“No, no,” the woman said crossly, still wheezing. “He came to help us.” She broke off again, coughing.
I was riveted to the screen.
The fire chief was waving the reporter away. “They need oxygen. No more questions.” He led the escapees away. The other firemen were hosing down the building, and the deadly orange glow began to subside. More and more people appeared in the doorway safely, streaked with soot and ash. They all said the same thing to the nosy reporter: Shadowman saved us all. He got there just after the explosion. He’s a hero.
I kept watching, hoping for a glimpse of him. My heart began to pound in anticipation. The police were asking how many were thought to be still in there, and it seemed like less than ten. And suddenly, five men, hands tied and mouths taped with duct tape, were escorted out.
“Here are your perps, boys,” a deep voice called out. I leaned forward. Like the proverbial tall dark streak of light, only a black blur could be seen racing away. My heart stopped for half a second and something flickered in my mind. But I was too busy watching to absorb it, so I pushed the thought away and focused on the TV. The cameraman zoomed and followed him as far as he could, but all too soon the one they called Shadowman was gone.
It struck me anew that the name was wrong. Shadowman? It lacked something. As the newscast ended, it hit me, and I dashed over to my computer and opened up my email account. My fingers fairly flew over my keyboard as I composed a brief letter and fired it off to the major local news channels and papers. I wrote:
To whom it may concern:
Thus far you have been calling Pittsburgh’s unknown hero “Shadowman.” The point of a hero’s name is to not only strike fear in their enemies’ hearts, but also to give an idea of who they are and what they do. I believe a better name for this brave man would be something like “Dark Lightning.” Like the proverbial tall, dark streak of light, he moves and strikes quickly; and though his actions are good, he dresses in black, and those he fights should not take him lightly. Wherever the storms are…Dark Lightning goes.
Sincerely, Anna Fisher
To my eternal surprise, someone listened. By the following evening, as though some mutual agreement had been reached, they were all calling him Dark Lightning. My email was even printed as an editorial in more than one paper, with the title “Tall, Dark Streak of Lightning.” I felt equal parts pride and horror. What had I done? I had perhaps given him the name everyone would know him by, forever. What if he didn’t like it? I should have slept on it before naming him. I should have given my letter a second read in the morning before I sent it.
The truth was I had slept uneasily that night anyway; my brain just wouldn’t quit thinking and replaying what I had seen. I kept wondering about this man, whom I’d newly christened ‘Dark Lightning.’ Who was he really? Why did he do what he did? What was his story? I tossed and turned, unable to get rid of the images of rescued people, captured criminals, and a camera-shy hero.
I gave up trying to sleep around four AM and tried working on some more Sociology. By five thirty my stomach was growling. The cafeteria wouldn’t be open for another half hour, so I decided to go ahead and take my shower and get ready. I rarely ever got up in time for breakfast, so it was a new sensation for me. I left the dorm with my bag over my shoulder, my curly hair still slightly damp, and walked over to Phelps.
The smell of bacon and eggs greeted me as I walked in. It was unbelievably quiet; there couldn’t have been more than ten people in the whole place. It was only quarter after six. I got some oatmeal, eggs and bacon, and sat in my usual area. I yawned as I got some orange juice. If my brain had been working better, I would have thought to bring a book; I’d been rereading A Wrinkle in Time in between assignments.
But I didn’t need it. Just then, someone plopped his tray in front of me. I looked up—way up—to see Davin towering over me. “Hey. Mind if sit here?” His voice was low and gravelly.
“Of course not.” I smiled and shook my head. He sat heavily in his seat; I suddenly recalled that he’d missed several classes of World Civ, and I was about to tease him about skipping. But my smile faded quickly as I looked at him more closely. “You look terrible!” I exclaimed. “Are you sick?”
