I totally get what he’s saying, but my brain and my heart refuse to reach an accord on the matter of Ben. He’s a hurdle I can’t (or, if I’m to be honest with myself, refuse to) clear.
You know what? I’m not going to worry about that now. I’m on a date with a nice guy, so let’s focus on that, shall we?
I stand in my sad, sorry rented skates. My ankles tremble, my knees protest, and I waddle like a drunk duck toward the rink. Newborn fawns are more stable. Once I’m on the ice, however, it all comes back to me. I glide away, my legs sure and steady, and arc back around as Malcolm joins me on the ice, his hands gripping the edge of the rink for support.
“The good thing about falling while skating?” he says. “You’re already icing the bruise on your butt.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Malcolm lets go of the rink wall and takes a tentative stride toward me. I push away, keeping the distance between us.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you incentive,” I say. He takes a step toward me, his legs wobbly. “Stop trying to walk. Skate.”
Malcolm nods. His legs make the adjustment and he pushes toward me. Instead of easing into a rhythmic stride, he leaves his trailing leg out too long and nearly wipes out. He grasps at the air frantically, his body pitches and sways as it fights to rediscover its balance, and somehow it all works out: He suddenly smooths out and slides right into my waiting arms.
“Well done,” I say.
“Yeah? You have low standards.”
I smile. “Do I now?”
Malcolm bends to close the few remaining inches between us.
“YO! Mal!”
Oh, no. No no no...
“What’re you doing here, man?” Angus Parr says as he skates up to us, Gerry Yannick at his heels. Angus puts on a last burst of speed before skidding to a stop, spraying ice at us. He glances at me but doesn’t offer a greeting.
“Hey, guys,” Malcolm says politely.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, dude,” Gerry says.
“Same here.”
“We were hanging out at the mall, but it was way dead,” Angus says, ending his explanation there. “Hey, come shoot the puck around with us. We only got the two sticks, but we can trade off.”
“Thanks, but I’m —”
“C’mon, man, this loser can’t shoot for crap,” Angus says, poking Gerry with his stick.
“And you can’t pass for crap. C’mon, Mal,” Gerry says. He finally acknowledges my presence by saying to me, “You can watch. You know, if you want.”
“We’re on a date,” I say pointedly.
Gerry shrugs. “So? I said you can watch us.”
“That is an option. Another option? You go back to your scrimmage and we go back to our date, and we stay out of each other’s way for the rest of the night.”
“Hey, man,” Angus says to Malcolm, “you going to let her talk to us like that?”
“Excuse me? Let me talk to you like that? No one lets me talk to anyone.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time someone starts.”
Malcolm tries to play peacemaker, but I’m in no mood to be civil to these meatheads, not anymore. “Oh, you go ahead and try it,” I say, prompting a derisive snort of laughter from Gerry. “What? You think I can’t take you?”
Gerry looks me over. “Please. Don’t even.”
“Tell you what,” I say, yanking the stick out of Gerry’s hand. “You go guard that goal. I’ll take one shot. One. I get the puck past you, you and Angus leave. I miss the shot, I’ll leave.”
“Carrie,” Malcolm begins, but I shush him. Sorry, sweetie, but I need to put this fire out myself.
“Pft. Cake,” Gerry says, taking Angus’s stick.
I follow him back to the goal. He slaps the puck at me. I catch it on the blade of my stick and skate away, getting a feel for the motions, simultaneously familiar and foreign. My stomach flutters; I’ve talked the talk, now I need to walk the walk or I’m going to look like a mouthy girl with more game than game (so to speak).
I turn around at mid-ice to face Gerry. He’s center net, crouched low, knees wide, stick down to guard his five-hole (that’s the gap between his feet, for those of you unfamiliar with the terminology). Curious, I skate to my left. Gerry adjusts his position to mirror me. Casually, I cross back. Gerry shifts again. That’s what I needed to know.
All right, Hellcat Hauser, let’s do it.
