by Jenn Gott
Jane glanced to the side. Scorch marks and the scar of deep gouges marred the walls, though it was hard to tell if that was from the original owner, or the result of their own youthful experimentation.
She took a deep breath. Don’t think about why you’re doing this, she told herself. Just . . . see if you can do it. It’s like a game.
Her assurances did little to actually convince her, but these were the lies that needed to be told. She thought of her comics. Of the hours sprawled on her stomach as a teenager, sketching what these abilities looked like.
In the comics, Captain Lumen had the ability to create bursts of light, which could either be highly focused and used as a weapon, or spread broadly for illumination. Years later, he’d discovered the ability to manipulate light in a lower frequency, allowing him to shift his perspective to see in infrared—and then again later, Jane had let his powers dip lower still, to manipulate wireless signals. Nobody expected anywhere near that level of control from Jane now (indeed, it would be dangerous for her to even try), but the fact that they were looking for even the bare minimum still scared the shit out of her. What if her powers were a fluke, fading ever since they’d first displayed? Or, perhaps worse: what if she could still conjure her powers, but controlling them proved beyond her?
Stop it, Jane thought to herself, shoving the idea firmly aside. You can do this.
Another lie, but what did it matter at this point?
Jane thrust her arm forward, straight as a sword. She focused on the ball of her fist, remembering the feeling that she’d had earlier. The power thrumming through her. The thought of it was sharp, and Jane tried to keep from flinching back from it. She remembered the way her hand had started to glow, light radiating from her fingertips down to her palm. Power, power, power. Jane bit her lip, feeling silly. Why hadn’t she written something simpler? Superspeed, maybe, or flight? At the very least, she could have given Captain Lumen a trigger, a catch phrase that he whispered to himself to switch his abilities on.
Of course, even if she had, there was no guarantee that’s how it would work in real life.
Jane snorted. Real life, sure. It still felt like half a dream. One of those days when you’re so tired that your mind slips, and suddenly nothing is quite real anymore—you touch something, say something, and it’s like you’re watching it from a distance. Jane had walked around like that for months after Clair’s death, and the feeling of it now was like being smothered under a thick blanket.
Clair. Jane winced, and shoved the image of her quickly aside. Focus, dammit. Focus.
Another deep breath. She stared at her fist. Her ring, on the wrong hand, felt heavy and off-balance. But there was no sense in pretending: it wasn’t working. No power thrummed through her now. Nothing to manipulate, nothing to control.
Jane turned around, watching herself in the one-way mirror. The tunnel loomed massive around her, reducing her to a wisp.
“I can’t do it,” she said. She spread her arms, to indicate the enormity of everything that she couldn’t do.
Crackle. Cal’s voice: “You just need to focus, Jane. Focus on what you want to do, not how you want to do it. Try again.”
Jane made a face. She saw it in the reflection—childish, petty. The defeat that she’d declared so easily stung her, and she turned around before they could see the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks.
What she wanted to do.
What she wanted to do was go home. However much her life might be in shambles at the moment, at least it was familiar. Her apartment, her bed, her own Grand City. There was a pile of sketches on her coffee table, right at this very moment, half-finished concept art for the next few issues of Hopefuls. It didn’t matter that Jane wasn’t going to get to finish them—she wanted to see them. She wanted to prop her feet up on the coffee table and lean her drawing board against the slope of her legs, spread the pages out in front of her. She wanted to cry over the loss of her job, and spend several hours doodling pictures of dicks on various back issues. She wanted to wrap herself in Clair’s old sweaters. The smell of Clair was long since gone from the cashmere, but the comfort of it remained, the idea that Clair’s arms had slid through those same sleeves, that this exact fabric had kept her warm against the chill of another autumn setting in.
But then . . . even thinking about retreating to these comforts brought the acid of guilt to Jane’s stomach. How could she consider walking away, when so many people’s lives were at stake? Worse, still: she had no idea how it was that UltraViolet had spread the poison to the rest of Grand City. Though nobody had mentioned it, there was the possibility that even some of the Heroes of Hope were infected. That Amy might be infected.
