by Sarah Cross
The stress was building. I spent more hours tossing and turning than actually sleeping; and when I did sleep, I woke up drenched in sweat. I’d crawl out of bed to go through my old photo albums, amazed by pictures of myself smiling, or acting goofy with old friends—what had happened to that kid? I’d curl up with Boots on the floor, like he was my rock instead of my dog. He was loyal. He was the one friend I’d never had to leave behind when we moved. He knew me; he stayed with me.
I always liked hugging Boots—he was kind of old by then, but when we first brought him home, he was almost as big as I was. I used to hang on to him, burying my face in his fur when I was upset, and I guess I never grew out of it. My dad would’ve hated that if he’d known—that I was a teenager and still crying into my dog’s fur.
All I wanted was to be somewhere else—anywhere else—but especially a place that felt like home. I felt like I would die if I had to stay here.
One night my dad’s friend stopped by with his perfect teenage son: strong, athletic, confident; looked you in the eye when he spoke to you. I was messing around on my guitar and my dad forced me to come out—then spent the whole time ragging on my clothes, my hair, and laughing about what a wuss I was. Like he could somehow separate himself from his freak son by pointing out everything that was supposedly wrong with me. All in good fun, of course.
By the time they left and I got back to my room, I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. Boots was licking my face at first, and then he started whining, but my ears started to buzz with this high-pitched drone and I couldn’t hear him anymore. My field of vision closed off; everything around me got fuzzy and gray. Pain pierced my chest, like something was breaking inside.
I hugged Boots tighter, like he could fix me. Like it wouldn’t hurt as much if I wasn’t alone.
I should have pushed him away. Thrown something, screamed even, so he’d leave me.
But I didn’t know.
Before I could make sense of the strange suction, the pain, the papers flying off my desk like they’d been swept up by a whirlwind . . . Boots was gone. He warped before my eyes; folded up into a tiny sliver of his former self and vanished. Into me.
I absorbed him. I destroyed him.
I was in denial at first: Boots was gone, but maybe he ran away. Shouldn’t that be more possible than, than— what happened? I roamed the neighborhood searching for him. I asked neighbors, strangers, whether they’d seen him.
A week or so passed. I was in the basement, arranging my Warhammer figures into armies, listening to my parents “discuss” me upstairs, their voices traveling through the vents. How I was never like this before: sullen, uncommunicative, possibly depressed. Their speculation made me sick—Boots might be dead. What did it matter why I wore all black or didn’t talk to them anymore?
I contemplated running away—but where would I go? Did I think I could move in with Brock’s family? I was slamming my Warhammer figures down when my vision started to fade again. A jolt went through me—the way I imagine it feels to be hit with a defibrillator.
I seized the table; clutched my chest with my other hand.
I didn’t know how to react when my hand sank into nothing, into cold chaos that smelled like smoke, into a vortex that tore my body in half.
My Warhammer figures were swept up almost instantly: dull blades that pelted me like bullets, until my entire collection had disappeared and the vortex exhausted itself.
That night was the end of my denial. The beginning of my dread. Somehow I had imprisoned something evil in my body—I was as wrong and terrible as my parents thought. Only worse—because who could imagine something as twisted as this? When I met Sophie via Darla, and later Cherchette . . . I realized there was more to it. I wasn’t evil so much as changed. But knowing that doesn’t make up for anything I’ve done. It’s only a matter of time before someone else I care about becomes a victim.
Cherchette calls my power extraordinary. I call it unforgivable.
Sometimes I wonder . . . why I can’t just absorb myself and be done with it.
15
THE KID WORRIES ME—I don’t think I’m being a bad friend if I say that. He’s going through all this stuff that I can only try to understand. I’ve got my own personal darkness, but Nicholas is trapped in his—and I’m afraid I’m not good enough to show him the way out. If a genius like Darla and somebody as positive as Sophie can’t make Nicholas see himself as something more than a destructive force, how am I supposed to?
