Evolution

by Hayden Thorne

  Yeah, the kind of eyeliner that needed to be semi-melted with a blowtorch before it could be used properly—not to mention, safely. The kind that was one step up from the raw stuff that could be dug up in coal mines. I bought a set of disposable lighters with the pencils and didn’t really give a flying fig what the checkout girl would likely say. A boy buying eyeliner? God knew what was about to come my way.

  “You know, there are better brands than this,” the checkout girl—the name was Chelsea, according to her employee tag—noted, eyeing me with a tired, wan look from under scruffy blonde bangs that looked self-cut. “Softer kohl, easier on your eyes. This stuff isn’t worth the savings.”

  All right, that one wasn’t so bad. Anything would’ve been better than “fucking fag” hissed between clenched teeth while my change was being counted.

  “Yeah, but I’m on a really tight budget right now. Maybe next time.”

  She shrugged and gave me the total. Two bucks. That was about one-third of the day’s allowance, go me. Thank God for packed lunches. Then again, budget-y issues aside, I wasn’t really too keen on downing one more plate of so-called food from the school cafeteria.

  “Here’s your change. Have a nice day,” Chelsea mumbled, turning away even before the second word came out of her. She sniffed, yawned, and rested a hand against her lower back. I realized then she was a little bit pregnant—I meant her belly was just swelling up—in addition to looking around sixteen, seventeen tops. She abandoned her register to shuffle over to a stack of boxes, which she was apparently unpacking before I showed up. Sniffling and muttering under her breath, she picked up where she left off and pulled out all kinds of useless impulse-buy items. There were a few other employees scattered up and down the store, with no one else manning the registers or helping her out with stocking.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven-thirty in the morning. Jesus, what time did Chelsea start her shift? Was she even going to be in school?

  * * * *

  Loved my companions, hated my day. That was my life in Renaissance High in its abridgitated—or whatever—version, and, no, it rarely ever changed. The number two highlight of my day was my Art class. I’d long learned to gather up all my frustrations from my previous classes, and since Art was my final period, I let it rip on canvas. Or paper. Or clay. Or whatever happened to be our chosen medium for the day. Who said I needed to pay an arm and a leg for a shrink? Graphite and paint were my bestest of best friends before the final bell rang, and I always walked out of my last period feeling totally zen.

  The number one highlight of my day was spending time with Peter. Naturally. That varied, of course, since he only had half an hour at most to waste before he was expected back home for his training or homework or whatnot. Some days, he’d be given the afternoon off, and we’d drive over to the Jumping Bean or the Dog-in-a-Bun or Monster Slice Pizza for a daylight date. For those days, we’d punctuate our time together with a hot, sweaty fumble till we looked like a pair of those conjoined twins in circuses back in ancient history. In our case, though, we’d be the porn version of that since we’d be so tangled up, we’d look like we were attached in the wrongest places. Imagine if God were to get totally sloshed and then went all out, building people, giggling the whole time. We’d also perform our pornographic freak show in the back seat of his car somewhere outside Vintage City, in some deserted wooded area.

  “It’s so thoughtful of Althea to tell you one of my kinks,” he panted against my shoulder.

  “What—oh, that,” I gasped back, unable to move under his dead weight and the pretzel-like position I was forced into, half-lying on the back seat. My legs were tangled with Peter’s, probably stuck in a square knot, or at least they felt like it. Somehow the onset of numbness from cut off blood flow did quite a number on one’s perceptions. Oh, there was also the matter of our clothes being partly undone and adding to the puzzle of limb placement in such a small car. All the same, God, I felt good.

  “Too bad you can’t wear the stuff in school,” Peter added, moving his head to brush a kiss against my temple before struggling to raise himself up a little, so he could at least look at me.

  “I can on a date. A nighttime date, I mean.”

  He grinned and pressed down for another welcome round of kisses. Someone tried to move his legs—at this point I couldn’t tell who—then Peter pulled away. “I think my legs are cramping up. Can’t tell for sure. Something down there’s feeling prickly.”

