Sidekicked (15 page)

My mother notices me and pats a spot beside her on the couch. As I sit, she puts a hand on my knee, comforting and uncomfortable all at once.

On TV the Fox stares into the camera. A small crowd stands behind her—all stars from the forces of goodness and light. The mayor and the Justicia police commissioner stand to her left. Cryos stands behind her, his cybernetic eye glowing like a hot coal, his cold-fusion blaster arm hanging by his side. And beside him, Hotshot, Gavin's Super, is dressed in his customary orange and yellow, with swirling red flames trailing down the sleeves of his fireproof suit, a halo of blue flames flickering from his crown. No sign of the Rocket. Apparently Mike's Super still hasn't left the house.

No sign of the Titan either.

Not that they need him. There's enough power behind that podium to take down a deck full of villains. It's actually kind of thrilling to see them standing there together.

But they aren't really together. This isn't the Legion of Justice. The other Supers stand behind the Fox, like backup singers waiting for the chorus. The camera is focused on her.

“Hello, citizens,” she says in her growling, gravelly voice that Mike calls sultry. “Please excuse this interruption, but I want to take this opportunity to assure you that, despite recent events, there is no cause for alarm. The superhero community is doing everything it can to assist both government offices and local law enforcement agencies in apprehending the criminals known as the Suits.” The Fox takes a moment to acknowledge the mayor and the commissioner, both of whom look down at their polished shoes. Then she continues. “I promise that it is only a matter of time before the Dealer and his men are brought to justice. Until then, I ask all of you to remain calm and go about your ordinary lives. I also ask that
all
Supers and anyone charged with supporting their efforts remain vigilant and answer the call that their Code commands. I give you my personal assurance that those responsible will answer for their crimes. Thank you.”

The camera zooms in and freezes for a moment on Justicia's white-masked crime fighter and she does that thing again, with the little wreathes of electricity around her eyes. I try to imagine the Dealer, sitting in his cave or his secret hideout or whatever hole he's found, watching her. It would be enough to make me pack up the Suits and find an island volcano to retire in.

“Oh, well then, I guess we have nothing to worry about, do we?” Dad says. “The electrified vixen in the white suit's going to take care of everything.”

It doesn't take extraordinary senses to detect my father's sarcasm.

“I wouldn't call her a vixen, honey. Vixens are mean. She's not mean.”

“She certainly
looks
mean,” Dad says. “Did you see that thing she did with her eyes? It's a wonder she still has any eyebrows left. And that man with his head on fire. These people are a walking hazard.”

“I think the mayor looked worried,” Mom adds. “Do you think he looked worried? And who was the robot man in the background? Not sure I've seen him before.”

“Cyborg, Mom,” I say, though I realize maybe that's not something I should know.

“Cyborg, of course,” Dad says. “I always said we needed a good cyborg in this city. Not enough of
them
around.” Dad shakes his head and changes the channel, but the Fox is everywhere. The message is being replayed and analyzed. Finally he just turns it off.

“Who's up for a game of cards?” he says, slapping his knees and standing. He looks down at me and smiles, but I can't help but stare at the television, still picturing the Fox, standing there, commanding everyone to answer the call.

“Sorry, Dad,” I say. “I've still got work to do.”

I
t's Tuesday, the third Tuesday of the month. And according to the menu magneted to our fridge, that means it's chicken nugget day, which is all well and good providing you don't think about all the parts of a chicken you wouldn't eat if you knew better, which is a lot of it, really. It doesn't matter how much fried batter you put around a thing, it can still be awful at the core.

It's Tuesday, and the Fox's announcement seems to have restored some of the public's faith. The morning headlines are boldface, all caps.
FOX VOWS TO BRING DOWN DEALER. CITY'S CHAMPION PROMISES JUSTICE.
There's even a quote in one article, supposedly from the Fox herself, saying that she will do “what the Supers who came before me never could.” I suppose if anyone can, it's her, yet I can't seem to shake this feeling in my gut. That there's something we're all missing.

