Sidekicked (9 page)

“Yeah. I guess so.” She sounded somehow resigned to the fact. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” I said, hung up, and tried in vain to fall asleep.

Seven hours later, I am frantically getting dressed for school. My head is throbbing. It happens when I'm distracted. I can't focus. The result makes my head throb. I can sense everything around me.

The smell of the laundry in my hamper.

The weather report downstairs.

My father's dandruff shampoo.

The Hungs' yappy dog.

The incessant ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room.

The mildew in the shower.

The trash truck two blocks away.

The humming buzz of the electrical sockets.

I try to concentrate on what I'm doing, which is putting my socks on. The fuzz of the socks tickles the soles of my feet. I careen down the stairs and inhale a bowl of plain Rice Krispies, grab my bag, and head for the door. My mother lassoes me back with her grappling hook of a hand in order to give me a kiss on the cheek. I can tell by the vitamin-y smell on her lips that she is back on Slim-Fast again. She is already skinny, but apparently she wants to look like a supermodel. We all have expectations to live up to, I guess.

I set out at a quick jog and just manage to make my bus, nearly tripping and dropping my history presentation—poster, elephant, and all. The Lego man that's supposed to be Hannibal loses his spear, and it rolls under the seat. I hope that Mr. Broadside doesn't mind that Hannibal is bald and dressed like an astronaut.

The bus smells like exhaust, gym socks, and old leather. The bus driver smells like gym socks and smoke. I close my eyes and hope the day will be over soon.

No such luck.

The trunk breaks off my model war elephant ten minutes before my presentation on Hannibal's invasion of the Roman Empire and has to be reattached with Eric's chewing gum. Then I somehow manage to trip over the only line I have as Servant while reading Act II of
Julius Caesar
in English class. Everyone laughs, including the teacher. I laugh too, hoping that makes it more of a “with me” than an “at me” thing, but I don't think it works if you're faking it.

Oh. And it's Thursday, which means taco salad day at the cafeteria. It also means I actually have to eat lunch in the cafeteria—it's a no-H.E.R.O. day today.

Still, it could be worse. I don't have any harpoons or missiles to worry about. Today I'm just a normal kid with normal problems going to his normal math class waiting for his normal day to end.

Mr. McClain walks through the door, two or three students trying to squeeze in past him. “Put your books away,” he says.

I look at my backpack. My book
is
put away. I look at everyone else's books. Open on their desks. I look at everyone else's face. The pale, hollow look of resignation on some. The flush, flustered, frantic look of mad concentration on others. I hear Reggie Townsend whisper a prayer behind me.

I look up at the stack of papers in Mr. McClain's hand.

It's Thursday. Taco salad day.

Math test day.

“Make sure you have a pen or pencil and keep your arms and hands where I can see them. Robert, take that hat off. Ms. Greenway, please place your notebook
all
the way into your bag. This will take most of you the whole period.”

I managed to keep up with it all. The papers and the presentations and the loser superhero and the secret identity and the not dying. But somehow I forgot about the math test.

I look around me. I can see sweat bubbling on foreheads. I can hear heartbeats accelerate as the tests are passed back. Angela Locksford comes in late and hurries to her seat. I can smell the wintergreen Tic Tac in her mouth. Behind me, somebody moves his chair, and the sound of the metal feet scraping the hard floor causes my spine to quiver.

I think about Mr. Masters's watch. One minute is more than enough time to make it to the fire alarm and stop this thing.

One row across and two seats ahead, Natalie Cross, last year's mathlete champion, has her two mechanical pencils lined up beside her folded hands.

The girl in front of me whose name I can never remember hands back the test. It smells like printer ink and Mr. McClain's cologne. It's six pages long.

“You may begin,” he says.

From four rows away, Catherine Chow says, “I am
so
going to tank this thing,” under her breath, where only she and I can hear.

Someone in the back of the class emits an S.B.D.

I try to focus.

