My parents know about my condition, of course. There’s no way they couldn’t. I spent most of the first twelve months of my life screaming my head off and breaking out in rashes. The doctors thought I was allergic to just about everything. Perfume, pollen, lotion, bubble bath, strawberries, sugar, nuts, milk, wheat, laundry detergent, polyester, plastic, dogs barking, you name it. They thought I was photophobic—afraid of bright lights—and ligyrophobic—afraid of loud sounds. As the appointments continued, I was wrongly diagnosed with all kinds of phobias: cheimatophobia (cold), chiraptophobia (touch), chromatophobia (color)—just to name the Cs. Pediatricians turned to specialists, who turned to even more highly specialized specialists, and I spent most of my first three years undergoing one test after another while my parents turned their house into a quarantined safe zone, complete with special air filters, noise-reducing insulation, and allergen-free everything. For the next two years they ate like prisoners of war, eschewing foods with sharp odors, cleaning with unscented dish soaps, muting the television and watching it with closed captioning while I slept.
I made their lives incredibly difficult, until they were referred to a neurologist named Dr. Avian, who finally made the correct diagnosis. He ran a few tests and kept saying the word extraordinary a lot. When he was finished, he said that I was an absolutely remarkable human being and that my parents should be very proud.
He was the first doctor to tell them that. He then gave me some specially designed earplugs and a pair of sunglasses that I could wear to dampen the effects of sound and light until I learned to control my senses. He told my parents that my acute senses were actually a blessing, provided I could learn to manage them. That they might even come in handy someday.
And from the age of five, I worked with Dr. Avian to do just that. He taught how to dampen my senses—to shut everything out—and how to concentrate and heighten one sense at the expense of another, so that I could close my eyes and hear the sound of a mosquito’s wings or smell an apple orchard from five miles away. When I was ten, Dr. Avian told me that if I concentrated hard enough, if I focused my senses to pinpoint accuracy, I would be able to hear and see things that no one else had ever experienced. But as he said this, I could smell the bit of tuna sandwich that was caught in his teeth from lunch, and I didn’t exactly jump at the idea.
I did learn to control the intensity of my senses, though. Touch was not a problem, as my sense of touch is only a little above normal, making me more ticklish than most people and causing me to avoid wool like the plague, but not as intense as the others. Sight, sound, and smell (and by virtue of the latter, taste) were trickier. I learned to block out most of the input, managing to override the overload. At night I would stay awake and count the crickets or listen to the chatter of the chipmunks in the tree trunk of the neighbors’ yard. I would wake up to the smell of coffee—which my parents refused to give up drinking—and would try to identify what kind of cereal my dad was eating based on the crunch it made.
And I grew up feeling helpless. Because for all I could see and hear and smell, I could do almost nothing about it. I couldn’t hit a baseball to save my life, though I could count the stitches in it as it missed my bat. I never learned how to play the piano, though I could hear my friend Angie Mathers practicing her scales a block away. And the night I woke up to the acrid smell of gas, I was still too late to prevent our neighbors’ house on the next street over from burning down. My only consolation was that the Tomlinsons were away for the weekend, so no one was hurt.
Lots of things have happened that I could do nothing about.
When I talked to Dr. Avian about this, he told me that every gift has a price. I asked him if I could get my money back. That I wanted it to be good for something besides making me feel helpless all the time. He replied that he knew of a way, but that it wouldn’t be easy. It would require an intense commitment and the ability to keep a secret, even from my parents.
He asked me if I ever dreamed of being a hero. Not one of those once-in-a-lifetime, baby-drowning-in-a-river, bystander-turned-savior types, but a real hero.
He asked me if I believed in the forces of light, sworn to forever battle the forces of darkness.
He asked me if I was ashamed to wear tights.
I told him yes, yes, and maybe a little, but that I would if I had to.
And that’s when he introduced me to Mr. Masters. Mr. Masters, whose shiny skull gleamed like a buffed bowling ball. Mr. Masters, who told me about the vast network of superheroes stretched across the globe, fighting evil wherever it raised its ugly head. Who told me of the need for some of those Supers to have sidekicks, and for those sidekicks to learn as much as possible from their mentors, so that they could one day become Supers themselves.
And Mr. Masters, who ran a program, specially designed to train those sidekicks, that just happened to be in the basement of a local middle school.
I’m not sure how they knew each other—though, later, learning that the good doctor spent his evenings turning himself into a bird and soaring over the city offered some explanation—but Dr. Avian told me I could trust Mr. Masters. That the program would do me good. It would not only help me to control my powers even more but would provide me with a sense of purpose.
I told him to floss more often.
Once I was in the program, Mr. Masters took over my training, though he was a little skeptical at first. After all, most of the kids he had worked with before could shoot heat beams from their eyes or had titanium-reinforced skeletons or human growth hormone XKY that let them triple their size. Mr. Masters had already helped train half a dozen sidekicks and sent them out to serve the forces of “goodness and light.” When he met me, Mr. Masters wasn’t sure what I was good for. Or who I would be good with.
I spent several months in training before I was even assigned to a mentor. He needed to find just the right Super, he said. Someone who could best complement my own special set of skills.
