Captain Superlative

by J. S. Puller

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I’m proud of you, Janey.”

  “I know.”

  He winked.

  I let myself out of the car, lugging two bulky and misshapen garbage bags with me. I watched him drive away before I made my way through the front doors. I was wearing thick purple boots, and while all the other girls would probably stop in the entry hall to kick off their boots and slide on ridiculously high heels, I kept right on walking, leaving wet footprints behind me as I made my way into the cafeteria.

  It was decorated all in pale pink: pink paper snowflakes, pink fairy lights, pink tablecloths, pink heart-shaped confetti, little pink cupids on streamers. Even billowing pink sheets draped over the doorways, like awnings. The regular tables had been cleared away, replaced with smaller, round tables with pink plastic chairs. “Isn’t it pretty?” Paige asked, sidling up beside me. She was wearing pink too—an elegant rose-colored lace dress. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in an elaborate series of braids, which revealed a heart-shaped cutout in the back of her dress. Pink slippers that she’d borrowed from her sister. Pink stud earrings. She even had light pink lipstick. We’d gotten ready together at her place, a few hours before. I’d needed her help putting together an outfit for myself and putting the final touches on my plan.

  Our plan.

  “Yeah,” I said, giving her a hug like we hadn’t seen each other in weeks. “It’s pretty.”

  “But?”

  I gave her a mischievous grin out of the side of my mouth. “But I think it could use more in the way of color.”

  “Yeah,” Paige said slowly, a smile stretching out across her face. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  “Want to do something about it?”

  Paige nodded before taking my hand and leading me over to the door of the cafeteria. Sitting in a neat pile, just outside in the hallway, were three bulky bags like mine. “I told Tyler and the others to get here early so we could coordinate everything and practice,” she said. “They should show up any minute.”

  “Great,” I said, setting down my bags and opening them. “Then let’s get ready for them.”

  It was rare for any kind of event at Deerwood Park Middle School to begin on time, but much to the teachers’ surprise, almost everyone was in the cafeteria by the official start of the dance, so the music was already playing. I could hear kids chatting and laughing as I bundled up the empty garbage bags and shoved them into my locker. The only kids I hadn’t seen yet were Dagmar, who liked to arrive fashionably late, and Captain Superlative, who I knew had a doctor’s appointment to go to first.

  With a deep breath, I looked at my reflection in the little mirror inside of my locker. Janey, I said quietly to myself, you can do this.

  The girl looking back at me wasn’t even a little bit afraid.

  She was smiling.

  Paige was waiting for me when I came back to the cafeteria doors. And when I took off my coat, she held out her hands to take it from me.

  I walked on alone.

  Even though a lot of kids knew about my plan, I hadn’t told everyone. And we definitely hadn’t warned any of the teacher chaperones. So it was only natural that some of the voices around me fell silent in surprise as I walked through the room. I felt eyes on me.

  What difference did it make?

  I came to a stop in the center of the cafeteria, so absolutely everyone could see me. I was wearing a bright blue bathing suit over purple tights, disappearing into my purple boots. I’d borrowed my dad’s blue dish gloves, along with a thick brown belt with an enormous gold buckle. And flowing down my back from my shoulders was a cape made of a blue pillowcase with a purple felt J glued into the center. I’d decorated it with artistic swooshes and swirls. And dozens upon dozens of little stars.

  No mask.

  Tyler was the first to join me. He hurried over, giving me that smile of his that made girls melt. He was wearing a nice button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. Draped over his shoulders was a cape that I’d made out of Selina’s blanket. Kevin hobbled out with him on his crutches, wearing a matching outfit. The only difference was that his cape was one that Paige had put together from one of her mother’s kerchiefs. And Kevin had taped paper lightning bolts to the crutches too.

  Paige followed after them, throwing a green cape over her shoulders. It was really a canvas grocery bag, but together we’d added a big letter P to it, drawn out of flowering vines and leaves. You would have thought that the green of the cape and the pink of her dress would have clashed, but they didn’t. Paige looked like a flower.

