Evolution

by Hayden Thorne

  His words faded in the gloom, and I nodded. “I know. I understand. I guess I’m being selfish as usual.”

  “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

  I frowned at him. “No, why?”

  “No, nothing. I just thought I sensed something different about you just now.”

  “Like how?”

  “I don’t know. I can sense it, but—hell, I don’t know. I think I’m tired. All this running around, chasing after leads that go nowhere, picking up dolls that aren’t giving us any help.” He exhaled deeply. “It sucks. I hope that new girl steps up and joins us. We need her help.”

  “She’ll probably just destroy Trent’s bike or something while trying to land.”

  Peter laughed quietly. “Maybe. We all need to start somewhere, I guess.”

  I nodded and turned my attention back to the blackboard across the way. “I’m bored, Peter. I wish I could do something to help you guys, but I know I’ll only get in the way. I hate feeling useless when it comes to this. I can see you and Althea working hard together, figuring out what to do next, and all I can do is stay home and do homework.” I sighed. “I mean, I’d rather be a supervillain than a boring old nobody.”

  “Don’t say that. You’ve no idea—”

  “I know, I know. I can’t help it sometimes.” I sighed again. “And, yeah, I know I’ve whined about this before.”

  “Keeping yourself safe is the most helpful thing you can do, Eric. Trust me. Whenever I hear about some incident involving civilians, I automatically wonder if you’re there, injured or worse. It’s hell.” He rested his hand against mine. “I know how restless you get, but I’d rather see you suffer from boredom than be caught in another attack.”

  “Yeah,” I said, my voice fading. “Well, you’d better go, then, before Trent gets completely PMS-y on you.”

  “Come on,” he grunted as he stumbled to his feet. “I’ll drive you home.”

  I wondered if there was a connection between existential restlessness and horniness, I mean, other than the usual teenage hormonal angst crap. I realized I’d grown more and more crazy lusty when it came to Peter, and I’d be, like, jumping him the first chance we got at a private moment. It didn’t matter where we happened to be. I’d see him, and BAM! He’d be under attack, and it didn’t involve devious sidekicks or hypnotic music or tainted sardines. Only me, trying to get inside his pants despite our agreement that we weren’t ready for anything seriously physical. Actually, that’d be more like Peter’s agreement and not mine. I kind of just let it go in one ear and out the other. I mean, Jesus, I was sixteen. Sex was the only thing that made sense to me.

  That day, I’d gotten my paws all over him—let me see—before our first class, during lunch—now that was tricky to pull off, but I managed somehow—after our final class, and in his car when he dropped me off at home. One minute he was talking about homework or having lunch with me and Althea the next day. The next minute I was latched onto him, lost in Olympic-level tonsil-sucking gymnastics while he flailed his arms. I cussed at how we were the same height and that I couldn’t squeeze myself between him and the steering wheel for that kiss.

  “Bye.” I smiled against his mouth, feeling a weird kind of pleasure in seeing him stare at me all confused and shocked. And when I say “weird,” I don’t mean “kinky.” “See you tomorrow.”

  “Uh—yeah—bye. Wow.”

  I hopped out of the car, feeling light on my feet and totally unfazed by the barrels of rain that fell on me. I walked—nope, didn’t run—to the front door, my keys in hand, turning once to wave goodbye to a still stunned, red-faced Peter. When I walked inside, I felt so energized and cheerful as though my earlier frustrations at getting tangled up with Peter on the floor of our classroom never happened.

  I dripped my way up the stairs and to my room, humming to myself. It was strange, but I never felt cold even with my soaked clothes. I just undressed and jumped into the shower, still humming.

  Had I been my old self, I’d have creeped myself out. Totally.

  I kept to my room till dinner, making sure to get all my homework done before. Then came chores, and it was back to my room, where I barricaded myself. The computer stayed off, and my books were ignored. Once locked away and safe from my family, I threw my window open even though the rain was still going. I watched the night, inhaling the familiar scents of a soaked Vintage City, which could be summed up as Eau de Wet Urban Grime. Someone ought to package the smell and sell it as an effective bug repellant. Or the most effective way of ending a bad date early.

