Superpowerless

by Chris Priestley

  He flinches and looks up to find her leaning towards him, hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing a tight white vest top and black tracksuit bottoms. Is this real? It feels like another dream beginning. But yes. It’s real. She’s here to clean.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your porn-watching, but I’ve got to hoover in here.’

  ‘What? No – I’m not watching por—’

  But she has already switched the hoover on and is putting her earbuds in. She turns away and sets about her work, her face a neutral mask that could have signified concentration or boredom or just about anything. David wonders what she’s listening to.

  Holly looks more at ease in David’s room than he does most of the time. She seems to just immediately own the space, running the brush-headed nozzle of the hoover along the corners of the walls and ceiling as if she had always done that and that her being in David’s bedroom isn’t in the least bit incredible.

  She glides round the room with a kind of casual efficiency and, while feigning a renewed interest in his laptop, David studies her every movement, his mind constantly and feverishly switching to the memory of her in her bikini, superimposing that image onto the one in front of him, stripping her clothes away as though he had X-ray vision. But that isn’t one of his superpowers.

  X-ray vision is always problematic to David, because how would you control it if you had it? How can you see through walls but stop at the flesh of the people on the other side? How can you see through a person’s clothes but not their skin and bones? If Superman could see through people’s clothes, then why wasn’t he constantly undressing Lois Lane with his super-eyes?

  There were adverts for X-ray specs in some of the comics. The picture showed a big pair of glasses with concentric circles in the lenses and ‘X-RAY VISION’ written on the frame. They said they were a scientific wonder, which David kind of doubted as they were only ninety-five dollars. ‘Girls will never trust you with these, but let them look for themselves and apparently see legs right through your pants.’

  Holly turns the hoover off and it whines nasally, shutting down. Without its roar a new, soft intimacy seems to shrink the room and David shifts uneasily. It feels weird. He has imagined having a girl in his room so many times, but it never felt quite like this.

  Not that Holly notices. She appears utterly oblivious to David – or no more aware of him than of the desk or the chair. She picks up the various items from the top of his chest of drawers, dusting them and the surface they had been standing on before replacing them.

  David takes every chance he can to watch her as she goes round the room, studying every inch of her – the lacy yellow bra straps visible beneath those of her vest, the way the material of her tracksuit bottoms stretches when she bends over – so close he could have reached out and …

  ‘What are you doing?’ says David as Holly yanks the cord on the Venetian blinds, pulling them up and clattering them clear of the window.

  ‘Excuse me? I told your mum I’d try and clean your windows. The window cleaner can’t reach up here from outside.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’ says Holly, carrying on regardless. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything. A bit of air in here wouldn’t go amiss …’

  David has already taken the precaution of putting the scope and tripod in his wardrobe, but there is still something very disturbing about having Holly looking out of the very window he uses to spy on her.

  ‘It’s quite a view you’ve got up here,’ she says, opening the casement and leaning out to spray the outside of the pane.

  ‘I suppose,’ says David.

  She sets about rubbing the glass in concentric circles and this activity sends a series of rhythmic movements through her whole body and David watches them all, spellbound.

  ‘You can see every garden in the street,’ she says above the squeaking of her cloth.

  ‘Sorry?’ he replies, pretending not to hear.

  Holly doesn’t bother repeating. Either she knows he’s heard or doesn’t care that he hasn’t. She simply finishes that window and turns to do the other. When she’s finished she closes the windows and sprays the inside.

  ‘There,’ she says, when she’s finished. ‘You can actually see out of them now.’

  She doesn’t seem to have noticed the patch that David had cleaned specifically for the scope to look through. She wipes her hands on her vest, leaving two smudges across her stomach.

  ‘Filthy,’ she says, with a grin.

  David smiles awkwardly and nods, opening his mouth to reply but unable to come up with anything. Holly isn’t looking at him in any case. She is walking back to the hoover, putting her earbuds back in.

  ‘Just got to finish the floor,’ she shouts, changing the attachment, and the hoover roars back into life.

  David puts his own headphones back on and returns to his laptop, casting furtive glances at Holly as she pushes the hoover round the carpet.

  ‘All done,’ she says eventually, as she turns the hoover off.

  And that’s that. She’s gone. She clumps down the stairs and then a mighty, melancholy silence settles on the room, like the soundless void that follows a firework display.

  Chapter 7

  More Himself?

  David grabs hold of the front bumper as the back of the car disappears beneath the espresso-coloured water. The driver glances behind him as water begins to fill the car, and then stares out in panic at David.

  The light is fading as though day is being sucked under with the car. David grits his teeth and digs his fingers through the metal behind the bumper. It screeches and groans as it buckles and twists in his grip.

  He strains and heaves. He has to generate all the power because he’s not standing on anything to brace himself against and every muscle and sinew bulges in his arms and neck as he gives a great yell and pulls the car up into the air.

