Evolution

by Hayden Thorne

“Ohmigawd!” she cried. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit your car! I’m sorry! I haven’t gotten a hang of my fireballs yet…I lost control!”

  “Fireballs?” I echoed, blinking. “You mean—”

  “You guys okay? Oh, shit. I should’ve practiced outside the city! You two okay? I’m really sorry!” she whined. She actually wrung her hands while she apologized.

  Althea and I exchanged confused glances before looking up again, but the figure had vanished.

  “Damn it!” I grabbed Althea’s hand and gave it a tug. “Come on! She’s probably running toward the back alleys!”

  We both broke into a run, with me wincing and biting back little grunts of pain with every step. “What the hell do you think we can do?” Althea demanded in breathless pants. “She’s either another superhero or another supervillain, and neither of us is equipped for a standoff!”

  “I’m not looking for a standoff, dummy!” I snapped back as I led her through an alley. The nauseating smell of gross, stagnant water, neglected garbage, and rotting brick bore down on us as we plunged into the shadowy area. “I don’t think she’s a villain. I didn’t sense that from her.”

  Alternately running and slipping over slimy ground, we eventually reached a dead end, with no sign of the girl anywhere. I felt sick from the strain and the godawful smells that seemed to thicken around us.

  “I figured as much,” Althea said as she paced back and forth, scanning nearby windows and rooftops for signs of the girl. Then she finally stopped, shaking her head. “Damn! If she’s another superhero, there’s no way we can catch her.”

  I couldn’t say anything. I was too busy bending forward and resting my hands on my knees as I let my stomach settle. I breathed raggedly through my mouth, my body heaving. Something felt wrong. The nausea itself didn’t seem, well, normal. I straightened up, my mouth clamping shut when another sickening wave swept over me.

  “Come on, Eric, let’s get out of here. We’ll have to meet with Peter later and tell him about this. Right now, I guess we’d better call the cops.”

  I nodded and tried to say something, but instead, I doubled over and violently threw up.

  Chapter 5

  Was it my imagination, or was Bambi Bailey looking just a wee bit heartbroken when she appeared on camera that evening? Her hair had been freshly roasted at an expensive salon. Check. Her eye makeup looked to be about seven layers of color thick, with about five barrels of mascara adding impossible length to her lashes, so much so that one could feel the air currents from her blinking at twenty paces. Check. Her mouth appeared to be in danger of being glued shut by her lipstick, which was probably worn down to an atom-sized nub in one use. Check. Her dress gave us a pretty obvious look that included a mix of glamour, professionalism, and female vulnerableness. Vulnerablitis. Vulnerabilism. Fuck, whatever. Check.

  For all those extra touches, though, she looked a little too glum as she reported on the day’s news. She was like a totally painted up sadface emoticon.

  “Even as Vintage City scrambles to make heads or tails of the elusive Shadow Puppet, another mysterious figure chooses to make itself known—this time through fire power. Literally.”

  The scene switched to earlier interviews she’d made with witnesses. One after another, freaked out, confused, or seriously stoned folks who lived up and down that side street spoke to the camera.

  “I don’t know what it was, but it looked like lightning, all lit up with fire,” a small, thin woman stammered. I could barely hear her with all the noise her sickly-looking baby made as she tried to calm it against her shoulder.

  “It was a UFO. Or some kind of debris from a satellite,” a wrinkled and grizzled man barked, spittle flying all over. Ew. “Those goddamn government experiments again.”

  “It wasn’t a comet, was it? No? Too small?” a tall, freckled kid with bad teeth and a missing chin asked.

  “Who the hell cares? It was like the Fourth of July around this dump!” a glassy-eyed girl hummed happily, her clumpy, dirty hair barely covering bruises on her face.

