Heroine Worship

by Sarah Kuhn

  My parents’ spare room was basically a catch-all for books, old papers, and unused sports equipment. And endless bits of detritus—sewing kits, ticket stubs, knick-knacks—stored in a collection of Danish butter cookie tins. I felt the sudden desire to go full hurricane, to pull all the books off the shelves and smash the windows with my dad’s old tennis racket. I yanked a book from the shelf in front of me, thinking about how good it would feel to slam it to the floor, the satisfying thwack it would make, the—

  Oh my god.

  I was acting like a child.

  I was thinking like a child.

  I hadn’t even been home for a full day and I was turning into an actual child.

  I slumped to the floor, clutching the book to my chest. I had to get my head back in the game. I had to stay focused on tomorrow and the battle. I leaned back against the bookshelf, trying to breathe evenly, to calm myself. I forced my arms to relax at my sides. The book I’d been holding fell open in my lap. I stared down at the pages, wondering if I could use the lines of black and white text to lull me into a place of zen . . . when I realized it was actually a photo album.

  I leafed through it, my brow furrowing. Various newspaper clippings and photos were pressed to the pages with those little triangular photo corners. And I recognized all of them.

  They were all of me or about me—Aveda Jupiter, superheroine. Saving the city, attending galas. There was even a print-out of one of Maisy’s blog posts critiquing some of my more unfortunate fashion missteps. But how could this be? My parents had no interest in my superheroing career. In fact, they were openly disdainful of it. Or at least that’s what I’d always thought.

  I was so engrossed in flipping through the pages, I didn’t hear my mother come in until she was settling in next to me on the floor.

  “Anne,” she murmured. “Why can’t you sit in a chair, like a normal person? The floor is so bad for your back.”

  “I like the floor,” I said absently, still studying the album.

  “Scott said I should come in and talk to you,” Mom said. “He thinks I am too hard on you. He . . .” She regarded me keenly. “He speaks of you in a very complimentary fashion. Are you sure the two of you are only fake engaged?”

  “Yes, Mom, I’m sure of my own fake engagement status.” I gestured to the pages of the album. “Why do you have all of this? Why did you save it?”

  “You are my daughter,” she said simply.

  “But . . . but . . .” I sputtered, flipping back and forth through the album, not sure of what to make of it all. “You always seem so uninterested. In my superheroing.”

  “I did not think you wanted me to be interested.”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  “You told everyone we were dead.” Once again, her tone had that simple, matter-of-fact cadence.

  “I just thought . . .” I trailed off, staring into space. What had I thought? “I thought you disapproved of this like you disapprove of everything I do. Of everything I am. I made up that story so you’d never have to be associated with your embarrassing daughter.”

  “What do you mean?” My mother stared at me, looking perplexed. But underneath it, I saw a flicker of something else—something I hadn’t really seen before. She looked like she was actually attempting to understand. I tried to think of how I could put twenty-seven years of parental frustration into words.

  “You’ve never made me feel good enough,” I said. “Or Chinese enough. Or something. You always compared me to Sophie. And when I first started superheroing, you seemed embarrassed. And disappointed that I wasn’t going to be a doctor. Though, honestly, Mom, that was never going to happen anyway. I barely got a B in Biology I.”

  “Anne,” my mother said slowly. But her voice didn’t have its usual disapproving cast. It was almost gentle. “When you were younger, we were only trying to encourage you. To do better. The things you were good at—they didn’t seem to have a clear path to success. Success leads to happiness, and we want you to be happy.” She hesitated, searching my face. It was as if her usual Disapproving Asian Mom cloaking device had come down and I was seeing the layer underneath. It was disconcerting, to say the least. “When you started fighting the problems that always seem to be plaguing the city, well . . .” She paused again. “We honestly weren’t sure what to make of it. Your father and I are more familiar with traditional career paths. And this was far from traditional. We weren’t sure if it would make you happy. Sometimes with you, it’s hard to tell when you are happy.” She held up a hand. “Yes, I know. Pot and kettle. And I am the pot.” She gave me a small smile.

