Never mind air rushing out of a balloon. It was like the balloon had been jammed with a pin. The power left the cape in a burst, snapping Miles back to his smaller self. A wave of queasiness washed over him.
“Ugh . . .” Miles groaned, trying not to teeter over.
Henry reached out a hand to steady him. “You okay? Tell me how you feel.”
Miles staggered backward and plopped onto the bed. “Like that time at the county fair I ate five corn dogs and rode the Tilt-A-Whirl.”
“You shrunk from six-and-a-half feet tall to under five feet in a blink. A sudden change like that would have to mess with your spatial awareness. Interesting it didn’t affect you going the other way,” he mused. “The cape must protect against that.”
“Great. I’ll stock up on antinausea meds.”
“I have a better idea. Close your eyes again. This time, think about your neighbor lady. You can hear her husband yelling. She’s cowering, scared of what he might do. Concentrate on wanting to help.” Henry’s voice became more intense, like he was narrating a commercial for a blockbuster movie. “Only Gilded can save her,” he intoned. “But will he?”
An image of a frightened Mrs. Collins took shape in Miles’s mind. The humming of the cape intensified, surging like a tide pushing the queasiness back out to sea.
Another balloon burst. Miles flopped backward, spreading out his arms to steady himself on the bed. Thick nausea bubbled inside him like overcooked chili. “And I’m sick again,” he muttered.
“Do you see?” Henry beamed.
“No. But you’re about to see my lunch, because I think I’m going to hurl.”
“You’re right. You do need my help. Sit up.”
Miles pushed himself up. The queasiness was worse than before, the yo-yoing back and forth between Gilded and himself wreaking havoc on his insides. He reached out frantically and snatched up the closest thing to a container.
“Not my pillow!” Henry bawled.
Miles held open the pillowcase and buried his face inside. The nausea rolled upward into his chest, his throat . . .
“Braaap!” Miles let loose a mighty belch worthy of a superhero. The pillowcase billowed. He smacked his lips for a moment, making sure nothing was following the air outward. Relieved, he set the pillow back on the bed. “False alarm. That was a close one, though. I’d advise against any more experimenting for a while.”
“We don’t need to,” Henry said. “You really haven’t figured it out, have you?”
“Figured out what, that wearing the cape makes me sick? Does that mean I’m allergic to the fabric?”
“I hate to tell you this, Miles, but the cape doesn’t make you feel like you have to barf. You make yourself feel that way.”
Miles laid the cape across his lap. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Henry picked up the cape. “Try to be a little more upbeat, will you? You’re the superhero. All things considered, you have a lot to be happy about.”
Henry pinched the clasp halves in the fingers of each hand and let the fabric drop to the floor. Even with the bright sunlight shining through the windows, the cape’s glow was apparent. Whatever Miles had done to make it stop working, it was ready to go again.
Did the cape prefer Henry in some way? Miles felt a pang of jealousy.
“Think of the cape as a car,” Henry explained, taking on a scholarly air. “These two pieces are the key to the ignition. When they’re connected, the cape turns you into Gilded and away you go. When they separate, the cape stalls and you revert to your normal self. The question is, what causes the pieces to behave one way or the other?
“Having conducted our trials, I’ve concluded there can be only one answer: The clasp responds not just to your thoughts, but the specific nature of your thoughts. The cape helped you stop the robbers and save your neighbor, but not exact your revenge against Craig or impress—”
Miles’s eyes narrowed.
“—er, someone.” Henry snickered. “The former are examples of you using the cape to benefit others. The latter are examples of you trying to use the cape to benefit yourself. It won’t let you do that.
“That explains why the old Gilded never signed autographs or posed for pictures.” Henry was becoming more animated as he spoke. “He would’ve been using the cape to make himself famous. It’s also why he didn’t do product endorsements or write a tell-all book. He would’ve been using the cape to fatten his bank account. That old man knew using the cape for those reasons was wrong. More important, he understood the cape knew it.
“It’s simple,” Henry declared, handing the cape to Miles. “The cape only lets the wearer do what’s right. And revenge, greed, and putting yourself above others isn’t right.”