  “Yeah? I’ve gone past prickly down there, too. Really can’t feel anything now.” I started giggling insanely. “Peter, I think you’ll have to make an honest man out of me.”

  “We haven’t even gone that far!”

  “We’re well on our way at this rate. Better to be safe than sorry. Don’t ask Father Matthew, though, or he’ll give you this what-have-you-been-snorting kind of look. Hey, do Buddhists allow same-sex weddings?”

  He laughed. “Jailbait. I’ll have to tell your parents what—”

  “Ow! Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I pinched my eyes shut and shook my head, waiting for the pain to go away. It was a pretty sharp one, but it came and went quickly. I felt Peter shift his weight, and I opened my eyes to find him struggling to sit up, helping me move my cramped legs while I raised myself from the seat.

  Silence fell for a moment as we fumbled for buttons and zippers, wiping ourselves dry first with the old towel that Peter brought with him for this purpose. It didn’t take long for the pain to go away. I felt his eyes on me the whole time, and I tried to reassure him with goofy smiles as I tidied myself up.

  “A headache.” I sighed, slumping against the backrest once I was done.

  “Do you need some aspirin or something? We can swing by a drugstore right now.”

  I waved a tired hand. “I’m fine, really. It’s stress. Since Dad and Mom told us about their work problems, I’ve been worrying about them. My family.” I shrugged and stared down at my hands lying on my lap. “I wish they’d let me get a job. It’s not like I can’t manage my time well.”

  “Uh, Eric, you can’t.”

  “Okay, I can’t, but I can learn. I’m not stupid.” I exhaled loudly. “I don’t know. Even if we weren’t going through a financial crisis right now, I think I’d still fight for a job. I just—I feel so restless. All of a sudden, you know? It’s been like this for a while now. Since—since the Trill got to me. I mean, I wanted to be busier before, like, get a job and stuff, but somehow it feels more urgent now.”

  Peter shook his head. “You’ve been through so many tests. Nothing’s been found. I doubt if being messed around by The Trill has anything to do with your restlessness.”

  “I feel like I’m stuffed inside this tiny little box, and I can’t move, and everything’s beyond my control.” I shrugged, chuckling. “Gee, paranoid much?”

  “I go through that a lot,” he offered. “Can’t say the same about Trent and Althea, though.”

  “Yeah.” I leaned back and stared at the car’s overly clean ceiling, idly running a finger over the suede-like surface. “Maybe it’s something psychological. Maybe I’m jealous that you and Althea are suddenly important heroes, while I’m just this useless average guy with nothing to offer.”

  He sighed and pulled me close for a tight hug. “You’re in self-pity mode now. Quit that.”

  I smiled against his shoulder and gently rubbed his back with one hand. He was soooo warm and soooo comfy. “I guess so. I wonder if there’s something I can take that’ll make this urge go away. It’s starting to get on my nerves.”

  When he drove me home, we forgot to swing by the drugstore, but that was okay. I reminded myself not to stress too much over the job thing, and my headaches should go away. I guess my physiology—or biology—couldn’t really tell which was which—was being too sensitive.

  * * * *

  Since Althea went all Virtuous Good Supergirl on me, I decided to check out the antique store on my own th
e following day, right after school. It was hell going through the rest of my evening pretending as though I had nothing up my sleeve. Sure, I’d kept some things from my parents before, my relationship with Peter being one of them, but they were mostly small and not really important. As far as Peter went, I ended up telling them before long, anyway, and they were pretty much okay with it. They never told me not to get involved with another boy, so it wasn’t as though I was going against them all the way.

  I couldn’t say the same thing with regard to the job thing. I was totally defying them in this case. I knew it, knew how they felt, and I still kept at it. I hated lying to them. Father Matthew might say it was a sign of a healthy Catholic conscience, but it sucked all the same. I figured I was in for some pretty nasty karma in my next life.

  I must’ve sat on my hands and stared blankly at my plate throughout dinner. Talk around the table centered on the Bad Guy du Jour, with The Trill momentarily out of the way. Dad had the afternoon paper with him this time.

  “Do you really need to read that now? It’s dinner time,” Mom said, scowling as she set the pitcher of water down before taking her place.