Fear and rage struck fast, clutching hot at Jane’s throat. She threw her arm forward, her fingers spreading open as if tossing confetti to the winds. A burst of light exploded from her open palm, as bright as sunshine. It was wild and chaotic, and so unexpected that Jane actually screamed and leaped back, as if she could separate it from herself. Instinct snapped her hand shut, the power snuffing out like a candle.
A rapid pulse thundered in Jane’s ears. Her vision was blotchy, disjointed. She staggered toward the wall, the only solid thing that she could make out. She was so dizzy with surprise at herself that she barely heard the door slam open and then shut, the rapid rain of footsteps rushing toward her.
The smell of Clair assaulted her. Warm arms wrapped around her shoulders, a happy squeal buzzing near her ear. “Jane!” Amy shouted. “You did it!” Amy leaped up and down, jostling Jane in her enthusiasm.
Jane knew that Amy was overreacting—that the minor display of power, while certainly bright, was nothing compared to what Captain Lumen could do. That Jane was supposed to have been trying to focus the beam, direct it toward the targets. That it would take a lot more than a light show to pull off whatever Cal was planning.
And yet. A grin was tugging at Jane’s lips, because it was so much like Clair, like Amy, to overcelebrate the first step on a journey. “First steps are so important, though!” Clair always insisted, whenever anyone tried to dampen her enthusiasm. “Nothing else can follow if you don’t start!”
So Jane returned Amy’s hug, lavishing in the attention. There was still so much work to do, so much to figure out. But it was true: this, right here, this was where it all begins.
* * *
They worked for almost two hours, until Amy called it because the Maxwells’ dinner would be served soon. “You should probably get a shower in first,” she said. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Her room. Jane didn’t know if she was ready for it, but it turned out to be so impersonal that she might as well have been staying in a hotel. Like the rest of the house, it had been decorated in a seaside theme: the bed, spread in pale blue and white, was set underneath a piece of bleached driftwood. A white trunk rested at the foot of her bed, a soft blanket folded on top, a bowl with random bits of seaglass nestled atop that. A magazine lay on the nightstand, but somehow Jane suspected that the decorator, rather than her double, had rested it there. Black-and-white photographs of a beach lined the walls.
Jane showered, and selected the least pretentious pair of shorts from the walk-in closet. She found an actual t-shirt, its logo faded from the start, and then she scooped her hair up into a ponytail. In the bathroom, she poked through cabinets and drawers: some of her familiar products—her toothpaste of choice, the tampons she liked—but mostly skincare brands that she’d never heard of, prescriptions for Xanax, three separate hairdryers. This Jane had an electric toothbrush, a scary-looking hair-removal device, and several packs of contact lenses. Jane opened the box of contacts, looking at the tiny lenses lined up and waiting. She’d never considered switching away from glasses before—the idea of touching her own eyes made her shudder. She put them back and pawed a little deeper. Something pink and disk-shaped caught her eye and she took it out, turned it over. She actually stared at it for several long seconds, awareness knocking at her
mind without actually making it through.
Then it did: birth control pills.
“Jesus, Jane!” Jane dropped the pills and slammed the drawer shut. She actually backed away from it, as if somehow proximity to such a thing could make it contagious.
Her skin was still crawling several minutes later, as she padded down the long hallway toward the main staircase. She did not want to think about it—so, naturally, it was the one thing that her mind kept swirling back to. She just kept remembering Amy, her shock at the idea that they were married. Jane shuddered.
There’s another explanation, Jane told herself as she walked. A hormonal issue, perhaps.
Which was possible, sure—but the idea settled sourly in her stomach. She would have to try to ask Amy about it, somehow, sometime . . .
