Rise of Heroes

by Hayden Thorne

  At that moment, I found myself staring at a face that watched me from inside—safely hidden in the darkness and framed by those jagged bits of window glass. I could barely make out the outline of his head, but I knew he was pale, and his hair was slicked back in a very stylish ‘do. His eyes peered out from the shadows and were fixed on me, and from the way they narrowed ever so slightly, I could tell their owner had broken into a smile once he knew I’d seen him. The skin on the back of my neck crawled, and I almost peed myself.

  I heard a soft, low chuckle and a couple of murmured words that I couldn’t catch. The voice was quiet and teasing. One could say that it was seductive.

  “Hey—”

  But the face melted into the shadows, and before I could alert anyone, something clamped around my chest and waist. Then the pavement vanished from under my feet, and the world suddenly dissolved in a rush of air. I felt myself lifted high and fast, my stomach alternately tightening and falling as though I were riding a roller-coaster. I clung to my family’s dinner for all I was worth, screaming without shame, and I was hurled across some crazy distance by something that was wrapped around me.

  I had my eyes closed tightly the whole time, and just as suddenly as it first started, it finally stopped, and I was again on solid ground. Dizzy, a little nauseated, and in serious shock, but unharmed. My traumatized brain eventually caught on to my situation—sprawled on the sidewalk, the plastic bag of Chinese food lying nearby. Little by little, I grew aware of warmth and pressure around my shoulders, and it slowly vanished.

  “No place for you there,” a voice whispered just as I was released.

  “What…”

  I opened my eyes in time to catch a dark figure flying—no, leaping—back into the darkness and onto the roof of a crumbling old tenement.

  “Magnifiman?” I gasped, struggling to my feet. “No, wait! That guy you’re looking for—I know where he is!”

  No, it wasn’t Magnifiman. Just as the figure disappeared somewhere on the rooftops, another figure—larger, bulkier—flew up from the direction of the alleys I’d just passed, and it followed the first one into the night. A minute or two after that, a car screeched to a halt across the street, and out leaped Bambi Bailey—glamorous and wielding a microphone, yelling at her poor, scattered cameraman as he stumbled after her.

  “Come on, before he flies away!”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!”

  “Over here! Hurry!”

  “I’ll bet you he’s gone. You spent too much time in the makeup chair again.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Lloyd.”

  I listened to their footsteps fade away, their voices mixing with the distant confusion of sounds where I was sure the police were. I staggered off to collect my family’s dinner, hoping Mrs. Zhang’s double knot saved our meal and kept everything snug and accident-free. It did. I was seriously amazed.

  By the way, I didn’t say anything about my brief and unexpected adventure to my family. It was bad enough I’d suffered from very mild but lingering motion sickness for an hour afterward.

  The news reports later that night told us of a jailbreak—the Trill’s thugs, naturally. Officers on duty were affected by the same weird hypnotic music that got me and those other kids at the theater, and it was violin music they were listening to through an old radio they kept around.

  They’d let the prisoners go and locked themselves in the emptied cells. The fugitives were never found despite all of the efforts of Magnifiman and his partner.

  “So it looks like this Devil’s Trill is using classical music to screw with people’s minds,” Liz noted as we gathered around the TV after dinner. Mom agreed, sighing her disappointment.

  “All this talk about Mozart’s music being good for your mind…”

  “Yeah, really,” I grumbled, chewing on a cuticle. “And everyone gives my generation all kinds of shit over rock music.”

  I stayed up a bit late as I struggled with my Geometry homework, but eventually—like, within my lifetime, I was done and got ready for bed.

  After washing up and brushing my teeth, I stood before my mirror, naked. I took careful note of my arms, my chest, and my legs—skinny, as Mrs. Zhang noted. And pale—too pale, I had to admit, but genetics had everything to do with that. I shook my head and dressed into an old t-shirt and boxers. I’d wolfed down that solitary potsticker and had followed it with the two fortune cookies at the dinner table earlier. I suppose those fifteen pounds of new weight would be making themselves known soon enough.

