by TJ Klune
“Breakfast,” Dad called through the door. “You better be getting ready, Nicky.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “I am.”
“Uh-huh. Stop your Tumblring and get your butt downstairs. French toast waits for no man.”
“Be right there. And it’s not Tumblring, you philistine. God, it’s like you don’t know anything at all.”
He heard his dad’s footsteps retreat down the hall toward the stairs. The floorboards squeaked, something they’d talked about fixing for years. But that was … well. That was Before. When things had been right as rain and everything had made sense. Sure, his dad had worked too much back then too, but she’d always been there to rein him in, telling him in no uncertain terms that he would be home for dinner at least three times a week, and they would eat as a family. She didn’t ask for much, she pointed out. But it was understood by all that she wasn’t asking.
Dad still worked too much.
Nick pushed himself off the bed. He turned his phone to vibrate (muttering about Tumblring under his breath) and crossed the room to his desk to slip it into his backpack.
She was there on his desk, as she always was, trapped in a photograph. She smiled at him, and it hurt, even now. Nick suspected it always would, at least a little bit. But it wasn’t the ragged, gaping hole it’d been two years ago, or even the constant ache of last year. Seth, Jazz, and Gibby didn’t walk on eggshells around him anymore like they thought he’d burst out crying at the slightest mention of moms.
Dad had taken the photo. It’d been on one of their summer trips out of the city. They’d gone to the coast of Maine to this little cottage by the sea. It’d been weirdly cold, and the beach had been rocks instead of sand, but it’d been … nice. Nick had moaned about being away from his friends, that there wasn’t even any Wi-Fi, and could his parents possibly be any more barbaric? His father laughed, and his mother patted his hand, telling him he’d survive.
He hadn’t been too sure about that.
But then, he’d been thirteen, and so of course he’d been overly dramatic. Puberty was a bitch, causing his voice to break along with a group of zits that had decided to nest against the side of his nose. He was gawky and awkward and had hair sprouting everywhere, so it was in his very nature to be overly dramatic.
Only later did Nick find out his father had taken the photo.
It’d been halfway through the trip, and they decided to find the local lighthouse that was supposed to be scenic, which was code for boring. It’d taken a couple of hours because it was in the middle of nowhere, and the paper map she insisted on was absolutely useless. But then they nearly drove past a sign half-hidden by a gnarled old tree, and she shouted, “There!” Brightly, full of excitement. Dad slammed on the brakes, and Nick laughed for the first time since he’d set foot in the state of Maine. She looked back at him, grinning wildly, her light hair hanging down around her face, and she winked at him while his father grumbled and reversed the car slowly.
They found the lighthouse shortly after.
It was smaller than Nick expected, but there was something exhilarating about the way Jenny Bell threw open the car door as soon as they stopped in the empty parking lot, waves crashing in the background. She left the door open, saying, “See? I knew we’d find it. I knew it was here.”
The Bell men followed her. Always.
The frame of the photograph was oak and heavy. He had taken it from his mom’s nightstand without a second thought. His father hadn’t said a word when he’d seen it on Nick’s desk the first time. It was something they didn’t talk about.
One of the somethings.
She smiled at him every day. She must have seen Dad with the camera, because she was looking right at it, her head on her son’s shoulder. Nick’s head was turned toward the sky, his eyes closed.
They looked too much alike. Pale and green-eyed and blond with eyebrows that had minds of their own. There was no doubt where he’d come from. Dad was big, bigger than Nick would ever be, tan skin and dark hair and muscles on top of muscles, though they were softer than they used to be. Nick was skinny and all gangly limbs, uncoordinated on his best day, and downright dangerous on his worst. He’d taken after her, though she’d made being a klutz endearing, whereas he was more likely to break a table or a bone. She’d told him she’d met his dad by literally falling on top of him in the library. She’d been on a ladder, trying to get to the top shelf, and he happened to pass right on by the moment she slipped. He’d caught her, Dad would say, and she’d say, sure, right, except you didn’t because I landed on you and we both fell, and then they’d laugh and laugh.
Nick looked like her.
He acted like her.
He didn’t know how Dad could stand to look at him some days.
“I’m going to do better,” he told her quietly, not wanting his father to hear. The fact that he spoke to his mom’s photo would probably get him back to the psychiatrist, something Nick was desperate to avoid. “New Nick. You’ll see. Promise.”
He pressed his fingers against his lips, and then to the photo.
She kept on smiling.
* * *
Dad was in their small kitchen, an old dishrag thrown over his shoulder. He’d taken off his uniform at some point after he’d gotten home from the night shift. Breakfast was their time—unless Dad had the day off. It was usually all they got for weeks. It’d get even harder now that school was starting again, but they’d figure it out. After the events of last spring, they were working together as a team.
The table had already been set, plates and silverware and glasses of juice. And, of course, the oblong white pill with the cheery name of Concentra. “Concentra will help Nick concentrate,” the doctor had told them with a straight face. Dad had nodded, and Nick had somehow managed to keep his mouth shut instead of saying something that probably wouldn’t be appreciated.
