My So-Called Superpowers

by Heather Nuhfer

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  I took another deep breath and tried to compose myself. This was all fixable. It really, really was. It had to be. There was still SFC, the light at the end of my dark, dreary, almost-broken-nose tunnel. I hadn’t thought too much about what I’d do if I didn’t make SFC, and I didn’t want to.

  “You’re all right?” Charlie was genuinely concerned.

  “Nurse said I’m okay,” I sighed. “It’s the psychological damage that will leave scars.”

  Charlie laughed. “Sooo, how’d it go other than the messed-up nose?” He gestured to the stream of gold shoes walking down the hall. “Did the gang of metallic feet let you in?”

  “Can’t you guess?” I sighed. “I’m a loser. Confirmed. For the eleventh time.”

  Charlie waggled his finger at me. “You listen here, missy. There are better things in this world than a stupid middle school play or volleyball or…”

  “Or?” I asked, even though I knew the answer already.

  He let out a deep, exaggerated boy sigh. “Or some psychopathic, sycophantic mission to make yourself one of them.”

  “Excuse me? I am trying to do something with my life. I’m trying to be somebody.”

  “An Est isn’t a ‘somebody,’ Veri. It’s the big-est waste-est o’ time-est. Made for people whose lives peak before they hit twenty. Who bloody cares?”

  “Waste of time? But look at the perks I’ve already gotten.” I jokingly showed off my nose.

  Charlie ignored me. “You’re coming to the mall, right? Ted is working today.” Charlie’s wide grin covered most of his face.

  I looked at my sneakers. “Ah, nope. I still got things to do.”

  Cue the epic Charlie eye roll. “Like what? Come on. The mall has it all. You can draw the amusing and confusing patrons. Like that lady who wears the pink sweatpants and loafers every day. You love her!”

  I crinkled my nose and turned to head back down the hall. “Sorry. Just gotta do one last thing.”

  “You don’t need them, Veri!” Charlie called after me.

  I pretended I didn’t hear him.

  * * *

  The Spring Formal Club meeting was about to begin. Before I went inside, I peeked through the tiny window in the door. There they were, all those pretty, pretty people. I needed to make myself go in. Go. Now, Veronica.

  I straightened all the raggedy, loose pages in my sketchbook so they looked tidy. Being prepared is important, so I’d already sketched out decoration ideas and themes for the dance. They had taken a long time to do. Some would say they had taken valuable study time away from my math final. But sacrifices must be made to get where you want to go, right?

  I took a deep breath and pushed open the creaky door. The room smelled like fancy perfume and fabric softener. I scanned for an empty seat. Huzzah! There was an open space right next to Mrs. Krenshaw. I could swoop in and be in the semicircle of awesomeness. I slipped into the seat without anyone noticing—and more importantly, without anyone objecting. Time to jump in on the brilliant and meaningful conversation already in progress.…

  “Gross,” Hun Su Nelson (Prettiest) said. “I don’t want to be in charge of food again. All that guacamole! Nuh-uh!”

  Here it was: an opening. The right words said at this very moment could change the course of the day. Nay, my entire life! I had to be precise, though. Nail it like a laser beam. Like a crepe paper, disco ball hero.

  “Uh, I’d be happy to head up decorations,” I said, a little more bluntly than I meant to. But hey, I was making my case.

  No one heard me. No one even looked in my direction. In the midst of everyone who was anyone at Pearce Middle, I couldn’t get a single glance my way. I was invisible, like always.

  Tap-tap-tap!

  I looked out the window behind me to see who was tapping. Of course, Charlie was standing there. He rolled his eyes and gestured for me to come outside. I didn’t budge.

  TAP-TAP-TAP!

  The other kids had heard the tapping and were starting to notice me.

  “Can we help you, Miss McGowan?” asked Mrs. Krenshaw as she peered out from behind Hawaii on a Dime. Obviously, she took her duties as the faculty adviser of Spring Formal Club very seriously.

  My face grew hot. “Uh, no. No. Just waiting to sign up,” I said.

  “Sign up?” Derek Caster (Cutest) guffawed. Then his eyes went wide when he saw my swollen nose.

