Super Nobody (Alphas and Omegas Book 1)

by Brent Meske

The lawn was sparkling green, with a twinkly layer of morning frost on it, and the leaves burned bright red and orange and gold in the slanting morning rays. The paper boy would roll by in the mid afternoon, waving and smiling and saying hi to people. Him. Michael the paper boy. In the evening, you could see through those same leaves, and the place took on that apple cider tinted smell. Kids were still playing in the streets until the dull orange lamps clicked on. This wasn’t the sort of place where people would flat out lie to their kids.

  His parents were keeping secrets, Grandpa had stolen something meant for him, and he felt that Mr. Springfield and his grandfather were keeping close tabs on him. Close tabs was only inches away from spying. He'd read enough books to know what 'keeping tabs' meant.

  He had to admit the possibility that there was somebody spying on him, an Active maybe. The town was full of them, and as crazy as it seemed, they could have put someone on him, like a tail. He knew he was being paranoid, but they could spare an Active to be a wilderness survival teacher at the high school. Maybe they could spare an Active to follow him around and make sure he didn't find out what they didn't want him to know, like someone invisible or someone who could leave their body or something.

  There was nothing personal about keeping things from his parents, but he was a teenager and they were adults. Twelve years old was a teenager in his book. He couldn't just tell them things. It was a law of nature.

  It was also a fact that adults were nosy and occasionally cleaned up your room for you when they felt it wasn't up to their insane standards. Or they would root through your backpack and tell you that there was an important school paper in there, they knew it! When that happened, if you had a secret note from your best friend, the situation wasn't going to go well.

  He crept up the stairs to their enclosed porch and pulled both notes from his pockets. He had several enormous, inky newspaper carriers, the kind with two deep pouches and one hole for your head. He'd retired one of them, after he found a gaping hole in the corner with a trail of newspapers fluttering on the sidewalk behind him. He stuffed Charlotte's notes there, careful to put them in the corner where the hole wasn't.

  As soon as he turned around, his mother jerked open the front door, and the screaming started. She had the tablet in hand, which meant she was probably on the phone to Grandpa, the police, and the president of the United States by now.

  “Michael Edward Washington, you get in this house right now!” she shouted. “What were you thinking, leaving the hospital without calling me or your father first? And sneaking into the garage. Honestly Michael, what has gotten into your head? Did you leave it back at the hospital? Well, what are you standing there for, get in here!”

  He noticed his father towering just behind her, a frown pasted on his face. It wasn't a sympathetic frown either.

  He didn't bother telling her that she was in the way. He just ducked and tried not to push through her as he went inside. He also didn't bother to head up to his room. That would have been like tying on a pair of hundred pound shoes and jumping off a pier. He just went in and sat down on the chair, so his parents could take the couch and team up on him. This was standard procedure when he was in trouble.

  “Answer your mother,” Michael Sr. said. They talked about each other in the third person while they were giving him the treatment.

  “I had to get out...and think,” he said. He knew exactly how lame it sounded.

  “Wait, clear this up for me, because you must think I'm pretty dense,” his mother said. She was pinching the bridge of her nose, which meant nuclear meltdown was only seconds away. “To think, you need to walk home in the dark, sneak quietly around the house, unlock the garage moving around like a sloth, and lift your bike over all those vines and bushes behind the garage. Then you need to pedal your little kiester God knows where in the dark, where anyone can hit you, or walk up and kidnap you and we would have no clue where you were? Is that what was running through your mind, because I have to say, Michael, I didn't think I did such a terrible job raising you.”

  “Either that or you're lying,” his father said quietly.

  He thought furiously. He couldn't tell them he went rooting around a half-destroyed school for a note that made him think everyone in the world was keeping things from him. No, he needed to improvise.

  “I...I wanted to see Charlotte.”

  Now she was up off the couch and pacing. “I knew it! I just knew it.”

  “And do you think showing up at her door in the middle of the night was a good idea?” his dad didn't stop staring at him, and he wouldn't raise his voice. Michael was hoping maybe he would start shouting. This calm and collected thing was giving him the creeps.

  “Uh...when I got there I thought about that. So I didn't go up and knock.”

  “Did lightning strike your brain, because that was the smartest thing you did all night.”

  “I'm sorry...I know you guys didn't want me going to see her.”