  I dreamed of Peter that night—or at least I thought I did. The breeze coming through my open window brought with it something weird but calming, yet I couldn’t remember a single thing about it. I guess I was already half-asleep and dreaming then, but I did remember whispering good night to a familiar presence before passing out completely.

  Chapter 13

  The police were out in full force the next day. Everywhere I looked, there was a cop on foot, scowling at the crowd as he paced around a block or two. Here and there, a squad car would crawl along, predator-like.

  “Fugitives still at large, eh?” I asked, nodding at a car that’d just puttered by. Beside me, Peter sat on the top step of the low concrete stairs that led to Renaissance High’s main entrance.

  “Looks like it. Here.” An open canister of roasted salted almonds appeared, and I helped myself. For a few seconds, nothing could be heard from either of us but muffled crunching. School had let out, and we were waiting for Peter’s mom to arrive and pick him up. Peter’s car was now off-limits—yep, another punishment that had been doled out, but for what reason, he wouldn’t say.

  Sure, his eyes lit up in mild anger when he told me about the car, but apparently it was a matter he figured would be no one else’s business but his, and he bit back additional detail. “It’s just something really stupid,” he finally said and left it at that.

  To what extent I missed the old Peter—the quiet, nervous, self-deprecating friend who rocked all subjects but Art and English despite his love for them—I didn’t know. I felt a little confused, to be honest.

  He’d grown more and more confident, and he’d boast—though in low whispers—about his recent acts of rebellion. He was told to go here, and he instead went there. He was expected to do A, and he instead did B.

  His choices were questioned, and he defended them until he was metaphorically bloody, refusing to give in or negotiate, which had always been the way his family resolved issues. He’d also begun insisting on branching off on his own, an admission that confused me.

  To my questions, cajoling, and teasing, he continued to avoid additional information.

  “Maybe I’ll tell you if you crank your Tease Meter up,” he said with a sly grin. There was some happy stirring going on in my jeans in response to that.

  At any rate, his car was confiscated by a pair of irate parents, and he was set to suffer one of the million-billion humiliations a teenager could ever experience: to be picked up from school by either his mom or dad.

  “I know that Magnifiman and his partner were out helping the cops,” I continued. “I was there last night. I saw them, and guess what.”

  “What?”

  “I saw the Trill.”

  Peter glanced at me with an incredulous little smile.

  “No, you didn’t. No one knows what he looks like.”

  “I do. At least I think so. My gut tells me it was him I saw last night.”

  “What do you mean? Where was he?” The smile was still there. I was sure Peter was just humoring me.

  “Inside an abandoned apartment building. I saw him through one of the windows. We kind of stared at each other for a while, actually.”

  Peter chuckled and shook his head. “Just the shadows, Eric.”

  “I figured no one would believe me if I said anything—not even you,” I grumbled, drawing my knees up and resting my chin on them. Before us, another squad car puttered along. “I don’t care. I know what I saw.�
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  “Then why didn’t you say anything to the cops?”

  “It’s a little difficult saying anything when you’re picked up and thrown clear past a gazillion blocks by someone who moves just a teeny bit too fast for comfort.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind, Barlow,” I said, sighing. “It’s no use. The thing is I was taken away from the scene—for my safety, I guess—and then abandoned three doors down from my house. I didn’t have the chance to tell anyone what I saw, and even if someone wanted to listen, I don’t think I’d have been able to, anyway. I felt sick to my stomach from that trans-neighborhood bungee adventure and wouldn’t have been a good witness in the end.”

  Peter looked faintly stricken. Then the shadow faded, and he was once again looking at me in mild amusement.

  “That was some adventure,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I hope the nausea didn’t last too long.”