  “Yes?”

  Derek glanced at his friends like I was bananas. “Ah, you’re only a fifth grader.”

  “I’m—I’m not in fifth grade,” I stammered.

  “So you aren’t here for detention with Mrs. Krenshaw?” Jenny Marcos (Richest) asked. She looked confused.

  “No. I’m here to join SFC. I’m in seventh grade … with you guys.”

  Derek stared at me suspiciously. “Nah. I’ve, like, never seen you before. There’s no way you’re in our grade.”

  “I have two classes with you,” I mumbled.

  Kate rolled her eyes at her friends. “Derek, she was just at summer volleyball tryouts. It’s Vanessa!”

  “My name is Veroni—”

  Jenny cut me off. “Sorry, Vanessa, this is an Est-only club. I thought everyone knew that.”

  It was the way she said “everyone” that really hurt me. Like I didn’t know because I lived under a rock. In a box there. In the past.

  Jenny and Derek shared a smug, “we are so frickin’ fancy” look. My nose started to throb again, and I could feel the blood trickling down. Crackers! I needed to get out of there. Everyone was giggling at me. How could I have thought this was a good idea?

  “That’s enough, everyone,” Mrs. Krenshaw said from behind her book. “Those of you who are not officially in the club, please excuse yourselves … and maybe see the nurse.”

  I rushed toward the door as I discreetly tried to pinch my nose, but plugging my nose meant obstructing my view. Obstructing my view meant not seeing the backpack on the ground. Not seeing the backpack on the ground made me trip and spill all my dance sketches all over the floor. Spilling all my sketches on the floor made me look like a big dork. Which, at that point, was something I couldn’t argue against, which meant I was a big dork.

  I gathered up the sketches, trying not to cry. The snickers behind me were unbearable! My arms were full of crumpled sketches, so I couldn’t pinch my nose. The blood was trickling down, and I saw it plop onto the paper. The snickers turned to “Ewww! Gross!” as the door shut behind me.

  I jammed all the sketches in the nearest garbage can and ran as fast as I could out the front door of the school. Hopefully, I’d get all the crying out of my system before I caught up with Charlie.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HOME IS WHERE YOUR DAD ENDLESSLY PESTERS YOU

  “Come on, let’s go to the mall,” Charlie begged for the millionth time. “At the Pearcer Maaaall, there’s always something new for yoooo-oooou!” It’s the mall’s jingle.

  I shook my head as we walked down the hill toward my house. Spring had finally sprung in our little town, and everything was lush and green. “No, today was a total disaster. I need to hide.”

  “You need a distraction. Forget all about this silly Est stuff. Besides, Ted is working.”

  “Ted? He’s getting weirder and weirder, don’t you think?”

  “We wouldn’t want him any other way.” Charlie shook the excess water from a bogged-down crocus as we passed it. “You’ll be sad if you miss his unintentional poetry.”

  “I see what’s going on. Your parents working from home again?” That was Charlie’s usual reason for finding ridiculous excuses not to go home.

  Charlie sighed. “Yeah … more research crap. For doctors, they sure don’t spend a lot of time with people”—he trailed off for a second before the light came back to his brown eyes—“and they get very cross with me on a regular basis, so you know what I’d call them?”

  He waited a beat.

  “Doctors without patienc
e.”

  I snorted and then immediately regretted it as pain shot through my tender nose. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

  “Just now. I know, I’m amazing. Soooo, mall?”

  “I just want to go home, see my dog and my dad. Forget I was ever born. You know, the usual.” I wadded up more paper towels to shove up my nostrils.

  “Okay,” Charlie said, abandoning his grand plan. “Speaking of your dad, there’s this band tonight…”

  “I know he’ll let you in, he always does,” I told him, “but I’ll tell him you’re going to be there.”

  Charlie gratefully waved good-bye and left me at my front gate. It was funny to think he was still afraid of my dad. Though, honestly, most people were. My dad used to be in an actual motorcycle gang. Like, seriously. There’s this thing in most gangs, I guess, where if you want out of the gang, they have to beat you up really badly. My dad actually went through all that and has become sort of an urban legend for it. They say that after everyone was done wailing on him, he got right up and went out for a steak dinner. Most people take weeks, if not months, to recover. Dad doesn’t like to talk about it, but once I did get him to admit it was a true story. It happened long before I was born, but soon after he met my mother.

