by Jeremy Scott
“Bentley. He’s a kid in my class. One of my friends I told you about.”
“What did he want?” I could tell she was still concentrating on the crossword even while quizzing me about the call—something in her DNA that allowed her to multi-task like that, and it never ceased to amaze me. It was like a super power unto itself.
“He wanted to talk about—” It occurred to me that I didn’t have a handy lie ready, and yet clearly, I couldn’t tell her the truth in front of Patrick. “—a school project. We’re on the same science fair team, and he had an idea for an experiment we could do.”
Phew! Good save.
“Ooh, what kind of experiment?”
Dang! I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
You never knew when Mother’s string of peppered questions was going to end. And if you were lying, it always seemed never-ending.
“Um, well, he told me not to tell anyone about it yet. Keep it a secret.” I had no real illusions that this feeble deflection would work.
Jeez, Mom, remember when you guys told me to keep this superhero stuff quiet in front of Patrick?!
She went silent. She might have been weighing her response or puzzling over a particularly tricky crossword clue. Or maybe she realized there might be a good reason for my evasiveness. Eventually, she simply said, “I see.”
And that appeared to be the end of it. Another mental sigh of relief.
The room fell silent except for the television. A commercial for bleach was wrapping up. I had no idea what bleach was used for, really, but there sure were an awful lot of commercials for it.
Again I attempted to clear my mind by returning to the comic. It was a Batman comic book, and he was pretty much my favorite superhero—well, he was until I learned that real superheroes existed. Of course, with comics in Braille being a bit of a rarity, I didn’t own very many, and I had read this one many times before. It was the famous issue where the Joker kills Robin. Pretty heavy stuff for a seventh-grader. I’m pretty sure my parents never screened the comics before giving them to me, or they probably wouldn’t have let me read this one.
After all the times I’d read this particular story, I practically had the entire thing memorized. Which only made it tougher to focus. I decided to make one last attempt to immerse myself in the comic. I started from the beginning, the first frame. I placed my fingers on the page. But then something happened that was thoroughly unexpected, and all hope of concentrating on the comic went out the window.
The newscaster’s voice suddenly shifted, taking on a more serious tone. “Excuse me. Ladies and gentlemen, we have breaking news. I’m just being told … We’re going to interrupt our planned broadcast and send it out to the field immediately for News Channel 10’s own Eric Fuller, who is live on the scene from Central Park in New York City.”
I have to admit, I didn’t typically pay all that much attention to the news. Who does at that age? But I was certain I had never heard anything like this. I was instantly alert. Maybe aliens had landed in Central Park.
“Thanks, Cindy.” A man’s voice. “Eric Fuller here in Central Park, where you can see a large crowd has gathered behind me, blocking the street and the intersection.
Tonight, roughly ten minutes ago, I and many of these other citizens saw something … amazing.”
He spoke with more than the usual amount of excitement for a news reporter, and you could tell he had to force himself to remain calm and professional.
“Earlier this evening, convicted murderer Calvin Creed escaped police custody during transport to the brand new Islesworth Correctional Facility. A high-speed pursuit followed, eventually making its way here, to Central Park, where … he and his crew were stopped by a single man. The unknown man appeared as if out of thin air and was, well … flying.”
He paused to let his words sink in with the viewers at home. And then, they did. Wait a minute. Did he just …
“Flying in over the park from the south side, this ‘superman’ then landed directly in front of the lead getaway car and stopped it dead in its tracks. Cindy … viewers at home … superheroes are evidently real, and there is at least one living among us here in New York City.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure many of you think I’ve gone off the deep end. But I assure you that I have just accurately recounted the events of this evening. And thankfully, you don’t have to take my word for it, because News Channel 10 was on the scene. We were filming—this camera crew and I—were filming a segment for a story on the city’s plan to toughen up on crime in the park when we managed to capture this footage. No words can truly describe what you’re about to see.”
He went silent, but then I heard him again. “The mayor’s office has repeatedly made Central Park crime a top priority throughout the—”
Suddenly he was cut off by the shriek of a woman who must have been standing nearby.
Ah, this is the footage from earlier, I realized.
Then there were more distant voices. I couldn’t make them all out, but I did hear a few of them clearly. “What in the world?” “Eric!” “Oh God!”
More shouting and lots of commotion. Police sirens began sounding. I heard someone yell, “What the—” followed by a beep. Even a kid like me knows what that word was.
Then there was a sudden whooshing sound—it began quietly but rapidly grew in volume, like an oncoming train. Another loud scream. And then all the sounds started bleeding into one another. The voices, the screams, the sirens, the car horns … it all gathered into a hurricane of raw volume, capped off with a thunderous crash. And then it was over.
The whole thing lasted maybe thirty seconds from beginning to end.
“That was the scene here just about a half hour ago, and … as you can see … what happened defies all logic and common sense, and yet … that man was clearly flying. And those cars clearly crashed into him after he landed, crushing like soda cans around him. Once it was over, he glanced over the crowd, then leaped into the air and disappeared.”