By the time I catch up to him, he’s sitting outside a convenience store with his back to a bright red soda machine that lights up the night. The way he’s slouched there in his trench coat, with his face damp and that vague look of despair on his face, it’s almost as good as a neon sign asking the cops to pick him up.
“You figure on getting a ride from the POPO?” I say. He doesn’t even crack a smile at the lame slang attempt, which is eerie—I thought for sure I could lighten the mood a little. I try a different tack. “Your dad’s kind of a hard-ass, right? You sure you want to do that to yourself?”
He rolls his head against the soda machine. Bangs it once, startling me. “How long do you think this can last, Avery?”
“Last? You mean your power?”
“Just . . . this state of instability. How long can it really go on like this?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I’m sure it’ll get better. I mean, even your voice is screwed up for a while before it changes. Your body just has to adapt. And . . .” I’m fumbling; I feel so ill-equipped to talk about this. What the hell do I know?
“I mean, you’re not the only one who screws up. I broke a guy’s arm wrestling last season, but . . .” I swallow, flashing back to the gunman in the antiques store. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to maim people for the rest of my life.”
“No . . .” Nicholas says. “But hurting people is—for you it’s like an unfortunate side effect. For me, that is my power. I destroy things.”
“As far as you know,” I remind him.
He coughs out a bitter laugh. “Yes. As far as I know. But since no other option has presented itself, that’s what I have to think about every time it activates and something disappears. Not very comforting when that ‘thing’ is alive.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Damn it. I’m so far out of my league. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and be the one to push him over the edge. And when I try to put a positive spin on his situation, I almost feel like I’m disrespecting him, like I’m lying to his face and we both know it. Even though I’m not sure that’s true . . . “You could use it for good, too. Once you learned to control it. You could . . . um, protect the environment by absorbing trash and . . . cutting down on landfills?”
I wince. Now that it’s out of my mouth, I realize how idiotic that sounds.
“Thanks, Avery. I feel so much better.” More bitter laughter, like he’s halfway to breaking down. “With that to look forward to, I don’t know what I’m worried about.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m not good at this. That didn’t come out right.”
“That’s because there’s nothing else to say. You know it and I know it. It’s not your fault.” Nicholas shrugs and stands up, his face void of emotion, like he doesn’t care anymore—which worries me more than his prelude-to-crying face.
“Come on,” he says. “We might as well get out of here.”
By the time we ring the bell at Nicholas’s house, it’s after midnight. I know he either has a key or snuck out earlier and left a window open, but he doesn’t seem to care about subterfuge. It’s almost like he’s daring the night to blow up in his face.
His dad opens the door in sweatpants and a NAVY FOOTBALL T-shirt, towering over us, his mouth wide and disapproving. He’s nothing like my dad. Mr. Brighter is six-four or six-five and barrel-chested, with a dark, weathered tan: the kind of guy who eats steak for breakfast. My dad’s like a totally different species: mild-mannered, eats chocolate ice cream and plays a
long with game shows, wears actual plaid pajamas.
I’m used to placating angry moms, not dads—but Nicholas’s jaw is set. Looks like I’d better learn how, fast.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Mr. Brighter’s voice is low and gravelly, like a gym teacher from hell.
“Yes. Yes, we do, sir. Sorry for disturbing you. It’s my fault we’re out late. Nick was helping me TP our coach’s yard. It’s, like, a tradition on his birthday. The whole team does it, so it was kind of like . . . an initiation.”
“Team?” Nicholas’s dad barks—like he found the word in a bowl of alphabet soup and just chomped it in half.
I take in his NAVY FOOTBALL T-shirt, versus Nicholas’s antisocial all-black trench coat. I’m no Darla “Einstein” Carmine but I know conflict when I see it. You know why? My dad bird-watches. I’ve lived this from the other side.
“Yeah, the football team?” I say. “I’ve been trying to talk Nick into trying out next year. I think he’d be a killer QB.”