Her thoughts were scattered a moment later when she found Mrs. Maxwell in the foyer, talking to several people in gray and navy suits. Jane paused at the top of the stairs, uncertain if she should interrupt. There was a serious quality in their mannerisms, a feeling that leeched the warmth from the air and made Jane feel like a child who had stumbled upon a pack of grownups. Jane sat on the top step, drawing her knees to her chest as she watched. The foyer was deep from this angle, and the overhead lights cast dark slashes across the figures gathered below.
“. . . could be dangerous to delay,” one of the men in suits was saying. “If we storm the building now—”
“You’ll just give UltraViolet a reason to kill everyone inside,” Mrs. Maxwell cut in. “Including my husband. We still have time.”
One of the other suits sighed. A woman, short, with mouse-brown hair gathered in a thin ponytail. “That’s assuming that UltraViolet is telling the truth. Our own doctors are projecting that it could turn fatal within a matter of hours. Please, Mrs. Maxwell—why push it?”
“I will not risk all hell breaking loose just because you want a chance to bring glory to your division, Sylvia,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “I’m sure that the Heroes are handling the situation.”
The short woman, Sylvia, bristled. “With all due respect, ma’am, there’s been no word from the Heroes since shortly after their defeat at Woolfolk Tower. With the chaos they had to deal with in the aftermath . . . We can’t even be sure they’re all still alive.”
“Oh, they’re alive—and working on a plan, I can promise you that.”
Sylvia smirked. “Can you, now? What makes you so sure?”
“Because UltraViolet is still trying to kill them.”
“I see,” Sylvia said. “And you’d bet your own husband’s life on this?”
There was a slight pause before Mrs. Maxwell answered; the smallest of attached speech bubbles, an ellipsis hanging off the top of her answer. “I would. They’ve never let us down before.”
Sylvia’s voice was soft as she said, “I think the people of downtown would disagree.”
“Things would have been a lot worse if the Heroes hadn’t been there,” Mrs. Maxwell said.
Jane shut her eyes. There was something fiercely protective in Mrs. Maxwell’s voice, which Jane worried would give the whole thing away. Cal had told Jane that Mrs. Maxwell knew about their powers, knew who they really were. He’d said it to be reassuring, so that at least this was one thing that Jane wouldn’t have to lie about, but now Jane almost wished that she didn’t know. The idea of her mother—not her mother, but still—knowing what they do, knowing the way that they go out and risk their lives, and still being proud enough and brave enough to stand there and defend her daughter against criticism . . .
But there was something more to it, Jane realized as she opened her eyes. Mrs. Maxwell had already pulled out her phone, turning her attention away from the visitors as if they and their concerns didn’t warrant the attention. Jane watched, the enormity of what they were doing bubbling up inside of her. It was one thing to accept the crazy circumstances of her situation; it was one thing to begin training, to see the raw strength of her own powers for the first time. It was another thing entirely to realize that people—real people, with lives and dreams all their own, with loved ones waiting for them—were depending on her being successful.
God, she was going to be sick.
Sylvia grimaced, taking the hint but not yet willing to yield. The rest of her group was already making motions toward the door; only Sylvia stood her ground. “I hope that you’re right, Mrs. Maxwell,” she said. “Because if you’re not, a lot more people are going to suffer before this is over.”
Mrs. Maxwell didn’t even look up from her phone. “Don’t worry—I am.”
There was nothing more for them to say after that. Sylvia nodded stiffly. The others were at the door by now. One of them stood back and opened it for her, his hand at his chest as if he was holding a hat to it like a proper Southern gentleman.
“You shouldn’t be eavesdropping.”
Jane yelped. The voice was so close, yet she hadn’t heard the source of it approach. She whirled, her heart racing, only to find the near-identical copy of her own face glaring down at her.
“Holy crap, Allison,” Jane snapped as she got to her feet. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Allison shrugged, just one indifferent shoulder. “Not my fault you didn’t hear me.”
“Girls,” Mrs. Maxwell called up from the foyer—the commotion must have drawn her attention, “stop dawdling. Come down and have something to eat.”