“I don’t know,” Miles said doubtfully. “Giving Craig a beat down would benefit a lot of people. For one thing, it’d teach him to quit being such a jerk. It’d stop him from bullying other kids, too.”
“Perhaps, but I doubt you had Craig’s best interests—or anyone else’s besides yours—in mind at the time.”
“So, if I think about how I’m helping Craig be a better person, the cape will let me punch him?”
Henry pressed his lips together in disapproval. “I’d advise against attempting that. If you’re wrong, you’ll turn back into yourself in front of Craig and everyone. Your secret identity will be blown. Besides, in terms of design and functionality, the cape far surpasses anything I’ve ever heard of. I highly doubt it can be fooled that easily.”
Miles ran his hand along the cape. Did it really have a mind of its own? “Where do you suppose it came from?” he wondered aloud.
“It’s hard to say. The old man could’ve made it. For all we know, he was some kind of genius inventor. If there’s one thing the last twenty-four hours should’ve taught you, it’s that anything is possible.”
“So, I have superspeed and superstrength and I can fly, but I’m not allowed to take advantage of it? Where’s the fun in that?”
“The fun is in you having superspeed, superstrength, and the ability to fly.”
“You know what I mean.”
Henry shrugged. “Don’t expect me to know all the answers right away. I’ve only been working on this for a few minutes, but I already figured out what makes the cape turn on and off. That’s a good start. We’ll just have to work through the rest as we go. In the meantime, try to remember that doing the right thing is its own reward. Your powers aren’t meant to be used for enjoyment or personal gain. They’re not supposed to help you impress girls. That isn’t the hero’s way. So keep your thoughts, you know, pure.”
A singsong voice called from downstairs. “Henry! I’m home!”
Henry’s eyes went wide with fright. “My mom! You have to get out of here!” He tossed the cape to Miles, then gathered up Miles’s backpack.
“What’s the big deal?” Miles asked, as he slid the cape inside his pack. “She volunteers for charity. How bad can she be?”
“She’s not bad at all. She’s great. But she’s a little too curious. If she finds you here, she’ll start in with the twenty questions. She’ll want to know everything there is to know about you. It won’t take her long to figure out you’ve got something to hide.”
“Please,” Miles scoffed. “I know how to give a grown-up the slip.”
“Hen-ry! Where are you?”
“You don’t understand. She can sniff out the truth better than a polygraph machine. I’ve had twelve years of practice dealing with her, but you won’t stand a chance.” Henry shoved Miles toward the window.
“We’re three stories up!” Miles shrieked.
“Shh! There’s a trellis you can climb down. Just try not to crush Mom’s hydrangeas.”
Henry shoved Miles through the window, barely giving him a chance to grab on to the trellis. Miles started down, then stopped and called back up.
“Wait! What should I do next? You have to help me figure this stuff out!”
“Meet me at
school on Monday before first bell. I’ll take care of everything. Now go!”
Henry closed the window and was gone, leaving Miles dangling from a trellis thirty feet above the ground.
CHAPTER
10
MILES SOMEHOW MADE IT TO the ground without falling and breaking his neck. He was tiptoeing his way through Mrs. Matte’s flower beds when a stack of comic books showered down on him.
Miles looked up to see Henry hanging out his window.
“Homework!” Henry called in a hushed tone. “And don’t worry! Your secret is safe with me!” Then he shut the window again.
Miles gathered the comic books from where they’d landed among the shrubs and flowers. There were at least a dozen of them, all back issues of Gilded Age, of course. He might’ve spied a stepped-on hydrangea or two, but he couldn’t be sure the offending foot belonged to him. That was his story anyway, and he was sticking to it. He made his getaway, strolling across the lawn as calmly as he could muster.
It would’ve been nice to fly home, but if Henry’s theory was correct, the cape didn’t work like that. Ease of commute wasn’t exactly a selfless desire. Miles secretly hoped for a minor emergency of some sort, something that would bring him closer to his apartment. A cat stuck in a tree or an old lady tottering across the street would be nice, but no such luck. So he hoofed it instead, and by the time he turned into the parking lot at Cedar Lake Apartments, the sun was dipping low in the sky.
