his question, and it's a weird question besides. "I'm keeping busy the way I always keeping busy." You suspect he is making a veiled reference to your job at Salopek: the job that he wanted you to get for him.<br/>
<br/>
"Just doesn't seem like we've seen as much of you as usual," Caleb says.<br/>
<br/>
Keith suddenly jerks in his seat and says "Huh?" just exactly as though he'd been kicked under the table. "Oh, yeah," he says, and takes a bite from his juicy burger. "Lrkyv bn frdng S," he mumbles through a full mouth.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not avoiding you guys," you protest. "I've just been busy."<br/>
<br/>
"With what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, like with work." You lift your chin. "You still feeling pissy about that?"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb's mouth twists into a sour smile.<br/>
<br/>
"You also seem to be real busy getting into fights with assholes," he says. Keith stops in mid-chew.<br/>
<br/>
It takes you a moment to pick up on what he's talking about. "Oh, you mean that thing I got into with Ryan Shuler?" You snort.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. You know," Caleb drawls, "that's the kind of thing you'd usually rush over to tell us about. You'd be over at my house right after, all moaning like, 'Dude, I'm so dead, I did something real stupid, I got Ryan Shuler mad at me'."<br/>
<br/>
You're not wearing that mental copy of Sean. But maybe because you've been wearing it so much recently, you feel your hackles rise, and you get a hot, queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. "Pssh, I can handle him," you mutter, and shove half your burger into your mouth.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb looks over at Keith, who is looking more and more uncomfortable. "Well, if you say, Will. But you know, after." He shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
"After, what?"<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs again. "Just after. I guess me and Keith will know when that is. I get the impression Shuler's not like Patterson. He doesn't know enough to not leave marks."<br/>
<br/>
You drop your burger and lean back in your seat. <i>The fuck are these guys going on about?</i> you wonder. Caleb is looking prim and sour, as though he knows something you don't, but is too discreet to share it. Keith is looking pinched.<br/>
<br/>
"Is this some kind of 'intervention'?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb's lip curls mirthlessly.<br/>
<br/>
"Too late for that, right?" he says. "Maybe call it a pre-wake. We get to hang out with the corpse while it's still alive." He tucks back into his burger.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck you guys," you mutter. You've lost your appetite, but you finish your meal anyway.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Though you're put off by their attitude, but accede when Caleb suggests the three of you go see a movie. There's nothing new at the theater, but it's been weeks since you've been to a show, so you don't mind seeing something that's been out for awhile. When Caleb suggests <i>Cravenmoor,</i> a horror movie that opened last weekend, you back him over Keith's protests that "Mike and Carlos" (whoever they are) said it was a piece of shit.<br/>
<br/>
But then, you've got an ulterior reason to get your friends into a darkened theater, and you tell them that you'll have to run home first and that you'll meet them there.<br/>
<br/>
They aren't in the lobby when you finally get to the Silver Cinemas, so you text Caleb, and he tells you they're already in the auditorium. You're tapping another text while waiting for your popcorn when you're interrupted by a gruff but amused voice: "Still alive, I see." You look up sharply. Alec Brown, in an usher's uniform, grins at you from the other side of the counter. He winks and moves over to help another customer; you frown after him. <i>Fuck everyone,</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb and Keith, when you find them, are sitting one seat apart, and after reviewing that geography you decide it won't do. So you plop directly down between them. "What?" you say when each of them turn to give you a look. They both sigh and look away, and for a moment you worry that they'll keep to their seats. But then Caleb suddenly moves over one seat, and Keith, after a fractional hesitation, does the same on the other side. You smile to yourself. Three seats now separate them. Even better: the auditorium holds only a few other scattered patrons as the lights go down. You've got lots of room for shenanigans now.<br/>
<br/>
The movie itself probably wouldn't hold your attention anyway, but you're antsy and distracted as you nerve yourself up. After about forty minutes, you slide out of your seat, muttering "Be right back" to Caleb as you squeeze past his knees. You go out the doors, where you extract the bundle you smuggled into the theater under your shirt: one of the blank masks, which you swaddled inside another t-shirt. With it in your hands you go back inside and slip down the row directly behind your friends, who are seated too far apart to sense anything is going on with the other. When you're behind Caleb you carefully reach around to press the mask onto his face. It vanishes from your hand, and you find yourself pawing his face as his head lolls to one side.<br/>
<br/>
The worst part now comes: waiting for the mask to reappear. At first you lean forward with your arms draped around him, so as to catch it when it falls out of him. But you pull back in alarm when the screen brightens with a daylight scene—Keith might be more than a couple of seats away, but he still might spot you if he glances over. After an anxious moment, you slip up a row to sit next to Caleb but on the other side, where Keith won't see you. Five, eight, ten minutes pass as you watch Caleb's face, and grab the mask when it appears there. <br/>
<br/>
Then, with a heart that is trying to burst from your chest, you jump back into the row behind, and slip behind Keith. Now that you know what you're doing, it goes much more smoothly. You get the mask onto Keith, then huddle in the chair next to him until the mask comes out. Then you grab it and run for the exit.<br/>
<br/>
But you pause before leaving, and glance around the theater. Maybe you should put a third face into the mask? Maybe the face you are holding will look too much like Caleb or Keith, so that Sean might recognize them, before or after you meet him?<br/>
<br/>
Probably the smart thing is to do nothing, but you are feeling mad and light-headed with success. So when you spot one person sitting alone near the side of the auditorium, you do the trick a third time, and for the third time pull it off. You are almost giddy at your success when you finally scamper from the auditorium to the bathroom, where you carefully rewrap the mask with the spare t-shirt, and slip it back under your armpit. <br/>
<br/>
You take it out to your truck and deposit it, but instead of returning to the movie, you camp out in the lobby with your phone, glancing up every few minutes for signs of Caleb and Keith. They are looking mildly vexed when they emerge. "The fuck happened to you?" Caleb demands.<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "I wasn't much into the movie. So I came out here and watched something on my phone."<br/>
<br/>
"That was one ass-pensive movie ticket you bought, then," Caleb retorts, but you shrug, being too happy to answer.<br/>
<br/>
For you found a PM when you logged in to stories.net, from Sean.<br/>
<br/>
He has taken the bait.<span class="fmjggefefll3711"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122121111111111111111111131
author_id: seuzz
id: NSWG725DN
title: Hook and Haul
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span><i>Hey, in ur last chapter u mention saratoga falls,</i> Sean writes, <i>u know thats real place lol.</i><br/>
<br/>
You're so excited that your hands are shaking. You throw your phone into the passenger seat, and race home.<br/>
<br/>
<i>He took the bait, he took the bait,</i> you mutter feverishly to yourself as you blast down the streets. <i>I can't fucking believe it, he took the fucking bait!</i> You punch the roof of your truck and <i>Woot!</i> aloud.<br/>
<br/>
In retrospect, it seems so unlikely that it seems a miracle that it came off. You actually wrote a story that Sean read and liked enough to direct message you about! And he liked it enough that when he saw his hometown mentioned, he actually reached out to reveal that about himself!<br/>
<br/>
You had been reconciled to failure, expecting the silence on Wednesday and Thursday and Friday lengthen and deepen into a void. And so this last-moment twist feels like a come-from-behind touchdown to win the game!<br/>
<br/>
(And your mind spins a little after you've voiced that metaphor to yourself. <i>A football analogy?</i> More of Sean must have soaked into you than you thought!)<br/>
<br/>
At home you milk the anticipation of replying to him—of getting him firmly on the hook—by delaying. You set the table for supper, and help clean up behind your mom as she fixes pork chops and mashed potatoes, and loiter helpfully until you're needed for more. But you can't help racing through the meal, and through clean-up, so that when you bound into your bedroom and lob yourself into your computer chair, you hit it so hard it slides sideways a foot and bangs into the wall. Sheepishly, you haul yourself back over to your keyboard, and with twitching fingers log into stories.net.<br/>
<br/>
There's an actual "review" of your story posted now, by a user named Ymmv, but you glance over it just long enough to get the gist. (Interesting mechanic, too much set up, some good passages, solid B.) You open up Sean's PM, flex your fingers, and—<br/>
<br/>
After all that anticipation, you'd think you'd take more than fifteen seconds to write a reply. But you know what you want to say, and if you fussed over it you might make it sound fake, so you just punch it out: <i>lol yeah its about fifteen miles from where I live. How you know about it?</i> After all that build-up, you are actually pretty numb when you hit "Send." But you almost instantly begin to feel sick with anticipation of a reply. What if <i>now</i> is the moment that Sean decides to ghost you?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
To kill time (and keep busy) you drive back over to the old school, where you add the new mask to your spoils. After sealing it up, you study it ambivalently, trying to make out the ghost face whose form floats just under its surface. You feel oddly shy about testing it out, in case you messed it up. But finally, with a muttered "Fuck it," you lay yourself on the big conference table where you do your work, and lower it onto your face.<br/>
<br/>
You're woken by an uncomfortable squeezing sensation in your feet—a feeling like you've pushed them into a too-small pair of shoes—and sit up with a grimace. You stare down the length of your lanky frame at your feet. They do feel scrunched up inside your shoes, and with a grunt, you push them off—<i>much better!</i>—and take stock of the situation. Where are you and what are you doing here?<br/>
<br/>
Oh, right!<br/>
<br/>
You hop off the table, wobbling slightly after straightening up, and shuffle over to the big mirror that leans against a wall. By the light of your phone you examine the reflection it now holds.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Huh.</i><br/>
<br/>
And that really is about all to be said about it.<br/>
<br/>
The basement is very dim—the sun has set—and the acrid light from your phone casts sinister shadows over your face. But even under the unflattering light, it doesn't seem bad; yet neither does it particularly handsome. But there is nothing of Caleb or Keith you can recognize in it—still less of yourself—and that's what counts. The most notable thing (you decide after glancing around the basement) is that you seem to be quite a bit taller. As Caleb and Keith are each about your height, that third person you caught in the theater must have been as tall as a light pole, if their three heights averaged out to this.<br/>
<br/>
There's no other reason to play around with the mask, though, so you hop back onto the table and take it off. Ten minutes later, you're home again.<br/>
<br/>
And there's no reply of Sean yet, but you wouldn't have expected one so soon.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But there is one the next morning, which you find as soon as you wake. In fact, by the time stamp, it appears that he sent it only two minutes ago! You excitedly mash your hands into the keyboard in your rush to reply, and have to force yourself to be calm.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Wow I live in saratoga falls,</i> Sean has written. <i>Can I ask where u live lol?<br/>
<br/>
East of Saratoga Falls,</i> you type. <i>Outside Roryvale.</i> Then you take a deep, gulping breath and add, <i>Wanna meet and talk? I'm not busy this afternoon.</i> A violent tremble runs through you as you hit "Send."<br/>
<br/>
For a minute or two you stand hunched over your keyboard, trying to still the quaking in your bones. <i>Is this actually going to happen?</i> you ask yourself. <i>Am I actually going to do this?</i> You withdraw from the computer with a hard swallow, and hustle into the bathroom, to distract yourself with getting ready for church.<br/>
<br/>
Naturally, you've got your phone with you, and naturally it's on, though you do have the presence of mind to turn the alerts off. Between early and final service, you duck into the bathroom to check it, and have to clutch the edge of the sink when you read Sean's reply: <i>Sure u know sf? I don't know rorvyale.</i><br/>
<br/>
You chew on your lip, come to no decisions, meditate distractedly on the question all during the service, and while waiting to leave finally send a reply: <i>Yeah I can drive into town meet at the crystal cave around 3? its across from college, next to big bookstore.</i><br/>
<br/>
"You're awfully quiet back there, Will," your mom observes on the drive back.<br/>
<br/>
"I am?" you reply, and lift your head from the headrest. You look around, and notice that you are slumping, limp and boneless, in your seat. "Guess I didn't get a lot of sleep last night," you reply. Out of the corner of your eye you notice Robert looking up from his phone to give you a sullen look. You just close your eyes, and smile in anticipation of what is to come.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're a little late getting out to the coffee shop—it took you longer than you'd planned to make the change at the old school—and Sean's truck is already parked behind the building. Inside, a quick glance around is enough to discover Sean in the dining area, elbows on the table, as he studies the screen of his phone. You get the cheapest coffee you can—your financial reserves are almost depleted—and shuffle nonchalantly over to his table, doing your best to hide your nervous excitement.<br/>
<br/>
Oddly, you have no fear of being recognized, for you feel completely different in your disguise. Part of it, of course, is knowing that it's not your own face you will be showing Sean. You double- and triple- and quadruple-checked it in your rearview mirror on the way over and after you parked. The more you looked at it, the better you liked it, for there is something strangely anonymous about it. Regular features, but not real handsome, under a full but well-trimmed body of mousy brown hair. About the only notable thing is your new height—you must be close to six-three or so—and that also helps you feel like a "new man." Also, you are dressed extra sloppily, in thin jogging shorts, a rag of a t-shirt, and flip-flops: the only things in your wardrobe that seemed likely to fit your elongated frame.<br/>
<br/>
"Sean?" you ask after you are looming over him.<br/>
<br/>
He glances up with a keen but quizzical expression. A half-smile pops onto his face. "Aston Martin Seven-oh-Seven?" he asks with light irony.<br/>
<br/>
"Heh, yeah." You flop into the booth opposite him, and try folding your spidery arms and legs so they are more comfortable in the slightly too small space. "Cool to meet you."<br/>
<br/>
"You too," he says.<br/>
<br/>
An awkward pause envelops the table, and you realize you are studying each other closely. It surprises you a little to find yourself treating Sean, who you have been working beside for more than two weeks now, as though he's a stranger. But in a sense, that's just what he is to this new "you", and you struggle a little to reconcile the clean-cut, fresh-faced Sean Mitchell, with his round, smiling face, his relaxed gaze, and his confident, well-muscled frame, with the "SeanMtM" who posts stories online about twinks and nerds stealing the bodies of burly schoolmates, and making out with each other.<br/>
<br/>
Suddenly, for the first time, you find yourself wondering about him, and what makes him tick. Which is bizarre, because you have spent hours with a copy of his mind intertwined with your own. How have you not managed to figure him out?<br/>
<br/>
<i>Who is this guy? Really?</i><br/>
<br/>
And presumably he is asking the same thing of you. For he puts his chin in his hand and smiles slyly at you as he asks, "Can I ask you a personal question?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, sure." You blink.<br/>
<br/>
"What's your real name?"<br/>
<br/>
You laugh in relief. "Will," you reply without thinking. "Will—"<br/>
<br/>
You catch yourself, horrified, before you can blurt out your real last name as well.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Or maybe I should,</i> you think with a beating heart. Now that the moment is at hand, you have a sudden urge to make a clean breast of the whole thing.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment, the universe seems to dangle by a thread.<span class="feifklgigffk3711"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111222
author_id: seuzz
title: The Mystery Box
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Sean pulls the knot tight and stands up again. He looks around the storage space with his hands on his hips. <br/>
<br/>
"So," he says cheerfully, "we got like fifteen minutes till quitting time. Not enough time to do anything except goof off. Come on." With a wink he leads you over to far corner of the storage space, and to a big cabinet filled with a lot of dusty packages and envelopes. <br/>
<br/>
"This is the dead collection," he says. "Stuff that got misdirected or returned or just came in or came back unclaimed. They clean it out every few months or so, but Jack makes sure that <i>this</i> one always stays." He digs through a box and pulls out a dark bottle. "A little end-of-your-first-day nip?" He waggles his eyebrows, and you grin back.<br/>
<br/>
He takes one big gulp, makes a face, and hands it over to you. It's Scotch—hard and sharp and smoky, and it makes your eyes water, and sets you to coughing. "Been too long on beer, huh?" Sean laughs, but there's no meanness in it. "That's enough," he says, taking the bottle back and replacing it. "One good belt before we knock off, enough to make us feel good but not enough to really do anything." He smacks his tongue around in his mouth. "Don't abuse it," he says, and his expression sobers and hardens. "We had some guys who got stinking drunk on the stuff over the summer and got fired. Luckily, they didn't spill about where they got it."<br/>
<br/>
"That sucks."<br/>
<br/>
His expression hardens even more, and his eyes flash. "They were assholes," he says in a low voice.<br/>
<br/>
The liquor has set your insides on fire, and it does feel good, and with a happy eye you lazily survey the contents of the "dead cabinet." Just a lot of boxes and manila envelopes, pretty dusty. <br/>
<br/>
But one of them on the lowest shelf has been opened. "What's that one?" you point.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" Sean frowns. "That's funny. If it was opened, someone must've taken a look and decided it wasn't for him. Jack should have sealed it up and sent it back to the sender." He kneels and examines the flaps, then looks up at you in surprise. "It's addressed to your dad."<br/>
<br/>
You kneel next to him. Sure enough, it's addressed to Salopek care of "Harris Prescott," but the top has been torn completely open. There's nothing inside that you can see except a loose sheet of paper and a lot of packing peanuts. While Sean runs his fingers through the peanuts you take out the paper and unfold it. It's a packing sheet, listing a bunch of items, all very plain and uninteresting, except for one word that leaps out at you: "Masks." <br/>
<br/>
"Hey, who's back there?" a sharp voice calls from the other end of the room. You and Sean both wheel; you crumple up the paper and stuff it into your back pocket.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey Jack," Sean calls back. "Is it quitting time yet?"<br/>
<br/>
"If it's five-thirty, it is for you, yeah. Son of a bitch." It's dim in the warehouse, but you can make out the shadowy figure of the distribution center overseer. <br/>
<br/>
"Okay then, we're outta here." Sean picks up the mystery package and lofts it onto his shoulder. He slaps you lightly on the back. "You should head back to the front office, check in, see if there's anything you need to do. I'll run this over by your dad's office, see if there was some kind of mix up."<br/>
<br/>
You briefly toy with offering to take it yourself, but you really don't want to see your dad. You leave Sean and the building supervisor talking at the front counter about the mystery box.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Unlucky you, your dad is in the front office waiting. Your heart thumps hard, out of fear he'll smell the alcohol on your breath, but he just gruffly asks about how your first day went, then sends you home. Not until you plop down in your truck do you feel the paper in your pocket and remember to pull it out.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't seem any more interesting on closer inspection, listing two books; one manila folder; three bags, each containing "metallic strips (3)"; five masks; and a roll of undeveloped film. Naturally, you frown over the word "masks," though it obviously shouldn't have anything to do with your discovery at Arnholm's. But why would anyone be sending masks of any type to your dad at his work?<br/>
<br/>
You look at the top of the packing list, and the mystery deepens. The return address is some town in New York, but it's not addressed to your dad at all, but to someone named Shabbleman in the town of Cuthbert. A twitch passes through your upper back: You have relatives named Shabbleman who live in Cuthbert, a backwater hillbilly town a few hours drive from Saratoga Falls.<br/>
<br/>
"Dad?" you ask him later that evening. "Did Sean Mitchell drop off a package at your office near the end of work, after you saw me?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. What's the story?" You tell him briefly about finding the box in the distribution center. "He must've missed me while I was talking to you. By the way, have you started looking through that work binder yet?"<br/>
<br/>
You were going to show him the packing list, but the sentence dies on your lips. There's probably a company policy against walking off with documents. You tell him you were studying the binder up in your room, and that's what reminded you about the package, then trot back upstairs before he can tell you to return to the books.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The mystery (what there is of it) is solved the next day when Sean tells you that he left the box with Jack to handle. Then, like your dad, he asks if you studied the binder. "There's some pretty dangerous stuff around here, and you have to know how to avoid it, since you're not cleared to handle it." You nod your head dutifully, but he gets a playfully skeptical look. "Come on, let's give you a quiz." He leads you into a back room in a small building and opens up a cabinet that's stacked high and deep with bottles. "What's the stuff you shouldn't touch?"<br/>
<br/>
"All of it?"<br/>
<br/>
He laughs. "Good policy. But c'mon, more specific." He alternately nods and shakes his head as you pick your way through. "Yeah, those two are the worst things to get into," he says, pointing to two big brown bottles with big red stickers on them. This stuff—" He reaches up to take a bottle, but it slips from his hand and shatters on the floor. You step back, but he is even quicker. "Watch out!" he yells, and grabs you from behind ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake with a groan to find your nostrils filled with a terrible stench. A rather ashen-faced Sean peers down at you. "Well, no real harm done," he says. "Hope you enjoyed your nap."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"Stupid me, I knocked something off the shelf. You got a snootful. I got it covered up with sawdust and it'll be okay, but you were out for a few minutes."<br/>
<br/>
You feel yourself paling. "Should I head over to the infirmary?'<br/>
<br/>
"Not a bad idea," he says. "And I'll have to report myself." He swears softly to himself.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The medical office checks you out and says you're okay, but it's the start of a run of bad luck at work. The next day you're knocked to the ground by a heavy box, and on Wednesday you bang your head hard on some machinery. Sean chides you for your clumsiness, but says he won't report it: "Just learn to be more careful," he tells you.<br/>
<br/>
But he doesn't hold your clumsiness against you, and when Friday comes, he cheerfully asks if you've got plans for the night. And when you admit you don't, he asks if you want to tag along with him, even though he hasn't got plans either.<br/>
<br/>
You? Hang out with a wrestler/football player? Probably with other wrestler/football players? You'd probably get lost in the crowd. And some of those guys you definitely don't like: Dominic Kleason and Roy Nelson, particularly, made your life really unpleasant your freshman and sophomore years.<br/>
<br/>
Still, this would be a chance to break out of some boundaries, and Sean seems like a good guy.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112222
author_id: seuzz
title: Went With the Wind
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It sounds like a cool invite, and definitely a flattering one. Sean might be a football player and a wrestler, but he's friendly and easy going.<br/>
<br/>
But what will his friends be like? What will <i>he</i> be like when surrounded by a bunch of loud, muscly jocks? Some of them, like Roy Nelson and Dominic Gleason, hazed and bullied you during your freshman and sophomore years.<br/>
<br/>
So: "I think I got some other plans," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
His brow furrows. "What other plans? You just told me you don't have any other plans."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, not yet," you stammer. "But I haven't heard from my friends Caleb or Keith. Typically we do stuff together on Fridays, and— Well, I don't think you'd wanna hang out with them."<br/>
<br/>
Sean's eyes narrow, and his gaze cools. Then he shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, man," he says, and claps you on the shoulder. "But don't ever say I never asked you to hang out," he adds with a sly grin.<br/>
<br/>
Almost you change your mind. But then you think of Dominic and Roy and Dalton Douglas and Lester "The Molester" Pozniak and ... <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But it gnaws on you after you leave work, and to make it go away—to erase the shameful feeling that you ditched Sean simply out of fear—you call Caleb and Keith and try to set something up with them. That way, you'll be able to tell yourself that you couldn't do something with Sean because you really did have plans with your own friends. Keith suggests going to see a movie—a new horror picture has just opened—but neither you nor Caleb have the money for a Friday night, full-fare trip to the movies, so you get together at Keith's place to stream a movie instead. Keith, who you share a "Film as Literature" class with, is full of news about a project he's working on with a couple of guys.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, so, it's just as well we didn't go see the show tonight," he says after you're all sprawled on the sofas in his living room. (His father has moved to the bedroom, to watch something on his laptop, so you guys can have the TV for yourselves.) "'Cos me and the rest of the guys it turns out are gonna go see it tomorrow." He punches Caleb in the shoulder. "You and Will up for a matinee, at least?"<br/>
<br/>
"Probably not," Caleb says as he rubs his arm.<br/>
<br/>
"Which guys?" you ask Keith.<br/>
<br/>
"Mike and Carlos and them."<br/>
<br/>
You think a moment. "Hollister and Montoya? What are you seeing a movie with them for?"<br/>
<br/>
"Dude!" Keith looks wounded. "I told you all about that and them!"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, remind me."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't remind him, Tilley," Caleb says, "he'll just forget it again. Pull up the show and start it."<br/>
<br/>
Well, Keith has to try to talk <i>and</i> use the remote at the same time, and he's such a dork that he messes up both, so that later, while he's taking a bathroom break and you and Caleb are raiding the kitchen for some more snacks, you ask him to explain what Keith's "YouTube" project is.<br/>
<br/>
"How hard was it to understand?" Caleb retorts while pawing through the refrigerator. "Oh, wait, it was him trying to explain and you trying to understand. No wonder you're confused. But Mike and Carlos have this YouTube channel—"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought it was Keith who has it."<br/>
<br/>
"No, that was him being a boastful little shit. It's their channel, and they talk about movies on it."<br/>
<br/>
"They get a lot of clicks?"<br/>
<br/>
"Clicks or chicks?"<br/>
<br/>
You grin. "Either."<br/>
<br/>
"Chicks? What do you think? Clicks, I dunno, I've never been to it. But Keith is helping them out with it."<br/>
<br/>
"They're not putting him on camera, are they?" Keith has dull eyes, a monobrow, and a face that tends to break out in zits. <br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Maybe they're going for a Three Stooges vibe, and they need a third idiot." Caleb finally settles on a Coke, and hands you one too.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're intrigued enough by Keith's story that you think seriously about going to the show with him and the others. But when the next morning comes you've changed your mind. You've got that mask to finish, for one thing, so after doing some light chores around the house, you settle in to stream a movie while you continue to polish the mask. You do hear from Keith late that afternoon, though. He wants to know about the old elementary school basement.<br/>
<br/>
The question makes your heart go sideways in your chest. "Why do you want to know about it?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I was just telling Mike and the rest of the crew about it—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, it's a "crew" now, is it, and you're part of it?</i> you think. Keith is the dopiest of the trio of you and him and Caleb, and it's odd and a little humiliating to think of him having other friends to do stuff with when you don't.<br/>
<br/>
"—and it would be the perfect place for us to do a sketch for the channel."<br/>
<br/>
"Why's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why's what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why would it be the perfect place to do a sketch?"<br/>
<br/>
"Dude! Jesus, I just told you! We got out of that movie, and it was all creepy and haunted-housey, and that old basement would be the perfect place to film a bit for the channel! Weren't you listening?"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, so what do you want <i>me</i> to do about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do you still have a key to the place?" he shouts.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, you do, but all your gear for these magical experiments is down there, so there's no way you're going to lend Keith and his "crew" the key. "Uh, maybe," you tell him, "but I'm pretty sure they'll have changed the lock. It's been almost a year since I've been out there."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, can we come by and pick up the key anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme look for it." You hop off your bed and make lots of rummaging-around noises. "It's not where I put it," you tell Keith. "I'll have to look for it some more."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, call me back when you find it, because the guys are all excited about—"<br/>
<br/>
"You know, it would be really dangerous going out there. You'd probably get caught."<br/>
<br/>
"Pfft. We didn't get caught last year."<br/>
<br/>
"We were hardly there, and we were sneaking in and out at night—"<br/>
<br/>
"We wouldn't get caught," Keith assures you again.<br/>
<br/>
You tell him you'll look some more and call him back.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You give some thought to moving the stuff from the basement, so that you can lend Keith and his "crew" the key, but you quickly dismiss the idea. You don't want to have to clean it out just for them. You need it, and what if they decide to make it a kind of hangout for themselves? So after an hour or so you text Keith back to tell him that you found the key and went out to the school to test it, and the padlock has been changed. <i>That sux,</i> he texts back later that night. You go back to polishing the mask.<br/>
<br/>
The next morning you have church, and then your dad takes you all out to lunch, so that it's nearly two before you get back home. You figure you can finish polishing the mask by tonight if you really put your back into it, and you've been giving some thought about what to do with it. You do know that you want to glue that second metal band into it so you can test the combination out on someone, to see if it copies them in one swoop. So after changing clothes, you drive over to the old elementary school to pick up the stuff you'll need for it.<br/>
<br/>
The first clue that something is wrong comes when you see that your padlock is off the basement door. With a plunging heart you push it open and creep inside. The place has been completely rearranged and, even worse, all your stuff is gone, including the bags of dirt you filched from the cemetery! You break out in a hard sweat as you tear through the shelves and cabinets, and with a groan discover that the mask you made of yourself has also been stolen.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, your first thought is that the maintenance staff got inside. But then you remember Keith's phone call yesterday. With a thumping heart you call him as you race back home.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, I was just out at the old school in my neighborhood," you blurt out the moment he picks up, "and the basement—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah," Keith interrupts. "We got in." He sounds very smug.<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>what?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Mike got him some bolt cutters, and him and Carlos and Philip went over there this morning to check it out. But— Dude, did you cut the lock off yourself?"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, they said when they got over there, the lock was already off, so they went right in."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't cut it off!"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, somebody did. Anyway, they told me they looked around, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"Weren't you with them?"<br/>
<br/>
"I had to work! Sunday's our busy morning. But—"<br/>
<br/>
"Did they take anything out?"<br/>
<br/>
"Out of where? The basement?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Where the fuck do you think I'm talking about?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"I 'unno. They didn't tell me they did."<br/>
<br/>
"Did they move stuff around?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't you call and ask 'em? I told you, I wasn't there."<br/>
<br/>
You get Carlos Montoya's number from Keith, but his phone goes to voicemail when you call, so you text him, asking him to call you back. While you wait, you sit in your room trying to sort things through. Why would Carlos and his friends take your stuff? Worse, what will happen if they try out that mask? You'll have to tell them about the book and the magic.<br/>
<br/>
You look around for the mask you were polishing, and nearly shit yourself when you can't find it.<br/>
<br/>
Worse, when you tear open the bottom drawer in your chest of drawers, you discover that the book is gone too.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122221
author_id: seuzz
title: Sus and Fuss
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You stare into bottom drawer, all uncomprehending. <i>Where the fuck is the book?</i><br/>
<br/>
You paw through the old, cast-off clothes that are stored down there. The first few days you had the book, you hid it under them, but lately you've just been dropping it into the drawer, but it's not on top now, and it's not buried under the old pants and shirts.<br/>
<br/>
You slam the drawer shut and tear open the others, searching through them without success. You heave the mess from your desk to the bed and sort through it. Then you look under your bed and in the closet and even in the clothes hamper in the bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
Nothing.<br/>
<br/>
You are feeling very gray in the face when you go downstairs. Your dad is napping on the sofa and your mom is knitting. But before asking her anything you go out to the garage to look through your truck, in case you moved either item there without remembering. Again, you turn up nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"Mom," you say when you return inside. "I lost a book. Have you seen it?" You describe it, but she shakes her head and she shakes her head again when you describe the mask you lost (which you explain as a prop that a friend at school loaned you).<br/>
<br/>
By now you are cold and angry all over. There can be only one explanation for what has happened. You charge upstairs and bust into your brother's room without even knocking.<br/>
<br/>
Robert is at his computer, playing a game, and he jumps and whirls when you slam the door open. Fear and surprise momentarily show in his face, then he flushes. But you start yelling—well, growling—before he can say anything.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, listen to me, you little piece of pimply shit. You give them back, and you give them back right now."<br/>
<br/>
"Give what back?" he asks, bewildered. "Mom!"<br/>
<br/>
You shut the door and lock it. "You do <i>not</i> want Mom up here," you warn him. "I already told her I can't find them, and if she comes up here and finds out <i>you're</i> the one who took them—"<br/>
<br/>
"Took <i>what?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"My book and my mask!"<br/>
<br/>
He stares. "The fuck are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you fucking drop any f-bombs on me, you little fuck! I know you took them!"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't take any—! <i>Mom!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You tackle him in his chair, trying to wrestle him into submission. He kicks and twists, but you're heavier than him and on top of him. But when there's a knock at the door, and he starts yelling again, you break off. You are burning with rage, but your heart is also cold with fear as you go to the door and rip it open. Your mom, her eyes popping, stands in the doorway.<br/>
<br/>
"What is all this racket up here?" she hisses. "If you wake your father—"<br/>
<br/>
"Robert took my stuff!"<br/>
<br/>
"I did not ! Mom, he—!"<br/>
<br/>
"Quiet! Both of you!" She pushes you inside and shuts the door behind her. "Now if one or either of you can explain to me in a civilized voice what you're yelling about, let's see if we can get it sorted out without waking your dad!"<br/>
<br/>
So you tell her that Robert is always going through your things and that he took that book and mask you were telling her about, and Robert hotly denies ever doing any such thing (and says he'd rather go tramping through a sewer than go into your room), and when your mom asks if you've got proof that Robert took your things you can only tell her that they're not in the house and that he <i>must</i> have been the one to take them.<br/>
<br/>
Her brow lowers. "That doesn't mean your brother took them, Will," she says. "You took them someplace or you just haven't looked in the right spot."<br/>
<br/>
"But Mom—!"<br/>
<br/>
She raises a warning finger, then turns to Robert. "Did you take Will's book and mask?"<br/>
<br/>
"No!"<br/>
<br/>
She gives him a hard stare, then looks at you. "I'll accept what your brother just said. Will you?"<br/>
<br/>
Obviously you don't, but you also know you can't tell her that you don't. So through gritted teeth you say, "Yes."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. Then that's all settled. I don't want to hear any more about it, from either you," she says as she looks between you. "If I hear one word about this, under <i>any</i> circumstances, I will ground you both. And I'll ground you," she tells you, "for twice as long as I ground Robert." You're looking at her, so you don't see Robert's face as she says this. "So if there <i>is</i> something going on here, if one of you <i>did</i> take something from the other, as a prank or a joke, I strongly advise that you return it, and that the two of you work it out between you without involving me or your father. Do you understand?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes'm," you and your brother so say, almost in unison.<br/>
<br/>
"Good. And stay out of each other's rooms." She gives you each one more glower, then leaves.<br/>
<br/>
Your face is burning when you turn toward Robert. His face is also very red, and his eyes are flashing.<br/>
<br/>
"You heard her," you growl. "Give them back."<br/>
<br/>
"I. Didn't. Take them!"<br/>
<br/>
"Then where are they?"<br/>
<br/>
"Up your butt, or someplace!"<br/>
<br/>
Your fists bunch up, but you force yourself to relax. You even wrench a clumsy smile onto your face.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, like Mom says, I believe you," you tell him. "I guess they're somewhere in my room. Boy, will I look like an idiot when I go back in there, tonight or tomorrow or sometime, and there they are, sitting on top of my bed in plain sight. I'll have to crawl back here to apologize. And then I'll have to crawl to Mom, and tell her that I was totally wrong and that I found them. I'll even ask her to ground me for a week, as punishment for accusing you of something you didn't do. You hear all that?" You lean over him. "I will ask her to ground me because—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah yeah," Robert mutters. "Get out of here. Maybe your shit will turn up. I hope it does." He turns back to his desk and slumps into his chair. You stare at the back of his head, then leave, pulling the door shut behind you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Carlos calls you back, and you talk to him about his and his friends' trip to the basement. He tells you that they found the lock gone from the door when they got there. As for what they found inside, he says there wasn't anything except a bunch of old school furniture and equipment. <i>No bags of dirt?</i> you ask. <i>No plastic sacks with bags and boxes of things?</i> He says no. <i>Did you find a book there, in red leather covers?</i> He says they didn't. All they did, according to him, was move some desks and shelves around, to try to give it a more atmospheric look, before giving up and leaving.<br/>
<br/>
You leave the house, making sure that Robert notes your exit, and drive back over to the school to make another search yourself. You turn up nothing, not even so much as a receipt. You wander around to the other side of the school, where the community center proper is, in what looks like was once the cafeteria. There's a woman working on a computer there, and a man in a tan security guard's uniform—like a mall cop's—and as casually as you can you sound them out about the school and its history. Eventually you twist the talk around to odd architectural features, and with studied neutrality you mention that there's a door on the other side of the building that looks like it goes down to a basement. All that you learn is that there is a basement, which is used to store old equipment, but that nobody ever goes down there.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, that doesn't mean that someone didn't try to go down there yesterday, and found your padlock and cut it off, and cleaned you out. After all, the guard might know that happened, but even if he did, why would he tell a random kid? So you are still left mystified and frustrated.<br/>
<br/>
You drive around for a little bit, then return home. Your heart is beating with faint hope and anticipation as you mount the stairs, but when you look inside your room, there is no book with a red leather cover balanced atop the mess you left on your bed, and no mask. With a sigh you settle down to sort everything out and straighten up a room that probably hasn't been sorted and cleaned since the start of summer. The place looks a lot nicer when you are done, but your heart is still heavy, for there is no sign of the book and mask. Again, you wander all through the house, poking around to see if it might have got picked up and set down and forgotten someplace, but you have no luck.<br/>