  “Yeah, well—it was cool, come to think of it. I’ve never been involved in any superhero situation before.” I paused. “Other than the sabotaged train, that is.”

  “It might be cool in retrospect, but do you really think you could survive any more of those freak adventures?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.” I met Peter’s gaze and was surprised to see him looking earnestly at me, his eyes darting in every direction as though he was trying to read my face. “What?”

  “You really don’t mind being involved with a freak?” he pursued, his voice barely above a whisper. Ah, there was the old Peter back.

  “You mean ‘involved in a freak adventure’? No, I don’t.”

  “Oh—yeah, that’s what I meant.” He crammed nearly a fistful of roasted almonds in his mouth. Then a car’s horn broke up the conversation. We both turned to see a sleek silver Jaguar parked illegally nearby, with Mrs. Barlow poking her exquisitely-coiffed head out the window as she waved at Peter. As it tended to happen whenever I saw his parents, I did a double-take when I looked at her.

  Peter’s resemblance to her in some ways had always been crazy striking, and with his recent surge of confidence, I’d even add that he was kind of hot.

  If only my being sucked into romance didn’t confuse me so much, maybe I’d have done a far better job expressing my appreciation for him. I’d been so used to treating him like a best friend and nothing more. Now it wasn’t enough, and I didn’t quite know how to go about getting what I wanted out of this. The farthest I’d gone was to drag him into a stall in the third floor boys’ restroom half an hour after the final bell, where we’d made out. Nope, it hadn’t been ideal, and though students had mostly left the building by then, we’d known we were still gambling on our privacy. Afterward, that awful guilt would creep back, and I began to feel as though I just crossed the line again. Peter didn’t seem to be bothered by the intimacy, but I almost always dealt with the sassy-ass excitement with an overly casual attitude toward him. It was all too—strange—and something in my gut told me things weren’t going to go back to how they were before.

  “Gotta go,” he said, and we both stood up, gathering our stuff as we did. “I’ll see you, Eric.”

  “Maybe sometime I’ll be able to have dinner at your place,” I blurted out, unthinking. I didn’t know where that came from. It could have been nerves, seeing as how Mrs. Barlow was staring keenly at me from where she sat.

  I felt as though I were being studied—and not in a good way.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Well, enjoy today’s tennis lessons.”

  “I never do,” Peter said with a wan smile before jogging over to his mom’s car.

  I waved as the Jaguar pulled out and sped away in a silver blur. “What, no kiss?” I muttered, somewhat deflated.

  A mom-approved meeting with Althea at the Jumping Bean immediately after helped lift my mood. The coffee shop offered computer access to its patrons, and for the most part, kids took advantage of the half-dozen computers there to play online games. The computers weren’t in use when I arrived, but Althea was there, no surprise, monopolizing one keyboard. There were a scattered handful of customers that afternoon—college students and professionals, all lounging around with their noses buried between the pages of books or periodicals. Old school jazz or blues—I could never tell the difference—played in the background.

  I tiptoed over to Althea, planning to surprise her.

  Once I stood less than three feet away, however, I just froze and stared.

  She sat straight and stiff on her chair, and her hands were flying all over her keyboard. Her face was blank, her eyes fixed forward, but for the briefest moment I wondered if I was going nuts. Althea’s eyes were open, but I could see no pupils anywhere. A pair of white eyeballs peered through her glasses, with her lenses reflecting the screen’s light and flashing images.

  What the hell? “Hey, Althea,” I said once I found my voice.

  She blinked and stopped her typing. The computer screen froze, blacked out, and the computer rebooted.

  Althea turned in surprise and then smiled at me. Her eyes were normal. I swallowed, mentally gave myself a kick in the ‘nads, and then took my place beside her and chatted away.

  “Just surfing,” she said.

  “Bored as usual.”

  She looked back at the screen, which had just restored itself to its normal settings. “For the life of me, though, I can’t remember where the hell I went. I mean…” She paused and glanced at the clock behind the counter. “I’ve been here for at least fifteen minutes.”