If Nicholas had laser eyes, my brain would be leaking out a hole in my head in a sizzling stream of ooze right now.
“Huhn,” Mr. Brighter grunts. “Coach must love you bastards. Supposed to rain tomorrow morning. Gonna be a bitch to clean up that toilet paper.”
I laugh. “We’ll probably get roped into helping if we don’t want to get benched. He’s got to look at it with pride, though: teamwork at its finest. Although I don’t know if his wife’s as impressed.”
“Doubt it.” Mr. Brighter cracks a rough smile, probably flashing back to his troublemaking days. “You two ready to crash yet? I’m getting sick of standing here.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say quickly.
Nicholas and I shuffle in, kick our shoes off in the entryway.
“You need sleeping bags? Camping stuff’s in the basement,” Mr. Brighter says. He snorts and then clears his throat. “I’m going to bed.” Nicholas’s mom makes a brief appearance, half asleep and wearing a puffy robe. Waves and then disappears into her room.
We raid the kitchen for Cheetos and ice-cream bars and soda, then carry our loot to the unfinished basement: all cinder-block walls and exposed ducts, a cement floor with a scrubby scrap of carpet placed seemingly at random, a weight bench and heavy bag. Posters of sex-bomb girls busting out of their bikini tops are taped up next to the weight bench, for inspiration.
Nicholas rips the Cheetos bag open along the seam. “You know how much worse it’ll be when I don’t try out for football now?”
“Dude, you have to live in the moment when you lie,” I say. “I can’t worry about everything adding up for the future—I needed to get your ass out of the fire now.”
“You don’t even play football,” Nicholas goes on. “Didn’t you used to wrestle?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “And if your dad had been wearing a wrestling shirt, I would’ve milked that instead. The point is: if I’d left it up to you, you’d be getting your ass chewed out and I’d be walking home right now, using my mad lying skills to break into my own house.”
Nicholas sighs and paces the floor. Not sure if I’m getting through to him yet, but at least he’s calming down. I hunt down the Brighter clan’s musty camping gear and unroll two camouflage sleeping bags, set them up next to our little junk-food altar so the melty ice cream bars are within easy reach. Stop a sec to admire the artwork.
“Those are my brother’s posters, by the way. Before you say anything.”
“Sure. That’s what you tell Darla, right?”
He shrugs. “I don’t have to explain pervy posters to her. We’re just friends. Unlike some people.”
I throw a handful of Cheetos at him. “Subtle. No, really—is it that obvious? Did Sophie say anything?”
“I don’t know if I’d be able to tell if she did. Sophie likes everybody.”
“Even soulless ice boys.” I make a face.
“You ever wonder why Jacques never talks about his mom?” Nicholas says suddenly.
“Um, no. Do you hear me talking about my mom?”
“It’s different. Cherchette has powers. She’s the only adult we know who does, and she has years of experience—she’s probably mastered her powers by now. She knows what we’re going through, and what we still have ahead of us. She’s the only person we might actually be able to turn to for advice. And she’s invited us to live with her, you know? We’re all in this together somehow . . . so it’s weird that it never comes up in conversation when he’s around. Sometimes I’ve wanted to ask him stuff, but I knew Darla would freak out.”
“What exactly do you want to know?”
He shrugs. “I just want another point of view. Cherchette says she wants to help us, but I still don’t get why it’s so important to her. And Darla’s good for digging up dirt, but—”
“Dirt?” I raise my eyebrows. I can’t believe Darla’s been holding out on me.
“It’s probably blown out of proportion.” Nicholas picks up the melting ice-cream bars, tosses them in the trash. “She found out that Cherchette’s parents died of exposure—they froze to death during a blizzard. It’s a little suspicious, considering her powers . . . but that doesn’t mean Cherchette killed them. Maybe it was an accident.”
I nod, thinking it over. “Maybe that’s why she wants to help us.” Was Cherchette out of control once, too? Does she feel, like, a bond with Nicholas because of that?