I look at the first problem. Something about
x
s and
y
s. There's a cube in there, too. I can only assume I'm supposed to solve something, reduce something, or balance something.

I should know this. I'm actually pretty good at math. Math is important to chemistry, and chemistry is important to sidekicks who have to wear utility belts full of gadgets and grenades to compensate for their crappy powers. But for some reason my brain is fried and the numbers look like a foreign language.

I glance around. Everyone has their heads huddled over their papers, pencils working furiously. I pick up my pencil, unsure of what to do with it.

And then my eyes stop on Natalie. Or at least the back of her head. And the brown hair that she just got cut a week ago, making it much easier to see over her shoulder. The way she is sitting, the angle that I'm at, I catch a glimpse of her answer form, but it's pretty far away. There's no way any normal person could see what she has written from here.

I look back down at my paper and try to concentrate.

I can't concentrate.

I close my eyes.

When I open them again, I look a little harder.

Natalie looks up for a moment and then writes something. The answer to number five, according to our class's top student, is twenty-four.

As it turns out, I don't have anything written for that one yet. I chew on the end of my pencil.

The Superhero Sidekick Code of Conduct is fairly clear about when a sidekick should or shouldn't use his powers. It's all pretty much spelled out in the very first rule.

He should use them to defend the greater good.

He should use them in the service of justice and honor.

He should use them to help those in need.

But when you think about it, that's all a little loosey-goosey, really. I mean, who defines
greater good
? Or
those in need
, for that matter? Right now I need an answer for number five.

I look at number five and try to work through the formula in my head. Twenty-four seems like a decent answer.

If I fail this test, then my grades might slip. If I don't get good grades, my parents won't let me stay in the Highview Environmental Reclamation Organization any longer. And then how am I supposed to learn to defend OCs from the forces of darkness? The pattern is clear. If I don't answer number five correctly, there is a very good chance that someone will die.

Natalie answers another one.

Besides, that girl is
really
good at math. Almost superhuman, you might say. She's using the natural gifts God gave her. I'm sure Captain Marvelous didn't let his super strength interfere with his ability to climb the rope in gym class. Do you think Invisilad ever got hit by a spitball? I doubt it. And how do you think H.E.R.O.'s own Jenna Jaden came to be captain of the gymnastics team? Sure, she holds back considerably, but she's still the only one who can do a double backflip.

Natalie Price is already on number eight. That means she is about to the turn the page.

I hear the Titan's voice in my head.

Save yourself for a change.

I focus on Natalie's paper.

Then I quickly answer the first seven problems. I wait a bit for the last one, the answer to which, apparently, is eleven point five.

Natalie turns the page.

I turn the page.

I finish my math test about the same time as she does, though I go back to change one answer in the middle, just in case things look suspicious.

I hold my test out to Mr. McClain with two minutes left.

He reaches out for it.

Our eyes meet.

He gives me a funny look. Head cocked to the side. I can see the gray hairs starting to infiltrate the legions of black ones in his mustache, can trace the growing path of the crows' feet by his eyes. He squints a little, a look of confusion or concern.

“Are you finished, Andrew?”

He looks down at my test, and I realize what the problem is.

I won't let go.

“Oh, sorry,” I croak. And the paper slides through my fingers.

Mr. McClain smiles. I smile. The bell rings.

Take that, forces of evil.

That afternoon Jenna walks home with Gavin again. She says there's a book he wants to borrow. I ask her why she doesn't just bring it to school tomorrow. She says she guesses she could, but she already told him to just come by and pick it up today. I ask her if, you know, everything's cool. She says, “Yeah, why not?” She asks me how the math test went. That's pretty much the end of that conversation. She smiles, and I can see by the look in her eyes that something's bothering her.

As she walks away, I can't help but wonder if I've said or done something wrong, something that would push her away. If so, I need to figure it out and make up for it. The Titan I can deal with. At least for a little while. So long as I stay out of trouble.