His dad’s truck was already parked in its spot. Miles hadn’t realized he’d spent so much time at Henry’s. His dad wouldn’t be happy about coming home to an empty apartment. Miles was supposed to either ride the afternoon bus straight home, or call his dad if he needed to be picked up. Those were the only two options. Miles needed an excuse—preferably one that would keep him from getting grounded—and he had as long as it took to walk to his front door to think of one.
There was no point in trying to sneak past his dad. Even if the apartment weren’t too small to move about in unseen, Mr. Taylor would no doubt be waiting impatiently for Miles, his emotions seesawing between anger and worry. Better for Miles to announce himself and pretend nothing was amiss. That was the way to go.
“Dad?” Miles said innocently as he walked through the door. “What’re you doing home so early?”
Mr. Taylor clicked off the TV and stood from the sofa. “Nice try, son,” he groused. “You know darn well what time it is. Of all the days, too. The city is up in arms over this alien thing, and I don’t know where my kid is. You have any idea how that feels?”
“I know.” Miles bowed his head sheepishly. He’d been so wrapped up in figuring out the cape, he’d never stopped to think his dad would be fretting over his whereabouts. Especially in light of recent events. Henry might think the existence of aliens was an exciting discovery, but the rest of the world was scared half to death. “I’m sorry I’m late. But there’s a reason, and it doesn’t have anything to do with detention.”
“It better be good. You know the rules, and I can’t have you disobeying them whenever it suits you.” Mr. Taylor crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes skeptically. “So let’s hear it.”
“I made a friend.”
Mr. Taylor raised an eyebrow. “No kidding?”
Miles couldn’t help feeling a little offended. Was it that hard to believe someone would want to hang out with him? Sure, it might’ve been the cape Henry wanted to hang out with, but Miles had been there, too. They had hung out together. “No, Dad. I’m not kidding.”
Mr. Taylor’s face lit up. “That’s great! Who is it? Are they in one of your classes? How’d you meet?”
“Jeez, we aren’t dating or anything. He’s just some kid. His name is Henry. I know him from detention, as a matter of fact.”
“Whoa now,” Mr. Taylor said alarmingly, holding his palms forward. “I’m all for you making friends, but not if it means falling in with the wrong crowd. What was he in for?”
“ ‘What was he in for?’ It’s detention, not prison. And not everyone in there is from the ‘wrong crowd.’ He got caught reading comic books in class or something.”
“You can get in trouble for that?” Mr. Taylor scratched his head. “All right, then. That doesn’t sound so bad.” He slid back a chair and sat at the tiny dinette table tucked into the corner of the kitchen. It was just big enough to fit two people and no more, but two was all they needed. “So what’d you guys do?”
Miles rattled off a made-up list of all the things he and Henry had done after school. They played video games. They watched TV. They shot hoops in the driveway and drank Cokes and talked about professional wrestling. You know, guy stuff.
Mr. Taylor nodded approvingly. Miles could tell he was so caught up in the details, he’d forgotten all about Miles being late. It didn’t seem to occur to him that everything Miles had said was completely false. What was Miles supposed to say, that Henry was an übergeek who was helping him crack the mysteries of the Gilded cape? Oh, and by the way, Dad, that was me you saw stopping those gun-crazy criminals on the news. No, the truth was out of the question.
When Miles had finished recounting his fictional afternoon, Mr. Taylor sat back in his chair and beamed with satisfaction. “See there? I told you things would get better.”
He bounded from his chair and into the kitchen. “This calls for a celebration. I owe you hot dogs, and I mean to deliver.” He pulled a frying pan from the cupboard and clicked on the electric stove. “Good thing I picked up some fresh buns.”