He shook his head slowly. His hair was sticking up all over the place—even more than usual, that is—and his face was covered in its usual fuzzy wreath of stubble. But there were new additions, too: dark circles ringed his eyes, and several blotchy spots on his cheeks and chin looked like newly forming bruises. There was even a fresh scab at the corner of his left eye; he looked flat-out exhausted. “’M just tarred,” he mumbled, and a yawn punctuated his words.
“Up late, huh?”
He glanced at me briefly. “Mm-hm.” Again he had that shifty look, like he wasn’t telling the truth. “Studying.”
“Looks more like you were out brawling,” I commented skeptically. “Are you in trouble or something?”
He jerked his head up sharply. “Why would you say that?” he asked over his mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“Well, as I said, you look terrible, for one thing. Beat-up terrible. Like someone was using you as a punching bag.”
He ran a hand gently over his face. “Is it really that bad?” He sighed as I nodded. “Is that the only reason for your concern, Dr. Fisher?” He paused in between bites.
“You haven’t been to class much lately,” I reminded him.
“Oh...I overslept a few times,” he mumbled.
“Huh.” I wasn’t buying it. I knew enough about guys, from my brother and a tip he taught me, to have a pretty good idea when they are lying. Or anyone, for that matter. There’s a funny, far-off look that will come into his eyes, as though he is searching for an answer, calculating the risks, keeping track of what he’s already said. And of course, he tends to avoid your eyes, as Davin was avoiding mine. “But you’re up in time for breakfast this morning. Convenient.”
He cocked his head at me and swallowed his milk. “You don’t believe me,” he said. Practically accused.
“Well,” I said slowly, taking a sip of my juice, “you have to admit, the circumstances are suspicious.” I was half kidding, but I could see he was taking it seriously.
He leaned back in his chair, motionless for a moment. “This is part of why I keep to myself,” he said flatly. “Fewer questions.”
That stung a little. “Fine.” I shrugged. “Whatever. It’s none of my business, I get that. But your story does need work, because I’ve never seen anyone look so trashed just from spending the night studying.” I paused and made a point of looking him over once more. “Anyone with eyes and half a brain is going to think you were in a fight.”
His eyes flickered to me; there was almost panic in his expression. But then he looked down and swallowed a couple more bites before replying. He did not look up at me as he said, “Well, some of the guys in my dorm and I did get to roughhousing a bit.”
I nodded, though again I knew there had to be more to the story than that. “Well, you should really put something on that cut above your eye. Or would that make you seem not macho in front of your friends?”
He cocked his head at me again. “What is it with you and band-aids? People healed long before they were invented, you know.” k`1`2
“Not as well,” I retorted.
He sighed in mock defeat. “Would it make you feel better to give me one?”
“Only if I can watch you put it on.”
“Perhaps you’d like to do the honors?”
I considered, my heart fluttering ever-so-slightly in a way that should have alarmed me. But he was just a friend in need. “Well, I suppose I am pretty much done with breakfast....” I pushed my tray aside and dug in my bag for my first aid kit once again. “Lean forward.” He complied, resting his head in his hands. “So did you clean this when it first happened, or what?”
“Um....”
“I’ll take that as a no.” I swabbed it with an alcohol pad, and he flinched. “Don’t wo
rry, almost done.” I dabbed on some ointment before pressing a band-aid down. “There.”
“Thanks,” he grumbled, but he was smiling faintly, too.
I laughed; he always seemed so reluctant. “You’re welcome. You should be more careful.”
“Yeah, yeah. I will. Anyway,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes, “today is a new day.” He drew in a deep breath.
“Very philosophical,” I noted.
“Courtesy of Intro with Dr. Campbell.” He grinned. “I love that class. I’m thinking about majoring in it, you know. Actually, you should take it sometime. You know, to balance out your anatomy classes or whatever you premed students take.”
“I told you, I’m not pre-med. I’m not anything, yet. I’m undecided—but I hadn’t considered taking Philosophy.”
“Why not? You seem to have a good brain, a good knack for reasoning.” It was said like a compliment, but there was something else in it, too—a challenge.
