Hopefuls (Book 1): The Private Life of Jane Maxwell

by Jenn Gott

  It couldn’t hurt to try.

  * * *

  Hopefuls #14 was the turning point of the early series. Jane had waited to introduce the origin story. She wanted to give the readers a chance to know the characters as they were, to begin to form a connection, to have favorites and for ships to begin building in the dry dock of fanfictionland, before she shook things up by showing the “before” pictures of their lives.

  The issues came out once a month, so this put the release of Hopefuls #14 somewhere near Jane and Clair’s third wedding anniversary. It had taken almost a year to convince QZero to sign on to the new series, then months of rewrites before Jane finally had a version that met with approval across all their key demographics. Then production time, and a delay while QZero began a flurry of press releases and media hype. A popular late-night talk show host had gotten wind of the project, and as a favor via a friend of a friend, had been given an early draft—and loved it. His endorsement skyrocketed things to a new level of coverage, and QZero wanted to ride that high as much as they could in the months leading up to the launch date, which now had to be moved to coincide with the theatrical release of a popular movie in one of their main franchises.

  The release was a hit, though inflated somewhat by the novelty of a new batch of superheroes. Jane knew that, and accepted the slight decline in readership that followed the end of the first arc of the opening storyline. By the time Hopefuls #14 came out, just over a year in, their numbers were still great, sure—but to hear the execubots talk about it, you’d think they were facing the beginning of the end. The pressure was on for Jane to create a triumph.

  She knew that just throwing people back to the beginning would bore readers, and that by the time she rolled around to the present again, they might have lost the place of the main plot threads. She had to find a way to tie it all in—the past and the present informing each other, looping together to create an inevitable conclusion that would leave the readers breathless.

  “Okay,” Clair said, “so what if Doctor Demolition, in his normal alter ego, has been manipulating the Heroes from the beginning? Like, he needed them to have their powers, so that he could harness them for some evil purpose as yet to be determined?”

  They were in the living room of their apartment, facing each other on the couch as they ate enormous bowls of homemade mac and cheese. Wednesdays were Binge and Brainstorm Days, where they ate anything they wanted, turned their music up loud enough to annoy the neighbors, and set aside four hours in the morning to stream whatever show they were into at the moment. By now Jane had enough clout and creative discretion to work from home a few days a week, and Clair’s job as Assistant Curator meant that her hours, while long, were flexible enough for her to join in often.

  Jane lifted a messy forkful of elbow macaroni. Mozzarella cheese, nontraditional but just how Clair liked it, trailed down and clung as a warm string to Jane’s chin. Jane wiped it off with her finger, and scraped it against the side of her bowl.

  “Isn’t that kind of cliché?”

  Clair looked up, her eyebrow arched in a withering really? expression. “It’s comic books, Jane. Everything is cliché at this point. What matters is what kind of personal spin you put on it.”

  Jane shrugged. “Fair point.”

  It ended up being a little more complicated than that, but the essence of Clair’s idea remained. While the Heroes were exposed to the radiation that triggered their dormant genetic abilities by accident, these powers did not start emerging straight away. Cal, tucked away in his parents’ estate, did not have the support of the rest of his friends as his abilities began to manifest. He had no idea what had caused them. He had no idea what they meant—did not even fully understand, at the beginning, that the bursts of light springing from his fingertips at random were the beginning of a superpower. He thought he might be going insane. He thought he might have some rare disease. He thought, once, in a panic as he locked himself in the boys’ bathroom at his fancy prep school, that maybe he wasn’t even human. Maybe he was the result of some twisted genetic experiment. Maybe he was an alien, like Superman, crash-landed on Earth as a baby and raised as one of their own. Maybe he was an alien, who they had then experimented on, and now men in black were going to come storming in any day and lock him in a secret facility in Montana, and he would never see any of his friends again. He would never see Tracey, the girl he was currently crushing on, again.

  A sharp knock rapped on the bathroom door. “Mr. Greenwood?” (In the comics, Jane had given aliases to all of her friends, so Cal Goodman had become Nigel Greenwood. It got a little confusing at times, even to her, but it was something her friends had all insisted upon when they’d agreed to let her use their faces and superhero alter egos.)

