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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "A Player Off His Game"  "Look, it's a matter of genes, personality, and maturity," Carson is saying as he ticks off each of the points on his fingers. "If you got one of them, you're okay. Two of them, and you're great. All three?" He spreads his arms expansively. "You won't be able to beat 'em off with a hockey stick." You're sitting in The Flying Saucer, one of Saratoga Falls's numerous kookie coffee shops, sipping the cheapest drink they got. (You were broke, and Carson refused to spring for anything more expensive for you.) Talk of Teresa at the tennis courts had developed into a more general discussion of girls; girlfriends; and girlfriends, the getting of; which had continued after Carson suggested moving into a less windy environment. And it was after you were seated that he asked you pointblank about your history with Lisa, and how it came to be that she had exchanged your sorry ass for the even sorrier ass of Geoff Mansfield. Now he is waxing on the subject of why Mansfield should just look better than you than to a girl like Lisa. (Or to any girl; that is the subtext.) "First, genes," he says. "Okay, man, nothing 'specially wrong with your genes. It's like with James." His expression tightens just the teensiest bit. "He doesn't dress any better than you, and he's still clumsy as a middle-schooler. But the guy's got the genes, and I say that as someone who‚ rumors to the contrary, is not gay for him." You can't help returning him a slow wink and a smirk. But you know what he means. James Lamont, his best friend, has dark good looks: a good jaw and cheekbones, regular features, and a gleaming intelligence in his deep-set eyes. "But genes is only one of the three you can score on. You, your trouble, is the second one, personality." He pinches the tip of his middle finger for emphasis even as you feel your sphincter tighten. "'Cos even given what you got," he goes on, "you've got to be able to do something with it." "You mean, like, know how to dress?" Carson gives you that same sour smirk as he often likes to give you, and pulls off the filthy bandana that he wears on his head. The hair beneath—whose dirty-blonde curls are as tight as Caleb's—is matted and looks filthy, and Carson warps it into unnatural shapes as he works his long, bony fingers through it. "Well, that's part of it," he says. "But first you gotta want to know how to dress, how do make yourself look good. You've got to care. Like me? I don't, and that's a personality thing. But you, do you care about looking good? 'Cos you don't look like you care." "Oh, fuck you," you mutter through your wince. "And that right there"—he jabs at you with a long forefinger to emphasize—"is your number one problem, if you're asking me what it is. I can tell that you do give a shit about your presentation, but you just don't want to put the trouble into it." He shrugs, and starts binding his hair up under that bandana again. "Of course, I understand, 'cos I don't wanna put the trouble into it either. But like I say, I don't got the personality that gives a shit. You do, but you don't got the personality to try actually making it work." You make a face, then hide that face by taking a drink from your mug. It discomfits you that Carson has so much to say about you. Has he spent time thinking and talking about you? That would be weird. More depressing is the thought that he just glances at you and sees all this about yourself. "And that's what separates us from the Mansfields and the Kirks, and the guys who work out. Oh, Gardinhire." Carson snaps his fingers after naming one of Mansfield's friends. "He's a good example. He's like you too. Good genes, but look at the way he dresses. Flip-flops and khakis and those dumb sunglasses he never takes off. Only difference between you two is that he sometimes gets his hair cut—probably because he mom makes him—and because he chooses to look sloppy in a polo shirt and you choose to look sloppy in a t-shirt." "For someone who doesn't give a shit," you retort, "you sure seem to pay a lot of attention to this stuff." "Because I notice things, Prescott, and I think about them. You can be interested in gorillas without once having the urge to take off your clothes and knuckle around in the woods, shitting on things. But anyway, there's where Mansfield's got it on you. He's got good genes, and he's enough of a narcissist to want to do something with them." You sigh, because it's true. Geoff Mansfield—as dark and good looking as James Lamont—dresses neatly in fresh polo shirts, smart slacks and loafers, and keeps his dark hair neatly trimmed. He walks and sits up straight, and his skin is clear and unblemished. He comes to school every day looking like he's been dry-cleaned the night before. "And the last one—" Carson cocks an eye toward the ceiling, and thinks. "Oh yeah, maturity." He sighs. "Everyone looks good as kid, most people look okay as adults," he says. "It's in between, you know, that people look funny. Being a fucking teen, man, it's like when you take a picture of someone in the middle of a sneeze." He makes a goofy face. "And the fact is, Mansfield's out of the awkward phase. Ten years from now he's gonna look just like he does now. But you look like you're still growing into your face. At least I hope you are." He pauses to sip from his own coffee before quietly adding, "I hope I am."  