I stared at her, beyond confused. “But I thought your name’s Brenda.”
“It is, and I want you to call me that, all right?” She laughed, her grip on my hands tightening as though in reassurance. I sure as hell didn’t feel comforted. “I’ll explain what I mean by that in a moment. The fact of the matter is your situation right now is superficial, just as mine was. Sure, your transformation’s more complete, but judging from your behavior right now, I can see you still have the ability to turn things your way, not someone else.”
I tried to look away, but she caught my chin with one hand and gently turned me to face her. “You’re conflicted over all kinds of moral and ethical issues surrounding your powers, am I right? Okay, you don’t have to answer that since I can see it, anyway. Do you know what that means? Your confusion? It means your transformation isn’t as deep as it probably should be, at least compared to the ones who were manipulated on a genetic level. Whoever screwed with your mind could only do so much, and it shows. Because it’s superficial, it isn’t perfect even if it’s more complete than my own experience. Do you hear me?”
I nodded, my vision blurring as the waterworks began. God, I hated crying. Especially when it happened in front of someone I barely even knew. “Yeah, I do.”
“You don’t have to go through with the transformation. You still have enough of your conscience intact to know what’s right and what’s wrong, and you can use it against your other self and—and, well, turn things around. Overcome the surface changes and get rid of them once and for all.”
“You make it sound so easy,” I said, fumbling for a napkin and blowing my nose into it. Loss of control sucks.
“Let me ask you this. Have you tried using your powers for something they’re not meant for?”
I shook my head, turning away to rub the tears out before they embarrassed me any further. “No. I don’t think I can…” I stopped myself when I remembered my melted pair of glasses. I also nearly told her my real plans of developing my powers as they were meant to be developed and then turning them against my “creator.” I figured, while I trusted her enough, I was still better off not saying a single word about my purpose. I was in this alone, and I was going to see this through to the end, alone. The risks were high, especially those involving my immediate safety, but I was convinced I’d nothing to lose. Nothing left to lose, anyway.
She frowned and spoke with a slight hesitation. “I don’t doubt that you can do it. You’re not helpless against this, Eric. You’re not. Whatever happens to you in the end, it happens by choice. You know how I can be so sure of that? You haven’t blown me away with your powers because I know too much. You could’ve. The chance was right in front of you, and it would’ve been so easy to kill me, destroy my shop, and walk away, pretending we’ve never met. You didn’t, though.”
“You told me in your note not to.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, sure, but a hardened criminal wouldn’t have cared. He’d still walk through my door, force me into a corner, make me talk about what I know, and then obliterate me.”
“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.” I’d managed to regain control by then and enough dignity for me to meet her gaze even though I knew I looked like some pathetic crybaby. “Thanks for talking to me. I never thought there’d be someone else out there like me.”
She smiled, nothing condescending or patronizing or mocking, just a quiet, comforting little smile that could only be shared between two people who kept a secret. She reached out and tousled my hair. “I’m guessing that your powers take advantage of your insecurities. They feed off them. If you cling to them, you’ll only pull yourself farther and farther away from your good side. Know what I’m saying?”
I thought of Peter again. “I can’t help it sometimes. Being in his company’s enough for me to think crap of myself.”
“Whose company?”
I glanced up, an answer poised, but I could see she already knew the truth—or at least a pale shadow of it—so I just shut my mouth and had another cookie. Ms. Whitaker—Brenda—didn’t press. She refilled my cup and continued to talk.
“You can’t turn your ‘mentor’ in,” she said in that straightforward, matter-of-fact way of hers. “Just as I couldn’t turn in my dad back then. There’s no way. We don’t have proof, do we?”
“No, we don’t,” I said in a stronger voice. “I know I can’t prove anything. I tried to tell people, but they found nothing when I was x-rayed and stuff. I’ve got nothing.”
“Then you’re on your own, Eric, but you know I’m here if you need help. There’s only so much I can do, but I’ll try.” She paused and reached under the counter, pulling out a battered little book. “Here. Read this.”
I stared at the faded and torn leather cover. “What is it?”
“You wanted me to explain the whole ‘Olympia’ bit. The answer’s in here. You don’t have to read the whole book. Just the first story. You’ll understand yourself, me, even the others who’ve been manipulated differently from us.”
I gingerly flipped through the yellowed pages and saw that the book was a collection of short stories from one author. I reached the first page of the first story. It was called “The Sandman” by E.T.A. Hoffmann.
Chapter 18
I read the story in one sitting and was blown away. Olympia was a walking doll—an automaton—more realistic in appearance compared to the Shadow Puppet’s mannequin minions.
On a surface level, she made me think of the Puppet, but as I read well into the story, I understood what Brenda meant when she called me Olympia. I was one. Just as she was almost made into one. It was like, I was the Trill’s son just as Olympia was Coppola’s daughter.
What was a hell of a lot more disturbing was that I also found myself in the story’s main character, Nathanael, and I wondered if I was also spiraling into craziness and destruction the way he did in “The Sandman.”
“No way,” I breathed, shuddering, as I closed the book and set it on my desk. “No way.”