But I don't know what I'd do without Jenna.

B
y the end of the week, everything seems to be mostly back to normal. The hole in Jenna's side has healed. The Justicia community pool has been encased in concrete; the drones have been released from custody and gone back to their OC lives; the Supers are back to thwarting car thieves and purse snatchers, changing the spark plugs on their jet packs, or editing their memoirs; and the news has gone back to coverage of the growing number of politicians' scandals and exposés on the fat content of school lunches.

Don't get me wrong. I'm still miffed about the whole my-Superhero-mentor-is-a-beer-swilling, sidekick-abandoning-lout thing, but there isn't a lot I can do about it right now. Jenna says I may be better off without him. Mr. Masters says he will come around. I don't really know what to think anymore.

I
did
manage to ace my Spanish quiz, even studying only the fifteen minutes I had in homeroom. And despite my elephant's lopsided schnoz and my bald, spearless, spaceman general, Mr. Broadside said my history presentation on Hannibal was excellent, though he pointed out that the opposing Roman general who defeated Hannibal was named Scippio, not Scorpio, which is the problem with spell check, I guess.

I don't know how I did on the math test yet, but I asked Natalie how she thinks she did and she's pretty sure she aced it, so I'm pretty sure I aced it.

The bell rings for fourth period, and I gather my stuff and head up toward the teachers' lounge. Time to H.E.R.O. up. Today we are supposed to practice hacking into computer mainframes. Finally something that Gavin's big biceps won't give him an advantage in.

Plus it's Friday. Pizza day. Mr. Masters is probably paying for the pies now and handing them off to Nikki, who will use her powers to sink into the ground and sneak them into the basement so that the other teachers don't see. I still can't figure out how she does it—something about autonomic molecular reconfiguration—a fancy way of saying she “just walks through stuff.” I figure of all of us, she's the most likely to change her mind about the whole sidekick thing, drop out of school, and become a bank robber.

I run into Jenna waiting outside the door of the lounge. She looks the same as always. Glasses perched. Hair pulled back. Tiny mole on her chin. Every time I see her, I kind of feel like I'm just waking up.

My eyes start to water.

Something's not right.

I look around to see if it might be someone else, but I can pinpoint exactly where it's coming from. There's no mistake.

Jenna's wearing perfume.

Jenna
never
wears perfume. In fact, it was Jenna who once told me that only old ladies and middle-aged soccer moms wear perfume.

I start to say something when I suddenly hear familiar footfalls behind me. I turn to see Mr. Masters with Eric, Gavin, and Nikki in tow. No one is carrying pizza, and Mr. Masters does
not
look happy. The sleeves are rolled up on his canary-yellow shirt. His sweater vest is all angry zigzags again.

“Come on,” he says, removing his watch and looking at Jenna and me. “Something has happened.”

I know, I want to say. Jenna Jaden is wearing
perfume
. But I'm pretty sure Mr. Masters is thinking of something else.

Sixty cents later, we are descending the stairs. For once I can't smell the pork rinds. All I can smell is Jenna. As we take our seats, Eric spells out the word
lunch
, but the head of H.E.R.O. isn't paying any attention. He takes his spot front and center, and I take my usual spot next to Jenna.

“Did you hug your grandmother or something today?”

“What are you talking about?”

I make an exaggerated sniffing sound.

“Oh. It's just body spray. Sorry. Is it too much?”

She really looks concerned, raising her eyebrows at me. From the moment she found out about me, Jenna has always been sensitive to my abilities. When we listen to music, she doesn't crank it up, even when it's a song she likes. When we go out to eat together, she doesn't overdo it on the pepper. She doesn't
have
to do these things, of course, but I let her, because I like that she thinks about me.

“No, it's fine. Don't worry.”

“Do you want me to move over?”

“No, seriously, don't worry about it,” I say.

She smiles, but still she scoots in her chair, closer to Gavin, who sits on the other side.