  Even with the clouds hiding the moon, I could still make out the jagged outlines of distant buildings, the light from hundreds of windows twinkling, almost.

  Your maestro awaits.

  I couldn’t help but smile. I felt so calm and so content. At the same time, a soft stirring in my belly told me to wait. For what, I didn’t know, but I was sure it was a good thing. I suppose that was where my earlier restlessness came from—some kind of gut feeling that encouraged me even if I didn’t know why. Then again, I reminded myself it was better to sit back and just allow myself to ride the waves. Sometimes giving up control could very well be the cure to one’s spiritual sickness. Or whatever.

  Yeah, the peace that came with that idea seemed to grow. I walked back to my bed and flopped down, curling on my side and taking care to face the open window as I waited. I could see stray raindrops getting blown by the winds into my room. I watched small wet spots form on the floorboards. Mom was going to kill me if she saw that I was letting this happen, but I didn’t care.

  The rain and the slight chill of the night winds lulled me to sleep, the last thing on my mind before I drifted off being Peter. Naturally.

  * * * *

  “Eric! Wake up!”

  I gasped just as I felt a rough shaking and a tight ring of arms around my shoulders. I opened my eyes and blinked away the fog.

  “Eric! Eric! “ Dad said again and again. He held me against him in a firm and uncomfortable embrace, and when I’d fully awakened, I saw I was standing at the top of the stairs. At the bottom stood Mom and Liz, both of whom stared at me in shock.

  “Wha—Dad? What happened?” I stammered, sagging against him.

  “What happened? You sleepwalked, that’s what happened,” Dad said, frowning. “If I weren’t on my way upstairs, you’d have fallen down the steps and broken your neck!”

  I swallowed, completely horrified and dizzy. “How weird,” I said as I pulled away from him. “I—I’ve never sleepwalked before.”

  Everyone started talking at once: about calling the doctor, having me x-rayed again, maybe seeing a psychiatrist. I barely heard what they all said, but I didn’t care. Though still horrified by that close call, I was also amazed at how easily that lie about not sleepwalking before slipped out of me. Not once did I feel bad, and the calm—that incredible feeling of peace and independence—kept its hold. In the middle of the confusion and anxiety over me, I had to turn my eyes and shuddered.

  Within minutes, I had more minivan-on-steroids-sized pills sloshing around in my belly—as per Mom’s orders—and I was back in bed, my door shut and possibly secured from the outside with something. Mom also made sure to close my window. If given the chance, she’d have tied me down to my bed to ensure a safe night’s sleep. I felt like a gothic heroine.

  * * * *

  I was back in that creepy maze of corridors, all lit up with candles.

  “Where are you?” I called out as I turned endless corners.

  I still couldn’t hear the voice, but I could sense it, and the feeling was much, much stronger this time around. Follow the music, it kept telling me. So I did. Turn after turn, I moved forward, the scent of burning wax and old paint filling my nostrils, the distant sounds of a strange waltz guiding my steps. The music grew louder and louder as my steps quickened.

  “Finally!” I cried when I spotted the open door at the end of the corridor. I tried to steal a glance at my watch a
nd saw that I was in costume, something with funky sleeves with those huge, flared, turned up cuffs and white lace ruffles poking out from inside—my shirt sleeve, I thought. I looked down and saw buckled shoes on my feet. Once I understood I was in costume, I began to feel stiff and hot from under all those layers of clothes. My scalp started to itch. When I tried to scratch it, I felt a stiff wig perched on my head.

  “You know, this would really suck if I look like George Washington,” I grumbled.

  Everything smelled so old.

  I finally reached the door and walked inside the ballroom, where the party still went on. Lots of drinking, talking, dancing, laughing—people in elaborate costumes packed the room, and I was amazed many of them still managed to dance.

  Home at last, the voice crowed.