<br/>
Your mind is a blank when you go to bed, and you can only lay on your side and stare at the empty desk on the other side of your room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's with a heavy heart that you trudge to school the next morning, and though the heaviness gradually dissipates, there's a bad buzzing in the back of your brain all day, as you can't stop thinking about your missing stuff.<br/>
<br/>
Your distraction is such that Sean, at work, chides you for it. "Your mind's a million miles away, Will," he says. <br/>
<br/>
"Just ... thinking about stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"Homework? Hey, there's a party going on tonight. I missed you last Friday. Wanna hit this one?"<br/>
<br/>
You frown. "Today's Monday. Who has a party on—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Josie Holden. It's a study thing, makes it okay." He grins. "Gonna be a lot of girls in sexy shorts and t-shirts there. It's invite only, but I think I can get you in."<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111222211
author_id: seuzz
title: A Sean of Ice and Fire
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"So who's going to be out at this party?" you ask Sean.<br/>
<br/>
"Girls," he repeats, with a widening grin.<br/>
<br/>
Okay, your luck with girls is not so great. You've only had one girlfriend so far, and even Lisa says you weren't really boyfriend and girlfriend. Still, this is the second time that Sean has told you about a party, and you don't want to look like a chicken-shit in front of him.<br/>
<br/>
"Sounds great!" you enthuse. "So what kind of 'homework' is gonna be going on out there?" You waggle your eyebrows.<br/>
<br/>
His smile cools. "Don't lay it on too thick, Will. It's a chance to have fun while doing homework, that's all. You know where Josie lives?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'll give you a ride from my place, then. You can follow me home, leave your wheels, then pick them up again when we're done."<br/>
<br/>
"How long's it gonna go for? What if I want to leave before you do?" Sean's eyes narrow at the question. "Okay, forget I said that."<br/>
<br/>
He claps you on the shoulder with a meaty hand, almost rocking you off your feet. "If we need to leave separate," he says, "you can get a ride from one of the girls. Come on, man." He lightly mauls your face with his paw. "Are you <i>looking</i> for an excuse not to get some action?"<br/>
<br/>
You blush deeply.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You leave work together, but Sean has to run admiring hands over the lines of your truck before leading you over to his. "Nice," he says. "Whaddayu haul around in it?"<br/>
<br/>
"My ass, from my house to the school."<br/>
<br/>
"You could use a motor scooter for that."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, my dad bought it for me."<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa!"<br/>
<br/>
"So I drive it and keep it gassed up and am supposed to take care of it. But he says <i>he</i> gets to use it if he ever has to haul anything around. So, I use it all the time, but I think he wants it in case he needs, you know, a truck."<br/>
<br/>
"Me and my brother used our truck to haul camping gear and other shit around. And when we were rebuilding a motorcycle—"<br/>
<br/>
"You have a brother?'<br/>
<br/>
A shadow passes over Sean's face. "Had," he says, gruffly, and resettles his ball cap. "I lost Taylor in a ... car accident."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I'm sorry."<br/>
<br/>
"You have a brother?"<br/>
<br/>
"A little brother, in middle school. He's a pest."<br/>
<br/>
Sean's gaze goes distant. "Yeah," he murmurs. "They know how to push your buttons sometimes. But you miss 'em when you don't have 'em anymore."<br/>
<br/>
You sure as fuck don't wish <i>death</i> on Robert. But if he was shipped off to a military school, or sold to the gypsies (as your mom used to threaten to do, when you were younger) ... Well, you'd like to have a chance to <i>find out</i> if you would miss him. "I'm sorry," you say again.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh." Sean claps you on the back. "No, I'm sorry. It's awkward talking to other people about it, awkward for them too. But come on, just follow me out to my place. Don't ride my bumper, but don't get lost."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div> <br/>
Sean doesn't live too far away, in a small house in a shabby neighborhood, but the lawn out front, though shot through with weeds, is trim. You park on the street while he parks under a carport, and he crooks a finger at you to follow him into the house. "I might be a minute," he says. "No reason for you to wait out here with the bugs."<br/>
<br/>
He introduces you to his mother, who is a tired-looking woman in early middle age who reminds you somehow of Caleb's mom: like her, she has the appearance of carrying bone-weariness around atop an iron constitution, and she gives you a warm but slightly faded smile when Sean introduces you. "Oh, so you're the boy he works with at his job," she says after Sean has disappeared into his bedroom in the back. "He's told me about you."<br/>
<br/>
You gulp slightly. "He hasn't complained about me, I hope."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, no!" She flutters a little with laughter.<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos I am clumsy—"<br/>
<br/>
"No, he talks about how nice it is to have a classmate working with him. Taylor—" The shadow that crossed Sean's face now crosses hers. "My other son, he used to work there, and he had friends who worked there with him. He said it made it like it wasn't work at all. Sean's said something like that about you too."<br/>
<br/>
"Wow, that's nice of him. He's great too. It's like he's my boss 'cos he knows how everything works and he can tell me what to do, but he's also like my friend."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you friends in school?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, we never hung out in school. But I guess we're going to a, um, study thing now."<br/>
<br/>
She smiles, and an awkward silence falls between you. It's a relief when Sean reappears with his backpack. "I'll probably be back about ten," he starts to say, but his mom interrupts him.<br/>
<br/>
"That friend of yours came by the house again," she tells him. "About fifteen minutes before you got back."<br/>
<br/>
"What friend? Cameron? Laurent?"<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't answer, but her expression becomes very taut, and pain shows in her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
The color drains from Sean's face. "Oh. Him." His voice turns very hard. "He didn't stop, didn't he?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I just recognized the truck, and I thought I recognized ... him."<br/>
<br/>
Sean mutters something under his breath, and he turns very red. "I'll talk to him tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"Sean, I don't—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll <i>talk</i> to him, Mom." Sean's bicep swells as he bunches up a fist.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe he turned down the wrong street, or there's someone else in the neighborhood—"<br/>
<br/>
"It bothered you, right?" His jaw clenches, and a little froth shows on his lips. "Seeing him? So I'll talk to him—"<br/>
<br/>
"Promise me that's all you'll do."<br/>
<br/>
"If you promise me—" He holds up a stiff forefinger. "If you promise that you will <i>tell</i> me if it happens again."<br/>
<br/>
"Sean—"<br/>
<br/>
"Promise! Mom!"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you just now, didn't I?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. And you keep telling me." He gives her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "Okay?" He kneads her shoulders. "I love you."<br/>
<br/>
You finally have the good sense to avert your gaze, and you keep it averted even after you follow Sean out to his truck. He himself says nothing either, and seems preoccupied. When you're in his truck—which feels about five times bigger and twenty times manlier than yours, even though they're the same size—you summon up the courage to say, "I told your mom how much I like working with you. Out at Salopek."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" He seems to retrieve his attention from a million miles away. "Oh. Thanks. I've told her about you too." He shoves the key into the ignition, and guns the engine hard. "I'm glad I got to know you." He throws the truck into reverse and rockets back out of the carport so fast that you almost bang your head on the windshield. He becomes preoccupied again, and neither of you speak all during the drive.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Josie Holden lives in one of the nicer parts of town, west of the river and not too far from the country club, but there's nothing ostentatious about her house. It isn't even a two-story house, like yours, but it does have two living areas, enough to hold the dozen or so Westside students who ultimately show up.<br/>
<br/>
You get a bad feeling about the evening to come when the first person you see is Stephanie Wyatt. You've known Stephanie for years, and she's a total jockstrap: the kind of girl who, if she was a guy, would slap you around for being a wuss at gym. She's on the girls' basketball team, and she prowls around with the grace and power of a panther, an impression only strengthened by the ferocious green of her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
She's passing through the atrium as you and Sean enter. Her eyes are hard as they settle on you, but soften as they dart over to Sean. "Hey!" she says, and swings around to pat the side of his face. "When Josie said you texted, I was scared it was to say you couldn't make it!"<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, I'd never miss, I just texted to make sure I could bring Will here along."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, sure." At least Stephanie's expression remains friendly as her eyes fall back onto you. "Hey, Prescott. You bring your Astronomy?" You and she share that class, and you nod mutely. "Awesome, 'cos I need some help in there. And you—" She runs a tongue inside her lower lip as she turns back to Sean. "Josie needs something heavy moved in the kitchen. Anders is in there, but he's a girly man." She pokes him in his meaty pecs. "You need to go in there and impress her."<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme just drop my stuff. Where are we—?"<br/>
<br/>
"We got two rooms set up." She points to opposite sides of the atrium. "That one's for couples and the other's for people who actually need to get work done."<br/>
<br/>
But instead of picking one room or the other, Sean just shoves his bag into your arms and swaggers through a third archway, deeper into the house. Stephanie turns to watch him go, and though you can only see the back of her head, you're sure she's watching his ass.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think Sean has a girlfriend," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?"<br/>
<br/>
"Which room is for studying in? 'Cos Sean's not part of a couple, I don't think."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Uh, the couples are in there." She points to your left. "Drop his bag in there, drop yours— Well, wherever." She rubs her nose with her open palm and looks around, distractedly. Then she hauls out her cell phone and scrolls across the screen. "Hang on," she says as you start to move past her. "Lemme pull up my Astronomy paper, and you can look it over while I go take care of something else." With a sniff, she hands you her phone, which you somehow take in hand along with the two packs you are carrying.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112222112
author_id: seuzz
title: One Guy, Three Girls, Zero Chances
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You came with Sean, but you don't care for the idea of hanging out in a room with a bunch of "couples" when you don't have a girl of your own. So you drop Sean's bag in the "couples' room"—barely casting an eye on a football player and the girl he's got his arm around—before trudging back into the other. Stephanie has disappeared in the meantime.<br/>
<br/>
Your suspicion that this "study party" is mostly for something other than studying hardens after you've plopped yourself onto the floor. There's only two girls in there, sprawled on the floor with their cell phones out. One of them you know: Meghan Velasquez, who like Stephanie is on the basketball squad. The other, a mousy little thing with dirty blonde hair, you don't. Neither of them say anything to you, though, but after lifting their faces briefly to smile at you, they dive right back into their phones. After getting settled a respectable distance from them, you turn your attention to Stephanie's phone.<br/>
<br/>
You know that some people will compose their homework essays on their phones, to be texted or emailed to themselves or to the teacher, but you've never done so yourself and are a little baffled to find that Stephanie is one of <i>those</i> people. The essay she's asked you to read is on the Ptolemaic model of the solar system, and it makes both your eyes and your brain hurt to read. Not only can she not spell or punctuate, you can barely make out her meaning because none of the sentences want to stick to any of the others. You have the impression that she composed it one sentence at a time, taking ten- or twenty-minute breaks between each sentence to check her social media or talk to a friend.<br/>
<br/>
So you keep very still and don't say anything each time Stephanie comes tramping into the room. Fortunately, she doesn't seem to be much interested in you, and comes in only to consult briefly and cryptically with the other two girls for a moment before running back out again. Once, she picks up her bag, paws through it, then looks over to give you a long, hard stare before dropping her pack and leaving again. It's after this last time that Meghan—a pleasant-faced Hispanic girl with a dark complexion, coffee-black hair, and a warm, cheerful smile—leans over to ask, with a quizzical look on her face, "Is that Stephanie's phone?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, she wanted me to read something she wrote for a class we got."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God." Meghan plucks the phone from your hand long enough to glance at the screen before returning it to you with a snicker. "Good luck!"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing." She lowers her face with a grin and goes back to tapping into her own phone. You look at the other girl, but she is still absorbed with her own phone.<br/>
<br/>
But when Stephanie has returned, and hauled that other girl (bag and all) off the floor and out of the room, Meghan leans over again to ask, "Who'd you come out here with?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sean. Mitchell," you add when Meghan's puzzlement doesn't clear up. "He told me there was a 'study party' going on out here," you continue when Meghan's eyes light up, "but, um—"<br/>
<br/>
You crane your neck to look into the room on the other side of the atrium. Sure enough, it's now packed with people, some of whom have arrived in the meantime. Sean is in there, along with a couple of other wrestler/football players you recognize (none of them awful, you're relieved to see, but none you'd care to exchange two words with) and a bunch of girls, including the mousy girl, who is now sitting next to a beefy guy with a fuzzy black beard and hairy calves. "I didn't bring anyone with me," you dryly add after settling back again.<br/>
<br/>
Meghan titters. "I didn't either. And neither did Katy, but I guess Stephanie—" She breaks off as Stephanie comes back in and drops to sit cross-legged with a sigh. "Who'd you hook Katy up with?" Meghan asks her.<br/>
<br/>
"Isaac."<br/>
<br/>
"Seems like a match."<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie nods, and her gaze darts between you and Meghan. "Has Prescott here been bothering you?"<br/>
<br/>
You blanch, but Meghan throws her head back to laugh open-mouthed at the ceiling. "He's been trying to read your paper for the last twenty minutes!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" Her emerald-hard eyes lock onto yours. "How is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Um—"<br/>
<br/>
"He's been trying to get through it for <i>twenty minutes,</i> Stephanie!" Meghan gasps with suppressed laughter. "How do you <i>think</i> it is?"<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie flushes and yanks her phone from you. "It's in English, Prescott," she growls. "Something wrong with your reading comprehension?"<br/>
<br/>
"I— I'm just not used to reading stuff on a phone. School papers, I mean."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" Her chin tilts. "What do you write yours on?"<br/>
<br/>
"On a computer."<br/>
<br/>
"<i>On a computer,</i>" she mimics, meanly. "Pssh!" She glowers for a moment, then says, "Can you make it better?"<br/>
<br/>
"Your paper? Um—"<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme see!" Meghan reaches across to take Stephanie's phone. To Stephanie, you stammer, "You know, I can show you what I wrote for class, if you want."<br/>
<br/>
If you jabbed yourself in the eyeballs with hot needles, it would hardly hurt worse than the look Stephanie gives you in return. "Except," you mutter, "I didn't bring my laptop with me, so I can't." Stephanie rolls her eyes as she takes her phone back from Meghan.<br/>
<br/>
Lucky for you, the front door opens and another girl comes in. Mikaela Bowers is a soccer player, and she looks very trim and healthy even in blue jeans and a floppy burgundy t-shirt.  Stephanie raises her hand and gestures her over to join your trio.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey," Mikaela says as she drops her bag and looks over her shoulder into the other room, where the chatter and laughter is rising in volume. "What's going on in there?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's where the couples are hanging out," Meghan says. "That means Will here's got us all three to himself." She twinkles at you.<br/>
<br/>
Mikaela, who has a great, fluffy mane of brown hair and a very sober stare, nods vaguely at you as she drops to the floor, then leans back to give a long look into the other room. "Katy and Isaac?" she asks Stephanie when she turns back around.<br/>
<br/>
Meghan answers: "It seems like a good match."<br/>
<br/>
Mikaela gives you a thoughtful look, then turns to Stephanie. She doesn't even have to ask anything, for Stephanie's eyes turn to slits as she says, "Mitchell tracked Prescott in like gum on the bottom of his shoe."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And something in you seems to break. Without a word, you haul yourself onto your feet and leave the room.<br/>
<br/>
 Stephanie has been a dismissive bitch to you for as long as you've known her. Yeah, so you're not a natural athlete, or a pile of lean muscle like Sean Mitchell or the guys in the other room. That doesn't mean that she gets sneer at you because you flinch when someone pitches a fastball at your face, or to snort when you miss a free throw, or grab her head like she's got a migraine when the soccer ball goes between your feet—all things she's done in the past when watching you perform in P. E. class. And if she doesn't even like looking at you? Well, fine, you don't much like looking at her, even though she's a handsome girl with great knockers and strong, supple thighs that you could spend weeks kissing all over.<br/>
<br/>
But does she have to treat you like a stain on the air that she's trying to peer through or past to see something more interesting?<br/>
<br/>
And does she really have the right to call you "gum that Mitchell tracked in on his shoe"?<br/>
<br/>
You get briefly lost as you wander through a brightly lit kitchen and into a laundry room before finding your way out through a door and onto a deck attached to the back of the house. The porch light is off, and you stand there, slouching against a railing, and glaring into the darkening yard while listening to the grumble of traffic and the barks of neighborhood dogs. The fuck of it all is that you'll have to wait for Sean to turn loose, and he told his mom it would ten before he would be back, and if he's got a girl with him, that will probably turn into an eleven o'clock or even a midnight departure. Can you kill those hours out here, in the back yard? Maybe you can grab your backpack and walk back home.<br/>
<br/>
Consumed by these black thoughts, you flinch when you hear the back door open and shut. The deck boards creak, and then the girl is at your elbow. "Hey," Stephanie says. "I'm sorry, Will. That was a shit thing to say."<br/>
<br/>
"It's alright," you mumble.<br/>
<br/>
"No, it isn't. I didn't even think what I said, it just popped out, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"Then why did it 'pop out' if you weren't thinking it?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's just an expression, man, it's something my brother used to say. I told you I'm sorry."<br/>
<br/>
"And I told you it was okay."<br/>
<br/>
You're given a moment of silence before Stephanie seizes you by the chin and wrenches you around so she can stare you in the face.<br/>
<br/>
"I said I'm sorry, Will," she says in a very even tone while holding you in this death grip. "I mean it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it, and I didn't mean it. But if you want to be a baby about it—"<br/>
<br/>
You tear yourself free of her grip, and she puts her hands up.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I shouldn't have said that either. Jesus, I'm being a real bitch tonight. You know it and I know it too. But I'm <i>done</i> with this thing tonight and I'm going home now, so you can start having fun after I'm gone." She turns and opens the door.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122221122
author_id: seuzz
title: A Study Date with Stephanie
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Can you give me a ride home?" you blurt out before you can change your mind. "I mean, if you're leaving too, I could use a ride. I don't wanna stay either."<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie shoots you a hard, hooded look over her shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to bail, Prescott, on account of me, I told you, I'm going."<br/>
<br/>
"That's why I'm asking for a ride. I came with Sean, but he's gonna be here for, like, hours. And I'm done with this thing too. And then, you know," you add when she says nothing, "you can come back here after <i>I'm</i> gone."<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a long look, then shrugs and goes back inside. That seems like an acquiescence, so you follow her.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You collect your bag and give Sean a quick goodbye, telling him you're going and that you'll see him tomorrow at work. He looks a little dazed, then waves you off with a puzzled, "Sure, um, later." No one else pays any attention to you.<br/>
<br/>
You have to hustle to keep up with Stephanie, who's a fast walker, as she leads you to her car. Neither of you speak until after you're inside, buckled up, and on the road. That's when she asks where you live. "Acheson," you tell her, and give her the street.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, that's close," she says. "I live in Acheson too. By the river."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah? That sounds nice."<br/>
<br/>
"It is. Did I ever have you out to my place? Like, for a birthday party?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Listen," she adds after a pause, "you're not leaving Josie's on account of me, and what I said, are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. I just— I do better at homework working by myself."<br/>
<br/>
"So do I. Except I'm lousy at homework, so I like having other people around. That's the only way I can get through it."<br/>
<br/>
"You're 'lousy' at homework?" you query.<br/>
<br/>
Her voice sinks into a growl. "You read that thing I wrote for Astronomy."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I wouldn't call it 'lousy', I just, um—"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to be nice, Prescott, I know it was a piece of shit."<br/>
<br/>
"No it wasn't. <i>I've</i> written worse." You don't know why you feel the need to salve her feelings, but you do.<br/>
<br/>
"That's not what Frazier says."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Scott Frazier. He said you and him were partnered on a report, and you fixed up the paper he wrote real good."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, that. Well, he wrote it, I just—"<br/>
<br/>
"He said you did the research too. Said it was the easiest paper he ever had to write because you basically wrote it for him with the research stuff you gave him."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we worked good as a team, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. But you couldn't fix up what I wrote, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say that!"<br/>
<br/>
"You were pretty fucking tongue-tied when I asked you about it."<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, I'm not used to reading papers on phones!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's in fucking English, like any other text you get! You get texts on your phone, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not the same kind of thing! Jesus! But you know, if you want me to take another stab at it—"<br/>
<br/>
She snorts. "Forget it."<br/>
<br/>
"No, I'm serious," you say, and to your own surprise you realize that you are. "If you want to go someplace, just the two of us, to work on it, I'd be up for that."<br/>
<br/>
She does another one of those double-takes at you. "I thought I was taking you home."<br/>
<br/>
"So take me home and I'll pick up my laptop and then we'll go to Starbucks or somewhere."<br/>
<br/>
She thinks a moment, then says, "Bleh. Not Starbucks. How about The Shed?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fine with me. But I thought <i>you</i> wanted to go home."<br/>
<br/>
"I just wanted to get out of there. I'm up for going to The Shed, trying to get some work done. I just needed to get out of there."<br/>
<br/>
"What was wrong with it? If it wasn't me?"<br/>
<br/>
"It wasn't you, man. I just had to get out." She lowers her head and powers through a light that's turning red.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The Shed is a bohemian coffee shop-slash-bakery-slash-food store in Acheson's dinky downtown section—the kind of place run by old hippies and their grown-up hippy kids. There's only a few tables in the cafe corner of the shop, but except for a wrinkly couple next to the window, you and Stephanie have the place to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
You picked up your laptop from home, and you tackle her paper by balancing her phone against the screen while you transcribe her texts (making spelling and grammar corrections as you go) into a word processing program. Meanwhile, she pulls out a thick textbook and, with the occasional worried glance in your direction, starts reading. Her paper, you decide after you've got it in a better-looking format, isn't too bad, even if it does still read like it was written by an over-caffeinated, over-sugared five-year-old with ADHD. You move some of the sentences around to put them in a more logical order, smooth them out so that reading them isn't as painful as stepping on a Lego, and when you're done you turn your laptop around and ask her to read it.<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes go wider and wider as she scans it. "Wow, this is pretty good," she says. "This is like— Oh, <i>fuck!</i>" She twists her seat, as though stung by a wasp, and grabs her own face. "Sorry," she mutters at the wrinkly couple, who have glanced over, then slumps sourly in her seat. "Mr. Cash is never gonna believe I wrote <i>that!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's too good!"<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "I don't know what to say, then. You asked me to fix it up."<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on." She leans forward to clutch the screen by the corners as she stares hard at the words, her lips moving as she reads. It's like she's trying to burn the words into her retinas.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," she says after a minute or so of this, and shuts her eyes and digs the heels of her hands into them. "Lemme just— Don't turn this around," she says as she grabs up her phone. "Can you work on something else?" she mutters as she starts to thumb words into her phone.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. What are you doing?"<br/>
<br/>
"Writing the frigging thing all over again. Now that I know what it should look like."<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't you just take what I wrote?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not <i>copying</i> it, Prescott," she growls, and a little froth shows on her lips. "You just showed me how to do it, and now I want to do it myself. I always want to do my own work, you know." She reddens as she concentrates even harder on her phone, and her eyes, you notice, never stray to the laptop's screen.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're about a third of the way through your math when she announces herself done. She has to pore over your version of the paper again, and compare it to what she wrote, before she is satisfied, and relinquishes your laptop. "Thanks," she says. "That really helped."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't see how."<br/>
<br/>
"It just did. You showed me how it should go. Frazier's right, you're good."<br/>
<br/>
"Pft. You should tell that my friend Caleb. And to Carson and James."<br/>
<br/>
"Johansson?" she asks. You nod, and give her the surnames of the other two. "Yeah, I know them. That's who you hang out with?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. And I'm the dumbass of the bunch. Well, maybe my friend Keith is the real dumbass. But the others are always telling me how dumb I am. At least, compared to them."<br/>
<br/>
"Tsst! I hate when people do that!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Then why do you do that when I try throwing a football?</i> you want to ask. But you've been getting along with her pretty well, so you don't. "Anyway," you say, "if you think <i>I'm</i> smart, then you really don't know very many smart people."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't," she says. "Well, that's not true," she adds. "I know a couple of <i>really</i> smart people."<br/>
<br/>
"Back at Josie's?"<br/>
<br/>
She laughs. "No, not back there. No, that's not true, some of them are really smart. But I was thinking of— Well, never mind."<br/>
<br/>
You nod, vacantly. Then, to keep the conversation going, you ask, "Why did you want to leave Josie's?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" You seem to have startled her out of a reverie. "Oh, I just got fed up with it."<br/>
<br/>
"Fed up with what? I didn't see what was going on."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, just with the 'couples' thing. Which was funny, since I'm the one that put most of them together."<br/>
<br/>
"What, you were playing matchmaker?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sort of. I was— I don't wanna talk about it." She settles back in her chair and lets her gaze go distant.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have a boyfriend?" you ask after a pause.<br/>
<br/>
"No." But she doesn't bridle, the way you were half-dreading she would. "What about you? Weren't you going with someone? I thought I heard—"<br/>
<br/>
"Lisa Yarborough. Except we weren't going out. Not according to her. According me, I thought we were, but she says we weren't."<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie stares at you and starts to speak. Then she shakes her head and says, "I don't get what you're talking about, but it sounds fucked up."<br/>
<br/>
The silence between you lingers, lengthens, stretches and tightens.<br/>
<br/>
Dare you snap it by asking if she ... wants to get together tomorrow night to study?<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111222211221
author_id: seuzz
title: Fun in a Back Seat
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Do you want to get together tomorrow night," you ask Stephanie, "do some more studying?"<br/>
<br/>
"What?" she says. Again, you seem to have startled her out of a visit to a very distant place. "Oh. Well, I don't think I'm gonna have any homework," she says. "I, uh— Well, this year I tried signing up for classes where I wasn't going to have a lot of it."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, okay. I wish I'd been that smart. That makes you smarter than me in one way," you add with a smile.<br/>
<br/>
She answers with a brief, pained smile of her own. It quickly turns into a frown, though. "Are we close to your house?" she asks. "I don't got a lot to keep me out, now. If I went  home, could you walk home from here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I could do that," you tell her with a sinking heart, even though your house is many blocks away.<br/>
<br/>
She hesitates, then says, "Nah, never mind, that was selfish of me. I can keep busy while you work. No," she insists when you protest. "I'll go get you another coffee. I need one too. I've got some reading I really need to get through, and that's the only way I can concentrate."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
If this is Stephanie Wyatt concentrating—raising her nose from the book every few minutes to glance at her phone—you wonder what it would look like when she's not concentrating. It embarrasses you, having to let her basically babysit you while you do your math, and you hurry through it as fast as possible. To spare her and you even more awkward together-time, you throw over the reading you were supposed to do for English and declare yourself ready to go before you really are.<br/>
<br/>
She was quiet all the time you were doing your math, and you don't really expect her to speak again, except to make some courtesy remarks about it being "fun" or some shit like that. But when you get out to the car, she stops before getting in, and across the roof of the sedan she says, "I was serious what I told you in there, Prescott. I don't think I'm gonna have any homework tomorrow night. That's how come I, uh, turned you down."<br/>
<br/>
"I understand."<br/>
<br/>
"I wasn't, you know, rejecting <i>you.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I know that."<br/>
<br/>
She slaps the roof of the car a couple of times, then says, "But if we do get together for homework again, that's all that it is. Just homework."<br/>
<br/>
"No, I get that." You start to stammer, and then sweat pops out all over your body. "I wasn't— No really, I wasn't, when I asked you that—"<br/>
<br/>
"There's a guy I'm interested in, is all."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Well, of course." <i>And of course, he's not me,</i> you add in what must be one of the most foolishly obvious silent follow-ups of all time.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." She slaps the roof again. "There's a guy I want, and I'm gonna get him."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm sure you will. Do I know him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. I'm sure you know who he is."<br/>
<br/>
"Does <i>he</i> know you want to go out with him?"<br/>
<br/>
That's another one of those questions that just came blurting out. It must be something about Stephanie that makes you ask them. It's like without even trying she can just <i>bully</i> you into saying things you should know better than to say.<br/>
<br/>
Still, even though you know it's not the smartest thing you could have said, you're in no way prepared for what comes next.<br/>
<br/>
It's dark, but you can make out Stephanie's face across the roof of the car. There's shock in her expression, and her eyes go wide even as her lips peel back. "Just get in the fucking car, Prescott," she hisses. You duck your head and obey.<br/>
<br/>
She gets in too, and shoves the key into the ignition. But she doesn't twist it. Instead she sits very still for a moment, and you can hear her swallow a couple of times.<br/>
<br/>
Then, to your consternation, she throws the door open and leaps out, and you watch in astonishment as she runs off around the corner of The Shed.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment you can only stare. Then you get out and, with a feeling like you are taking your life in your hands, you follow her.<br/>
<br/>
You don't have to go far before you're arrested by the quiet sound of someone weeping nearby. Stephanie is around the back of The Shed, standing in a dark corner where a wooden fence meets the back wall of the cafe. She is hunched over, with her face averted, and she gasps and sniffles and shudders while hugging herself.<br/>
<br/>
"Stephanie?" you say in a creaking voice. She stiffens, and catches and holds her breath. "I—"<br/>
<br/>
It would be like touching a wildcat, you know. But you make the gesture anyway. You lightly brush her shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
A violent shiver runs through her, and she seems to shrink up even further inside herself. Then she wheels and throws her arms around you. You feel yourself turn to stone as she buries her face in the crook of your neck and unashamedly sobs into it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's Marc Garner she's in love with. That's what she admits after she has wrung herself dry of all the tears, leaving her limp as a dishrag. She is in love with Marc Garner.<br/>
<br/>
You're sitting in the back seat of her car, each of you pressed up against your own door, with most of the empty cabin between you. After she had finished most of her crying, Stephanie had made noises about taking you back home, but instead had crawled into the back seat, where you had joined her after a pause. And then she let it all out.<br/>
<br/>
She had known him and his sisters, Eva and Jessica, since they were kids, but it wasn't until their freshman year that she got a crush on him. That crush grew steadily, but she kept her distance, because he had a girlfriend. But that girl left at the end of their junior year, and after giving Marc the summer to get over this unwanted break up, Stephanie had started to edge up to him. She was going to get herself a boyfriend, and he was going to be it.<br/>
<br/>
But (stupidly, she admitted) she wanted <i>him</i> to ask <i>her</i> out. So instead of declaring herself to him, she had played coy. And then Marc—<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie nursed her temples, as though she had a migraine or was trying to fight back tears again.<br/>
<br/>
But then Marc had asked out another girl. Because apparently he wasn't even interested enough in Stephanie to notice that she might be interested in him.<br/>
<br/>
"Who did he ask out?" you asked.<br/>
<br/>
"Girl named Hannah Westrick," Stephanie said. "She's a slut from Eastman, moved out to Westside this year. I guess he's serious about her, and— Oh, God <i>damn</i> it! It's like she's serious about him, too! Because she used to chase anything with a dick, and now she's—! Oh, fuck me," she groans, "she's a one-guy girl now. Or at least she's acting that way."<br/>
<br/>
You expressed your sympathies; politely asked if there weren't other guys she might be interested in (which got you a very dirty look); told her she was an awesome girl who you could totally imagine going with Marc. Which is true—Marc is the captain of the soccer team, and is a very good-looking, athletic, popular guy. "Wish I could talk Marc into seeing it that way," she grunted.<br/>
<br/>
But you quickly ran out of things to say, until now you say the last thing that you can say, which is: "I wish I could tell you something, but I don't know what to say."<br/>
<br/>
"That's alright," Stephanie says, and she sounds bone-tired. "You did plenty just by letting me vent. I can't believe it." She grinds a knuckle into her forehead. "You know I haven't told <i>anyone else</i> about this? No one knows how I feel about him. What I want from him. Except you, now."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Why me?</i> you wonder.<br/>
<br/>
"I'd have to kill myself after telling any of my friends all this, if I did tell them."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh. You told me </i>because<i> we're not friends.</i><br/>
<br/>
"So don't <i>you</i> go telling anyone!" she then adds, roaring to life. She leans across to punch you hard in the leg. "I mean that, Prescott!"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't worry, I won't! I don't even know—" <i>Anyone who would care,</i> is what you were going to say, but you quickly correct it to, "—any of your friends anyway."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you don't tell <i>anyone!</i> If it gets out, I will know who to kill, and it will be you!"<br/>
<br/>
"I swear, I won't!"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright." She seems mull on a question—whether to kill you anyway, probably—then with a sharp, short sigh she says, "Okay, that's enough of this shit. I'm taking you home now." You gratefully clamber out and get into the front seat.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Stephanie's confession preys on you all night, which surprises you, but you can't put it out of your mind even after you try. You feel too much sympathy for her—she was really compelling at conveying the heartache and misery she feels—and are also somewhat in awe of how vulnerable this tough-skinned girl made herself in front of you. And even though she only told you all this because (as she implied) you and she are not friends, you are still humbled that she shared it with you.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you feel weirded out the next day, as you approach last-period Astronomy. Typically you don't even glance at Stephanie when you go into the room, and when you do, she's got her face bent over her phone. What should you do now, today, after that very raw and soul-baring talk she had with you last night? Would it make it awkward for her if you made a point of saying "Hi"? Or would it be more awkward if you didn't?<br/>
<br/>
Then you get a bright idea: Skip class, then text her to ask if you can borrow her notes.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112222112211
author_id: seuzz
title: The Games That Some Girls Play
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Skipping class seems like a chicken-shit thing to do. Best thing to do, you tell yourself, is just go right in and make a point of trying to catch her eye. Don't even talk to her or make a production of it. Just let her know that you saw her and wanted to wave <i>Hi!</i> at her.<br/>
<br/>
(And besides, you don't have her number, and would have to play a fast game of phone tag in the few minutes between class in order to track it down.)<br/>
<br/>
But then, after all that drama, when you get to class, she isn't even there.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You hear from Stephanie while you're at work, though, when she texts to ask you for <i>your</i> notes from class. Briefly, you have to suspect that she had the same idea as you: that, frightened by the awkward meeting you would have in last period class, she skipped just as you had been planning to.<br/>
<br/>
Sean is grinning slyly as you put your phone away after telling Stephanie she can come out to your house at around seven to get the notes. "Is that from a girl out at Josie's last night?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's from Stephanie."<br/>
<br/>
"Wyatt? She was at Josie's last night. You <i>left</i> with her!" He laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"We weren't having fun."<br/>
<br/>
"So you went off to have fun?"<br/>
<br/>
"We went off and did <i>homework</i> together!"<br/>
<br/>
Sean howls. "So what's going on with you two?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing!"<br/>
<br/>
"You were supposed to do homework at Josie's, and you <i>snuck off</i> to do it with just the two of you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, come on! Do you picture <i>me</i> with Stephanie?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
You sputter. "Do you even <i>know</i> Stephanie?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure!"<br/>
<br/>
"Then you know she's not interested in <i>me!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Why, did you try something with her last night and she shot you down?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"No!"</i><br/>
<br/>
Sean claps his hands and laughs. "Oh, come on, Will, I'm just giving you shit. You sure are acting embarrassed, though. Are you sure nothing happened? No little 'connection'?" He grins.<br/>
<br/>
Actually there was, sort of, so you have to squirm. "We talked some."<br/>
<br/>
His grin widens. "Uh huh?"<br/>
<br/>
"She told me about her crush, and it's not me!"<br/>
<br/>
Sean's eyes nearly pop from his head. For a hanging moment he only stares at you. Then he slowly collapses to the floor, howling with laughter. "What's so funny?" you scream at him, but it's several long minutes, and his cheeks are slimy with snot and tears of laughter before he's able to clamber to his feet again.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing's funny," he tries to assure you even as he wipes the mess away with the hem of his shirt. "It's, uh, just the way you said it." So you can't help it, you are peevish at him for the rest of work.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your Astronomy notes are on the kitchen counter, but you're helping wash up after dinner when Stephanie's car pulls into the driveway. You quickly dry your hands on a towel, grab up your notes, and bolt for the door. Stephanie is just getting out as you come out.<br/>