  “Yes, well...” his father said. He locked eyes with Susanna, and it was like they were reading each others' minds. A very intense conversation seemed to pass through the air right in front of his face, and he wanted to reach out and grab it. He wanted to jump right up and scream at them.

  “Michael,” his mother sighed. She suddenly sounded very tired. “I didn't want to talk to you about this, but Charlotte's not well. You know she's always been a bit...strange.”

  “Susie?” his father said. “What—”

  “Shush,” she said. “Charlotte's in a special hospital now.”

  “You mean...she's crazy?” Her note didn't seem crazy. Okay, there was a code in the first note, and the second one didn't sound like her. But his grandfather at the writing desk...

  “I mean she needs help, and the hospital will help her the way she needs.”

  “Susie,” his father said in a warning tone. Like she was standing too close to a cliff's edge, peering over, like she couldn't see the cracks under her feet or that she was about to fall.

  “I don't understand,” he said.

  “I know honey,” she told him. “You've been through a lot lately. That Millickie boy, and then Jared McClaren, and that Packard girl. We didn't want to throw this on your back as well. It's a pretty terrible thing to have to deal with, especially for a twelve year old.”

  “I'm twelve and a half,” he protested weakly. Charlotte couldn't be crazy. Couldn't be...right? Grandpa was at his writing desk, in his vision.

  Oh man. Maybe he was going crazy too. Having 'visions'.

  “I don't want to think about it,” his mother said. “And I'm much older than you.”

  “Practically a million years old,” his father said.

  “Michael Edward, you are not helping.”

  “Yes dear.”

  “I tell you what, sweetie,” she said. “I'm only going to ask you one thing, but I'm going to ask you once we've bought you something nice.”

  Something nice? Michael knew he was too old for this, so what was going on? He tried to decipher what was going on with his parents by reading his mother’s face, but he wasn’t any good at it. And yeah, he might be twelve and a half, but he still enjoyed a new something from the store now and again. He didn’t like to admit it, but there were still interesting things in the toy aisle.

  “Not clothes?”

  “You name it, I'll buy it for you. And maybe we can write Charlotte a letter later. I'm sure she'll get it, and I'm sure she'll write you something in return.”

  “Susie, you can't—”

  “Shut your mouth Michael,” Susanna Washington said sweetly, and Michael watched while his father's mouth slammed shut. He had his hands clasped in his lap so tight the knuckles were turning white. Michael wondered what he was missing, but there were all sorts of things his parents did he didn't understand. After a while he just learned to try to ignore them.

  “Don't you have a trip to pack for?” his mother asked.

  Michael's father stared at her for a
long time. Then, finally, he looked at the floor and muttered something under his breath. He left the room silently, face red and eyes down.

  Michael wanted to think about this conversation, but shopping around Thanksgiving time was always one of those things that melted every other thought out of his head. He said goodby to his dad and let his mother fuss him around until he was ready to head out. The atmosphere in the minivan was strained, but Michael put up with his.

  His mother let him run around the store just as long as he was back at the registers when she beeped him on his phone. So he went to bounce a basketball around the sports department for a while, then stared at all the video games he wanted to play and knew he didn't want to play, because they would suck away his reading time. Then he checked out some action figures, though he was getting too big for them. He stared at the Alphas for a long time.

  There was Ginger, a red-headed, freckly figure, twelve inches tall and surrounded by a halo of light. The figure lit up from the inside, which made her look transparent. In real life, she could make light, or even blast somebody with it.

  Next to Ginger was Stone, a smoother, happier and squarer-jawed version of Michael's father, who was a lot like the old Superman comics, if you could still find them. He had a dozen different hands, because the real Stone could turn into whatever he touched. There was a fire hand, a water hand, cement, steel, and one that was transparent and supposed to be air.

  He looked over the others, Rajasthan and McKorsky, Shadwell, and Kravenz, and wondered if any of them lived in his town. Were these people walking around shopping at the local Kmart right now? Whenever you saw them on TV, there was always some sort of computer generated distortion, like automatic makeup effects or a digital mask. The real Stone or McKorsky might not look anything like these figures. Rajasthan might be a big fat guy, or Kravens might be ugly and scarred.

  Well, his mother was going to buy him something. He could go for a new bike or a pair of sidewinder skates or a cheap tablet, but he really wanted to have Stone standing watch over him right now. Or maybe Ginger. She looked a bit like Lily, if Lily got a bunch of freckles and dyed her hair bright red. He could use a little super in his life, and a little less Active. Besides, he could stuff Charlotte's notes (real or forged) into Stone's real cotton shirt (complete with tiny pockets that wouldn't hold a button).

