I slam my coffee mug down on the counter hard enough to break off the handle. “Dammit, do you think you could go one day — one stinking day without psychoanalyzing me?” I snap. “You’re not my therapist and I’m not your patient, so back off.”
Very calmly, Sara finishes off her coffee and places her mug in the sink. “Sure. Why not?” she says, her voice level. “You’re fine.”
She blows past Mom without saying a word. “Well, good morning to you, too,” Mom says to Sara’s back. “Something wrong?” she asks me.
“She’s upset is all,” I say. “Funeral day.”
“Ah. Yes.” Mom comes in for a hug. I get the feeling it’s more for her sake than for mine, judging by how tightly she’s holding me. The possibility of me dying in action isn’t quite the abstract concept it once was. “When’s the funeral?”
“One. Matt’s going to pick me up around eleven.”
“Okay. Tell him to drive safely,” Mom says, and that’s the heaviest our morning conversation gets. She talks a little about work and some new Bose Industries marketing campaign to promote the work being done at the Forward Robotic Concepts facility, complains about having to interview fall intern applicants in a few weeks — boring, normal stuff — and then heads out, travel mug of coffee in hand.
I’m showered, made up, and dressed in my best funeral ensemble by nine, and that’s with me taking my time. There’s nothing on TV good enough for mindless background noise, so I run up to my room to find a movie to throw on. Everyone in the Squad has a favorite movie or two they watch whenever they need a pick-me-up. Matt loves The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension. Sara’s go-to is The King and I. Missy will put My Neighbor Totoro on repeat. Stuart’s happy-making viewing is Over the Garden Wall. Mine is Goldfinger, which I concede is a weird choice for an uplifting viewing experience, but it’s the quintessential James Bond movie, and Bond flicks always cheer me up.
But this time, for some reason, it doesn’t. Halfway through the movie, I turn it off in disgust. What happened to the suave superspy who nobly fights for queen and country I’ve always loved? All I see now is an emotionally arrested, mean-spirited, sexist douchebag. I don’t get it. I grew up watching these movies with Dad, and they always made me happy.
Maybe it’s because Dad and I are on such rocky ground nowadays. I mean, we haven’t spoken since I got back two weeks ago.
Wait, back up. It’s been two weeks? Two weeks and he hasn’t called me once, or texted, or e-mailed me. And now that I think about it, he hasn’t mentioned me at all on Facebook or Twitter, not even after I got home. Everything he’s posted on social media has been about work or Tonia and Kelly — his new family, complete with his new surrogate daughter who gets all the love and attention because she isn’t trying to do something important with herself. Me, I risk my neck to make the world a better place and what does that get me? Frozen out by my own father. How is that even fair?
I take my phone out and stab the screen with my finger. It rings six times before Dad picks up. Six times. I’m actually shocked he doesn’t let it go to voicemail.
“What the hell, Dad?” I say before he can get a word out. “Two weeks I’ve been home! Two friggin’ weeks and you haven’t called me once to ask me how I am or tell me you miss me. What, are you going to act like I don’t even exist because I’m doing something you don’t approve of?”
“What? Carrie, I don’t — hold on,” Dad says. I hear him excuse himself to someone and then close a door. “Carrie, honey, calm down. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong? You’ve been ignoring me is what’s wrong!”
“I haven’t been ignoring you.”
“Then why haven’t you called me? Huh? You haven’t made one single attempt to talk to me since I got back.”
“You haven’t called me either, you know,” Dad snips. “Communication’s a two-way street.”
“Really? You’re trying to turn this around and make it my fault? Okay, fine, you want to play that game? Let’s play. If I had called you, what would you have said to me? You would have asked me to quit again, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Carrie, I would have.”
“And I would have said no. Again. Then what? What would you have done?”
“...I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what you would have done. You’d’ve stuck your head right back up your ass, because pretending I don’t exist is so much easier than trying to accept me for who I am.”
“Carrie, that’s not fair.”
“No, you know what’s not fair? Cutting me out of your life because I’m not living my life on your terms.”
“Carrie —”
“Screw you, Dad. Screw you!” I scream into the phone, which then goes sailing across the living room. Sara’s not here to catch it this time, so it bounces off the wall and drops to the floor with a thump — still in one piece and fully functional. Thank you, Kyros Alliance technology for saving me from my own temper.
Morning talk shows, all of which seem to be hosted by gangs of sassy women or hyper-perky duos, keep me company until Matt arrives at eleven on the nose, dressed in his all-purpose black suit. I’ve mostly calmed down by then. Mostly.
“Hey,” he says. “You ready to go?”
“No,” I say.
“Yeah. Me either.”
***
Traffic is surprisingly light. We make it through Boston in under a half-hour.
“Should be smooth sailing the rest of the way,” Matt says.
“Uh-huh.”
“We might have time to grab lunch if we’re hungry.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay. Um, I know this is a dumb question, all things considered, but are you okay?”
“No.”
Matt shrugs: Well?
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Sure.”