I launch myself at Gerry, my slow glide becoming a full charge within a few strides. The old instincts kick in as I close the distance. I guide the puck by feel rather than by sight. I watch Gerry’s body for the slightest shift in his weight, the tiniest adjustment to his stance. He hunkers lower, almost laying his stick flat against the ice. The kid’s a wall, true enough, but there’s a fatal flaw with walls: They expect everyone to try going through them; they don’t expect anyone to try going around them.
Gerry braces himself, thinking I’m going to crash the net, but at the last second I hook hard to my left, skirting the edge of the crease. My ankles, long unused to this kind of strain, scream at me. Tomorrow morning I’m going to be in serious pain, but man, it’s going to be worth it, because Gerry has kindly left me a huge opening, which I fill with puck with a backhand snap shot.
When I turn around, I’m greeted by three faces hanging slack in complete and total awe — although only one of those faces is also impressed. Gerry looks at me, then at the puck sitting in the net, then back at me. Go on, tell me it was a lucky shot. I know you want to.
“That was a lucky shot,” Angus says.
“That was pure skill,” I say, “and even if it was a lucky shot — which it so wasn’t — the deal was if I make the goal, you two leave, so get skatin’, boys.”
“Best two out of three,” Gerry says, and he slaps the puck back at me. I slap it right back. It flies between his legs. “I wasn’t ready yet!”
“Aw, poor baby, would you like some cheese to go with that whine? You have two minutes to clear out and let us get back to our date,” I say, tossing my stick to Angus. “If you don’t? On Monday, I’m going to tell everyone in school how I owned your poor clumsy ass, not once but twice.”
Gerry stands there blinking at me, no doubt searching his pot-addled brain for a scathing comeback, something that will put the uppity little girl in her place but good.
“Come on, man, let’s go,” Angus says. Gerry sneers at me and throws a look at Malcolm, who replies with a shrug. Finally, they skate away. I don’t turn my back on them until they’re out of sight, out of the building.
“That,” Malcolm says, “was hot.”
“Athletic girls do it for you, huh?”
“Girls who don’t take crap from jerks like them do it for me.”
“Excellent answer,” I say, and as weird as it may sound, I appreciate that Malcolm didn’t jump in to defend me. I wouldn’t have held it against him if he had, but he let me stand up for myself. He doesn’t see me as a frail girl that needs protection, and that means a lot to me.
He deserves this kiss.
NINE
The Monday night homework session at Chez Danvers is unusually subdued. Normally, getting homework done is something of an incidental aspect of the evening and we spend more time talking than working, but tonight we’re all quiet, focused, intent. None of us wants to think about tomorrow, so we’re losing ourselves in our homework.
“Hey, I was wondering: How are we supposed to testify tomorrow?” Stuart says to me through a mouthful of Doritos (classy). I suppose it was inevitable someone would break the silence, but I’m surprised it’s not Matt.
“Um, step up to the witness stand, put your hand on the Bible, truth and nothing but and all that,” I say. “I don’t think it’ll be any different for us than for a normal person.”
“Yeah, but we’re not going as normal people.”
Ah, I get what he’s saying: it’s not going to be Stuart Lumley on the stand, it’s going to be Super
beast, so how can any court accept testimony from someone using a fake identity?
“I was wondering about that too,” Sara says.
“I spent last night reading up on court proceedings involving super-heroes. It was pretty interesting,” I say.
Matt, the super-hero geek of the group, closes his English textbook and twists in his seat, his attention fully on me. “Go on.”
“The whole issue of people testifying under an assumed identity came up back in the eighties, and it went all the way to the Supreme Court. The justices ruled, basically, that an assumed identity wasn’t the same as a fake identity, so testimony delivered by any super-hero under his or her alias was admissible as long as, if pressed for it, they could provide proof of their civilian identity.”
“Huh. So we don’t have to unmask or give our real names or anything?”
“Nope. But we definitely do not want to perjure ourselves, because the perjury laws that apply to super-heroes are way harsher than they are for regular people. I guess that’s the way it goes in general: The law makes a lot of allowances for super-heroes so they can operate, but it also comes down hard on them when they screw up.”