<br/>
"So, these are the notes?" she asks as you hand them over. "Cool, thanks a million." She glances over them, then looks up at the basketball hoop and backboard over the garage. "You play basketball?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? No. My dad put that up back when, I dunno, when I was a freshman or something. He thought maybe I'd practice outside P. E. But it's been forever since I did anything with a ball. My brother uses it mostly nowadays, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
She's still eyeing the basket. Then she says, "You wouldn't consider it payback for this"—she shake the sheaf of notes—"and last night if I showed you a few pointers on free throws and stuff, would you?"<br/>
<br/>
You grimace. "I don't know what good it'd do. Like I say, I don't play basketball and I'm not in any P. E. classes."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it was just a thought. I'm not a lot of good at anything else."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. Then you say, "Well, sure, I guess you could show me something, if you'd have fun. And, um, I guess I'm always up for learning <i>something.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
She holds your eye, then with a quick grin says, "Lemme just move my car back into the street." You watch and wait with ambivalent feelings as she clears the driveway, then takes a basketball from her trunk—does she go everywhere with a ball to play with?—and dribbles it back up to where you're waiting.<br/>
<br/>
She's a lot more patient with you than she's ever been with you before, and treats you the way a very careful and conscientious coach would as she shows you how to stand and balance yourself, and how to touch and guide the ball, and how to dribble it and keep it under control. She's with you for quite a while, long enough to set you on little exercises to practice these techniques, and bends over with her hands on her knees, to watch you. But even as you try to feign interest and concentration: "You're not having a lot of fun," she observes.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, I am," you pretend.<br/>
<br/>
"No, you're not, but I'm glad you're trying. You're not bad, actually. More like you never learned to do it right and are kind of rusty, but it wouldn't take a lot to get you good enough."<br/>
<br/>
Is she serious? You smile tightly at her.<br/>
<br/>
Then your face falls when the side door opens and Robert comes out. His eyebrows are up and his lips are pursed in an amused, impudent smirk as he watches you. You start counting to ten, unsure if you're trying to control your temper or making a countdown until you throw the ball at his smug little wretched face.<br/>
<br/>
He speaks first, though. "Are you teaching Will how to play basketball?" he calls to Stephanie.<br/>
<br/>
"Giving him pointers," she calls back. "Are you his brother?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's Robert," you mutter at her.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and I'm about ten times better than he'll ever be!"<br/>
<br/>
"You play?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure!" He holds up a hand, for you to throw the ball to him.<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie sweeps it from you first, then advances on Robert. His smile falters a little, and then she's upon him, bending over to talk to him in a low voice. Her back blocks your view, but after a half minute—<br/>
<br/>
"Mom!" Robert shrieks, and runs into the house. Stephanie hurls the ball back to you, and swaggers over, chuckling, to rejoin you.<br/>
<br/>
"What did you say to him?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, nothing too bad. Just the kind of thing my brother used to say to me when I'd come out and act like a showboating little cunt in front of him and his friends. Adapted for a little boy instead of a little girl, but the same basic stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"Wow. I guess your brother was older than you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I got two brothers, but yeah, Kayjay's older than me. Craig's a year behind me at school."<br/>
<br/>
Then she cries, "Oh Jesus!" and she steps back with a look of alarm on her face. "Now I know who you remind me of!"<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"All last night and just now—! And even before! I knew there was something about you that reminded me of someone else!"<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, nothing!" She shakes her head as she recovers herself. "It's just been like having a rock in my shoe, been bugging me but I couldn't figure it out. It's that you remind me of my little brother, Craig." She cocks her head. "Yeah, you even kind of look like him, a little. But it's the whole—" She waves her loose-jointed arms around in the air. "It's like you're put together with balsa wood and rubber bands. And he's smart too, but— Don't take this the wrong way, Prescott, but Craig can't open an umbrella without giving himself an owie. You're more coordinated than he is, but still, it's kind of the same with you."<br/>
<br/>
"Gee, thanks.<br/>
<br/>
"It's just a resemblance, Prescott, and I told you not to take it the wrong way. But anyway, show me you remember what I was showing you just now."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
If you're afraid that she might try to coach you into going out for basketball, those fears go unrealized, because there are no more coaching sessions with her, even after she sends you an English homework assignment to look over and maybe rearrange the sentences of. Instead, compensation (if that is what it is) comes in the form of an invite to meet up with her at Maggie Crenshaw's house on Friday for a party. And you are now comfortable enough with her that you don't immediately turn her down; but neither do you let yourself feel bullied into going. Instead, you tell her that you'll let her know on the day of the party.<br/>
<br/>
Robert, meanwhile, is treating you with a lot more wary circumspection than usual. He said nothing to you after Stephanie left that night, but on Thursday, when at the dinner table you casually mention that there's a party on Friday night, and could you have your curfew relaxed by an hour two, Robert pipes up to ask, "Are you going with that girl who said those nasty things to me the other night?"<br/>
<br/>
Your mother's ears perk up. "What girl?" she asks. "Who said nasty things to you?" But Robert primly presses his lips shut and slides his eyes sideways to light on you.<br/>
<br/>
"Stephanie, the other night, when she came over to pick up some notes from me and we played basketball out in the driveway." You glance at your brother. "Bobby came out and started giving her attitude."<br/>
<br/>
Robert flushes a deep red. "Mom! I didn't—!"<br/>
<br/>
"What did you say to her, Robert?"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say—!"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't hear what she said to him," you put in, "but she told me afterward that he deserved all of it."<br/>
<br/>
"Mom!"<br/>
<br/>
The upshot—probably as Robert intended—is that you don't get your curfew extended, but you're not forbidden from going to that party, either. If you want to go.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122221122111
author_id: seuzz
title: Party Crush
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>So now you're apparently a guy who goes out to parties. Even better, you get invited to them by popular people like Sean Mitchell and Stephanie Wyatt.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Who am I, and what have I done with the real Will Prescott?</i> you wryly ask yourself, but instead of a laugh the question gives you a shiver. It wasn't all that long ago you were working with stuff that seemed like real magic, and used it to make a mask that could apparently let someone disguise himself as you. And it, along with the book and stuff that made it, vanished from your room. Remembrance of that leaves you uneasy.<br/>
<br/>
 At least you haven't heard of any weird-ass doppelgangers of yourself showing up.<br/>
<br/>
Unless you yourself—a guy uncharacteristically getting invited to parties—is the real fake.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You talk to Sean at work about the party, and he says he's going too, so you arrange for him to swing by after supper on Friday to pick you up. He's in a cheerful mood when he shows up. Of course, he's always cheerful, but now it's like he's got a scent in his nose, and he excitedly tells you he's picking up a bunch of other guys too. "This is gonna be one <i>bitchin'</i> good time!" he promises you.<br/>
<br/>
He wasn't exaggerating when he said "bunch": it's like practically the entire wrestling team he picks up, one at a time. Soon you are squeezed in between Sean and Devin Haney, with another guy on the other side of Haney, while another half-dozen guys hunker in the back of the truck, hooting and yelling as Sean races along. They come spilling off even before Sean has brought the truck to a stop at Maggie's, and Sean is still shutting off the engine when Laurent Delacroix throws himself across the hood, makes some kind of twisted hand gesture as he roars at him through the windshield. Sean and the others jump out to follow; you follow more slowly. Too late, you realize as you look at all the cars parked on the streets and give ear to the music pouring out of the house, it's likely to be two or three or even four o'clock in the morning before you can get back home.<br/>
<br/>
The music is much louder inside, though it's not on blast, and the rooms feel dark and thick with sweat and body heat off the heaving mass of teenage bodies. <i>Lots of letterman jackets,</i> you note with mounting dismay, and when Steve Patterson, one of the biggest and nastiest assholes on the basketball team, looms suddenly before you, you fall back against the wall with a wince.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not all jocks. Some of the people, once your eyes get used to the dim light, look like you: guys slim of build with droopy shirts and sloppy pants, slurping from plastic cups while chatting up girls in tight halter tops and short skirts. In fact, some of them you even know!<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, Will!" It's Christian Knouse calling from a corner of the living room. Christian is a small, skinny guy with a fox-like face behind his glasses, and downy blonde hair; his billowing sweater is about ten sizes too large for him, and a stiff breeze could probably carry him of like a dandelion seed. Mostly you know Christian from running into him at the annex to the comic book shop, where he likes to play D&amp;D with a couple of other geeky friends. One of those friends, Darrell Parsons, is with him; between them is a tiny girl with long, dark hair wedged under a tight ski cap, and black, horn-rimmed glasses. You slide over to say hello.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey man, what are you doing here?" Christian demands from under a sharply arched eyebrow. "You're not cool enough for this party."<br/>
<br/>
"I came with Sean Mitchell. What are <i>you</i> doing here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Role-playing, as someone who belongs." He looks past you. "There's sodas and wine coolers and shit in the kitchen."<br/>
<br/>
"So you're just crashing this thing? How'd you hear about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Emily got us in." He indicates the girl, who is giving you a bright, steady look.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, I'm Will," you introduce yourself.<br/>
<br/>
"Will, or willing?" she asks with a bright, hungry smile.<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ignore her," Christian says. "She's role-playing too, as a flirt. Wench," he mutters when she punches him in the shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
"You hang out with these guys?" you ask the girl.<br/>
<br/>
"Sometimes, but come on." She grasps you by the elbow and pulls you away. "I wanna mingle, but they're too chicken-shit."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm strategizing!" Christian protests, but remains in the corner as you stumble off with the girl. "He'll be back, man," you hear him mutter at Darrell.<br/>
<br/>
Emily pulls you into the kitchen, where the counters are stacked deep with plastic cups and bottles of soda, juices, punches, and other drinks. She pours you something, then drags you into the next room, where a big dining table is spread with chips, dips, cookies, and other snacks. She pushes past Kendra Saunders, one of the snooty cheerleaders, to get at the table. "Whaddayu want?" she asks as she picks up a plate.<br/>
<br/>
"I can get my own." You glance back at Kendra, who has spared you and Emily a disdainful glance before returning to her cell phone.<br/>
<br/>
"We're sharing a plate," she says as she starts piling stuff onto it. "If there's something you specially want, speak now or forever hold your peace." So you start grabbing items of your own.<br/>
<br/>
"So who do you know who's here?" Emily asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno, I just got here. I came with Sean Mitchell and—"<br/>
<br/>
"Who's he?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's a football player or something. Oh, have you seen Stephanie Wyatt around?"<br/>
<br/>
Emily gasps. "Oh wow, lookit'chu, hanging out with real people! I was gonna take you out on the deck, but it sounds like <i>you</i> need to be taking <i>me</i> around! I don't ever get to talk to anyone like those guys." She peers around you. "Hey Kendra!"<br/>
<br/>
Kendra shoots her the briefest look of distaste before turning her back on you.<br/>
<br/>
You're going to protest that you don't really "hang out" with any of those people, but then figure, <i>What the hell.</i> So you take the lead out of the dining room and back into another living room, where you thought you saw some of the guys who rode out with you and Mitchell.<br/>
<br/>
It's Devin Haney you spot, standing with a bunch of guys built like a cross between a Brahmin bull and one of the monoliths at Stonehenge: great slabs of meat with bulging biceps and faces so hard and chiseled you could bounce pennies off their cheekbones. Most of them have lank girls with seaweed-like hair hanging off their shoulders, looking up dreamily into their faces while their guys laugh and chortle deeply at each other.<br/>
<br/>
You've just caught Devin's eye and are about to ask if he's seen Sean, when Emily barges past to plant herself in front of Erik Carstairs. It's like watching a squirrel go face to face and toe to toe with a German Shepherd.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey," she barks up at him, tilting her head back so she can stare him in the chin. He does a double-take, and frowns vaguely down at her. "I was at the Warehouse last weekend when I saw you and those other guys take that asshole down!"<br/>
<br/>
Carstairs's eyes dart, then he smirks. "Which asshole?"<br/>
<br/>
"That Eastman guy without the shirt. It was four of you took him down, hustled him out."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, what about it?" The others have fallen silent to watch and listen.<br/>
<br/>
"Why'd you need four guys to do it? I seen you on the field, man, and that guy was a twink, you could'a done it single-handed. Why'd you need the others helping?"<br/>
<br/>
Smiles and guffaws ripple around the crowd. Carstairs gets a pinched look. "Yeah, I could'a taken him, no problem," he says. "But, you know you don't want anyone getting hurt. So you wanna take 'em down hard and fast. That's what the extra—"<br/>
<br/>
"You like taking things hard? And fast?"<br/>
<br/>
His brow furrows. "Uh—"<br/>
<br/>
She goes up on tiptoes. "If I made trouble, would you promise to go down hard on <i>me?</i> Just don't do it <i>fast.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
A frozen silence falls over the group. The guys all grin at each other, except for Erik, who looks petrified. <br/>
<br/>
Then he hands his paper plate to one of the other guys and, still grasping his drink in the other, bends to grab Emily under the butt with one arm, lifting her and throwing her head-first over his shoulder. "I got someone I want you to meet," he shouts over the sudden roar of laughter that engulfs the group.<br/>
<br/>
"Holy shee-ut!" someone chortles as Erik lumbers away with Emily, and punches you in the arm. You turn and flinch: it's Roy Nelson, who used to take malicious delight in shoving you around when you were a freshman and sophomore. "Who was that girl?" he asks you from behind a wide grin.<br/>
<br/>
"Emily? I dunno, I just met her."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck!" Roy's eyes shine as he turns to look past you. You turn to watch too, as erik strides off, plowing through the crowds. Roy is still watching when you turn back around.<br/>
<br/>
Then, before you can react further, Roy's glance falls upon you. A faint light of puzzlement shines there as he regards you. Then it clears up, and his smile sharpens slightly.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit,</i> you think as your sphincter loosens. <i>The fucker's recognized me!</i><span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111222211221112
author_id: seuzz
title: A Cook's Tour of Party Hell
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Roy turns to his friends, and you make your escape, scooting off after Erik and Emily.<br/>
<br/>
But as you pass into the next room, someone grabs you.<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott!" Stephanie shouts, for the music is a lot louder in here. Her eyes are shining as she smiles at you. "I was about decided you weren't coming!"<br/>
<br/>
"I came out with Sean Mitchell!" you shout back over the music.<br/>
<br/>
"Cool!" Her face is flushed and she is perspiring. "You know—" She hauls you over to a circle of girls blocking the entrance to a hallway. "You all know Will here," she tells them. "Prescott?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hey Will," says the girl nearest. She has long, blonde hair that hangs in straight sheets past the tips of her breasts.<br/>
<br/>
'You know Will?" Stephanie asks.<br/>
<br/>
"We've had some classes together." The girl gives you a long, expectant look , and it gives you a sudden fright to realize she is waiting for you to remember her name.<br/>
<br/>
"Where's Phoebe?" Stephanie asks.<br/>
<br/>
"With Matthew, probably." The girl looks around your ear.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck!" Stephanie's flush deepens, and she starts to put a flask to her lips. "Wait," she says. "I thought she said he wasn't coming."<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno," the girl—<i>Barbara! That's her name!</i>—says.<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie hauls you off again. "Come with me, I want you to meet Phoebe! You know Phoebe?" Her grip on your arm tightens.<br/>
<br/>
"I—! Maybe!"<br/>
<br/>
"You'll like her! I— Hey!" She punches a beefy guy in a tight t-shirt. "You seen Phoebe around?" The guy shakes his head. "God damn it!" Stephanie spits.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you want me to meet Phoebe for?"<br/>
<br/>
She does a double-take at you, and some of that old fire and disdain shows in her face as her lip curls. With a grimace, she pushes you steadily back across the room and up against the wall. "Watch out!" someone chortles. "Stephanie's going for the tonsils!"<br/>
<br/>
She presses up close, squeezing her breasts against your chest, and you wince at the stench of alcohol on her breath. She lays a fist—the one holding the flask—on your shoulder as she digs into her back pocket to pull out a phone.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll know her when you see her," she says as she thumbs down the screen, and now that she's not shouting there's a definite slur in her speech. "You'll reco'nize her. Fuck, you pro'ly— Here!" She holds her phone up, then suddenly sags and mashes the phone into your face as she catches herself. "This is Phoebe," she says after steading herself. "I'm a little wasted," she adds.<br/>
<br/>
You grab her wrist to steady the phone, and throw your other arm around her waist to support her. Someone whistles, shrilly, but you're too preoccupied to care. You study the phone long enough to take in the girl in the picture. Then, as Stephanie sags deeper against you, you catch her around the shoulders and pull her to you. Her face goes into the crook of your neck, like it did the other night.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment only she rests there, then rears back to peer at you. "You like this, don' you, Prescott?" she says in a sneer.<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hol'ing me like this."<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, then say, "Yes."<br/>
<br/>
"I can tell. I'm giving you wood."<br/>
<br/>
She is, a little, though not enough for her to have noticed, you'd have bet.<br/>
<br/>
"Mm. You're sweet." She puts her face back in the crook of your neck. "You're sweet to me the other night. You're sweet an' I—"<br/>
<br/>
Then she rouses herself with a deep breath and straightens up. You try to hold on to her, but she pulls away. "Okay, I'm fine," she says, and pushes at your shoulder. "You can let go of me now."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I'm—"<br/>
<br/>
To your relief, Barbara comes stepping up. "Hey there," she says as she takes Stephanie by the elbow. "Let's go take a little walk, okay?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh, sure." Stephanie stumbles as Barbara tugs at her. "Go look for Phoebe!" she shouts at you. "Tell her I want you t'see her! I mean, you want t'see her! <i>I</i> want t'see her!" Barbara shoots you a pitying look as she steers her friend away.<br/>
<br/>
You gather your wits and suck down a deep breath. As you step from the corner, a foot shoots out and you're almost tripped by Dylan Lloyd, who is splayed on a sofa with a girl in his lap. He smirks up at you. "Like where you were putting your hands, man," he tells you. The girl squeals and claws at his chest.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're not really keen on looking for Phoebe, so you go looking for Christian instead. But he's moved out of his corner and taken Darrell with him. You spiral through the house, and since things aren't already awkward enough, you ask Kendra, "Have you seen Christian Knouse around?" when you pass her.<br/>
<br/>
"Ungh," she replies with a curve of the lip.<br/>
<br/>
"What about Phoebe— Um, the soccer player?"<br/>
<br/>
That gets her attention, and she gives you a disdainful but direct look. Then her mouth curls in a way you don't quite like, and with a crook of the finger she leads through the kitchen to where a pair of French doors open into the back yard. "Somewhere out there," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey Kendra," says Laurent Delacroix, who with some buddies is standing in a cluster by the doors.<br/>
<br/>
She glances at him, then turns back to you. "What do you want Phoebe for?" she asks as she flops backward against Laurent. He throws an arm around her and pulls her close even as she continues looking at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Someone asked me to find her."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Stephanie Wyatt."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh." All the interest drains from her face, and she turns to look up at Laurent. "Are you having fun yet?' she asks him in a little girl voice.<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes and go outside. The back porch is brilliantly lit up by white floodlights, but the back half of the yard fades quickly into darkness. It's not so dark, though, that you don't spot a tall girl with long, straight hair—a girl stamped from the same mold as Barbara Powell—loitering near the side of a lawn shed with her phone out. You tramp over to deliver Stephanie's message.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, Phoebe?" you ask, and the girl lifts her face from her phone. Vaguely, you notice a nearby sound like streaming water spattering off leaves. "Stephanie's looking for you."<br/>
<br/>
She blinks, then glances back down at her phone. "Are you Will?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. I was just with—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God. Yeah, um, you should go tell Stephanie that—"<br/>
<br/>
There's a rustle from behind the shed, and a figure half as tall as the Empire State Building steps out from the shadows. It's Steve Patterson, and he's pulling his zipper up. "Get the fuck out of here," he says in a tone low and cold with menace. He grasps Phoebe by the base of the back of her neck.<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes go wide. "Yeah, okay, I'm—"<br/>
<br/>
Before you can turn and flee, though, shouts break out from the house. You wheel and watch with surprise as two guys go tumbling off the deck and hit the ground hard. There they scramble, pummeling each other and kicking their legs in the air while girls yell and guys shout hoarsely at them. Everyone seems paralyzed for a moment, before a couple of the meatier guys jump down to try prying the combatants apart.<br/>
<br/>
Your feet are still frozen to the ground, though, until you are rudely shoved off them as Steve goes galloping past. He plunges in to grab one of the fighters about the head and wrench him back, twisting him in a headlock as. the others dive in to yank the other fighter away.<br/>
<br/>
It gives you a shock when, on drawing a little nearer, you recognize who it is Steve is holding: Sean Mitchell. Your coworker's teeth flash whitely in his flushed face, and he shouts. The other is a football player, Scott Bickemeier, who you vaguely recall is new to Westside, having come over from Eastman at the start of the year.<br/>
<br/>
And what's the fight about? There's no telling, what with all the shouting. But Steve has to hang onto Sean even after the others have released Scott. There's some more shouting, then Scott throws his hands into the air and stalks back into the house. That's when Sean starts screaming: "Yeah, you get the fuck outta here, motherfucker! And you stay the <i>fuck</i> away from my house! <i>Stay the goddamned fuck away or I swear I'll fucking kill you, motherfucker!"</i><br/>
<br/>
Not until Scott is gone does Steve let go of Sean, who curses as he wipes at the stream of blood pouring from his nose. He stoops to snatch his ball cap off the ground and jams it onto his head. Steve says something in a low voice, but Sean only flips him off before stalking into the house after Scott. Steve watches him go, then turns and saunters back out to where you (and Phoebe; you'd forgotten her in the excitement) are waiting.<br/>
<br/>
"What was that about?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"Drama," he says in a cold voice.<br/>
<br/>
Then he picks you up like you're a thing of sticks and straw and rags, and carries you over to the six-foot fence that bounds the property. Casually he lofts you over it, and you fall with a bone-rattling jolt into the back yard of the house next door.<br/>
<br/>
Somewhere, the dark nearby, a dog barks. You bolt for another fence and vault it.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112222112211121
author_id: seuzz
title: Hangovers
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Is there any point in returning to the party? Things just seem weird there, and it's full of people (like Steve Patterson) that you'd rather not deal with. So you call Caleb and ask him to come get you.<br/>
<br/>
"So what were you doing out here?" he asks when he picks you up twenty minutes later, at a spot two blocks from Maggie's house. You'd just told him you were stranded someplace and needed a ride back home. "Dude, you're skipping out?" he asks, incredulous, when you tell him you're leaving a party.<br/>
<br/>
So you tell him a little of what was going on back there, but it all sounds hazy as you try to put it into words. Even the last straw—the fight, and Patterson literally throwing you off the property—doesn't sound so bad when you describe it, and Caleb snorts over it. "Now I know why you never hit any parties," he says. "You can't handle them."<br/>
<br/>
"What parties do you hit, motherfucker?" you challenge.<br/>
<br/>
He makes a face. "I don't, 'cos I got about twenty different things I'd rather be doing at home on a Friday night, none of them involving a girl who could vomit on me or a football player who could—"<br/>
<br/>
"So what were you doing when I called?"<br/>
<br/>
"A project," he says, evasively.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, what kind?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just a project, you wouldn't be interested. Something extracurricular. You know, some of us <i>really do</i> want to get into a good college, and—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, bullshit. You were jerking off while watching porn."<br/>
<br/>
"Believe whatever you want, Prescott. Makes no motherfucking difference to me."<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, anytime <i>I've</i> wanted to do something with you on a weekend, you've been up for it. You and Tilley."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, sure. All work and no play. But you don't got any work to speak of, so—"<br/>
<br/>
"I got that job out at Salopek."<br/>
<br/>
"And thank you for reminding me that you stole it from me. Fucking wasted on you. But are you working there on weekends?"<br/>
<br/>
"I gotta go in tomorrow morning."<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a quick double-take, then says, "My point is, you just drift, man. And you're not even doing anything fun while you're drifting, like not even going to <i>parties.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You glare at him, but he takes no notice. When you're tired of being ignored, you ask, "So what's this project you're working on, that's so much more fascinating than—"<br/>
<br/>
"Just a project," he sighs. "Above your pay grade. Don't forget, I've <i>seen</i> your class schedule, and given what you're taking—"<br/>
<br/>
"I can't help out?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't need you to. Besides," he adds, "I'm not ready to show it to anyone. And when I do, it'll probably be Carson and James I show it to." <br/>
<br/>
<i>Then you all can go fuck yourselves with it,</i> you mutter to yourself as you sink down in your seat.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're expecting Sean to be in a mood on Saturday morning, when you see him at Salopek, but he's his usual, cheerfully serene self, <i>until</i> you ask him about that fight. "None of your business," he snaps. "That's between me and Bickelmeir."<br/>
<br/>
The moral, you take, is to leave well enough alone, so you decide not to text or call Stephanie either, to ask about her deal last night. But then, just before quitting time, you get a text from Barbara Powell—the girl last night who took Stephanie off your hands—asking if you're free to meet up for lunch someplace. The query fills you with trepidation, but you arrange to meet her at Panera.<br/>
<br/>
(And you have to cadge some money off your dad to do so. He looks vexed and distracted when you find him in his office, and for a moment it looks like he's going to say something to you. But his phone rings, and with a grimace he answers it while fishing his wallet out and pushing a couple of bills at you.)<br/>
<br/>
Barbara is looking very tan and healthy when you connect up with her at the restaurant at a little before one. The lunchtime crowd is still in force, and you have to spend a few awkward moments waiting to place your order, then finding a spot, before you're able to relax and start talking. At least it gives you time to surreptitiously drink her in.<br/>
<br/>
Barbara is a tall but well-proportioned girl with long, strong, smooth legs; a hefty bust; hips that look great in the tight, blue shorts she's wearing; and long, straight, dirty-blonde hair. She's no great beauty in the face, but there's nothing odd about her looks either; in fact, she probably looks better out of makeup (as she is now) than she would wearing any, for she has a healthy, outdoorsy, horse-riding-girl kind of appeal.<br/>
<br/>
After you're settled, she tries to catch up with you by reminding you of some of the classes you had together your sophomore and junior years, and gossiping about some of the people that were in those classes. She then asks about the classes you're taking now, and you ask about hers. They sound pretty standard—Statistics, Physics, a Spanish class—except for the Creative Writing class she's taking last period of the day. She gets a little embarrassed, too, when she speaks of it, and squeals that there's no way she's showing anyone any of the poetry she's written for it.<br/>
<br/>
But shortly after you've fetched your food, she settles in to the main topic. "So tell me," she asks while turning her salad over with her fork, to mix the dressing. "What's going on with you and Stephanie?" She looks up at you with a bright smile.<br/>
<br/>
You were expecting something like this, but you didn't expect her to be so blunt. "Uh, I dunno," you tell her. "I didn't think anything was."<br/>
<br/>
"That's not what it looked like last night."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know what that was about. She was, uh, drinking, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," says Barbara. "But she wasn't <i>hanging</i> on anyone else. A lot of people noticed that," she adds. "Haven't you been online?" You mutter something about not paying much attention to that stuff. "Well, it's going to be all over school on Monday," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, don't <i>you</i> know what that was all about? You took her off me."<br/>
<br/>
"She just made me take her home, and she didn't want to talk about it. Though she has been talking about <i>you."</i><br/>
<br/>
Your heart skips. "What's she been saying?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, nothing huge. Just about how she's done a few things with you, done some studying with you. But Stephanie wouldn't <i>say</i> anything if—" Barbara looks puckish.<br/>
<br/>
You blush. "Well, that's all that <i>I</i> think is going on with us. Just schoolwork stuff. We got Astronomy together. And last night, she just wanted me to go off and find Phoebe."<br/>
<br/>
"What for?"<br/>
<br/>
"To tell her that she was looking for her. You heard her."<br/>
<br/>
Barbara gives you a hard stare before concluding, "Well, I was just wondering if there was something going on with you and her."<br/>
<br/>
"She's never paid any attention to me before," you reply. "Except to kick me out of her path when I got in her way."<br/>
<br/>
Barbara looks startled, then laughs. "Well, welcome to Planet Earth," she says. She then changes the subject to ask if you found Phoebe like you were supposed to. You lie (it would be embarrassing to give the story about your encounter with Patterson) and say that you didn't. And after that, you go back to talking about school.<br/>
<br/>
As you part, though, Barbara has one word of advice: "Don't call Stephanie or message her or anything," she says. "Don't post anything online. If she wants to talk to you about last night, she'll come talk to you."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Great,</i> you think. <i>I can't wait.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It makes for a weekend fraught with anxiety and boredom as you wait to hear from Stephanie. But you never do, not until Monday afternoon, when you catch her eye on your way into Astronomy. You nod at her, and she nods at you, but a minute after you settle into your desk you get a text from her: <i>hey u bn to x2z?<br/>
<br/>
No I hate that place nvr go,</i> you reply. Which is true, and after what Barbara told you on Saturday, you even more purposefully stayed away.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ok,</i> Stephanie replies. <i>Can u forget abt fday nite?</i><br/>
<br/>
You toy with being cute, by telling her you don't know what she's talking about, but reply with, <i>Already did.<br/>
<br/>
Cool thx owe u big will.</i><br/>
<br/>
But you can't leave well enough alone, and as class is breaking up you text her again (even though she's not twenty feet away). <i>What u doing now?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Will!" she shouts a moment later, and jerks her head at you to follow her into the hallway. After you come to rest in a corner of the hallway, you notice, she keeps a good five feet of space between you as she talks.<br/>
<br/>
"I gotta go out to my pop's store," she says while looking everywhere except into your face, "so I can't hang out. But, um, you know that people are talking about us, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"I heard, but I don't know what they're saying. I try not to pay attention to shit sites like—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, that's good. A good idea, I mean. Shit, I should get off them too. But you know there's, um, nothing between us. Right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know." It hurts like fuck to have to say that, but because it's humiliating and not because you want there to be something between you.<br/>
<br/>
"Cool," she says, and looks relieved. "So, I mean, I think you're a great friend and all, but, um, it just seems like a good idea not to, um, do anything that could just lead to more talk. Right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Right."<br/>
<br/>
"So, okay then. I'll, uh, see you around." She darts away without even giving you a last glance.<br/>
<br/>
And all during the time she was talking, she kept blinking and flinching and wincing.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122221122111211
author_id: seuzz
title: Aftershocks
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Barbara warned you that people would be talking about you at school, but only thrice did anyone say anything to your face. The first was Keith, who smirked heavily at you in second period and asked how your Friday night was; you told him it was fine, that you went to a party. He followed up with a lot of clumsy innuendo which you pretended not to understand. Then, in fourth period, Mike Hollister shouted over at you that the "video" of "Friday Night Lights" with you and Stephanie was the best thing he's seen so far this year. Aghast, you turned to Caleb, who shrugged. So it was left to Carson Ioeger, in sixth period, to confirm that someone shot cell phone footage of you and Stephanie fumbling all over each other and posted it online. But his only comment was that they caught you at an "unflattering angle."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So that's a low point, but there's no more ripples or waves from Maggie's party. Though you exchange a couple of nods in class with Stephanie, neither of you speaks to the other, and none of Stephanie's friends pokes you online again. Sean tells you of no more parties—homework or otherwise—and when Friday comes and you ask if there are any going on, he only sighs and says that there must be, but he's got other plans. "Besides," he grumbles, "too much chance of running into cocksucking assholes at some of them."<br/>
<br/>
Still, maybe it counts as an aftershock that, out of nowhere, you get a text from Laura MacGregor—a girl you used to hang out with a lot your freshman and sophomore years, but who you've lost touch with since—telling you that the drama department is putting on a school play on Saturday night, and that she's in it, and asking if you're going to come out to watch. You've never been to a school play, and it's something to do, so you get directions and instructions and make a point of going out. You even get dressed up a little, to the extent that long pants and a nice, long-sleeve, button-up shirt constitutes "getting dressed up."<br/>
<br/>
The play is called <i>The Man Who Came to Dinner,</i> and it's a comedy about some crotchety old bastard who rolls around stage in a wheelchair insulting all the other characters. There's a couple of funny lines here and there, but mostly it feels like a over-long sitcom, and you're restless long before it's over. Part of the restlessness, in truth, comes from having to endure the cast. Charles Hartlein, the snotty and very out-of-the-closet president of the Drama Club, plays the main character, and since the character is just as snotty and snide and mean-spirited as the guy playing him, it's all too much of someone you can barely endure in real life.<br/>
<br/>
You're also embarrassed when Laura comes on stage. Not because she's bad—her acting seems to be pretty good, from what you can tell—but because she's gotten a lot more, mm, <i>chubby</i> since you last saw her, and you wince when you think about having to go backstage afterward to see her and reconnect.<br/>
<br/>
But the big surprise of the performance is that Sean is in it.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, it's not a big part. He plays the son of the man whose house has been invaded by the acid-tongued cripple, and he's onstage for only a couple of minutes, and has hardly any lines. But that's another thing to dread after the curtain falls: seeing Sean and asking him how come he never mentioned that he was going to be in this play.<br/>
<br/>
In fact, it's all awkward enough that, when the curtain finally crashes down, you rush from the auditorium and run for your truck. Thirty minutes later, when you're safe at home, you text Laura back with a very thin story: You got a message to come home and had to leave before the show ended, so you couldn't come backstage to see her. You do make a point of telling her that she was great, and quote some of the bits of business and lines that she had so she'll know you really were at the play. She seems to buy your story, though, and says that she's glad you had a good time and wishes you could have stayed to the end.<br/>
<br/>
To Sean, you say nothing.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Monday afternoon.</i> You feel as though you're taking your life in your hands as you go up to the second floor of the small office building on the Salopek lot. The door to your dad's office is open, but you stand to the side and knock without looking in. "Yeah!" your dad's voice floats out. Only then do you peek around the frame to look in at him.<br/>
<br/>
He's at his desk, in his shirtsleeves, up to his elbows in file folders. He looks at you over the top of his glasses. "What's wrong?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"What? Nothing!" you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"Did they send you up here?"<br/>
<br/>
"For what?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know, Will! What do you want?"<br/>
<br/>
You gulp, and almost run away. You'd forgotten how short-tempered he could get when stressed. But if you said, <i>I'll talk to you later,</i> and ducked out, he'd probably get even madder. So, hurriedly, you tell him what's on your mind:<br/>
<br/>
"I was talking to a friend at school today, and she said her dad is looking for part-time workers at his store, and she asked if I'd be interested, and I said I might be." You gulp. "So I wanted to see if you'd have a problem if I quit working here and took that job at the other place."<br/>
<br/>
Your dad stares at you as you try to catch your breath. Then, after a short sigh, he says, "Can we talk about this at home, over dinner?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, sure."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure? It's not so desperate you had to come up here in the middle of work to talk to me about this?"<br/>
<br/>
You mumble something about, <i>Well, as long as we were both here.</i><br/>
<br/>
"We'll talk about it later, Will. Can you close the door on your way out?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Stupid, stupid, stupid,</i> you chide yourself on your way back down. <i>Why didn't I wait?</i><br/>
<br/>
Probably because you can't wait to quit working at Salopek.<br/>
<br/>
Sure, it hasn't been <i>that</i> bad, not when it's just you and Sean doing work. But anytime your dad comes around—<br/>
<br/>
Well, it was like last week. There had been a break-in overnight. Someone forced open the security shutters on one of the storage units and busted through the windows. You and Sean had to do an inventory to find out what was taken, and also clean up the wreckage. But damn it to hell if you could find anything missing. And when you explained that to your dad—who had taken charge of the situation—he got pissy with you because he thought you must not have done the job right. <i>Obviously,</i> he thought, <i>something must have got taken, and if the inventory sheets said there wasn't, then it wasn't a problem with the inventory sheets it must have been a problem with the guys conducting the inventory—you!</i><br/>
<br/>
So the job itself isn't awful, but you don't want to have to deal with your dad.<br/>
<br/>
And that was what made you take notice when Stephanie gestured you back into the hallway after Astronomy with her job offer.<br/>
<br/>
Her family owns a furniture store downtown, she said, and they need to replace someone who quit. The job does require some muscle—there is a <i>lot</i> of furniture that gets moved around—but she explained that it doesn't call for the physique of a football player, and that they've got plenty of guys around already who can move the really hefty stuff. But they definitely do need another pair of hands. <i>And I'm out there a lot,</i> she added as though that might make a difference to your decision.<br/>