I shrugged. “If by that you mean that I tend to overanalyze everything, then I guess you’re right.”
He narrowed his gaze at me. “Do you really? Overanalyze, I mean.”
“Yep.” I shrugged self-consciously. “After all, I didn’t exactly take your word for it that all you did last night was study.”
“True.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting.” “What is?”
But he merely drained the last of his milk and stood. “That’s my cue,” he said, and there was a hint of a smile around the corner of his mouth. “Sorry, but once more I have to run off and leave you alone. Can you handle it?” I narrowed my eyes back at him. “I’ll manage,” I replied brusquely. “Really,” I insisted, when he hesitated. “I’m tougher than I seem.”
“I don’t know,” he remarked, shouldering his bag, “you already seem pretty tough to me.” He shot me something remarkably like a smile and waved as he headed out. “See you around.”
By then I was no longer irritated by his disappearing act; I was more intrigued than anything else. Davin had a secret, and I found myself growing ever more curious about him. Perhaps I should have put it together, right then. I had all the pieces I needed, but I wasn’t paying attention.
I was too distracted by how close our faces had gotten when I’d applied the band-aid. And things like the way he smelled of thunderstorms and coffee, or how his dark brown eyes had locked onto me. My brain was filled with questions like, I wonder what he thinks of me? and He’d have mentioned it if he had a girlfriend, right? instead of Where could he possibly be dashing off to at seven AM on a Saturday? or Why would he allow his dorm mates to hit him in the face?
As he walked away, all I was thinking about was how I felt like I got to see more of the back of that boy than the front.
Chapter Five
“If I had known what trouble you were bearing, what griefs were in the silence of your face,
I would have been more gentle and caring,
and tried to give you gladness for a space.”
—Mary Caroline Davies
Winter came with more snow than I had ever seen in my entire life. We didn’t get much snow in the tropics of Brazil, and even Southeastern Virginia winters were mostly mild. In fact, if it snowed more than half an inch most places I’d been, the whole city would shut down and virtually everything was canceled. Not so in Pittsburgh. They took snow in stride, sending out fleets of salt trucks and snow ploughs around the clock.
Not a single class or final was canceled at Dubsy, no matter how chilly the walk from the dorms to the classrooms. I found myself completely frazzled by the end-ofterm tests, sacrificing so much sleep for last-minute studying that I felt like a zombie. I was glad when the last one was over and the break had commenced, but no sooner had I drawn a breath of relief than I realized I was in for a very lonely three weeks.
The tiny Dubsy campus emptied within a matter of hours; most students had family in the city or within a couple hours’ drive. There was a group of international students who stayed behind; but even many of them had host families in the area who welcomed them into their homes. My room was empty (not that I missed Nicki); Mercy Hall (my dorm) seemed deserted; even at Phelps Dining Hall I barely saw a soul.
For a day or two it was kind of nice—even relaxing. But the more twinkling lights I saw and Christmas carols I heard, the less I wanted to be alone. I took to exploring the campus, partly to see if I would cross paths with anyone. I rarely did, and the others I ran into were never alone, as I was. They were always in pairs or clusters.
I missed my family so much it was like an ache. During the year I’d talked to them every couple of weeks, and I was busy enough that I could keep the homesickness somewhat at bay. But the prospect of facing the holidays without them seemed bleak and unbearable.
It wasn’t the tree or the presents I’d be missing, either; we never had much but the Fishers had traditions. And no matter where we’d been, we’d celebrated together. But there simply wasn’t money in the Missionary Fund budget for an expensive international flight. I was stuck in Pennsylvania, thousands of miles away from my parents and brother. It would be my first time spending the holidays away, and I was depressed. I had never felt so lonely in my entire life, not even when I ate lunch by myself every day of my junior year of high school.
When it got too cold to walk around campus anymore, I stayed warm in the library, curling up with books and gazing out at the cold, white world. I explored each floor, discovering which kinds of books were shelved where. I found the children’s section, and checked out some childhood favorites. Then one day I made a fortuitous discovery.
