“I’ll race you,” Zip said, grinning until her cheeks ached. “But you’re really gonna need to pay attention if you don’t want to miss me!”
The corner of his mouth pulled into something twitchy and smirk-like. He didn’t respond, but there was no need. If there was one thing that she knew, one thing that she was good at, it was running. She saw the power coiling up in him like an animal, something wild and tense readying to leap out from underneath his skin. She could tell that he was a runner— not a runner like she was a runner, but she had yet to meet another living thing capable of moving like she did. It was kind of lonely sometimes, not having anyone around that could match her pace. She wondered if that was how Mal felt all the time. Nobody could keep up with him, either.
But she was going to try.
“You may regret challenging me, Zipporah!” Mal threw over his shoulder as he pulled ahead. “There’s a standing accusation that I am a great big cheat, after all!”
She let him get a half a lap lead over her before she took off. Zip was going to smoke him, really smear him from one end of the track to the other, and it was going to feel great.
°
Usually, June did everything in her power to get out of mixers. School-sponsored events were the bane of her existence. She was proud of herself for having built up such an extensive library of go-to excuses and convenient prior engagements. She was so well versed in shirking forced social interaction, it was nearly impossible to get her to go or do anything that she didn’t feel like going to or doing.
So the fact that she’d agreed to show up to Ernest’s little pole pie initiation was a big deal for June. It had a lot to do with the frightful combination of Ernest’s dumb blue eyes, and the imagined look of disappointment on his face immediately following turning him down. She told herself that it was easier to go and find out what a pole pie actually was than to take the time to weave together a clever story re: why she couldn’t go. Lying the correct way took time and commitment, and June just had too much homework on her plate to do it right.
If she’d gotten the invitation to a pole pie cook-out from anyone else, she would have been at least seventy percent convinced that she was about to walk into some weird group sex thing. But this was Ernest, he who failed to see the phallic imagery in roasting pies with poles, so she bit.
June wasn’t big on asking questions, so she let the grand pole pie mystery unravel in its own time. There wasn’t much that she could do to help him prepare, so June sat on a log and watched her partner exercise his inner lumberjack. Ernest might have dressed like a grandpa and enjoyed the art of baking, but he was also handy with an axe. It was kind of mesmerizing, since he cut firewood as effortlessly as cubes of butter.
And since she was not-staring at Ernest harnessing the soul of Paul Bunyan— or his big blue ox, Babe— she didn’t hear Maks’ approach until he jumped up on the log next to her and settled in.
“Watching anything good?” He asked, winking.
Who did that? Who started a conversation off with a wink? She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about Maks that made her want to grind her teeth whenever he looked at her, but it was something. She blamed it on his weird eyes. They were brown, but speckled with a confetti-burst of bright blue.
June was uncomfortably used to being looked at. It was kind of what happened when you were a bigger individual. People judged you for taking up space, since they couldn’t help but see you. But that wasn’t quite the look that he gave her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. It was more amused, like he was thinking of a joke, not mentally chiding her for refusing to do the decent thing and diet until there was less of her.
Maybe she was a tiny bit sensitive, but guys like him usually had a motive when it came to girls like her.
“Today marks my fifteenth day without television. Cable withdrawal has been a long and painful process,” June said, shutting her notebook with a perfunctory snap. She’d been working on designs for her costuming class, but she would hate to give Maks an opportunity to ask what she was doing. “Fortunately, watching Ernest chop wood is a solid alternative to scripted entertainment.”
Maks leaned back on his hands.
“I think I might see the appeal.”
“Aren’t you going to ask him if he needs help?” June asked archly, stashing her notebook in her purse.
“Does he look like he needs help?” Maks said, gesturing at Mighty Mighty Woodsman Ernest Wright. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like he could split those logs with his bare hands if he felt like it.”
June snorted. “Sure.”
“Uh, do you know how much he can lift?”