<br/>
And it does, a little. If it wasn't a job with Stephanie's family's business, you probably would have stuck it out at Salopek. But over the last week you've found that you kind of miss being able to talk to her. And it sure is flattering that she should have thought of you when the job opened up.<br/>
<br/>
So you told her that you'd talk to your dad about it. If only you'd had the sense to wait until tonight, at home ...<br/>
<br/>
You're not watching where you're going, so you as you round a corner you bounce off the person coming around it from the other way. You mumble an apology, then do a double take. It's Scott Bickelmeir. His eyes widen, then lower when he sees you. "Oh, hey, Will," he mumbles.<br/>
<br/>
<i>He knows my name?</i> you think in some shock, and so don't answer him until he asks if your dad is in his office. "Uh, yeah," you say. "But I think he's busy."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I won't bug him long," Scott says. "You know, I used to work here."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. I want to ask him to, uh, be a reference for me. For my next job."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Well, good luck on that."<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks. I'll, uh, see you around." Then, as though suddenly embarrassed by his presence, he hurries off toward the stairs.<br/>
<br/>
A few minutes later, in one of the work bays: "What happened to you?" Sean asks as you come in.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?"<br/>
<br/>
"You look like you got a shock."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, it's nothing," you stammer. "I just ran into someone who I wasn't expecting."<br/>
<br/>
"It wasn't one of your teachers, was it?"<br/>
<br/>
"No." Although it's not a bad guess; how horrible would it be to have met Mr. Walberg or Mr. Hawks on his way up to see your dad. "No, it was Scott Bickelmeir." You shoot Sean a worried glance.<br/>
<br/>
The smile drains from his face, and his expression hardens. "I'll be right back," he mutters as he brushes past you.<br/>
<br/>
"Sean!"<br/>
<br/>
"Just get into your coveralls, Will. And don't follow me! This has nothing to do with you or— Or anyone!"<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111222211221112112
author_id: seuzz
title: Some Explanations for Odd Decisions
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Sean is gone for almost half an hour, during which time you have to make excuses for him with Andy, your supervisor, first by telling him that Sean is in the restroom, then by telling him that he had to run an errand inside the main office. You're slowly working your way through the job Andy gave you—sorting through some supply boxes—when Sean, looking very sober, rejoins you. "Hey, what are we doing?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Where the fuck have you been, man?" you hiss at him.<br/>
<br/>
"I had to talk to a guy."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I had to talk to Andy, give him a story—"<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks for covering for me. What are we doing?"<br/>
<br/>
You briefly outline the job to him, and he falls in with you. After a few mulish minutes of silence, you drop the boom on him: "I'm thinking of quitting."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" Sean almost drops the box he's picked up to move.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm thinking about quitting, getting another job."<br/>
<br/>
He flushes. "If this is about me going off just now to deal with some personal shit—"<br/>
<br/>
"No, it isn't! It's got nothing to do with you, man, you've been great. But Steph— Someone at school told me her dad is hiring at his business, and I'm thinking of taking it."<br/>
<br/>
You go back to concentrating on your work, but Sean studies you thoughtfully. "Your dad works here," he observes.<br/>
<br/>
You make a face, but engage. "That's part of why I want to quit. It's weird working where he's working, where he's my boss's boss or something."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh." Sean set the box down and starts digging and sorting through it. "What's this other job?"<br/>
<br/>
"Furniture store. Moving things, keeping track of stock, stuff like that."<br/>
<br/>
"Kind of like here."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but without the chemicals and safety regulations. I think some of your friends on the football squad work there. Steph— I was told some of them do."<br/>
<br/>
"Steph? Who's Steph?"<br/>
<br/>
"Stephanie Wyatt. It's her dad's business."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh!"<br/>
<br/>
"What's that mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing." He grins. "Does Stephanie work there too?"<br/>
<br/>
You grimace, but tell the truth. "Sometimes. Her dad makes her help out, she says, without paying her."<br/>
<br/>
"So she'd like it better if <i>you</i> were working there too?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not like that!"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure it isn't. And if you keep saying 'it's not like that,' Will, it never will be!" He nudges you playfully.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sean offers to take you out to get a bite to eat after work. You try to demur, because you want to talk to your dad over dinner, but Sean gently presses you into accepting a quick run up to a burger place, where he'll buy you a Coke while he gets himself a bite.<br/>
<br/>
It's on account of what happened earlier, when he ran off, he explains when you're seated at the Carl's Jr. a few blocks up. He feels like he owes you an explanation and more, given the way you had to cover for him for a big part of the workday.<br/>
<br/>
"I had some personal business with Scott I needed to take care of," he says. "So, when you said he was in the office, I grabbed the chance."<br/>
<br/>
"You got in a fight with him at a party, out at Maggie's."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." Sean's expression tightens. "That's why I wanted to talk to him at work. We couldn't get in a fight <i>there,</i> like we could at Maggie's or at school."<br/>
<br/>
"What was it about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Personal." Then he sighs. "He says it's coincidence, but it's like he's been stalking my mom or something."<br/>
<br/>
<i>"What?"</i><br/>
<br/>
Sean grimaces. "That's what <i>he</i> says. He says he doesn't even know where we live, which is bullshit, because him and Taylor were—" He sighs and puts his burger down.<br/>
<br/>
"Scott and Taylor," he says with downcast eyes, "were friends. Taylor was my brother. My twin brother. I don't know if I told you that."<br/>
<br/>
"No, you didn't."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I had a twin brother. People couldn't tell us apart, except by the way we acted, and even then it was hard for them. Or we could make it hard for them. Taylor was a little more outgoing, a little louder than me. But we were close. Like, <i>really</i> close." He claps his hands. "Anyway, Taylor and Scott were friends, and they were off doing something one afternoon, and after they left, Taylor was in a car wreck."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm sorry."<br/>
<br/>
"You said that before, but thanks. Anyway, I always thought there was something funny about it all. There was another kid with them, and <i>he</i> fell into a coma the same day, so—" Sean's face starts to burn. "Scott swears they weren't, like, doing drugs or anything, but I wouldn't put <i>anything</i> past that—" He catches himself.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that was over the summer," he says when he resumes. "I wanted to get away from all the shit from what happened, so I moved out here to Westside—I'd been at Eastman before—and Scott followed me over, and he's been driving past my house and scaring my mom—"<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." His tone is now hard and grim. "I explained to him half a dozen times it seems like that I don't want him anywhere near my fucking place, and at Maggie's I <i>really</i> let him know I was serious. And then when you said you ran into him on the lot, I decided I wanted to tell him again that I don't want him out around my house."<br/>
<br/>
"Is he still going by?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think so. Can't say for sure. My mom—" He makes a face. "I think she's stopped telling me when she sees him around, because she knows it pisses me off."<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't you talk to the cops?"<br/>
<br/>
He smiles, but wryly.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to talk to the <i>cops,</i> Will, I want to handle my own problems. But that is what I told him, finally, today. That if he didn't stop, I was going to complain to the police."<br/>
<br/>
"And what did he say?"<br/>
<br/>
Sean sighs. "The same thing as he keeps saying. That he's not going by place intentionally, it's because he knows someone in the neighborhood and is going to see them."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"That, he says, is none of my fucking business."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You snag a few of Sean's fries while you're with him, so you're plenty hungry for supper. Your dad is only a little late getting home, but he just has to wash his hands before joining you at the table. He is quiet, but doesn't seem to be in a bad mood—as is too frequent, on account of the stress at work—but you're still very tentative about broaching the subject of your quitting one job and taking another. He shuts you down pretty quickly by telling you to talk about it after supper.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not like he's trying to put you off, for as you're heading for your bedroom after helping clean up the kitchen, he summons you into his study. "Close the door," he says. "Now, what's this about your taking a different job?"<br/>
<br/>
He listens intently as you outline the offer that Stephanie made for you, and he looks more and more skeptical as you continue, answering his questions about wages, hours, and duties. "Sit down," he tells you when you're finished, and you take a seat in the chair at the corner of his desk.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't understand this," he says. "You'd be working longer hours at a lower wage rate. In fact, you'd be working weekends practically full time, right? From what you said? And also an hour after school?"<br/>
<br/>
"Only twice a week after school."<br/>
<br/>
"Still. And it's not like it's an improvement on the work you're doing at Salopek. It sounds even more physically demanding, being a furniture mover."<br/>
<br/>
"But Stephanie says there'd be some office work, too. Bookkeeping or accounting or something."<br/>
<br/>
"You've got no training in that."<br/>
<br/>
"I took an accounting class my sophomore year. And they'd be training me on the job," you add when your dad's eyebrow goes up.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, let me ask you bluntly," he says. "Do you want to take this other job because you want that job, or because you don't want to work at Salopek anymore?"<br/>
<br/>
You suck in a deep breath. You don't want to <i>lie,</i> but it's hard to tell him the truth.<br/>
<br/>
He sees your hesitation, and leaps to the worst conclusion: "Are you trying to be cute here, Will?" he asks. "Are you planning to take this other job so you can quit Salopek, and then quit the other job after a few weeks?"<br/>
<br/>
"No!"<br/>
<br/>
"Because you know I won't let you quit Salopek directly?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"No!"</i><br/>
<br/>
His eyebrows arch further, but he only says, "I'll think about it," and dismisses you.<br/>
<br/>
Robert is loitering at the top of the stairs as you exit the study. "Ooh, someone's in trouble!" he softly jeers at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Someone's gonna be in a lot worse trouble if he doesn't fuck off," you snort back. But Robert just snickers as you stomp into your bedroom.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112222112211121121
author_id: seuzz
title: Chasing Stephanie
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Your dad has no answer for you the next morning at breakfast, but he does have a question: "When you do you have to tell your friend your decision about her job offer?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, is it <i>my</i> decision?" you retort.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't get smart with me, or it won't be."<br/>
<br/>
"I said I'd tell her today."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. Well, tell her it'll be tomorrow before you can say for sure. And you can blame the delay on me."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Who else would I blame it on?</i> you mutter under your breath.<br/>
<br/>
"Get a twenty outta the bank drawer on your way out," he adds as you turn to leave. When you blink in surprise, he says, "I'm taking your mother out for dinner, just the two of us, tonight, so you're on your own." Behind his back, at the table, Robert perks up alertly. "Go eat with some of your friends. Take another twenty, and treat Sean to something," your dad continues. "Pay him back for all his help. He's saved your ass more often than you know."<br/>
<br/>
"What about Robert?" you guardedly ask as you dip into the drawer where extra cash is kept.<br/>
<br/>
"What about him? He can look after himself. Can't you, kid?" your dad asks him over his shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
Robert brightens. "Yeah!"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay!" You gulp, a little nervously. "Thanks!"<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you," he dryly replies. "You're getting a break from us, but more important, your mom and I are getting a break from you."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You shoot Stephanie a quick text before you leave, telling her that you won't be able to give her a yes or no before tomorrow. She doesn't reply, but she doesn't have to. She's waiting outside the breezeway leading in to school. "Will!" she shouts when she sees you shuffling across the student parking lot. "Is there a problem, you can't take the job?" she asks with a concerned expression.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know yet. My dad's being dumb."<br/>
<br/>
She snorts. "Yeah, I know what that's like. What's the deal?"<br/>
<br/>
"He thinks I've got a scheme or something, like I'm just using your job as a way of quitting work at his place." She looks puzzled, so you give a fuller explanation of your dad's suspicions.<br/>
<br/>
Which makes her grin. "That's brilliant," she says. "I should use that trick to get out of having to do stuff at my pop's place. Is your dad hiring? Eh, never mind, it wouldn't work." She rubs her nose with her open palm. "My pop'd still make me work at his place in my spare time. But what're you doing now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Going to class."<br/>
<br/>
"We got, like, twenty minutes! Come hang out with me." With a cheery grin she draws you down the breezeway, and reluctantly you follow her into the gym and thence under the mezzanine, where the coaches have their offices. There's a tiny classroom there too (which you never knew about), and a bunch of girls are in there: Stephanie's jock friends. You get only a couple of glances—none of them friendly, but none of them unfriendly, either—from them, as they are all preoccupied with their phones. Stephanie lofts herself onto a table and sits cross-legged. She grins at you as she takes out her phone, then falls into the same pose as the rest. After a pause, you settle into a chair with your own cell phone.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"The fuck is this about you quitting Salopek?" Caleb wants to know in the minute you have with him before the start of first period. He leans so far out of his desk, with his nose quivering at you, that it looks like he'll topple over.<br/>
<br/>
"I got a job offer at another place."<br/>
<br/>
"Where? Rent-a-Doofus?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, man, I thought you'd be interested, it opens up my slot at Salopek."<br/>
<br/>
That was how you wound up spending your time before class, texting people. And since you didn't have much to say, you texted Caleb to tell him that you might be quitting Salopek to take another job.<br/>
<br/>
"So who's got a better job for you?" Caleb wants to know.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you care?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't, I'm just being a nosey motherfucker. But you didn't even want the job at Salopek, and that's a sweet gig—"<br/>
<br/>
"No it isn't."<br/>
<br/>
"So where would you be going?"<br/>
<br/>
"Furniture store."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus!" He rears back. "What kind of—? What's the job position, vice-president in charge of moving sofas around?"<br/>
<br/>
You make a face. "That's basically what I'm doing at Salopek anyway. And it'd be safer moving furniture than what I'm moving around at my dad's work."<br/>
<br/>
"Where'd you hear about this job?"<br/>
<br/>
"Stephanie Wyatt."<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gives you a very long stare. "What?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"What is going on between you two?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing! Why does everyone—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mr. Prescott!" the teacher barks from the front of the room. "You can keep your voice down. In fact, you can keep your mouth shut, if you please. I'm going to start class in a minute."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I don't get why anyone is interested in you either, Prescott," Carson Ioeger observes at lunch. "But maybe that's because I know you, and I <i>know</i> there's not a goddamned thing about you that's interesting."<br/>
<br/>
"I wasn't talking to you," you retort. "I was talking to Jenny." Jenny Ashton's retort is even shorter: she pops Carson on the back of his head.<br/>
<br/>
It's lunchtime, and you ditched Caleb and Keith to eat with Carson's gang out front: him and Jenny, James Lamont and Paul Davis. Of all the people you know, Caleb was one you would have expected to be most oblivious to "whatever the thing is" that is between you and Stephanie. So when he came out with that question in first period, you decided to find out from Jenny—who is more on the pulse of things—what the gossip is about you, if any.<br/>
<br/>
She's not helpful, and her reassurances (if that's what they are) don't make you feel any better either. "No one's <i>interested</i> in you and Stephanie," she tells you. "I mean, I guess you're talking about that thing that happened out at Maggie's party last week?" You shrug. "Well, people are just talking about Stephanie, if they're talking about it at all. Because, you know, she was wasted."<br/>
<br/>
"She wasn't <i>wasted,</i>" you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"She was wasted, Prescott," Carson says. "Any girl'd have to be blasted out of her head to mack on <i>you.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Has any girl macked on <i>you?</i>" you retort.<br/>
<br/>
"None of 'em have ever got drunk enough," he replies with a serene air.<br/>
<br/>
"Stephanie is someone that a lot of people know," Jenny says. "So people are gonna talk about her. I don't think anyone thinks there's 'something'"—she hooks the word in air quotes—"going on between you and her."<br/>
<br/>
"Look at his face," James says. "He thinks you just insulted him."<br/>
<br/>
Jenny leans over to smack him on the knee. But he's right. It was an implied slap in the face: No one thinks that there could be "something" between you and Stephanie.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe that's the reason you blurt out that she wants you to come to work at her dad's furniture store, where she does part time work. So they'll think that maybe Stephanie does too like you!<br/>
<br/>
But no one looks impressed, and Paul actually uses the awkward silence that ensues to change the subject.<br/>
<br/>
So it's a surprise when Carson makes a point of walking with you to the sixth-period calculus class that you share.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen, man," he says. "I don't know what it is about you and these fantasy girlfriends you like to fuck yourself in the head with—"<br/>
<br/>
"What 'fantasy' girlfriends?"<br/>
<br/>
"Lisa. And now Stephanie, it sounds like. Don't look at me like that, man, I'm trying to give you some good advice. If you want a girl, and I know most of us do— Christ!" His gaze briefly goes distant. "Anyway," he continues when he returns to earth after that brief vacation, "if you are serious about getting a girlfriend, I can give you a list of girls who'd go out with you if you just asked them."<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"I can give you a list," he repeats, then adds, "Okay, they're not gonna be the girls you're having fantasies about, but it's healthier than—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm trying to do you a solid here, Prescott!"<br/>
<br/>
But you ignore him. And at least you get your message across, because even though he follows you into the classroom and drops into the desk next to yours, he just makes a face at you instead of reviving the topic.<br/>
<br/>
And he must have really got you stirred up, because you glare back at Scott Bickelmeir, who you catch giving you a lingering glance of curiosity. "What?" you demand of him. But he only smiles gnomically to himself, and turns away.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At work, Sean suggests you go out again for a bite, like you did yesterday.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm supposed to go meet Stephanie at her dad's work after I get out of here," you tell him. "Yeah, Stephanie suggested coming out there so I could look around, tell my dad—"<br/>
<br/>
"Mind if I come along?" Sean asks. "We could still go get something after you're done with her."<br/>
<br/>
That's fine with you. But you ask why he wants to tag along.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno, I just got to thinking after we talked yesterday, maybe you're right about finding someplace else to work. After that run-in I had with Scott yesterday—" He makes a face. "This place is starting to have too many bad associations." He punches you lightly in the chest. "You wouldn't mind if maybe I followed you out the door and over to your new job?"<br/>
<br/>
"Glad to have you along," you assure him. "Though I dunno if they've got jobs for both of us." The fact is, you're nervous that maybe Stephanie's dad will take one look at Sean and decide that he's better for it.<br/>
<br/>
And maybe Sean reads your worry. "If they hire me," he tells you with a grin, "I'll make sure they hire you too, Will."<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122221122111211211
author_id: seuzz
title: Scouting a New Position
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Sean offers to drive you both out to meet Stephanie, and when you decline he hitches a ride with you. He's in a light, sparkling mood, and though he doesn't talk much, he does a lot of silent grinning to himself. You wonder if he sneaked a nip or two before leaving work. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Argosy Furniture sits at one of the weirder intersections in town, where Thirtieth Street dumps into Borman Road right where Borman hooks a fifteen degree turn. So it's like three streets running into each other in one spot. The store itself is like a warehouse, a three-story building of weathered brick that occupies most of its block. Immense bay windows glint out at the parking lot and at the traffic that grumbles past on Borman.<br/>
<br/>
Sean texts Stephanie, using your phone, saying that you are on your way out, and she gives you directions for parking in the back. She's waiting by a featureless metal door by a trash dumpster when you park, and her eyes light up when she sees Sean hopping out of the truck. "Hey man," she shouts. "I didn't know you were coming too!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you thought I was Will," Sean chortles. "But it wasn't, I was just using his phone. You mind if I get a tour too?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure thing. Will tell you about this job?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and we already talked about it." Sean throws a meaty arm around your shoulder. "You can't hire me if you don't hire him."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, let me show you around, tell you about it." She opens the door and ushers you inside.<br/>
<br/>
The lower floor of the building is a showroom of all kinds of furniture: living room, dining room, bedroom, kitchen, of all styles and price ranges. There are even semi-closed off areas, built like movie sets where furniture has been arranged show off a cohesive effect, and she explains how these are constantly being swapped around and photographed for upload to the store's website. There's also a section given over to exercise equipment, which Stephanie invites the two of you try out—Sean does; you demur—and another for electronics like TVs.<br/>
<br/>
There's a staircase up to the second and third floors, but Stephanie takes you up in the freight elevator, which is used to move items between floors. These top floors are storage areas for items not on display, and includes lots of packing crates containing assemble-it-yourself shelves and cabinets, and there are more of those "standing sets." The third floor is where the offices are.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, you wonder how a town even the size of Saratoga Falls can support such a massive furniture enterprise, let alone the competition. Stephanie explains that a lot of business gets drawn in from all over this part of the state, not just Saratoga Falls, and most of the business involves furniture that never comes out of storage. "Our online sales are huge," she says. "It's the biggest part of the business, actually. People shop online, see the goods, buy them online and we get one of the moving companies to haul the stuff out and away." Some of the inventory, she tells you, technically doesn't even belong to the store, and some of the store's inventory is stored off-site, some of it even in other states. "My pop buys furniture from all over," she says, "and doesn't even have it shipped out here. It just stays with the store he bought it from until he can arrange a sale. Same thing with some of our stuff here, it belongs to other stores and we just hold onto it until <i>they</i> sell it. It's pretty goddammed complicated."<br/>
<br/>
As for what you (and/or Sean) would be doing: Most of the work, she explains after your trio have gone across the street to the Cherry Brook Bakery, would involve moving things, but since you're not exactly built for moving massive items— <br/>
<br/>
"We gotta keep track of inventory," she says as you nibble on small meat pies. "We gotta know where stuff is and who it belongs to. We got a whole system set up, using tablets and stickers and bar codes and what not, to do it all with. The guys we got working for us, well, a lot of 'em barely speak English, so we need someone to supervise who can run the electronics end. The guy we had quit—"<br/>
<br/>
"Why'd he quit?" Sean asks.<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie pauses. "Okay, he and my pop got into it, but it was his fault, not my pop's. He was an asshole. Um." She looks at you. "And I can give you pointers on how to handle my pop."<br/>
<br/>
"Is the system hard to use?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"You ever work in a school library? It's not a lot harder than that. Just move stuff, get it in the right place, and make sure you record it in the system. And there's, uh, room for advancement. The guy before the last guy? He's now our bookkeeper."<br/>
<br/>
This all sounds pretty good, but you have to confess to Stephanie that your dad is skeptical about your ability to handle responsibilities greater than picking stuff up and putting it down again. Sean assures you that you'll be able to talk your dad into making the switch, but you leap at Stephanie's offer to come out and talk to your dad direct, so that he can hear straight from her what the job is like and entails, and how you don't have to have a lot of experience already in order to pick it up. In fact, she'll go out with you now, if you like.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have to drop Sean off back at Salopek so he can collect his truck, but you still manage to beat Stephanie back over to your place. Robert is in the driveway shooting baskets, and he gives you a jaundiced look as you dismount. "What are <i>you</i> doing back so fast?" he bluntly demands.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pshh. I was counting on having the house to myself until, like, nine tonight."<br/>
<br/>
That's when you remember that your dad was taking your mom out. "Damn it," you growl. "Someone's coming over to talk to him."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"None of your business. Someone from school."<br/>
<br/>
"The principal? You get busted for something?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! I'm thinking about changing jobs, and she— It's complicated, okay?"<br/>
<br/>
Robert grins cheekily, and bounces the ball. "Is it a girl? A girl is helping you get a job?"<br/>
<br/>
"She's a friend from school. It's her family's business."<br/>
<br/>
Robert's grin deepens. "Is it the girl who got wasted and threw up on you at that party the other night?"<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw drops. "The fuck are you—? No! Where the fuck did you hear about—?" When he laughs, you grab him by the neck.<br/>
<br/>
But then—<br/>
<br/>
Striking fast as a cobra, Robert punches you in the side of the face so hard it sets your skull ringing, and you stagger back in surprise. Robert hurls the basketball away and, his eyes flaming with anger, he crouches with balled-up fists.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck's got into <i>you,</i> you little freak?" You are shaken and even a little scared.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't fucking touch me, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, keep your goddammed mouth—!"<br/>
<br/>
Just then, providentially, a sedan pulls up behind your truck. You and Robert settle back to glare at each other; and you're glaring still as Stephanie gets out. "Hey!" she calls. Then she freezes, and her eyes dart between you and Robert. "Something going on here?"<br/>
<br/>
"It <i>is</i> that girl," Robert jeers in an undertone.<br/>
<br/>
"We're fine," you tell Stephanie. "Um, my folks aren't here, I forgot they were going out to dinner tonight. Um—" You take out your phone. "I guess I can text them."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, don't worry. I can come out tomorrow, maybe, if you still need me to talk to your dad."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ... Okay. I'm sorry I dragged you all the way out here."<br/>
<br/>
"No worries, Will." Stephanie grins at you. "I just live over that way a few blocks." She waves her hand off toward the river. "See you at school tomorrow?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah! Oh, and— Thanks."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure thing, man." With a bright wave she gets back into her car, and you wave to her as she backs out.<br/>
<br/>
"Is she gonna be your girlfriend?" Robert asks in a malicious undertone. "Or your boss?"<br/>
<br/>
"Neither, you little tick."<br/>
<br/>
"Fine. Maybe she'll be <i>my</i> girlfriend, then."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't make me puke."<br/>
<br/>
You stalk into the house, shaking with anger, frustration and—yes—even a little fear, and you feel Robert's eyes drilling into your back as you go.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It bothers you—enrages you—the entire rest of the evening, even after you've shut yourself up in your room and tried to concentrate on homework. But you can't ignore or forget it: For the first time ever, you let Robert get the best of you.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, there's no avoiding it. You let the little shit out-badger you, out-jeer you, out-last you, and you even let him best you with that humdinger of a punch. You've never gone out of your way to keep atop him—you're not aware of any simmering "sibling rivalry" on your part—but you're used to being able to quickly squash him when he gets too uppity at you.<br/>
<br/>
But tonight was different. And is that going to mark a change? It makes you ill to think that you might have lost that long-time, almost unconscious advantage you've had over him. You've now learned—and you fear that he's learned, too—that you'll back down if he hits back. And though you don't like it, that fact makes you feel weak and sick.<br/>
<br/>
It's an hour before your parents get home, and you hesitate before going down to see them. Voices are drifting up from the living room when you reach the top of the stairs.<br/>
<br/>
"So what do we do?" your mom is asking. She sounds worried.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll wait till tomorrow," comes a reply, and it startles you when you recognize the voice as Robert's, for he sounds very adult. "We'll do it at his work. That's how we should have handled it today." Your mom says something inaudible, then Robert says: "Yeah, tomorrow morning, but it'll be just for the day."<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111222211221112112111
author_id: seuzz
title: An Overwhelming Question
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Your mom blanches when you appear at the bottom of the stairs, and even Robert looks startled. Both of them stare at you, watchfully.<br/>
<br/>
"Where's dad?" you ask them. You give Robert a dark and wary glance before concentrating on your mother.<br/>
<br/>
She blinks, then says, "In his study."<br/>
<br/>
You turn for the study, but are stopped by a sharp word from Robert. "He's talking to someone at work, isn't he? Didn't he say he didn't want to be bothered?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's right," your mother says after a fractional hesitation. "He got a phone call. What do you need, Will?" Her expression settles into a pleasant smile.<br/>
<br/>
"I wanted to talk to him about that new job. Stephanie—it's her dad's work—she came by tonight to talk to him about it, but you weren't home. I want to talk to him about her coming back out to talk to him."<br/>
<br/>
"It's getting late, honey."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, not tonight. Tomorrow." You shift on your feet. You don't like the very frank stare that Robert is giving you.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, then that should be fine." Your mom smiles broadly. "I'll talk to him about it when he gets free."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." Still you shift from foot to foot. There is something in the air you don't like ...<br/>
<br/>
"Is something wrong, honey?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I guess not." You can't stop yourself from darting a glance between her and Robert. They share a tenseness, and you feel as though you've interrupted a very important conversation, and that they (or Robert, at least) resent it. "Well, good night." You turn for the stairs.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you going to bed already?"<br/>
<br/>
"Bruh," Robert bursts out. "You finish your homework yet?"<br/>
<br/>
You glare at him. "None of your business!"<br/>
<br/>
"I got mine done early," he gloats.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, good for— you!" You run up the stairs to get away from his face, which has suddenly turned very smug.<br/>
<br/>
But at the top you linger, out of sight, to eavesdrop. You think you hear them muttering to each other, but then there's silence. No one comes up the stairs, so they must have moved into another room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're late getting away to school the next morning, because your dad is late getting downstairs for breakfast. Robert, who is a slow-coach in the mornings, actually beats him downstairs, and comes thundering into the kitchen like thirteen elephants. "'M gonna hang out at Shawn's place after school," you mumbles at your mother around the piece of toast he's jammed into his mouth.<br/>
<br/>
She's prepping sandwiches for your lunches, and nearly drops the jar of mayo she's holding. "Shawn?" she says, and wheels with an expression of alarm.<br/>
<br/>
Robert freezes. "Yeah. Shawn. Stephano."<br/>
<br/>
She stares at him, then sags with relief. "Oh. Him. I was thinking of someone else, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, we been talking about getting a game together in the field next to his house." His eyes shift to you, even as he helps himself to a couple of sausages from the still warm pan. "Your girlfriend coming over after school?"<br/>
<br/>
You decide to play into it. "Yeah, probably. Around dinnertime."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think we can have a guest for dinner," your mother says, quietly.<br/>
<br/>
"You should start having her around lots," Robert says. "This is the girl with the basketball, right? Yeah, I liked her!" An impudent smile twists onto his lips.<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't like what she said to you that time."<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, that was fine. Does she talk to <i>you</i> like that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Robert, finish getting ready for school," your mother says. He shoots a quick, dirty look at the back of her head, then runs off after grabbing up the rest of the sausages.<br/>
<br/>
"If you invite that girl out," your mother tells you, "tell her to shoot for around seven-thirty. We'll be done eating by then."<br/>
<br/>
"We're eating that late?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just to be safe, Will. I haven't figured out what I'm making for dinner. What would <i>you</i> like?" She turns a bright smile on you.<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever. Did you talk to dad last night?"<br/>
<br/>
"About what? Oh! Yes, he'll listen to what she has to say, and he'll decide from there. And when you talk to this girl—" She catches herself. "Robert says she's your 'girlfriend'?"<br/>
<br/>
"Robert's being a little— pest."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you sure he hasn't, um ... Picked up on something?" Her eyebrows go up.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart sickens a little. "What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean— Do you like this girl? Is that one of the reasons you—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mom!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's something to think about, Will," she warns you. "You want to take the job for the right reasons."<br/>
<br/>
"Stephanie would go out with Robert before she'd go out with me!"<br/>
<br/>
"Bruh!" Robert shouts from the other room. "Are you serious?"<br/>
<br/>
"And she'd eat a live tarantula before she'd go out with <i>you!</i>" you holler back. Robert only cackles.<br/>
<br/>
"You just want to be sure of your reasons, sweetheart."<br/>
<br/>
"You see what I mean about Robert being a pest?"<br/>
<br/>
She smiles tightly at you. "Brothers are like that, Will. You're like that to him."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Except he deserves it,</i> you think as you stalk away.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are able to catch your dad only briefly before you have to leave for school. He seems very distracted, and only gruffly informs you that he'll be happy to talk to your friend after dinner.<br/>
<br/>
You thought Stephanie might be waiting for you again by the parking lot breezeway, but she isn't, not even after you texted her to ask if she could come by your house at seven. You think about looking for her in the gym classroom, but pass on it. <i>Why do I keep thinking about her like she's my girlfriend?</i> you ask yourself.<br/>
<br/>
You don't like the answer, which comes in the form of a frightening question: <i>Could Mom be right?</i><br/>
<br/>
You never liked Stephanie before, because she was always so mean to you. She hardly ever paid any attention to you, and when she ever did it was to snort in disgust at something you had done. She's rough and blunt and runs over people and their feelings like a diesel locomotive.<br/>
<br/>
And you know she'll never be into you because of the way she broke down sobbing about Marc Garner and her crush on him. You could never compete with Marc, who is brightly handsome, strong and athletic, popular with all the guys and all the girls at school, and is friendly to everyone. (You've also heard he's taking a bunch of AP classes, but you doubt that's any part of why Stephanie likes him; still, that's another point in his favor over yours.) No way Stephanie's affections could ever drift off of Marc and onto you.<br/>
<br/>
But that's not the question, is it?<br/>
<br/>
No, the question is the one that your mom so bluntly put: Are <i>you</i> being tempted to think of Stephanie as a girlfriend? Are you getting a crush on her?<br/>
<br/>
And there's no denying (you reflect to yourself as you shove your way through the crowded halls toward first period) that you like her a lot better since she broke down and got friendly with you. She's still rough and blunt, but it's like she <i>sees</i> you for the first time as a real person and not some doofusy ding-a-ling who happens to be in her way. She's treating you like she treats her own friends. Which is flattering.<br/>
<br/>
And even more flattering is all the pains she's taking to get you that job at her family's business. It's ... weird.<br/>
<br/>
Which drags you back to the unanswerable question—<i>Why is she suddenly treating me like this?</i>—because obviously it can't be that she's getting to like you <i>that</i> way.<br/>
<br/>
With a sigh you conclude that your mom is probably right. Though Stephanie isn't a great beauty—she's too hard and uncompromising to be "pretty", and you doubt she has ever been inside a dress since she was six—she is definitely handsome, and she has a great rack and strong, supple, endlessly kissable thighs.<br/>
<br/>
And once a girl starts treating a guy nice, you morosely reflect, it's hard for him—or at least for you, it seems—not to get carried away and to start thinking of her <i>that</i> way.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you've given yourself a bad case of the butterflies when you see Stephanie in class and confirm that she'll be out at your house after supper. (Though she'll text first, she says.) And a pit of fear opens up in your stomach when, on entering the main office at Salopek to punch in, the secretary calls your name and says that your father wants to see you up in his office. You're not sure which would be worse: That he wants to talk to you about Stephanie and the new job, or about your performance at this one.<br/>
<br/>
He's standing by his desk, frowning at the floor, when you appear in his doorway, and looks up with a startled expression when you call out. "Come in," he says. "Shut the door." A smile, unpleasant because it looks so awkward, distorts his mouth.<br/>
<br/>
You do as asked, and start a little when you see Sean waiting in the corner. You flinch—you know not why; maybe it's the queer look on his face—as he reaches past you to lock the door behind you.<br/>
<br/>
"I wanted to talk to you about that other job," your dad says. He turns to his desk. "Sean tells me he's interested in it too."<br/>
<br/>
"I've decided we both should have it," Sean says.<br/>
<br/>
Which is a puzzling remark. But before you can answer, he grabs you around the torso with his brawny arms. You gasp as he lifts you off the floor.<br/>
<br/>
Then your dad is swinging around. There is something blue in his hand, and he shoves it at your face.<br/>
<br/>
It's like being punched with a bowling ball. Everything goes black, and you feel yourself dragged down and through the ground into a crushing darkness.<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112222112211121121111
author_id: seuzz
id: LSFCSL3CS
title: The Needle Skips
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>You are just putting your hand on the door handle when a blow like a thunderclap sets your skull ringing. You fall against the swinging door, and tumble to the hard floor of the room beyond. Something hits and bounces off the tiles with a hard, rattling clatter.<br/>
<br/>
For a very long time (it seems like) you lay in a daze on the floor, hardly thinking, and only vaguely aware that you are conscious and that your eyes are open. It is as though you lack entirely the willpower to move, and can only wait, like a broken toy, for someone to come along and scoop you up.<br/>
<br/>
It's the sound of muffled voices that finally gets you to stir. You lift your head, and twist your neck, then turn over onto your back to sit up with a soft grunt. You are completely naked, but somehow this comes as no surprise to you.<br/>
<br/>
You listen with some trepidation as the voices approach, and pass, then fade. After a moment's stillness, you glance around to take in your surroundings.<br/>
<br/>