  Now he’s a dentist. During the day, at least. At night he bounces folks in and out of the local live music venue, Count’s. My pop, Rik, could knock your teeth out one night, then reset them the next morning. A master of pain, some would say, but I wouldn’t. I actually know him. He’s a secret softie.

  I could see his outline through our front door’s stained glass window. His hair looked blue through the pane. I wondered what kind of house my dad would have chosen on his own; it probably wouldn’t have a stained glass dove flying through a blue sky on the front door. I knew my mom was a hippie. Dad, on the other hand …

  The house smelled amazing as I walked inside: garlic and oregano, fresh baked bread, and tomato sauce. Now this could wash away the humiliation of my day—if my dad had zero interest in my life. Instead, he asks eighty bazillion questions about everything … and one hundred and eighty bazillion questions if it’s something I don’t want to talk about.

  “Rock on! Forever!” blared his beloved record player.

  Homemade Italian food and classic rock—he must have had a decent day at work.

  “I’m home,” I called as I put my school stuff in the closet. I saw him in the living room, watching boxing with the sound muted.

  “Yo, kiddo!” my dad shouted over the music as he came into the kitchen. Leaning over the sink to wash his hands, he mindlessly dodged the hanging light above it. My dad has the ninja-like instincts of a big dude who spent his life trying not to bump his head on things.

  I picked up my little white puppy beast, Einstein. Best pup ever. He wagged his nubby Jack Russell terrier tail as he investigated my aching schnoz.

  “Hey, Dad. Smells great in here.”

  “Lasagna!” he bellowed. “Chuck isn’t showing up, is he?”

  “Nope. No Charlie tonight.”

  “Good. I only made enough for an army, not for that eating machine. How was kid prison today?” Dad held out a spoon for me to taste the sauce, but stopped short when he spotted my nose.

  “Holy sh—oot! What happened, Veri?” He leaned down to get a better look and cupped my chin with his hand, slowly moving my face around to get a better look. I’m reminded again that we look a lot alike. His skin is a few shades darker than mine, but our eyes are the exact same color: dark brown with hazel flecks.

  “You should see the other guy!” I joked. “Seriously, though. I just became very close, personal friends with a volleyball. We’re getting married in the autumn. Save the date, Dad; you have to walk me down the aisle.”

  “When did it happen?” He gave the bridge of my nose a light poke. “Does it hurt?”

  “Ouch! Of course, it hurts! I’m not Wonder Woman.” I swatted his hand away.

  “What time?” he asked. “Specifically?” A hint of anger tinged his voice.

  “Why?”

  “I just wanna know,” he said. “As your worrywart caretaker, it’s my duty.”

  “Dad…” I could feel the tears welling up again. “After school, okay?”

  “Spring Formal Club?” he dared to ask.

  A few tears made it out.

  My dad drove me crazy a lot of the time, but he was still pretty great. I trusted him more than anyone. I had to. He was the only family I had. I buried my head in his shoulder. He smelled like cigars.

  “Yes, I was completely rejected,” I said. “After I accidentally hit myself in the face and made everyone laugh at me. Classy. I’m a big old failure.”

  The timer on the stove buzzed. I released Dad from my pathetic embrace and went to turn off the oven.

  He pointed a butter-covered knife at me. “Hey, you only fail if you don’t try.”

  “Where did you read that?”

  “I don’t know. Pinterest or somethin’. It’s crap, right?”

  “The mighty words of a soccer mom,” I said. “What about you? How much nitrous gas did you use today?”

  “On my patients? None.” He winked. “My day was good. ‘You gotta floss more. See, this is what happens when you don’t floss. Here are your dentures because you didn’t floss.’ Same old, same old.” Dad handed me plates. “Now you—spill.”

  “It didn’t work out. I just have to try something else. Again.”

  “We have a whole attic of ‘tries,’ Veri,” he said, sounding surprisingly down.

  I looked at him. “Was Mom popular in school? Or good at anything?”