“Excuse me, Ma’am?”
The librarian looked up at my inquiring whisper. I pointed to a shelf. “Are we allowed to actually check these out?”
She looked where I was pointing and raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Wow.” I smiled, and she looked at me again, curiously. “It’s just that I’ve never been to a library that had comic books you could check out,” I explained.
She nodded. “We had a rather eccentric donor who died just a year ago. He had given a lot of money to the library over the years, and then he left his entire collection to us, insisting that his comic book collection be included. Oh, his grandkids were mad—they wanted to auction ‘em off. I guess they would have made quite a bit of money too, but here they sit. Not many…who actually come to check them out, though,” she added.
I knew what she meant. She had almost said ‘not many girls.’ Humph. I compiled a large stack of The Fantastic Four and The Amazing Spider-Man, threw in a few X-Men and Avengers for good measure, and placed them on the counter. “I’d like to check these out,” I said sweetly.
She gave me another one of her curious glances as she stamped each one. “Due back in two weeks.”
I was on my way out the front when I nearly ran straight into the last person I expected to see: Davin.
“Hey!” After a second of looking surprised, he smiled an unexpectedly large smile, almost as though he was truly pleased to see me. “Anna! I didn’t know you were still here.”
“Yeah,” I began, but he held up a hand.
“Hang on. Let me just drop these off,” he held up a couple of books, “and then I’ll walk you back to your dorm.” It was obviously not a request.
I hugged my comics to my chest and waited with mixed feelings. The thing was: Davin was a good looking guy. Most girls didn’t bother to look past the intimidating combination of black clothing, beard, height, and combat boots. Oh, he was tall—he had to be over six feet—but he was also well built. All that martial arts training, I supposed. And if anyone had looked more closely, they would have noticed beneath his scruff and scowl that he occasionally had a nice smile, as well as deep brown eyes that kindled with a golden glow when something caught his interest.
I couldn’t tell if he intentionally kept himself hidden under unnecessary layers, or if he really didn’t know or care how others saw him. It was possible that he was just too busy r
ushing around doing whatever it was he did that he didn’t pay attention to his appearance. Or was too wrapped up in his own little sorrowful world. Half the time his tee shirts were sadly wrinkled, and his socks were often mismatched. His hair was generally just plain awful. It looked as though he had nice, curly hair, but had taken it upon himself to cut it all off. And had done the job half asleep. With kiddie scissors. With so many obstacles, who else would dare glance twice to look deeper? He didn’t have the obvious, easy charm that other guys did. Guys like Chad Chang, who practically had his own fan club he was so good looking, invited adoration with open arms. Davin, on the other hand, kept the world at arm’s length. Even me.
So while I found myself developing a weird attraction to him—messy black hair, unshaven face, combat boots and all—I was still a little dubious about his strange behavior. I certainly didn’t need the intimate details of his life all at once. I hoped that in time he would trust me enough to tell me more of his story, but in the meantime I was growing weary of feeling like I was being lied to. It seemed like he needed a friend, and I would have liked to be one; but how could I help him if he wouldn’t be honest with me about what was really troubling him?
He returned within moments, leaving my thoughts unsettled. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hands. “Huh?” I gave a half shake of my head. I had no idea what he was asking.
“Your books. Can I carry them for you?”
“Oh! Oh, um, they’re really not that heavy.”
He kept his hands out. I thought it was kind of sweet and old fashioned that he would offer, but also fairly unexpected. I couldn’t think of the last time I saw a guy carry a girl’s books for her. And it wasn’t like they were at all heavy and bulky; I was perfectly capable of managing them without any help, and I was more than used to doing things for myself. But I couldn’t exactly think of a good reason to say no without being insulting, so I handed them over.
His eyebrows shot up when he saw them. “You…read comics,” he observed, with that same sort of incredulity the librarian had expressed.
Tall, Dark Streak of Lightning (The Dark Lightning Trilogy) Page 5