Dull Boy (11 page)

“I like to role-play and pretend that I am, um, Wolverine. From the X-Men. These are my claws.” I do a few karate-style swiping moves and end in a decent approximation of a fighting stance. Wipe my eyes again since they’re still churning out tears. Catherine’s mouth opens and stays that way.

“Mr. Pirzwick, come into my office before you hurt someone else.”

I fumble for my cue card and follow him in. Darla’s bouncing on her seat, grinning like a carnival clown. She holds up a piece of paper that has NOW: 82% CHANCE OF SUCCESS! written on it in thick black marker.

I’d like to hold up a piece of paper that says, WTF, I THOUGHT YOU WERE COMING WITH ME! But I don’t have one of those.

Wish me luck.

 

AT LUNCHTIME I GIVE DARLA THE VERDICT
. “You’re not even suspended?” she squeals. “That’s awesome! It was the tears, wasn’t it? See, I hesitated to spray you at first, but it turned out to be a genius move—”

I stop her with a glare that would wilt lettuce. My eyes stopped watering hours ago, but the pain and humiliation of being a human snot-cannon will last forever.

“Yeah, it was weird . . . the principal seemed almost sorry for me. We had a long talk about how I can’t let my delusions take over my life. Then he rearranged my schedule so that I have Reality Management last period.” Darla needs that class more than I do, but whatever. Catherine was deemed innocent, which is what really matters.

I scan the cafeteria for some sign of her, but I guess she’s lying low. I wish I knew what she was thinking. Are we cool now? Or not?

All’s well in the rest of cafeteria land: the Burnouts are gagging on NyQuil and ecstatically inhaling Sharpie fumes; the Thugs are freestyling; the Mary Janes are lavishing love on their Nintendogs.

Big Dawg and Butch and the other Bonecrushers are camped at their regular table, next to the out-of-order Coke machine. They must be feeling pretty Zen after having their asses handed to them—they’re busy playing paper football, ignoring the multitudes of potential victims. They haven’t even stolen anyone’s lunch money yet.

Maybe we
did
make a difference.

“I think it’s time I was totally honest with you,” Darla says. She squirms uncomfortably, like telling the truth causes her physical pain. “I’m not actually a juvenile delinquent.”

“You’re scaring me. What’s next? The earth is round?”

Darla sticks her tongue out. “Okay, so maybe that’s not a huge shock. But you asked me what I’m doing here, right? What’s in it for me?”

Darla slips some fake psychological evaluations and doctored school records from her backpack. “At the risk of sounding like a complete maniac: I infiltrated the school so I could get closer to you and Catherine. I created a fake criminal background for myself—mostly shoplifting and stealing my nana’s painkillers—because I thought if I had street cred it would help you trust me. I thought you were a badass.”

I smile. “I
am
a badass.”

“No, but, like, a real one. Anyway. You’re probably wondering why I’m interested in you and Catherine, since we don’t appear to have much in common.”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

Darla sucks in a breath. Holds it a few seconds before releasing it in an anxiety-filled rush. “I think you should meet my friends. I can’t explain everything here, but you guys have a lot to talk about. Stuff most people wouldn’t understand. We’re getting together Friday night at Sophie’s house. Sophie’s the girl who lent you her cell phone at Roast.”

“I remember her.” Of course I do.

My heart’s hammering. It’s not hard to read between the lines—I
know
what Catherine and I have in common. Is Darla saying that Sophie has powers, too?

How does she even know about us?

I want to ask her—my brain’s swarming with questions. But school doesn’t seem like the right place to get into it. Terror squeezes my stomach, mixes with the hopeful-nervous flutter of butterflies. This could change my whole life.

“Oh,” I say as Darla jots down Sophie’s address on a piece of paper. “Um. What time?”

“Five or so. Her parents have some dinner thing, so we’ll have the place to ourselves. You should invite Catherine, if you get a chance. I’d do it myself but I’m trying to respect her space. She kind of hates me.”

