“Actually, hearing is a strength of mine,” I say. “It’s listening I have trouble with.”
He grunts at my joke, then sighs. “Not that it’s any of my business,” he says. “I don’t know that he lives anywhere. But I do know he’s got a friend picks him up sometimes when it’s closin’ time. Don’t know who this friend is or where he lives—only that his name’s Red.”
“Red,” I whisper. Color of fire trucks and apples and that really great sweater Jenna wears sometimes with the three buttons. And my eyeballs in just about every family photo. Also the name of guys in Westerns, usually cooks, who end up shot about halfway through. I have no idea who Red is.
“Okay. Thanks.” I turn to mount my bike, but the bartender stops me, motions for me to come back. He leans against the door and kind of squints at me with one eye.
“Listen, kid. I seen a lot a men. Good men. Strong men. Proud men. But they come through this door all beat down and bowled over by one damned thing or another. They come through that door with that somethin’ lodged inside ’em, so they can’t swallow. And they try to drown it, fast as they can. But it doesn’t work. They leave with it still stuck there.” The bartender points to his chest. “I don’t know your friend very well, and I don’t know what’s goin’ on between you two, but I hope it’s that you are lookin’ to help him and not the other way round.”
The man straightens up and leans in the doorframe again, arms crossed. I mean to say thanks, but it feels like there’s something caught in my throat too, so instead I just nod and get back on my bike.
“And don’t come back here until you at least know how to shave,” the bartender shouts behind me.
I start for home with only a color. When I get back I can search online, but with no last name, I’m not hopeful. I could always ask Mr. Masters. He might know something, though I’m still not a hundred percent sure I trust him, either. Or that he trusts me.
It’s all just a big jumble in my head. The Titan. The Dealer. Mr. Masters. The Fox. Jenna. The Suits. I feel like a spectator watching it all unfold. And every time I try to do something, I run into a dead end. A pool of acid. An empty bar. A new body spray.
It’s starting to tick me off.
I pass the entrance to Ellis Park and check my phone. It’s only ten o’clock. I’ve got two more hours before I need to be home to intercept my mother’s call. I let my bike drop in the grass, and I drop down beside it.
On the weekends, the park is swarming with kids, but on this Tuesday morning it’s mostly empty. I find a spot in the shade to cool off. The breeze feels nice, and I open up a little. I can smell the moisture in the air, laced with the perfume of the clover in the field below. I lie back in the grass and let it tickle my ears. I try to block out the sound of traffic and construction crews filling potholes and concentrate on what’s right around me. Squirrels fussing. Bees humming. I can hear the trees talking, their branches creaking, stretching their limbs, the whisper of the leaves holding out for October, less than a week away.
Then I close my eyes and let it all drift. One by one, the sounds disappear. I take deep breaths and let them out as slowly as possible. Until there is nothing. Only the coolness of the ground on my back and the suggestion of light beyond my eyes. I try to let go of everything. The Titan. Mr. Masters. The Suits. Julius Caesar. The math test. The homework I didn’t get done. The shoplifter I didn’t tackle. Even Jenna. Just let it all go.
And drift away.
The buzzing wakes me up. It’s coming from my pocket. I fish out my phone. Two missed calls. And a text.
Where are you?
The text isn’t from Jenna, or Eric, or anyone at school.
It’s from my mom. Only parents bother to use proper capitalization and punctuation in their texts. I check the time. It’s twelve seventeen. And I’m supposed to be at home sick.
I hop on my bike and pedal as fast as I can, sweating through my shirt, making my legs burn, but it’s not fast enough. Her car is already in the driveway. I let the bike fall and try to compose myself, smearing my hair down and catching my breath.
When I walk in the door, she is standing in the foyer, waiting for me. She actually has her hands tucked into little fists on her hips. I didn’t know mothers actually stood like that. As soon as she starts talking, though, they launch from their perches and flit around like crazed hummingbirds.
“Where have you been?” she squawks. “I tried calling twice! Both here and your cell, and you didn’t answer! I called your father and he didn’t know either!” I can actually hear the exclamation points at the ends of her sentences. The hummingbirds come to rest by her sides again. I take advantage of her need to take a breath.
