Action Figures - Issue Four: Cruel Summer

by Michael C Bailey

  “All right. Anything else?” Edison asks. I shake my head. He checks his hand-written agenda. “That was the last item, so unless anyone has something to add...?”

  “I do.” I jump out of my chair and whirl around, my hands blazing with energy begging for release. The Entity calmly walks up to me and glances down at my hands. “Stop it.”

  “Hey, look who decided to show the blank space that passes for his face,” Natalie says.

  “You really need to learn how to knock like a human being,” I pant, my heart racing.

  “I’ll get right on that,” the Entity says in that bizarre, hollow, unearthly monotone of his. “I have something to say.”

  Edison smiles indulgently. “The floor is yours,” he says, twirling his gavel.

  “I want it on the record that I object to the Hero Squad’s involvement with the Protectorate,” the Entity says.

  “What?” I say. “Why?”

  “You don’t belong here. You’re children playing an adult’s game.”

  “What are you, the new Concorde?” I say. “No offense, Edison.”

  “None taken.”

  “The Squad are amateurs,” the Entity says, “and amateurs don’t belong on the Protectorate.”

  “You’ve got some nerve coming in here and making demands,” Natalie says, rising up to glower at the Entity face-to-face. Or face-to-blank mask, rather. “You blow off missions, you rarely respond to our calls for assistance, and this is, what, maybe the third meeting you’ve ever attended? You’re barely part of this team yourself, but you’re going to tell us who can and can’t be on the Protectorate?”

  “I helped found this team,” the Entity says, “and I’ve always been there when you needed me.”

  “You’re right,” Edison says, “but so is Natalie. We tried to contact you when we were deciding whether to partner with the Hero Squad and you didn’t respond. You weren’t at the meeting where we voted on the matter. You haven’t said one word since we started working with them officially. You had a chance to weigh in and as far as I’m concerned, you passed on it, so it’s too late to complain now.”

  “Fine. I’ll remember you said that when the Hero Squad comes to a bad end, and mark my words: they will come to a bad end.”

  Without another word, the Entity picks a container up off the table, looks inside it, closes it up, and leaves the common room (through the door, which is a novelty for the guy).

  “What just happened?” Astrid says.

  “For starters, he stole the pork-fried rice,” Natalie says. “Asshat.”

  “Did we do something?” I say.

  “Oh, who knows? He always has his undies in a bunch over something.”

  “Don’t worry about the Entity,” Bart says. “The man’s mostly smoke and mirrors. He’s only dangerous if you’re the bad guy.”

  I might find that more comforting if I believed the Entity defined good guys and bad guys the same way we non-creepy humans do.

  “Let’s try this again. Anything else?” Edison says, giving it a three-count before rapping his gavel to signal the end of the meeting. We get up and start gathering our belongings.

  “Great. Now let’s get out of here while there’s still a Friday night to enjoy,” Astrid says. “Who’s up for a round at McKenzie’s? I’m buying.”

  “If you’re buying,” Edison says.

  “I’ll go for the company,” Bart says.

  “Sure,” Catherine says.

  “Carrie?” Astrid says. “You in?”

  “Um...I’m sixteen,” I say.

  Astrid blinks at me. “Oh. Right. Sorry. Natalie?”

  Natalie checks her phone. “I have time for one quick round, but I have to get home. I haven’t seen Derek all week and we have some, ah, catching up to do,” she says with a knowing wink.

  “Gotcha. On that note, I’m letting you know right now that if I see an opportunity to get lucky, I will abandon you in a hot second. Wanted to put that out there.”

  “Been having a dry spell?” Natalie says, lowering her voice slightly.

  “Three weeks.”

  “Ouch. Good luck.”

  “I’m sorry, are you talking about hooking up with some random man?” I say.

  “Or woman,” Astrid says. “Whichever.”

  “Wow.”

  “Really? That bothers you? I didn’t think you were such a prude.”

  “I am not a prude,” I insist, “but come on.”