  “I know, Maggie, I’m sorry,” Dad replied from somewhere behind the crumpled pages he held up like a shield against the rest of us. “It’s just…I saw the headlines when I passed by Sam’s newsstand, and I couldn’t help it.”

  “Well, can’t you try to help it till after we eat?”

  “Wait, wait—listen to this. The new supervillain’s starting to leave little calling cards now, and I’m not talking noseprints from his bizarre little sidekicks.”

  Liz and I exchanged surprised looks. “You mean he’s started his own crime spree?” she asked.

  “It’s about time,” I piped up.

  “It’s a pretty freaky thought, but I have to agree with goofy goth kid here,” my sister continued, jerking her head in my direction. “I hate it when they wait and make us sweat, not knowing what they’re up to. Better to get all the poisons out now and be over with it.”

  “Which is way more than what we can say when you’re PMS-ing. And for the billionth time, I’m not goth.”

  Liz stared daggers at me. “Mom, is it too late to put Eric up for adoption? I’m sure the SPCA’s got plenty of room.”

  “Eric, don’t bully your sister,” Dad cut in, turning a page while keeping the paper held up high. “Here’s more. He’s identified himself as the Shadow Puppet, and—”

  “See, why can’t supervillains wait till Bambi Bailey christens them with something pretty horrible?” I asked.

  “They’re smarter than the good guys, I guess.” Liz chuckled then took a few sips of water. “They’d rather not get cornered by some local reporter with bad naming habits. I’ll bet you that means something.”

  “Oh, give me a break. They name themselves right off the bat because that’s how criminal psychos are—narcissistic in epic proportions. They can’t get over themselves,” I retorted.

  Mom sighed, looking resigned to a somewhat disrupted meal. “Eric, for heaven’s sake, eat something with substance. Here, have a baked potato.”

  “Aww, Mom…”

  “Don’t you argue with me, mister.”

  In addition to the butter-drenched baked potato—I could’ve sworn Mom spread half a stick of butter on that thing—a couple of thick slices of meat loaf mysteriously appeared on my plate. I hated meat loaf with a searing, all-consuming passion, but couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse for skipping it, especially now everyone knew my non-Catholic leanings. Didn’t know why the Catholicism thing would matter, anyway, seeing as how everyone in this household was non-religious and bound for Hell, according to the Vatican. But apparently I was a special case, and the shadow of religion would loom over me like a stinky, black cloud. Because guilt porn.

  “I’m not done here,” Dad snapped. Everyone fell quiet and stared at him, or, rather, his hands gripping the afternoon paper. In fact, I think no one saw any other body part of my dad during the meal. “As I was saying, Shadow Puppet and his, uh, puppets have begun their crime spree. They’ve cleaned out jewelry stores and left calling cards at the crime scenes.”

  “Calling cards?” Mom echoed. Without skipping a beat, she buttered another steaming potato and dumped it on my plate. She ignored my high-pitched whine. I swear I sounded like a pig getting slaughtered, but did she care about my pain? Nope. “Literally?”

  “He’s a little more high maintenance. He leaves small dolls—six-inch wooden puppets—with messages written on their bellies.”

  Liz made a face. “That’s creepy.”

  “They actually don’t vary much,” Dad continued. “The messages are mostly ‘Gotcha! XOXO, the Shadow Puppet’ or ‘Bunch of losers! XOXO, the Shadow Puppet’ or ‘You’re not much of a challenge, are you? XOXO, the Shadow Puppet.’”

  “And where’s Magnifiman or Calais or Spirit Wire the whole time?” Liz demanded. “Looks like they’re losing their touch.”

  “Uh, maybe they’ve got their own ways of nabbing the Puppet? Duh?” I retorted.

  “Like how? Let him get away with hundreds and thousands worth of jewelry and cash? Yeah, great crime-fighting method there.”

  I hated it when Liz, or anyone, for that matter, got all smartass-y about superheroes. How about injecting them with all kinds of radioactive or genetically-manipulated crap and then dumping them out into the streets? Let’s see them cope with their mutated biological makeup and then figure out the best way of handling scum. Let’s see them get all smartass-y then. People always thought it was so easy being a superhero. Armchair critics are so lame.