“You said your dad still hasn’t gotten used to you being a super-hero.”
“Nope.”
“Do you think he ever will?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“No,” Matt says very matter-of-factly. “I don’t think he ever will.”
“Oh.”
“I take it things with your dad haven’t improved?”
“No,” I say, recounting my earlier tirade. “I’m starting to think he’ll never come around either, and that hurts so much. I want him on my side, you know?”
“He is on your side, Carrie, but he thinks being on your side means doing everything he can to talk you out of doing something that could get you killed.” He shrugs again. “I can’t blame him, really. Not after what happened to the Wardens.”
“I guess.” Matt’s making sense, but I’m in no mood to be reasonable, so I do what anyone would do when confronted by an unwelcome dose of common sense and change the subject. “I’m a little surprised you were so set on attending Rando’s funeral.”
“Misha,” Matt corrects.
“Misha. I was under the impression you two didn’t like each other.”
“We didn’t get along at first, no. I thought she was an arrogant ass who was trying way too hard to prove herself to the whole world.”
“Gee, doesn’t that sound familiar?”
“Yeah, yeah...”
“What changed?”
“I got to know her a little better. We trained together a few times — on the down-low, of course, because God forbid her friends find out she asked someone else for help. When she turned off the attitude, she was really cool. She was smart, had a weird sense of humor, knew so much about horror movies it put me to shame...” His cheeks flush slightly. “I actually had a little crush on her.”
“You did?” He nods. “Did you ever ask her out?”
“No. I think she wanted me to but I never did.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t up for it. I was still stinging from my breakup with Zina and wasn’t in a good headspace —
as evidenced by my spectacularly ill-advised rebound fling with Miranda Carradine.”
“Not one of your finer moments,” I say, cracking a smile Matt doesn’t return. “I’m sorry about that. Zina, I mean.”
“It’s okay,” he says, his mouth set in a grim line. “At least I got to walk away from my worst day ever.”
TWENTY-TWO
Just before I turned fourteen, my grandfather had a mild heart attack. I remember, albeit vaguely, visiting him in the hospital. He was in good spirits, but it was largely a show for Mom, who was a total wreck. Grandma had been dead less than a year, and the pain of losing her was still raw. It was the last thing Mom wanted to talk about, but Granddad, keenly aware of his own mortality, insisted on discussing his final arrangements. I don’t recall most of the conversation. All I do remember, for whatever weird reason, is Granddad expressing his hope that it’d be sunny for his funeral. He wanted us to know that even on such a sad day, the sun would always come up in the morning. Our lives would go on.
For the record, it was sunny the day of Granddad’s funeral, like he wanted.
Today is a gray day. Steely clouds cover the sky, and a light but persistent breeze makes it feel like late autumn rather than late summer. Just as well. I doubt any amount of sun could bring the tiniest glimmer of hope to Misha Rimbeau’s family and friends.
Matt and I hang out in the back of the church during the memorial service, a standing room only affair that features a long parade of Misha’s friends taking turns at the lectern to eulogize her. They recall a girl with a penchant for bad puns and biting one-liners, who had an encyclopedic knowledge of old horror movies, who possessed a powerful sense of right and wrong and had been known to throw down with school bullies, boy or girl, whenever they stepped out of line. She racked up suspensions like she was getting paid for them, but she didn’t care about the repercussions for herself. She gladly accepted her punishment if it meant another student could feel safe at school. That she turned out to be a super-hero surprised no one (or so the speakers claim). It made sense that Misha would use her gifts to help others. That’s who she was.
We don’t spot Dennis until we get to the gravesite. At a glance, he’s simply another face in the crowd, like us, but the look in his eyes transcends mere sorrow. The only mourners in a deeper pit of despair than him are Misha’s parents and younger sister, a girl maybe ten years old who can’t stop bawling into her mother’s skirt. Mrs. Rimbeau pats the girl’s head and whispers something to her, and for a moment, my imagination transforms Mrs. Rimbeau into my mother and Mr. Rimbeau into my father. I blink away the illusion, spilling tears down my cheeks.
Edison, back when he was hell-bent on discouraging the Hero Squad from the life, asked me to consider what my death would do to my parents. I refused to let that image into my head because God forbid I let cold, hard reality interfere with my decision to risk life and limb. Now I can’t make it go away.
Matt slips an arm around my shoulders and holds me close for the rest of the service.
Once the coffin has been lowered into the ground, mourners file by the family on their way back to their cars. Dennis offers his condolences and moves on. It’s quick and clean and discreet. Misha’s family won’t remember him. He makes brief eye contact with us as he shuffles over to his car. Once the crowd has thinned out, we join him.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says.
I don’t give the awkward silence any time to sink its hooks into us. I wrap my arms around Dennis. After a moment, he reciprocates.
“I’m going to take off,” Matt says to me. “Think you can find your way home?”
I nod and give Matt a faint smile, a silent thank-you.
