The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

Another Fashionable Choice

Previously: "The One Who Has It Worse" 

"I don't have any freaking idea what to turn in for the time capsule," you confess to Dean. "Help me brainstorm something?" you plead.

"Sure," he says. "Who's it for again?"

It's for Mr. Walberg, you tell him, and after a little more discussion you agree to rendezvous back at your house, where you will talk over ideas for the time capsule and hang out a little while he finishes the homework that he's left until the very last moments of the weekend.

* * * * *

It's a little after four when Dean shows up at your house. He's very sober and looks presentable—more presentable in his polo shirt and jeans than Caleb or Keith ever looked—when you introduce him to your parents. The introductions turn awkward (for you!) when you casually mention—just to fill dead air—that your dad works at Salopek. Dean looks surprised, and tells your dad that his "Uncle Peter" works out there too. Your dad looks puzzled when Dean clarifies that it's "Peter Chang" he's talking about, until Dean explains that "Uncle Peter" married into his family: "He's my aunt's husband," he says.

"Jesus," you mutter as you lead him upstairs. "You know, I could get you a job out at Salopek, if you want."

"Really?"

"Yeah, there's an opening out there, my dad keeps bugging me to apply for it."

"Why don't you?"

"I don't want to work for my dad! I dunno, maybe you don't wanna work for your Uncle Peter."

Dean allows as that it might be awkward.

You wince a little on admitting him into your bedroom, for the floor is strewn with dropped clothing—which you hurriedly kick into the closet and under the bed—and the desk and dresser are stacked over with school books, papers, and even a few dirty dishes. Dean doesn't look much surprised by any of it, though. You tell him he can move everything off the desk and onto your bed, to give him space to work, but he just drops his pack and falls into the chair.

"So, I was thinking about your time capsule problem," he says. "You got an old phone you can afford to throw away?"

"No. And it can't be something I have to buy, either. It's gotta be something in this room, or in this house." You squint about, looking for that book you bought, but it seems to have vanished beneath the sediment since then.

"Well, how about an old game controller?" Dean asks. He's looking at your game player, which occupies a low shelf under your window. "It should be something they're not likely to have in the future."

You don't reply.

"Yeah, maybe that's dumb." He scratches his ear. "What's everyone else putting in?"

You tell him that your friend Caleb is putting in a thumb drive filled with porn—which seems to impress him for its chutzpah, if nothing else—but that you haven't talked to anyone else.

"What about a set of old clothes?" he suggests after a long and intense silence. "A shirt, pants, socks, underwear. Shoes, if you've got an old pair."

"Clothes?" you ask in disbelief.

"Sure. You know, fashions change all the time. Look at what they were wearing a hundred years ago, versus today. Wouldn't it be kind of interesting to pull out an old suit like they were wearing—? How long is this capsule supposed to be buried for?"

"I dunno."

"Well, if you can afford to get rid of any of your old clothes—"

You lean back on your bed, and turn the idea over in your mind. You could certainly afford to part with at least one of each kind of thing you've got in your closet. And if you told your mom that's what you were doing, you could probably get her to buy you some new things. Or, better yet, let you go out and buy some new things for yourself.

It's a funny thought to have, for you never liked clothes shopping before. And yet, after last night, and the attention you got in that new shirt, and the cowboy hat, you find yourself liking the idea of expanding and varying your wardrobe.

So with a sense of relief, you nod and tell Dean you like the idea. He looks relieved as well, and watches with a wry smile as you pull out and bag up an old t-shirt, some ratty cargo shorts, some socks, underwear, and flip-flops.

"I don't know what Mr. Walberg will think," you confess. "But fuck him, all he wants is for us to turn in something."

"Well if that's all," Dean retorts, "you could have just given him an old pencil."

You're comfortable enough with him by now that you reply by flipping him off.

* * * * *

You don't have any homework of your own to do, but you do have English reading you can get ahead on; and you could also stand to look over your calculus homework again. (You did it in a real hurry on Friday night.) You shove most of the mess on the desk onto the floor, but sort through it with Dean as you look for your English and math books. That is how that weird old tome you got at Arnholm's comes to light again.

"What's this?" Dean asks as he pulls the leather-bound book out from under a sheaf of papers.

"Huh? I dunno, it's— Oh, hang on." You take it from him with a frown, and turn it over a couple of times in your hand until you can examine the spine. "Oh yeah, this is originally what I was gonna put in the time capsule." You open it with a grimace and frown at the end papers.

"What is it?"

"Just a book I found at Arnholm's. Yeah, I found it in the special collections cabinet, it looked interesting so I pulled it out. Thing is, all the pages are glued shut. See?" You demonstrate by trying to thumb through the book. The pages are so tightly bound to each other that the book itself might have been carved from a solid piece of wood.

"So how come did you buy it?" Dean asks. He takes the book from you and confirms to his own satisfaction that the pages are all glued together.

"I dunno. Being dumb. Like I told you, Mr. Walberg doesn't care what we give him, so long as we give him something. So I guess I just thought—"

You break off with a frown. You have no idea what you were thinking.

"Weird," says Dean. "You know, it looks really old. Pretty cool, too."

"You want it?"

He looks up in surprise—almost as much surprise as you feel in having offered it to him.

"How much did you pay?" he asks.

"Two dollars. Yeah, it was originally, like, two-fifty— Two hundred and fifty dollars, I mean," you clarify. Dean's eyes widen. "That's what they had it marked for, only I didn't see it when I took it up to ask them how much it was. That's when they looked at it and saw that all the pages are glued shut."

"Not all of them are," Dean says, for he's returned to examining the book. "The first few are loose."

"Yeah," you say, and your throat tightens. It's all starting to come back to you: the weird faces, the Latin, the invitation to add your blood to the book. All of them reasons to chuck the book away and forget about it.

"But you paid two dollars for it?" Dean says. His head is bent over the book, and by craning your neck you can see that he's absorbed in the study of that row of ever-shifting faces that first mesmerized you.

"Yeah, that's what they marked it down to. I don't even know why I took it," you continue, and are conscious that you are babbling. "I guess it just seemed like such a steal after they were wanting two hundred or something for it."

"Yeah, I can get that," Dean says.

His gaze intensifies. Then he shuts his eyes and shakes his head, as though to clear, and closes the book.

"Huh, well," he says. "I guess I better get started, if that's how come I came over here." He drops into the chair and pulls his backpack up into his lap.

* * * * *

You and he talk a little, off-handedly, as he works on his math and you read the Sophocles. He tells you about the classes he's taking—you're not surprised that AP maths and AP sciences figure prominently in his schedule—and you tell him about yours. He's mostly interested in the "Film as Literature" class you are taking, and asks if you know about the YouTube movie-review channel that a couple of WHS seniors recently launched, but you shake your head. He also helps you a little with your own math, looking over your work and pointing out a few mistakes.

Your dad goes out to pick up some burgers for supper, and he brings a combo meal back for Dean as well. After you've eaten and he's finished up his homework, you kill an hour or so with the game player before Dean, who has turned restless, gets up and says that he should be going home. You see him out, bumping fists on the front porch, and you even tell him you'll come looking for him at lunch tomorrow.

Back inside, your dad asks if you've got him in your classes at school. No, you tell him. We just sometimes hang out. Then you go back upstairs.

It's coming up on ten o'clock when you get another text from Dean:

If you bring that book up to school tomorrow, he tells you, I'll give you twenty dollars for it.

* To sell the book to Dean: "The Lunch Bunch" 
* To keep it: "A Second Look at Sydney" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"