  “Carrie, I’m going to say something most adults are too gutless to admit to teenagers: sex is good,” Astrid says. “It’s good, it’s natural, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I recommend it.”

  “As long as you’re smart about it,” Natalie adds. “Condoms, always — are you on birth control?”

  “Excuse me. I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop having this conversation,” Edison says, agitated. “It’s making me deeply uncomfortable.”

  You and me both. I mean, no one has ever talked about sex so frankly around me, so the shock value is fresh and still has that new touchy subject smell. My parents were downright Puritanical when it came to discussing “it,” Mom especially. To this day she gets twitchy whenever I mention sex, regardless of the context. I know the mechanics thanks to informative but bland presentations in school health classes, and I’m aware of the risks of unprotected sex, but all I have are the basics. The nuances are a total mystery — and I certainly have no experience with the, ahem, practical applications.

  Not that I haven’t thought about that, mind you. There have been a few evenings with Malcolm when that little devil on my shoulder has made some very convincing arguments.

  “Just because you have no sex life,” Astrid snarks.

  Edison frowns. “It has nothing to do with anyone’s sex life —”

  “Or lack thereof,” Astrid mumbles.

  “— and everything to do with the fact that Carrie, as she herself has pointed out, is sixteen. It’s not an appropriate topic for a teenager, so stop.”

  As soon as Edison leaves the room to get his coat, Natalie says to Astrid, “And that attitude is why teenagers are so damn ignorant about sex.”

  “Testify,” Astrid says.

  Edison promised to have me out of the meeting by eight. He makes good on that promise; I exit the Protectorate’s Main Street office at 7:45, which leaves me plenty of time to walk the half-block down to Mr. Crenshaw’s office at Town Hall Square. His office is, in fact, uncomfortably close to the office occupied by Steiger and Associates Financial Services, a.k.a. Matt’s dad’s office, a.k.a. that place where we walked in on Mr. Steiger sucking face with his receptionist. There’s something I wish I could un-see.

  The Law Firm of Crenshaw and Associates is dark inside. It’s been closed for the weekend for a few hours, but as far as Malcolm knows I was here this evening for an important staff meeting and expected to be out by eight. At 7:56, Malcolm pulls into the parking lot to see me standing outside the office. Oh no, I haven’t been waiting long at all, ten minutes maybe? The meeting wrapped up a little early. No, it was kind of boring. I didn’t understand most of what was going on, but Mr. Crenshaw wanted me there, so...

  I run up to the car and jump into the passenger’s seat to receive my hello kiss. “Hey you,” Malcolm says.

  “Hey, you,” I say.

  “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Oh no, I haven’t been waiting long at all, ten minutes maybe?”

  “And here I thought I’d be early.”

  “The meeting wrapped up a little early.”

  “Cool. Hope it was interesting.”

  “No, it was kind of boring. I didn’t understand most of what was going on, but Mr. Crenshaw wanted me there, so...”

  Malcolm nods. Deception complete. Guilt levels rising.

  “Food now?” Malcolm says. Oh, right, we had dinner plans, didn’t we? Nuts. Shouldn’t have pigged out on Chinese. “I was thinking about trying McKenzie’s right down the block.”

 
I suppress a minor panic attack. “Isn’t McKenzie’s a bar?”

  “It’s a restaurant with a bar. Dad said they have some great food.”

  I pretend to consider it. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood for Irish food.”

  “Okay. Chinese?”

  Oh, God, no. “Mm, not feeling it. You know what sounds good? Hitting the Country Kettle for pancakes.”

  “Breakfast for dinner?” Malcolm says, amused. “That’s crazy. I love it.”

  The Country Kettle is a casual restaurant that strives for a Colonial inn vibe, with lots of dark woodwork and brass fixtures. Our waitress puts us at a table in the center of the main dining room. That means the clientele, mostly older couples enjoying a quiet night out at a restaurant not generally frequented by the high school crowd, can get a good look at us. As I skim the menu, on the lookout for something light, I catch glimpses of the old ladies scoping us out and smiling fondly. As well they should. We are a cute couple.