  I nibbled my lip, stuck on the unspoken question she had just posed. Was I happy? Sometimes it was hard for me to tell, too.

  “We needed some time to process it,” she continued. “But then you—”

  “I told everyone you were dead,” I said, the realization of how I’d reacted—how I’d presumed to know what they were thinking, what they would do—sinking in. “Pushed you away before you could reject me and as loudly and flamboyantly as possible.” It had never occurred to me that my parents would be hurt by my doing that. Honestly, it had never occurred to me that my parents could be hurt, period.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” I reached over the album to take her hand. “It means a lot that you’ve kept all of this.”

  “Of course I have.” She gave my hand a small squeeze. Which, for my mother, was like a monster bear hug. “And, you know, I am always trying to check up on you. In my own way.” I thought of her showing up at HQ, at Pussy Queen. How it had seemed like she just wanted to pick at me, tell me what I was doing wrong. But maybe she’d been trying to tell me she cared. “About what you said before,” she continued. “You are a good person. And I’m proud of you. But what I think of you shouldn’t matter as much as what you think of you.”

  Tears filled my eyes. It was all I’d ever wanted to hear and all I needed to hear wrapped up in one. And she was right. I spent so much time worrying about what other people thought of me—my parents, my fans, Evie, Scott—that I never stopped to think about what I thought of me. Of Aveda Jupiter. Of Annie Chang. Of the mixed-up person who was somehow both of those things, but had never managed to get completely comfortable being either of them. But now I was trying to let both parts of me exist, to just be. I was trying to be at peace with my weird angles and rough edges and little broken bits—to appreciate them, even.

  The more I thought about it, I realized that everything I’d said to my mother in the heat of our fight was true. I did work hard to save the city and stand up for what’s right. Evie and I were working out our relationship like mature adults. And I did have really excellent muscle definition.

  Also? Evie was right. Bludgeons totally get shit done.

  “I think I’m pretty awesome,” I said.

  My mother laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that was unexpected, but not unwelcome. “On this, we can agree.” She glanced over at the page I had the photo album open to. It was the print-out of Maisy’s post critiquing my outfits, featuring a particularly unflattering shot of me in a bright purple spandex jumpsuit with a weird crisscrossing neckline that had seemed like a good idea at the time. I looked like a grape trying to disguise itself as a dominatrix.

  “This look, though,” Mom said, tapping the page. “Not so awesome.”

  I smiled at her. “We can agree on that, too.”

  After dinner, I told my parents Scott and I needed some private time to talk. Surprisingly, Mom didn’t take this as absolute proof that our fake engagement was real after all.

  The moment of clarity with my mother had put some things into perspective for me. And as I followed Scott up the stairs and into my old childhood bedroom, as I watched the stiff set of his shoulders and the uncharacteristic tension in his movements, things got even more clear.

  I ushered him into the bedroom and closed the door behind us.
My childhood bedroom was pretty basic: white walls, twin bed, kind of terrible shag carpet that had grown patchy and faded over the years. Stack of Battle Angel Alita manga crammed into the lone bookshelf. My one bit of decoration was a Heroic Trio poster, crumbling around the edges and somehow still affixed to the wall above my bed with thumbtacks. Evie and I had hunted the poster down on the internet and purchased it from an eBay seller of questionable repute. It was still hard to find, especially in the States, and I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.

  I took a deep breath and turned to face Scott. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He studied me. His eyes were tired and his face had a sickly gray pallor to it. I suddenly remembered what he’d said about the day Shasta had taken me—about how devastated he’d felt.

  It never occurred to me how it would feel to actually lose you.

  My heart twisted.

  “I should have said goodbye to you,” I said. “You’re right. I pulled away again—and I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I was gearing up for battle, in full Aveda Jupiter mode. You always bring out the Annie Chang side of me, and I’m trying to let both sides just exist, just be. But I’m still not very good at it. I’m not good at . . .” I hesitated. “At letting someone have all of me. Showing someone all of me. I think I’m still convinced they won’t like what they see.” I took a step closer to him. “But I do want to try to do that with you. I want to be my whole self with you. I don’t want to pull away.”