“Yeah . . . Me, too, I think. We’ll work on that.”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Darla slips a gift card out of her wallet and slides it across the table. It’s black with a picture of a purple robot on the front, and the exciting words TWO DOLLARS! coming out of the robot’s mouth, cartoon speech-bubble style. “This is for you.”

A two-dollar gift card? What store even sells those? I turn the card over to get an answer, but the opposite side is blank. There’s no trusty magnetic strip or string of numbers or fine print telling me where and when the card can be used. Darla must sense my disappointment.

“Um, it’s not
really
a gift card,” she says. “You did know that, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” I roll my eyes. “It’s a, um . . .” I turn the gift card upside down, trying to figure out what it’s supposed to be. No clue.

“Think of it as an e-book reader, only more compact,” Darla says. “You can keep it in your wallet or wherever, and hopefully no one will try to steal it, because who wants a two-dollar gift card, right?” She grins. “It’s a way for me to send you top-secret files without fear that they’ll be intercepted—it’s a zillion times more secure than e-mail or IM. The screen is on the back of the card, and it will only function while
your
left thumbprint is pressed to the robot’s head. If someone tries to look over your shoulder while you’re reading, take your thumb off the robot and the screen will black out. Right now I’ve only uploaded my personal file, but my friends have created files, too. I’ll send you those as soon as I think you’re ready.”

“Your personal file? Like . . . your permanent record?” I give her this confused look.

“No, silly. It’s everything I think you should know about me—since I already know a lot about you. It evens the score.” She smiles. “Just drag your finger down the screen to scroll. And make sure you read it today; the file’s set to auto-corrupt in sixteen hours.”

Why am I not surprised?

“Thanks,” I say, slipping the card into my backpack.

The rest of the day seems to fly by. Even Reality Management isn’t as bad as it could be. While the rest of the class is role-playing the proper way to behave in a restaurant, I’m spaced out in my own world, wondering what Sophie’s power could be. And since Darla said her
friends
need to talk to me, who else did she mean? That guy in the trench coat—Nicholas? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like me, but I’ve never met another guy with powers. It would be sweet to have a friend to watch sports with
and
talk powers with.

When the final bell rings, I rush to my locker—like if I hurry, everything will happen faster. Friday seems like a million years away, now that I know these other kids are out there. How are they coping? Do their parents know? I’m so busy going over the possibilities, I almost don’t notice the word
thanks
scratched into my locker door—until Catherine bumps me to get my attention.

“Hey,” she says. One corner of her mouth is turned up in an almost smile. “That stunt you pulled was pretty dumb. But it was cool of you.”

I shrug, like I do cool, stupid things all the time. “No problem. I hope to live it down one day.”

Then, since she’s not saying anything, and awkward silences are poison to new friendships: “So, um, do you want to maybe hang out Friday? There’s this party thing I’m going to, and . . .”

“Another party? Are the Pokémons invited?” She’s teasing me, though—I can tell. “I can’t. I have to work Friday.”

“Okay. Well, what about Saturday?”

Catherine shakes her head. “I work all weekend.”

Right. I wonder if I should ask her straight out if she’s blowing me off. But then I have this other, crazier thought: what if she’s doing what I used to do, claiming she has to work when she’s really going around town in amateur-vigilante mode, trying to make a difference in people’s lives?

Um. But Catherine actually
has
a job. Whereas I never had an extra-credit science project to do. Or any of the other projects I claimed to be working on.

“Well, maybe when you’re free sometime.” This is awkward as hell. It’s like asking a girl on a date, only it’s
not
a date. And it’s worse than that, because there aren’t a ton of fish in the superpowered sea. So if I screw this up . . .

“I’m not really free ever.”

“Ever?” I stare at her, maybe a little too intensely, looking for an explanation or something. Because—ever?

Catherine breaks eye contact, turns her attention to some gum on the floor. “Anyway, I have to go. I’ll probably see you if you stop by Roast. I’m usually there.”

She leaves me wondering what that was all about. And what else I don’t know about her.