Hero

by Perry Moore

  "I need a name, please." There was the hint of a sharp edge to the perkiness.

  "Um, it's Thom."

  She looked up from her "Hello, my name is" sticker and stared me in the eye.

  "Thom Creed?" I ventured. Shit. Only teenagers end statements with question marks like that, and I really didn't want to come off sounding like a dumb teenager who didn't know what he was doing.

  She popped the cap back on the Sharpie and smiled tightly.

  "I mean your alias." Her lips were pursed, and I couldn't tell if she thought I was just a total amateur or if I was messing with her, or both.

  "Oh, right, my alias." It had never occurred to me that I might need one. I glanced around the room for some sudden inspiration, but all I could come up with was "The Potted Plant," "The Fruit Platter," or "Free Subscription!"

  "Justice invited me," I said. "The rest of the League, too." Like that would excuse me from this whole silly name thing.

  She slid her trendy horn-rimmed spectacles down her nose and gave me the once-over twice. Then she leaned back in her chair and opened the Sharpie and began scribbling something on the name tag.

  "Suit yourself." She unpeeled the sticker and smacked it on my lapel. "We'll be calling you in groups every fifteen minutes: have a seat. By the way, love the tie. Next!" And she was on to the next person waiting in line, some guy with oversize purple wings.

  "Oh, hi, Lester!" She leaned over the desk to kiss him on the cheek. "How're Fran and the kids?"

  I managed to find a quiet little spot over by the potted plants. I looked down at my tie and realized I was the only per¬son there without a costume. I thought the act of disrobing in public would be a little embarrassing. Maybe I'd go to the bath¬room and change in a stall.

  My collar was soaked with sweat. I walked over to the refresh¬ment table and swiped a few napkins to dry off my forehead and the back of my neck. I wished I'd taken the time to get a Gatorade.

  I joined the line at the watercooler to pour a cup. When it was my turn, I couldn't seem to get the nozzle to work, and the line behind me was growing impatient. I tried to distract the guy in back of me with small talk. He wore a high-tech visor, a tight blue Lycra suit with the symbol of an icicle on his chest, and a permanent frown.

  "Hey, how crazy is this watercooler?"

  He stared at me. I cleared my throat.

  "Do you know how to work this thing?" I asked.

  "Most people pull the nozzle." I, of course, was pushing it.

  I heard a few would-be heroes snicker behind him. I pulled the nozzle with force, and a torrent of water knocked the cup out of my grasp. The water splashed up on the guy with the visor and immediately froze upon contact with his skin. The line of heroes glared at me. I picked up my cup and skulked back to my space. No one bothered to look at me after that, and right then I really could have used a familiar face. Most of the candidates were at least ten years older than I was.

  In fact, the only person in the room who looked close to my age was the pizza delivery girl who'd just walked in. I watched her check in with the receptionist, and then she came over and sat in an armchair next to me. She set her stack of pizzas in her carry bag down on the floor beside me and picked up a magazine with a cover story on NASCAR racers. She crossed her leg and bounced one foot up and down as she read and chomped on a piece of gum. Her face seemed perky and friendly. I glanced down at her tiny body, and I thought she was probably a cheerleader or a high school gymnast when she wasn't busy delivering pizzas to hungry superheroes.

  "I'll take mine with extra cheese," I said in her direction.

  She stopped reading the magazine and looked straight ahead, like maybe a mosquito was buzzing in her ear but she wasn't sure yet. Then she turned in my direction.

  "What did you say?"

  "The pizza, I said I'll take mine with extra cheese."

  She adjusted her blond ponytail, which poked out of the back hole in her cap, and glanced at my name tag. Then she went back to her magazine.

  "I was just saying that I'm glad someone had the good sense to order some real food." I lifted up the corner of a pizza box for a peek. "What you got in there?"

  She swatted my hand away with the magazine.

  "Hey, hands off!"

  She hoisted her delivery bag, and I heard her mutter "twinkie" under her breath as she moved to a new seat on the opposite side of the room.