  The camera shifted back to Miss Bailey. “No consensus among the residents of Mina Lane, though all have agreed it was a girl—quite young—who might have caused the damage. Sgt. Bone of the Vintage City Police Department has yet to make a comment about this new development.” She paused and glanced up at the sky, sighing and sulking all the more when her hopes were again disappointed. She looked back at the camera. “No word yet from Magnifiman regarding the incident. In fact, we’ve had no word from Magnifiman in a while.” She sighed again. It was painful to watch journalism going through a romantic crisis. “Is this new figure a hero or a villain? Only time will tell. For Channel 3 News, this is Bambi Bailey reporting.”

  “Someone should send her flowers or chocolate or something,” I piped up when a commercial came on. “Or maybe romance books with those cheesy-ass, totally unrealistic covers that should be used to line litter boxes with.” I’d always thought those horrible romance novel covers, when used that way, could induce cats to pee and poop and solve all kinds of health problems related to digestion and all that.

  “Ssshh.” A hand suddenly pressed against my forehead. Then it moved to the side of my face and then my neck. “You feel a little warm, Eric.”

  “That’s because I’m being roasted alive,” I whined, squirming under the two layers of fleece blankets that Mom thought to giftwrap me in since the moment I returned home from my messed up job application adventure, pale and dizzy, my stomach completely gutted of its contents. Two job-hunting delays in a row over bad health—not exactly a good sign, was it? Was that some great cosmic hint that I was doomed to be on welfare when I reached eighteen?

  “I know what a fever feels like. Don’t be sassy with me.”

  “Mom, I feel like a mutant burrito.”

  Liz snickered from where she sat on the floor, leaning against the couch and stuffing her face with popcorn. “I’d hate to think what kind of sauce would bring out your flavor.”

  “Puke, most likely.”

  “Eric, don’t be disgusting,” Mom said. She shifted and stood up. “Have you finished your homework?”

  “No. I was too busy imploding all afternoon.”

  “You mean, exploding.”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  She sighed and gestured for me to stand up and follow her. “Come on. Let me give you something for your fever. If you still have a temperature in the morning, I’m calling your school.”

  I was about to argue against the whole fever issue but decided to keep myself in check. After further thought, I suppose it would be a good idea for me to stay home, away from as many people as I possibly could, even Peter. He was probably still sore at me, seeing as how he’d yet to return my calls—all four of them, and all done within ten minutes of each other the very moment Althea dumped me on our doorstep, weak, heaving, and miserable. I gave up after the fourth message. The ball was in his court now, and if he refused to acknowledge my existence with one measly phone call, I guess that would be that.

  Seriously, I thought people broke up over worse things than a battered locker. All the same, I did feel hurt. I’d tried to apologize and make amends earlier, but he kept brushing me off.

  So what if we were in the other’s shoes? Would he expect me to accept his apology? Hell, yeah! Would I? Of course! Unfortunately, we weren’t in each other’s shoes, and I was the one who kept getting short-changed. Love sucked. If I wallowed too much in self-pity, I felt I earned the right.

  I shuffled after Mom and plopped myself down on a chair once we were in the dining room, the only part of my body enjoying some ventilation being the top of my head. My stomach still felt gutted and raw, and I couldn’t stand the sight of food or drink despite Mom’s attempts at getting me to take something. I was in for some pretty nasty medication, I was sure, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt me to swallow a pill or two.

  “So, what do you think you ate today that made you sick like this?” she a
sked as she bustled around, moving from cupboard to cupboard and then the sink. I tried not to follow her movements for fear of more dizziness.

  “I don’t know,” I said. My words came out muffled against the blankets. “I ate what you gave me.”

  She glanced over her shoulder to glare at me. “Are you criticizing my cooking again?”

  “No, just telling you the truth.”

  You don’t need anything—just rest. Yes, rest.

  “Mom, I don’t need anything. I just want to lie down. Can I go now?”

  “Wait. Just take this. It’s a fever reducer.” She walked over to the table and set down a glass of water and a green gel cap the size of a minivan on steroids.

  I stared at it. “Am I supposed to swallow that thing?”

  “Eric…”

  Now, now. Don’t argue. The poor woman’s only doing her best by you.