  He met my eyes, and the chaotic mix of emotions in his gaze nearly made me lose my breath—intensity and tenderness and fierce wanting.

  “It’s hard for me too,” he said, his voice hoarse. “To let someone see all of me. When you push me away, it feels like . . .”

  “I’m leaving you out there by yourself: naked, exposed,” I finished. “Abandoned. Going back on our promise to be honest with each other.” I studied his face. “I like all of you. So much. I like it when you make me laugh and I like it when you don’t feel you have to make me laugh. When you can relax and let the wall down. When I left the way I did, I didn’t mean to say you’re not important to me. You are. And the only way I can think of to explain it is . . .” I paused. How could I tell him? “Evie asked me once how I keep from feeling scared when I’m going up against bloodthirsty demons and other monsters that could kill me,” I said, trying to put the words together. “I told her I think of all the things I’d miss if the world suddenly weren’t there. French fries. My vintage Lanvin dress. Evie. And the last thing I think of . . .” Tears welled in my eyes and my throat felt like it was closing. “The last thing I think of is always you.”

  His eyes roamed my face, but I didn’t squirm or look away. I held his gaze. “I’m sorry, too,” he finally said. “I overreacted. I didn’t mean to get so upset, I just . . . I came here because I wanted to tell you something. And it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.” He reached up to cup my face, and I had that feeling of losing myself in him, of suddenly being aware of nothing but his warm hands, the summer scent of his skin, and those gentle blue eyes that only seemed to heat up for me. The moment felt like it lasted forever, the air in my little childhood bedroom becoming charged, making me forget all about the battle tomorrow. About everything, really.

  Finally, he spoke. “I couldn’t let you go into a big, terrifying, possibly life-threatening situation without telling you I love you.”

  If he hadn’t kissed me right then, my jaw would have been on the floor. As it was, my eyes went wide for the first few moments of the kiss, not unlike Han Solo’s when Leia lays one on him right after revealing that Luke Skywalker—you know, the other guy she kissed—is her brother. I was still processing everything when he finally pulled away and looked into my eyes, his thumb stroking my cheek.

  “Me?” I squeaked out. “I mean . . . are you sure? You love me?”

  He smiled—a sweet, earnest, slightly amused Scott smile—and my heart skipped at least three beats.

  “I’ve loved you for over a decade,” he said. “I’ve loved you since you yelled at me for getting chewed-up grapes all over your sixth grade presidential campaign posters—and probably even before that. I loved you even when I was convinced you would never love me back. And I’m not telling you now to pressure you into anything—it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way or you’re not ready or if you never will be. I’m glad we’re finally being honest with each other and I want us to keep being honest with each other. But I needed to tell you.” His mouth turned up again in a soft smile. “I love you,” he repeated. “I always have.”

  I blinked hard—and realized that at some point during this beautiful speech, my eyes had filled with tears again. My blood felt like it was racing through my veins, like I was feeling every word he was saying in every single cell of my body.

  “Annie.” Scott’s gentle voice pierced my emotional rollercoaster. His thumb stroked my cheek one last time, and then he lowered his hands and took a step toward the door. “I should go. Let you get back to preparing for battle.”

  “Wait . . . no!” I cried, my brain finally catching up with everything. I realized I hadn’t actually needed all of those words to tell him what he meant to me.

  I’d only needed three.

  “I love you, too! I mean . . . of course I do! I . . . oh, god. Please don’t go.”

  I flung myself at him—Hurricane Annie in action—throwing my arms around him and burying my face against his chest. His arms came around me and he held on tight.

  “You don’t have to—” he began.

  “Shut it, Cameron,” I growled. “I love you. And Aveda Jupiter does not say things she does not mean.”