“Sorry, Mom. I just went over to the park for a while, hoping the fresh air would make me feel better.” I always like it better when I can tell part of the truth. But she’s not convinced. Her eyebrows are still arched, one foot tapping an impatient rhythm.
“You can’t just up and leave like that, you know?” she scolds. “Not without telling somebody. You should have called or sent me a message. You know the rules.”
Yes, I think to myself. I am well aware of the rules.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I should have called.” Hoping the quick apology cuts off her attack. I offer a little smile as icing, but she doesn’t bite.
“You don’t understand,” she says. “I was worried sick.” And I can hear it in her voice. The slight tremble. This isn’t about me not making a phone call. “Did you even hear what happened this morning?”
I look at her dumbly. Waiting.
“Those lunatics robbed another bank. Right outside the city this time.”
I feel myself tense up. Another hit. And closer. The Suits are grabbing cash and working their way to Justicia.
“Were they stopped?” I ask, maybe a little too quickly. “I mean, you know, did the cops show up . . . or anyone?” I think about Jenna and Eric and Gavin, all on ready reserve status. Would their Supers have called on them? Dragged them out of school? Piled them in the backseat of Cryos’s car and told them to change on the way? Probably not. They were still just rookies—but if it was an emergency, if the Supers needed all the help they could get . . . then what?
My mother shakes her head. “I heard it all on the radio. Then you didn’t answer. I was so worried.” I’m instantly swallowed in a bear hug, the life squeezed out of me. “It’s stupid. I know. It has nothing to do with us. But I can’t help it.” She steps back and holds on to both of my shoulders, staring into my eyes with her two blue tractor beams. And there is that moment again, where I start to wonder just how much she knows.
“You don’t have to worry,” I tell her, trying my best to sound convincing.
She gives me another disapproving look. “I don’t want you to go out alone while those . . . thugs are around, understand?”
I want to tell her that they aren’t thugs. Thugs carry lead pipes and wear ski masks hoping to steal purses from old ladies. These guys are villains. There’s a big difference. But I don’t. After all, I just told her not to worry.
“I’m serious, Drew. These people are dangerous. I’ve heard all about them. I know there are others out there to protect us, but you can’t always count on them, you know. You have to look out for yourself.”
“‘Thanks, preacher,’ says the choir,” I say, then realize I’ve probably said too much already. “I’ll be careful. Promise.” We hug it out some more, and she gives me a parting death stare—akin to saying, “I’m watching you, mister.” I manage to escape and tiptoe upstairs to my room, shut the door, and pull up the local news feeds on my laptop.
One headline on the Justicia Daily Trumpet website reads: SUITS STRIKE AGAIN! Another reads: ESCAPED CONS CONTINUE CRIMES: CRUSADERS CAN’T CATCH UP. It’s another bank robbery, except this one is captured on video and is already streaming across YouTube. In a town less than an hour away. The robber, enormous, dressed in a snug black coat and fancy slacks and size sixteen shoes, w
alked into a First National with a shovel across one shoulder and a giant bag that he demanded be filled with hundreds only. A security guard, overestimating his chances, drew his gun and emptied his clip—all twelve shots ricocheting harmlessly from the flat face of the shovel. With one swing, the shovel caught the guard in the gut, sending him flying. The robber then made some comment about using that same shovel to dig everyone’s grave if the tellers didn’t hurry. So they hurried. As he left, the robber handed the bank manager his card.
The Jack of Spades.
According to the news, Hotshot was the first to arrive at the scene, nearly burning a hole in the roof as he touched down—but by the time he got there, the Jack had disappeared. The Super made some offhand comment about remaining vigilant and stopping them next time before launching himself back into the sky, Fourth of July style. Cryos pulled up three minutes later in his souped-up bulletproof roadster, squealing to a halt and poking his chrome-plated head out the window just long enough to scan the scene with his cybernetic eye before thundering away. The police filed in after, though there wasn’t much detective work to be done. It’s the easiest game of Clue ever. Jack of Spades, in the bank, with the shovel. The Suits aren’t subtle. That’s the difference between thugs and villains. The villains want you to know they did it.
Strike two against the forces of goodness and light. At least nobody from H.E.R.O. was involved.