  I sighed and forced the pill down my throat, emptying the glass in a few large gulps. I grimaced at the feel of so much water chasing after a gigantic capsule. “Can I go now?”

  “Okay, go ahead. I’ll check up on you in a bit.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I stood up and shuffled away. The suffocating heat that wrapped around me made my discomfort even worse. It even seemed to make my broiled brain hear voices, or make me hear voices from my broiled brain. Whichever way I looked at it, it was me and my brain—which was broiled—and we were having a really fascinating conversation.

  “Oh, look,” I muttered dejectedly as I checked my answering machine. “Still no call.”

  He might be busy, running around the city and looking for Miss Firestarter. Or even the Shadow Puppet.

  “Yeah? Well, I guess that’s okay. As long as he’s not too pissed at me.”

  He might very well be, but he’ll get over it. Forget him for now. Just rest. You need it.

  I climbed onto the bed, dragging the blankets with me. I burrowed under the bedcovers till I was literally buried under four layers and flailing weakly as I struggled for breath.

  You don’t really need the extra blankets.

  I gasped when I managed to surface, my breathing ragged. “Okay, if you want me to rest, then shut up.” I stared at the growing shadows on my ceiling. “I’m having a conversation with myself. That’s—that’s just great.”

  Look, you’re not exactly Miss Congeniality, yourself.

  “Well, you sound like me, not the Trill. That’s a good sign. I hope this is a one-time thing because, you know, listening to a voice in my head is downright freaky-wrong.” I also wondered if it was an indication of loneliness or a desperate need for detachment from reality.

  You’ve been under so much stress lately. Go to sleep.

  I did. Thank heaven for minivan-sized, fever-reducing gel caps and their mysterious sleep-inducing ingredients.

  * * * *

  Mom woke me up that evening for dinner. I didn’t have the appetite, but I definitely had a major temperature going. Half a bowl of chicken noodle soup later, I was back in bed, wondering what death felt like. I hoped Peter would stop by, as I was sure he was out with Trent, looking for the Puppet or even signs of this new fire-wielding girl. I wanted him to see me on the verge of death and realize what he was about to lose, given the recent drama he subjected me to.

  Of course, allowing him access to my room proved to be a struggle that night. When Mom checked up on me, she instantly marched up to my open window and closed it.

  “Mom, I need the fresh air,” I said.

  “It’s cold tonight.”

  “I know, but I’d rather breathe in fresh air. It feels good.” I peered at her with my best impression of sad puppy eyes. Half the time the effort worked. Apparently, the other half included that moment.

  Mom frowned at me, her back against the window. “No. Absolutely not. Besides, what fresh air? This is Vintage City, Eric.”

  All right, she had a point. “Well, can I breathe in fresh chemically-treated air then?”

  “Don’t be funny. Go to sleep. I’m calling your school in the morning.” Mom appeared to move away from the window but then hesitated. She even crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned against the glass. Damn it. If Peter planned to show up, it was going to be any minute now. “Honey, is there anything going on with you?”

  “Me? No, why?” I threw an anxious glance at the darkness outside, my eyes scanning for shadowy movement.

  “I don’t know. You’re acting strange lately.”

  I swallowed, grateful for the four—or was it five?—layers of blankets that hid all signs of guilt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been stressed about school—the usual way.”

  My words stumbled when I finally spotted movement, quiet and fast, outside my window. There was a soft flash of something, a faint shimmer of gold that marked the progress of something that flew across the window and then vanished in the night.

  “Oh, man…”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Mom. I’m just, you know, not feeling good.”

  She watched me for a few more agonizing seconds. “Eric, somehow I think that you’re hiding something from me.”

  I retorted, “I’m not. Okay? Can I rest now, please?”

  “If there’s anything—”

  “I know, I know. If something’s up, I’ll tell you. ‘Night, Mom.”

  She sighed and threw her hands up, but finally abandoned her position by the window and walked to the bed to press a kiss against my forehead. “Good night, honey.”