She hadn’t given the extent of Ernest’s strength any thought. June’s brain was too used to thinking in terms of human limitations and abilities. He had a well-developed upper body for a fourteen year old, and the term ‘super strength’ had been batted around during their conversations, but that was a vague estimation. She brushed it off with a shrug, sipping tea out of her water bottle. It just wasn’t the same without a few cups of refined white sugar in it. It was the sorriest excuse for sweet tea in the history of boiled leaves. She’d hoped that she’d get used to the taste, but every sip was a new level of disappointment.
“Five hundred pounds?” June guessed, choosing an arbitrary number.
“He can bench like a bajillion— ”
“Four!” Ernest hollered between swings. “I can— only lift— four or five tons!”
“— did you hear that? Four or five tons.” Maks continued smoothly, not missing a beat. “He can lift four or five tons. Do you know what also weighs four or five tons?”
“If this is some kind of work up to a fat joke...” June said, not even bothering to veil that threat.
“Elephant,” he said, quickly. He couldn’t drop his punchline fast enough. “The answer is elephant. So yeah, I bet he could bust those logs with kung-fu chops.”
Ernest leaned the axe against the stump, brushing off his hands.
“Would you two quit gossiping about me already?” He called, making June wonder how good his hearing was. People accused her of being loud, but he was a healthy distance away. Plus, he’d been getting his Oregonian lumberjack groove on. Chopping wood wasn’t quiet work
“We’re discussing the raw facts of how disgustingly strong you are!” June yelled back, her hands cupped around her mouth. “Just so you know, you’re morally obligated to carry my crap for me from now on!”
Not that he didn’t do that already, but June felt it was important to remind him that he was the designated team pack animal. Ernest gathered up wood in both arms, chuckling as he walked back to the fire pit.
“I don’t mind doing a little bit of heavy lifting,” he said, dumping his obscenely large armload of firewood. “It makes me useful, I guess.”
“I’m still on the fence on whether or not I’m keeping you, but sure.”
“Since I’m making with the lifting and wood-cutting, would you two mind starting the fire?”
Lacing her fingers together, June stretched. Her back gave a satisfying pop.
“You got it. Stand back, gentlemen.”
Choosing a plot of ground that was more dirt than foliage, she sat down. To get her powers revved up, she had to be warm— to feel warm, and to concentrate on that warmth until she could push it around— but Foundation’s weather was mild, even in the evening, so that wasn’t an issue. The heat started in her chest, but she worked it down into her hands until it pooled into her fingertips. The fire flowed from there, pliant.
To use it, she had to make it something. To make something, she only had to imagine what made that animal that animal— the stripes, the coat, the golden eyes— and bring it to life. The trickiest part of it was that June had to keep herself calm and even throughout the process. The creature she conjured took emotional cues from her. Batty old Mrs. Winthrop of Beecher Creek Academy had taught June that lesson, at moderate personal cost. Whenever she
had to retell the sequence of events that ended with her switching schools again, June took great pains to emphasize how great Mrs. Winthrop had looked in her new wigs. She felt it was worth mentioning, since you could almost say that she’d done Mrs. Winthrop a favor.
“Look, fuzzbutt,” June said, pointing to the logs and kindling that Ernest had arranged in the pit. “Wood. Mmm, delicious wood, and it’s all for you. Go wild. You deserve it.”
The tiger padded toward the fire pit, its paws leaving scorch marks on the grass. It curled up with a crackling rumble that was almost a purr, licking and biting at the kindling. It slowly consumed the twigs, its rough tongue lathing them with fire. As far as fire starting methods went, June felt that hers was particularly classy.
“Good kitty,” she said, petting the fiery animal’s rounded ear. “We’ll keep feeding you wood as long as you behave yourself and stay in the fire circle. You get fed, we get warm. Everyone wins.”
“You made a tiger. You made a tiger!” Turning to Ernest, Maks threw up his hands. June would have sworn that he was at least a quarter Muppet, given the level of animation he put into flailing his arms around. “She can make tigers!”
“Flaming tigers,” June agreed, buffing her cherry red fingernails on her shirtfront. She examined them with a sniff. “But it’s no big.”
“No big?” Maks echoed, pacing a circle around the campfire. “God, it looks real.”
“And you’d know, right?” Ernest said.