I think about what Mr. Masters said, about the Dealer’s knack for staying one step ahead of everyone, and I can’t help but feel like this is only the beginning. That it might even just be a ruse. Maybe they don’t even need the money. Maybe they’re just trying to put everyone in a panic. Is it any co-incidence that this happened less than twenty-four hours after the Fox told us all to stay calm? I watch the bank teller in the video scream her head off.
I scroll down when something else catches my eye. A little patch of news in the corner—an editorial or a blog, only three paragraphs long, but the picture and title get my attention.
The photo is of the Titan, in costume, obviously taken from the archives, judging by how young and trim he looks. He holds a would-be mugger in each hand and is slamming their heads together like he’s crashing cymbals. He looks nothing like the man at the Last Hurrah.
I whisper the title to myself.
“Where are you now?”
And I realize that I’m not the only one looking for him.
16
THE BEST TWO AND A HALF SECONDS OF MY LIFE
It’s Wednesday, and I’m back in school where I belong. Or where most people think I belong, anyway.
It’s Wednesday, and on this Wednesday the poor suckers at Highview are cursed with cube steak and gravy, which tastes vaguely like grilled Play-Doh and looks a lot like canned dog food. For kicks they get green-bean casserole and Jell-O fruit salad surprise. The surprise is usually just some of the lunch ladies’ hair—though I did find a fingernail once.
It’s Wednesday, and things haven’t really improved. If anything, they’ve gotten worse. The second robbery has everyone whispering, despite the Fox’s assurances. I catch snippets. I hear questions. “Do you think the Jacks will come here?” “Do you think the Dealer is planning on attacking the city?” “Do you think the Fox can stop them?” “Did you know the Jack of Diamonds can melt metal with that crazy eyeball of his?” “Do you think Jeremy Whitfield will ask me to homecoming?”
Thankfully, nobody asks, “Do you think the top-secret group of sidekicks-in-training operating out of the hidden basement in our school have anything to do with this?” Not that I can hear, anyways. As far as I can tell, our identities are intact. Then I think about the Killer Bee and Mr. Masters and start to wonder all over again.
It’s Wednesday, and I’ve got my own identity issues: I still have no idea who Red is. I spent two hours searching online, and the one person I found with that nickname living in the city is a ninety-five-year-old man in a nursing home. Of course it’s possible that Red is just a pseudonym. Obviously it’s somebody the Titan trusts, which means it’s probably somebody just as secretive as he is. Which means there is almost no chance of me finding the Titan or talking to him again.
Jenna doesn’t have that problem. She texted me last night to tell me she spent most of the weekend on patrol with the Fox, following up on leads, trying to uncover the Dealer’s plan. My only consolation is that she didn’t spend the weekend with Gavin. The last message I got just said
Sorry.
I wasn’t sure for what. For not returning my calls? For having an infinitely cooler hero than me? For smelling different all of a sudden? I guess I probably should have texted back that it was okay, but I didn’t. Instead I just said I’d see her tomorrow.
So it’s Wednesday. H.E.R.O. day. Mike and I finish history and walk to the teachers’ lounge together. He is officially back in school, and Mr. Masters said he could continue to attend meetings even though his physical training is suspended till the cast comes off—the same cast that is covered in signatures already. He insists none of them are forged, but I have my doubts. Mike is empirically more popular than I am, but there is no way Susan Smalls would give him more than a snotty look, let alone grace his arm with her loopy signature. As we walk, I notice some of the halogen bulbs flickering as we pass under them and wonder if he doesn’t have some serious pent-up energy. Maybe the Suits have everyone on edge.
The rest of H.E.R.O. is already by the door when we arrive. Mike asks Nikki to scratch an itch on his arm just above his elbow, which she does, easily sinking her fingers beneath the plaster. Jenna smiles and waves. She still smells like Gavin’s gift.
“Where’s Mr. Masters?”
Eric points to a note on the door.
HIGHVIEW ENVIRONMENTAL RECLAMATION
ORGANIZATION CANCELED TODAY. PLEASE ATTEND
YOUR ALTERNATIVELY SCHEDULED CLASSES.
MR. M
“What the heck is this?” I say.
I reach for the door.