  Cal/Nigel drew himself to his feet. The bathrooms at Hanover Preparatory Academy were single-occupancy toilets, a half-bath like you’d find at home. “A moment!” he called, as he flushed and washed his hands so that the person on the other side of the door would think that he’d been in there for legitimate purposes. Jane had given the readers a close-up of his forehead, slick with worried sweat, and the pulse fluttering in his neck; you could just see it, over the starched shirt collar and the green-and-gold tie. Cal/Nigel’s hand on the doorknob, as he steadied himself.

  In the hallway, a man. Always, he is either cast in shadow, or angled so that you cannot see his face. A hint of his suit jacket indicated that he’d dressed as a teacher, but other than that, the perception of him comes from Cal’s reactions. On the first page, you saw over the man’s shoulder, Cal’s face somewhat nervous in the frame of the bathroom door.

  “Ah, Mr. Greenwood,” the speech bubble said. It oozed in from somewhere out of view. “My name is Arthur Edmunds. I believe that we have something in common.”

  * * *

  The Maxwells’ property was located on an island off of an island, requiring not just one, but two separate ferry trips to get there. On the first ferry (larger, crowded with tourists snapping selfies), the four of them sat in a silent group and watched the sea go by. Cal’s sunglasses reflected the brilliant blue of the water, the crisp white of the ship. Amy’s hair blew across her face in a perfect angle to highlight her cheekbones. Devin leaned back in his seat, his legs stretched out in front of him, using his phone and pretending not to notice as the other passengers gave him a wide berth.

  For the first time since she’d arrived in this world, Jane wished for her sketchbook. The ship was a textbook in character studies, and there was no way that Jane would be able to remember them all. There was a woman with frizzy, flame-red hair and a flowing purple kimono, reciting poetry—either from memory, or making it up as she went. A person of indeterminate gender sat with a parrot on their shoulder, reading a fat fantasy novel. Jane turned, and a frail old couple in matching, out-of-place Hawaiian shirts walked by, their wispy white hair blowing straight up in the breeze, the curve of their scalps in clear view; they were strolling arm-in-bony-arm along the deck, smiling at people and telling anyone who would listen that they were here for their sixty-third wedding anniversary—sixty-three years, folks! The man grinned, his overlong teeth crossing slightly in the front. “That’s a long time,” he said to Jane when they passed, and Jane’s heart twisted up as she forced herself to nod and agree. “It sure is.”

  Out of instinct, Jane found her wedding ring with her thumb, familiar grooves rippling underneath her touch.

  Amy smiled pleasantly at the couple, wishing them many more years of happiness (“That’s what we’re planning on!” the old man said with a wink), and waited until they were gone before she leaned over toward Jane.

  “By the way,” Amy said, keeping her voice low so that only Jane and the sea breeze could hear her, “you might want to consider moving that to your other hand before Mrs. Maxwell sees you.”

  Jane looked down at the spread of her fingers, resting on her lap. Her wedding ring was nontraditional, crafted by a local artisan to resemble a braid of tree branche
s. Plenty of people had completely misunderstood the point of it, but if this Mrs. Maxwell was anything like Jane’s own mother . . .

  Jane slipped it easily from one hand to the other, trying hard not to feel like she was desecrating something sacred. Clair would have told her to do it; she would have been practical, just like Amy was being practical. Amy nodded, approving. Briefly, Jane considered that an even more discreet solution would be to add her own ring to the hidden chain around her neck, where she kept Clair’s, but nothing was going to convince her to go quite that far. The ring didn’t fit as well on Jane’s right hand, or maybe Jane just wasn’t used to it. She kept balling her fist in a subconscious attempt to keep it from falling off, even though it wasn’t going anywhere.

  She was still balling her fist as they approached the house. The second ferry captain, the one that would take them across the scant six hundred feet from the larger island to the smaller, had recognized their group on sight. “Miss Maxwell!” she’d said, grinning as she squeezed between several of the other passengers. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again!”