You are in a bedroom. A boy's bedroom, you would guess, from the brown and blue color scheme, and the general untidiness. It's a large room, big enough to hold a king-size bed, a couple of dressers, an L-shaped desk holding both a laptop and a desktop computer, and walls hung with pennants; there's also a long, low bookshelf, topped with glinting trophies and statuettes of gold and silver, sitting under a large bay window, through which gray, faded light seeps like a dull fog. Opposite the window is a door, which is firmly shut. You yourself are sitting in another doorway, this one leading into an <i>en suite</i> bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
You blink. You feel no puzzlement, for of course, you remember coming into this room, just as you remember stripping your clothes off just a minute ago.<br/>
<br/>
Speaking of which— You glance back into the bathroom, and there's your discarded clothes in a jumbled pile where they fell from your hand when you had that ... attack ... or whatever it was. An acrid stink is rising off them—<br/>
<br/>
And that stink recalls your mind to the barn, and what was happening there just a little while ago.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div><br/>
"You fucking smell, bro," Robert snorts after you step back from the burning bowl. It is sitting on a makeshift work table made from a sheet of plywood resting on two sawhorses, standing in the middle of a cold and dreary barn. The barn doors are shut, but enough wintry afternoon light filters in from windows high overhead to light the space.<br/>
<br/>
"How can you smell from there?" you demand, for he's perched on a hay bale on the other side of the worktable. He swings his leg, kicking at the bale jauntily with his heel.<br/>
<br/>
"I can smell you from here."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not me, it's that shit." You point to the bowl out of which a noisome smoke is boiling.<br/>
<br/>
"No, it's you," smirks the blonde girl who is perched next to Robert. She, like you and your brother, is dressed warmly against the chilly day, but her jeans and sweater bind themselves tightly to her curves, and the hair that spills from under her blue-and-black ski cap shimmers softly like spun gold. But there is nothing soft about her jeering glance. "That shit's all got in your clothes," she adds.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, fuck me," you growl. "If we weren't playing this stupid game with the matches—"<br/>
<br/>
"Just pour the shit out, Will," Robert says. "That's what we brought you along for."<br/>
<br/>
"You're not my boss," you remind him, but step back up to the work table. The smoke from the bowl has thinned, and the bubbling liquid is quite cool as you tip it over a hemispheric, convex mirror sitting nearby. The liquid instantly hardens into a shell, which you peel off the mirror and toss to Robert, who catches it and lays it on the hay bale beside him.<br/>
<br/>
"Next!" he calls, and you pick up the second bowl of powders, and lay it onto the open pages of the book where the first bowl had been resting. As you look up, Robert is already striking a big, old-fashioned match against the matchbox he's been playing with. With a grin he tosses the flickering flame at you, but misses, and you quickly pat out the flame where it hit the work table, joining the dozen or more burnt matches already scattered there. But Robert is already flicking another match at you. This one—it's the "game" you're playing—you try to lightly bat into the bowl, but you only succeed in knocking it away to the ground, to join the two dozen or more other burnt matches scattered in the dirt.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on, Will," Robert jeers. "Be a better backboard."<br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't have to be a backboard," you retort, "if you'd just come the fuck over here and—" You block another flaming match, and this one just misses the bowl as it bounces lightly off your knuckles. "If you'd come light this shit yourself. Or let me light it for you."<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, it's more fun this way. Besides, it doesn't work when <i>you</i> light the stuff on fire. We found <i>that</i> out, didn't we?"<br/>
<br/>
"So why don't you come over here and—?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't wanna get the stink on me." His grin deepens into an impudent smirk.<br/>
<br/>
So he keeps flicking lighted matches at you, and you keep trying to knock them into the bowl. At last, after another twenty or so tries, he manages to land a match in the bowl. A great plume of smoke blooms about you, and you fall back choking and gasping at the stink.<br/>
<br/>
As you pour out a second shell onto the mirror, the barn door swings open and a raven-haired boy about your age steps in. "The fuck?" he gasps when he gets a lungful of the stench. "You trying to burn this place down?"<br/>
<br/>
"You know what we're up to," Robert retorts as he hops off the bale. He swaggers over to take the second shell from you. "You were up to the same shit a couple of weeks ago, man. You and your friends."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah but—"<br/>
<br/>
"Will needs to change clothes before we head back." Robert fixes the newcomer with a direct stare. "Take him inside and give him some of yours." He glances at you. "I think he needs a shower, too."<br/>
<br/>
The newcomer sighs, then gestures you to follow him out the barn. Together, you trudge across the dead grass of a spacious lawn toward a big, rambling two-story house. The sky above is a low-riding blanket of pewter-colored clouds.<br/>
<br/>
"It was more fun when I was being the boss," your host mutters.<br/>
<br/>
"I hear you."<br/>
<br/>
He shoots you a sharp, sidelong look. "When were you the boss?"<br/>
<br/>
"Until this morning. And a couple of months back," you added after a pause.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit," the other says, and freezes in mid-step as he's leading you onto the back deck of the house. "I forgot I came out to— Listen, you know where my room is? It's down the main hall, then hang a right and straight ahead. Get'cher shower or whatever, and I'll have some stuff set out for you when I—" He doesn't finish, but with another exasperated sigh trudges back off toward the barn.<br/>
<br/>
You find the bedroom alright. (The only other doorways down that hall lead into an exercise room and a laundry room.) You close the door and push in the lock button, then with only a mild glance of curiosity about the room you pull off your fleece-lined jacket and kick off your shoes. You have just gotten yourself down to your boxers when the door handle jiggles, followed by a quick, sharp knock. You pull the door open an inch and peer out.<br/>
<br/>
"Here," your dark-haired host says as he pushes a pale, muddy-colored thing like a misshapen dinner plate through the crack. "The boss wants you to take this home and polish it up."<br/>
<br/>
"My brother? He's not <i>my</i> boss," you reply. The other blinks at you. "Anyway, he drove out with me, aren't we going home together?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, he says he's catching a ride with Jenna and he'll see you back at your place. And he says you need to get <i>all</i> the stink off you."<br/>
<br/>
You snort. "Anything else?" But he's turned away and stalked off. You shut the door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div> <br/>
You felt no surprise when you looked down at the thing he handed you, and just tossed it onto the bed before pulling off your boxers and turning to the bathroom door. But, now that you think back over it all, you didn't feel much of anything. Not even when Robert mouthed off at you and you snarled back at him. It was like you were just going through the motions.<br/>
<br/>
So why do you now feel sick and cold all over?<br/>
<br/>
You hobble over to the bed, where that thing is still sitting on the corner of the bed. You pick it up and recognize it, though you have no word for it. It's a mask of some sort, the color of grayish mud and cast of a light ceramic. There are no eye holes, and the face is generic, having a brow, nose, lips, cheeks, and chin. You've seen lots of these things before, and memories comes back of polishing them with a buffer.<br/>
<br/>
You pad back to the bathroom to collect your clothes, and there you are startled to find another mask resting on the tile next to the toilet. But this one is a deep and glowing blue, like a piece chipped from a clear summer sky. You frown at it and turn it over—and almost drop it.<br/>
<br/>
The interior is the same mud color as the other mask, but a name seems to float over the inner surface. Your name. WILLIAM MARTIN PRESCOTT.<br/>
<br/>
That nauseating chill deepens.<br/>
<br/>
Then you leap when there's another hard knock at the door. You glance at the window, wondering if you can escape that way.<br/>
<br/>
Then you wonder why you need to escape. You remember exactly what is going on. Surely you can fake your way through.<span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122221122111211211112
author_id: seuzz
id: SZBKFL3Z5
title: Boss and Un-Boss
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>You quickly slap your shirt and boxers back on before pulling the door open a crack and peering out. It's that guy again. What was his name? Charles ... Whitney?<br/>
<br/>
He pushes at the door, and after a moment's resistance you fall back to let him in. "I forgot the boss said to give you some of my clothes." He sighs as he trudges over to a chest of drawers. "By the way, I'm going out in a bit to meet some guys. Wanna come? What's your name again?" As he speaks, he pulls out and tosses a pair of jeans and some socks onto the bed.<br/>
<br/>
"Will. Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Where you go to school?"<br/>
<br/>
"Westside."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh. Is there a crew over there too?"<br/>
<br/>
"A crew?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Guys like us." From the closet he takes an electric-blue, long-sleeve shirt that (you can tell just from the styling) is probably five times more expensive than any shirt you've ever owned in your life. "You know. The boss's bitches."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div><br/>
"Oh God, isn't he scrumptious?"<br/>
<br/>
Jenna beams as she wraps her arms around the guy. He grins with embarrassment as she squeezes him in an embrace. At least, it looks like embarrassment, until he lifts his face to look at you. Then you see the glint of arrogant pleasure.<br/>
<br/>
But he hasn't long to look so pleased with himself. Sean marches over to him, and with Jenna's arms pinning his arms to his side he has no way of blocking the gray mask that Sean pushes into his face. Sean grabs and supports him as he slumps, and drags him over to the dumpy sofa.<br/>
<br/>
You join Sean as he stares down, with hands on his hips, at the latest person to get fitted with one of those masks. <i>Zachary Holzer, from Eastman</i>: That was part of the introductions that got made when Sean let him and Jenna into the house.<br/>
<br/>
"Can I have him?" you ask Sean.<br/>
<br/>
He looks surprised. "I thought you wanted Ethan."<br/>
<br/>
You chew your lip. "We got Zachary first, so if you don't mind—"<br/>
<br/>
Sean grins. "Kinda impatient, aren't you, brah?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "I just want to be <i>him,</i> or one of them, while you're still being— You know. Like it was last summer."<br/>
<br/>
Jenna, who has sidled up, says, "Okay, you guys are getting kind of gay, now."<br/>
<br/>
"Shut the <i>fuck up,</i> man," you growl. "If you knew what the <i>fuck</i> it was like—"<br/>
<br/>
"Calm down, bruh," Sean says. "And you shut up," he tells Jenna. "Sure," he addresses you again. "You can be Zachary, it doesn't matter to me." His grin widens. "You can be him when we go get Ethan."<br/>
<br/>
"I'd wanna spend a day with you first. Make like it was when—" You swallow thickly. "When you and him were—"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," Sean says. "We can hold off getting Ethan until tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
You pull him into a tight, one-armed hug.<br/>
<br/>
The mask reappears on Zachary Holzer's face about ten minutes later, and after peeling it carefully off Sean lays a metal band on his forehead. You are perched on the arm of the sofa the entire time, staring down at your victim. He's a kid about your age, with thick blonde hair brushed straight back into a high pompadour. He's not a bad-looking asshole, though his expression too easily curls up into a smug, punchable smirk, and he's well-proportioned. You hunch to hide the half-mast erection you are getting as you study him.<br/>
<br/>
Then the metal band reappears on Zachary's forehead, and this too Sean peels off. He hands both to Jenna with the gruff instruction to "finish them off." "Come on, let's get you ready, bruh," he says to you, and leads you back to his bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">- - - - -</div><br/>
Except it wasn't his bedroom, because it wasn't really Sean. That was not a thought that occurred to you at the time. But remembering it all now, you are aware that there was a difference. Usually, when Sean speaks to you, you have a compulsion to follow his orders. But that morning, which was several weeks ago, you felt no such compulsion. In fact, as with all your memories of the past few months, you remember no feelings at all. It was as if someone else was having the feelings while you merely acted them out. And you felt nothing either as Sean—or whoever it was that was looking like him—leaned over the bed on which you nakedly lay, and grasped your forehead by the temples.<br/>
<br/>
The world had briefly winked out ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">- - - - -</div> <br/>
You blink into Sean's face as he straightens up. There is a gleam in his eye, and a curl on his lip. "Okay, sit up," he says in a flinty voice. "Get your clothes off." You look down and find yourself in a white t-shirt and jeans and shoes that feel too big on your feet. Those clothes, and the sofa that you're laying on, and Jenna sitting in a ratty armchair as she brushes something into the inside of a mask, tell you that you are lying where Zachary had been lying. Without speaking, you get up and begin pulling off the clothes. When you're done, Sean takes them and goes down the hallway.<br/>
<br/>
"Here," Jenna says a minute later, and holds out the mask. "Go give this to the guys."<br/>
<br/>
"Why can't you?" you retort.<br/>
<br/>
"Because," she snorts, "I don't also have some clothes I need to put on." She rolls her eyes and looks away.<br/>
<br/>
You glance down at your own nakedness—feeling nothing—then take the mask and pad off down the hall after Sean, but he meets you right outside the bedroom door with his arms full of your clothes. These he exchanges for the mask, then ducks back into the bedroom and shuts the door in your face. You go into the hall bathroom. After a moment or two of examining yourself in the mirror, you dress, then go back out to the living room to wait. Jenna is on her phone, so you take out yours, and text Caleb to see if he wants to do anything later.<br/>
<br/>
You are checking out social media—a new habit you have acquired in just the past few weeks—and posting replies to video clips and threads, when voices echo in the hall. You look up as Sean and Zachary swing into the room, their arms around each other's shoulders. Sean has a relaxed grin on his face, while Zachary wears a plump, smug smile.<br/>
<br/>
That smile deepens into a punchable smirk when he sees you. "Brah," he groans, "so this's who you're hanging out with these days. Fuck me."<br/>
<br/>
"We're all gonna be friends," Sean says.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." Zachary swaggers up and drops a heavy hand onto your shoulder. "You know who I am, right?" he asks, putting his smirking face close to yours.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, boss," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"That's right." He lightly slaps your cheek, then drops back and looks around. "Okay, so." He grins at Sean. "Wanna hit Taco Famoso?"<br/>
<br/>
Sean's eyes widen. "Ooooohhhh! No!"<br/>
<br/>
"Oooohhh yes!" Zachary laughs. "Come on, you don't wanna be a fuckin' pussy."<br/>
<br/>
"What about me?" Jenna whines.<br/>
<br/>
The guys look at her. Then Zachary, his arm back around Sean's shoulder, leans in to whisper gleefully in his friend's ear. The other chortles, and nods. "What?" Jenna asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure you can come along," Zachary tells her. "But we have to pick some'n else up onna way." Without looking at you he says. "You can take off now, Prescott. We'll call you later if we want you." You nod, and let yourself out while he and Sean are still laughing about something.<br/>
<br/>
"You have any idea who the new guy is?" Caleb asks you later when you tell him of the events at Sean's.<br/>
<br/>
"Just the name. Zachary ... Shit, now I forgot the rest of it."<br/>
<br/>
"You're such a bubble brain." Caleb takes out his phone. "You said he's from Eastman?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and they're gonna get someone else out there to go with him and the girl." You cast your mind back to the introductions. "That fucking Jenna is <i>hot.</i>."<br/>
<br/>
"Any chance she's gonna start hanging out with us?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. The bosses get weird when they get new faces. You looking for Zachary Whatsisnuts online?"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gives you a look. "No, how can I look Whatsisnuts up online if I don't know Whatsisnuts' last name? I'm just checking to see if Meghan's posted in the party thread." He looks uncomfortable.<br/>
<br/>
You stare. "Are you still trying to do something with her?"<br/>
<br/>
He flares. "Well, why not? I was—! Until—! And you and Katy are still—!"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't mean—! You just surprise me is all."<br/>
<br/>
"How come?" He thrusts out his lower lip.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. It's just not like you, man. Stalking a girl."<br/>
<br/>
He glowers. "D'ju hit the gym after school again today, dipshit?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's that got to do anything?"<br/>
<br/>
"If you can still hit the gym these days, I can still—"<br/>
<br/>
"That's different, dude! That's just, um—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, it's totally different," Caleb snarks. "You and the gym, you and Katy, you and your new posse, ever since—"<br/>
<br/>
"The boss <i>told</i> me to hit the gym every day! And I like it!"<br/>
<br/>
"He <i>told</i> you to like it! I was there when he said so!" He smiles sourly. "It's like I don't know who you are anymore, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Dude, no one says you can't work out with me. I'll show you how to work the machines and all, if you—"<br/>
<br/>
"That's not the point!" He sags. "Besides, someone's got to babysit Keith, keep from realizing that <i>both</i> his best friends are—"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div><br/>
"Uh ... Yeah, there's some more of us over at Westside," you tell Charles.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, me and the Eastman crew are going out, kill the rest of Saturday." He looks very unimpressed as he gives you another up-and-down. "You can come along if you want."<span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111222211221112112111122
author_id: seuzz
id: RCPQ79RRC
title: The Morning Of
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>Your eye falls onto the mask that Charles handed you earlier. "The boss wants me to finish working on that thing," you tell him. Your heart is hammering in your chest as you speak.<br/>
<br/>
Charles shrugs and gestures at the clothes. "Anyway, there you go. Shower's in there." He points at the open doorway, then trudges out. You shut and lock the door behind him.<br/>
<br/>
You sag on your feet. It feels like nothing has changed. At the same time it feels as though everything has changed.<br/>
<br/>
As you soap yourself down under the hot water, you cast your mind back to the start of the day.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div><br/>
"Huhn ... huhn ... <i>hurf ... Eugghnnn!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You almost levitate as with a powerful and satisfying spurt you explode into your jerkoff sock. For a lovely moment that hangs somewhere between the instantaneous and the eternal, your mind lets go and your body becomes a jackhammer. Even after the surges stop, you push and squeeze out a handful more of the throbbing pulses, then relax, ragged and exhausted. You fall into and out of consciousness, and even after you hear the shower blasting on in the bathroom across the hall you laze and daze. For it is Saturday.<br/>
<br/>
"You hear from Sean?" Robert mumbles through a mouthful of toast when you catch up to him downstairs at the breakfast table. Your dad is still upstairs and your mom in the kitchen working on her breakfast.<br/>
<br/>
"He won't be up yet." You tuck into a pile of scrambled eggs.<br/>
<br/>
"Thought he might'a texted you last night. He had all of last night—"<br/>
<br/>
"You want some more sausages, Will?" Your mom materializes at your side with the skillet.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, uh, yes please!" You snag three sizzling links. "Thanks, Mom!" She beams at you, and returns to the kitchen.<br/>
<br/>
"What time'dja get home?" Robert asks. "Bet it was after your curfew."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, it was almost four. Me and Katie—" You bite down on a grin. "Next time'll be magic time, I think."<br/>
<br/>
He chortles. "Last night wasn't it? You were out till four—"<br/>
<br/>
"We went places after the Warehouse. Taco Bell with Eli and Bonny, then out to the river."<br/>
<br/>
Your mom reappears, this time with her own plate. "Well," she says brightly as she sits down, "today's your last free Saturday before school starts again. You boys have plans?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not yet," Robert answers. A shadow crosses his face. "I think Will—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll be hitting the gym," you say. "Bobby's coming with me. Aren't you?" <br/>
<br/>
"Don't call me Bobby, bro."<br/>
<br/>
"Noah calls you 'Bobby'."<br/>
<br/>
"One of these days I'm gonna kick Noah's—"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean after your workout," your mom interrupts.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, we'll probably do something afterward with the guys. Why? You want us to do something as a family?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, no."<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos after we're done at the gym—"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I didn't mean that. It's your last Saturday before your last high school semester, so you do what you want with your friends." She delicately picks at her own scrambled eggs. "Although if you can keep <i>tomorrow</i> free—"<br/>
<br/>
"We can do that," you assure her, and Robert chirps, "Sure thing!"<br/>
<br/>
After gobbling down your breakfasts, you each kiss your mom on the side of her head and thank her for breakfast. She blushes with a shy pleasure.<br/>
<br/>
"I feel kinda bad taking off," Robert murmurs as you accompany him up the stairs. He glances behind. "Maybe we should put it off until, I dunno, Monday?"<br/>
<br/>
"She won't know."<br/>
<br/>
"Still—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll check with Sean." You part at the hallway junction, him for his room and you for yours.<br/>
<br/>
After shutting your door, you query Sean Mitchell via text, then change into your workout clothes. It's chilly out—first Saturday of January—so you're jacketed as well.<br/>
<br/>
Robert too is dressed in track pants and a sweatshirt as you hop into your truck. Your phone is in the bag, and Robert digs it out when it dings. "Sean says he's gonna try meeting Charlie at noon," he says. "What time is—? Fuck, it's already after eleven." You and he look at each other; then you jerk the wheel hard and turn back the way you'd come. "Gonna be cutting it close," Robert says.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll make it," you assure him. "Charlie always runs twenty minutes late."<br/>
<br/>
Still, it takes you almost fifteen minutes to reach the Mitchells'. Sean opens the door while you and Robert are coming up the walk. "My mom's home," he says in a low voice as he lets you in.<br/>
<br/>
"Morning, Mrs. Mitchell!" Robert jauntily calls out. You growl, "Shut up," and pull Sean down a nearby hallway toward his room. A woman calls out, "Sean, who is it?" but Robert says, "I'll keep her distracted while you change." Inside Sean's bedroom, you shut the door and with a quick word order him to disrobe. You do the same. Then you lightly hop onto his bed, grip your forehead with one hand, and, while muttering something under your breath, pull at your face.<br/>
<br/>
The universe glitches, like a video skipping. You are still on the bed, and still naked. But Sean is dressed, and he is straightening up from leaning over you. "Hey," he says, "Noah texted, wants to know where you are."<br/>
<br/>
"What do I tell him?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"I answered for you, told him you were running late. Better get going." He picks up another phone from his desk and thumbs a message into it while you dress. "Bobby's in charge for now," he says as you reach for the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Seriously?"<br/>
<br/>
Sean gives you a look. "Don't argue, man." You duck from the room.<br/>
<br/>
Robert is slouched in a ratty armchair, talking to Mrs. Mitchell. She's a middle-aged woman with a worn and faded look, but there's a smile on her face. "Nice talking to you, ma'am," he tells her as he scrambles to his feet.<br/>
<br/>
"It was nice of you to come over," she says, getting herself up to. "You can come around more often, you know. I know Sean likes having friends over." She looks over as Sean, his head bent over his phone, joins you. "Are you going too?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" He looks up. "Yeah, I'm trying up to catch up with Charlie Russo."<br/>
<br/>
"Charlie? How is he?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's fine. We're gonna talk about the college some." He opens a hall closet door and pulls out a jacket. "I'll be back ... I dunno, in a couple of hours." He hesitates, then goes over to give her a peck on the side of her head. "Love you, Mom," he says.<br/>
<br/>
You must have been staring, for you jump when Robert nudges you. But he doesn't say anything until you're in the truck again, when he demands your phone. "We're cancelling the workout," he tells you. "We got other stuff to do."<br/>
<br/>
"Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like making some more masks, so we're going out to the Whitney's. Oh, right, you've never been out there." He handles your phone, texting with someone while giving you directions, and otherwise ignores you for the rest of the drive.<br/>
<br/>
You end up northeast of the city, in a tony development where big houses sit on spacious lots that are cut off from each other by stands of trees. You drive over a short wooden bridge that spans a creek, to park in front of a McMansion. The door is opened by a raven-haired kid about your age. He'd be handsome but for the pinched and truculent expression on his face. "Will," Robert says offhandedly, "this is Charles Whitney. Charles, my brother, Will."<br/>
<br/>
Whitey nods vacantly at you. "Jenna's on her way over," he says. <br/>
<br/>
"Fantastic," Robert says with a notable lack of enthusiasm as he pushes his way inside. "Your folks home?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, they're out doing errands."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, keep 'em distracted if they show up. This way," Robert tells you, and leads you through the house and out the back, to a dark-beamed barn that half-nestles inside a small grove of trees. Inside, he has you set a plywood sheet atop some sawhorses while he rummages around in an old-fashioned steamer trunk and hauls out some Rubbermaid containers and a few oddball knickknacks, like a mirror bent into the shape of a hemisphere. You watch silently until he has pulled out a book bound in red leather, which he sets on the makeshift table and flips to a particular page. You crane your neck around to peer at it. "Oh, so this is where that's been," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. You remember what to do with it?"<br/>
<br/>
You peer at the writing. "Oh yeah, this one."<br/>
<br/>
"Then get started. We want two of them, at least."<br/>
<br/>
"Who we gonna use them on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Charlie Russo'll tell us when he shows up. But you'll probably be gone by then." He stares off toward the house with a thoughtful expression.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div><br/>
You catch sight of yourself in the mirror as you step from the shower, and rear back with a start. Your jaw drops as you stare.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Dude, what happened to my physique?</i><br/>
<br/>
Two months of careful, targeted workouts hadn't left you jacked, but at least it had given some definition to your torso. You were starting to get some pecs, and what little fat you carried on your belly had burned off, revealing the lines of a six-pack. But that's all gone; more startling, the patch of hair you'd shaved off your breastbone is back.<br/>
<br/>
Same with your hair! At the same time you started hitting the gym, you'd gotten the excess chopped off and beaten back, and had started shaving every day. But that patchy mustache and goatee you'd once let lazily grow has returned, and so too the stiff bangs and spit curls over your ears.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart is hammering as you scramble to cover up this ... reversion. You can hide your body under your winter clothes. But your hair ... <br/>
<br/>
You jump back into the shower long enough to sop it and brush it back. Frantically you search the bathroom until you find a razor. But will it do any good? <i>I need a place to hide,</i> you tell yourself. But where?<br/>
<br/>
An answer comes when you step back into the bathroom, and see that mask, still sitting on the corner of the bed.<br/>
<span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112222112211121121111221
author_id: seuzz
id: MMHSLBN3J
title: The Making of a New You
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>You carefully explore the house after dressing, upstairs and downstairs. There's a black SUV, gleaming like Darth Vader's helmet, in the three-car garage, and your truck is still parked out front in the wide carriage drive that sweeps past the front door, but those are the only vehicles, and the house seems to be empty. There's a tremor in your chest as you go out the back door and trudge off toward the barn, but find it deserted as well. It seems funny that everyone would have taken off, leaving you unsupervised in the house of people you don't even know. Except there is precedent, kind of ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div><br/>
You and Robert and Jenny Ashton are sprawled around the living room, talking casually of plans for the soon-to-be-upon-you Christmas vacation, when Umeko appears at the foot of the stairs. She stops and blinks at Jenny. "What's <i>she</i> still doing here?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Just hanging out," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's weird," Umeko says. "Go home," she tells Jenny with a grimace. Jenny flashes you and Robert a brief, slightly fearful glance, and starts to get up.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck's got into you all of a sudden?" Robert demands of your cousin.<br/>
<br/>
Umeko stares. Then she smirks and giggles. "You know who got into me!"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut the fuck up," you snap. "Jenny," you call, and she stops. "Where are you going?"<br/>
<br/>
"Home, I guess. That's what I was told," she adds with a hooded glance at Umeko.<br/>
<br/>
You slap Robert on the knee and haul yourself to your feet. "Well, come with us," you tell her as Robert, looking confused, scrambles to his feet as well. "We'll go do something."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought <i>we</i> were gonna do something," Umeko protests. "The fuck did I change into this for if—?"<br/>
<br/>
"You can come too," you reply. To Robert: "We'll swing by Caleb's, you can change there and—"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck that!" Umeko snarls. "Don't you wanna hang out with your"—she hugs herself tightly—"favorite cousin?"<br/>
<br/>
"We said you could come with."<br/>
<br/>
Umeko glowers. "No," she says in a shrill voice after a moment's struggle with herself. "I'll stay here, hang out with and talk to Aunt Martha instead!"<br/>
<br/>
"You can't do that, she doesn't know <i>you're</i>—"<br/>
<br/>
"That's what makes it fun," she mocks you back. "Don't worry about me, I can play this girl. 'Oh, Aunt Martha—'"<br/>
<br/>
"Come on, let's get out of here," you growl at Robert. With a pale look, he stumbles after you, and Jenny trails in your wake.<br/>
<br/>
"Bruh," Robert says when you're outside. "I know who got into her, but what's got into you? You shouldn't piss off—"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, he shouldn't piss <i>me</i> off." You yank open your truck door, and propel Jenny by the shoulder into the cab. "Anyway, I don't know why we went along adding Umeko to the mix."<br/>
<br/>
"To finish filling out the family," Robert replies in a patient tone.<br/>
<br/>
"Pfft. Umeko's hardly ever at the Prescotts'."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, she will be now." Robert pauses. "Also, she can get us into the college."<br/>
<br/>
"Charlie Russo can get us on campus," you retort.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div><br/>
The barn is empty, and even that worktable you and Robert put together has been disassembled and the pieces stacked neatly in a corner next to an old-fashioned steamer trunk—the kind with a domed lid and brass fittings at the corners. That's where you dug out all that stuff to make the masks. On an impulse, you open it up.<br/>
<br/>
It's all there, and you stare at it thoughtfully for a long moment: the Rubbermaid containers, the satchel filled with tools, and the book.<br/>
<br/>
You remember the book. It's the one you found in the last semester. You used it to make a mask of yourself—a magical mask that someone could use to disguise themself as you. But then it disappeared from your room, and all the ingredients for making it—the same kind of ingredients as are in this trunk—vanished from the old school where you had been keeping them.<br/>
<br/>
And now here it is again. There's a prickling in your palms as you pick it out. You remember everything you ever knew about it, and more.<br/>
<br/>
Because you've been using it a lot more lately.<br/>
<br/>
So it's quick and easy to put together another mask. You set up the table again, mix the powders and liquids, set them afire in a bowl balanced on the open page of the first spell, pour the bowl out over the convex mirror, and keep a tight grip on it when the resulting shell twists in your hand into the shape of a face. There's a powered buffer in the trunk as well, and an outlet in the barn wall, and you settle onto a nearby hay bale to polish the new mask as well as the other one you were given to polish. The hard part would be the metal strips that need runes carved into them, but someone has been thoughtful enough to make a handful of them already, and to store them in the canvas satchel along with the carving tools; and there's three tubs full of the liquid pastes that you will need to complete your work.<br/>
<br/>
It's a hateful thought that you've dodged confronting, but there's no avoiding it now: Back in the bedroom, you contemplate the third mask in your inventory. The one you found on the bathroom floor after you fainted. The one that's got your name in it. It nauseates you to touch its inner surface with your fingertips.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Someone did it to me,</i> you think. <i>The same thing I did to Caleb and Jenny and Umeko, and some others ... They did it to me first. And after they had their fun being me, they hung the mask on someone else's face. They were the boss Even when it felt like I was being the boss, it was just someone else pretending to be me.</i><br/>
<br/>
Your expression hardens as you glare at the mask. <i>This fucking thing. I can't even use it, even though it looks like me and acts like me. It's a fucking traitor, it'll do what the bosses tell it, not what I tell it. I'll have to get rid of it.</i><br/>
<br/>
Well, you can figure out later how to destroy it. For now, you can just make a new copy of yourself, one that when finished will obey <i>you.</i> You return to the barn, where you put everything away except for a paintbrush and two of the Rubbermaid containers. Then you glue a metal strip into one of the new masks, lay back on the hay bale, and lower it onto your face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are stiff and cold when you wake, and you feel slightly nauseated as you return to work. The new mask, like the old, now has your name floating over its inner surface, like something out of a "magic eye" puzzle, and it remains there even after you have "sealed" the mask with goop from the two containers you kept out. That done—<br/>
<br/>
You chew on your lip as you return to the book, flipping through it to the last open spell. This you study with a deep frown while feeding scraps of the original Latin into the online translator on your phone. It confirms what you were ninety-nine percent certain of anyway: the last ingredient, the one that will bind a mask to your control, requires a bit of your hair. With a grimace and a wince you pluck a few hairs off the back of your neck, drop them into the sealed mask, then strike a match and drop it in too. There's a brief, purplish flash of light and a small bloom of smoke, and the inner surface of the mask, which in contrast to the glowing blue of the outer surface is a muddy gray, acquires a polished sheen. You let out a deep breath.<br/>
<br/>
That's half of what you need for a hiding place: a mask to place on your victim, which will turn them into an obedient copy of yourself while you make yourself into a copy of them. But who to hide out as?<br/>
<br/>
There's almost an embarrassment of possibilities. From among your old friends, there's Keith Tilley and Carson Ioeger and James Lamont and Paul Davis. And from among your new friends there's Noah Lepley and Laurent Delacroix and Marc Garner and Reece Palendech. And if you want to reach farther than that, there's Marc's sisters, Eva and Jessica, and Katy Conlee and Meghan Velasquez, and Barbara Powell and Josie Holden and Phoebe Beauchamp ... It makes you dizzy to think of all the new acquaintances you have, and have had an easy time hanging out with, ever since ... <i>the bosses</i> ... took charge of your life. You can't help shuddering with resentment.<br/>
<br/>
It's in this distracted state of mind that you return to the house, tramping carelessly through it toward the bedroom to collect the rest of your things, when a voice calls out suddenly, "Charles? Is that you?"<br/>
<br/>
You freeze, except for your heart, which nearly explodes in your chest. You have had the house and grounds to yourself for so long now that you forgot someone might return.<br/>
<br/>
Before you can answer, a woman steps around the corner from the living room. She stops dead with a shocked look on her face when she sees you. Her mouth falls open as you and she stare at each other.<br/>
<br/>
The moment seems to hang, and your mind struggles like it's swimming through cold molasses as you make the deductions. This is Charles Whitney's house, and this woman could be old enough to be his mother, and with her dark hair and her sharp gaze she even looks like him. <i>Oh,</i> you finally conclude, and feel foolish for having taken so long to reach it, <i>this must be Mrs. Whitney!</i><br/>
<br/>
"Who are you?" she demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I'm a friend of Charles," you stammer. "Will Prescott. Um, he, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"Is that your truck out front?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I, uh, I had to get cleaned up, and he, uh, had to go, and—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck this,</i> a voice inside your head suddenly barks. <i>You wanted a hiding place. No one would look for you ... there!</i><span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122221122111211211112211
author_id: seuzz
id: D792DRGP6
title: Like Leaves in the Forest
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>Mrs. Whitney's frown deepens.<br/>
<br/>
"Where's Charles?" she asks. "Did he leave you here alone? What—?"<br/>
<br/>
Even if you had decided otherwise, you might have pasted this woman in the face with a magical doohickey just to shut her up long enough for you to make an escape.<br/>
<br/>
But instead of running, you drag her limp body back into the living room and drop her onto a deep, richly embroidered sofa. <br/>
<br/>
Only then, with a spasm of panic, do you wonder if her husband isn't in the house with her. Like a frightened deer, you scamper through the house, terrified that someone else will pop up out of some corner. Even after you have pretty much settled that you still have the house to yourself, you are as jumpy as a skin full of grasshoppers.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You had an armful of things when you ran into Mrs. Whitney, and it was purest luck that in your right hand you were carrying the second of the two metal bands you filched from the trunk of supplies. And getting it onto Mrs. Whitney was like using muscle memory, because you remember using the same trick on Caleb and on one of Robert's friends; on Umeko and Jenny Ashton; on Erik Carstairs ...<br/>
<br/>
You sink onto the sofa next to the unconscious woman. <i>How many people are out there who aren't ... themselves ... anymore?</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div><br/>
You step to one side, and grin and wink at Caleb as he presses past you into your dad's study. Your dad looks up from his desk with a bright smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Caleb!" he exclaims, and puts a hand across the desk. Your friend takes it, and they shake. "How's school going for you?"<br/>
<br/>
"For me it's going great."<br/>
<br/>
"How's it going for Will?" Your dad glances past Caleb with a twinkling eye, and comes around the desk as your friend glances puckishly over his shoulder at you.<br/>
<br/>
"You understand," your dad continues as he steps up close to Caleb, "that this isn't really an interview, it's just a formality. As far as we're concerned, you're already on the team."<br/>
<br/>
"But let's make it official," you say, and hug Caleb from behind. Your dad smacks something onto his forehead, and he slumps in your arms.<br/>
<br/>
"Cheesy line, bruh," your dad snickers as you lower Caleb to the floor.<br/>
<br/>
"You're the one who started it," you retort. "<i>Already on the team.</i>" But your dad is already loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. You crouch to start pulling Caleb's clothes off him.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~</div><br/>
"Hey, thanks for coming out, man." Stephanie grins at Erik Carstairs, and tweaks his flat stomach through his shirt. He smirks back, then glances over at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you know Prescott?" Stephanie asks, following his glance.<br/>
<br/>
"Seen him around." He chucks his chin at you. "How you doin'?" You shrug.<br/>
<br/>
"Will's an assistant manager," Stephanie continues. "You'd be working under him."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" Erik's eyebrows rise. "Well, I didn't say I was takin' the job. Fact, I don't even—"<br/>
<br/>
"You're taking it," Stephanie says, and goes up on tiptoes long enough to slap something onto his forehead. His eyes seem to cross, and he crumples up and tumbles to the floor.<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus!" you exclaim, and rush over to shut the office door. "I thought we were waiting for—!"<br/>
<br/>
"We don't gotta wait for anyone, Prescott," she snaps. "I saw a chance to—"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you 'Prescott' me, motherfucker," you snarl, and Stephanie actually takes a step back and pales. "You don't ever forget who you're talking to!" You poke her in the chest. "And don't ever forget who <i>you</i> really are!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~</div><br/>
"Jesus, dude," Robert quietly chides you after he's shut the bedroom door. "You didn't have to jump down Johanna's throat that way."<br/>
<br/>
"He just pisses me off sometimes," you growl.<br/>
<br/>
"<i>He?</i>" Robert lifts an eyebrow.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't care who he's dressed out as, I can smell the stink off him."<br/>
<br/>
"Bruh, it's a partnership," Robert says. "You went along with it when I asked if we could—"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't think we had a choice!" When he looks wounded, you add with a sigh, "I'll try to do better."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I think you should," Robert says. He nods his chin at the short kid in the sloppy clothes who with staring eyes is passed out on his bed. "'Cos I'm pretty sure Casey's horny for Johanna, and I <i>know</i> that she likes <i>him.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You stare, then groan.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~</div><br/>
"Will!"<br/>
<br/>