How is this possible? I thought about Paul Weatherby, the hero Mrs. Crouch had told us about. His power was supposed to shield heroes in the real world from view. But not only had this fellow tonight been seen, he’d been captured on film. I was suddenly filled with dread. Custodians weren’t a secret any longer.
Patrick! I remembered my brother, and the fact that he was just as clueless as the rest of America had been five minutes ago. I thought that maybe it was possible he’d been so focused on his video game that he didn’t even see or hear the news story. Not likely, but possible.
I heard the zapping sound our television made whenever it was turned on or off. I wasn’t sure if it was Mom or Dad who had the remote. For a moment, no one said a thing. Then I got my answer about Patrick.
“Holy crap!! Did you see that?! Holy crap! That was amazing!” He jumped up from the couch, and I could tell that he was pacing back and forth, waving his hands in the air in excitement like a televangelist getting blessed—the way he did when he got that handheld video game last Christmas. “Dad, that was a real, live superhero! Did you see that, Dad? Mom?!” He was losing it. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God: I can’t believe it!”
I turned toward my Dad. There were so many questions I wanted to ask: What did this mean? Who was the flying guy on the news?! How come everyone could see him? What happened to Paul Weatherby?
But I couldn’t ask any of them. I heard Mom doing her best to corral Patrick, and Dad didn’t seem to be doing anything but just standing there. I suspected he was in shock. Finally, he reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “Son, we’ll have to talk about this later. Right now, I think I probably need to go into work.”
Later that night, after Mom and Dad assumed I was fast asleep, they sat at the kitchen table talking about the events from the news story. Instead of sleeping, however, I was sitting at my bedroom door, blatantly eavesdropping on their every word.
Dad started off. “It was Frank Singleton.”
“I know.” Dad sounded sad. “But there’s nothing we can do about that now.” I’d never heard the name Frank Singleton, but it sounded like Dad knew him on some level.
“How did this happen?” She sounded tired.
“The cloaker. Weatherby. There was some kind of attack. During the commotion, he lost track of controlling his powers. He’s fine. He’s back at it now. Everything’s okay.”
There was a brief lull in the conversation.
“Believers?” Mom asked.
“Who knows? They’re the only group we know of that’s sophisticated enough to break into that place and almost steal him out from under our noses, that’s for sure.”
“So the incident Frank took care of in the park just happened to coincide with the few minutes Weatherby wasn’t doing his job?”
“Babe, it’s New York. You remember what it’s like there. There’s always a crime to stop.”
She sighed, appearing to agree with him.
It was odd listening in on them. Hearing them speak to each other the way they apparently do when we’re not around was a unique experience. It was like they were a hair more relaxed with each other than they were in front of me. Not communicating as parent to parent but as husband and wife. I felt a little guilty for spying, but not enough to stop listening. It’s not like I hadn’t been doing it all my life.
“And the others in the field have been warned?”
“They’re on notice. Whoever went after Weatherby could be going after other heroes, especially the ones we value enough to put guards on. There’s already been one other kidnapping.”
This was news to Mom. “What?!”
“We thought it was unrelated. Nathan Davis, a blocker from Goodspeed. Went missing a few days ago. But there were other circumstances involved there, and it seemed likely he’d just gone off on his own free will. Now we’re not so sure.”
“This isn’t going to die down, John. It won’t just blow over in a few weeks—for Pete’s sake, they got Frank on film … in all his glory … doing the very thing we’ve worked so hard to keep hidden.” She was clearly agitated—concerned may be a better word.
“I know, honey, but there’s nothing we can do. It’s done. It’s in the past. We can only make smart decisions moving forward.” My father was nothing if not a practical, calculated man.
“What are we going to tell Patrick?” It was Dad.
Mom sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. As far as he’s concerned … this is all news to us just as it is to him.”
“He’s going to be going on about it for weeks,” Dad reminded her.
“So will everyone in the country, John. The media isn’t going to let something this juicy disappear from the headlines.”
“I know,” he told her.
“I thought Crittendon and his minions were making progress dealing with the US government,” she whined.
“They are,” Dad replied. “They just haven’t finalized everything. Well, they’re still in the early stages of that process. It’s like foreign diplomacy, honey: it takes years.”
“Well, we may not have years anymore,” Mom said grimly. “Not after tonight. They could come for him again, but even if they don’t, he’s going to die someday soon, and we don’t have any kind of plan in place whatsoever to deal with it.”
“Well, I can only do so much, babe,” he said in slight protest.
She paused. “I know, honey. I’m sorry. I’m just so worried about this world and what it holds for our boys.”
“I am too.” He sounded like he meant it. “I’m glad they didn’t get him, but the mere fact that they tried has me concerned.”
“Why?”
“Because it means … whoever it is … they’re planning to do something big that they don’t want anyone to remember.”
That was the last I could hear of their words. I’m not sure if they just sat there in silence or if they were hugging or something.
A half a minute or so later, I heard their chairs scrape along the linoleum floor of the kitchen, which meant they were standing or shifting positions.
I heard Mom speak again. “I better go check on the kids.”