“Right. My aunt had a crotchety old tiger named King Khan. She had to retire him, ‘cause, well,” Maks pulled up the hem of his shirt. He pointed to a row of ugly scars that ran from below the left side of his ribcage to just north of his navel. They looked distressingly like claw marks. Probably because they were claw marks. “So one night, there was this idiot at the show, and he forgot the number one rule of big cats: they’re big cats. He thought that it’d be a good idea to get up in ol’ King Khan’s face. He was whiskey brave, if you know what I mean. The dude would’ve been mancub chow if I hadn’t jumped in and yanked King Khan’s tail to get his attention. Lucky for him, getting attention is what I do best.”
“So, just for the sake of confirmation,” June said as she claimed a seat closest to the fire. The tiger lazily lifted its head, stretching itself out to be pet. She stroked the top of its broad, flickering head. “You’re saying that you ran away and joined the circus, then got mauled while trying to prevent natural selection from playing out. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Ran away?” Maks laughed so loudly, it stirred the nocturnal wildlife that was just starting to wake up. An owl hooted back at him. “That’s where I was born!”
Well, that explained a lot. In fact, it explained just about everything about Maks. Funny how that worked.
“I’m shocked by how much that doesn’t surprise me,” June drawled, not about to get dragged into swapping origins with them. She already knew how sparkly and special Ernest was, so she didn’t need to follow up on that with a load of stories about tiger-wrestling circus boys. It wasn’t that June felt out of place or unqualified to be a student at the Academy. She didn’t need people grinding their stupidly heroic life accomplishments in her face, that was all. The most impressive thing that she’d ever done was take over the contraband trading racket at an all-girls Catholic boarding school. Old June had racked up a list of minor villainous acts by the fourth grade. New June had played by the rules so far, and she was going to see how far the whole ‘behaving’ thing took her before it got in her way.
“That was really brave of you, jumping in front of a dangerous animal like that,” said Ernest, warmly. A guy like him approving of stupid acts of heroism was not shocking.
“I guess so,” Maks said, seeming almost embarrassed to be on the receiving end of a compliment. He curled his dirty bare toes in his flip-flops.
Ernest sat next to June, spreading his big hands over the tiger. It could sense that he was fireproof— probably because June knew that he was fireproof, and a little bit of her went into everything she made— because it headbutted Ernest’s palm until he leaned over and gave it an ear-scritching, too.
“Hey! You’re setting a bad fire safety example, ‘Nesto! Impressionable youths are inbound!”
June recognized Jack the Beanstalk and his Latina partner as they emerged from the overgrown trail that lead to Foundation. They were joined by a little girl and a shaggy, gray and white sheepdog that looked big enough for said girl to ride. Not being a dog person, June pressed her lips into a hard line. So help her God, if that animal slobbered on her shoes, they’d be seeing a flaming tiger fight a dog before the night was through.
“Roz! Hey!” Ernest said excitedly, jumping up and running to meet them. He picked up Jack’s partner and spun with her. She laughed, then punched his arm until he let her go. The whole thing reeked of childhood friendship. June had a nose for that kind of thing. She was as tall as Jack, but as built as he was bony. Judging by her arms, that girl carried her own damn bags.
“Did you invite Mal and Zip?”
“Yeah,” the girl said, tucking a curl of dark hair behind her ear. Tangled strands had gone rogue from her ponytail during her flight. “Ese said they have training to do.”
“Can’t say that I’m too surprised.” Ernest sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Thanks for trying, anyhow.”
“He’ll come around,” she said soothingly, patting his arm. “Anyway. I brought the dough and the contraband. Did you remember the fruit?”
The nice thing about Ernest was that stupidly cheerful seemed to be his resting state. June saw him dip every once in a while, but for the most part, he recovered quickly. It made those moments where he looked so startlingly sad seem like flukes— flukes scattered into a repeating pattern.
“Sure did,” he nodded with a smile that said he was fine, really. “And I remembered a can opener this time, too.”
“Miracles do happen.”