  He was looking at the different hands when his mother rolled by, backed up, and then came up the toy aisle after him. She frowned down at Stone, and Michael knew he’d done something bad.

  “What's the matter?” he asked.

  “This is what you want?” she asked. “A doll?”

  “It's not a doll mom,” he said. “Sheesh. It's an action figure.”

  “What sort of actions does it do?”

  He just rolled his eyes at her.

  “Well, I promised,” she conceded. “You could buy whatever you want.”

  That was a challenge and he knew it. Well, the way things were going, with them keeping things from him, he wasn't going to back down. Besides, he didn’t want Stone to play with it. He had another idea in mind for the fully-poseable figure with its 43 points of articulation and fabric clothing. He stuck it out and popped Stone into the loaded shopping cart.

  “But I told you I'd ask you to do something,” his mother said kindly. She didn't say things kindly. It was like a full-grown tiger purring. “And I don't want you to get mad at me, okay? I told you we could write to Charlotte, and maybe we'll get word back from her.”

  “Oh...kay.”

  “But you can't be going over to her house to look for her. When she's healthy again, and ready to see you, she will come back, and you'll see her then. But you can't go looking for her.”

  “But—”

  “I know,” she said, “Charlotte's your only friend, but you have to think about her right now. What's good for Charlotte? I think we can agree that we should do what's best for her, since she's not healthy right now, don't you?”

  “I...guess.”

  “I guess too. So let's leave her in peace, and you'll see her again before you know it.”

  In peace. That sounded odd.

  There was no normal when it came to grocery shopping. His mother usually bought light when his father was off on one of his trips, but when he came back, she bought a ridiculous amount of food: steaks, potatoes for mashing, fruits and vegetables, baby back ribs. It was always pig out time when his dad came home.

  That day the shopping cart was completely overloaded. Stone nearly slid off the mountain of bagged fruit and vegetables and boxes of cereal and jars of peanut butter and whatnot.

  “What's going on mom?”

  “Hm?”

  “This is a lot.” He swept his hand over the smorgasbord.

  “Your father's been complaining he keeps going to bed hungry,” she explained, then went on to herself. “Should be a little more worried about getting a beer gut.”

  Back at home, he helped unload the groceries, which involved trucking most of the groceries down to the basement where they kept a pantry that was practically a panic room. It was stuffed so full that sometimes he had to set stuff on the floor, because there weren't any shelves left. After that, he pretended to go out to the porch for something, and came back with the notes. He stuffed them into Stone's shirt, and partway down his pants. Then he put on a pair of concrete hands and posed him on top of his dresser, like Stone was ready to smash something.

  The school announced there wouldn't be any classes until LADCEMS could be fixed up right and proper again. They estimated that school would be ready again just after Thanksgiving break. That gave them an extra week free, but nothing is ever truly free. The note promised that an extra week would be tacked onto the end of the year, which was very lame.

  Michael's mother told him, since she couldn't just leave him in the house alone, that he could help her with the Christmas shopping. He was okay with that; it meant he had plenty of time to read in the car and walking around. His mother was amazed that he didn't even go tearing after all the new toys in the toy section, or head straight for the video game stores in the mall.

  He shrugged. “Maybe I'll listen to some music.”

  But he stuck close to her, and they made their slow way around the mall. Lunch was a taco salad from the food court, while Susanna ate a custom built sandwich full of weird stuff like wheat grass and bean sprouts. Sandwiches were supposed to be lunchmeat pink or lunchmeat gray with cheese yellow, not green and orange and pink and cabbage purple.

  Finally they headed toward the Macy's, where a short line of early Christmas-wishers were waiting to have their turn with Santa. When the big white and red fellow looked up, he gave a hearty 'ho, ho, ho' and waved at Michael.

  “Hmm,” his mother said. “Maybe you should go have a word with him.”

  “Mo-om. I'm not eight anymore.”

  “Too big for wishes are you? Well I sincerely hope not. Now go on, at least we can get a picture. You don't have to say anything, just for me okay?”

  He dredged up a huge sigh. Once her mind was on something, there was no nay-saying. His father knew this already, and did whatever Susanna Washington asked, right off.

