Sidekicks (13 page)

“You could wear a sports bra … or I've heard that some ballerinas tape theirs down.”

“Tell you what, I'll tape my boobs down when you tape your balls down.”

I clear my throat. “Fair enough. No tape, then. Now, I do believe it's my turn.”

“Whatever … I think I'm all out of tights jokes at the moment, anyway, so go ahead. Even though I think I already know what's coming.”

“Why are you a villain?” As I say it, she mouths the words with me. “OK, so I'm obvious. Just answer the question.”

“I don't consider myself a villain,” she says.

“All right … then why are you a sidekick to a villain?”

“I don't think my dad is a villain, either. And I'm not just saying that because he's my dad. Trust me, I'm pretty ticked off at him right now.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Guess you'll have to wait for your next turn.”

“Fine. You still haven't answered my original question yet.”

“All right … look, think about all the ‘crimes' my father has committed. How many people have actually gotten hurt? Hm? And I'm not talking big businessmen getting financially hit. I'm talking actual people, getting physically hurt. How many?”

I think about it, but I really don't have to. I know the point she's making. “I'm guessing none.”

“One. An old security guard had a heart attack a few years ago on that secret soda recipe thing. Remember that?”

I nodded. It was a long time ago, but I remembered. Can-do Cola had some secret, new-flavor formula they were trying to protect. They said it was going to revolutionize the entire soda industry. “Yeah, your dad was trying to steal that soda recipe so he could sell it on the black market.”

“What?! Where'd you hear that?”

“Oh, come on! What else would he want it for?”

“Uhh, hello? Disgustingly unhealthy new soda, destined to create a whole new generation of morbidly
obese children, and a corporation that only cared about the money it was going to make them. He was going to destroy it.”

“Bull. He did it for the money!”

She laughs dismissively. “Yeah, I don't think so. My dad's a plus intelligence. You know how many patents he has? A ton. Trust me, money is not a problem.”

“OK … if you say so.”

“I can tell you don't believe me, but I don't care. I'm continuing my story. So … anyway … the poor, old security guard was only a couple of days from retirement when he had his heart attack, of course,” she says. “So what did the company do? They fired him! The big jerks slashed his pension in half! They said that because of his incompetence, we almost got away with that stupid secret formula.”

I laugh. “They made such a big deal about that garbage.”

“I know! Did you try it?”

“Yeah. It was horrible. Tasted like melted cherry lollipops.”

“Right? Bleh … soooo sweet,” she says. “Anyway, when my dad found out the guard couldn't work again, he ended up paying the guy's hospital bills. Then he
stuck a couple mil in his bank account … anonymously, of course.”

“Bull.”

“I have the bank statement at home to prove it. Trust me, if I didn't see that statement, I wouldn't believe it, either.”

“All right … even if your dad did give money to a guy who had a heart attack because of him, that still doesn't excuse the fact that he's a criminal. He steals stuff. He destroys stuff that isn't his. He threatens the safety of every person in this city.”

“No, he doesn't. He threatens the safety of every
corporation
in the city. Big difference.”

“No, there isn't. Corporations are legal. Even if your dad
is
stealing stuff from them just to destroy it, it's still illegal.”

“You are so naive! Corporations are the ones that are evil and greedy and don't care who they hurt! They use their money and power to bully people, and people don't even realize it! They get away with murder! Literally! And people don't care! My dad tries to make them care. Or at least open their eyes to what's going on.”

“Look … even if that is true—and I don't think it is—there are LEGAL ways to do that.”

She laughs. “Puh-leeeze. The law is a joke. It's bought and sold every day on the open market. And who does the buying? The guys with all the money. And what do they buy? Their ability to do whatever they want without anyone bothering them.”

“Then go after them with the law! Use your powers to expose them legally!”

“They're too powerful and crafty!”

“Then try harder!”

Somehow, we're standing face-to-face, our faces an inch apart. When she yells at me, I can smell her gum: cinnamon, spicy. My stomach does a little flip, like the first time I jumped off a building. I take a step back. I have to remember my mission … stay close to her. This may be a little too close.

“Sorry I was yelling,” I say.

Her eyes have dropped away from me, and she's looking at the gargoyle. Maybe I'm imagining things, but she looks nervous all of a sudden. “It's OK. Bound to happen sooner or later. We are archenemies, y'know.” She looks at me and smiles. My stomach flips again, and I realize I'm holding my breath. I let it go and smile back at her. What is my problem? “OK, mortal enemy … my turn. Do you ever feel lonely?”

“What?!” I start laughing. “No.”

“Really … because every time I see you, you look lonely.”

“Um, excuse me, but aren't you the girl who didn't even recognize me last night?”

“I recognized you. I just didn't know your name.”

“Isn't knowing someone's name the definition of recognizing someone?”

“Shut up.” She laughs. “You know what I mean. I knew you. My friends and I called you That Lonely Kid … when we weren't calling you Steve, that is.”

“Awesome. That makes me feel much better.”

“So … answer the question.”