  One by one, other kids joined. They wore their dresses and ties and high-heeled shoes. Their blazers and flowy skirts and loafers. But they wore capes too. Capes that Paige and I had brought. Capes that Tyler and Raquel and April and the others had scavenged from old dress-up clothes and bathroom towels and printer paper. Some of them had gloves. Some wore domino masks. I even spotted one girl wearing a bicycle helmet decorated with superhero stickers.

  Once upon a time, before Captain Superlative, we’d all been the same. Now, when we couldn’t have looked more different, for the first time ever, we were unified.

  We were all superheroes. Every last one of us.

  Well…almost all of us.

  There was a loud, strangled gasp and we turned to see Dagmar standing in the doorway, wearing a stunning red dress and a look of shock. “You have got to be kidding me,” she said.

  Well, it was now or never.

  I grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it out from the table, brushing some confetti off the seat before I stood up on top of it, my boots squeaking loudly. I raised my hands, making myself bigger. A teacher chaperone tensed, obviously uncomfortable with my precarious position. “My name,” I said, fighting the dryness in my throat, “is Super J! And I’m here to save the day!”

  Tyler was next. He cleared his throat and everyone turned to look at him, giving him the chance to strike a dramatic pose. He held it for a second before he pulled a comb out of his pocket and ran it through his hair. “My name is T-Bird,” he said. “And I’m here to spread the word!” He struck another pose, pointing his comb out at the crowd.

  He really was a ham.

  There were a few giggles from the girls on the sidelines. Then April jumped up, twirling to show off her pink cape, one she’d pulled from our old stash of dress-up clothes. “My name is Amazo Girl!” she said. “And I’m going to use my powers…to change the world!”

  “April!” Dagmar ran into the cafeteria, like she wanted to plow her down. There was a pained look of betrayal on her face.

  The room exploded. Suddenly everyone was throwing in their own catchphrase, too eager and excited to wait their turns. Some of them were really clever. “My name is Power Guy, and I’ll help anyone who meets my eye!” Others were just downright silly. “They call me Coolio Cool. I’m the coolest cool kid in the school!” But each was unique. Each belonged to the person who created it. No two kids were the same.

  In the excitement, I saw Dagmar trembling with emotion. Rage, maybe. For the first time, she was the outsider, she was the one who didn’t quite follow the trend. I thought she might start to cry. Standing there, in her formal dress, she was a perfect reflection of the girl I’d seen in the hallway of the apartment building.

  Alone.

  But to my surprise, Paige walked over to her, carrying a bundled-up kitchen apron in her hands. It was the last of our capes, and I realized all at once that Paige had set it aside, had been holding on to it. Saving it for Dagmar. And as Dagmar turned to look at her, Paige offered it up.

  I didn’t see if she took it, though.

  “Will you be superlative?” I shouted, cupping my hands around my mouth.

  “Yes, we will!” my friends replied, just like we’d practiced.

  “Will you be superlative?” I said again.

  “Yes, we will!” my friends said again, this time joined by others.

  “Will you be superlative?
”

  “Yes, we will!”

  I couldn’t be sure, but I thought that everyone said it that last time. It was followed up by an enormous cheer. All at once the kids who hadn’t been part of the scheme were improvising capes. They grabbed the tablecloths, scattering confetti. A couple boys tried to pull down one of the pink awnings, until the teachers grabbed them by the shoulders, pulling them away. I was probably facing a million years of detention for what I’d started.

  It was worth it.

  It was worth it to see my classmates—my friends—like this. Falling over themselves to be superlative.

  With a crack, the door to the cafeteria swung open. “Citizens!” Captain Superlative’s voice boomed through the room as she bounded inside, back in her cape and mask and wig. To look at her, you’d never have thought she was sick. She was overflowing with energy and excitement. “I’ve returned to—”

  And then she saw us.

  And then she saw me.

  We turned to stare at each other, holding a look. For a second, I was uncertain. She was frozen on some kind of event horizon, all expression lost under her mask. But the spell broke and she let out a triumphant laugh, running, sprinting, leaping across the floor between us, cape fluttering in the air. The crowd parted and cheered. I jumped down from the chair just in time to let her throw her arms around me.