Dad kept the pills locked up in the safe in his room. It wasn’t because he didn’t trust Nick, he’d told him, but he knew the dangers of peer pressure, and he didn’t want Nick to get caught up in the world of drugs and dealing them under the bleachers on the football field.
“Thank you for not letting me become a drug dealer,” Nick had said. “I felt the pull toward a life of crime, but you saved me.”
Nick picked up the pill now, Dad turning to watch him with an eyebrow arched, and he swallowed it, chasing it down with a sip of orange juice. Gross. He’d just brushed his teeth, and now he had a mouthful of the plague. He grimaced as he stuck out his tongue, raising it up and down, showing that he’d swallowed the pill.
Dad turned back toward the stove and the growing stack of French toast.
An old TV sat on the counter near the fridge, turned to the news as usual. Nick was about to ignore it until the perfectly coifed anchor announced they were going live to Rebecca Firestone, now on the scene.
Nick’s attention snapped to the screen as he grabbed the remote off the table and turned up the volume.
Nothing else mattered. Not the bitter aftertaste of the pill. Not the fact that his father seemed to be making enough French toast to feed a family of thirty-four. Not the fact that Nick was pretty sure he’d forgotten to put on deodorant after his shower. No. All that mattered was Rebecca Firestone. Because if Rebecca Firestone was on, that meant one thing.
Shadow Star.
There she was, makeup expertly applied over glowing white skin, brown hair cut pixie-short, eyes wide and teeth Hollywood white as she smiled at the camera. In the background, police cruisers lined the sidewalks, lights flashing. “Thank you, Steve. I’m standing here on the corner of Forty-Eighth and Lincoln in front of the Burke Tower, where last night, a brazen attempt at a break-in occurred.” The screen cut away, showing the gratuitous skyscraper rising high above Nova City. “Sources tell me that a group of armed militants attempted to parachute onto the roof of Burke Tower. Though their intentions remain unclear at this point, their plans were immediately vanquished upon landing when they were
met by Nova City’s own Extraordinary, Shadow Star.”
“Immediately vanquished,” Nick muttered, making a face. “Because that rolls right off the tongue. Get an editor, Firestone. You’re an embarrassment to your profession.”
The screen returned to Rebecca Firestone. She was smiling widely, her cheeks flushed. “I was able to speak with Shadow Star off camera earlier this morning, and he told me that while the militants were prepared, they didn’t get much farther than attempting to gain access through the ventilation system. All seven were incapacitated in a matter of moments and have since been handed off to Nova City’s finest. No civilians were injured.”
Nick absolutely did not swoon. And if he did, it had nothing to do with Rebecca Firestone. She was the gnarled barnacle attached to the wonder that was Shadow Star. Most everyone thought there’d been something between them at one point. And even though Nick knew Rebecca Firestone was nothing but a nosy jerk who lived to play the role of a professional damsel in distress, Shadow Star was always there to rescue her, no matter what she did to get herself in trouble.
Nick was not a fan of the self-proclaimed intrepid reporter. She was obviously using Shadow Star to make a name for herself in the cutthroat world of reporting on Extraordinaries. Maybe Shadow Star tended to give her exclusives he never gave anyone else, and maybe there’d been that one picture where he’d saved her from a burning building, Rebecca clutched in his buff arms, her face in his neck. And yes, Nick had printed that photo and used it as a target for the dartboard in his room, but he wasn’t jealous. He was just a firm believer in journalistic ethics.
“With me now, is Nova City’s Chief of Police, Rodney Caplan.”
The camera panned left, and a large Black man stood next to Rebecca Firestone, sweating profusely, his caterpillar mustache wilted. His uniform was straining at the stomach, and he reached up to wipe his brow before attempting a smile that came off as a grimace.
“Cap looks like he could use a vacation,” Nick said without looking away from the TV.
“We all do, kid,” Dad said. “Maybe next time he comes over for dinner, you can tell him that. See what happens.”
“I did last time. He laughed at me.”
“That’s because it was a dumb thing to say.”
“Positive reinforcement,” Nick reminded him.
“Right. Sorry. It was a dumb thing to say, but you used your words. Proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“What can you tell us, Chief?” Rebecca Firestone asked.
“Absolutely nothing,” Cap said. “In fact, you already know more than you should. Probably more than we do.”
Rebecca Firestone barely faltered. Some might say she was professional; Nick was not one of those people. “This is the third major criminal operation we’ve seen in the last five months attempt to gain access to Burke Tower. Granted, they have all failed thanks to Shadow Star, but—”
“Not thanks to Shadow Star,” Cap said, glaring at the camera. “Thanks to the hardworking men and women of the Nova City Police Department. We absolutely don’t need these costumed vigilantes flying around with their capes and their powers, trying to—”
“Shadow Star doesn’t wear a cape,” Nick and Rebecca Firestone said at the same time.
Cap turned to stare at Rebecca Firestone.
Dad turned to stare at Nick.
Nick ignored him.
Rebecca Firestone said, “Isn’t it true that Shadow Star has—”
“For all we know, Shadow Star is responsible for these crimes,” Cap said, mustache drooping farther as he frowned. “As a way to increase his profile. These groups could be working for him. A setup to make him look like the hero. Nova City was safer before the Extraordinaries reappeared, and I will do everything in my power to see all of them behind bars.”