  I had to listen for her footsteps to fade down the stairs before dragging myself out of bed and tiptoeing—in a drunken zigzag—to the window. I pushed against the glass panes as they swung outward with a soft squeak.

  “Peter?” I called softly, looking left and right for signs of him hiding in the shadows. “My mom’s gone. It’s safe to come in.”

  I heard nothing, no answering whisper, no stealthy movements, no breathing, nothing. Frowning, I leaned farther out and looked all over.

  “Peter! Where are you?”

  Still nothing. Stray voices here and there from the street, an occasional car chugging past, a dog barking from some unknown distance, but no answering call from Peter. I cussed left, right, and sideways under my breath and then closed the window. I was sure I’d seen him outside just a few moments ago. I figured that he caught sight of Mom and decided not to hang around. I didn’t blame him. It sure felt like an eternity getting rid of her.

  I crawled back into bed after turning off my light. If Peter wanted to talk to me, he had my number. All the same, I couldn’t help but feel confused about everything. I was trying hard to make things work between us, wasn’t I? Or were my efforts just not enough? Was there something else going on I didn’t know anything about? Did I smell?

  “If I only knew how to read minds—or read the future—or just have some kind of superpower…” I withered as the words died in my throat. It always came down to superpowers, didn’t it? No matter where I looked for answers, there it was, staring me in the face.

  Superpowers. In my case, a total lack of.

  * * * *

  My fever was gone by the following morning, but I was still pretty weak and headache-y, so I stayed home from school. The weirdest thing, though, was that I was beyond exhausted despite my ten hours of sleep. It felt as though I only had a couple.

  “You just had a twenty-four hour bug, honey,” Mom reassured me over breakfast, which I’d insisted on having downstairs. I couldn’t understand why, but I didn’t want to be alone in my room. Maybe I had a nightmare that I couldn’t remember, and it was totally haunting me psychologically the next day. “It’s normal for you to feel as though you just got your blood supply sucked out by a vampire.”

  “Oh, come on, Mom,” Liz protested. “We’re eating!”

  “Sorry. You know what I mean, though.” Mom raised a brow at me as she scooped the last pancake from the griddle and set it atop the steaming pile on the platter she held. “You w
ent through a crisis last night, and it drained you, even while you were asleep.”

  “Is there scientific proof of that?”

  “Liz, I’m talking to your brother.”

  Liz shrugged and turned her attention back to her cereal while eyeing me with some suspicion.

  I figured she thought I was pretending to be dying a slow, awfully dragged-out death just to get out of school that day. She should be grateful I no longer colored my food blue just to gross her out. Of course, if she kept getting on my bad side, I was sure not against going back on my resolution to be more mature.

  “Oh, ho!” Dad suddenly cried from behind his paper. The morning paper, this time. “That’s one for the good guys!”

  “What? What?” Liz prodded, eyes widening. She might not want to admit it, but she was just as big of a fangirl as Bambi Bailey was over our superheroes. I could tell it took everything she had to keep herself from tearing the newspaper from Dad’s hands.

  “Mannequin Man and his sidekick—”

  “Calais,” I corrected.

  “Yeah, him. They caught a couple of the Puppet’s men last night, just as they were about to break into a store. Not a jeweler’s this time. I think they robbed all the jewelers in the city by now.”

  I grimaced when a bowl of hot oatmeal appeared, and the usual welcome scent of cinnamon and apples tickled my nose. Nothing about it appealed to me that morning, though, and when I looked up to protest, Mom’s answering glare pretty much shut me up.

  “Eat, Eric.”

  “Okay, okay. Just don’t blame me when I puke into everyone’s cereal.”

  Liz scooted her chair closer to Dad. “So are they talking? What happened?”

  “Liz, calm down. They got caught. We’ll find out more next time.” Dad paused. “Well, this I can say, though—those thugs? They’re not human. They’re literally life-size, moving dolls.”

  Chapter 6

  Okay, any questions about homework?

  “Nope. I got them. Thanks, Althea.”

  No prob. It was weird not having you in school, though. Peter and I’ve had more absences than you, now that I think about it.