As if this was any other night—as if Jane was still a teenager, and she’d grown up in this house, and everything about it was normal. Jane shot Allison a look, but Allison was already shoving past her, their shoulders knocking as she began to descend the steps.
There was nothing to do but follow.
Mrs. Maxwell had not waited around to see if her instructions were listened to. Jane trailed Allison through a series of living rooms, each decorated with its own seaside theme. When they finally reached the kitchen, Jane found they were the last to arrive. Everyone was gathered loosely around the kitchen island, tumblers of scotch or tall glasses of beer littering their hands.
“No, I’m telling you,” Cal was saying, “I saw her making nametags for herself one time with the label maker. ‘Tia Juanita,’ they said. Juanita!”
Devin shook his head. “Dude, those were labels for her salsa. She buys store-bought and puts them in mason jars to pass it off as her ‘Aunt Juanita’s’ special recipe. Tía Juanita. Have you never even taken a Spanish class in your life?”
Cal frowned. “Now you’re just talking shit.”
“I swear, I’m not. White people can’t tell the difference, and she sure as hell isn’t going to waste her authentic recipes on you lot.”
“But . . . not her special salsa! I love that stuff!”
Devin laughed. “Yeah, I know.”
“Here,” said a voice beside Jane, drawing her attention away as Cal and Devin continued to argue back and forth. Amy was holding out a drink. “This will help.”
Jane accepted it gratefully. “Thanks. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this.”
Amy grinned and raised her glass. “To family.”
“Family,” Jane said, tapping her glass to Amy’s.
If only hers was actually in attendance.
* * *
The year Jane’s parents were getting divorced, they didn’t have a Thanksgiving dinner.
“What do you mean we’re not ‘doing Thanksgiving’?” Jane had asked. She was sitting on her rickety dorm bed, on the phone with her mother, when this conversation took place. Through the window at the far end of the room, Jane could see half-dead ivy crawling its way up the brickwork of the student center next door; she was doodling it, in ink, along the edge of her notebook, the recreation pulsing with far more life than the real thing as it worked its way between entries on Jane’s “weekly news for Mom” list. Her pen stilled, underneath Finals, UGGGHH, and above Lunch with Jess D and crew—possible new book club??
Over the phone, Jane heard her mother take a small
breath. Clearly, this had been rehearsed.
“I just think it might be nice for us all to take a break this year,” Ms. Holloway said. “It’s such a headache, you know, and for what? Plus, the house is in no state for it right now.”
Jane frowned. Her mother, in the wake of the separation, had taken it upon herself to remodel the kitchen, master suite, and main-floor bathroom—in addition to fresh coats of paint throughout the house, new furniture in almost every room, and repurposing the den into a home office that Jane doubted anyone would ever use. It all seemed a bit much by Jane’s standards, but now she had to wonder if her mother hadn’t timed it this way on purpose.
“What about Grandma?” Jane asked. Jane’s mother’s mother flew in from Omaha faithfully on the Tuesday leading up to Thanksgiving, and always stayed through the beginning of December. Jane’s mother, like Jane, was an only child.
A slight shifting, like Jane’s mother was shrugging or adjusting the phone from one shoulder to the other. “She’s going to stay with her sister in Fort Lauderdale. She understands.”
“Wait, you already told her?”
“Yes, Jane,” Ms. Holloway said with a sigh. “I’m sorry, but it’s settled.”
“But . . . ,” Jane trailed off, uncertain what kind of argument she could make that wouldn’t sound like a little kid. Even though, at the moment, she felt like a little kid—and really, she thought, didn’t she have every right to? Coming out to her parents, the divorce, moving to college, the remodel—over the past year, it felt as if Jane’s entire childhood was being dismantled piece by piece. A certain amount of regression was only to be expected.
“But when will we see her?” Jane settled on finally, after a long, empty stretch of silence. There really weren’t a lot of miles between Jane’s dorm and her mother’s house, but now it felt as if the phone lines between them stretched so far that they could wrap to the moon and back.