  “You did all this!” It wasn’t a question.

  “We did,” I said.

  She pulled back to look at me, her hands clasped around my elbows.

  “Superhero is the new normal.”

  She pulled me in tight for another hug. I don’t know how everyone reacted to that. I was too busy hugging her back. And then we were too busy laughing. I was only just dimly aware of a chant rising up behind me:

  “Janey! Janey! Janey!”

  The paper lanterns winked out one by one. Only the fiercest ones kept rising, trying to jockey for a position among the stars. And slowly, kids began to file away from the parking lot, shepherded back into the SUVs by parents or older siblings. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July. There would be a parade and a carnival and barbecues and touch-football games. So much to do. So much running and laughing and playing.

  So much life.

  Somewhere behind me, I heard my dad talking to Officer Cormack and his “best friend” April. He was really on a roll, and I knew we wouldn’t be leaving for some time. Which, quite frankly, was fine with me. I kept my eyes on the sky, walking over to a stretch of grass that ran alongside the parking lot. Paige followed after me.

  A little shrine had been set up, with flameless candles and photographs of Captain Superlative. There were flowers and a few stuffed animals and lots of cards for the Li family. A bunch of comic books. And capes made of a thousand different things. I added my plastic tiara from the Valentine’s Day dance to the collection, remembering how, as Valentine’s Day queen, I could have asked anyone I wanted to dance the last dance with me. I could have had Tyler, but I’d chosen Captain Superlative instead.

  I gave her my drawing too. The first one I’d ever done of her, on the shopping-list notepad: Captain Superlative, shooting through the sky, surrounded by stars and comets and spinning planets with dozens of twirling moons. Maybe it wasn’t my best drawing—I’d done hundreds more since joining the art club—but it was still my favorite.

  I also left a valentine, the one I’d crumpled up in my room. I’d found it a week ago, lost in a corner.

  Paige offered up a handful of mints.

  There were ten times as many tributes online. A new hashtag—#WillYouBeSuperlative—had gotten pretty popular. I was gratified about that, really. The memorial we’d set up by the school would eventually fade away. Flowers would wilt. Electric candles would run out of juice. The rest would be cleared away, sent off to the Li family. But what we’d started online would last.

  Or that was the theory, anyway.

  Paige and I lay down on our backs, side by side on the lawn. The blades of grass bristled against my arms and legs.

  “How did you find out?” I asked her. No need to explain what I meant.

  She’s gone.

  “Phone tree,” she said. “Tyler’s mom called Kevin’s mom, who called my mom. Don’t know who she told.”

  I nodded slightly, grateful that Paige didn’t ask me how I found out. It had been a call directly from Mrs. Li.

  But I knew before that. I just woke up that morning and felt like the world had dried up a little bit. It was a comfort, because when the call came, it wasn’t a surprise. Just a confirmation of what I already knew. It was my permission to cry, to curl up in my dad’s arms and be his baby again. For a little while.

  “She came over and told my mom.”

  Paige and I turned our heads to see Dagmar. She was wearing shorts and a tank top. She could now, because she no longer had bruises to hide. After Paige and I told my dad the truth, something happened. I didn’t know what, and I was okay with that. It was bigger than me. What mattered was that I’d said something at all. The days of people seeing something and not doing anything about it were over in Deerwood Park. At least now that we were eighth graders and in charge of the school.

  At least, I hoped.

  Dagmar stretched out on the grass beside Paige, looking up at the sky with us. The wounds she’d inflicted on Paige—the invisible ones born out of torment and insults—would never heal completely. I could see that in the way Paige’s body tensed and then untensed. But they were scabbing over. Which was something. And I could tell that Dagmar noticed too. “It’s too hot,” she said irritably, in her brattiest voice.

  “Yeah,” Paige said. She allowed herself to turn back to the sky.

  We lay there in silence, watching as the little flames in the night sky vanished from sight, the lanterns going wherever it was they went in the end. “Do you think I should have said something?” I asked them.