  People who stood nearest to the door turned to look at me when I walked in. I froze and stared back. Their costumes—I recognized them easily enough. They were in bodysuits of giant orange and black polka dots. They wore wigs that looked like black and orange straw. Their masks were white full types with round eyeholes and bulbous noses and no mouths. If they spoke, I was sure their words would be muffled.

  In the background, the strange waltz rose a little in volume, and I recognized the creepy off-key quality of the Solstice Masque carnival. Fear crept up and slowly took over my relief and curiosity. I stood by the door, watching and wondering, while the carnival’s costumed workers celebrated with dancing and oddly-tuned music. Some ignored me, and some saluted me with a glass of wine raised in my direction.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw the candles that lined the corridors sputtering and dying one after another, from the opposite end all the way to the ballroom’s entrance. It was like an invisible hand was snuffing out each flame between its fingers, and it was working pretty fast. The darkness that slithered forward, following each pair of dying candles, looked like a fast-crawling shadow, hell-bent on catching me.

  I stepped closer to the crowd instinctively just as the last candles flickered and died till nothing met my gaze beyond the open door but black emptiness. It was like being in one of those spooky sci-fi movies where people would be trapped inside a room that was caught in the middle of dark, empty space with no way out. Around me the carnival workers swarmed as though nothing had just happened.

  Home at last.

  Chapter 10

  “I’m probably going to see a shrink.”

  “I believe that.”

  “Shut up, Althea.”

  “Okay, I guess I can always lie.”

  I exhaled loudly and threw my companion a vicious sidelong look. “You go beyond suckage.”

  Althea met my scowl with a proud grin. “I’ll wear that like a badge of honor,” she drawled. Then she gave me a rough nudge with her elbow. “Lighten up, Plath. I’ll bet you they won’t see anything wrong with you, and they’ll dump you back on your parents’ lap.”

  “I don’t think it’s that easy,” I said, turning my gaze back to the sidewalk and the swarms of people that sucked us both into the same old, same old, late morning current. “I’ve never been to see a shrink before, so I don’t know what to expect other than the couch.” I scratched my head and made a face. “And something about cigars.”

  It was Saturday morning, an abnormally bright and warm day for Vintage City, especially one that came so quickly after the crazy-ass rain of the day before. I’d pretty much given up on understanding how the weather worked in our crummy corner of the world other than that anything weird could easily be blamed on industrial pollution. Peter was again out with Trent, his superhero work hours now reaching totally psychotic proportions. He’d begun grumbling about demanding overtime compensation whenever I asked how things were at the office.

  Althea, after a week’s worth of hard superhero work giving the good guys nothing but dead ends—the Shadow Puppet was proving to be a bigger badass in the world of supervillains by taking the steampunk route, keeping Spirit Wire from tapping into his toys—took the weekend off with Peter and Trent’s blessing. We were now wandering around the downtown area, window-shopping and plain chilling.

  She stopped in front of a game store and ogled the new super-violent games it was pimping out to kids. I could swear that I heard her eyeballs pop in their sockets as she pressed her face against the display window.

  “Althea, you really are your superpowers.” I sighed as I stood beside her. Mutants, zombies, aliens, genetically-altered soldiers, uber-carjackers, prostitutes, monsters—every possible character in a thirteen-year-old boy’s wet dreams was there in glorious CG, blood-and-gore-spattered, glaring and snarling at the wide-eyed customer, super-tricked out weaponry in hand.

  I heard Althea let out a soft “Oooooohhhh…”

  “Girl, there’s a growing puddle of drool at your feet.”

  “I want one of those,” she breathed, pointing to just about everything that was on display.

  “What for?” I demanded. “You can easily hack into some major MMORPG, create your own character, and kick everyone’s asses from now till Sunday and back. You don’t need to pay for crap like this.”

  She pulled away reluctantly, but that was only because I grabbed hold of her collar and physically hauled her off. “Listen, you mobster,” she retorted, squirming in my hold and staring daggers at me, “I might have major technology powers, but I don’t use them for illegal stuff.”

  “So what’re you gonna do with those stupid games? Superhero workouts?”