Which is why I'm on my bike when I should be at school. Riding to the south end of town, past the graffiti-covered tunnels and the stinking sewer grates, wondering what my parents would say if they knew what I'm doing. If they knew that I am skipping school to go to a bar. To meet up with my superhero mentor. Again.

Twice we have spoken since he dumped me outside Bob's Bowlarama. Twice I have tried to convince him that he has a responsibility—if not to me, then at least to the Code, to the community. To truth, justice, freedom of assembly—I don't care, as long as it's something. Both times he's blown me off, swatting me away like a gnat. The second time, I swore it was the last. I gave up.

But that was before Mr. Masters pulled me aside. Before the three remaining Jacks escaped from prison. Before the last villain the Titan ever faced, the man who had supposedly died at his own hands, came back from the dead.

Mr. Masters was worried, and though I still felt like there was something the head of H.E.R.O. was hiding from me, I couldn't deny the logic. Whatever happened between the Dealer and the Titan so many years ago was enough to send the leader of the Legion of Justice into a downward spiral. Now the Dealer was back. And the group of heroes who stopped him was no more, its members either retired, missing, or dead.

Except for one.

Which is why I'm skipping school.

Convincing my parents to let me stay home was the easy part. I only had to throw up. Twice. All I needed was a trigger—something to get the stomach rolling. Like the smell of rotting garbage in the Randals' driveway, tipped in the night by a raccoon. Eggs overdue and a gallon of putrid milk plus one finger in the throat, and last night's dinner is on the esophageal express to toilet town.

“No fever,” my mom said, shaking the thermometer the way she has seen them do in old movies even though it's digital and goes in my ear. “I guess it's just something you ate.”

I told her I'd be fine. That she was late for work. She told me she'd call me at lunch to see how I was feeling. I made a note of it, then waited for the sound of her van turning the corner before I bothered to get dressed.

The ride to the Last Hurrah seems to take a lot longer this time. Along the way, I plan what I'm going to say. Something about the Dealer and the three Jacks and Mr. Masters, and how the world needs the Titan to come back and do his job. I won't make it about me. He's made it clear that I'm not one of his priorities. I'll appeal to his sense of justice and honor. And if that doesn't work, I'll tell him he's in mortal danger. And I suppose if
that
doesn't work, I'll call him a chicken and make those squawking noises like we did in first grade to kids who wouldn't jump off the swings. I hated that.

My bicycle is the only thing parked outside the Last Hurrah at nine thirty in the morning. The sign says
OPERATING HOURS: NOON TO THREE A.M.
I peer through the window. The lights in the bar are off, but I can make out a faint glow coming from the back hall, enough to see that the place is empty.

I sit on the steps, letting my back slide down the door, my head resting in my hands. I don't know what I expected. To find him still on the stool, maybe, or passed out on the floor. Or maybe sleeping on a bench outside. I look around. A man walking his dog. An older woman carrying her basket of clothes from the Laundromat next door. Two guys in black jackets standing at the corner. One of them looks at me, and I quickly look away.

I think maybe I'll just sit here for the next five hours and hope he shows up.

Or maybe I'll just walk around the seediest part of town I can find until somebody mugs me or kidnaps me, on the off chance that
this
time he will show up.

I'm debating my options when there's a
click
and I nearly fall backward as the door I'm leaning against swings open. I turn to see the Last Hurrah's bartender standing in the frame. He's wearing a bathrobe cinched tight and a hat that says
PICK UP THE TAB
.

“Little early to be lookin' for a drink,” he says. “Little young, too.”

“Sorry,” I say, standing up and straightening myself out. “I was . . . I mean, I
am
looking for someone. I think he comes here a lot.”

The man scratches his chin and then rests his hand on the natural shelf of his belly. He smells like cigarettes, beer, and maple syrup. “A lot of people come here a lot,” he replies.

“Yeah, but this guy you'd remember. Tall. Big arms. Big chest. Big everything. Sits back in the corner . . .” I can tell by the look in the man's glossy eyes that he knows exactly who I'm talking about.