And that was my cue. I darted back to the bed as fast as I could, jumping in and throwing the covers over my head, just in time to hear that familiar noise.
Ooph!
I held my breath so she wouldn’t know I was awake, because I was young enough to still think that worked. I didn’t want her to know that I’d been eavesdropping. It seemed like she stood there over the bed forever, even though I’m sure it was only a few seconds.
Ooph!
I finally exhaled, extremely relieved to have presumably pulled off the ruse.
But sleep wouldn’t come quickly. My brain wouldn’t shut itself down. Not since Dad had told me about my abilities had I been forced to process so much new information in a single day. Between the SuperSim assembly, finding out disabled kids were disqualified, Bentley’s call, and then the news report … it had been a roller-coaster day.
I lay there on my back, facing the ceiling, contemplating what tomorrow would hold. It could be almost anything, I thought.
The Ables – Part Two: Fall
Chapter 8: The Guesthouse
Bentley’s family was rich. I might have mentioned that before, but it’s worth repeating. His father, Jurrious Crittendon, was a member of the board, the governing body of the secret world of superheroes, known as custodians. And the job apparently came with quite a salary.
How rich were they? Well, for starters, our sleepover was held in the guesthouse, which was a whole second house in the backyard behind the first house. In the guesthouse, there were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a full kitchen, and a game-room-slash-home-theater. It was bigger than my family’s regular house.
The floors in the kitchen were made of marble or some kind of expensive stone, and the furniture was all made out of leather. There was a gigantic movie screen on the wall that everyone gushed about and three full rows of plush theater seats—they even had cup holders on the armrest! The game room had a pool table, a ping-pong table, and even a few old stand-up arcade games. I wanted to live there forever.
The Crittendon family’s wealth was also apparent in the presence of hired help. Bentley said there were two maids, a nanny for Bentley’s tiny baby brother, a landscape guy, a butler, and a personal chef. And those were just the ones that were there every day.
We met Olivia, the nanny, when we first arrived. Thomas, the youngest of Bentley’s three siblings, had already been put to bed, and Olivia was one of our chaperones for the first part of the evening. The other was Ted, the butler. Ted was actually Olivia’s husband, I learned, and wasn’t anything at all like what the movies had told me a butler was supposed to be. I was a little disappointed he wasn’t ninety years old.
Instead, Ted was a pretty young guy, maybe thirty or so. He was more than a butler, really, in that he actually helped Mr. Crittendon with a host of tasks and duties related to work and the home. He was more like a personal assistant, I guess. But he did answer the door when we arrived, and he called us all “sir.” He was peppy and wacky and we liked him immediately.
His wife was lovely as well but very quiet and soft-spoken. The opposite of Ted.
Not once during my entire stay at Bentley’s house did either of his parents make an appearance. I remember thinking that was a little strange, but I also knew they had to be very busy people.
And Bentley seemed right at home in the company of Ted and Olivia. There was a familiarity between them that suggested they spent plenty of time together. I couldn’t help but wonder if some of the tension I’d sensed in Bentley regarding his father had a fairly common cause: maybe he just didn’t get to see his dad all that much.
But I didn’t have time to dwell on thoughts like that because there was entirely too
much fun to be had and too much to talk about regarding the SuperSim.
Everyone was there: Bentley, Henry, James, Freddie, and me. And Donnie, of course. I’m sure he hadn’t received many more sleepover invitations in his life than I had, so I was pretty confident he would enjoy himself.
We played ping-pong for a while—well, everyone but James and I played ping-pong, even Henry. We ordered pizza from a place in Freepoint called Jack’s, and it was quite possibly the best-tasting pizza I’d ever had. The whole night was fun. Everyone laughed and carried on like it was a party. It was one of the first such experiences of my life, actually. Between moving all the time and being blind, my life just hadn’t produced many memorable social encounters with people my own age.
I was beginning to feel like I was part of a group. And I soaked it in.
After a couple hours of food and games, our adult chaperones turned in—they were staying in one of the guesthouse bedrooms for the night to keep us honest.
“Hey,” Bentley volunteered, “You guys wanna see my workshop?”
“You have your own workshop?” Henry asked.
“Sure. It’s really just a spare room in the basement my dad let me turn into a workshop for whenever I’m building or tinkering with something.”
“You mean like an inventor?” I asked, curious to know more about what an uber-genius like Bentley would attempt to invent.
“Yeah, sure. I guess. I don’t know, I just build stuff. Most of it’s junk … doesn’t work. I started when I was younger, mostly just taking things apart to see how they worked. But it wasn’t very long before I started trying to build my own things.”
“Um,” I said, clearing my throat, “I definitely want to go. Count me in.” I was 100 percent on board with this little field trip, already dreaming of the laser guns and rockets I was sure Bentley was building.
“Yeah, me too. Let’s see this workshop,” Henry said, still acting a little skeptical.
Freddie and James didn’t take any convincing after that, and Donnie never did. Bentley gave James some idea of where the room was in the main house—and where that was in relation to our position. We all put our hands out in the center of the group, and then …