“I wish I could accept that, son. But you’re going to have to earn it. You can start by having your butt out front of school as soon as the bell rings for the next two weeks. Convince me you’ve learned to be a man of your word. And before you say anything else, realize that if it were up to me, I’d make you spend the whole day under my supervision. That’s how little I trust you right now. So be glad the school has rules about too many absences.”
Miles flopped back down in his chair. He was defeated, and he knew it. He might be bulletproof and bombproof and every-other-thing-proof, but he was no match for a dad with discipline on his mind.
Mr. Taylor lifted his tool belt from the chair by the door. “I’ll take your silence as a sign that you understand my instructions. Hurry up and finish your breakfast. I’ll be waiting in the truck to drive you to school. I want to see that you actually enter the building.” Mr. Taylor left, pulling the door closed after him.
Miles dumped his cereal down the sink.
What was he going to do?
Miles went to his room to get his backpack and saw the copy of Gilded Age Henry had given him sitting on his bedside table. He’d meant to show it to his dad, but he’d forgotten. Now, unless his dad said otherwise, the comic book was going to be Miles’s only link to Gilded.
Same as every other kid in the world.
CHAPTER
7
A CITY UNDER SIEGE. BUILDINGS aflame. Defenseless citizens scream and flee in terror.
Beastly, scaly creatures from beyond the deep black of space. Sharp fangs jut from their snarled maws. Clawed hands wield weapons of murder.
The hero arrives, a blur of gold against the smoke-stained sky. The citizens cry out desperately. Please, save us!
But can he? The hero stands alone against a thousand enemies or more. Staggering odds from which no sane being—super or not—would dare to hope for survival. This is humanity’s darkest hour.
The battle is joined. Two entities of immeasurable power trading blows with the fate of Earth hinging on the outcome. The ground shudders from the ferocity of their struggle:
Krak!
Whak!
SLAMMM!
Will the villain prevail and burn Earth to a cinder? Or will the hero claim victory and allow the sun to once more shine through the haze of war?
The dust settles, and the world waits with white-knuckled tension to see who reigns supreme.
Could it be?
It is possible?
Yes! There, atop the stricken body of his adversary, the hero stands triumphant. The citizens cheer and weep tears of adoration. Look! they exclaim. A real, genuine SUPERhero!
He’s the embodiment of bravery. An icon of virtue. No other hero before or after will ever compare to—
“Miles? Are you listening?”
Miles looked up from his copy of Gilded Age number 687 and saw Josie frowning at him. They were sharing a table during fifth-period study hall in the Chapman Middle library.
“Did you hear anything I just said?” she whispered. Mrs. Binding, the head librarian, was on duty. Mrs. Binding was fair, but tough. There were two things she despised in her library: noise and things not being put back in their place. She and Miles got along just fine.
Miles’s cheeks flushed red. “Oh. Sorry.” He pointed to the comic book open on the table in front of him. “I was lost in the story.”
It was true. It’d been three days since Henry had given him the comic book, and it continued to captivate him no matter how many times he read it, which was a lot. Reading it had helped him pass the time since his last mission clearing up the traffic jam. The city had been experiencing an uncommon bout of peace and relative tranquillity for the past seventy-two hours, and Mr. Taylor was adhering strictly to the terms of Miles’s punishment—no big crises, no Gilded.
Until something bad happened and Miles suited up again, he’d just have to settle for reliving his past, which was almost as good as the real thing. Actually, it wasn’t anywhere near as good. But it was better than nothing at all.
Josie exhaled shortly, blowing a stray lock of her chestnut hair to the side. “I was telling you that the park is having a bird-watching hike today at six o’clock. If your dad can drop you off, my mom said she’d take you home after. We can share my binoculars.”
Josie was an avid birder. Her knowledge of local species bordered on the encyclopedic. Before they’d met, Miles wouldn’t have known the difference between a tufted titmouse and eastern phoebe if both were perched on his nose. But during the time he and Josie had spent together over the summer, he’d made a point of learning how to distinguish the two (the titmouse is a lighter shade of gray and has a rust-colored patch under its wings) and dozens of other species as well. He still couldn’t identify birds by their songs the way Josie did, though. Baby steps.
