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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Carson Has Theories. Oh Boy Does He."  "Alright, cocksucker," you tell Carson. "Who do you hang out with when you're not hanging out with me or James? Or Paul, or Jenny," you have to add. He only cocks an eyebrow and gets up from his seat. "Follow me out to my place, we'll leave your truck there," he says. "And then we'll go find someone." * * * * * Getting ready to meet w ppl, Jared had texted you. Want to come or are you lame? Lame, I'm busy with Carson you reply once you're in your truck. That gets an lmao from Caleb. Thanks to a red light, Carson beats you to his house by almost five minutes, which is enough time for him to use the shitter or something, because he's walking out his front door to his car as you pull up. He only points to the passenger-side door of his own car, and it's not until you're buckled in that he asks, "How late can you stay out?" "I've got an eleven o'clock curfew." "Fuck me. What's your dad, a chicken farmer or something? You guys get up and go down with the sun?" "He works at Salopek, you know that." "Oh yeah. Having taken math and science classes with you, it's easy to forget what your dad does." You flip him off. "So we got our pick," he says as he backs into the street. "I mentioned Connor, we could go find him and Justin up on campus. I know a couple of guys out at Eastman—" "Eastman?" Carson gives you a fish-eyed glance. "Something wrong with Eastman?" "No, I just— Who do you know at Eastman?" Couldn't be the Larsons, could it? you wonder. "Colin McDermott and Jonathan Rasch. You know them?" "No," you sigh with some relief, before reflecting that maybe they know Jared and Cody. "But forget all them. 'Cos I figure if you're gonna get a new friend, it oughta be someone at Westside. That way, if Johansson or Tilley's cock isn't available for you to hold, you can go find them." But that's all he says, and changes the subject to ask if you saw the school play that was performed last week, and also ask whatever happened to that drama girl that you used to hang out with when you were sophomores. About thirty minutes later you pull up in front of ratty little ranch house in a crappy part of town, whose yellowing lawn—still weedy, even at this late date in the year—is unmown behind a chain link fence on which hangs a black sign that warns "Beware of Dog." Oh, this is promising, you think. And it is exactly that promising. The moment you get out of the car, a black-and-brown Doberman explodes from under a bush by the porch and hurls itself, slavering and snarling and barking, at the gate. "Don't mind him," Carson says. "That's just the doorbell." Still, he only stands patiently in front of the gate, ignoring the dog, hands in pockets, waiting. After a few moments, the front door opens and a Hispanic kid with dark, curly hair comes out onto the porch. "Trueno!" he yells, and the dog instantly wheels to slink obediently over as he comes down the warped porch stairs. Without even looking at the dog he snaps his fingers, points, and says, "Heel. Stay." The dog sits and licks its chops. But even though it hangs its head, you can tell that it is watching you and Carson closely. "Hey man," the kid says. He eyes are dark and wary as they glance over you and Carson. "You lookin' for Angel?" "I texted him, said I was coming over," Carson replies. "He said to come on." "Well, he's out with some tail, but maybe he's done and on his way back. Come on inside." The kid opens the gate. To you, he says, "Don't look at the dog, and don't make any sudden moves." Almost you turn around to return to the car. But with tight guts and a loose sphincter, you follow Carson into the yard and—with eyes firmly fixed on a front door that looks miles away—up the walk. You almost yell aloud, though, when the dog swings its muzzle around to huff up a snoutful of your scent as you pass it. Your host holds the screen door open to let you and Carson pass inside. It opens directly into a small living room where a lumpy futon faces a big-screen TV that sits directly on the wooden floor. A game console is plugged into it, and the picture is frozen to a screen that you recognize as belonging to one of the Crimson Siege games. A game controller is discarded on the floor near the futon. "Get you something to drink?" your host asks after he's shut the door. "If you're offering," Carson says. "This is Will," he adds. "Will, this is Mateo." "Hey," says Mateo. He doesn't offer a hand, a fist, or even a nod of the chin, and his expression continues to be watchful. "We got some colas. Or beer, if you