  Dad didn’t even flinch. “You are good at lots of things. You definitely get your art stuff from your mom.” He chose his next words carefully. “She was popular in high school. We both were, but that doesn’t mean anything. Certainly not anymore.”

  He did his fake smile, trying to end the conversation. Dad had never been fond of talking about Mom. Sure, he answered most of my questions, but he answered them his way, with only the essential information. Honestly, essential information wasn’t cutting it for me anymore. I had lots of questions about Mom. Things I needed—no, deserved to know!

  BAM! I was so deep in thought, I walked right into the table. “Yeow! Mother—”

  With one look, Dad stopped me dead in mid-swear.

  “—Hubbard!” I finished strong.

  He was not amused.

  “You swear all the time,” I pointed out.

  “I earned the right to swear. I’m an adult. Fill in your own parental wisdom there, but no swearing. Period. It’s bad manners for a kid.”

  “Okay, okay,” I agreed, “but as soon as I turn eighteen I’m gonna swear like a sailor.”

  “As is your right,” he said. “Now eat up, matey. I have to go to the club soon.”

  * * *

  I waited until the rumble of Dad’s motorcycle faded into the distance before I climbed the pull-down ladder into the attic. I hadn’t been up there all year, but boy, was Dad right. He had stuffed it full with my failed attempts at becoming an Est. It was a mausoleum for dead dreams! Soccer cleats sat next to a dress form and sewing machine. A book on horseback riding propped up a half-built computer. Why was it so hard to be something? I just wanted to be cool. More important, I wanted everyone to see how cool I was.

  I spotted a familiar light-purple box. It wasn’t very big, about the size of two loaves of bread side by side, and I knew every bit of history it contained. Something bubbled up inside me. I couldn’t tell if it was fear, excitement, or anger. Probably a toxic mixture of all three. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t look in that box ever again. That’s why it had been shoved up in the attic over a year ago. But now, I couldn’t help myself.

  I ran my fingers around the bent edges of the photographs taken when I was too young to actually remember the moment. My mom looked so happy in these pictures. Her red hair bounced. There was a gleam in her eye. She h
eld little baby me so tightly. So lovingly. My little brown hand wrapped around her porcelain finger. Here is where I’m reminded that I also look a lot like her. Or, at least, we share a smile. I didn’t actually remember her, but I knew she had bolted not long after these pictures were taken. Why she left was a big mystery to me. My dad’s explanation of “things didn’t work out” had never really satisfied me. She really seemed to like me in those pictures. So why hadn’t she ever picked up the phone or sent a birthday card?

  I noticed my mom had the same unruly chunk of wavy hair that I have. Mine brown, hers red. My dad calls it a “cowlick,” which is about the grossest name I can think of.

  “Guess I can’t say you never gave me anything, Mom.”

  Bzzzzz! My phone vibrated with an incoming text.

  Charlie: Promise you won’t freak

  Me: Dad didn’t let you in? He said he would.

  Charlie: In. Fine. Not mashed to bits by his mighty man hands.

  Charlie: Promise me

  Me: Ooookay. What?

  Charlie: Blake’s back. Saw him on my way here

  I took a beat to compose myself. There was this feeling of … pain? Panic? Pleasure?

  Charlie: Hello? Did you implode?

  Me: Nah, no biggie.

  Me: That was a zillion years ago.

  Me: I almost didn’t remember who you were talking about! LOL

  Me:

  Charlie:…

  Charlie: I haven’t seen the dude in 1 yr and pretty sure I’d have forgotten him if you didn’t talk about him every 5 seconds.

  Charlie: Not buying it

  Charlie: And that’s way too many happy faces for someone who’s telling the truth

  Charlie: Also, “LOL”? Who are you?!?

  Charlie:

  Charlie: Doesn’t feel great to be emoji’d, does it?

  I flung my phone onto a pile of half-knit sweaters and looked down at my mom box. A drop of blood fell from my nose, splattering on the photo of Mom holding me at my first birthday party. My shirtsleeve only smudged the blood further into the picture. Today was total BS.

  I looked at the box in disgust. Mom had forgotten about us. So we should forget about her. Forever this time.