  Jane glanced at the brass name badge pinned to the captain’s starched white shirt. “Captain Ambrose,” she said. She accepted the captain’s handshake with a false ease. “How have you been?”

  Ambrose shrugged, but her grin never left her face. She was a tiny woman, barely up to Jane’s chest, weathered and tan. Her blond hair was clamped into a bun on the back of her head, and her face was lined with wrinkles of sun and smiles. She squinted in the sunshine as she said, “Can’t complain. We’ve had ideal weather this season.”

  “Excellent,” Jane said. She let her attention drift to the water, sparkling like champagne. The first tinge of gold was beginning to stain the surface, the light growing weary with the weight of late afternoon.

  Ambrose excused herself a moment later, and Amy sidled up to take her place. “That was perfect,” Amy said, keeping her voice low. “Keep up that level of haughty disinterest, and you should pass all right.”

  Jane smirked, though she wasn’t sure if she should be pleased or disturbed by her success. They hadn’t planned ahead, so Jane hadn’t even gotten so much as a crash course on how to play her double—all that she had to go on, really, was the address they were heading toward, and the clothes that she’d been presented with. Before they’d set out from the Heroes’ main headquarters, it was decided that Jane’s torn shirt would best be replaced. Amy had brought her a change of clothes that Jane hadn’t questioned, though she had raised her eyebrows at the designer label inside of the jeans, and it’s not like she normally wore silk blouses. At the time, Jane had been too distracted from the emergence of her powers to think much about it, but standing on the deck of the ferry, the outfit had settled something in Jane’s mind. Like wearing a costume, the clothes had unfolded a personality for Jane to borrow. All that she’d had to do was drape it over her shoulders.

  Only now, as Cal turned off of the main road and onto a long driveway of white gravel, Jane’s confidence began to falter. It was one thing to pass herself off to a ferry captain—it would be another trick entirely to fool the shrewd eyes of Mrs. Maxwell. Any Mrs. Maxwell. Jane glanced down at herself, suddenly self-conscious of the few wrinkles in her blouse from the seatbelt, of the scuffs along the toes of her own Converse.

  It was too late to turn back now, though. They followed a bend in the drive, and the trees alongside dropped away. In their place was grass so green that it hurt, the glitter of the ocean far beyond, and the house . . .

  Jane’s eyes widened, settling on the house. Drawing it several dozen times did not prepare her for the sight of it in real life.

  From the styling, it clearly wanted to present itself as modest. The barnlike curves of a cape-style roof were done in humble blue, leading to white clapboard siding. Blue shutters and flowerboxes were perfectly painted, perfectly tended. A sprawling white porch brought to mind images of southern plantations, people sipping lemonade and sitting on wicker chairs. If it was about a quarter of the size, if it didn’t make a ninety-degree bend to accommodate a three-car garage, it might have successfully passed itself off as any one of the many New England coastal homes they’d passed on their way here.

  As it was, though, its true purpose was unmistakable. This was a house dripping with money. Jane gawped, taking it in as best as she could: in manageable, panel-sized chunks. White gravel crunching underfoot, somehow spotless despite being both outdoors and driven across regularly. The ocean view in the distance. The idyllic coral-pink sunset, staining a backdrop behind the roof of the house. The spread of pecan cookies and, yes, lemonade, sitting on a glass-topped table along the porch. The front door swinging open before they’d even rung the bell.

  Jane was halfway up the steps. She froze midstride, her foot still hovering in the air.

  Was this all some kind of elaborate trick? Or had the Heroes of Hope really been so incompetent as to not think to look here?

  Jane Maxwell was standing in the doorway.

  Oh, different, sure—but that much was to be expected. She did not wear Jane’s glasses, and her hair was shorter, expertly curled ends just gracing her shoulders. She wore a pencil skirt and black blazer, pearls, and four-inch spiked heels, like she’d just come from a boardroom; and, dammit, she was better toned than Jane herself was, calf muscles clearly visible underneath her sheer pantyhose. But the face, it was . . . well, almost like staring at a mirror. Jane supposed that any differences were just the result of being from a parallel world, or else something that Jane had never had cause to notice in her own reflection.

