Sidekick: The Misadventures of the New Scarlet Knight

by Pab Sungenis

  “Nice room. I would’ve thought you’d have decorated a little more. At least some books on the shelves.”

  Prism laughed. “It’s not my room, Bobby. It’s yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “We all have them. This room is assigned to the Scarlet Knight.”

  A lump jumped from my stomach and lodged itself in my throat. “Was this … ?” I choked back the emotions that suddenly threatened to overwhelm me and tried again. “Was this Uncle Jack’s room?”

  “No, Bobby. We thought that might be a little too much for you to deal with right now, and it would be better for you to have a room of your own. We sealed Jack’s room and won’t be reassigning it. When and if you’re ready, you can go through it and take out his personal things. Not that he kept much in there. He never did like staying here more than he needed to.”

  “I know. He always wanted to spend as much time at the mansion as he could; said it was his home, and that was where he belonged.”

  “That was one of Jack’s charms. He was the most down-to-earth of all of us.” There was a certain wistfulness in her voice, which reminded me that she’d also shared a very close connection with Uncle Jack. Probably even a closer one than I did. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Phoebe, what’s going to happen to me? I’m still underage. Yeah, I’ve been taking on adult responsibilities since I was eleven, maybe even before that if you consider what I went through before Pop died, but under the law I’m still a minor. You and Uncle Jack saved me from the foster care system once, and I don’t want to fall into it now. Especially since I don’t think another foster father is going to put up with me blowing off curfew because I’m out breaking up a terrorist cell or something.”

  “We have that under control. I’m filing a petition for emancipation on your behalf next week. It shouldn’t be a hard case to win since Jack’s will made sure you’ve not only got a roof over your head, but enough income to probably make you the youngest billionaire in history. You won’t have to rely on others financially, and I think we can make a good case that as far as you’re concerned, seventeen is old enough to live on your own.”

  “Thank you. That’s one load off my mind.”

  “But why do I get the idea that’s not all you need to talk with me about?”

  I hesitated, trying to find the courage to say what was on my mind. “It’s hard for me—”

  “Bobby, I’ve known you longer than anyone else here. I’ve been your social worker ever since that unfortunate business with your father. There’s literally nothing you can’t say to me, and you know it. Now, spit it out.”

  “Are you sure this is the right thing? Are you sure I belong alongside you guys?”

  “Of course you do.”

  I dragged myself over to the bed and flopped down. Even though I had enough adrenaline pumping through my body to kill an elephant (probably by making it run off a cliff), I was completely mentally exhausted and probably could have dropped right off to sleep. “But look at the six of you. Uncle Hank can smash through mountains and bend iron girders. You can refract light to shoot lasers and stuff. Mister Mystery can … well, be himself. I’m just a kid.”

  Prism came over and sat at the foot of the bed. “You’re seventeen—not a kid anymore. But even if you still consider yourself a kid, you’re a kid with almost six years of experience on the job. That’s a lot more than any of us had when we started out. You’re not as green as you think.”

  “I just have to wonder if I’m up to the job, is all.”

  “If you weren’t, we wouldn’t have voted you in. We could’ve had one of us throw on the armor for a while, or taken turns pulling double duty to cover up the Knight’s absence, and then have him fade out once we were sure no one would connect his disappearance with Jack’s death. But we all agreed you were up for the job and deserved a seat at the table. You’re one of the best crime fighters out there, hero or sidekick. You’ve got great skills and even better instincts. You belong here. Have a little self-confidence.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I’m just a little uncomfortable getting the job through a dead man’s boots. Besides, there’s one other thing that’s got me nervous. I’ve been a sidekick since I started in this business. I’ve worked alongside the other kids. They’ve always been my peers. How are they supposed to see this? I’m not one of them anymore. I’m one of their bosses.”

  “No, you’re not their boss. You’re still their peer. And as far as I’m concerned, you kids have always been our equals in this business. You put your lives on the line just as often as we do.”

  “You’re just saying that because you don’t have a sidekick. I’m pretty sure the heroes who do don’t think of it that way. I know the sidekicks don’t.”

  “Then that’s something we’re going to have to change.”

  I smiled. “I like that idea. But change doesn’t come easily, you know.”

  “I know. The important thing is to be ready for it.” Prism stood. “Trust me, I’m sure the other kids are just as happy for you as the rest of us are. Even Mystery, and he’s never happy. Now all we need,” she kissed me gently on the forehead, “is for you to be happy, too.” She started toward the door. “Take a couple of minutes. Get comfortable. Then join us out at the big table. There’s cake. Just ignore the ‘happy birthday’ scrawled on it.”

  She left, and I leaned back. I wasn’t just the Squire anymore. I was the Scarlet Knight.

  ***

  Uncle Jack’s funeral was on a Thursday. My promotion, or whatever you want to call it, came on Friday. I spent the rest of the weekend organizing things at the mansion and setting up my room in HQ. I didn’t plan on living there; the mansion was my home, and I intended to stay there for as long as I could. I only wanted to make my room at HQ comfortable enough to be worth staying at when I needed to.

  With my personal life in as much order as I could get it and my new professional life ready to get underway, I had one last life decision to think about.