  The mall had gone all out for the Christmas décor. An entire sleigh stood nearest them, with six reindeer staring off into the sky. Fake snow twinkled all over the ground, and a huge fake tree had been smothered with lights and baubles of every shape and color. At the top stood a permanently happy angel, just about to play his little harp thing. There was a striped barber pole not far from Santa's tiny house, which didn't look like it could even fit a twin size bed. Atop the enormous candy cane, a fake snow-covered sign read NORTH POLE. Several elves moved back and forth, explaining the deal to the kids and their parents as they waited. A couple of others helped children get to and from Santa, in whatever state they came. Several were dragged, kicking and screaming, not away from him, but to him. Michael grinned at the sight.

  He joined the line and went t
hrough a few more pages of something called Eldest, which was about a boy who found a dragon egg. It was really old, but Lily had recommended the series. He had to admit, for a boy of seventeen to have written the first book, a 900 page whopper, that was pretty amazing. Though it definitely wasn't the Lord of the Rings, the second book was getting even better.

  By the time he looked up again, he was standing at the stairs and Santa's elves were ushering off a five or six year old girl dressed all in pink, a space cadet who was telling the elf that she hadn't gotten through her entire Christmas list. She still wanted some Cinnamaroll shoes, and a diary to keep all her memories forever, and a new lunch box, and...oh yeah, a pony.

  Michael shook his head and told himself it wouldn't be long, just get it over with.

  “Ho ho ho!” Santa said. “Come on up here son, have a seat.”

  He did.

  “Now...what would you like for Christmas? I hear BB guns and bicycles are popular this year.”

  He wasn't sure what made him say it. He hadn't planned on telling Santa a single thing beyond 'ah, I'm cool', but what came out was, “I just want to see my friend again. Her name's Charlotte.” I think she's in trouble, he thought.

  “Well son, I've got a message from Charlotte,” Santa told him.

  “What?”

  “Look over here Michael!” his mother called.

  “In the note you got. The numbers are her locker com.”

  He stared at Santa, but he was a middle-aged guy who smelled a little like sweat, with a big fake beard smashed onto his face. He couldn't know. But then again...this town was full of Actives. Over a hundred, Springfield had told him. What he couldn't figure out was why he was trusting this one.

  “I know...I opened it. I got a note, but it was fake. They took the real one.”

  “Michael! Over here.”

  “Hm. That's a tough one then,” Santa said. He sounded disappointed but not really surprised. “Well, she'll get you something. But she wants you to keep an eye open. Don't forget about her.”

  He looked up at his mom and smiled. Santa did too. He was sure it was a good one.

  Whatever Santa knew, and however he got his information, Michael couldn't talk to him anymore. The elves ushered him away, and so did his mother. She was intent on buying something for his dad, and it soon became clear she was bent on buying the worst sweater she could find.

  “So,” she said later, “How was Santa?” She was busy with a sweater that was shedding itself all over the store floor. It had fuzzy eyelash things everywhere, green with silver glints all over it. It was the color of puke.

  “Hm?” he said. His mind raced. He tried to figure out whether she could have heard. No, he decided.

  “Santa? Big guy with the white beard and the sore leg from all the kids sitting on his lap. Did you have a nice chat?”

  She'd heard something.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “I just told him I didn't really want anything. I just wanted to see Charlotte again.” He watched for her reaction, and wasn't disappointed.

  “Ah,” she said, and that was the end of the conversation. From the murder in her eyes, and the way she was tearing through the sweaters now, she wasn't happy about his Christmas wish, but he didn't believe she knew anything about the notes, real or fake. She finally settled on a sweater, a big periwinkle and red and mustard yellow monstrosity with a diamond pattern he wouldn't use as a blanket if he was freezing to death.

  That was okay. Michael was just at the part where the hero got betrayed by the one guy he helped out. It was one of those parts of the book he couldn't read fast enough, and he had to stop himself to slow down a lot, so he didn't miss something. At the same time, he had to read faster, faster, faster, to know what was going to happen.

  He felt like that too, only about his real life. When they got close to the Santa setup again, he was tempted to ask his mother if he could go line up again, but two things stopped him. The first was his mother's face: cloudy with a chance of hurricane. The second was the fact that Santa was gone.

  But he was walking on hot coals just to see what was going to happen next.

  Chapter 9 - Disassembly