Masques of morality

School grinds on. In English class this week we spent too much time on paragraph structure and the types of conflict in narrative. I annoyed the teacher by doing my conflict chart in half the time she gave us to do it. It's rained all week, so everyone's stayed close to the school during free periods. It was a relief, for once, to sit in the library at the Learning Resources Table Centre for two hours after school.
The rain had stopped by the time I was leaving. I ran into Jeremy Jones near the guidance office. He had been in his in-school suspension.
"How are you doing," I asked him. "The principal's being really stupid blaming you for everything that happened."
"Yeah, it's pretty bad. The only one who doesn't think so is my dad."
"Is that good? Wait, you never see your dad..."
"Yeah, that's about it. He's really proud of me blowing my first gig due to drugs. He sent over a topless dancer to the house yesterday." He pulled a flyer out of his notebook and gave it to me.
"Looks familiar," I said. "Wait, it's Zenia." Jeremy nodded. "Well, that explains a lot. Now I know who the Picton Peeler is."
"What?" I explained that Picton was one of the residences at Mackenzie Bowell, and there were reports for the last month of a first year student who stripped for a party some third year students threw. A few of them took pictures and put them online, and the next thing anyone knew, the guys who took the pictures had strange accidents happen to them.
"Only Zenia could combine stripping and devouring men's entire beings," I said. Jeremy was lucky his mother threw Zenia out. "She didn't actually get into the house, did she?"