“Yes,” Nick said. “Invite Cap over again. I have some things I’d like to discuss with him.”
Instead of responding, Dad reached over Nick’s shoulder and switched off the TV. It was an effective rebuttal. Nick was impressed. Annoyed, but impressed. “I was watching that.”
“Breakfast,” his dad said, like Nick hadn’t spoken at all.
Since Nick was supposed to make this a better year, he didn’t argue, at least not out loud. The retort in his head was fierce and devastating.
“Why weren’t you there?” he asked, pulling at the chair and sitting down.
Dad scrubbed a hand over his face as he sat on the other side of the table. “If I tell you that I was, you get to ask me two questions, and two questions only.”
Nick gaped at him.
Dad put two slices of French toast on his plate.
“But—I want—you can’t just—”
“Two questions, Nicky. Make ’em count.”
His father was amazing. Gruff, but kind. He was good at what he did. When he laughed, his eyes crinkled, the lines around his mouth deep, and that made Nick happy, though it didn’t happen as often as it used to. He was courageous and just, and sometimes, Nick didn’t know what he’d do without him.
But he could also be the biggest jerk. Like right now. “Seven questions.”
“No questions,” Dad replied, handing Nick the butter.
“Six questions!”
“I’m bored with this.”
“You’re terrible at negotiating. How am I supposed to learn how to adult when my parental figure refuses to work with me?”
“Life sucks, kid. Take what you can get.”
“Fine. Two questions.”
Dad pointed his fork at Nick. “While you eat. You took your pill. You need food in your stomach.”
“I’m supposed to wait thirty minutes before—”
“Nicky.”
“What did they want?” Nick asked through a mouthful of French toast.
“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to any of them before they were taken downtown. Cap told me to go home because he knew it was your first day of school. Said to remind you there’s an empty cell with your name on it if there’s a single grade below a B minus on your report card at any point this year.”
“I wonder if the mayor knows that officers in his police department are threatening minors.”
“He does,” Dad said. “And he supports it completely. You get one more question.”
Like he didn’t know what Nick was going to ask. “Did you see him?”
“Yes,” Dad said, mopping up a disgusting amount of syrup.
Nick waited.
Dad said nothing.
Nick could play this game.
On second thought, he absolutely couldn’t. “And?”
“Is that another question?”
Nick barely stopped himself from throwing his fork at Dad’s head. “Why are you like this?”
Dad grinned at him. “Because your adolescent angst brings me joy as a parent.”
“Dad!”
“Yes, Nick. I saw Shadow Star. I even talked to him. In fact, I got his autograph for you. And his phone number. He gave it to me after I told him about your crush on him. He said he’d love to go out on a date with you, because he thought you were dreamy when I showed him a picture of you—”
“Please tell me I was adopted,” Nick begged. “It’s the only thing that could possibly salvage the wreckage that is my life.”
“Sorry, kiddo. You came from my loins.”
Nick groaned and dropped his head to the table. “Why did you have to phrase it like that?”
Nick felt a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing gently. “Because I think it’s adorable when you get flustered. Especially when talking about your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Nick muttered into the tabletop. “He doesn’t even know I exist.”
“Probably for the best. He’d most likely be scared away when he saw the Tumblring you do about him. Nobody likes a stalker, Nicky.”
Nick knocked his dad’s hand away as he sat back up. “I am not a stalker—”
“No, I d
idn’t see him. None of us did. And he’s lucky we didn’t, or we would’ve arrested him on the spot. Damn Extraordinaries. All they do is—”
“Make your job harder, yeah, yeah. I know. You say it all the time. But, Dad. He can climb walls and control shadows. I don’t think you fully grasp how amazing that is.”
“Oh, I fully grasp it, all right. But he needs to let us do our jobs. Life isn’t like one of your comic books, Nick. This is real. People can get hurt.”
“He’s one of the good guys!”
Dad scoffed. “Says who?”
“Everyone.”
Dad shook his head. “This isn’t black and white. It’s not about heroes and villains. Shadow Star is as much a pain in my ass as Fire Guy—”
“Pyro Storm, and don’t you dare compare them like that. Pyro Storm is Shadow Star’s archnemesis, and the fate of Nova City hangs in the balance as Shadow Star fights for us against the tyranny of—”
“They’re douchebags who wear tights they bought at a thrift shop.”
Nick glared at him.
Dad shrugged.
Nick decided to be magnanimous. “I’m going to pretend you never said that.”
“What a blessing.”
Maybe not that magnanimous. “This is the worst start to a school year ever.”
“Speaking of.”
Yeah, that was his fault. He should’ve seen it coming. “We’re not going to do this again.”
“I think we are,” Dad said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. Nick saw the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead that hadn’t been there a couple of years ago. He felt a sharp pang in his chest. He forced himself not to look at all the ghosts that still haunted the kitchen: the spice rack neither of them had dared to touch, her favorite towels hanging off the front of the stove, the ones with little cats embroidered onto them. “Just so we’re on the same page.”
Better to get it over with. “I’ll pay attention.”