You're still a little stung by what he said before about your "personality," so you snicker unfeelingly. "I thought you said you don't give a shit." "Oh, I don't give a shit now," he says, "because I know I'm still growing into things. After I've arrived—" He sits up and puffs out his chest, and holds the pose a moment before wilting a little. "Well, I still won't give too much of a shit, but enough of one I'll do better than this." You ask him how he developed this theory, and he admits he picked up the basics of it from Paul Donovan. "You remember Paul? He was a senior when we were freshmen, he was friends with— Well, not with Connor Hutchison, not directly, back then. But he was friends with guys who were friends of Connor. You remember Connor?" You remember Connor, who was a year ahead of you. A smart math-science nerd with street smarts, like Carson. Also, better turned out than Carson, so you suppose he'd count as having the "personality" that Carson says you and he woefully lack. Carson agrees when you suggest this. "Yeah, and he's grown into his looks now. Too bad for him they're not that much to brag about," he adds. "Anyway, Paul goes out to Keyserling, and because I see Connor I sometimes get to see Paul too. We had a talk about this stuff not long ago, and a lot of what I say is stuff that he said. Okay, we were drinking, so maybe he wasn't serious, but it sounded pretty good to me." You talk some more about it, and who at school has what and how much of the three qualities. Keith, you agree, has none of them. Caleb (Carson asserts to your surprise) has the maturity, and he also has the genes ("If you're into the fugly kind of genes"). What sets the top athletes at the school apart—the Steve Pattersons, the Laurent Delacroixs, the Erik Carstairs, and the like—is that they've got all three. Solid genes that they have sculpted into desirable shapes while growing into a freshly ripe maturity. "I've seen girls spontaneously self-impregnate when Marc Garner so much as glances at them," Carson mutters. Oh, and do the same criteria matter for girls? Carson says they don't. "Tits and pussies," he says. "That's all that matters when it comes to girls. You know that." * * * * * The conversation wanders off, into talk of movies, gossip about cheerleaders and volleyball players, and what (if anything) you're going to wear to school for Halloween (which is Friday). Your phone remains silent the whole time, and Carson—after checking his—ignores the few texts that he gets. It's when you get one from Jared's phone that he interrupts himself to ask, "So is that Johansson?" Your heart gives one great thump, because Carson is so much nearer the truth than he guessed. "Nuh," you say, and quickly close the app. "Where is he, and why aren't you hanging out with him?" Carson asks. Very nearly this is the first question he had put to you, back at the tennis courts. "I don't always hang out with him." "Bullshit. You and me never hang out, unless he's with you or else you two have had a domestic and the cops have told you to separate." You roll your eyes. "It's not like that!" you protest, even though it's more like that than you'd care to admit. "Name one person you hang out with as much as him. No, I'll do better," Carson corrects himself. "When you're not hanging out with him or Tilley, and you're not hanging out with me, who do you hang out with?" You open your mouth to reply, then realize that you have no good answer. "Uh huh, you know, maybe instead of worrying about why you don't have a girlfriend," he says, even though you don't recall making that complaint in all the hours you've spent with him, "maybe you should worry about how you hardly have any regular friends." "Oh, bite me," you grumble. He sniffs at you, and picks up his phone. "Answer my challenge, or I'm calling people, taking you around and introduce you. Seriously, Will, sometimes I worry about you." You could let him do that. You could also tell him to stuff himself. Or you could shut him up by introducing him to "Jared and Cody Larson." Next: Coming soon! Check back! |
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