You drop your phone, and listen again for your name. At the sequel, you lurch to your feet and thunder downstairs. Your mom is standing near the side door with a distracted look on her face.<br/>
<br/>
"Come go with me," she says. "I'm going out to—" She bites her lip. "I'm going home for a bit."<br/>
<br/>
You start. "What?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm going home," she repeats more firmly. "And I need you to, uh, help me switch—"<br/>
<br/>
"But you've got a home," you blurt out. "We got you <i>this</i> one!"<br/>
<br/>
"I know, sweetheart," she says, and bursts into tears. "But sometimes I just get ... homesick!" She sniffles.<br/>
<br/>
You hold your breath as you nod. "Okay, lemme put my shoes on." You scamper upstairs.<br/>
<br/>
You've got your phone out by the time you reach your bedroom, and with trembling fingers you text Robert's number: <i>Ur mom wants to switch back u n boss need to get home!</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</div><br/>
You shiver all over, and for a moment you are so horror-struck that you cower from doing unto Mrs. Whitney what has been done to so many others.<br/>
<br/>
But then you tell yourself that you <i>were</i> one of those others, and you will be one again if the motherfuckers who are doing this ever catch you. You pray a silent apology to the woman slouching next to you for what you are about to do next.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You were drenched in flop sweat by the time the metal band reappeared on Mrs. Whitney's forehead, but you still put the mask onto her, and by the time it too reappeared on her face—for like the metal band, it had seemed to disappear into her when you placed it on her—you are nearly unhinged with anxiety. Your only consolation, though it is a nauseating one, is that you "remember" doing this sort of thing so often that you hardly have to think about it.<br/>
<br/>
So while the mask is still inside Mrs. Whitney you pull her shoes off and loosen the thin, strappy belt around her waist. And though you flinch, your eye still can't help running over her, to take in the look of the impersonation you are about to begin.<br/>
<br/>
The woman is several inches shorter than you, and despite an age that you would peg (with your unpracticed eye) at being somewhere between thirty-five and fifty, she still retains a figure. Her dark brown hair is bobbed stylishly short to the top of her neck and over her ears, and with a long, wide-sweeping bang that now hangs over one eye. Her skin is smooth and tastefully made up, with no really obvious wrinkles or lines; only some fine wrinkles at her throat lead you to guess that her age is somewhere north of forty, because they remind you <i>(shiver!)</i> of some of the wrinkles at your mother's throat. She has good breasts and hips, and no obvious belly. She is in a tasteful, charcoal-gray dress that feels like it's made of silk, and she wears sheer pantyhose. From a thin chain about her neck dangles a large, sapphire-colored pendant; she is not wearing earrings. All in all, she looks rich, chic, intelligent, and confident.<br/>
<br/>
In other words, the total opposite of yourself.<br/>
<br/>
Once the mask and metal strip are in your hands, you gently push another mask into her face. Like the first mask, it seems to vanish into her face. But then it isn't her face anymore. It's yours.<br/>
<br/>
Your new doppelganger opens his eyes with a frown, does a double-take at you, and gasps.<br/>
<br/>
Again, your "remembered" instincts kick in. You raise a warning finger. "Who's your boss?" you ask him quietly.<br/>
<br/>
He gulps and looks fearful. "Uh, you are," he croaks.<br/>
<br/>
"Right. What's the last thing you remember? Being out in the barn, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." There's a note of uncertainty in his voice. He looks down at himself, and seems to shrink up inside himself. "Why am I in a dress and ... pantyhose?"<br/>
<br/>
"You remember we— I made some masks out in that barn?" you remind him. "I'm getting myself a new face, and you need to take my place."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Come on." You gesture him to his feet, and he lurches after you toward Charles's bedroom. It's probably the wrong spot for his mom to get undressed and dressed again, but it is the one place in the house you feel semi-comfortable.<br/>
<br/>
"You're going to have to ... well ... pretend you're still one of ... them," you tell your replacement after you've got the bedroom door shut and locked. "You think you can do that?"<br/>
<br/>
He licks his lips. "I don't know."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you remember what you ... what <i>I</i> was doing before, right? I mean, you remember coming out here with"—now you have to lick your lips—"Robert." It's so much harder to talk about this stuff out loud, and it was hard enough just thinking about it. When your doppelganger nods, you add, "So just keep acting like you were then. Only— Well, I'll have to give you a number or something to text me at, so you can tell me everything that's going on."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you going to do?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you remember?" you ask. It seems like that's all you were doing since "waking up," is figuring out what to do.<br/>
<br/>
"Not really," he says. "I mean, I remember doing stuff like, uh, talking to that Charles gink, and making the new masks."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we're gonna try to take the motherfuckers down. The ones that did this to us." <i>Us?</i> you wonder. But it's hard to not to regard him as your alter ego.<br/>
<br/>
He glances down at himself. "By doing the same thing?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's just temporary," you retort. "Once we get everything back to normal, well— Everything'll go back to normal," you lamely conclude.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright," he says, sounding unhappy. "I guess you want me out of this dress now." <span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111222211221112112111122111
author_id: seuzz
id: A2PLWQT68
title: Mother Loves
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>You feel wrung out, like an old washcloth, when you wake, and you lay back staring at the ceiling for what even you know is too long a time, as life slowly returns to your joints. But your brain is sluggish too.<br/>
<br/>
But it doesn't take long—only a few moments—to orient yourself, to know who and where you are, and what you've done to yourself. The knowledge leaves you cold all over, and the reluctance to touch yourself is one reason you are reluctant to move. It was bad enough—it was a hard scare—when you woke with Carol Lowell-Whitney's memories while still inside your own body. It was like your whole body had rotted away into strange and loathsome shape.<br/>
<br/>
But now, waking with the mask on you as well— Well, it should be more comfortable, shouldn't it, matching Carol's mind and memories with her body? You would think! But you recovered your own sense of self before putting the mask on, and now you've got a similar feeling as before. Only now it is <i>you,</i> not Carol Charlotte Lowell-Whitney, who feels alienated from a new body.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you know you've got to move, so with a vast reluctance, you sit up, and let your new boobs fall and wobble into place.<br/>
<br/>
At least you feel more human as you get to your feet. The stiffness in your joints vanishes as soon as you start to move, and though you still flinch a little from touching yourself, it's not nearly as nasty as you were sure it would be. And after tugging on the silk panties and snapping on the bra, and pulling the dress down over you so that you're not <i>naked and alone</i> with Mrs. Whitney's body anymore, you actually begin to feel normal. You start to muse over the thought <i>How would Carol think and feel?</i> as you pinch and pull and straighten out the dress. <i>Aside from—y'know—being copied and hijacked and replaced by a strange teenage boy.<br/>
<br/>
Teenage boy.</i> You pause in mid-fidget and blink as a flash of memories come back: of being at a Saint Xavier's function and drinking in the sight of all those young, strong, newly mature but still slightly dewy boys in the sixth form. Carol wound up getting slightly drunk, and more than slightly horny, and finally had to badger Thomas into taking her home early for fear she'd make a fool of herself around some of them.<br/>
<br/>
With trembling hands you snatch up the cord-like belt and wind it around your waist. <i>Think of something else,</i> you chide yourself. <i>Think of </i>anything<i> else! Think of what to do about Charles!</i><br/>
<br/>
That is scarcely better. To his mother's eye he is unchanged. But you know that not himself anymore, and though you hardly feel the same motherly affection for him as Carol does, you do feel sympathetic cold lump form in your chest. As well as a paralysis of indecision about what to do about it all.<br/>
<br/>
You're saved, for the moment, at least, by a recognition that as Carol Lowell-Whitney you've got a place to go and are late getting to it. You quickly but expertly pull on the sheer stockings, and grab up your pumps before marching out of the bedroom and up the stairs to Carol's own dressing closet. (That's what she calls the suite of bath, toilet, clothes closets, and vanities where she preps herself daily.) A quick glance in the mirror confirms that her makeup got blurred in the copying, so you sit down at a brightly lit vanity table and set to work touching everything up, from lips to brows to lashes to hair.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Jesus, kid,</i> you mutter angrily to yourself as you smudge away some of the finer wrinkles that have broken through. <i>You thought I could be fifty? Bad enough being on the far side of forty. But I'm still closer to it than to the—</i>shudder<i>—half-century mark. And I look good for forty-three, if I say so myself.</i> You pause to watch your reflection out of the corner of your eye. <i>Okay, I was going to say I could pass for ten years younger, but no, that's not true, not if I'm honest with myself. I could pass for thirty-seven, if I admitted to having bad genes. Forty, if I rounded. But no—</i> You sigh, and pick up the mascara. <i>I do look forty-three, God damn it, even if I do look good for the age.<br/>
<br/>
And—</i> You tiny smile jerks at one corner of your mouth, even as you wither a little internally. <i>And there are some pretty sexy guys out there who will take me this way.</i> That's one reason, Carol realized with mortifying self-consciousness, she had to hustle herself  away from Charles's schoolmates. It would have been self-deceiving to think the eighteen-year-old football player with the chiseled jawline and the broad chest and the shoulders that strained at his shirt would want to get into bed with her. But given who does get into bed with her, it wouldn't have been <i>outrageously</i> self-deceiving.<br/>
<br/>
The repair work done to your satisfaction, you fluff out your hair a little before touching it up with a little hair spray, and give yourself a brittle smile. Too bad it looks so desperate. <i>Come on, man,</i> you chide yourself. <i>Get into character. The assholes you're going to be fighting don't seem to have trouble acting like </i>their<i> impersonations!</i><br/>
<br/>
But the motivational talk doesn't help, and it's with a dread and an anxiety that you pluck the pumps off the table, switch off the light, and go back downstairs again.<br/>
<br/>
Will Prescott, as you'd directed him, is loitering downstairs with his phone. He looks up with a glum, fearful look.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, here I am," you say. "Don't tell me I look beautiful, 'cos it would be fucking weird. You get any texts or messages I should know about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just one from Caleb, asking if we're gonna go get Tilley and do something with him."<br/>
<br/>
You chew your lip, then catch yourself and stop it before you can fudge your lipstick. "That's probably just normal stuff, but play it safe and stay in today. Especially if you hear from anyone like ... your new friends." He nods, and you give him your number so he can keep in contact with him.<br/>
<br/>
You can't help watching him as he trudges for the front door—a lanky, almost stork-like youth—and a feeling that you recognize as a motherly concern wells up within you. <i>Jesus,</i> you think with a start. <i>All this time I was just thinking about what this fuckery was doing to guys like me and my friends.</i> It hadn't occurred to you that it could hit the parents pretty hard as well. How would Caleb's mom—who only had Caleb after her husband ran out on her—feel if she knew that Caleb was a fake, that he was really someone else, and that usually he wasn't even that someone else?<br/>
<br/>
As you slide on your pumps and gather up the enormous purse that Carol had laid on the end table near the door when she came in, you remember that Will's hair will need trimming if he isn't to be instantly spotted as a fake of a fake. So you fumble out the cell phone and text him an order to stop by a hair stylist before going home. <i>You know the kind of cut they need to give you,</i> you tell him, because you yourself remember the directions that you gave the stylist when you got your hair trimmed back into something more mature looking.<br/>
<br/>
Then, at the door leading into the garage, you remember your wedding ring. You tense all over as you make a detour back into the bedroom to take it out of the jewelry box. You're quite aware of the multiple reasons Carol had for leaving it off.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, with a hard sigh, you stride out to the garage. It was to switch cars that Carol came home—and to use the bathroom—so you hang the keys to the Mercedes onto one hook while plucking the keys to the SUV off the other. At the touch of a button the garage door rumbles and starts to grind its way up. You slip into the SUV, slide on the pair of sunglasses that Carol keeps on the dashboard, and wedge your cell phone into the charger. A few minutes later you're on the road and headed back to town.<br/>
<br/>
You're just coming opposite the mall when the phone rings. With practiced ease you glance at the screen and tap the answer button. "Hello, Aidan!" you call out. "I'm just on my way, I got caught unexpectedly at home!"<br/>
<br/>
Aidan Seabury's voice is as supple as oiled silk. "I was just calling to tell you we couldn't make our quorum after all. But if you still want to meet—" He trails off invitingly.<br/>
<br/>
Desire—a fiery column of it—almost lifts you out of your seat.<br/>
<br/>
Aidan Seabury is the president of the Saratoga Falls Arts Council, on whose board Carol serves as one of the many "public service jobs" she holds instead of being employed. It was to a meeting of the council that you are hurrying—a meeting he has now informed you has been cancelled.<br/>
<br/>
Aidan Seabury is also one of Carol's lovers—the one that makes her feel twenty years old again. Aidan has never crooked a finger that Carol has failed to answer, and he has just made a hole in his schedule and your schedule both.<span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112222112211121121111221112
author_id: seuzz
id: ZH3LVD853
title: Favors Asked with a Sinister Flavor
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>It's almost an agony to turn down Aidan Seabury's invitation. The lust he arouses in Carol's body is so strong it's elemental.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm sorry, sugar bear," you whine, and to your horror you find that you have to fight to get the words out. "But if we're not having the board meeting ... I've got other errands I have to do."<br/>
<br/>
"You had an hour for a board meeting." His soothing voice seems to slither like a serpent from the phone and wrap itself around your chest. It squeezes as he adds. "You had time for a board meeting, but you don't have thirty minutes for your sugar bear?"<br/>
<br/>
"I do," you protest. "Except, something came up. I gotta prioritize."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean I'm not at the top of your list, always?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>The fuck is the matter with me? With Carol?</i> you wonder. You are so suddenly dizzy with desire you have to make an emergency turn into a parking lot and stop the car.<br/>
<br/>
"You are, sugar bear," you groan. "But ... I'm on the road ... Was on the road, and I got a call from my son. He—"<br/>
<br/>
"Say no more," Aidan says, and it's like a spell has been broken: suddenly his voice is only a voice, and not a magnet. "Your son—"<br/>
<br/>
"Sugar bear!"<br/>
<br/>
"—always comes first."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not like that!"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say it was, Carol." There is syrup in his voice again—a nectar that you love to feed on. "How is Charlie? It's not an emergency, is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Charles?" you blink. "No, I just— Some business came up with him, and I—"<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't you bring him out the next time you're up at the museum? I know of some good positions for him here, things that would look good on a college application."<br/>
<br/>
Now you've another feeling in your chest, like a hard, cold block of granite. "I don't think Charles would like ... museum work."<br/>
<br/>
"It would be Arts Council stuff, Carol," Aidan assures you. "Executive employment, not menial. And not an internship."<br/>
<br/>
You yield so far as to mumble that you'll talk to Charles about it. Aidan says, "At least bring him out so I can make my pitch directly." Again, you mumble an insincere affirmation. "Great," enthuses Aidan, and though his tone is as dulcet and ingratiating as ever, you find yourself loathing the sound of it. "I look forward to it. I'll be bothering you about it again, Carol, sooner rather than later. And sooner, too, about ... us."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Us.</i> The word is like a sharp but sweet knife-thrust to the heart. You struggle to catch your breath as the line goes dead.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It took you a while to recover, as you wondered what the hell that was all about. You are trembling still when you pull back into traffic and point the nose of the SUV toward home.<br/>
<br/>
The attraction that Carol Lowell-Whitney felt for Aidan Seabury when they met was immediate and total. It was at a public meeting of the Arts Council. Her friend Virginia Grant thought it might be a community activity Carol would be interested in. She was, but she was much more interested in the Arts Council's panther-like president. When Virginia introduced them to each other after the meeting, and he locked his magnetic gaze onto her, she nearly came. Their affair began soon after.<br/>
<br/>
That was a little more than a year ago, and in all that time—you recall now from inside Carol's memories—she never so much as hesitated when he crooked his finger in her direction. But it was the almost violent reaction you felt when you tried resisting his invitation—as palpable as a lasso of razor wire pulled tight around your chest—that shocks you. Your mind goes back to some of their sessions together—and just as quickly you try to thrust them away. Seabury, you reflect with a shudder, is not what might be called a "gentle lover." Nor was he one for "safe words" when Carol started screaming.<br/>
<br/>
You try to distract yourself by yelling at your cell phone to call Charles, but in the minutes before and after you talk to him, asking him to come home, it only reminds you of Aidan's insistent request that you introduce Charles to him. It's a request he's made before, and the recoil you felt was one that Carol also felt. As near as you can tell, she put her repulsion down to the thought of mixing her son up, even in a business-like way, with her lover. But from your own, more objective, viewpoint, you wonder if there isn't something else going on. Aidan Seabury, you can't help feeling even as contemplation of his face and name sets the lustful sap throbbing again in your glands and loins, is a bad influence.<br/>
<br/>
It's not until you have been home for some twenty minutes, and hear the front door open to admit the deep chatter of male voices, that you are able to push him from your mind entirely.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You hadn't told Charles what you wanted, just that you wanted him home, because you had no other purpose than to somehow maneuver him into a position where you could get the mask off him and discover who was beneath it. Unless there has been another change of positions since this morning, you are pretty certain it won't be one of the assholes who trapped you, and that will give you an ally. Then, together, you might start to figure out why the magic that held you (and the others) in thrall had failed.<br/>
<br/>
But he's brought friends with him. Three of them, and it takes you aback to find yourself confronting them.<br/>
<br/>
So when Charles says, "Hey, Mom. What's up?" with the dead-eyed resentment he has shown more and more toward his mother, you are not quite sure what to reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you brought friends with you," you improvise. "Hi Zachary, Ethan," you greet them. "Um—" You pretend that the name of the fourth has momentarily eluded you, even though as one of Saint Xavier's studliest studs you know exactly who he is. "Marius, right?" Marius Hall, a handsome, barrel-chested slab of beefcake in a gray sweatshirt and rugged jeans, jerks his chin at you, and studies you with a hooded but inquiring gaze. "You were all out having fun, I guess," you lamely conclude.<br/>
<br/>
None of the boys reply or react, save for Charles, whose chilly expression ices over.<br/>
<br/>
"Well," you continue, trying to collect your breath and wits, "I know it's the last Saturday of the Christmas vacation and all, but— I know!" You chase desperately after the sudden thought. "How would you boys like to earn"—<i>How much would these guys be expecting or stand for?</i> you wonder—"two hundred dollars for an hour or two of work? Each?"<br/>
<br/>
They look startled—even Charles does—and exchange quick glances. You smile at them with a sense of relief.<br/>
<br/>
"I was just going to make Charles to do it," you continue with a strengthening confidence, and with a gesture summon them to follow you through the kitchen and out the back door. "But if you're all here and help out, we can get it done that much faster. And then—" You turn a broad smile onto them. "Then you'll all have the rest of the day free again, <i>and</i> you'll have some spending money. Wouldn't that be nice?" You wince at that last, rhetorical flourish.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you want us to do?" Charles asks as you lead them across the back lawn toward the barn. His tone is still churlish, but there's curiosity in it.<br/>
<br/>
You point to the barn. "Since we sold Merrydew, that thing has just been falling apart. It's a mess in there. Your dad and I have been talking about whether we want to remodel it or just pull it down completely and put something else up."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought you were talking about getting another horse," Charles says.<br/>
<br/>
"Well ... Maybe. Your dad and I are talking about a lot of things. But—" You glance over the boys, who are all looking dubiously at the barn. "We want to know what the thing looks like under all the dirt and grime and cobwebs and ... and <i>junk.</i><br/>
<br/>
"So," you conclude, "what I want to pay you guys for is to clean it all out. Carry all the junk out, sweep it out, sweep out the cobwebs. The floor, the stalls, the loft, everything."<br/>
<br/>
They look skeptical, but only Ethan—a friend of Charles's since middle school—says anything. "And you'll pay us two hundred dollars each?" He jump as Charles elbows him sharply in the ribs.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I don't know what the going rates are, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"We'll do it," Charles quickly says. "It won't take, like—" He glances between the faces of the others. "An hour to do it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want anything slapdash," you warn him.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we'll work for an hour," he ripostes, "then you can come out and tell us if we're done."<br/>
<br/>
"Hrm. Well, alright."<br/>
<br/>
Then, as the quartet tramps off toward the barn, you realize you still need to get Charles alone.<br/>
<br/>
And then you remember something else you might need. "Hang on!" you call.<br/>
<br/>
Inside the barn, you lead them to that big trunk.<br/>
<br/>
"I need this in the house," you tell them. "It's not real heavy, but—" You grab one of the handles. It's heavier than you would have guessed, but you can just about manage to get one end up. "Can I get one of you strapping boys to grab the other end and help me get this out to the garage?"<br/>
<br/>
The words are out of your mouth before you realize how open-ended you phrased your request. You could get any of them inside the house, alone. Charles is the most obvious one to ask, but you know that Zachary is also a fake, and Ethan might be one too. And what about Marius? You don't remember seeing him with Charles before—just as you never hung out wrestlers and lacrosse players before.<span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11111122221122111211211112211124
author_id: seuzz
id: N4PGD4QL8
title: The Marius Maskerade
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span><i>Dammit, Carol, stop thinking with your libido,</i> you chide yourself after pointing a sharp fingernail at Marius. <i>I know you've got hot pants for him, but— <br/>
<br/>
Dammit, man, just stop thinking like Carol!</i><br/>
<br/>
But Marius has already picked up the other end of the trunk, and with one brawny arm he lifts his end higher than you can manage with both your hands. The other boys watch with poker-faced interest as you struggle to help move the trunk out of the barn, but none of the assholes moves in to help.<br/>
<br/>
Across the back yard you lug the trunk: you tottering backward on your high heels, straining and panting; Marius, looking slightly bored and resentful, hefting his end like it's nothing. You dodge his hooded glance, hating the way it makes you feel. It's like being back in freshman P. E., or even in middle school, when the coach would pair you with someone bigger and stronger, and they had to resentfully keep pace with you at some exercise or other because the coach was watching, when clearly what they wanted to do was push your ass contemptuously to the floor. <br/>
<br/>
And what makes it even worse: Marius is making you horny. And you feel Carol's humiliation at knowing he would want nothing to do with her.<br/>
<br/>
Probably.<br/>
<br/>
<i>No, Carol,</i> you insist with gritted teeth. <i>He definitely wouldn't want anything to do with you, even if you do think of yourself as a MILF.</i><br/>
<br/>
Up the steps and onto the back porch you heft the trunk, and then through the back door and into the house, before you stop and insist on taking a rest. "You know," you pant, "I've just realized I don't think there's room for this thing in the garage. We're going to have to move one of the cars out. Would you mind—?"<br/>
<br/>
You gesture Marius to follow to the entry hall. "Here's the key to the Mercedes," you tell him as you pull a ring of keys off a hook on the wall. "Just back it out onto the driveway, would you? I need to get something from out of that crate first, anyway."<br/>
<br/>
On your way back through the house, Marius calls after, "Mrs. Whitney, I think there's plenty of room in the garage!" You shout back, "No, Marius, my husband needs that space for his Lexus!" He shouts something else, but you can't make out the words and ignore him. Besides, you need to get into the trunk, fast.<br/>
<br/>
It was a mistake, you now feel, getting Marius to help you. He's almost certainly not a fake. But you might be able to salvage the situation if you switch places with him. He attends St. Xavier, a painfully prestigious school west of town, along with Charles, where he's a prefect, and from behind his face you could probably get Charles alone. And it would get you out of Mrs. Whitney, who now has you completely discombobulated.<br/>
<br/>
The door to the third bay is up, and Marius has the Mercedes backed out into the driveway, when you get outside. Marius shuts the engine off as you are still running up, but you reach him in time to block him getting out. You gesture him to roll the window down. After a moment of confusion with the controls, he does.<br/>
<br/>
"I—" You start to say. But, you realize, there's no need to say anything. With him pinned behind the wheel of the car, he has nowhere to go and no way to block you. You strike at his forehead with the metal strip.<br/>
<br/>
And nothing happens. Or rather, nothing like you'd expect happens.<br/>
<br/>
The metal strip, instead of sinking beneath the skin and bone, rests on his forehead, making an unearthly sizzling noise. Marius's eyes go out of focus, and his jaw goes slack. He's not unconscious, though, and his jaw and lips continue to work, as do the muscles around his eyes as he tries to refocus. But his arms remain limp at his sides, and his head slips over.<br/>
<br/>
It would shock and horrify you, but you've seen this kind of thing before. You and Caleb did it to Robert one day, shortly after ... well, after Caleb stopped being Caleb. He was, characteristically, seized by a sense of scientific curiosity, and wondered aloud what would happen if you tried copying the memories of someone who was wearing a mask. You challenged him to try it. So together you went back to your place; Caleb ordered Robert to lay down on his bed; you put a metal strip onto him; and <i>this</i> is what happened.<br/>
<br/>
So, okay, at least you've confirmed that Marius Hall isn't Marius Hall anymore. But who is he? You tear the metal band off his forehead and—before he can recover—grip his face by the temples, mutter an incantation under your breath, and pull.<br/>
<br/>
A mask comes away in your hand, and Marius's head falls forward. You grab a fistful of his hair and lift his face for a look.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit,</i> you think. <i>This is going to be awkward every which way I cut it.</i><br/>
<br/>
Because you can't have one Zachary Holzer out front in the driveway when there's another at work in the barn out back.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At least you know he isn't one of the motherfuckers who trapped you, because you remember trapping Zachary and giving a mask of him to someone else. But what are you going to do with him?<br/>
<br/>
You glance around, to make sure you haven't been followed out by any of the other boys, then touch the controller button hanging off the sun visor to close the garage door. That done, you reach into the car and shake Zachary hard.<br/>
<br/>
And when he doesn't wake, you pinch his nose closed and hold his mouth shut.<br/>
<br/>
Just like you did to Stephanie Wyatt when you had to wake her in a hurry.<br/>
<br/>
He explodes in a coughing fit, and his eyes go in and out of focus. As he's recovering himself, you scramble around to the other side of the car and throw yourself into the passenger seat.<br/>
<br/>
"Mrs. Whitney?" Zachary gasps. His eyes bulge under eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement.<br/>
<br/>
"Turn the car on, Zachary," you order him. He stares at you. "Zachary." You glare. "Turn this fucking car on."<br/>
<br/>
He twists the key in the ignition, then shoots you a sharp, sidelong glance. "What did you call me?"<br/>
<br/>
"I called you 'Zachary,' Zachary," you hiss back. "That's your name, isn't it? Zachary?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ..." He turns pale, and his eyes wander inside his frozen expression.<br/>
<br/>
"Put the car in reverse, <i>Zachary,</i> and get us the fuck out of here. I want to talk to you."<br/>
<br/>
He remains frozen in his seat until with a jerk of his limbs he shifts the Mercedes into reverse, slowly backs out of the driveway, and turns the car around to follow the carriage lane out. You watch him closely, and don't miss the way he glances down at his clothes, or the way he surreptitiously examines his fingertips and hands.<br/>
<br/>
"Um ..." he says on reaching the main road.<br/>
<br/>
"Turn left. We're going to drive around the neighborhood before we go back home. We need to talk. How much of this afternoon do you remember?"<br/>
<br/>
"This afternoon?" He sounds like he's putting a bold face on his fright.<br/>
<br/>
"Since you got back to the house with Charles and his friends."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Um ..."<br/>
<br/>
"I offered to pay you and your friends— What did I offer, and to do what?"<br/>
<br/>
He turns a little green. Then he slowly says, "You were going to pay us two hundred dollars each to clean out your barn?"<br/>
<br/>
"Right." His answer is a relief. "And then I asked someone to help me move a trunk into the house. Who did I ask?"<br/>
<br/>
The blood vanishes from his lips. "Me?" he answers in a small voice.<br/>
<br/>
"What name did I call you, Zachary? Did I call you 'Zachary', or did I call you another name?"<br/>
<br/>
He shrinks up a little in his seat.<br/>
<br/>
"Whose clothes are you wearing, Zachary?" you demand.<br/>
<br/>
He shrinks up even further.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh," you say, and brandish the mask in his face. "Do you know what this is?" He bites his lip and shakes his head. "There's a little park up ahead on the left. We're going to stop there and have a talk."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
His story is rather different from yours. So he remembers being Zachary Holzer, remembers everything about his life, all the way back to being a kid. But at the same time he remembers being Marius Hall, a student at St. Xavier's, and can remember all of Marius's life back to being a kid. And he remembers both these lives so well that even now, he admits in some little fright, he's not totally sure if he's Zachary Holzer dreaming that he's Marius Hall, or if he's Marius Hall dreaming he's now Zachary Holzer.<br/>
<br/>
There is one difference between these memory sets, though. He can only remember Zachary's life up until the week before Thanksgiving, when Jenna Greeley, this hot girl from his school, invited him to hang out after school. They wound up at Sean Mitchell's house, and Jenna started flirting with him, but then ... Well, he's not sure what happened. All he knows is that he doesn't remember anything of his "Zachary life" after that, only his "Marius life."<br/>
<br/>
But something weird did happen this morning. He was just finishing his morning classes when he got dizzy all of a sudden and almost fainted. When he recovered he had this feeling of vertigo. "Like," he confesses, "I suddenly didn't know who I was. I mean, I was Marius Hall. But I could also swear I was— That, like, a long time ago, I was ... Zachary Holzer." Before that moment, it had never occurred to him that he might have had another life.<br/>
<br/>
So it was a real out-of-body experience when he drove into town to meet Charles Whitney, and found Zachary Holzer waiting with him.<span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111111222211221112112111122111242
author_id: seuzz
id: CM5SL4X27
title: Allies in Disguise
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>"Why did you come into town to meet Charles?" you ask Zachary—who until a little while ago was walking around with Marius Hall's face.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno," he admits. "It was something to do? We'd been hanging out a lot lately. Since—" The furrow in his brow deepens. "Since right before Christmas. I even—" He swallows. "I even cancelled my flight back home to stay in town so we could hang out more together." HIs gaze goes distant.<br/>
<br/>
"You mean Marius did," you correct him.<br/>
<br/>
The glance he turns on you is more than a little spiteful.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know who I am," he growls. But then his expression slowly slackens. "No, I know who I am. It's just like I was—" He sighs. "It's like I was dreaming I was Marius. And it's starting to go away now.<br/>
<br/>
Then he turns to glare at you. "How do you know all this, Mrs. Whitney?" he demands. "What's going on?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's going on," you tell him, "is that someone is using magic—real, honest to God, black magic out of an old book—to copy people and replace them with ... with I don't know what. And I don't know who it is for sure doing it"—though you've got some solid suspicions by this point—"but they're also using it to ... to <i>impersonate</i> people. To pretend they're them. I don't know what they're up to"—You feel your mouth settle into a grim, haggard line—"But they did it to my whole family."<br/>
<br/>
His eyes widen. "To Charles? And your husband?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not Mrs. Whitney," you snap at him. "I'm ... well ..."<br/>
<br/>
But you're reluctant to tell him who you are, because ...<br/>
<br/>
Well, the fact is that you don't much like Zachary Holzer. Which is strange because you don't know him, save from Carol's memories of him. But the impression you have of him, from back on that day that you and Sean (or whoever was pretending to be Sean that day) slapped a mask onto him, is that he's a smug asshole, immensely pleased with himself, and more than a bit of a jerk and bully.<br/>
<br/>
Carol's got her own angle on him, of course, knowing him through Charles, but her impression rhymes with yours. She never liked Zachary or Ethan and didn't like that Charles hung out with them. They seemed like the worst kind of influence. They come from good homes—Carol knows the Holzers and the Gilkey's socially, of course, though she has little to do with them—and they take Advanced Placement classes at Eastman High and even go out for sports. But there's something sleazy about them. Low-class boys would drink and smoke pot and make out with skanky girls, and there'd be some excuse. There's no excuse for Zachary and Ethan to do the same, except that they're spoiled, and Carol always had the feeling that they were leading Charles into becoming the same kind of boy.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just someone like you," you finally tell him. "What they did to you, they did to me. Only <i>this</i>"—you gesture vaguely at your bosom—"is what they did to me."<br/>
<br/>
Zachary glances down at your bosom. A thought passes behind his eyes. A whole train of them, it looks like. But he keeps his expression neutral, so whether his thoughts are lustful, appreciative, resentful, amused, or sympathetic, you can't tell. But you do know that you didn't enjoy the glance.<br/>
<br/>
"Look," you tell him. "When I called you out to the garage to move that trunk, did you—? Did you <i>know</i> who you were? That you were ... Zachary? But you had to pretend to be Marius?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he sighs. "I guess I did. I didn't know what was going on, but ... yeah," he lamely concludes. "I was just going along with it."<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos we can't go back to the house with you looking like, um, this." You point to him. "So—"<br/>
<br/>
The mask in your lap—the mask of Marius Hall—suddenly feels very heavy, and hot when you pick it up. "I think you need to put this back on. I just ... I just don't want you ... forgetting ... this talk we had."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, that makes sense," he says after a moment's hesitation. He puts out his hand, but it's only with some reluctance that you give the mask over. He contemplates the inner surface, where the name MARIUS MICHAEL HALL floats above the surface in glowing blue letters.<br/>
<br/>
He looks at you sidelong. "How does it work?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. Unless you mean— Well, you put it on your face."<br/>
<br/>
He holds your eye, looks back down into the mask, then gives you another sidelong look. This time there's just the faintest smirk inside it. Then, after taking a breath, he lifts the mask and gently pushes it onto his face.<br/>
<br/>
His hands fall into his lap. Marius Hall's head sags to one side, and he snores.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Okay," you tell him as he pulls the purring Mercedes back into the driveway, "if anyone asks, we went to the hardware store to get some rope for that trunk."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you want us to wait for you to call?" Marius asks. "After you've talked to ... Charles?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. Or, I'll text you when I've got the mask off him, or you can text me after you've got the masks off the other guys." You showed him how to do that, because he didn't know. "What's your number?" (And despite yourself, you get a girlish thrill as you tap Marius's contact info into your phone.) "Don't take too long before calling me."<br/>
<br/>
Ethan Gilkey, who is somehow less repulsive than Zachary Holzer despite being more slithery, gives you and Marius a silent, slit-eyed glance as he passes you in the backyard, heading the other way with a plastic garbage can. The hay bales have been hauled out and set by an outer wall, and the dirt on the inside has been swept free of litter and stray bits of straw. Charles and Zachary, each with a broom, are poking the corners free of cobwebs. You study the scene with your hands on your hips.<br/>
<br/>
"Well," you sigh after a long perusal. "It doesn't clean up real nice, does it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I could'a told you," Charles mutters.<br/>
<br/>
You ignore him.. "Oh, the wood's in <i>terrible</i> shape!" you groan. "I think we're just going to have to pull it down."<br/>
<br/>
Out of the corner of your eye, though, you are watching Marius and Zachary. The former is standing in the middle of the barn with his hands on his hips, squinting as he looks about, examining the structure. There is, it seems to you, something ostentatious about the way he doesn't even glance in the direction of the fake Zachary. And though it might be your imagination, it seems to you that the latter too is studiously ignoring Marius.<br/>
<br/>
"So, are we done here?" Charles asks in a dead-voiced tone.<br/>
<br/>
"Hm? Oh, sure. No need to keep wasting your time on this. What?" you ask as he continues to stare at you with a hooded resentment.<br/>
<br/>
"We're getting paid, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Right. Let me get my purse." As you turn to return to the house, you hear Marius mutter something to Charles. Zachary, after giving a corner of the barn one last brush with the broom, turns to follow them and you out. <br/>
<br/>
"I've only got four hundred on me," you have to confess after you've dug through your purse and pulled out two hundreds, three fifties, and some tens and fives. "Tell you what, I'll give Charles my debit card and he can get the rest for you and for him. Thanks so much for ... well, for what you did!"<br/>
<br/>
Marius, who took the money from you, nudges Ethan and mutters something, and the three turn to leave. Charles turns to follow, but you ask him to stay. "I need to give you my card."<br/>
<br/>
"That's okay," he says, "We'll stop by a machine so I can pay ... um ... whoever got shortchanged here. You can pay me back later." He can say this because he's got his own bank account and debit card.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I need to talk to you now, sweetheart." When he just stares at you, you improvise: "I was talking to Aidan Seabury, you know? Of the arts council? And he has a job lined up for you that I want to talk to you about."<br/>
<br/>
"Now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, now! Your friends drove up separately, I know because there's an extra car in the driveway. You can catch up to them in thirty minutes or so."<br/>
<br/>
He sighs theatrically, and casts a dark, resigned glance at Marius and the others. They grin wanly back at him before shuffling off toward the door. After they're gone, Charles turns to you.<br/>
<br/>
"Mom," he says in a very steady but resentful tone. "I don't want to work at a fucking museum."<br/>
<br/>
You gasp. "Don't you use language like that with me!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to work at a fucking museum," he repeats in a deeper growl, "and I'm calling it a <i>fucking museum</i> so you know how <i>fucking much</i> I don't—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Sit down so we can discuss it!"</i><br/>
<br/>
His upper lip curls back to show a canine, and he crosses his arms. But after glowering at you for a moment, he throws himself backwards onto the sofa with a hard glare on his face.<br/>
<br/>
"You wouldn't be working at the <i>museum,</i> Charles," you tell him in a hard voice of your own. "You'd be— Hang on and let me get my phone out of the car." You march off to the garage.<br/>
<br/>
And when you get back you have not just the phone but also the metal strip you used on Marius. Charles is hunched on the sofa as you approach him from behind. Only at the last moment does he turn his head slightly. But he still doesn't see you before you've reached around to push the strip onto his forehead.<br/>
<br/>
As with Marius, it burns on his face. You peel it off, then bend to remove the mask, revealing the person beneath.<br/>
<br/>
It's your brother. Robert.<span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111112222112211121121111221112422
author_id: seuzz
id: U9Y7BWVGF
title: Who Are Those Masked Men?