“Sounds perfect,” Miles said. And he meant it. What about an hour spent walking through the woods with Josie—the breeze sighing through her hair, her face lighting up at the distant sound of a woodpecker drumming against a tree—wouldn’t be perfect?
Nothing is the answer. Nothing at all. Don’t ask stupid questions.
Maybe his dad would let him off restrictions just this once. . . .
“Great!” Josie said. She started writing in her notebook, the bird-shaped cap eraser on the end of her pencil bouncing like a robin across the lawn. “Here’s the pavilion number where the hike starts.” She tore out the paper and passed it to Miles. “I’ll pack us some snacks, too.”
Miles slid the paper into the back pocket of his jeans. “Sounds perfect.”
“You already said that, O ye of little words.”
Miles shrugged. “I don’t know another word for ‘perfect.’ ”
Josie stroked her chin, accepting the challenge. “Impeccable. Flawless. Pristine . . .” She rattled off the adjectives, oblivious that in the eyes of Miles—and anyone else with eyes that could see—she was describing herself.
“Okay, Ms. Thesaurus.” Miles laughed. “Thanks for the vocab lesson.”
“Just trying to help.”
They sat quietly, looking at each other across the table. Josie smiled prettily because there was no other way for her to do it. Miles smiled goofily for the exact same reason. It was the kind of moment Miles figured his dad was talking about whenever he said he’d give anything to be thirteen again.
Josie pushed the stray lock of hair behind her ear. “So, what’re you reading?”
“This?” Miles said innocently, holding up the comic book for Josie to see. “It’s the latest Gilded Age. Henry gave it to me. It’s all about the Unnd attack.”
Puzzled, Josie’s expression tightened. “The what attack?”
Oops. The name of the alien race had never been reported, probably because nobody from the news—or the rest of Earth, for that matter—spoke lizard-monster. The cape had translated their spitting, guttural language for Miles as he fought them, which was how he knew their true name.
“Did you say the ‘Unnd’ attack?”
Miles pretended to be puzzled right back. “What’s an ‘Unnd’?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who said it.”
“I said the alien attack,” Miles enunciated. Then he pointed at his mouth. “Sometimes it’s tough to hear each other with all the whispering.”
Josie’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Miles’s resistance withered. Josie’s gaze was more intense than a TV lawyer’s—and TV lawyers always got their witnesses to spill the truth.
Why not just tell her about the cape? Three out of seven-plus billion was still a pretty good average. Josie may have been spending time with Miles, but imagine how much more she’d be into him if she knew who he really was.
Surely she’d seen the way other kids looked at them when they were together. It was always a look that said, What’s she doing with that nobody? How much longer would it be before Josie started asking that question herself? A
ll Miles had to do was say the words and Josie would understand exactly what she was doing with him. He wanted to say them—oh, how badly he wanted to. But then he caught a glimpse of Henry, and the temptation dissipated.
“Henry!” he yelled.
Mrs. Binding glared at Miles from behind her desk like she was trying to fry him with laser beams from her eyes. “Quiet.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Binding,” Miles called to her.
Mrs. Binding glared harder.
“I mean ‘sorry,’ ” Miles whispered. “Again.”
Henry took a seat with Miles and Josie. He tutored during fifth-period study hall, offering help to students who needed it. “What’s up? Need me to go over your algebra assignment?”
“Hi, Henry,” Josie said.
Henry looked at Josie as though just noticing her for the first time. He and Josie had lived on the same street since they were born, so they’d grown up together. Spending his life around her had somehow made him impervious to her charms. Just another item on the long list of his odd qualities. “Oh. Hey, Josie.”
“Josie was just asking about this copy of Gilded Age you gave me.”
“That?” Henry feigned nonchalance. “I’ve read better issues.”
“Really?” Miles said, locking eyes with Henry. “I think it’s pretty great.”