  “Porn sites, I’m sure.”

  Althea rolled her eyes and walked over to the counter with me, the strange little episode forgotten.

  Later that evening, the Magnifiman-and-Sidekick-versus-all-criminals-and-lowlifes scorecard, according to Bambi Bailey and her new beauty mark—just above her upper-lip—was close to a dozen. Petty thieves, drunks, and minor hooligan types were on that night’s menu—nothing from the Trill’s corner. Magnifiman was once again caught for a two-second interview, and I could’ve sworn he actually looked bored doing his job.

  Chapter 14

  The day of my emancipation—or should it be liberation, same difference—finally came, and so did Peter’s. He still couldn’t use his car, though, so I agreed, kind of annoyed, to a minor extension of his sentence.

  “Right now I really can’t do anything,” he said as we sat on the usual stoop, waiting for the usual ride to come for him at the usual time. “Once I get my car back, we’ll go out on our first official date.”

  “In the meantime?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Play Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Oh, puke.”

  “I don’t know. I think you can give Claire Danes a run for the money.”

  “Shut up.”

  I went to the bank after school. It was a dark, foggy day in Vintage City. Pretty typical all year round. With my hormones still raging from a way-too-short moment with Peter in the third floor boys’ restroom, I was in a foul mood when we parted ways. Funny how one’s self-absorption can really screw his awareness of the world around him.

  The bank—one of three in Vintage City—appeared normal from the outside. In fact, had I given it more attention like I should have, I’d have realized the calm was abnormal. But no—my frustration was a bit slow in cooling off, and it was pretty damned awkward and uncomfortable walking around with a wild boner that refused to cooperate despite all efforts at turning myself off. Desperation had reached levels so high that drastic action was needed. No kidding here, but I was left with no choice but to fantasize over Sgt. Vitus Bone if my hormones continued to bug me.

  I reached the bank before taking that self-destructive step, though. I pulled out my wallet and fished around for Mom’s bankcard then expertly fed it into the ATM machine. I keyed in Mom’s PIN, and all hell broke loose.

  The screen blinked a couple of times. Then a message flashed in painful white letters: “Please Insert Card.”

  “What the hell?”


  None of the keys worked. The stupid-ass screen just blinked every time I pressed something. Even the “cancel” button didn’t work, and the machine kept pleading for the bankcard. Great. Just great. I pounded my fist on the keypad. When that didn’t work, I upped my efforts, this time using both fists while cussing at the fucking thing for eating Mom’s bankcard.

  “Piece of shit!” I cried. “You lousy, stinking waste of—”

  Then the bank’s doors burst open, and a group of men in tuxedos and half-masks ran out, all loaded with money bags. A couple of them were armed, and I instantly froze.

  Maybe they wouldn’t notice me if I didn’t move. Then again, maybe not. The distant echo of police sirens alerted the bunch. One of them spotted me and pounced, looping an arm around my throat with a hissed threat.

  “Steady as she goes, kid. If you try anything funny, I’ll kick your skinny ass from here to Sunday. Or if I feel charitable enough, I’ll just break your neck.”

  “Wait—money—” I choked as he started to drag me away.

  “I don’t need your money. What would you have at this time, anyway? You’d have blown all your allowance on disgusting cafeteria junk.”

  I frantically pointed at the ATM machine. “Card—card—”

  “We don’t take credit cards, either. We ain’t yuppie crooks.”

  He dragged me, gasping garbled protests about the cannibalized bankcard and the money I never got, toward a waiting limousine. His buddies had already clambered in. He was using me for his shield just as the police pulled up and hopped out of their cars, guns drawn. There were two squad cars. Where the hell was everyone? I felt the barrel of a revolver against my temple.

  “Go ahead, pig,” he shouted over my head, “if you want to see a nice collection of skinny teenage brains splattered all over the sidewalk!”