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span><i>Shit shit shit!</i> you mutter to yourself as you stare down at Robert, who is slumped unconscious in the Whitney's living room, wearing Charles Whitney's clothes. You bite on a thumbnail with worry.<br/>
<br/>
Your brother is the last person you expected to discover under Charles's mask. And who were you expecting? Ethan, probably. Or Marius. Even Erik Carstairs would make more sense.<br/>
<br/>
Why would Robert be under Charles's mask? There's only two reasons. Either someone put him under a mask of Charles Whitney, the way they put Zachary Holzer under Marius Hall's. Or he put himself under the mask. The first doesn't make sense—Robert and Charles have no connection to each other. As for the second ...<br/>
<br/>
<i>Don't be paranoid,</i> you tell yourself firmly.<br/>
<br/>
You could wake him and ask him, but after a moment's frantic thought you decide to approach things at an angle. He don't want him freaking out by finding himself re-transformed back into himself suddenly. And he'd really freak out if he had to talk to "Mrs. Whitney" about this stuff. (And it would be fucking awkward for both of you.)<br/>
<br/>
So you push Charles's mask gently back onto his face.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes pop open even as you're straightening up. "The fu—?" he starts to say, and rears back to glare at you from under a hooded brow.<br/>
<br/>
That's a surprise: It took Zachary a couple of minutes to wake up when he put Marius's mask back on. But you soldier on with your plan.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, Charles," you tell him. "You don't have to take the arts council job if you don't want to." He blinks, like he doesn't know what you're talking about. "Okay?"<br/>
<br/>
His eyes dart about. "Okay. Are we done here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, there's one more possibility for you." You pause to congratulate yourself on the cleverness of your idea. "You could take a job at Salopek."<br/>
<br/>
You are watching him closely, but he doesn't react, except to ask, "What's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Salopek Aerospace. You know."<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't twitch a muscle; only a slight fog of puzzlement enters his eyes. "No," he says, "I don't know."<br/>
<br/>
"They're an aerospace company. Local. They do stuff with the base."<br/>
<br/>
"If you say so," he mutters.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, what would you say to a job there?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. Why are you trying to get me a job?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you don't want a job working at Taco Bell!"<br/>
<br/>
"What do I want a—? This isn't about my <i>allowance</i>, is it?" He is starting to look both baffled and angry.<br/>
<br/>
"It's about your applications! You wanted to take a year off before starting college. Well, you should take a job that will—"<br/>
<br/>
"Can't you let me pick?" His voice is almost a shout. "Besides, I was talking about going to Amsterdam with—!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just trying to—! Look, you know the Prescotts, right?"<br/>
<br/>
He blinks like you've just thumped him between the eyes. "The Prescotts," you repeat. He shrugs and rolls his eyes. "Harris and Martha Prescott? Their <i>sons?</i> Will and Robert?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mom, I told you, I was talking about going back to Amsterdam with Jared van Camp and—"<br/>
<br/>
"The Prescotts, Charles!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"What about them?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"You know them!"<br/>
<br/>
He throws his hands out. "So what? Who are they? I don't know who you mean!"<br/>
<br/>
You stare at him. He stares back at you with an expression of haggard incomprehension. If Robert is acting, it's a damn persuasive act.<br/>
<br/>
You surrender. "Well," you sigh, "maybe one of us confused."<br/>
<br/>
"I guess so." He bounces to his feet. "Can I go now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fine. Yes," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
He practically runs from the room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After Charles leaves, you text Marius's number: <i>Charles gone probly on way to see u. But theres problem he is still acting like Charles.</i> Marius—Zachary—asks if you got the mask off him. After chewing over several possible answers, you put him off with, <i>Its complicated think u should just avoid him.</i> That elicits a line of question marks, which you ignore.<br/>
<br/>
But he isn't done, and texts a minute later to say that he has got the mask off Ethan Gilkey and found Charles underneath. And Zachary Holzer? <i>He got text had go home.</i><br/>
<br/>
But after that there's only silence. Even after you poke him to ask what is going on, he doesn't answer.<br/>
<br/>
It leaves you anxious and distracted. Almost without noticing what you're doing, you take out Carol's cell phone and begin going through her social media.<br/>
<br/>
Well, she's got quite a lot to go through, honestly. Besides Facebook and other places that her friends post updates on, there are all of the celebrities that she likes to follow, and podcasts on contemporary events. (She's a whore for news about the British royal family.) Even though you feel as anxious as ever as you scroll through posts from Virginia about the remodeling job they're doing on the dining room, and dip into podcast interviews about Charles and William and Harry, you lose track of the time. So you don't realize how late it's gotten until the door from the garage slams shut and Michael walks in.<br/>
<br/>
That's Michael Whitney, Carol's husband.<br/>
<br/>
He was a handsome man at twenty-five, when they married. Slim, as a fanatical bicyclist should be, with a full head of dark hair that settled on his head like ravens' wings; and an aquiline nose. Now that he's in his late forties, he's lost most of his hair, acquired a paunch without gaining any mass anywhere else, and his nose makes her think of a greyhound—which she has always thought were ugly dogs.<br/>
<br/>
At least he's got a lot more money than when they married. He's a managing partner in a real estate trust company that owns big chunks of downtown Saratoga Falls. In fact, he's the brains of the operation, and collects a share of the profits well above his nominal share of its capital.<br/>
<br/>
"What's that thing in the middle of the garage?" he demands. (And he doesn't look at you, he just squints peevishly at everything else in the room.)<br/>
<br/>
"What thing?" you grunt back.<br/>
<br/>
"That old trunk. I couldn't put my Lexus away."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Crap!</i> You forgot all about the trunk. Michael asks, "Where's Charles?" as you start to get up.<br/>
<br/>
"Out with friends," you snap at him.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, is that thing his? What's it doing in the middle of the—?"<br/>
<br/>
"It was in the barn." You charge past him.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, what's it doing out of the barn?"<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes and put him out of your mind. You won't be able to lug it back to the barn, but you will be able to slide it out of the way. Maybe out the side door and onto the side patio, where Michael will forget about it and not go snooping through it.<br/>
<br/>
You as you bend to grab a handle, you pause. Your parents were replaced. Could Charles's parents have been replaced as well? Well, not Carol, of course. But Michael?<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head. That's ridiculous. Why would someone impersonate Michael Whitney but not Carol? She's ten times more attractive than he is!<br/>
<br/>
Still, you decide, better safe than sorry. The book, at least, you should move from the trunk to someplace else in the house. Too many people know where it's being kept.<br/>
<br/>
But when you open the lid, you find the book is gone.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At least Michael didn't come looking for you before you had a chance to recover from your panic attack. Even now, after you've caught your breath, you are shaking all over. <i>Where the fuck did it go?</i><br/>
<br/>
You start by making a discreet search of the house, pretending (when Michael asks) that you're looking for your cell phone. Then you look back in the barn. You even look in the Mercedes, though you knew it wouldn't be there.<br/>
<br/>
<i>It can't have walked out by itself,</i> you tell yourself. That leaves only one grim alternative: Someone else walked out with it.<br/>
<br/>
Who?<br/>
<br/>
Could have been anyone: Zachary (either the real one or the fake), leaving with Charles's friends. Charles—the fake with Robert under the mask. Hell, Michael could have snagged it while coming inside and hidden it somewhere in the garage.<br/>
<br/>
You toy with texting Charles, to tell him to come home so you can directly confront and question him. But instead—because you realize how long it's been since you've talked to him—you text the guy at Marius Hall's number to ask for an update.<br/>
<br/>
He answers a quarter of an hour later, asking you to meet him.<br/>
<br/>
The bizarre thing is, the address he gives you is in Acheson. The home of Harris and Martha Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You considered refusing, and asking him to come back out to the Whitney's. But Michael is home now. Also, it might look weird if you refused to go out to meet him. And maybe, if he has found your real house, Zachary has gotten to the bottom of the business.<br/>
<br/>
You put your head into Michael's study long enough to tell him that you have to go out. He replies with a soft snort.<br/>
<br/>
It's nearly six when you pull up in front of your house. You were here just this morning, in your own face, but it feels like ages since then.<br/>
<br/>
It also feels like you've never been out here before. (Thanks, Carol!)<br/>
<br/>
There's a couple of cars out front, but none of which you recognize. Almost you turn around and sneak away. But curiosity (and hope!) get the better of you, and you totter up the front walk to ring the doorbell.<br/>
<br/>
Your dad answers, which gives you a start. "Come on in," he says with a smile, as though expecting you. Your heart is in your throat as you enter.<br/>
<br/>
He grabs you from behind and hustles you into the living room. There, he holds you fast in front of a small inquisition seated on the sofa: Marius Hall, two editions of Charles Whitney, Scott Bickelmeier (a jock from Westside).<br/>
<br/>
And, sitting the middle, is your own brother.<br/>
<br/>
Robert has the book in his lap, and he peers insolently down his nose at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Bruh," he says. "The fuck have you been up to?"<span class="cpohbcpohbMK"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111112
author_id: seuzz
title: Making People the New Fashioned Way
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You might as well be methodical about these things, and experiment with all the possible variations before advancing to the next stage. You are not normally this careful—that potato gun you built, and the time you disassembled your own bicycle, are proof of that—but this kind of stuff strikes you as being very dangerous. You'd like to master each aspect of a spell before proceeding to the next stage.<br/>
<br/>
You're also made cautious by the obvious dangers of being caught in an impersonation. Suppose you sealed this mask, with your image in it, and Robert or one of your friends got into it. They could cause a lot of confusion and mischief for you. And if you made a mask that contained their image? What would happen if you got caught strutting around in disguise as them? No, the best thing to do, if you're to make some kind of disguise, is to make it a disguise that isn't of anyone in particular, and that means mixing images inside a mask.<br/>
<br/>
You give some little thought to making up a new mask, and mixing up people's faces inside it while saving this one that you've made of yourself. But then you reflect that there's not much point in having a mask of yourself on hand, for what's the point of disguising yourself <i>as</i> yourself? And you're not going to let anyone else disguise themselves as you!<br/>
<br/>
Besides, you remember what a chore it was making this mask, and don't want to make another so soon.<br/>
<br/>
No, it's best to obliterate the image of yourself by mixing it with someone else. But who?<br/>
<br/>
Robert is an obvious candidate, but that would probably result in a face too much like your own. One of your friends? How would you convince them to put the mask on?<br/>
<br/>
Your cousin Umeko? That gives you a shiver of transgressive pleasure, but it also fills you with worry. What would happen if you mix male and female forms in this thing? <br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1111123
author_id: seuzz
title: The Mash Up
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Umeko's musical performance in church the next day is quite lovely, despite the quasi-melodic shrieking from Mrs. Duncan that she was supposed to be accompanying. Afterward, you lavish her with praise, ending with a semi-desperate invitation that she join your family for lunch. <br/>
<br/>
She twinkles at you. "Is that okay with your folks?" You shrug helplessly. "Let's ask your mother."<br/>
<br/>
Luckily, your mom is delighted to have Umeko over, and lunch is very nice, even if it means your guest will be getting the leftovers that you and Robert would normally divide between you for supper. For his part, Robert tries monopolizing the conversation by reliving the movie he saw with her, but you indulge him.<br/>
<br/>
When the meal is over, Umeko suggests taking a walk, but you tell her you've got something in your room that you'd like to show her. You wince a little as you lead her into your bedroom: you'd forgotten to straighten things up, but she only looks amused. "You need to work a little more on your line if you're going to get a girl up here," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Usually you offer something like 'etchings' as an excuse."<br/>
<br/>
You blush. "Actually, it is something of an arts and crafts project." You hold up the mask.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, that's lovely," she says, and you wish you could take more credit for it. It is a beautiful thing, though: a light, glowing blue in color, with the curves and bulges of a forehead, nose, cheeks, lips and chin. Only the absence of eyeholes keeps it from looking like a classic mask.<br/>
<br/>
Umeko takes it from your hand. "I had no idea you had such skill. Is this your first try?"<br/>
<br/>
"More or less."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's amazing." She frowns in astonishment. "It even looks like it has a reflection in it, like another face."<br/>
<br/>
You turn a little pale; there's no way you could explain the fact that it reflects your own face and form if she should happen to recognize that that is what it is. So you gingerly pull it from her grasp. "Yeah, kind of," you say lamely. "I wish I could take credit for that, but I think it's just a trick of the light."<br/>
<br/>
"You need to make another one," she enthuses. "Or even try making a bust or something. You really have been able to capture the shape of a face."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I dunno," you reply. "I was actually making this for Halloween. You know, kind of like a homemade <i>Scream</i> mask? But I couldn't get the mouth right. Kinda ironic, huh?" You turn it over. "I still need to punch out the eyeholes, but right now I'm not sure I've got the inside shaped so that it will fit on someone's face. Here, tell me what you think."<br/>
<br/>
You hold it up; she takes it from you and presses to her face. It vanishes. You hold your breath, not certain what will happen.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment she is very still, but then her arms drop limply to her sides. She wavers, and you catch her as she sinks to the side; you lay her gently on the bed. You remember that you fell asleep when you put it to your own face—probably it's an aspect of the spell to keep a victim quiet while the mask absorbs their form—but you had no idea that the thing would disappear. You watch closely to see what comes next.<br/>
<br/>
Long minutes pass, and Umeko's eyes remain open but vacant, and she breathes slowly and shallowly. You greatly fear that you have misunderstood the spell, or done something wrong. What if you can't get the mask back? Worse, what if it kills her, or puts her into a coma? You shut the door softly and frantically begin reading over the spell again, trying to do the translation in your head. <br/>
<br/>
For ten nerve-wracking minutes this continues, and before it is over you've begun trying to frame a story to explain Umeko's sudden loss of consciousness. Then out of the corner of your eye you see a glow emerge from her face, and the mask reappears on her brow.<br/>
<br/>
Carefully you pick it up and examine it. The silvery reflection inside its outer surface has altered, so that it no longer looks like you, but you can't really tell who or what it now looks like. Otherwise, it seems unchanged. Umeko is still breathing softly, but it seems to be the breathing of someone in a light sleep; her eyes are now closed.<br/>
<br/>
You put the mask aside and hasten downstairs to get a glass of water. Back in your bedroom, you rub her hands and wrists, which are very cold. With a groan she blinks her eyes open and looks around. <br/>
<br/>
"Are you okay?" you ask, holding out the water.<br/>
<br/>
"I think so. What—? Did I faint?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think so. The mask must have cut off your oxygen or something. I thought I felt a little light-headed when I tried it on, but I didn't think anything of it at the time."<br/>
<br/>
She sits up and drinks down the water. "Well, you need to do something about that," she says lightly when she's done. "Otherwise it's a nice mask."</span></div></div>


path: 11111231
author_id: seuzz
title: The Offspring of Two Cousins
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>After Umeko has gone home, you take up the mask again. You could try adding a third person to its image, now that you know how it works, but you decide you'd rather see what a single "meld" of two people will do.<br/>
<br/>
The spell to "seal" the mask is fairly straightforward, and you have all the ingredients on hand, so you move your furniture around again and set up to mix them. The result isn't as acrid and explosive as the earlier mix—and it doesn't draw your father up to investigate, either. With a brush you apply the resulting, paint-like mixture to the mask's inner surface, where it hardens almost instantly. You're relieved that no more "polishing" is required.<br/>
<br/>
There shouldn't be any danger in trying the mask out on yourself—unless, of course, you've screwed up somewhere—but you double and triple and quadruple check the spells again just to be safe. It says that there is a special word and gesture you have to perform to remove the mask, but it is frustratingly vague on what exactly will happen when you press it to your own face. So there seems nothing to do but try it on.<br/>
<br/>
Again, you take off all your clothes—after locking your door—and lay back on your bed and lower the mask onto your face. It feels very heavy, then with a rush that causes you to gasp, you feel it sinking into your face. You try to raise your arms, but they are locked; your jaw and neck are similarly frozen. You are very dizzy, and something seems to be pressing onto and then into you. You have a sensation of falling, and everything goes black ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You sit up with a start. Your heart is hammering in your chest, and your fists are clenched. Did someone call your name? You listen. No, all is still. Light is pouring in through the window, and a glance at the clock shows that six or so minutes have passed. When you put the mask on—<br/>
<br/>
<i>The mask!</i> You mixed a male and female image inside it, out of a perverse desire to know what would happen. What has it done to you?<br/>
<br/>
With infinite trepidation you reach down without looking. Coarse hair, short and curly; something bulbous; and ... With great relief you find that you still have a penis.<br/>
<br/>
Then—such is your perversity—you regret finding a cock there and not something more ... feminine.<br/>
<br/>
Well, whatever. You examine it curiously, tugging and stretching it out. It might be a <i>little</i> shorter than you remember, but maybe that's just male pride and worry talking. Your pubic hair also seems a little shorter and less dense. Again, that might just be imagination. Has the mask done <i>anything</i> to you? You start looking yourself over.<br/>
<br/>
Your skin is duskier, and shows no evidence of tan lines, which suggests a general change in complexion. Your chest doesn't show any evidence of having developed boobs—or anything else, for that matter, still being flat and undeveloped. But wait ... You don't have chest hair any more. In fact, your arms and legs are also smooth, with only a few light hairs on the back of your calves to go with that in your pubic regions. Your hands don't look very feminine, though your fingers do seem to be a bit longer. As you raise your head you feel something flop back onto the base of your neck, and you reach back to clutch a handful of hair. More strands fall into your face.<br/>
<br/>
Well, that seems like more of a classic "meld": your own hair is long enough to fall and curl over your ears and the back of your neck, while Umeko's falls past her shoulders. This hair feels like something between what you and she sport. You clamber out of bed and go on your closet door, which has a mirror hanging on its inner side.<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw drops when you see yourself.<br/>
<br/>
The face that looks back out at you is completely alien; only dimly can you see anything that might resemble the original you and the original Umeko. It is neither Caucasian nor Asian; if anything it looks vaguely Amerind in shape and feature. You've acquired cheekbones, for instance, and your eyes have a slightly almond-shaped cast to them; and they are a strikingly violet color. Your nose has shrunk (in fact your entire face is slightly flattened) and your cheeks are framed by long, auburn-reddish locks—again, a kind of "meld" of Umeko's very dark hair and your own dirty blonde. The hairs are coarse and rather stiff, and are long enough in the back to be pulled into a ponytail. <br/>
<br/>
No one who saw you would possibly recognize you.<br/>
<br/>
Which reminds you that you need to get the darn mask off before someone comes looking for you.<br/>
<br/>
You put the index and middle fingers of your right hand against your left temple, and brace your thumb against your  nose. There is a short phrase you have to mutter three times—some Latin-sounding doggerel that doesn't seem to translate into anything—and then you tug with your fingers. At first nothing happens; you are only pulling at skin and bone. But then you feel something seem to rip away from your face. Your knees buckle and you collapse onto the floor.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are again very stiff when you raise up some minutes later; you'll have to remember to lay down in the future when you put on or take off one of these masks. But a glance in the mirror shows you restored to your normal form, and the mask itself is by your feet. You get dressed, then sit down to ponder what to do next.<br/>
<br/>
This new form you've created: Well, he's not Asian, exactly, but he's far more Asian-looking that you yourself are, and he's quite handsome if you say so yourself. (But that's gotta be mostly due to Umeko's contribution.) You can't go to school as him, but maybe if you arranged to be in a public place, you could use this new disguise to catch Lisa's attention. <br/>
<br/>
Or maybe the attention of some other girl.</span></div></div>


path: 111112311
author_id: seuzz
title: The Whole New You
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I'm gonna go hang out with Caleb!" you holler as you pass through the living room for the garage.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to shout," your dad growls from the sofa, where he's curled up. "You gonna be back in time for school tomorrow?"<br/>
<br/>
The question staggers you. "Uh ..."<br/>
<br/>
But when your dad raises his head to glare at you, you quickly turn that drone into a "Yeah!" With a snort, your dad puts his head back down.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Maybe I </i>shouldn't<i> have diddled with the mask by putting Umeko in it,</i> you think as you run for the garage. <i>I could'a g0t someone to cover for me at home while I stayed out all night!<br/>
<br/>
Oh, but who would want to cover for me?</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You drive around, looking for a quiet spot where you can change into the mask, and finally find one in the parking lot behind a shopping strip. You are stiff all over and your face feels funny as you pry yourself out of the passenger-side footwell, where you hunkered down out of sight to put the mask on. Anxiously, you twist the rearview mirror around and look into it. The face you saw in your bedroom blinks back at you. Gingerly you touch and pull at it, then give it a good, hard rub. It feels completely natural.<br/>
<br/>
<i>I'm someone else!</i> you keep telling yourself as you drive slowly around town. You have to keep repeating it because you don't feel any different. Only when you brush back your hair—you've discarded the sloppy white ball cap you usually sport; your hair feels too thick and bushy to be tamped down under it—are you reminded that you don't look like yourself.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Maybe if I got some new clothes,</i> you think, <i>that would make me feel like I'm someone new.</i> But your money is back at your house. Still, there's nothing to stop you from going shopping and trying stuff on. You could find some new clothes, then come back later to buy and pick them up.<br/>
<br/>
So you drive up to Northgate Place, a giant complex of strip centers by the mall. There's a number of clothing stores there, including Old Navy. You've never liked shopping for clothes before, but you feel a hard pulse of excitement now.<br/>
<br/>
A scent of soft fabrics envelopes you as you step inside, and you flare your nostrils. <i>What should I start with?</i> you wonder. <i>Shirts? Pants? Shoes?</i> You instinctively swing toward the jeans department, then wheel away at the last moment. <i>Why am I buying something I already own?</i> you chide yourself. The shorts you're wearing fit your new frame fine, so the jeans you own should too. By the same token, you shouldn't be looking at new shorts or slacks. <br/>
<br/>
Unless— <br/>
<br/>
You move over to where they keep the trousers. All your pants are a boring beige or tan. What about a wilder color? Something in ... green? gray? You roll your eyes at your own timidity, but the pink-orange trousers that catch your eye seem a bit much.<br/>
<br/>
What about tops? Again, habit pulls you over to rack after rack of t-shirts before you remember that you should be looking for something different, something to make you feel like you're a different person. But how far to go? What would look good on you? Again, a sense of timidity tugs you back toward the racks of sloppy t-shirts like you're already wearing.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What if someone sees me and laughs?</i> That's the thought that keeps beating at the bottom of your brain as you look through the racks, and it's not until it's beaten its way to the very front do you stop to consider how ridiculous it is. <i>So what if they laugh?</i> you remind yourself. <i>They won't be laughing at me. They'll be laughing at the guy I look like. And when I see them again at school, they won't point me out to their friends and say, </i>You won't believe what I saw that asshole wearing the other day.<i> They'll just walk right on by. Because they won't </i>see<i> the guy they were laughing at.</i><br/>
<br/>
Still, you can't keep yourself from shaking a little as you take a white-and-black checkerboard hoodie, a gray v-neck t-shirt, and those pink-orange pants you spotted earlier back to the changing rooms to try on.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are holding up and examining a pair of distressed overalls—and are almost giddy with amazement at the courage you're showing by doing so—when you hear girlish giggles nearby. Instinctively you flinch and almost drop the overalls. But then you catch yourself: <i>They don't know it's me,</i> you remind yourself, and look around.<br/>
<br/>
There's five of them, a couple of racks over, at the edge of one of the girls' sections. They don't seem to be paying attention to you, and it's not you but one of the outfits that they're laughing over.<br/>
<br/>
You're still staring when one of them raises her eyes and locks onto yours. For a moment you stare at each other. Then she looks away.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart is hammering in your chest as you turn to put the overalls back. You move crab-wise to another rack, so that you keep half-turned toward the girls. You don't look at them, though. Instead, you catch your own reflection in a nearby mirror.<br/>
<br/>
<i>That's what they see,</i> you remind yourself. <i>Hot Euro-Asian guy.</i> (You are hot, aren't you?) <i>Guy they don't know but maybe wouldn't mind getting to know? 'Cos there probably aren't a lot of guys out there who look like me?</i><br/>
<br/>
Then you catch sight of your clothes. <i>Fuck.</i> Why do you have to be dressed out in a boring burgundy t-shirt, cargo shorts, and sneakers? You need to be dressed out in ... Well, in distressed overalls. Otherwise they're gonna think you are what you are. <i>Just another dorky boy timidly thinking about changing his image.</i><br/>
<br/>
You're still trying to psyche yourself up when the girls' voices are raised again in laughter. You look up and do a small double take. A short, grinning red-head—Cassie Harper—has joined them.<br/>
<br/>
You've known Cassie forever, and you've got her this semester in one of your classes. She's a chatterbox who talks a mile a minute while hardly ever saying anything interesting, but she's sweet and friendly and surprisingly easy to tolerate so long as you know you won't be stuck in an elevator or on a road trip with her. She's talking now, but only half the girls are paying any attention to her. Not that she seems to mind, so long as some of the girls are an audience.<br/>
<br/>
And even though she can't recognize you, her appearance now gives you the courage to approach the girls. <br/>
<br/>
"Hey," you say, and your heart thumps hard when half a dozen bright, querying faces swing in your direction. "This is gonna sound like a weird question, but do you all know any good places in town to go, uh, clothes shopping at?" You feel a prickling sweat break out on the back of your head.<br/>
<br/>
They stare at you, then break into giggles as they exchange glances. "You're standing in one," says a brunette girl you know but whose name you can't quite place.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I know that!" You hope your grin looks like a laugh and not the rictus of pants-soiling terror it really is. "But I mean, like, not as, uh, boring? I'm new in town," you hastily add as the lie just pops into your head. "I just moved here. My family just moved here," you stammer. "So I don't know, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
More giggles and exchanged glances. "Well, there's Nirdlinger's downtown," says one girl. "The Shoppes next door if you can afford them," says another. "What's wrong with boring?" challenges an impudent third, while a fourth says, "Where'd you move here from?"<br/>
<br/>
"California," you improvise. Well, it's far away, and it sounds fairly exotic compard to Saratoga Falls. "San Diego."<br/>
<br/>
"Ooh!" says one of the girls, and the others look impressed as well. "What school are you going to?" asks another, and a third adds, "How long've you been in town?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>School? Shit!</i> You can't answer that! "Uh, none. Yet. I mean, we— I think I'm being homeschooled. This year only, though, I mean. But I'd be a senior if I, uh—" You break out in an itch as they all look puzzled. <i>Too many lies!</i> "It's complicated," you lamely conclude.<br/>
<br/>
One of the girls—the impudent one, who has long, dark-red hair—looks you up and down. But before she can say anything, the brunette elbows Cassie in the side and says, "Why don't you take him over to Thrifty Nifties. We could all go over there!"<br/>
<br/>
Cassie, it suddenly occurs to you, has been uncharacteristically silent all this time, and as you look at her, you find her giving you an intent, wide-eyed stare. For one horrible moment your gut says that she must have penetrated your disguise, and you have a terrible vision of her pointing and laughing and challenging you: <i>Will Prescott, take that ridiculous thing off right now! Who do you think you're trying to be?</i><br/>
<br/>
But then you realize—and this is almost worse—that maybe she just likes what she sees. So much so, she's lost her voice.<br/>
<br/>
Confirmation comes when the others take up the suggestion—"Yeah, take him to your place!" "Give him a discount!" "We'll all go!"—and she blushes hard.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Talking to girls</i> did not include <i>Talking to Cassie Harper</i> when you had the idea. And maybe you'd be doing Cassie a favor if you deflected the gang from whatever store it is they're talking about.</span></div></div>


path: 1111123111
author_id: seuzz
title: Clothing Makes the Man
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What's 'Thrifty Nifties'?" you ask, playing for time.<br/>
<br/>
"It's where Cassie works," says a girl. Another: "It's a second-hand clothes shop." "It's just around the corner from here."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you on a budget or something?" the impudent red-head asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I— I'm just looking right now. Uh, getting—"<br/>
<br/>
"You were looking at some overalls," says the girl whose eyes you locked onto earlier. "God, those are going to be, like, a hundred bucks here. Cassie, you've got some over at your place, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not <i>my</i> place," Cassie says. "I just work th—"<br/>
<br/>
"You can get him a discount too!" The brunette seizes your arm. "Come on!"<br/>
<br/>
Given that you only have, maybe, forty dollars to your name at the moment, the idea of paying cheap <i>and</i> getting a discount sounds too good to pass up, so you let the girls hustle you out into the parking lot and around the corner.<br/>
<br/>
"So what's your name?" one of the girls asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Will," you reply, without thinking. Your guts flop over when you realize what you just said. "Uh, Will Chang." <i>Shit!</i> you think with a jolt. <i>Is that even a real Chinese name? Or did I just fuck it up for good?</i><br/>
<br/>
"I like your hair, Will," says the brunette. She ruffles your unruly mop. "Do you color it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, no."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh God, that's <i>natural?</i> I only <i>love it!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"The girl who loves your hair is Melissa," says the impudent red-head. "I'm Mindy, and that's Cassie whose store we're taking you to." She pushes Cassie at you, and you get a hard spark of excitement as she bumps off you. "The rest of them—"<br/>
<br/>
Well, you'd have a hard time keeping them straight if you didn't have a passing familiarity with several. The very forward red-head is Mindy McAdams and her brunette sidekick is Melissa Adams. (<i>No relation,</i> you're informed when the surnames are eventually deployed.) Cassie, of course, is Cassie Harper. The other girls are Molly Shaw, Faith Becker, and Elle Moore.<br/>
<br/>
All this tumbles out, like spilled rags, as you're spilling out a lot of ragged clothes over the bins at Thrifty Nifties with them. It is, as you'd been informed, a vintage clothing store, and it smells like one: close, with a scent of clean fabrics that are turning musty through disuse. It's crowded with racks and barrels of old shirts and old jeans; cut-offs, cargo pants, camo pants, and ball caps; and lots and lots of dresses and blouses and skirts for the girls. Nothing is as cheap as you would like, but you're not given much of a chance to worry about prices as items are torn off their racks and held against your frame for inspection. Pretty soon, you are feeling like a life-size doll that a bunch of grown-up elementary school girls are playing dress-up with.<br/>