Henry locked eyes in return. “It’s not that great.”
“You sure about that?” Miles said, opening up the comic book and pointing to one of the pages in the final, climactic scene against Lord Commander Calamity. “Gilded broke that big Unn—” Miles caught himself before slipping up in front of Josie again. “Er, alien’s weapon in half. Have you ever done anything like that, Henry?”
Henry huffed and adjusted his glasses. “Of course not. I’m not a superhero.”
“That’s right. You’re not. So stop acting like you know anything about it.”
Henry’s mouth dropped open. He looked as though Miles has rolled up the copy of Gilded Age and swatted him across the nose with it.
Miles and Henry stared each other down in uncomfortable silence. Uncomfortable for everyone except Mrs. Binding, who probably wished it’d last until kingdom come.
Josie finally broke the stalemate. “What’s the matter with you two? You become not-friends when I wasn’t looking?” She reached for the copy of Gilded Age. “All this over a silly comic book?”
“It’s not silly!” Miles barked, jerking the comic away from her.
“Quiet,” Mrs. Binding reiterated. She punctuated her words with a fresh, laser-beam glare. “Second and final warning.” Then she stood from her desk and steered her book-laden cart off into the stacks.
Josie crossed her arms and staked Miles to his seat with her stare. “Don’t yell at me,” she said, icicles hanging from her every word.
Miles looked away. He’d confused Josie on occasion. He’d acted like a dork around her plenty. But this was the first time he’d made her angry. “Sorry.”
Miles turned to Henry. “I don’t know what made me say that, Henry. I’m sorry to you, too.”
“Same here. I apologize. You know how I get about Gilded.” Henry grinned slyly, knowing Josie would think he was talking as a fan of Gilded, not his collaborator.
“Anyway,” Miles said, closing the comic book. “It’s a good issue. But we can talk about it some other—”
“Whatcha reading, Taylor?” a voice boomed snidely.
Miles felt the blood drain from his face. Whenever he was suffering through a bad situation, there was always one person who arrived to make it worse.
“You take a wrong turn, Craig?” Henry said. “That word over the door spelled ‘library,’ not ‘locker room.’ ”
Craig ignored Henry. “Just wanted to see what you twerps were reading.” He dropped a hand on the copy of Gilded Age, crumpling it like it was the opposing team’s playbook.
Miles bolted up from his chair. “Don’t touch that!” he demanded.
Craig planted another hand in Miles’s chest and shoved him back down in his seat.
“Relax. I’m just looking.” Craig swatted through the pages, his thick fingers crinkling them. His hands were built for throwing running backs to the ground by their jerseys. Delicacy was a foreign language to them.
Miles seethed. “There are a lot of words there, Craig. You’ll probably understand it better if you concentrate on the pictures.”
Dude the Teammate rolled his eyes and exhaled deeply. “Dude.” It was an honest expression of disbelief, as though Miles were down 63–0 and still thought he could win by running the ball up the middle.
Craig flexed a fist, his knuckles cracking like a lit pack of Black Cat fireworks. He looked like he was about to punch Miles’s head clean off his shoulders. Which would be a completely realistic outcome for their confrontation.
“Leave him alone, Craig,” Josie said.
Craig ignored her. He adjusted his weight on his legs, getting in tune with whatever primal energy source allowed him to hit with both speed and power. Miles suddenly understood how it must feel to line up across from the Jammer, praying to God and anyone else who’ll listen that the quarterback forgets to call “hike.” Where was Mrs. Binding when he needed her?
“Know what the difference between you and me is, Taylor?”
“About forty IQ points?” Henry chimed in.
Craig reached down and snatched Miles by the front of his shirt, pulling him to a tiptoed position, so his sneakers just barely touched the floor. “The difference between you and me is that I’m good at something. No, forget that. I’m great at something. People talk about me. Newspapers print stories about me. Fans scream their heads off for me. But you? You’ll never know what that’s like.” Craig held the comic book close to Miles’s face. “All you’ll ever be able to do is read about it.”