  The driver’s face shows astonishment now, rather than fear, but his knuckles are still white as he holds tightly to the steering wheel – as though it’s the only thing stopping him tumbling backwards into the water.

  David has control of the car now and begins to carry it to the bank. The driver finally exhales the breath he has been holding and a weak smile appears on his face as he realises he is safe.

  Then the blinding whiteness smashes into him.

  ‘David?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Hello? David?’

  It’s Mrs Jardine – Dr Jardine – Joe’s mother. David is standing outside Joe’s house; standing on the doorstep looking lost.

  ‘Erm …’

  She chuckles.

  ‘You’re always in a dream world, aren’t you?’ She turns away and yells over her shoulder. ‘Joe – David’s here to see you.’

  She stands aside and ushers him in with a wafting motion.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ she says. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says David. Then, as an afterthought, ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she says as they walk into the kitchen. ‘Thank you for asking. How about you?’

  David shrugs.

  ‘OK.’

  She looks at him with an expression David has seen many times on many faces – a look of sympathy mixed with awkwardness mixed with frustration. Do we still have to be gentle with you? they seemed to be saying. Do we still have to tread softly? Are you not over it yet? Give us a break.

  And David is always aware that Joe must talk to her about him – that she knows more than he might want her to know. It has always made him feel both closer to her and wary of her, at the same time.

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘She’s good,’ says David. ‘Really busy. She has loads of work on.’

  ‘She’s so talented, your mother,’ says Dr Jardine. ‘I can’t draw to save my life. Such an amazing way to earn a living.’

  David nods. He knows. Dr Jardine has told him this many times – pretty much every time his mother gets mentioned.
/>   ‘My mum says everyone else’s job always seems more interesting than your own.’

  Dr Jardine smiles. David wonders if they haven’t had this exact conversation before – with the exact same words – and thinks Dr Jardine is thinking the same. She had been kind when his dad died – really kind.

  ‘Believe me – no one is ever jealous of me being a GP!’

  Joe comes in. He says nothing – he just nods at David, and Dr Jardine leaves them to it with a parting smile at David. He sits on the sofa, Joe on a nearby armchair.

  ‘How come your mum’s not working?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s got some meeting in town – she did tell me what it was about but …’

  David nods, only half listening to the reply.

  ‘Sorry,’ says David, eager to get his apology out of the way. ‘About the other day.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know – not going over to see Matt and Ellen and the others after tennis.’

  Joe shrugs.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  But David knew he did.

  ‘It’s just that they really wind me up. I shouldn’t have said you’d be a mascot.’

  Joe nods. He wants to say more. He has planned to say more. But it doesn’t come.

  ‘Gah – it doesn’t matter. Forget it.’

  ‘You’d make a rubbish mascot anyway.’

  ‘True,’ says Joe.

  ‘What did you get up to?’

  Joe shrugs.

  ‘Not a lot really. We had a kick-around for a while, but I was a bit knackered after tennis to be honest. We just sat around mostly. Talking. You know.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘I don’t know – if you’re that interested you should have come over.’

  David smiles. He has a point. But he carries on anyway. He suddenly has a very clear and persistent image of Ellen in his head.

  ‘Did you – did they – talk about me?’

  ‘Ah – is that what this is about?’

  ‘Well, did you?’

  David’s stomach knots itself. Why is he even asking this? Time was when all he wanted was to not be talked about, not be stared at, pitied.

  ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘A bit – at the beginning. They wanted to know why you hadn’t come over.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I said you had to shoot off.’

  ‘Did they ask why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What would you have said if they had?’

  ‘That you were having your hair done.’

  David grins.

  ‘My hair done?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’d have said. They didn’t ask. So …’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  David can tell this version of events is not perhaps the entire truth – or not a comprehensive description at any rate – but what is the point in picking away at it? He trusts Joe. Joe has stuck by him through everything. He knows Joe would never say anything bad about him when he wasn’t there. Who cares what the others said?

  Except he does a bit. He hates himself for it, but he does care. He doesn’t care what they think exactly – he just cares that they are talking about him at all. He hates the idea that they say his name out loud. He doesn’t even want to be in their thoughts.

  Except maybe Ellen’s.

  ‘Actually, we talked a bit about college next year and how school already feels like ages ago.’

  David nods. It’s true, it did. Maybe they are a bit worried too – given that other schools feed into the college and they will go from being top dogs to being just one of many top dogs, each of them having to justify its place in the pecking order all over again. No such issues for David and Joe of course …

  ‘I can’t wait to get started,’ says Joe.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ says David. ‘I’m pretty bored with the holidays already.’

  ‘That too,’ says Joe. ‘But I mean it’s exciting, you know? A chance to be something different. To start again.’

  ‘You’re going to reinvent yourself?’ says David with a quizzical arch of his eyebrow.

  Joe frowns.

  ‘Would that be so bad?’

  David laughs. Joe scowls at him.