  I’d planned on going to college right after high school. Now, I had to think about my future as a hero. Besides, I’d never have to worry about a paycheck if Uncle Jack’s will went the way everyone expected it to. I didn’t have to go to college now that I’d had a career handed to me.

  The question was: Did I want to go down that road?

  Back when summer had started, I’d talked with Uncle Jack about these same issues. I’d told him how much I appreciated everything he’d done for me, that he’d saved my life both metaphorically and literally, and how much I loved being a sidekick. I’d just always felt it was necessary for me to build my own life. I wanted to discover what the world held for Bobby Baines, not just for the “youthful ward” (as the tabloids liked to call me) of industrialist Jack Horner.

  We had scaled back my sidekick duties, giving me more time to concentrate on school and the college application process. School started, and I’d all but hung up my costume. By October, after we’d taken down the Halloween Gang for the fourth year in a row (would they ever learn?), the Scarlet Knight was keeping order in Harbor City all by his lonesome, just like he’d done until the fateful day at the warehouse when our paths had first crossed.

  Now, Uncle Jack was dead, and the Scarlet Knight had to live on. I was facing all those issues I’d thought were long behind me all over again.

  I thought about calling Aunt Phoebe, or chatting with Rick or Tommy to get their opinions, but in the end, this was going to have to be a decision I made for myself.

  I’d kept my grades up when I’d patrolled with Uncle Jack every night (maybe not as high as I would have liked, but high enough to keep myself out of trouble) and could probably scale back some of the job to give myself extra time to study. I’d have to get creative with my time management.

  I packed another bag, took it downstairs, and programmed the teleporter. I was heading for my room at HQ, which seemed well suited for the task at hand: quiet, secluded, and conducive to concentration. Afte
r all, I had homework to catch up on, a Sunday night to get it all done, and I was going to need to focus.

  The next morning, I was going back to school.

  Clothes Maketh the Man

  When and if I get married, I will never complain about how long my wife takes to get ready. That’s because I can truly sympathize.

  Early on in my “career” in heroics, Uncle Hank had given me a few solid lessons on maintaining my secret identity. Like I mentioned, Paragon is a big, hulking guy with more muscles than a gym on Fire Island, yet no one has managed to figure out who he is when he’s not in uniform. He’d told me the secret to keeping my identities separate was to essentially become invisible in “civilian mode,” and doing that takes a certain skill.

  If you told the average person to become invisible, they’d do their best to blend in and be like everyone else. That technique could work, but not as well as Uncle Hank’s method. If you really want to walk through the world incognito, it’s better to go the opposite direction, and make yourself as different from the average Joe as possible. When you stand out, some people will avoid you, some will ignore you, and the others will have such a strong image of you burned in their brains that they’ll never be able to tie that image to the heroic persona you’re trying to keep under wraps. Paragon does that by wearing ill-fitting suits, stooping, and affecting a nasal twang. He also likes to play the klutz. That way, no one suspects that mild-mannered schlub, Hank Hancock, is the mightiest man in the universe.

  That was the tactic I’d chosen to protect my identity. All the news coverage about the Scarlet Knight over the years, along with the other heroes operating in other cities, had attracted a lot of attention, especially from teens. When kids like Zipper, Shadow, and I had joined the fray, heroes were seen as freaking cool. Unfortunately, I’d sort of created an archetype for what cool kids (or at least kids who liked to think they were cool) thought a sidekick looked like. I was athletic and a wisecracker. Pop’s constant moving had taught me how to make friends easily and had developed my social graces. None of that would do after I’d become a hero’s sidekick, not if I wanted to deflect attention from myself. So Bobby Baines became the complete opposite of the Squire’s cool, public image.

  First, there was the matter of my build. I’m not ripped like Paragon, or even as well-built as most of the guys on the high school football team, but I’m not a ninety-eight pound weakling either. I would use clothes to hide the shape of my body—wearing XXL t-shirts over XL sweatshirts over tank top undershirts. Then, when that had inexplicably become the fashion, I switched to oversized button-down shirts with half-undone neckties and cargo khakis with rolled-up cuffs: classic nerd chic. If that caught on, I’d spend a few dozen hours watching teen melodrama television shows or swallow my self-esteem, buy an issue of “Teen Hunks” magazine, and pull a one-eighty away from current trends.

  Then there’s the hair. It took about twenty minutes to get my hair tousled enough to look like I always had a bad hair day, but not so messy that it looked like I’d done it on purpose and risk being fashionable. The crowning touch was the horn-rimmed glasses—a tribute of sorts to Prism—and voilá, a geek so hopelessly out of touch and un-hip that there was no way in Hell he could ever be a hero. Tights wouldn’t be caught dead on someone like me.

  No woman is fussier about her hair and clothes than me, even if I do it for an entirely different reason. An hour in front of a mirror and careful selection of the perfect clothes from my wardrobe lets me transform myself from who I really am, into who I want people to think I am.

  I finished dressing for school and studied myself in the mirror. With my new hero identity, a lot of this work might be unnecessary. The Knight’s helmet completely covered the face of its wearer, which had saved Uncle Jack from ever needing to take drastic steps. Instead, he’d dressed and acted like a geek because deep down in his heart, he’d been one.