“Oh!” Ernest slapped his forehead, spinning back around. “I’m sorry, guys. Introductions. June and Maks, this is Rosario Galán-Grant, Jack Willard, and Libby Galán-Grant. Libby, Jack, and Rosario, this is Maks Petrov and my partner, June Hovick. Well, I s’pose that you three met during the campus tour, but I didn’t think it’d hurt to introduce you again.”
His partner. That was the truth, but it still made June fidget. He didn’t need to go spreading that kind of thing around.
“You forgot Sog,” Libby said, deeply insulted. Ernest crouched down in front of the sheepdog and the little girl, holding out one hand, palm up.
“I’m awful sorry, Mr. Sog. I didn’t mean to forget you. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” The dog put his paw in his hand, and Ernest shook it. “That’s a good boy. Everyone, this is Sog the Dog. Sog, this is everyone. I— oh no, it was a trap!”
As soon as Ernest was low enough, Libby jumped on his back. He shifted her up to his shoulders, straightening with a laugh.
“I got you!” Libby crowed triumphantly. “I got you good!”
June could practically feel herself developing diabetes on the spot. Of course he’d be good with kids and animals. Of course he would. Ernest Wright was a Disney Princess in the worst way. She was still having trouble believing that he was a real, living posthuman being.
“So, who here other than me, Libby, and Roz, have made pole pies before?” Ernest asked, holding onto Libby’s ankles as he sat. She rested her elbows on top of his head, her chin in her hands, and radiated smugness from her lofty perch.
“Since the rest of the world is allowed to consume this dangerous white crystal drug called sugar,” June said, not at all uncomfortable with airing her opinions. “They don’t eat ‘pole pies’ over a campfire. They roast marshmallows. They make s’mores. They careen through the rest of the night in a dangerous sugar rush, as the Founding Fathers, who invented camping, meant it to be.”
“I’m going to take all of that as a no,” Rosario said, unpacking one of the c
loth grocery bags she’d brought with her. She lined up a rainbow of jams and fruit compotes on the log.
“She means well,” Ernest mumbled to Rosario in an undertone that carried. June rolled her eyes. Like she even cared. She didn’t.
“So, uh, pole pie?” Maks said. “We’ve established that half of us don’t know what we’re doing. Lead on, fearless leader. Lead on.”
It was a weak attempt to steer away from potential cattiness, but it worked.
“It’s pretty simple. Before we start, make sure your hands are clean,” Ernest said, passing around a package of wet naps. “We’ve got some designated sticks for pole pie poles soaking in the bucket over there. You’ll want to pick one out.”
The pole pie poles looked a lot like cleaned, stripped sticks. Unlike the pointy, marshmallow-stabbing roasting implements that June was used to, they were all at least an inch thick. June selected one that wasn’t too heavy, but looked like it could double as a whacking stick in a pinch. She had her priorities.
“There’s only three ingredients in pole pie,” Rosario said, helping her sister wash her hands with one of the wipes. Libby leaned over and presented her sticky child fingers, but she didn’t leave her mount. “Pre-made roll dough, your choice of fruit, and whipped cream.”
Those were two words that June had feared she’d never hear again.
“Whipped cream? For real? I will kiss you on the mouth if you’re talking about the kind of whipped cream that comes out of a can. The level of tongue involvement is totally up to you.”
“Yes, it’s whipped cream,” Rosario said, holding up one of the cans. “No, you don’t need to make out with me. Since my parents live in Foundation, me and Jack stay off-campus. Mama refuses to let the Academy dictate what she can and can’t have in the fridge.”
So there were ways of getting around the dietary restrictions. June made a mental note of that for later.
“Anyway,” Ernest continued, popping open a tube of pressed dough. He peeled away one of the triangles, working it into a bowl shape with his fingers. He put it on the end of his stick, pressing the edges so it wouldn’t fall off. “You put the dough on your pole like this, then hold it over the fire. It’ll take about ten minutes to cook through. You’ll know that it’s done when it’s golden brown and comes off easy. After that, you spoon in whichever jam you like, top it with whipped cream, and you’ve got yourself a pole pie.”
The Posterchildren: Origins Page 14