In other words, a Super who could do most of his own butt kicking and didn’t really need a sidekick.
What Mr. Masters didn’t know—or didn’t admit to, at least—was that my mentor, my Super, my hero, not only didn’t need a sidekick. . . .
He didn’t want one, either.
6
THE LAST HURRAH
No one ever thinks anything strange about a superhero without a sidekick. In fact, most Supers choose to go completely solo or join teams of equals, just like most sidekicks eventually turn out to be Supers. The annals are full of Supers banding together to form legions and leagues, like OCs with their poker nights and book clubs. The Legion of Justice is probably the most famous, of course. And the Eradicators, back in the day. And Los Luchadores. Some heroes timeshare, like Helios and Nocturne, who conveniently split day and evening shifts on account of one is solar powered and the other is half vampire. Others just get married, like Mr. and Mrs. Magnificent—though my good friend and fellow H.E.R.O. member Mike says that well over half of all Superhero marriages end in divorce, so that’s probably not the best example.
Still, the vast majority of Supers don’t have sidekicks. I guess for them, a sidekick is just a liability. Just someone else to be saved. That’s why it’s sometimes difficult for Mr. Masters to find mentors. Why Gavin McAllister had to move halfway across the country. Because for every Fox willing to nurse a Lynx to herodom, there’s a Super who just can’t take it. Who, for some reason or another, can’t handle the responsibility.
So it’s not unusual to find a Super without a sidekick. A sidekick without a Super, though.
Those are one of a kind, too.
The Titan is “off the grid.” That’s Mr. Masters speak for “doesn’t want to be found.” The other Supers don’t know where he is. Mr. Masters doesn’t know where he is. The forces of darkness and eviltude don’t know where he is.
But I do. At least I did. I just hope he’s still there. After all, some deranged man in a bee costume went through all the trouble of capturing me a
nd dangling me out to dissolve, maybe with the hope of luring him out of his hole. There’s a chance somebody is gunning for him. It seems like something he should know.
Besides, I have a bone to pick. I don’t care if Mr. Masters is right and the Titan is going through a little identity thing, there’s still a Code. He has one. I have one. It’s one thing not to show up to special H.E.R.O. training sessions. To never take me out on weekends the way the Fox does with Jenna. It’s another to ignore my signal and leave me hanging. That’s just unprofessional. And a little bit rude. Not to mention life threatening. Which is why I took off this afternoon with the hopes of hunting him down again.
The Last Hurrah is open, even though it is only four thirty, and I push my way in, having told my parents that I was staying after school to go bowling. I know what you are thinking, but the Last Hurrah isn’t one of those hot spots for the differently powered. It’s not a front for a top-secret headquarters that is accessed by an elevator that appears when you pull on the center beer tap. There are no poles you can slide down to get to your secret cave. It’s just a beat-up hole-in-the-wall bar tucked away in a grimy strip mall, next to a nail salon and a Laundromat. For all I know, the Titan lives here.
The last time I was here, he made me promise not to tell anyone else where he was, and then he told me never to come back. He knew the Superhero Sidekick Code of Conduct forbade me to share his whereabouts—rule number two—but there was nothing in the Code about me coming to see him.
The bartender takes one look at me and frowns. I point to the corner, and he frowns again.
He sits in the exact same place as he did last time, nearly two months ago—when I spent every afternoon for two weeks walking into every bar, tavern, and pub the city had to offer before I found him. I was only operating on a hunch, based on the first day we met. Based on the smell of his breath and the look in his eyes. I knew I would recognize him if I saw him. I’m pretty good at picking up on the little details, and he hadn’t failed to make an impression. Still, Justicia’s not a small city, and I must have peeked into thirty dives just like this one before I found him.
That day I hadn’t said much. Only reminded him that I was his sidekick and he was my Super and that, in general, that meant we were supposed to hang out, trade witty remarks, strike cool poses, and battle evil and stuff. I told him that he had missed our last three special training sessions. Suggested that Mr. Masters had expressed concern about his continued absence. I had tried to be cool about the whole thing. No pressure. Not wanting to push him away even further. Just letting him know I was still around. I remember him burping, and the sheer force of it shaking the glasses that hung behind the bar, clinking them together
He had been in bad shape then. I could only imagine things had gotten worse.
I walk in and take everything in briefly, instantly, letting my senses open up, but just as quickly battening it all back down. There’s nothing to see except peanut shells and a few construction workers calling it an early afternoon. There’s nothing to hear except the dull thud of glass on wood after every swallow and the hum of an announcer calling a baseball game on a television. There are lots of things to smell, but none of them merit a second whiff.
He sits at the far end of the bar, his giant frame taking up the equivalent of two spaces. It’s a wonder the stool holds him. It’s a wonder he can still sit upright. I can’t see the look in his eyes because of the sunglasses he wears, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth tells me that he saw me come in the door. He takes a long drink, emptying his mug, and motions for the bartender to give him another.
“Hey,” I say, walking up beside him. Playing it cool.
He just grunts. This is exactly how our last conversation started.