want." "We'll start with colas. I'm gonna phone in a pizza, have it delivered in a little bit. My treat." That impresses Mateo, who calls back a "Whoa!" while sauntering through a small dining room and into a kitchen on the other side. "Who is this guy?" you quietly mutter at Carson. "Mateo Perez. He's a junior at Westside. His brother Angel's in our class. Is Lucas here?" he calls toward the kitchen. "Third brother, a sophomore," he murmurs in an aside to you. "He's over at a friend's," Mateo says as he returns with three colas in tall, slim glass bottles. "Glad you didn't stop by twenty minutes ago, I was in the bathroom whacking off." Carson, without waiting for an invite, falls ass-first into the middle of the futon with a grunt. Mateo joins him, and you settle in last. "Will 'n me played tennis this afternoon," Carson says after taking a long swig from his cola. "He skunked me." "Huh, you on the tennis team?" Mateo asks you." "Me? No! I don't even play that good." "That's Will's way of telling me how much I suck," Carson says. "You play tennis?" "No," Mateo says. "I mean, I played it in PE last year, but— No." "I've seen the way you can drop a ball through a net, I thought maybe you could do the same with a tennis ball." "Totally different skills, man," Mateo says. In the brief hiatus that follows, you take a swallow of cola, which surprises you so much you almost spit it out. "This Coke tastes funny," you say. "It's Mexican, Will," Carson says. "Look at the label. They use real sugar down there." "But it's still Coke?" "You don't like it?" Mateo asks. "No, it's fine, it's just— A surprise." Then, to cover up your embarrassment, you gesture at the TV. "What game is this?" "Crimson Siege Two." "Heh, I thought so. Is this the mission where you have to blow up the refinery?" "Yeah. You play?" "Pff, yeah." Mateo digs around on the other side him, then tosses a controller to you across Carson. He puts his cola between his knees, picks up the other controller, and uses it to exit the game and restart the mission with a second player. He doesn't even ask if you want to play.  While the two of you are playing, exchanging no words, just pushing through the mission together with Carson watching, you are joined by a fourth. Angel Perez (as he is introduced to you) looks almost exactly like his brother, except that his hair (which is similarly stiff, thick, with curly ends) is shorter than his brother's and is a tawny, caramel color. (His skin is also lighter.) He and Carson greet each other with warm fist bumps, and as you and Mateo play the two of them move into the dining room to talk over the explosions and radio chatter of the game. You join them after completing the mission—Mateo quietly congratulating you on the skill of your play—and not long after a pizza is delivered. "I prefer the taste of pussy," Angel says as he pulls out a second triangle after wolfing down the first, "but there's times I'd go for this over that." "Spoken like a man who gets enough of that and not enough of this," Carson retorts with a full mouth. "You well satisfied these days?" Angel briefly grabs his junk under the table, then says, "You know Ava Cardenas?" "I think so. Seriously?" Angel draws a deep breath and says, quietly, "Well, I think I'm serious about her. I know I can tell you and it won't go farther." Then his eye settles on you, and hardens. "Prescott doesn't even know who Ava is," Carson says. "Actually, he could stand a few lessons." "Lessons in what?" Angel asks, for your benefit too (though he doesn't know it). "Like you gave me and Lamont." "No!" Angel's eyes pop with amusement as they settle on you. "He needs lessons?" "You said the same thing about Lamont, until you saw him talk to that girl." Carson cocks an eye at you. "Prescott can give you tennis lessons in trade." "You on the tennis team?" Angel asks you. He sounds interested. "No!" you gasp. "He could'a been," Carson says, "but he got started too late. He starts everything too late. He hit puberty only day before yesterday." He grins. "That's how come he needs lessons." * * * * * "Jesus, Carson," you gasp at him in the car afterward. "Who are those guys?" "Guys you'd never talk to but could stand to get to know," he retorts as he starts the car. "How did you get to know them?" "School. We did a chemistry presentation our freshman year, stuck it out afterward. Your trouble is you drop everyone once you don't got a use for 'em." He gives you a look. "Go look for Angel on Monday at school. He can teach you lots about how to light lots of different kinds of fire." Next: Coming soon! Check back! |
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