Shutting the book and turning away from it didn’t rid my mind of questions, though. Talking to Brenda had cleared up a lot of things and really helped me find some comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone. At the same time, she’d also raised some pretty disturbing questions about my identity and the role of free will and stuff.
* * * *
It was close to eight o’clock. Dinner was done, dishes cleaned up, trash taken out, homework completed. I paced around my room and then threw my window open into the night and the thin fog that now blanketed Vintage City.
I didn’t fool myself into knowing for sure that Peter was going to swing by during a break from his crime-fighting. With Wade under his wing—my alliteration skills had improved, clearly—he’d likely spend time chilling out with her on some rooftop somewhere else, preferably at the opposite end of the city from where I lived. Althea hadn’t contacted me in a while, too, and I knew why. It was easier to brush her off in that sense, though, seeing as how we weren’t going steady. Peter, on the other hand…
I dragged my chair to the window and perched myself on it, opening Brenda’s book again and mustering my focus to go back and reread “The Sandman.” If Peter decided to talk to me about us, I’d be ready.
I finished the story before long, and Peter hadn’t showed up. I moved on to the next story, which turned out to be a gazillion times longer and more complicated than “The Sandman.” I didn’t get it.
Somehow I managed to pick my way through, my brows knitting the whole time, and though I did manage to finish the story before lights out, I was still left scratching my head and wondering what these 19th century writers used to drink or smoke to come up with crazy-ass stuff like that.
In a word, I was impressed. Confused as hell, but impressed. I really should go to the public library and see if I could find more bizarre 19th century German literature. I might not understand a single damned word, but they’d make for way more fun reading compared to Hesse.
I looked
back out and scanned the dark cityscape. It sucked, not seeing Peter again, not hearing from him. At the back of my mind, I’d known all along things between us would come down to that, with him drifting away because of what he was and what his role demanded of him. He’d reassured me several times before that things wouldn’t change and that he loved me, yadda, yadda, yadda, despite my nagging concerns about our obvious inequality. Now with the Puppet gathering strength and Wade literally tumbling into the picture…
I carried my chair back to my desk and set the book down. It was time for bed. Before I shut the window, though, I toyed with the faintest hope that Peter might somehow be out there still. I leaned out and looked around, but no dice. Other than the usual nighttime city noise, I could hear or sense nothing, even with my enhanced hearing and vision.
“Good night, Peter,” I said all the same before closing the window. When I crawled under the covers, I realized I was freezing. I guess I was too distracted by the book and by the sudden bizarre turn my life took to notice I was endangering my health.
Then again, maybe I wanted to and just didn’t want to admit it. I drifted off to sleep eventually and dreamt of something I couldn’t remember the following morning—but still left me feeling a touch weirded out without understanding why. I shrugged it off. At that point in time, I really should’ve gotten used to being unsettled and flailing in the ether.
* * * *
Screw pride. I was in love with him.
After I got my stuff from my locker, I hurried over to his, pushing my way through the rest of the students to get there. I was sure Peter saw me coming. If he didn’t, he sensed me at least—all those “Can we talk about this and save our relationship? I swear I’ll change” vibes barreling down the corridor in his direction. Althea, who stood beside him, saw me and gave me a very uncomfortable sort of smile.
“Hi,” I panted, nodding at her and grinning.
“Hey.” She paused, stole a glance at Peter, who kept his back to me as he fumbled around his locker for his books, and then smiled back at me. “How’s it going?”
Ugh. Small talk. I hated small talk. Especially if it was small, nervous, self-conscious talk between good friends.
“Good, good,” I said. My smile was now frozen on my face, and it was beginning to hurt my muscles. I looked at Peter, who was then stuffing his backpack. “Hi, Peter.”
“Hi.”
Althea and I fell silent, exchanging forced grins and apologetic shrugs. I felt like an idiot.
Common sense told me to walk away before something else happened, but being the dumbass that I was, stood there, waiting for Peter to be done with his backpack despite knowing he was dragging things out on purpose so I’d grow tired or get the hint and just leave.
What the hell?
“So, uh, you guys free anytime soon, so we can hang out at the Jumping Bean or something?” I prodded. There wasn’t time to think. I just blurted out what came easily.
Althea looked startled. “Oh,” she said, glancing at Peter again. “I’m not sure…”
“Huh? You mean you don’t know?”
“I’ve got homework, duh. Then there’s the Puppet and all that…”
I gave her a playful punch on the shoulder. “Chrissakes, girl, how about a break from all the superhero stuff? I mean, come on! You guys deserve a breather every once in a while.”
Althea punched me back. “Damn, that hurts!” she returned, but she was stifling a grin and looked more relaxed than before. “Listen, we’re not done yet, Eric. We’re really onto something, and we have to keep working at it. The Puppet’s a hell of a lot more slippery than the Trill, you know. It’s been a bitch finding leads on him. Ohmigawd, I sound so official.”
“What’s wrong with hanging out? It doesn’t happen every day.” I snorted, waving a dismissive hand, hoping I appeared totally blasé. “What’s the matter? The mayor putting the hurt on you or something?”