  I looked up sheepishly and saw practically everyone in the room staring at me. Even the guy with the cool shades got off his cell phone to see what was the matter.

  I bent down and pretended to tie my shoelaces just so I'd have something to do. Her insult stung, and I kept thinking about the venom in her voice, the way she'd said "twinkie," emphasis on the "twink." I stole a look at her and saw that she was wearing a name tag with a code name: "Miss Scarlett." Once again I was the village idiot. She wasn't delivering pizzas. She was trying out for the team.

  "Psst."

  I straightened up. Who was pssst-ing me? I looked over my shoulder to the right and saw some guy having a major sneezing fit. He pulled a couple of tissues out of the utility belt on his costume. He blew his nose loudly, checked the contents, and then pinched his nose to stop the bleeding.

  "Psst!"

  I looked in the other direction over my other shoulder and saw an old lady waving me over in her direction. She had her skirt hiked up above her knees and was massaging her left calf muscle. A network of spider veins spread down her legs and disappeared under her boots.

  "Be a doll, kid, and help me pop my knee back in joint."

  Her name tag read, "Hello, my name is . . . Old Enough to Know Better."

  "Don't you need an alias?" I asked.

  She looked at me and chuckled. "Nope. Now go ahead, its my thigh, and give my boot a good yank."

  Some of the heroes looked up from their magazines and wondered what the heck this kid was doing reaching up this old woman's skirt.

  "Don't be shy. Give it some oomph."

  More people were staring by now, and I figured the harder I pushed the sooner I'd get it over.

  "Yeah, that's it, that's it. Owwwwwww!"

  Her knee made a nauseating pop, which reminded me of the sound my ankle made when I rolled it during state finals last year. She leaned back in her seat and smiled.

  "God, thanks for that. Pass a tired old woman her cigarettes, will you?"

  I handed her a padded flip-top cigarette case, and her arthritic fingers popped open the fastener, pulled out a Pall Mall, and fired it up with the alacrity of a woman half her age.

  "Knees been doing that ever since I got the replacement last year. Kinda burns whenever you do that thing with your hands, huh?"

  I nodded and thought about it for a second.

  "How'd you know I could do that?"

  She inhaled a deep drag from her cigarette.

  "I see the future." She exhaled to the side, careful not to blow smoke in my direction.

  "I'm Ruth. Nice to meet you, Thorn." She shook my hand, and smoke came out of her nose. The guy with the sneezing fit and the nosebleed on the other side of the room began to cough.

  "How'd you know—? Oh right, you can see the future." Powers are weird.

  "No." She took another long drag and gave it the longest granny ash I'd ever seen. "I can see your name tag."

  Embarrassed, I looked down at my name tag. The recep-tionist had written my name in big bubbly cursive letters.

  The receptionist appeared in front of us and leaned down with a patronizing smile.

  "Excuse me, there's no smoking in here." She extended a cup of water in our direction for Ruth to put it out.

  Ruth held up a finger—not the one she really wanted to hold up.

  "Just a sec."

  She took one last, deep drag on the cigarette that burned it all the way down to the filter.

  "There." She popped the cigarette butt into the glass and it made a little hissing noise when it hit the water. "Perfect timing." She
gave the receptionist a quick look and said "Thanks," but really meant "You can leave now."

  Then a woman in an expensive but ill-fitting business suit and a tight perm entered and called for our attention. She introduced herself as "Sooz" from human resources and passed out a phone book—thick stack of paperwork for us to sign, and began to explain the. contents of the packet. Confidentiality agreements, liability forms, nondiscrimination clauses (which I noticed left out anything about sexual orientation) . . . My eyes had glazed over by the time she got to the personality inventory.

  I looked over to the door. Where was Uberman? What was he doing right then? Did he remember me?

  Sooz caught me daydreaming and clapped her hands twice.

  "C'mon people, listen up, this is really important!"

  I looked over at Ruth, fast asleep in her armchair next to me. The guy who'd been sneezing nonstop in the corner raised his hand and asked Sooz where the bathroom was and ran from his seat as soon as she pointed him in the right direction.