Mr. Taylor was typically a microwave chef, and Miles couldn’t remember the last time his dad had used the stovetop. As it heated up, the kitchen filled with the acrid stench of dust being singed off the burner. Mr. Taylor didn’t seem to notice. He whistled cheerily as he sliced open the package of hot dogs and drained the water into the sink. Never mind the harsh fluorescent glare of the overhead light reflecting off the Formica cabinets. He looked as happy as a man grilling out at Lake Lanier.
The phone rang. Not Mr. Taylor’s company cell phone, which would’ve meant someone with a work-related question, or maybe that Miles’s grandparents were checking in. It was the house phone. Mr. Taylor had given out the number only one time. In fact, Miles suspected his dad had activated the house phone solely to receive calls from one person and one person alone.
Mr. Taylor watched the phone as it rang a second time. And a third. He dropped a pair of hot dogs into the pan with a frown. “Go on and answer it, son.”
Miles lifted the phone, cutting off its digital chirp midring. “Hello?”
“Hi, sweetheart!” a voice answered sunnily.
“Hi, Mom.”
Between the showdown with the gunmen and the experiments with Henry, Miles had forgotten today was Friday, the day his mom called for her weekly conversation. She said she preferred to call on Fridays, so she could hear all about Miles’s week. Miles wondered if it was because she didn’t care enough to talk to him Saturday through Thursday. Why else would you go from seeing your kid every day to speaking to him on the phone once every seven?
“How was your week at school?”
The frying hot dogs sizzled and spat noisily. Mr. Taylor rattled the pan against the stovetop, rolling the hot dogs around to prevent them from burning. Miles took the phone around the corner, where it was quieter.
“Great. I’m totally the most popular kid there. The football coach is trying to get me to try out for quarterback, but I haven’t decided if I want the hassle.” What was the point of being honest? If he told his mom how miserable school was, she’d only try to apologize. The last thing in the world Miles wanted from her was an apology. Sorry I ruined your life when I ran off with another guy. I didn’t see that coming. My bad.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart! My little all-star!” Was she faking it the same way Miles was, or was she really clueless enough to think her son had what it took to play quarterback? Miles had never thrown a spiral in his life. “Football is very popular down here,
you know. Jack has season tickets to the Dolphins. Box seats. We’ll see a game when you come down. I know Jack would love to meet you.”
Was Miles missing something? She was talking as though they’d already made plans for Miles to visit, even though she’d never actually invited him. It reminded him of how she used to buy lottery tickets and talk about all the ways she was going to spend her millions, as if winning was a foregone conclusion.
Not that Miles wanted an invitation. A football game in Florida with his mom and her new boyfriend? He’d rather spend a week having his teeth drilled.
“So, what else is new, sweetheart?”
“Not much.”
“Oh, come on. Surely there must be something new. Don’t hold out on me. I’m your mother.”
It was the way she said it. Like the role actually meant something to her. Miles couldn’t take it anymore.
“We got invaded by aliens yesterday,” he snapped. “Maybe you didn’t hear about that all the way down in Florida, but it’s pretty big news where you used to live.”
The phone went quiet, and Miles knew he’d crossed the line.
“Of course I heard about that,” Miles’s mom said. “It’s just . . . you’re only twelve. I don’t want you having to worry about those things.”
“What does age have to do with it? That lizard-monster didn’t look like he came to check IDs.”
The phone went quiet again. Then Miles’s mom broke the silence with one perfectly enunciated word. “What?”
“I said the lizard-monster didn’t look—”
Miles cut himself off. Whoops. In his frustration, he’d revealed too much. The cat wasn’t just out of the bag; it was racing around the room and clawing at the furniture.
“How do you know it looked like a lizard?” Miles’s mom caught her breath. “Oh, my God.” Her voice quavered. “You were there?”
Miles could almost hear her jaw hitting the floor. He didn’t have to see her to know her concern was expressing itself as exasperation. Like the time when he was ten, and she’d caught him poking a stick at a copperhead snake while his dad, oblivious to his son’s activities, trimmed the hedges not twenty feet away. This was sort of the same thing, if that snake had been capable of leveling a city block.
Attack of the Alien Horde Page 7