Althea rolled her eyes. “What do you think, Sherlock? I guess you forgot about what happened downtown a few days ago.”
“Screw it! How would an afternoon off from super-detective work hurt? It’s been a while since we did it—like—I don’t know, but it’s been long enough.”
Peter yanked his backpack from the floor and whirled around to face me. “Listen,” he snarled, jabbing me hard on the chest with a finger. Caught off-guard, I staggered back a pace. I’d never seen him so livid: white-complexioned, his eyes flashing, his teeth clenched. His eyes were also sunken and shadowed, but I barely registered that. I was stunned speechless.
“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Plath. The city obviously has problems on its hands, and we’re the only ones who can fix things. I’m sorry we’re ruining your oh-so-comfy world of coffee and stories and old books, but unlike you, we’ve got responsibilities that we never asked for. We’re not thinking about ourselves when we give up all those hours that could’ve gone to normal shit that turns you on—and that we would’ve enjoyed. We’re thinking about everyone else in the city, you know, people outside your snug little circle? Yeah, they actually exist, in case you haven’t heard. It might be news to you, but what we do actually matters, and if we didn’t do our job, you wouldn’t be standing here, whining about hanging out at the Jumping Bean. You’d be in the morgue with everyone else.”
“Jesus, Peter, lay off!” Althea cut in sharply, but he wasn’t listening.
Peter continued to fix me with his look. I swear he could’ve eaten me alive on the spot. “I’m done, and I don’t care who hears. I’m tired of being the one who has to be mature enough for both of us. I think it’s time for us to take a break from each other, Eric. We both need space to seriously consider what we have. It’s obvious we got into this too fast and without thinking. I know it’s my fault for starting it, so don’t bang your head against the wall over this.”
Althea stared at us, shocked. I didn’t know what I felt at that moment. Numbness, I guess. Horror. Humiliation. If I kept my head, I’d have said something reassuring back to keep this from moving forward, but I didn’t. I just stood there, gaping at him, blushing a deep red—I was sure—and feeling sick to my stomach. Yes, like the real dumbass that I was.
It was Peter who broke the silence. “Yeah,” he said, turning and heading down the hallway toward our first class. “I figured you wouldn’t even have anything to say to that. Whatever. That’s it.”
Althea stayed behind, toeing the ground and resting her gaze on everything else but me. “Hey, I’m sorry about that,” she said, her voice barely heard, after a long, awkward moment of silence. “I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said.”
“He’s right, you know. All I’ve done since you guys came into your powers was to think of myself.” How I managed to find my voice again, I couldn’t say. “I’m really sorry, Althea.”
She met my gaze, looking stricken. “For what it’s worth, I miss the old times. I’ve got enough responsibility at home, keeping up my grades and helping out my mom. This, though, I love doing, but I hate how it’s pulling me away from, like you said, normal stuff. I’d kill to have a banana split with you and Peter, you know, but I can’t. At least not now. Not until we kick the Puppet’s ass.”
“Yeah, I know. Go on ahead,” I said. I even gave her a weak pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be right there. No use making you late on my account.”
She didn’t argue. Discomfort and mortification were written all over her face, and she turned around and walked off without another word. I watched her go and melt into the crowd of students. I wasn’t aware of how long I stood there, staring at nothing while I got jostled by kids who hurried back and forth. I couldn’t even remember actually walking to the classroom, but I did, even crossing the threshold just as the second bell rang. I took my seat, yeah—took out my book and my notes, yeah—but couldn’t remember doing them.
I survived the day, I suppose. I found it pretty easy staying away from Peter and Althea. An illegal sandwich in the darkest corner of the libra
ry during lunch—because Ms. Mendoza had the keenest sense of smell. She could track anyone down, blindfolded, within a fifty-mile radius. I also paid a monetary bribe to switch places with Jason Sparks in our Art class. The opportunistic jerk took the money. I didn’t think he would, but I was desperate enough to sit as far away from Peter as possible, so I gambled on Jason taking pity on me when I flashed him a crumpled bill. A crummy-looking buck and a pathetic little plea; one would think he’d go, “Oh, okay, I’ll switch. Keep your money.” But no. Predator.
When the final bell rang, I was out of that Art Class so fast, my would-have-been-children’s-had-I-been-born-heterosexual-heads spun. Good thing I’d made sure to pull out all the books I needed for homework from my locker during lunch. I didn’t have to stop by there after the final bell and just fled the school grounds.
I rode my bike blindly through all kinds of side streets. I sure didn’t know where I was headed, only that something bitter and nagging kept gnawing at my belly, and it was hell seeing through my tears because I finally broke down and sobbed my way through one street after another. I didn’t want to go home, not yet, anyway. I guess I just wanted to ride all over the city till I collapsed from exhaustion or my bike got a flat. Besides, I was too young to get drunk—not to mention too broke and too guilt-ridden to even attempt to get my loser paws on alcohol. Of course, I could always get myself picked up by the Trill’s thugs again. But no one knew where they’d gone with their boss locked away and still waiting for me to hustle my ass over there and get him out. So the thought of getting freebies in the direction of the corruption of a minor was pretty much dead in the water.
Evolution Page 17