Craig tossed Miles aside like he was made of paper. Like he was garbage. Miles skidded across the top of the table and would’ve plowed into Josie, if her reflexes hadn’t been quick enough to get her clear. He landed hard on the floor, the air fleeing from his lungs like it had someplace to be in a hurry.
“Miles! Don’t get up!” Josie hovered over him.
Miles glimpsed himself reflected in her dark eyes, and he hated what he saw. He sprang to his feet and charged. Ears burning and temper boiling, he ran at Craig with every ounce of speed and strength he could muster.
And then he was going in the opposite direction, his jaw stinging at the place where Craig had connected with his cinder-block fist. It’d happened so fast, Miles didn’t realize he might get decked until he already had been. He toppled backward and smacked into a bookshelf. A copy of Atlas of the World: 23rd Edition teetered forward and hit the floor. The sound echoed off the walls of the quiet room.
Miles dropped to his knees, cradling his jaw in both hands. A current of pain shot through his face. The fight went out of him, which was too bad for Craig because he appeared to be just getting started. He strode toward Miles like an attack dog who’d been let off the chain and was going to devour Miles’s face, body, and self-esteem.
“Dude! Dude! Dude!” Dude the Teammate tugged frantically on Craig’s arm, his eyes wide at the sight of Mrs. Binding’s cart emerging from the stacks.
Craig turned his back on Miles and straightened up.
Mrs. Binding marched out from between the shelves of books, her footsteps somehow not making a single audible sound. She was like a stealth helicopter, rigged for silent running.
“What’s all the commotion?” she said, her eyes scanning for a target.
“Nothing, Mrs. Binding,” Craig answered in a hushed tone. “Taylor tripped going back to his chair.” Craig bent down and reached out a hand toward Miles.
“That’s a lie!” Josie blurted. “Craig—”
“Was just trying to help me back up,” Miles cut in. Refusing Craig’s hand, he stood on his own. “Just an accident, Mrs. Binding.”
Miles could tell Mrs. Binding wasn’t fooled. As
much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth. Saying aloud what had happened would make it ten times more real and permanent. Once he admitted it, it’d never go away.
Mrs. Binding pointed a no-nonsense finger at Craig. “Move along to your seat, Mr. Logg.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His back turned to Mrs. Binding, Craig held out the copy of Gilded Age, clenching his fist to crumple it one last time before dropping it on the table in front of Miles. “Thanks for the loan, Taylor. If you like seeing amazing feats, come to the game Friday.”
Craig sauntered off, Dude the Teammate following after him.
CHAPTER
8
IT WAS THE WAY THE Jammer treated Miles. Decking him. Humiliating him. Acting like Miles was a nobody. Because when he wasn’t wearing the cape, Miles was a nobody.
There it was. As much as Miles hated—really, truly hated—admitting he’d learned something from the monolith of football and density that was Craig Logg, there was no denying it. In front of everyone in study hall, and Henry and Josie (worst of all, Josie), Craig had proved beyond a doubt what Miles was.
Miles couldn’t even be mad about it. That’d be like water being mad because someone explained that it was wet—the water should’ve known that from the outset. Mostly Miles just felt stupid for believing he could ever be somebody.
All the news stories? They were about Gilded.
All the people Miles had seen wave at him as he’d flown overhead? They were waving at Gilded.
The little boy Miles had pulled from the cabin of a boat sinking on Lake Lanier last Saturday? It was Gilded he’d hugged for diving to the bottom and retrieving his stuffed giraffe.
Gilded went out of his way to rescue stuffed animals. What was not to love about the guy?
But Miles Taylor? There was plenty not to love about him. If you even bothered to notice him. Saying kids like Miles were as common as leaves on trees would be an insult to greenery. At least every leaf on a tree is unique.
Had Henry been friends with Miles before the cape was in the picture? Nope. Was Mr. Taylor ever as proud of his son as every time he saw him leave their apartment as Gilded? Negative. Not even Miles’s own mother had bothered to stick around.
Rise of the Robot Army Page 5