  “Things seem to be going well for you at work,” Malcolm says, abruptly jumping back to our original topic. “Your boss wouldn’t ask you to stay for a late meeting if he didn’t think you’d benefit from it.”

  “True enough, and there’s been some idle talk about keeping me on for the summer,” I say distractedly. The menu taunts me with a full-color picture of a scrumptious-looking plate of blueberry pancakes, and my stomach gurgles with fraudulent hunger.

  “That’d be great. I’ve been sniffing around for some summer work myself. I know I could go back to working the parking lot for the whale watching tour boats. It was easy, the money was good...”

  “I sense a but...”

  “Yeah.” Malcolm is quiet for a few seconds, and he looks about as genuinely interested in the menu as I do. “My dad thinks he can get me a summer position at his friend’s company. He has a multimedia production business, works a lot with local businesses on ad campaigns, websites, that kind of thing.”

  “Sounds promising,” I say.

  “It’d be good experience considering I’ve been thinking of going into marketing when I head off to college. Plus, the owner is a Stanford alum and he said he could put in a good word for me.”

  He says this with such a casual air that it almost slips past me. “Stanford?”

  He refuses to make eye contact.

  “That’d be great if you could get into Stanford,” I say, and I’ve become such a skilled liar that I sound completely and utterly sincere and not at all like I’m freaking out over my boyfriend’s stealth announcement that he’s thinking about attending college three thousand miles away.

  Okay, Carrie, take a breath. He’s not breaking up with you. He’s not even saying he’s definitely going to Stanford, only that it’s an option — and he still has, what, a good six months before he has to start applying to colleges? A lot can happen between now and then. Better options could arise. He could choose a college that isn’t in freakin’ California...!

  (No, stop. Calm down.)

  Hey, even if he did go to California, so what? What’s three thousand miles to me? I can cover three thousand miles in a few minutes.

  ...Which doesn’t do me a bit of good considering Malcolm doesn’t know about Lightstorm.

  Dammit.

  “I’m still shopping around for schools,” Malcolm says, perhaps sensing my epic case of internal turmoil, “so Stanford might not happen, but it’s nice to have that on my menu of options.”

  “Speaking of menus,” I say, “we should decide what we want.”

  “Yeah, we should,” Malcolm says.

  I get a short stack of blueberry pancakes. Malcolm orders an omelet.

  We leave the Country Kettle with half our food sitting on our plates, cold and uneaten.

  FIVE

  We spend the rest of the night in a state of unspoken but mutually agreed-upon denial, which is a polite way of saying we drive to the beach, park, watch the ocean until that gets boring (that takes all of five minutes), then hop in the back seat and make out like there’s no tomorrow (because when has talking ever solved a problem?). Once again, the temptation to move beyond kissing and letting our hands roam is powerful; that little devil is particularly loud and insistent tonight, and why am I not surprised to realize that my devil is speaking to me in Astrid’s voice?

  I’m actually grateful when a cop knocks on the steamed-up window and firmly but politely advises us to move along. That healthy scare deflates our libidos so immediately and completely that we decide to call it a night. Besides, we rationalize, Malcolm has a family thing tomorrow, and I have Sara and Missy’s birthday party. Getting a good night’s sleep is for the best, right? Right.

  No one greets me when I get home. Mom’s out for the evening, probably with Ben, and Granddad must be in bed already. Wise man. I follow his lead and turn in early.

  My dreams are decidedly R-rated, and I wake up sweaty and frustrated. Subconscious, why do you hate me so much?

  After a cold shower and some hot coffee, I head over to Sara’s. A weight settles into my stomach as I approach the house. At my urging, Sara honored her punishment for the rest of the week and went straight home after school. My theory was that by sucking it up for the week, Mr. Danvers would let her off the hook for her birthday. If I guessed wrong and she’s still grounded, I could be walking into a war zone.