“Yeah, I guess. But doesn't everyone?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Not an ‘Oh, my friends aren't here, so I'm a little lonely today,' kinda way. More of an ‘I don't connect with people at all ever' kinda way.”

“I don't know.”

“That's a yes.”

“No, that's an ‘I don't know.'”

“If it was a no, you'd know it. Since you don't know, it's a yes.”

“What are you, an evil supershrink?” I ask.

“HA! I love it! Maybe I'll transition from Monkey-wrench to Evil Supershrink over the next couple of years. Now THAT'S going to be a hard costume to design.”

“Well, wait … what about you? Aren't you lonely?”

“There's your turn.”

“Fine, it's my turn. Answer the question.”

“No, I'm not. Not anymore. Unlike you, I actually made an effort to make friends.”

“Yeah, but they don't know you. I mean they know you, Allison Mendes, but they don't know you, Monkeywrench, evil sidekick.”

“OK, first, you need to put the brakes on the whole ‘evil' thing. We settled that. It's dead. Got it, Bright Buns?”

“Well, I thought we settled the costume thing, yet there you go with the whole Bright Buns thing again …”

“We did. I just had to get one last one in. Mm-kay?”

“Whatever.”

“OK, on to your yet another completely naive point. No, my friends don't know that I'm Monkeywrench. I mean, God, can you imagine?” She changes her posture ever so slightly, and her face scrunches, like she just ate a whole lemon. “Come on, girls,” she says in her screechy,
Monkeywrench voice, “let's go see a movie this weekend! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

I cringe. “Gahh. I hear that voice in my nightmares. And is that what your face looks like under the mask when you're doing it?”

“Shut up! You are the last person that should be poking fun at someone's superhero appearance.”

“Careful …”

“Or what?”

“Evil!” I yell.

“Buns!” she yells.

We're both laughing hard now. “I always knew you were a big jerk,” she says.

“No, you always knew Bright Boy was a big jerk. Me, you had no idea.”

“Fine … my point is that you're the only person who knows completely who you are. Everyone else sees a side of you. My dad sees me one way, my teachers see me another, my friends—”

“Me.”

She pauses. “You … see me another way.”

“It's funny,” I say, “but out of everyone we know, we're the ones who sees the most sides of each other.” It was
meant to be an offhand comment, but the minute I said it, we both felt it. It had the weight of truth.

“Everyone has different sides to their personality,” she says, trying to lighten the moment. “Except Jake Berkshire.”

“Ugh, what an idiot.”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure that guy's only operating on one level.”

“Barely,” I say. “You know it's a constant struggle for me to not kick the ever-lovin' snot out of him? Every day, I have to tell myself it's a no-win situation. But, man, would it feel good to just unleash on him.”

She gives me a sly, sideways smile.

“What?” I ask her.

“Nothing. It's just … I guess I always thought you were going to be this huge weenie… not you ‘you', Bright Boy, you …”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“It's a pleasant surprise.”

“What is?”

“That you're more of a dork than a weenie.”

“You give the worst compliments, you know that?”

“Is that your question?”

“Yes, it was,” I say, “and you asking if that was my question was yours.”

“Argh!”

“My turn! My question is why are you angry at your dad, apart from him being a villain and all?”

She gives me a playful slap on the arm.

“Ow!” I say, rubbing my arm.

“You're actually not completely wrong. I am mad because of the whole
villain
thing, but not the way you think.” She takes a deep breath. “I spent my whole childhood friendless, missing out on all the stuff that normal kids do, all because my dad wanted to take down some evil corporations, which I still respect, you know? No, you don't know,” she says before I can respond. “It's just … I have a normal life now … somewhat … and he has to pop up out of nowhere and dredge all this stuff up again. I agree with his message—I just wish he could deliver it without the tights.”

“Well, you know—”

“If you're about to say, ‘Then why don't you go straight?' you might as well save it, OK? Not going to happen.”

“Fine. I guess we'll just have to remain mortal enemies.”

“Fine.” She grabs my arm in excitement. “OK, my turn!”

“Shoot.”

There's that sly smile again, the one that gives my stomach a workout … the one I have a hard time looking away from. “Want me to help you pick out a new outfit?”

she calls from outside the dressing room.

I'm in the only dressing room in the back of Jimmy's Army/Navy Surplus Store, looking into a mirror at a kid I don't recognize. He looks like a much cooler version of me.

“Come on!!” she yells.

“You pick this stuff out just to set me up?” I ask. “So you can knock me around a little easier?”

“Oh, puh-leeeze. I don't need any help knocking you around. Now step out here before I prove it.”

I step out. Allison stares at me.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“I think it looks all right,” I say tentatively.

“You idiot. You look AMAZING.”

It's all navy blue, formfitting, but not in a prima ballerina way, more like a really cool woven leather–type outfit. But it doesn't look like a jumpsuit or a pair of tights anymore; it looks more like a combat outfit. There are a few bright yellow and orange highlights … just enough to justify the Bright Boy name, but not enough to be too tacky. It's worlds away from the deranged circus outfit I'm used to wearing.