“Don’t bother,” Gavin says. “It’s locked.”
I listen for Mr. Masters’s voice down the hall anywhere but can’t catch it. Maybe it’s a test of some kind. I turn to Nikki. “You want to take a quick look, just to be sure?” I whisper.
We all gather around her. She bends over to tie her shoe and then quickly slips through the floor like water soaking into the earth.
“It is unusual,” Jenna says as Nikki disappears. “Has anyone even seen him today?” I shake my head. The look on her face makes me think Jenna has seen something odd in Mr. Masters’s behavior lately too.
“You look worried,” Gavin says to me. “Afraid you’re going to miss out on some crucial test-tube smelling today?”
“No. I just think it’s weird that Mr. Masters would cancel our meeting given everything that’s going on.”
“So you’re just scared, then,” Gavin fires back. “Which one of them scares you the most? No, wait, let me guess. The big guy with the shovel . . . nope, hang on . . . I’ve got it. It’s the handsome one with the glass eye.”
“It’s an extraterrestrial diamond, dork,” Mike says. “And he’s not scared of any of them, are you, Drew?”
Mike looks at me. I pretend I didn’t hear him, which doesn’t work so well with me.
“Ah, the Jack of Clubs, then.” Gavin smirks, then gives me a wink.
Two minutes later, the teachers’ lounge door opens and Nikki slinks through, closing it quietly behind her.
“He’s not down there. Everything’s shut off. And there’s no one in the lounge,” she whispers.
What now? Eric says with a shrug.
“I guess we go eat,” Gavin suggests. “It is lunchtime, after all.”
Sometimes I forget that Gavin’s only been at this school for a month. He probably hasn’t had the chance to discover buried treasure in the Jell-O yet. I’m about to say something, but Nikki is the first to put her hands up. “Green-bean casserole? You must be outa your mind.”
“Y
eah, sorry, guys,” Mike says, scratching now at the crevice where his cast opens under his armpit. “I’d rather starve.”
“Me too,” I say. Eric nods.
“We could just hang out by the fields,” Nikki suggests.
I look at Jenna. Gavin looks at Jenna. “Seriously. I’ve got to get something to eat,” he says.
I can almost hear the rustle of the tumbleweed. The locker doors closing around us, the soundtrack in the background. I forget all about the Titan and the Jacks and the Dealer and even Mr. Masters. This is between the two of us. Or at least Jenna is between the two of us. Except I have the advantage. The green-bean casserole has mushrooms in it. Or some kind of fungus, anyway.
Jenna puts both hands on Gavin’s shoulders.
“Sorry,” she says. “But I’ve tasted Ms. Merkel’s celebrated cube steak and gravy once in my life . . . and that is one time too many.”
We follow Jenna down the halls to the school’s back entrance, having dropped a sour-faced Gavin off at the cafeteria to eat with some of his football buddies. Jenna invited him to come with us one more time, but he refused, probably out of pride. This just means I don’t have to be around Gavin or cube steak for the next hour, so my day is suddenly looking up.
There are no teachers or kids by the back door, and it’s only locked on the inside, so getting out isn’t a problem. And we have Nikki, so getting back in won’t be either. I listen for the heavy thud of Officer Jenson’s heels on the sidewalk. Our lone security guard has a slow, bowlegged gait and wears heavy boots—easy to identify. I can hear him clear around the front of the school. “All clear,” I say. Somewhere out there, probably not too far from here, some criminal in a suit is holding a playing card and saying the exact same thing. But there’s a big difference between knocking over banks and skipping out on lunch. At least, I’d like to think so.
We head to the baseball diamond behind the tennis courts. Along the way we talk about the thing on all of our minds. Mike thinks the Jacks are just gathering enough cash to fly the coop—maybe head to Europe or South America, even go their separate ways. He figures the Dealer owed it to them to bust them out, but that they aren’t really a gang anymore. Nikki thinks Mike is an idiot, even if he is kinda cute in a lost-puppy-with-one-broken-leg kind of way, and that the robberies are just meant to spook the public. Eric says the Suits are planning a big crime spree, though he may have said that they are baking a big cream pie. It’s hard to follow along with his signs when we aren’t standing still, facing each other.
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