Dennis and I linger for several minutes after Matt leaves. Dennis spends the time staring at Misha’s open grave, his expression pensive. I have a good idea what he’s thinking: that could have been him lying in that coffin. This could have been his funeral.
This should have been his funeral.
He eventually tears himself away, and we end up at a nearby café. We sit in a corner booth and order some coffee to justify our presence.
“Thank you for coming,” he says.
“Of course,” I say. I reach across the table and take his hand. “And I’ll be here tomorrow, and the next day.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s the closest I’ve seen him come to smiling in days. “Have you found them yet?”
“No, but we’re looking. Edison’s made finding them his top priority, but it might take time. We don’t know who any of them really are. We don’t have any real names or faces to trace.”
“Then how can you find them?”
“We have some ideas.”
“Like what?”
“Like drawing them out. Making them come to us.”
“How would you do that?”
I hesitate. This falls under the category of things I maybe shouldn’t tell Dennis because it’s going to suck to hear, but maybe should because he has a right to know. For better or worse, I tell him the truth.
“By using you as bait. They want the Skyblazer armor, we know that, and Edison’s certain if you went back out, they’d make another run at you.”
Dennis stiffens.
“I told Edison it wouldn’t work. I said that after what happened, you’d never put the suit on again, for any reason.”
“No,” he says, but his tone confirms my nagging suspicion — my fear that he would be willing to suit up again, and I don’t see that ending well. He’s bottling up a butt-ton of rage, and that does not lend itself to sound decision-making. He wouldn’t be satisfied with simply playing bait; he’d want to take his pound of flesh personally. He’d throw himself headlong into the fight with no regard for his own safety.
“We’ll find another way,” I say, “and I promise you, when we take these people down, you’ll be the first to know.”
He nods, and we go back to sitting in silence, our coffees untouched and growing cold.
TWENTY-THREE
Darius Templeton, alias Magnum Hand, is buried on Thursday. He’s recalled by his family and friends as a friendly, laid-back kid and an avid martial arts enthusiast who dreamed of becoming the next Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan. Lena Brahms, alias Zip, is buried on Friday. She’s remembered as an energetic, outgoing girl and a talented artist who drew, painted, and sculpted obsessively.
The days have a disorienting Groundhog Day vibe to them. I fly to Manchester, insinuate myself into the mourners, maintain a low profile throughout the memorial and graveside services, and meet up with Dennis afterwards so we can retreat to a coffee shop and commiserate in peace. Dennis is a little more talkative each day, but only a little. There’s not much to say. I wish I could tell him we’re making progress on our hunt for the Wardens’ killers, but they’ve gone underground. Unless they show themselves again or trip up somehow, we’re at a dead end.
I tell Dennis not to give up hope. I swear to him we will get these people and bring them to justice. He says he believes me. I don’t think he does.
Determined to make good on my vow, I spend the weekend at Protectorate HQ sifting through all the reports, all the news stories, and kicking myself for not recording the incident on my headset.
The rest of the Squad helps me out as best they can. Matt and Sara hit the Protectorate’s database to review what little we have on Typhon and Echidna and company, while Stuart and Missy read through the reports to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Nothing useful turns up. These people are totally in the wind.
Matt insists our only course of action is to run with Edison’s idea to put Dennis out as bait or, failing that, put someone else in the Skyblazer suit. “Edison could do it,” Matt says. “It’s practically Concorde armor.”
“You’re assuming Dennis didn’t dump the suit,” I say.
“Did he?”
“I don’t know,” I say, though I strongly suspect he didn’t.
“Ask him.”
***
And I do as soon as Sara and I get home. Sara heads into the kitchen to help Mom with dinner (what with my services there being totally unnecessary), and I run upstairs to call Dennis. I update him on the investigation, which takes all of two minutes, and then, reluctantly, I ask him if he still has the Skyblazer armor. Dennis says he does, but it’s stashed away.
“Matt had the idea of putting a ringer in the suit,” I say.
“Putting out a decoy,” Dennis said.
“Basically, yeah.”
“I’m not comfortable with that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just not.”
“It’s the only idea we have, Dennis. We spent all weekend sifting through every last shred of intel we have and came up empty. If you won’t do it and you won’t let anyone else wear the suit, all we can do is sit and wait.”
“I never said I wouldn’t do it.”
“You did, actually.”
“I never — that wasn’t what I meant.”
“You’re not ready to go back into the field.”
“I don’t think that’s your decision to make.”
“And I don’t think you’re clear-headed enough to make the right call. You’re still dealing with a lot of anger and guilt.”
“Pft. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
I flinch as though Dennis had reached through the screen to smack me in the mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I didn’t mean to — I’m not — I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m tired.”
“...And?”
“And what?”
“And how about an apology?”
“For what?”
“For what? For that stupid crack you made. I’m trying to help you, you know. Maybe you should be a little more grateful.”
“Grateful for what? You haven’t done anything but run around in circles. The people who killed my friends are still out there, and you don’t know who they are or where they are.”
Crawling From the Wreckage Page 18