  I came this close to shooting my mouth off and blowing Peter, Althea, and Trent’s cover.

  Instead I stuffed my mouth with an unhealthy chunk of Cardiac Arrest Potato and gnawed on it to bring my anger down. And my life expectancy, for that matter.

  “You know,” I said after swallowing the vile stuff, “pride comes before a fall. I’ll bet you The Shadow Puppet and his little army of kinky dolls are bound to slip big time, with all this chest-thumping and stuff. I’ll bet you.”

  “Actually, here’s the most recent message the Puppet left: ‘Don’t bet on anything. I’m not that easy to figure out. XOXO, the Shadow Puppet,’” Dad said.

  Forget it. “Mom, I’m full. Can I be excused?”

  “Well, you didn’t finish your dinner, Eric. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, of course! Why shouldn’t I be?” Other than how I’d be lying to her and Dad about my extra-curricular activities starting—well—whenever I got hired? “I’ve got homework. Lots of it.”

  “All right, honey, go ahead. It’s Liz’s turn to wash the dishes, anyway.”

  I turned to Liz with a triumphant grin. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll dump the trash tomorrow morning on my way out.”

  * * * *

  Peter stopped by that evening. That would make it our second date for the day, and I totally reveled—hell, I swam: backstroke, breaststroke, butterfly, etc.—in my good fortune.

  “Ten minute break from crime fighting,” he said as he swung himself through my bedroom window, landing softly on the floor. “And I can’t cheat, either. Trent’s got himself a new watch, and he’s using it on me. Did I mention that it’s tricked out?” He shook his head, clucking. “My brother’s got this love affair with gadgets. It’s crazy.”

  “Tell him to chill out.” I laughed as I embraced him. “He’s had girlfriends before, hasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but they never lasted. Trent’s too Type A for them, apparently.”

  We used to perch ourselves on the window ledge, facing out, our legs dangling. Unfortunately, we’d also be sitting ducks for target practice from some good-for-nothing, genetically-manipulated thug, and we learned our lesson from The Trill. No, it didn’t stop Peter from taking a few minutes off his street-cleaning to spend time with me, but at least we took to sitting on the floor and out of view, our backs resting against furniture while we talked. If I had a cam
era, I’d have a dozen or so pictures taken of this superhero in full gear sitting on my bedroom floor, legs stretched out or crossed, hands cradling the back of his head as he joked and listened. Sometimes we’d be sharing an illicit soda and challenging each other in a burping contest. Half the time we’d simply be making out, with me fighting a hopeless battle against temptation as I forced my hands from pawing away at Peter’s uniform.

  We stayed chaste that evening, largely because Peter seemed a bit put out. Office-related stress, I’d say.

  “It would be nice to meet him and your dad sometime,” I said.

  “They’ve been busy,” Peter replied, glancing at me. “The Puppet’s been driving Trent insane, even more so than the Trill.”

  I watched him. “Uh-oh. Bad night at the urban office again?”

  Peter sighed heavily and shrugged, dropping his gaze to his hands as they busied themselves with brushing dirt off his spandex-covered legs. “You know what they say about shit traveling downhill. When Trent gets pissed off, it affects me, and I find it a little hard to keep my mind on my work. We’ve been arguing since we went out to look for the Puppet.”

  “I understand. Sorry if I sound whiny. I guess I get a little nervous about this sort of thing.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, I wonder why they haven’t made arrangements to meet me, you know?” I rubbed the back of my neck. Boy, this was embarrassing to admit. “I mean, I can’t help but wonder if I did something wrong to turn them off the idea or make them—you know—drag their feet and so on.”

  Peter sighed again as I slid closer to him. “Eric, you didn’t do anything wrong. Quit that. It isn’t you that’s holding them up. It’s their work that’s getting in the way. Okay?”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I just needed to get it off my chest somehow. I know it sounds stupid and all, but better to make an ass of myself to you than hold everything in, right?” I listened to myself talk the whole time and was even more horrified at the way my voice sounded so thin and weak.