  About an hour later, I looked down at my packet and saw that I'd only completed about half of it. Sooz wandered into the room and looked over everyone's shoulder. She stopped at the pizza delivery girl.

  The pizza girl looked up from her paper at Sooz.

  "Mind your own fucking business."

  My mind drifted over to the door with the League's inner sanctum beyond it. Their secret meeting room, their simulated combat-session gymnasium, their museum of treasures from past adventures, the living quarters of the team. And what would Uberman's room look like? Something modern and architectural, I'm sure. No clutter, but lots of style, a Spartan simplicity so he could wake up and pound out a thousand push-ups and sit-ups before a full day of saving people. Later, he would crash on his platform bed to read a thoughtful and sensitive novel before falling asleep, preferably to some soothing music of my choosing.

  And where was Justice? Every time I closed my eyes I'd see him standing with my father, both of them stoic on the platform, neither of them saying a word, just holding up three fingers that became two.

  Some other questions began to form in my mind. Like where was Justice when my father, his mentor, was disgraced in the eyes of the world? Where was he when Dad couldn't get work? Where was he the month after Mom disappeared and Dad had to drink himself into a stupor just to pass out for a few hours of sleep at night? What the hell did anyone need a sidekick for if they weren't there for you when the chips were down? Dad had been there for Captain Victory to the very end, even through the depressing nursing home years. It's easy to be there for someone when everything's coming up roses, but how about when someone really needs you?

  Suddenly all I could think about was finding this guy and telling him who I really was, and that I needed some answers before I went any further with this whole charade, and if that wasn't something he felt like he could talk about, then he could take his super tryouts and shove them up his—

  "Welcome, everyone, welcome!" A warm, booming voice echoed as Uberman glided into the room. I leaned forward on the edge of my seat and smiled. I couldn't wait for him to recognize me.

  "We're ready for the first group." He looked down at the clipboard in his hands. "Let's see, Mass Master, Compu-kid, Kung-Fu Karla, and the Human Stain."

  Uberman shook their hands and ushered them through the door, which closed automatically behind him. I folded my arms and dropped back into the chair and racked my brain about the things I was going to do to impress them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "WAKE UP. " Someone nudged me. "Kid, wake up, they're calling in a new group."

  "Chemical Kid! Miss Scarlett! Polar Paul . . . !" The receptionist called names off the list. I sat up in my chair and looked beside me at Ruth.

  "You got a little something there." She pointed to my chin. I wiped the drool off.

  "Mighty Mite! Typhoon Timmy! Vicious Violet! and . . ." Other heroes leaned forward in their seat, in hopes their name would be next on the list. She paused before she read the last name.

  "And Thom."

  I looked over at Ruth, my eyes wide.

  "That's you." She pointed at my name tag with her cigarette.

  * * *

  Inside I found myself in the fanciest gymnasium I'd ever seen. State-of-the-art equipment, clean geometrical lines, like something you'd see in Architectural Digest. It didn't even smell bad.

  A flash of bright metallic light, and Silver Bullet stood before us, stopwatch in hand. He explained that today we'd be going through a series of tests. The League would evaluate us at each stage, and from every heat, they'd select some of us to continue on to the next round. By the end of the tests, he said, they'd make their final decisions about who made the probationary roster. I looked around at the faces of my competition and wondered if everyone else wanted this as bad as I did. And if they were as scared as I was of not getting it.

  Silver Bullet continued on for a while about the importance of maintaining perfect physical shape, especially with all the power dampeners out there. "The technology is available to any low-level metahuman brazen enough to call himself a villain these days. You have to be ready to fight all the time, even without your powers."

  He explained the first stage was to be a simple test of our physical fitness and lined each of us up at various stations throughout the room.

  I wanted to raise my hand and ask him if there was a locker room where I could take off my suit, but he'd already reset the stopwatch, ready to go. My sleeves were wet from wip¬ing my forehead. I used my skinny black new-wave tie instead, and it shone slick with sweat.