  I tilted my face toward his and then we were kissing and kissing and kissing and it was the best thing I’d ever felt. My hands migrated to the front of his shirt and I dragged him toward my little twin bed and we collapsed in a tangle on top of it. I shivered as his warm hands slid beneath my shirt, his fingertips dancing over my bare skin.

  The twin bed was a challenge, but we made it work.

  Afterward, I stayed wrapped up in him, unwilling to disentangle myself even a little bit. If anything did go wrong tomorrow, I wanted to be fully here with him.

  “I thought you said you had to focus,” he murmured against my hair. “Really concentrate. This doesn’t seem like—”

  “Fuck it.” I kissed him. “You know what? As confident as I am that Evie and I are going to kick major ass tomorrow, it would be a real shame if something happened and we didn’t get to have ‘I love you’ sex. Evie told me that is, without a doubt, the best sex.”

  “Hmm.” He was trying to affect a stern, serious expression, but I saw the mischievous spark in his eyes. “Did it live up to your expectations? Because I kind of can’t believe we had ‘I love you’ sex while your parents were in the house. Not to mention the fact that we totally desecrated your childhood bed and your personal goddesses were there every step of the way, judging my, ah, performance.” He nodded at the Trio staring down from their poster.

  I arched an eyebrow. “I know you must have fantasized about some version of what you just described as a teenager.”

  “I did,” he said, giving me a sly grin. “Only I think you were wearing page seventeen of the Victoria’s Secret catalog.” He twined his fingers through mine and raised my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my palm. Then he touched the plastic ruby ring that was still on my hand, his expression turning amused. “You’re still wearing this?”

  “Yeah, I . . .” I just hadn’t taken it off. I’d started fidgeting with it whenever I was thinking particularly hard on something. Another tic to add to my repertoire.

  “Hmm.” He slipped it off my finger and studied it. “I think I should hold on to this tomorrow. As a token.”

  “A favor?” I snort-giggled. “Like I’m the brave knight and you’re my lady in waiting?”

 
“Why not? I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

  He caught my mouth in a kiss: long, slow, full of promise. And then we didn’t talk for a while.

  I fell asleep in a state of bliss, the worries about the next day’s battle slipping from my body. I was so sure Evie and I would be able to take care of it, no problem.

  I should have known better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  IT WAS A beautiful San Francisco morning. Crisp and cool, the sun just beginning to filter through the hazy gray cloud cover. The perfect day for a wedding.

  Or for a puppy-possessed Bridezilla zombie squad to terrorize the city. Things could still go either way.

  I had positioned myself next to the rotunda at the Palace of Fine Arts, where Evie was supposed to meet me at exactly nine a.m. We’d stage our fake fight, the Bridezillas would come after us, and we’d take ’em down in time for Evie to get good and married by noon. Then we’d have a simple lunchtime reception (I’d convinced Kevin to cater with a mix of cheese-covered snacks, spam musubi, and Japanese curry from Curry On), I’d give a rousing toast—and finally, I’d have accomplished my mission to defeat the puppy demon and be the best maid of honor ever.

  I should have been nervous, but I was so freaking excited I could barely contain myself.

  This was the point before a big battle when my adrenaline kicked up a notch, when my pure joy at getting to do things (and most importantly punch things) took over, my vision narrowed, and it was just me and the upcoming fight.

  Only this time, I realized, it wasn’t just me. I had bona fide allies in the fight. Worthy teammates I could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with, secure in the knowledge that we were in this together.

  Aveda Jupiter liked that feeling. She liked it quite a lot.

  A sudden chill swept through the air as the sun disappeared behind the clouds again, and I shivered through the thick, satiny material of my gargantuan dress. I hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep warm. Though it was attention getting, the dress didn’t provide for super great range of movement, so I’d have to rip parts of it off once the battle got going. Luckily I had a real bridesmaid outfit ready to go for the actual ceremony, a red silk dress that mimicked the simple cut of Evie’s gown. And my hair was pulled into an extra sleek version of my power ponytail.