  I could go down that road too. Maybe if I added more actual armor, like greaves, vambraces, gauntlets, and a proper breastplate, the costume would hide my physique while I was in hero mode, instead of out of it. Then people would never mistake a school kid for the superhero. Maybe it was time to make some adjustments and reclaim my identity. Hell, I might even be able to make friends who didn’t strap on long underwear to knock around bad guys.

  I considered that, but the more I stared at the facade in the mirror, the more it felt right. My “un-cool” persona fit like an old, battered pair of shoes; it looked like hell, but it was too comfortable to let go of. Maybe when I went to college I could reinvent myself, but for now, why argue with perfection?

  “Lookin’ fine!” I said to the mirror. And for once, I didn’t mean it in an ironic way.

  ***

  My return to Harbor City High was not completely unnoticed. It was mainly the teachers and administrators who took the time to greet me and make the old “if there’s anything I can do” offer, knowing full well there wasn’t anything they, or anyone else, could do. The kids in homeroom made a bunch of meaningless comments in an attempt to make me feel better, which I appreciated.

  The day dragged on, like most school days did. I was grateful I hadn’t missed too much actual work, and it wouldn’t be hard to catch up. I breezed through the day, tolerating all the “well wishing,” and was in such good spirits I almost didn’t hear the announcement summoning me to the guidance office.

  Having gone through a butt-load of guidance counselors during Pop’s drifting years, I’d come to the conclusion there had to be a farm somewhere in the Midwest where they bred and raised them like cattle. Either that, or they were the result of some horrible cloning experiment. They looked the same, talked the same, and I’d bet one of my professional colleagues with super-olfactory abilities would confirm they all smelled the same. Therefore, I’d concluded that Mrs. Carr wasn’t a guidance counselor, but either a strange alien or a desperate criminal on the run. Whatever she was, she couldn’t have been a guidance counselor because she, and her advice, were helpful.

  “Bobby.” She greeted me with that tilted head people used when pretending to be sincere since a smile would be inappropriate. “I’m so—”

  “You’re so sorry for my loss and want me to tell you if there’s anything you can do. Right?”

  That brought on the inappropriate smile, which was what I’d wanted all along. “Can’t fool you, huh?”

  “I usually start memorizing phrases after hearing them sixty times. By the hundredth time, I can recite them in my sleep. No offense, but you’re obviously not the first person to greet me that way today.”

  “Touché.” She motioned for me to sit, and I happily obliged her. “You do realize I actually mean it?”

  “You’re probably the only person here I would believe meant it. So, what’s up that you called me? Other than the canned platitudes?”

  “A few things, actually.” She opened her file on me and leafed through it. “First off, I’m not sure you’re really going to be in the mood for this, but there’s another college junket in two weeks. Johnson County University. I wanted to know if I should schedule you for it.”

  I grimaced. I had been at one of those campus-visit sleepover trips when Uncle Jack died. I’d spent a whole two days blaming myself for not being there for him, but honestly, there wasn’t much I could’ve done, anyhow. I wouldn’t have been on patrol with him that night; I would’ve either been fast asleep, reading in the library, out on the town, or with one of the other sidekicks. Then I’d shifted guilt gears and blamed myself for cutting out on the sidekick gig or else I’d have been on patrol with him and had his back. That bit of self-pity had consumed the better part of the third day, but I’d managed to force it aside. I might’ve come up with a few other reasons to blame myself, but the funeral and sudden news from my new colleagues had intervened. Still, I’d have to fight back the urge to sink back into self-blame and depression every time a campus visit junket came up, and Mrs. Carr knew it.

  “Not this one. I k
now JCU was one of the fall-back schools you and I were talking about, and I really should go, but right now I think it’s important for me to stay a little closer to home. Until I get my bearings back. Besides, I’ve got too much to do right now.”

  Saturday was monitor duty, and it was my first turn in the rotation. Explaining that to her would be as impossible as explaining that “I should’ve been there” didn’t mean “I could’ve gotten him to the hospital in time,” but actually meant “I could’ve killed whatever villain impaled him, smashing through his allegedly unbreakable armor and stealing his sword.” A “you wouldn’t understand” thing people like Mrs. Carr refused to accept even when it was the truth.

  “I understand.” Sure she did. “But I don’t want you sitting them all out. You do have a few places to look at and consider for late applications if things go wrong. Oh, I’ve made sure to send copies of your first semester grades along to the schools on your list that wanted them. I gather you haven’t heard from any of your early acceptance applications?”

  “Not yet. Keeping my fingers crossed.”

  “One more thing, but this isn’t school business. I remember we talked about medieval chivalry a while back. Didn’t you have an interest in it?”

  Well, we had talked about it last year. I didn’t have the heart to tell her my interest only extended into research for “work” and pretended to be a bit more interested than I actually was. It was strange she brought that up now. “Yes.” I confirmed her suspicions. “I did dabble a little bit in it.”

  “Great!” She practically leapt out of her chair. “I help organize the annual Renaissance Faire.”