<br/>
You have to give them a story, though, about what you're looking for, and why. The last thing you want to admit is that the clothes you're wearing are the kind you usually wear, because you look too exotic for them (in your own opinion). So—<br/>
<br/>
"All my stuff burned up in a fire," you tell them. "We had a fire a few weeks back, just before we moved. Oh, it's all okay," you assure the girls when they cry out in dismay. "We saved all the important stuff, and we got insurance. So it's just, like, most of our clothes and some of our furniture that's got to be replaced."<br/>
<br/>
"So you want to get stuff like you used to have?" Mindy asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, maybe, maybe not."<br/>
<br/>
"What was your style?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kinda this, kinda that? This stuff like I got on," you hurriedly add, "is just sloppy, casual Saturday stuff. At school I—"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought you were homeschooled."<br/>
<br/>
"Only this year. And only 'cos it's my final year. Like, too much trouble going to school for only one year—"<br/>
<br/>
"Were you, like, an honors student?" "You play any sports?" "Oh, God, don't you wanna hang out with people?"<br/>
<br/>
You're glad of the last question—it seems like an easier one to fake your way through—until you actually blurt out an answer: "Sure, I'd love to hang out with you guys."<br/>
<br/>
Another <i>Oooh!</i> ripples through the crowd. "Sure, we can show you a good time." "What kind of things d'you like to do?" "Where do you live?"<br/>
<br/>
It's all way too frantic, and when they start tugging on you, pulling you from one rack to another, you start to feel like a chew toy that's fallen into a dog park. Finally, with a desperate laugh, you make it clear that you've got a deadline for getting home, and that you were just driving around window-shopping. You tell them, though, that you really want to meet up with them after school tomorrow, here at Thrifty Nifties, so you can collect and pay for the things that you pick out. That at least gets the girls back onto the subject of clothes, though you do have to fend off questions about your music and movie preferences. (But these are easy to answer, for you just answer as yourself.)<br/>
<br/>
At the end, because you don't have money to buy anything, you wind up setting aside a couple of items, including—because Faith thinks you must have had a pair in your old wardrobe, and because it's more outrageous than anything you'd ever try wearing as your own—a pair of distressed overalls and a striped muscle shirt. They want you to pair this with some black, high-top Converse sneakers, and rather than argue you let them gather those things plus a mens' ski beanie and a camo jacket, which they deposit in Cassie's name at the front. The girl who accepts them knows Cassie of course, but you get the impression they're not friends, because she looks skeptically between you and her when Cassie says she'll be back tomorrow to pay for them.<br/>
<br/>
Outside, the girls once again try to persuade you to ditch your evening responsibilities and hang out with them, but you tell that you have to get your truck back home because your dad needs to use it. Still they argue, proposing to follow you home and pick you up, but you insist that you'll see them tomorrow. To soften their disappointment, you do something you'd never dare try under your own face: you give a couple of them, including Cassie, a close and slightly lingering hug to thank them for helping you. And even though you are frazzled, frightened, and more than a little exhausted, you are grinning brightly when you part from them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You almost forget to change out of the mask after leaving the mall, but you remember in time before getting home, so it's under your own face that you pull your mom aside and ask if you can have some money to buy new clothes.<br/>
<br/>
She looks a little surprised. "When do you want to go shopping, honey?" she asks. "Next weekend I can—"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to go with me, I can do it myself," you hurriedly interrupt her. "I mean—" Your vocal cords freeze as her eyebrows go up.<br/>
<br/>
"You want to go shopping by yourself?" she asks. The unstated question, of course, is, <i>Since when do you like shopping for clothes? I always have to drag you to the stores when it's time to get you some new ones!</i><br/>
<br/>
Maybe it's residual bravery from this afternoon, but you tell her, "I'm supposed to meet up with some friends. A girl named Cassie Harper—I think you know her—and—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh,</i> your mom's expression says. <i>You're going shopping with girls.</i> She looks surprised, pleased, wistful, and suspicious all at once. "Okay, honey," she says, a little guardedly. "Where are you going to go?"<br/>
<br/>
"Thrifty Nifties? It's a vintage clothes store—"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you want <i>new</i> clothes?" Translation: <i>I want you to have new clothes!</i><br/>
<br/>
"Well, Cassie works at Thrifty Nifties and she can get me a discount— And Old Navy's right around the corner so we can go there too!" you hastily add.<br/>
<br/>
"So when are—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Tomorrow after school. And evening. Um, I think I'll be eating out with them too?"<br/>
<br/>
Your mother bites on her upper lip. It's a bit of a struggle for her, you can tell. But she relents with a private smile, and asks you to wait while she disappears into the bedroom. A minute later she returns with a credit card. "Two hundred dollars," she says as she hands it to you. "That's your limit."<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks!" You peck her on the cheek and hop back into your room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're on high alert all the next day, head swiveling in the hallway for a glimpse of any of those girls. You can't help it, even though you know there's no point. <i>They don't know that was me yesterday,</i> you remind yourself. <i>They don't know that I was him.</i><br/>
<br/>
You don't have any of them in your classes, except for Astronomy, where Cassie and her friend Melissa sit in the back corner of the classroom. Almost you barge over to ask them point-blank what they're doing after school. Wouldn't it be great if they said, <i>We're going up to the mall to meet this totally hawt guy we met yesterday!</i> But you resist temptation and settle into your desk instead.<br/>
<br/>
Then you think: <i>Why not go talk to them anyway? I know Cassie,</i> you remind yourself, <i>I can get to know Melissa, and the rest of them. I can start hanging out with them. Even if I'm not a "hawt" guy named Will Chang.</i><br/>
<br/>
And wouldn't it be worth trying to get to know them under your own face? At the very least, rumor of "Will Chang" might reach you that way, which would be cool.</span></div></div>


path: 11111231111
author_id: seuzz
title: Chang and Change
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's a tough move to pull off—bumping casually into Cassie and Melissa as they are exiting the classroom after the bell's rung—but you congratulate yourself that you pulled it off. "Hey Cassie," you say.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart has never thumped around her like it is thumping now.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, hey Will!" she says, sounding distracted. "You have fun in class today?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fun? In class? WtF?</i> "Yeah, I guess. What—?"<br/>
<br/>
"How long're you gonna be at your locker?" Melissa asks Cassie. She glances over her friend's head long enough to flash you a quick smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Five minutes? Three minutes? I dunno. Tell Mindy and them—" Most of what she says gets drowned out as she turns her head from you. "—see if I can get a ride."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you girls up to?" you ask. <br/>
<br/>
"Going into town," Cassie says. She does a double-take at you, and her face brightens. "Wanna come along? We're going up to the mall— Well, close to the mall, to Northgate Place, you know? That's where I work, at Thrifty Nifties, and—"<br/>
<br/>
If you give her a chance she'll tell you the history of the store, how she came to work there, and everything that happened there last week.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm doing something with Caleb and them I think," you interrupt. "But maybe I can meet up with you after that? What're you guys doing for supper?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? I dunno. Want me to text you? Or no, you better text me, 'cos we're meeting a bunch of people up at—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I'll text you," you interrupt. "See you around, Cassie."<br/>
<br/>
You sheer off, but not before catching a look of appraising curiosity on Melissa's face as she gazes back at you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You forgot to bring a change of clothes to school, so you have to run home to the other side of town to get a new shirt—a button-down shirt that you leave hanging untucked over your cargo shorts—before running all the way across town to Northgate Place. You park at the mall, though, to put on the mask, so that you can't be connected to a vehicle that someone might recognize. You're all nerves again as you make the trek back to Thrifty Nifties across a very wide parking lot.<br/>
<br/>
All that changing around has made you late, and most the girls are looking a little vexed when you finally show up. Mindy challenges you as you trot up with a smile: "Hey, so why don't you give us a phone number where can reach you?"<br/>
<br/>
You stare, then twitch. <i>A phone number? Fuck!</i><br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, uh—" You fumble out your phone. "How 'bout you give me yours," you stammer, "so I can— I mean, I want all of your—"<br/>
<br/>
"Just give me yours so we can all share it around," Mindy says. She's got her own phone out.<br/>
<br/>
Well, that's it. You're trapped. You can't give them your real number, or the number of anyone you know. The best you can do is rattle off a random bunch of numbers. With luck, they won't discover it's a fake until you're able to figure some way out. <br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, so, hey, I got a credit card," you announce, to try heading off any more talk of phone numbers, "and I'm on kind of a schedule, that's how come I'm late, so if we could, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"Cassie already paid for your things from yesterday," Melissa bluntly informs you. "You have to pay her back."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Uh." You look Cassie. "I guess you don't take a credit card?" She smiles shyly and shakes her head. "Well, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"So how about you buy something for her," Melissa suggests, "and pay her back that way."<br/>
<br/>
"Melissa!" Cassie says, sounding scandalized. "I can buy my own things, and besides, with the discount—"<br/>
<br/>
"Buy something for me, then," Mindy challenges you with a tilted chin. "You pay me back that way, and then I'll pay Cassie back!"<br/>
<br/>
Melissa shoves her. But you like the suggestion—maybe because you like the idea of taking Mindy up on a challenge. You don't often get a chance—or have the guts—to push back at a pushy girl.<br/>
<br/>
She's a very forward and fleshy girl, with a plum-like ripeness. She's a big girl, too—not fat, but with a shapely solidity and even a muscularity that not many have. In fact, you can almost believe she could wrestle you to the ground and hold you there.<br/>
<br/>
And, given the short cut-offs she's wearing, and the blue tank top that drapes loosely over her breasts, exposing her arms and shoulders and neck and legs, you wouldn't mind getting into a clinch that ended with her on top of you.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," you tell her. "You see anything here you want, or do you want to go back to Old Navy or somewhere like that?"<br/>
<br/>
Mindy laughs. "You couldn't buy me nothing at Old Navy but a package of socks for what Cassie spent on you here!"<br/>
<br/>
Cassie gasps at her and blushes. You catch her eye and—you can hardly believe it of yourself—you grin and wink at her, which makes her blush even harder.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But it's all settled this way: You buy each of the girls a small something at Thrifty Nifties—a knit cap for Mindy; a shawl for Molly; a jeans skirt for Faith; a ratty old rock band t-shirt for Melissa—on the condition that they pay you back by giving the money to Cassie. And since Cassie spent less than all that on your clothes, she buys you an old leather bandolier to wear like a sash as an accessory, and you repay that favor by out of your own pocket buying her some old cowboy boots. Everyone is flushed and laughing happily as you exit the store.<br/>
<br/>
Including you. You changed into your new clothes while at Thrifty Nifties, and emerged from the changing closet—it was hardly big enough to turn around in—wearing a black-and-silver striped muscle shirt under a pair of distressed overalls (with one strap hanging at your side), inside a too-large camo jacket, and wearing black canvas high-top sneakers and a gray ski beanie that you pull down to your eyebrows. It leaves you feeling tough and raffish—like a gangbanger.<br/>
<br/>
Why it does that you don't realize, though, until you catch Molly muttering to Faith. "He looks like Gary," she says.<br/>
<br/>
That would be Gary Chen, Westside High's top drug dealer. Almost you whirled back to the changing closet to pull your new duds off. But the girls—in their new wear—all cooed at you, so with a grin you kept your new clothes on and sauntered outside with them.<br/>
<br/>
You've still got well over a hundred bucks in your budget, which doesn't seem like much at all when you start hitting the other stores. But you hurl all caution aside and rationalize breaking your mom's limit with the excuse that you'll spend two hundred on yourself, and tell her that you went over by buying little gifts for the girls that went with you and helped you pick things out. But even then, you figure you'll have to be very careful and very choosy about what you buy.<br/>
<br/>
So the afternoon quickly segues into the early evening as, like a pack of grazing herbivores, you and the girls move from one store to the next, eyeing and photographing various clothes and combinations. They're a little puzzled by your choosiness until you explain that you're on a budget, and that these clothes are going to be your "social" clothes," your "party" clothes, your "styling" clothes—you'll pick yourself up some basic jeans and t-shirts and the like later on your own—and then they really come to life. If, yesterday, you felt like a living doll being dressed up by elementary school girls, today you feel like a fashion model being fought over by a lot of amateur designers.<br/>
<br/>
Mostly you wind up taking advice from Melissa, who has a sharp eye and seems to pick up on what you yourself are too timid to admit: that you want the kind of eye-catching clothes that will get you noticed when you come into a room, but which won't scream that you're an attention-whore. So you wind up with a burgundy hoodie with dark vinyl sleeves; a tight, striped polo shirt; and a light lavender button-down shirt that they pair with a thin, fabric tie. <br/>
<br/>
Afterward, exhausted but happy, you all collapse inside the Arriba Mexican Cantina at the mall. The chips and salsa have just arrived when your phone vibrates with a text. You unthinkingly answer it, and your heart staggers when you see it's from Cassie: She is inviting you—Will Prescott—out to join them.<br/>
<br/>
You dart your eyes about, and are relieved to see that Cassie hasn't noticed you answered your phone just as she was sending you her text, and the other girls are preoccupied with sending texts of their own—word is going out to bunches of their friends to come up to the mall to hang out.<br/>
<br/>
So you are torn. On the one hand, you can stay here and widen your social circle—or, rather "Will Chang's" social circle by meeting up with a lot more people. Or you can duck out and return as yourself, and get a listen to what everyone has to say about your alter ego.</span></div></div>


path: 111112311112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Inside, Looking Out
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Too much of a good thing is wonderful, they say, but you can't help feeling like you've run enough risks for one afternoon and evening. Besides, the text from Cassie has given you an out.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit, it's a text from my mom," you tell the girls. "I gotta go." Groans and arguments break out all around, and you feel almost drunk with pleasure as Mindy and Melissa and the others try to block you from leaving. "We got other people coming!" "Tell her you'll be late!" "You don't have to go, not really!" they cry. But with vast (and real) reluctance you gradually worm your way out, promising to get in touch with them in a day or two so you can talk about where they'll take you for the weekend. They're already talking about dragging you out to a couple of parties, or to the Warehouse or dancing or ...<br/>
<br/>
You are able to snatch a little pleasure of your own on your way out, though. Mindy tries to block you, and you maneuver around her by putting one hand on the side of her hips and the other on her elbow, and pivoting her out of the way. Her scent envelops you, and before you can stop yourself—you are intoxicated by this rare sensation; what's it called? oh yeah, <i>being popular</i>—you peck a little kiss onto the side of her jaw. Then with a wave past her shocked but blushing face at the rest of the table, you scoop up the bags with your new clothes and beat it to the exit.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's thirty minutes later, in your old face and your clothes, when you return to the restaurant, right after texting Cassie to say that you've arrived at the mall and asking where in particular she is. The party has moved to a larger, circular table in the corner, where the original gang of five girls—Cassie, Mindy, Melissa, Molly, and Faith—have been augmented by half a dozen more. Four girls are piled into the table next to them, leaning over the partition and over each other to hear the conversation from the next table, and a girl and a guy have shoved into the original table. You stand awkwardly for a minute or two, trying to catch Cassie's eye, before you are noticed.<br/>
<br/>
"Will!" Cassie calls, and almost every head swivels in your direction, looking excited. It pains your heart to see the disappointment when they see it's only "Prescott" and not "Chang" standing there. But Cassie pushes and prods her way out of the circular booth in order to join you. You get a jolt when the guy turns around and you momentarily mistake him for Gary Chen. But though he's Asian-American, he's much nicer looking, and dressed up in a preppy fashion.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, hey, glad you came out," Cassie squeals as she pulls you over to the other table. The girls there give you a casual glance as you slide in with Cassie, then go back to listening to the other table. "God, it's turning into a giant party, isn't it?" she gushes. "Do you know anyone who wants to come out? We've got some more people coming out supposedly, and I know it's a Monday, but it's almost like a Friday and—"<br/>
<br/>
You let her run on until she's lost her breath, and then you ask, "What's the occasion?"<br/>
<br/>
"What occasion?" Cassie asks.<br/>
<br/>
"This." You gesture at the crowd. "Why you're all out having a party."<br/>
<br/>
"Not a party. Just happened!"<br/>
<br/>
She almost instantly gets drawn back into a conversation with her other friends, leaving you on the outside, listening in. Only they're not talking about "Will Chang." They're gossiping about some other people, whose names you catch but can't identify, who are caught up in stuff you can't follow. The best you can decipher is that a guy and a girl have started going out, and bets are being laid on how long it'll be before he dumps her after she fails to put out for him.<br/>
<br/>
You've got your phone out and are distractedly fooling around online—<i>Some great plan this turned out to be,</i> you snort to yourself; <i>maybe I should leave and come back in as the other guy</i>—when you feel a couple of kicks under the table. You look up, and realize the "Hey! Hey!" you heard were directed at you. It's only of the girls sitting across the table from you. "What's your name?"<br/>
<br/>
"Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Any relation to the other one?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Huh?</i> "What other—"<br/>
<br/>
"You on x2z?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kristin!" Cassie squeals. "Will doesn't hang out in the gutter!" She briefly squeezes your arm. The girl shrugs, but continues to stare at you. But she looks away when you shake your head.<br/>
<br/>
x2z is a social media site, a melding of Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, Tumblr, and every other site with some kind of "sharing" feature that hasn't been nailed down with patents and trademarks. Its own special quirk is that it's possible to set up wholly separate and unrelated micro-sites, so that smaller communities can form instead of everyone in the universe being crowded onto one. Most schools, including Westside, have their own dedicated set of x2z "streams," as they are called. You've gone in to look at it a couple of times, but your life doesn't seem interesting enough to record with selfies, posts, or video snippets, and you've been put off by the casual cruelties you've seen there.<br/>
<br/>
But it gives you an idea of how to keep in touch as "Will Chang" without having to buy a burner cell phone. You scroll over to the site, look around, and finally find a way of registering an account there. You're stymied, though, when you discover there's a required field for a Westside High student ID. You could enter your own, of course, but suppose someone asked "Will Chang" where he got the ID to set up a WHS account?<br/>
<br/>
You're still mulling how to set up an account for your alter ego when another small crowd of people show up. You recognize a handful of people, but in the general reshuffling that occurs, you wind up at a table of strangers, including the Asian-American guy.<br/>
<br/>
They're already making plans for Friday. Or maybe they are telling some of the newcomers about plans that have been decided for Friday. At any rate, there's a general consensus that they're all going to do something at the Warehouse, a notorious party spot. You're only half listening your attention is caught by something one of the girls says: "We're trying to set Jack up with a new boyfriend."<br/>
<br/>
"You better not be," the Asian-American guy growls.<br/>
<br/>
"New?" says one of the other girls. She laughs. "Who was your old one?"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up."<br/>
<br/>
"Who's the guy?" asks another girl.<br/>
<br/>
"Someone Melissa and them met today." She cranes her head to look over at the table where some of the girls you hung out with are sitting.<br/>
<br/>
"They don't even know if he's gay," says the Asian-American guy. His only reply is more laughter—teasing or serious, you can't tell.<br/>
<br/>
Talk ping-pongs across the table, with stories about the new guy bouncing around with other shots of gossip. It's hard to get a bead on what exactly the consensus is about him, save that—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Everyone's convinced that Will Chang is gay!</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
That mostly kills your interest in hanging around, especially since you're sitting with people you don't know, and you slip out.<br/>
<br/>
You drive around for a little while, trying to figure out where you went wrong. <i>How did they get the idea that I'm gay?</i><br/>
<br/>
From there you wind up knitting a daisy chain of futile questions. <i>Do I hang out with them again, and set them straight—that I'm straight? Do I go out in the mask again, but try to find some new people to hang out with? Maybe I should make a new mask, and try again with a new face? Or should I just keep digging into the book, find out what other spells there are.</i><br/>
<br/>
Your mom wants to see your new clothes when you get home. You hide the more outrageous items in your closet and only show her the "nice" ones that you picked up. She likes them, but you can tell she's disappointed that you didn't pick up any more. At least she's understanding when you tell her that you spent quite a bit of money on the girls that you went shopping with, to express your gratitude to them for helping you out. She asks if you'll be seeing more of them. Well, that's the night's question in another form, isn't it?<br/>
<br/>
You get onto your homework after that, and it's quite late before you knock off and go to bed. In part that's because, on a wild hunch, you text Carson Ioeger to ask how one might go about setting up a fake account in the WHS-x2z system. <i>Talk to knouse,</i> he texts back. That would be Christian Knouse, one of the computer-literate nerds at school. But Carson also wants to know why you want to set up a fake account, and it takes awhile for you get Ioeger, who is clearly skeptical of your profession that you're just "curious" if it can be done, to stop pestering you.<br/>
<br/>
You're still uncertain the next morning about what you're going to do about your alter ego. It would be easiest to abandon "Will Chang." It's proven harder—and more expensive!—to keep him alive and in circulation that you anticipated. Not to mention that this "gay" thing (<i>Really? WtF?!</i>) has complicated things. On the other hand, it sounds like he's a hit, and you have invested money in him.<br/>
<br/>
If you are going to keep "Will Chang" in circulation, you have to get him online, and the only way to do that (it seems) is through social media. You'll have to talk to Christian Knouse about getting a fake account. If you don't do that, you might as well just throw that mask away.</span></div></div>


path: 1111123111121
author_id: seuzz
title: More Pieces for a Homemade Puzzle
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You've invested too much into "Will Chang" to just abandon him, so the next day at school you go looking for Christian Knouse.<br/>
<br/>
You got to know Knouse earlier in your high school career, when you briefly got interested in table-top gaming. He's one of the computer nerds, and an RPG player, so he's exactly the kind of person who could help you craft a fake identity online. You've seen him walking into your math classroom just as you're walking out, so today you loiter in the doorway when class lets out, watching for him. He hardly glances as you as he comes swooping down the hallway, and you have to stop him with a shout before he can sweep on past you. He fixes you with a sharp look after coming to a stop. "What are you doing after school?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Gaming," he retorts. "What is this, a pop quiz?"<br/>
<br/>
"You got time to hang out for a minute? I need a favor."<br/>
<br/>
"When? I got class now!"<br/>
<br/>
"After school."<br/>
<br/>
Knouse fixes you with a very beady glance. There's something very fox-like about him—the narrow, pointed nose, and the sharp intelligence behind his eyes. He is also small but lithe, and his whitish-blonde hair has a silky sheen. Right now, you have the discomfiting feeling that he's weighing whether to blow you off or raid your chicken coop.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, sure," he says. "If it doesn't take too long."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'll tell you now it's about—"<br/>
<br/>
You break off as Darrell Parsons materializes behind Christian, to stop and listen to you. "I'll look for you at your locker," you tell Knouse.<br/>
<br/>
"Good luck finding me there," he says. "I head straight home from my government class."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Well, then I'll—"<br/>
<br/>
But Christian has already turned and darted into the classroom. Darrell gives you a doubtful look, then follows his friend in.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was a clumsy start, but it pays off after class. Knouse is impatient to get off to his gaming session, so he doesn't hide his impatience when you intercept him on his way out to the parking lot.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, that's easy," he says after you've explained your request. "I'll set it up for you and send you the log-in shit when I'm done." He dances from foot to foot like he has to pee. "Oh, God, no!" he cries when you ask if he needs the name you want to set it up under. "I'll send you a temp ID, and you change everything when you're inside! Now are you done already?" He springs away when you nod.<br/>
<br/>
He takes his sweet time getting it set up for you, though. It's not that night but the next—and after you've sent him a text reminding him—that he sends you the log-in credentials for your fake account. Clearly, he wasn't thrilled about being poked with a reminder, as is evident from the temporary ID he crafted for you. Username: <i>fuckmyface.</i> Password: <i>withabarbeddildo.</i> The first thing you do is to change both.<br/>
<br/>
In the meantime you have already done some other work. Immediately after leaving Knouse on Monday you went on a shopping trip for materials for the third spell, doing it while wearing your alter-ego's mask and clothes. (You did this, not because you were expecting to meet Mindy or Cassie or any of the other girls, but simply so you could have fun in your new guise, and also so you could take some selfies to populate your new x2z account with.) Then, the next day after school, you got your homework done early so you could tackle the next spell. You have no idea if it can help you with the crafting of this extra identity, but you figure it can't hurt either.<br/>
<br/>
Fortunately, it doesn't take nearly as long to make as the mask did, and though it takes several hours of grinding tedium, by the time you're ready for bed you have a new dingus to play with.<br/>
<br/>
It's a metal band, about five inches long and two inches wide, made of a strip that turned flexible after you sealed it up between two pocket mirrors and did some incantations over it. The longest and hardest part of the work was the carving of runes into it, for the scratches had to be dug repeatedly into the metal before they would stick and not fade out. The instructions in the book do not say what the thing is for, but it does say that you have to lay it across someone's forehead. You have the foreboding sense that it will knock you out, the way the mask does when you put it on, so you wait until bedtime, when you're between the sheets and blinking in the dark, before you lay it across your brow.<br/>
<br/>
It's the next morning before you wake again, and in your morning muddle you manage to forget about the thing you made until after you've showered, and you have hunt inside the bedsheets, where it wormed itself away during the night, before you find and examine what you made.<br/>
<br/>
The runes have faded from the oily surface of the thing, to be replaced by Roman letters that seem to float above the surface. They spell out your name in full: WILLIAM MARTIN PRESCOTT.<br/>
<br/>
It fairly makes your hair stand on end, and you tuck the thing safely away in the recesses of your calculus book—where no one with any sense is likely to go snooping—after you have laid the thing across the open grimoire, and unlocked the page. On the reverse is only a single sentence, which your phone quickly translates as: <i>to know the mind of another.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Who's that guy you were talking with?"<br/>
<br/>
It's the break between seventh and eighth periods, and you've bumped into Cassie on your way into Astronomy. Since the weekend you've made a point of talking to her and Melissa before the start of class, and today you ask her about the gay Asian-American guy, who she was chatting with in the hallway outside Mr. Krohling's classroom. She'd broken off to join you as you trudged past on your way to Mr. Cash's.<br/>
<br/>
"Jack?" She giggles. "You know Jack!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know Jack."<br/>
<br/>
"Everyone knows Jack!" Cassie insists.<br/>
<br/>
"Everyone else knows Jack, but I don't know Jack."<br/>
<br/>
Jamie Rennerhoff—a grinning lowlife who likes to hang out with the thugs behind the school, and who is loitering now in the classroom doorway—sniggers. "You sure as fuck don't know jack," he says.<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes and ignore him as you brush past.<br/>
<br/>
"Jack Li!" Cassie says. "I thought everyone knew Jack! Melissa!" She flops down next to her friend. "Tell Will that everyone knows Jack!"<br/>
<br/>
"Everyone knows Jack," Melissa dutifully repeats, though she's clearly preoccupied with her cell phone. Then: "Here, look at this!" She turns her phone to show Cassie. Cassie takes it, scrolls around the page, then squeals.<br/>
<br/>
It's rude of you, but you twist around to see what's set her off.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart ricochets around inside your ribcage. <i>They found the "Will Chang" profile you set up!</i><br/>
<br/>
You didn't alert anyone to it, you just set it up last night and added some of those selfies you took. But Melissa has managed to find it already!<br/>
<br/>
All at once, both girls start gabbling. "Oh my God!" Cassie gushes. "Have you DMed him yet?"<br/>
 "No, but Mindy has." "Mindy always grabs everything first!" "I'm tagging him in on our Warehouse stream." "You sent Jack a link yet?" "Oh my God, I'll do that now!" "No, I want to!"<br/>
<br/>
"Will you quiet down over there?" Stephanie Wyatt hollers from a few seats over. She glares at Cassie and Melissa, who ignore her. "Jeez!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a guy they like," you tell Stephanie. "But they think he's gay and they're trying to set him up with—"<br/>
<br/>
You trail off. Stephanie is one of the butch girls at school, a member of the girls' varsity basketball squad, and she fixes you with a hard, dull glare that quickly dries you up. After you shrug, she shoots Melissa and Cassie a dirty look, then slumps in her desk and returns her attention to her own cell phone. You move on to your own seat.<br/>
<br/>
There, in the few moments left before class, you surreptitiously log in to the "Will Chang" account to read the handful of DMs that have already accumulated. Most of them are just variations on "Hi!" and "Hey!" but there is one very pointed question in Mindy's DM: <i>Are you at WHS now? How did u an acct here?</i> You cuss at yourself for overlooking that obvious issue. If Will Chang is being homeschooled, how could he get credentials for a Westside x2z account?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You mull it over that evening as you field a barrage of greetings and invites from your new Westside friends. While you do that, and your homework, you also give some thought to the new spell you unlocked, and the item it made.<br/>
<br/>
<i>To know the mind of another.</i> The obvious implication is that it copies minds and memories the way that masks copy bodies. There is no further implication, though, that you can use the spell to merge several <i>different</i> minds together.<br/>
<br/>
<i>But does it only copy memories? Or does it also copy personalities?</i> you wonder. You pull the thing you made out from inside your math book and study it. There's no way to test it on yourself—you'd either have to put the thing onto someone else, to see if they got your mind and memories (and other things), or else you'd have to copy someone else into a new strip and try it on yourself.<br/>
<br/>
The first path would be a bad idea—that person would learn everything that you've done—and you'd have to share your discoveries with them. But as for the second ...<br/>
<br/>
Well, maybe "Will Chang" should get a fake brain to go with his fake body.</span></div></div>