  This other Jane, the one that wasn’t Jane, regarded the group ascending her porch as if she’d just found a collection of road kill.

  “Oh, Jane. Would it have really killed you to put on some proper foundation?” she said.

  Cal bounded up the steps, extending his hand. “Nice to see you again, Allie.” He was all grins and yacht-club smiles.

  The other woman—Jane? Not Jane?—narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms to avoid shaking his hand. “Cal. I’ve asked you not to call me that.”

  “Allison?” came a voice from inside of the house. “Is that them?”

  Allison? Jane thought. Who the fuck is Allison?

  Allison, the woman that wasn’t Jane, turned. “Yes, Mother,” she called over her shoulder. “They’re here.”

  A squeal of delight, far too normal and down-to-earth to belong in a house like this, filtered out through the open door. It grew louder as it approached, heels clacking underneath the constant “ooooh!”, until a flurry of color burst outside, knocking Allison out of the way.

  Jane’s mother—or more accurately, Mrs. Maxwell—rocked to a halt on the porch, taking Jane in. She looked . . . amazing, Jane had to grudgingly admit. Flawless in the glowing way of movie stars. If Jane didn’t know what Mrs. Maxwell would have naturally aged like, she never would have suspected plastic surgery—no doubt working in tandem with stylists, dietitians, and fitness coaches. Not that Jane’s mother was homely by any stretch of the imagination, but this was something else entirely. Every line had been erased, every blemish buffed away.

  A pang struck Jane’s chest, a deep longing for her mother’s natural elegance.

  “Oh, Jane!” Mrs. Maxwell said, clasping her hands together in front of her. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ve decided to come home—especially at a time like this.”

  Jane glanced to the side. Amy stepped up beside her, and gave Jane’s upper arm a brief squeeze of encouragement. Jane forced herself to look Mrs. Maxwell square in the face. She tried a brave smile. “Mom. It’s . . . good to be here.”

  A loud harrumph emanated from behind Mrs. Maxwell. Allison stepped back into view. “Gee, Jane. Don’t sound so happy about it.”

  “What does it matter to you?”

  “Girls,” Mrs. Maxwell chided, “be nice. Allison, your sister just got here—and these are trying times for all of us. I think that we can manage to exte
nd each other a bit of compassion and understanding, don’t you?”

  Allison’s mouth pinched flat. She glowered at Jane, her mood darkening the whole porch. She turned without a word, disappearing into the house.

  Jane watched the open doorway. An immaculate foyer, large and full of dying light, and a single haughty figure cutting through it on her way toward a curving staircase.

  Sister?

  The word drummed through Jane’s mind, loud and uninvited. She felt small all of a sudden, an ant in the shadow of this massive house. How in the world did the Heroes think that Jane could pass herself off as this world’s Jane? That she could fool a mother she did not know, a father she did not like—a sister she had never met?

  Never mind becoming Captain Lumen, never mind going up against UltraViolet. Jane would be lucky if she even made it to the deadline.

  The powers, then.

  In a basement below the basement, Jane stretched her fingers. She shook out each foot, flapped her hands around to loosen up. Did a series of quick jumping jacks. Rolled her shoulders, tipped her neck side to side.

  The squeal and crackle of an intercom broke the silence. “Any time you’re ready,” Devin’s voice said.

  Amy’s voice jumped in, just before the intercom cut off. “Devin! Stop being—”

  Crackle—nothing.

  The silence echoed. Jane stared ahead: the long stretch of tunnel, a set of targets set at the far end. The brick walls were painted white, with a wide blue stripe running down the length. The floor was plain concrete, though large swaths of muddy-red padding, like the kind you’d find in a school gymnasium, lined the floor in patches. Back in the sixties, when the house was built, the property had been owned by an arms tycoon who’d gotten rich selling weapons to the military; the subbasement was a bunker, designed to withstand a nuclear blast. This room, so the story goes, was where the man’s weapon tests were conducted. Behind Jane, the thick pane of a one-way mirror hid the faces of Cal and Amy and Devin from view.