  It appears I worried for nothing: I’m halfway up the Danvers’ front walk when Sara steps outside and greets me with a cheery smile. “Good timing. All right, I have my backpack full of gifts, I have the traditional breakfast food of my people,” she says, holding up a large paper sack from the local bagel shop. “Ready to roll. Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

  “Sounds good,” I say, and we begin the hike over to Missy’s. “Congratulations on getting the birthday furlough. I was worried your dad wouldn’t cut you a break today.”

  “He didn’t. I asked him about it yesterday and he said I was still grounded.”

  I stop. “What?” I fumble over a dozen questions and eventually settle on, “Did you sneak out?”

  “Sort of. You know that trick we used to sneak up on Buzzkill Joy and her crew?”

  I know exactly which trick she’s referring to. Sara has, on a few occasions, succeeded in subtly influencing people by telepathically broadcasting a simple command or suggestion. By broadcasting the command “ignore me,” Sara can render herself, for all intents and purposes, invisible.

  “You used your powers on your father?” I say.

  “Barely. I do stuff like that all the time,” Sara says offhandedly. “Half the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it.”

  “That’s not any better. That makes it sound like you don’t have any control over your powers.”

  “I’m in control of myself, but it’s not like I can turn my powers off entirely. You know I’m always picking up on people’s moods,” she says. “I only go into people’s heads deliberately if I have to, and even then I don’t go deep. It’s surface-scan stuff. Heck, first time we met, I did a light reading on you.”

  I’m momentarily stunned into silence. “You...you did what?”

  “Your first day in school, in the cafeteria, when Matt brought you over to our table? He wasn’t just trying to be friendly, you know. He brought you over so I could get a reading on you, see if you were cool or not.” She chuckles, smiles, shakes her head at me. “Seriously, you never figured that out? Matt might be impulsive, but come on. Even he’s not so stupid he’d out himself as a super-hero to a complete stranger.”

  Sara starts to walk away, but I don’t follow. I can’t move. My feet are lead weights. My head is a balloon filled with helium to the point of bursting. She stops, looks back at me, spreads her hands.

  “What?” she says.

  “What do you mean, ‘What?’” I say. “First you tell me you put a telepathic whammy on your father, then you tell me you did a stealth-scan on me, and you act like none of it’s a big deal.”

  “It isn’t. Car
rie, you’ve seen how irrational Dad’s been. I can’t talk to the man. He doesn’t want to listen to me, all he wants to do is yell and freak out over stupid crap and punish me for imaginary offenses. You of all people should be sympathetic to that.”

  “I am, but —”

  “I mean, you’ve challenged Concorde every single time he’s tried to drop the hammer on you unfairly,” she says, steamrolling over me. “You tore into him good when he grounded you a couple months ago.”

  Which is true. Concorde stripped me of my flight transponder after a mission went sideways, a heavy-handed attempt to put the Hero Squad out of business, and I fought like hell against it, “But I eventually decided I’d be better off playing by his rules.”

  “And how did that work out for you? Oh, right: Concorde threw you in Byrne. For something you didn’t do. On your birthday.”

  Sara gives me time to respond. I got nothing.

  “Point two,” she says, “if we knew that another kid in school had super-powers, would you let him join the team without checking him out first? Sure, he might be cool like you, or he could be a violent nutcase like Isaac Rialto — but you wouldn’t take that chance, would you?”

  “...No.”

  “Because you’d ask me to take a look inside his brain to see if he was trustworthy. Right?”

  I can’t argue. I want to. Every instinct says Sara’s been using her powers recklessly, but she’s right: I’d never trust a complete stranger with our secret identities. Jeez, Concorde and Mindforce still haven’t divulged their secret identities to the rest of the Squad. I think we’ve more than earned their trust, but that’s beside the point. If we let the wrong people into our inner circle, we put ourselves and our families in danger. I’d never let that happen.

  “Carrie. Please,” Sara says. “I don’t want to fight with you. Not you. Not today. It’s my birthday.”

  And with that, Sara places the cherry atop my shame sundae. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” I say, but my apology feels woefully inadequate. “I’m worried about you is all.”