“Maybe.” Nicholas drags an extra blanket out of the closet and sets it on top of his sleeping bag. “I just wish there was some way to know without leaving everything behind.”
That makes two of us. How many times have I lain in bed and had that same thought? It’s complicated, though—because I have friends now. Real ones, people who are important to me and who make me feel at home in the middle of all this weirdness. And so running away now would be like leaving one sanctuary for another, in a way.
I crawl into my sleeping bag, worn out from tonight’s excitement. Nick’s seriousness is making me nervous. I’m not ready for him to leave us, to even consider it, really—so I try to distract him with a joke. “Well, I know what you’d be missing if you did leave: more awesome superteam missions. Plus if you left, Darla would be so mad she’d build an evil robot clone of you and send it to kill you.”
“That’s old news.” Nicholas yawns and switches off the light. “My evil robot clone is in the closet. He’s tied up with electrical tape.”
“Uh . . .”
“Don’t worry. He probably won’t escape. But if he does, you can fight him off, right?”
I close my eyes and burrow deeper into the sleeping bag, grumbling incoherent threats into my pillow (“I’ll kick that robot’s ass . . .”) as my body relaxes and my head grows heavier.
Before I know it, I’m waking up in the dark, my muscles stiff from sleeping on the floor, bleary-eyed and confused. It takes me a few seconds to remember I’m in Nicholas’s basement.
I check the time: 5 A.M. Time for me to leave if I want to sneak into my room successfully. I nudge Nicholas awake so he can let me out. Rain’s already pounding down, blurring the windows. I sprint through a few soggy backyards on my way to a more secluded takeoff spot. The streets are deserted, and my body aches to be off the ground. I haven’t flown in over twenty-four hours.
I push off; shoot quickly into the rumbling, black-gray sky, crossing my fingers that I don’t get taken out by a sudden lightning bolt. My clothes are drenched, weighing me down. It’s not a huge hindrance, but it’s annoying. I don’t feel graceful, powerful; I feel like the earth is trying to shackle me. It makes me that much more determined to stick it out.
By the time I get home and get cleaned up, the rain’s hammering in earnest and I’ve got my second wind, fueled by the memory of last night’s rush. We were heroes last night—and it’s only going to get better. I’m running on next to no sleep, but I’m way too energetic to be cooped up in the house. I want to share it with someone.
“What are you doing up?” my mo
m says, surprised.
I shrug, like I’m up to greet the sun every day of the week. (Well, most days I am.) “Seizing the day?” I pop her toast out of the toaster and butter it and even shake cinnamon and sugar on it. She watches me with a wry smile—she knows I want something. But I don’t think she minds. “Can I get a ride somewhere?”
“What? The company here isn’t good enough?”
“It’s too good. I don’t want to overdose on you guys and start to take you for granted.”
“Uh-huh.” She shakes her head with a smile, amazed to have such a charming son—I’m sure. “All right. Where is it you want to go this early in the morning?”
The one place that’s open: Roast.
16
CATHERINE LOOKS SHOCKED to see me when I flag her down. I’m like the only person here not reading the paper or doing the crossword puzzle. I spill my drink on the table so she has an excuse to come over.
“I can’t believe you’re missing Saturday cartoons for me,” she says.
“You’re just that special.”
She rolls her eyes, wipes at the tiny juice puddle with slow, exaggerated circles. “So what’s up?”
“I think you should become a hero with me.”
“Hmm . . . I’m sorry, did you save the world while I wasn’t paying attention? Stop a meteor from crashing into the earth or something?”
“You really don’t read the paper, do you?”
“Apparently not the one that follows your escapades. Spill your juice again?”
I lean in, lower my voice as I dribble more OJ onto the table. “Remember I told you I met some people? With powers? Last night we got together and caught that guy who’s been mugging joggers in the park. Like, we used our powers as a team and took him down.”
“He saw you?” she hisses. “He knows that you can fl—”