“Incoming,” Sara says. The conversation stops and we pretend to go back to our homework. A few seconds later, Mr. Danvers strolls through the living room.
“What up, Mr. D?” Stuart says.
“Stuart,” Mr. Danvers says. “Kids, it’s getting late. You should go home.”
“Dad, it’s, like, barely past eight,” Sara says, echoing my own thought. We’ve run later than ten on many a night.
“Don’t argue, Sara. Say good-night,” Mr. Danvers says, continuing on to the kitchen.
“What the hell?” Sara says, jumping off the couch to chase after her dad.
“Oh, this isn’t going to end well,” I say, and a few seconds later the sounds of familial conflict spill out of the kitchen.
“There we were,” Matt says, “in the Congo...”
“I think we should go,” Missy says. My initial impulse is to say yes, let’s get out of here so Sara and her father can tear into each other in private, but that might only cause things to escalate.
Mr. Danvers makes the decision for us when he storms into the living room and says brusquely, “Kids, go home. Homework time’s over.”
Slowly, silently, we pack up. I see Sara standing in the doorway to the kitchen, glowering at her father. Her face is blank, expressionless, but her eyes absolutely blaze with rage. I try to send her a message over the brainphone but she’s not receiving. She’s locked me out.
We file out of the house without so much as a goodbye.
“That sucked all over,” Matt says.
“Shyeah,” Stuart says. “What crawled up his butt and died?”
“Sara said he’s been in a weird mood lately,” I say. “Look, there’s nothing we can do, so let’s all go home and get a good night’s sleep.”
“Yeah, big day tomorrow,” Matt says with more excitement than is warranted, but that’s my opinion. At best, it’ll be a boring escort mission. I refuse to consider the worst-case scenario. Optimism through denial.
I head home, and as I’m reaching for the front door, my phone goes off. Sara’s name is on my screen. Huh?
“You’re calling me,” I say. “On the phone.”
“I didn’t want you in my head. Not now,” Sara says, her voice thick. Crap, she’s crying. “Can I come over?”
“Yeah, of course you can.”
I sit on the front porch and wait, but I’m not waiting long. Sara storms up the walkway, her hoodie pulled down to hide her face, hands crammed in her pockets. A wave of seething anger hits me a few seconds before she reaches the porch. She sits down hard, her breath coming in labored huffs. She won’t look at me. I lay a hand on her knee, and the tightness in her body eases, but not by much.
“I know why Dad’s freaking out,” she says. “He saw me using my powers.”
“But he already knows you’re a psionic,” I say.
When Sara’s powers manifested a couple of years ago, she was in the middle of the Kingsport Mall. Her telepathy kicked in and, because she hadn’t yet learned how to shut out other minds, every thought of every shopper in the whole mall flooded her brain all at once. She suffered massive psychic shock and was rendered catatonic. She was out of commission for a month, during which time Matt figured out what had happened. Her parents called in Mindforce, who had extensive experience helping new psionics adjust, and he was able to pull Sara out of her vegetative state.
He explained the situation to the Danvers (Danverses?), who weren’t exactly overjoyed to learn that their daughter was a superhuman. Momma Danvers has been skittish around Sara ever since (if not outright scared, as Sara maintains), and her father...now that I think about it, as far as I’ve seen, he’s kept his feelings on the matter to himself. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say he bottled his feelings up, and now they’re spilling out all over the place.
I believe that would be called “misdirecting your anger.”
Sara tells me what straw finally broke the proverbial camel’s back. “The other week, we were in the kitchen. Dad knocked a glass of milk off the counter and I grabbed it with my telekinesis. It was pure instinct. It was the first time I ever used my powers in front of him. He looked at me like...”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.
“Ever since then, he’s been on my case about everything I do and everyone I spend time with, and lecturing me about morality, and trying to drag me to church,” she says, “and he’s been so angry — all the time, at everything. I think he’s really angry at me. Because I’m a freak.”