  Silver Bullet fired a starter pistol in the air, which seemed like a ridiculous thing to do for a tryout, and we all broke into a sprint. For all the gym's high-tech gadgets and haute design, our first station was just a cleaner, newer version of the same obstacle courses I'd been doing in gym since I was a little kid. Hop quickly through some tires, run a few laps, leap over a few hurdles, climb a rope wall, and there you are.

  I was so focused on doing my best that I didn't even notice until I got to the rope that I was a full two lengths ahead of everyone else. Granted, Mighty Mite had to move a lot faster with those puny legs, but I was still kicking ass. I looked over my shoulder and saw Vicious Violet kicking the hurdles into the wall instead of leaping over them. I'd already won the heat by that point anyway. Not bad for a first-timer. I caught my breath and watched Silver Bullet scribble some marks on his clipboard. Looks like all those years of basketball and sports might actually pay off after all.

  The next station was even more like gym class. All he wanted us to do was bang out as many push-ups, pull-ups, rope-jumps, and sit-ups as we could during the allotted periods of time. Again, I nailed it, beating everyone in every event until we got to the sit-ups, when Silver Bullet asked us to partner up.

  "I'm not doing it with him." Miss Scarlett, the pizza delivery girl, pointed at me. Everyone else had paired off, and it left just me and Miss Scarlett, and she wasn't having it.

  "You're also being graded," Silver Bullet said, "on teamwork."

  Miss Scarlett smiled at him, a cute, flirtatious grin, and he smiled back. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me aside and whispered, "If you look down my shirt, I'll fry your testicles." Her eyes sizzled when she spoke.

  I went first and did more than one hundred sit-ups in a minute, with Miss Scarlett kneeling on the tops of my feet as an anchor. I felt the strain in my abdomen and knew I'd be sore tomorrow. I might be winning these heats, but I'd need to get in better shape if I planned to make the big time. No more mint chocolate-chip after dinner, maybe an additional workout at the rec center each morning before school.

  When it came time to switch, Miss Scarlett lay on the ground and tucked her shirttail loosely in her waistband and zipped up her red delivery jacket. As I knelt on her feet, she glanced around the room at her competitors, and I thought for a second that she looked like a nervous little girl who'd always been picked last for kickball. Silver
Bullet fired his popgun, and while everyone else cranked out their first twenty or so sit-ups with relative ease and speed, Miss Scarlett took her time, pulling herself up to her knees slowly and gingerly. My knees began to tingle, and she looked at me with flames in her eyes. Suddenly my knees began to burn like they were on fire.

  "Ouch!" I pulled away. "You burned me!"

  "No, I didn't!"

  Silver Bullet sped over to mediate.

  "That hurt," I said. "What's your problem!" If she'd been a guy and this had been a basketball court, I would have pushed her back.

  "I told you, I didn't do it." She got up in my face. "But I might do it now."

  "Okay, easy now, you two." Silver Bullet pushed us apart.

  "That's enough teamwork for today."

  * * *

  I was still steaming when I walked in the room for my interview. I saw the judges, various members of the League, cracking up with laughter. Miss Scarlett got up from the interviewee seat, smiled and thanked them for their time, and told them if they thought that last one was funny, then just wait until she told the one about the time she'd had to put out the fire at the Sheraton when they double booked the Shriners and the Star Trek convention on the same weekend. The heroes laughed again and bid her a fond farewell, and I could tell she'd charmed the pants off them. She turned to me and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face with her middle finger.

  "I left the seat warm for you."

  She breezed out of the room, and I sat down and faced Warrior Woman, the Spectrum, and King of the Sea behind the table. They caught their breath and settled down from all the laughter. Warrior Woman, still chuckling, wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye.

  "Boy, she's kinda nutty, huh?" I threw it out there, hoping to break the ice. Their smiles evaporated, and they inspected their new candidate.

  "How so?" the Spectrum asked.

  Uh-oh.

  "What is this saying, nutty?" King of the Sea asked the others through his gills.