  Paige looked over at me. “Like what?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. A speech of some kind.” I was the right one to do it, I knew. I was her sidekick, and I would be the one to take up her mantle. “Like that she wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad or something like that.”

  “We’re sad,” Dagmar said. “That’s just the way it is.”

  “I guess.” I scowled a little. “What would she do?”

  “Offer free hugs,” Dagmar replied, toeing off her Blue Shoes to run the soles of her feet along the grass.

  “And mints,” Paige said. “Calling this a test of our courage, or something.”

  I smiled up at the sky. “Yeah.”

  Another moment of silence washed over us. “I wrote a song,” Paige said in a small voice. “I felt like I ought to sing for her.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Dagmar asked.

  “I don’t know,” Paige said. “I guess I was just waiting for when the time felt right.”

  Dagmar shrugged a little bit. “What’s wrong with now?”

  Paige nodded slightly. I heard her start humming, searching for her song out of nothingness. Dagmar and I both turned to watch her. Neither of us could do what Paige did. I think we were in awe of her superpower:

  When life crashes on your shore

  When it grinds you through a sieve

  Turn your face into the storm

  And inside you I’ll live

  Never let anyone define you

  Have the courage to forgive

  Hold every door wide open

  And inside you I’ll live

  This echo is my legacy

  And it’s all I have to give

  So remember all the things I’ve taught you

  And inside you I’ll live

  And inside you I’ll be

  Superlative

  We lapsed into silence. It wasn’t the silence that came from absence. We were thinking, remembering. And as we lay there, the sky crackled once. A fine, misty rain started to fall, silvering the grass and the three of us. All four elements came together, the rainwater on us
as we lay on the earth, watching the fire in the sky. Soon, only one light remained.

  Or maybe it was a star.

  I have to start by thanking my mother. You’ll see why in a moment.

  There are so many superlative people who contributed to the work of Captain Superlative taking flight. I thank my extraordinary agent, Brianne Johnson at Writers House, for starting the journey and my wonderful Disney Hyperion editor, Tracey Keevan, for guiding the way.

  No writer will get anywhere without some amazing teachers, so I thank Betty Grossman, Jennifer Franklin Ferrari, and Rives Collins for putting me on this path. Every sentence I write is touched by what you taught me. Without Esther Hershenhorn, I might never have cracked the mystery that is Janey. And thank you to Jennie Y. Jiang and Xiaomeng Zhou for helping me polish and fine-tune Captain Superlative’s secret identity.

  Thank you to the exceptional individuals who helped to refine Captain Superlative’s story, both as a play and then as a novel: Douglas Post and everyone in his class at Chicago Dramatists; Savannah Couch and the cast and crew at the Purple Crayon Players’ PLAYground Festival of Fresh Works; Stephen Fredericks and the folks at the Growing Stage Theatre; Madelyn Sergel, Madeline Franklin, and the cast and crew at the Clockwise Theatre; and most especially, the members of my UChicago Graham School Writer’s Studio writing group, Klariza Alvaran, Lisa Sukenic, Jennifer Tobias, Alena Weicher, Jean Williams, and the fearless and fabulous Carly Ho.

  I could not have told the story of someone so unapologetically herself without so many such people in my life. A big thanks to Jen Cowhy, Faye Kroshinsky, David Johnson, and all my colleagues at the University of Chicago Consortium on School Research, who care about helping children more than anyone I’ve ever known and whose research guided me on all points of school safety and adolescent trauma. Thank you to my fellow writers Jessica Cluess, Meg Bullock, and Mia McCullough for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself; to Stephanie Kaplan, Kara Downey, Robby Forbes-Karol, Nancy Waites, and Karen Fraley for never doubting me, even when I was being a neurotic mess of self-doubt. Thank you to my insane friends Nicole Keating, Joshua D. Allard, John and Ronen Kohn, and everyone else at both the Piccolo Theatre and DCP for inspiring me with your outlandish and amazing personalities. And thank you to my entire family, especially Mrs. Gloria Puller.