I pull Sara close as she breaks down crying, and I promise her no matter how bad things get at home, she’ll always have me, always, “and it’ll take a whole hell of a lot more than your dad to change that. I’m always going to be here for you.”
Instead of taking comfort, Sara says, “Yeah, and then he’ll think — never mind.” A faint, strained smile peeks out from under her hood. “Thanks.”
“Do you want to stay here tonight? Sounds to me like you could use a break from your dad,” I suggest, but Sara dismisses the offer immediately.
“Wouldn’t solve anything. Probably make it worse,” she says, standing. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I reach out to give her a goodbye hug, but she turns her back to me and walks away, leaving me standing there in the lingering psychic fog of her misery.
Sara’s mood is no sunnier the next morning when she shows up on my doorstep a few minutes after five. I ask her how things went when she got back home, but she brushes off the question. It’s an effort on my part not to pry, but if she wanted to talk about it, she would. Sometimes you have to let a person stew.
The sun is little more than a hint on the horizon when we head into town, where we make a stop at the Coffee Experience for a takeout breakfast of coffee and muffins. Jill questions our unusually early visit, which we explain away as a case of synchronized insomnia, and boy doesn’t that suck since we had the day off from school, ha ha, oh well, what’re you going to do?
Catherine Hannaford, the Protectorate’s receptionist, greets us at the team’s innocuous-looking Main Street office. “Good morning, ladies,” she says. Her smile fades as she turns to Sara and places a hand on her shoulder. “Sara, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Sara says. She sells the lie well enough to slip it by a normal person (and she isn’t radiating emotion like she was last night), but Catherine is also a psionic, so she has the same built-in lie detector Sara has.
“No, you’re miserable,” Catherine says. “Are you up for this mission?”
“Oh, so you’re not asking because you care or anything,” Sara says.
“I do care, but I also care about your teammates, and mine,” Catherine says, firmly but without any heat. “If you’re compromised in any way, even a little, it endangers everyone. I’m sure you don’t want
that. Do you?”
Sara shakes her head. “No. And I’m not going to.”
Catherine, after a moment, nods. “All right, then. Let’s get you to HQ.”
Shockingly, Sara and I are the last of the Squad to arrive. We walk into the conference room to find Matt, Stuart, and Missy already there and already in costume.
“Fashionable lateness is not acceptable when we’re on a mission,” Matt says.
“We were told to be ready to go by six,” I say. “It’s not yet six.”
“No, it’s five-fifty, and you still have to gear up.”
Have I mentioned that I hate it when Matt is right?
We rob him of any further victory with a frantic quick-change, and by oh-five-fifty-eight, we’re good to go. At oh-five-fifty-nine, Concorde enters.
“All right, Squad. Let’s go,” he says.
We follow Concorde down to the landing pad at the rear of the building, where the Pelican sits waiting. Its maglev system hums at us, low and soft. Mindforce gives us a small salute from the cockpit.
“Any word from Astrid?” Concorde says to Nina Nitro, who sits on the edge of the Pelican’s passenger bay, idly snapping her fingers. Each snap creates a tiny fireball that pops like a camera flash. Over the lower half of her face, Nina wears a red bandana, on which she’s drawn in white paint a crazy, crooked grin. I suspect there’s a matching grin underneath that bandana.
“Negative. Radio silence from our resident sorceress,” Nina says. “Told you.”
“So much for wanting to get more involved with the team,” Concorde gripes.
“Unclench, boss-man, we got this,” Nina says. “Milk run. Easy-peasy.”
“Aaaaaand we’re jinxed,” I say.
“Fine by me. I’m up for a good scrap.”
“I’m not. I want a smooth run with no problems and no hiccups,” Concorde says. “Squad, Nina is in charge on your end. Don’t give her a hard time.”
“You heard the man, kiddies. All aboard,” Nina says.
A minute later we’re all airborne, Concorde and I taking the lead.
Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect Page 8