  “I don’t have to dignify that with a response,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and fighting hard to look intimidating, I was sure. Totally made of fail, really, seeing as how she practically dangled from my fist.

  “We were talking about my seeing a psychiatrist, Borg Queen,” I said, finally letting her go—or more like drop.

  She muttered something while adjusting her sweater and shirt. “Look, I told you, take things one day at a time,” she replied. We began to move forward, and I begged the cosmos that we wouldn’t be passing another game store anytime soon. “Both of us know zilch about psychiatrists, so we don’t really know where to start. I mean…”

  Althea fumbled for words, before shrugging. “Sorry, Eric. I know it sucks and all, but I’ve never been in this situation before. Hell, I’ve never had a friend or family member go through something like this.”

  “Well—I guess it’ll all depend on what Dad and Mom end up deciding on. They talked to me about it, but they haven’t made a choice yet. I think they’re both against it, but I know that Mom’s pretty scared.”

  Althea nodded and gave me another rough nudge. “I would be, too, if my kid started sleepwalking.”

  “I’ve done a little bit of research but really couldn’t find anything other than what I suspected and already know. I guess I’m just going through major stress or something. I don’t get it. I’m too young for epic levels of stress, aren’t I?”

  “Well, I should take care of you then, poor baby,” she cooed, looping her arm around mine. “I know you and Peter haven’t been hanging out a lot, so I’m sure he’ll want me to look after you. I’ll earn brownie points that way.”

  “Hey, I’m not a baby.”

  “Yeah, but he’s your boyfriend. Of course he’d kill me if he knew I just let you deteriorate psychologically because, well, you’re forced to be celibate.”

  I was sure I blushed a deep, deep red. I bowed my head to stare at my shoes, embarrassed. “You’re really something else, Althea.”

  “I know. Mom always says that before she grounds me. Here, let’s have pizza. That new place, Elephant Pizza, serves huge-ass slices for two bucks. I can afford a feminist date with a gay boy over there.” She paused and then added, “They even have a framed shrine to Cher—like, this big box frame with concert tickets and glitter and bits of junk that they managed to tear off her costumes somehow. Dude, you’ll love it.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  * * * *

  Althea and I were nea
rly dead from grease overload by the time we stepped back out into the sun. On our way out, we passed a huge mirror, and I saw how we looked after our Feminist Date with a Gay Boy. We looked pretty gross.

  We could barely walk, and we could barely talk. It was more like a blind stagger and an exchange of grunts and burps as we made our way through the crowds of shoppers. Eventually we just gave up on conversation and simply tried to walk off our fat-saturated lunch. I didn’t have any words for how disgusting we both were.

  It was somewhere near the main square when everyone, and I mean everyone, stopped in their tracks and looked up. Some people shouted and pointed up. Some screamed. Others hooted and cheered.

  Magnifiman flew above us, stunning and heroic even at a distance, with a faint whoosh as he plowed through Vintage City’s industrial air, his arms outstretched, his features hard and determined. Beside him, Peter—Calais—bounded, looking strong and graceful as he spanned huge distances with his powerful leaps. He’d fly sometimes, but I figured leaping massive distances worked better for his superpowers. I frankly had zero idea how the hell that worked, but that was the only thing I could come up with. Whatever. Pride swelled in my chest at the sight, and I couldn’t tear my eyes off him.

  “Something’s up,” Althea noted, a tremor of excitement in her voice. She fumbled through her bag for her tricked-out cell phone, which was the communication device she always used for superhero purposes. She refused to tell me where she’d got it, but I suspected she and Peter had worked together on it. “Damn, I hope I didn’t miss a call from Peter.”

  “Hey, look!” I said as I grabbed her shoulder.

  “What?”

  I pointed at the sky. Several seconds behind Peter, a third figure flew, obviously following them. It was the fire girl, and she was flying without a hitch. She wasn’t literally on fire, but she did leave a thin trail of flames in the air behind her. They’d probably flicker for a second or two before fading away, but they looked pretty impressive all the same.