He looks worse. The wheel around his middle has inflated more. He hasn’t shaved, a thick beard adding a whole other dimension to his already expansive face. He hasn’t bothered to change clothes in a while either, judging by the spread of the armpit stains on his dingy gray T-shirt and the smell that assaults me even though I’m mostly breathing through my mouth. If I took off his sunglasses, I’m sure I would be knocked over by the bags under his bloodshot eyes. This doesn’t look like a man who once destroyed a giant mechanical spider by leaping onto it from a plummeting helicopter and driving his fist through the beast’s armor plating. Still, his nearly seven-foot frame dwarfs mine, and his log-sized arms still bulge through his shirt.
I look at his hand to see if he is wearing the ring—my sidekick locator device. It’s how Supers keep tabs on their charges. A ring or a chain or some other kind of trinket that acts as a tracker and communicator. The day after I took my oath to become a part of H.E.R.O., I had a nifty little computer chip implanted under my thumbnail that I can activate whenever I’m in trouble, sending my signal directly to his ring and allowing him to hunt me down. He can do the same if he ever wants to send me a message. Of course it doesn’t do any good if your Super is so passed-out drunk that he doesn’t notice. The Titan’s knuckles are tufted in hair and thick with scars, but there’s no ring.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask, acutely aware of how loaded this question is.
“You really shouldn’t be in here,” he says, staring straight ahead as I take the stool next to him.
He said that last time.
“You really shouldn’t be here either.”
I said that last time, too.
I try to somehow peer past the tinted lenses, to get just one glimpse of what is going on back there, but it’s no use. His breath makes my eyes water.
“I’ve been busy,” I say.
“Yeah, me too,” he murmurs, raising his hand in appreciation as the bartender sets down a full glass.
“You’re not wearing your ring.”
“I didn’t know we were married,” he replies, taking a swallow.
I start to lose my cool, spinning around to face him. “Did you even see what happened yesterday?” I venture, bringing my voice to a whisper and speaking through gritted teeth. “At the swimming pool? All those bees and stuff?” I realize my hands are shaking, and I drop them to my sides.
“I heard about it,” he says.
“I could have been killed.”
“It turned out okay,” he says matter-of-factly.
“No thanks to you,” I snap.
I shut my mouth. The man sitting next to me could bench press sixty tons, though it seems to be an effort for him just to lift his glass today.
The Titan shrugs.
I feel the warmth working its way up my cheeks. “I played by all the rules,” I say. “And instead I end up getting saved by the Fox while you probably just sat here and watched the whole thing on television.”
“There was a game on.” He nods to the TV in the corner, then takes a drink and sets the glass down gently. “Besides, you didn’t need me,” he adds.
And suddenly I want to hit him, too. But if hitting Gavin McAllister would be a bad idea, then throwing a punch at the man who once tucked a live hand grenade under his own armpit to protect a group of OCs should be at the bottom of my list. He shifts his weight on the stool, and I can feel a slight tremor through the floorboards, reminding me of exactly who I’m dealing with. When he speaks again, it’s more of a growl.
“Listen, kid, I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. I’m not your daddy. I’m not your savior. And I’m not your friend. Besides, even if I wanted to, there wasn’t much I could do to help you anyway. You got rescued. That’s what matters.”
“That’s no excuse,” I say.
“I didn’t know I needed an excuse,” he snaps back.
“I was counting on you.”
“There are plenty out there better able to do the job.”
I look at him, slouched there in his stool, foam in the stubble on his chin, the scars on his face, hands, and arms like bookmarks keeping tabs on every chapter of his life. In his prime, he was the Super to beat. Nearly indestructible. Fists of iron. Nerves
of steel. Heart of gold. At least that’s what the T-shirts said. The leader of the Legion of Justice. More than a hundred captured criminals to his credit. Kids around the world worshipped him.
Or at least one did.
But that was the Titan. Not this huge, soft shell of a man, sitting on this stool in his dark corner of the world. I realize he’s right. There are plenty of heroes ready to take his place. Which is just fine for practically everyone else.
“Mr. Titan,” I whisper, looking around to make sure nobody else in the bar is paying attention.
“George.”
“Okay. Whatever, George. I didn’t ask to be paired up with you, okay? It wasn’t my idea.” Though I do remember practically peeing my pants the day I found out. “But I’d like to know that the next time some whack job captures me and plans to feed me to sharks or toss me off a cliff or drop me in a vat of bubbling toxic goo, you are going to come get me. Because if not, I need to find somebody who will. Someone who will stick to the Code.” I take a deep breath. My heart is pounding. I can feel the blood pulsing all the way down into my feet.
The Titan looks at the bartender, who is either ignoring us or is very good at pretending to. Then he turns to me, cocking his head to the side. It’s the first time he’s bothered to look at me squarely, and suddenly I’m thinking I should have listened to him the first time and not come back. He points a finger, a finger that, even now, would probably be all he needed to snap my neck.
“Forget the Code, kid. It’s just a bunch of made-up nonsense designed to make things simple and easy. But nothing is simple and easy. Nobody’s perfect, and I can’t be there to pick you up every time you slip and skin your knee. So do us both a favor, and go save yourself for a change.”
Sidekicked Page 5