  ‘You’re happy just the way you are, is that it?’

  David didn’t like the sarcastic snort that followed this statement.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I’m certainly not going to let Ben and Matt and those others convince me I need to change to suit them. Definitely not. Is that what you want? To pretend to be something you’re not?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ says Joe. ‘I’m not talking about pretending to be someone you’re not. It’s a chance to become more yourself. That’s all.’

  More himself? More himself. He’s totally himself – more than himself. If only he could explain to Joe, but he can’t. It hurts to have him think that all there is to David is what he sees in front of him, but that’s all part and parcel of having a super-identity. It goes with the territory.

  ‘So – are you going to be more yourself?’ says David.

  ‘Maybe,’ says Joe.

  David mutters under his breath.

  ‘Forget it,’ says Joe with an irritated sigh and suggests they play FIFA on the Xbox. David’s mind returns again and again to the thought of being discussed at the picnic.

  He realises he is being stupid. What does it matter what they think or say? And yet he has horrible imagined glimpses of them all – including Ellen Emerson – mouthing his name and laughing.

  So distracted is he in fact that he finishes the game with only nine men, having had two sent off for hideously mistimed tackles, and he does not even manage a single shot on target.

  And he’s still chewing it over on the way home, torturing himself with invented conversations and then beating himself up for being so ridiculous. Why hadn’t he just gone over with Joe? Why does he have to make life so hard for himself?

  It’s a question he’s asked himself so many times since his father died. Why couldn’t he just be sad like his mum? Why did he have to start acting weird?

  That’s when the lying had started. He’d started lying about all kinds of things, even when he didn’t have to. He couldn’t stop. It felt weirdly powerful – like he was in control when he was anything but. Like he was making his life up as he went along.

  But no one likes a liar. He got into trouble at school. He went from everyone feeling sorry for him to everyone feeling pissed off with him. It was quite an achievement.

  Chapter 8

  Positively Cold

  David’s mother is rushing around the house frantically when he comes back from Joe’s. He’s in a bad mood, but his mother fails to acknowledge or even notice it, and this makes it worse.

  She has just finished packing her work up when the doorbell rings.

  ‘Go and get that, David,’ she says. ‘It’ll be the courier. Tell him I’ll be a couple of minutes.’

  David answers the door and does as he’s been told. The courier fidgets on the doorstep, scrolling through his phone, with David unsure about whether he is supposed to stand there or invite the man in.

  His mother arrives in any case and hands the package over to the courier, who thanks her and heads off.

  ‘And don’t bloody bend it this time,’ she mutters to herself as the van moves away.

  David follows her down the hall and is about to head upstairs when she calls out over her shoulder, ‘You haven’t forgotten that the Millers are coming over tonight, have you?’

  He has no recollection of this whatsoever.

  ‘What? When? What time?’

  ‘About seven thirty. Does that give you time to get your make-up on?’

  ‘That’s very funny, Mum,’ says David. ‘A bit homophobic, but never mind.’

  ‘Homophobic?’ says his mother, rolling her eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘If I did wear make-up? Why should that bother you?’

  ‘It wouldn
’t bother me,’ says his mother. ‘Well, it might a bit. But not because I’m homophobic. I’m just not sure you would … That it would … It would freak me a bit, I have to say.’

  ‘But if I was gay you’d be fine with it?’

  She walks back towards him and stares at him.

  ‘Are you?’ she says, her voice almost sounding pleading, wishful. Is that what this is about? Is that why you’re like this? ‘Are you gay? Because if you are, you know –’

  ‘I’m not gay,’ replies David.

  ‘Because if you were –’

  ‘I’m not gay, OK,’ he says. ‘I was just making the point. I was just wondering how cool you’d be with it if I was.’

  ‘I’d be very cool with it,’ she says in a hurt voice. ‘I’d be really cool. I’d be positively cold. I mean – you know what I mean.’

  ‘Really?’

  But he knows she would.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Why would you even ask?’

  ‘You don’t have any gay friends,’ says David anyway.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘I do!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says his mother. ‘But I do. I know I do. I just can’t think. In any case what’s all this about? Why the sudden interest in my attitude to gay people? Are you sure –’

  ‘Mum, I’m not gay, OK?’ he says, though even he can see why she might think that after this outburst. ‘I like girls. Women, I mean. Older girls. Young women.’

  ‘Oh,’ says his mother, sounding more uncomfortable at the idea of talking about his interest in the opposite sex than she had been about the idea that he might be interested in his own. ‘Well, good.’

  ‘You see,’ says David.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why did you say “good”? If you don’t mind me being gay.’

  ‘You just said you weren’t.’

  ‘I’m not!’

  His mother takes a deep breath.

  ‘Shall we draw a line under this conversation and move on? I haven’t got the time.’

  David shrugs. He’s made his point. If he had one. He’s made some kind of point, he’s sure.