“Sorry, kid, but I haven't seen him in almost a week. Not since
you
came in last.” The bartender smiles, and I see he's got one silver tooth, like a pirate. If I look hard enough, I can see my reflection it. “Don't get too many customers your age,” he explains. “Besides . . . he told me you might come lookin' for him.”

“He did?” That doesn't sound like the Titan.

The bartender nods. “He said to tell you to just stop already. Stop botherin' him. Stop lookin' for him. Stop even thinkin' about him. He says you're better off if you just forget about him entirely.”

Never mind. That sounds
exactly
like him. I look down at the steps for a moment, then back up at the silver tooth.

“I don't suppose you know where he went or where I could find him?”

The pirate bartender shakes his head. “You don't hear too well, do you?”

“Actually, hearing is a strength of mine,” I say. “It's listening I have trouble with.”

He grunts at my joke, then sighs. “Not that it's any of my business,” he says. “I don't know that he
lives
anywhere. But I do know he's got a friend picks him up sometimes when it's closin' time. Don't know who this friend is or where he lives—only that his name's Red.”

“Red,” I whisper. Color of fire trucks and apples and that really great sweater Jenna wears sometimes with the three buttons. And my eyeballs in just about every family photo. Also the name of guys in Westerns, usually cooks, who end up shot about halfway through. I have no idea who Red is.

“Okay. Thanks.” I turn to mount my bike, but the bartender stops me, motions for me to come back. He leans against the door and kind of squints at me with one eye.

“Listen, kid. I seen a lot a men. Good men. Strong men.
Proud
men. But they come through this door all beat down and bowled over by one damned thing or another. They come through that door with that somethin' lodged inside 'em, so they can't swallow. And they try to drown it, fast as they can. But it doesn't work. They leave with it still stuck there.” The bartender points to his chest. “I don't know your friend very well, and I don't know what's goin' on between you two, but I hope it's that you are lookin' to help
him
and not the other way round.”

The man straightens up and leans in the doorframe again, arms crossed. I mean to say thanks, but it feels like there's something caught in my throat too, so instead I just nod and get back on my bike.

“And don't come back here until you at least know how to shave,” the bartender shouts behind me.

I start for home with only a color. When I get back I can search online, but with no last name, I'm not hopeful. I could always ask Mr. Masters. He might know something, though I'm still not a hundred percent sure I trust him, either. Or that he trusts me.

It's all just a big jumble in my head. The Titan. The Dealer. Mr. Masters. The Fox. Jenna. The Suits. I feel like a spectator watching it all unfold. And every time I
try
to do something, I run into a dead end. A pool of acid. An empty bar. A new body spray.

It's starting to tick me off.

I pass the entrance to Ellis Park and check my phone. It's only ten o'clock. I've got two more hours before I need to be home to intercept my mother's call. I let my bike drop in the grass, and I drop down beside it.

On the weekends, the park is swarming with kids, but on this Tuesday morning it's mostly empty. I find a spot in the shade to cool off. The breeze feels nice, and I open up a little. I can smell the moisture in the air, laced with the perfume of the clover in the field below. I lie back in the grass and let it tickle my ears. I try to block out the sound of traffic and construction crews filling potholes and concentrate on what's right around me. Squirrels fussing. Bees humming. I can hear the trees talking, their branches creaking, stretching their limbs, the whisper of the leaves holding out for October, less than a week away.

Then I close my eyes and let it all drift. One by one, the sounds disappear. I take deep breaths and let them out as slowly as possible. Until there is nothing. Only the coolness of the ground on my back and the suggestion of light beyond my eyes. I try to let go of everything. The Titan. Mr. Masters. The Suits.
Julius Caesar
. The math test. The homework I didn't get done. The shoplifter I didn't tackle. Even Jenna. Just let it all go.

And drift away.

The buzzing wakes me up. It's coming from my pocket. I fish out my phone. Two missed calls. And a text.