Action Figures - Issue Four: Cruel Summer

by Michael C Bailey

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Matt says.

  “You and me both,” I say.

  Bad news, regardless of its veracity, travels fast indeed. During math class I catch a few of my classmates giving me looks ranging from sympathetic to judgmental. I’m on the receiving end of alternating pity and stink-eye as I weave through the halls on my way to lunch, where I find Sara loitering by the cafeteria entrance, leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded, like a bouncer outside a nightclub.

  “Sara,” I say, intending to dissuade her from whatever course of action she has in mind. I can’t help but think whatever she’s about to do, it’ll only make things worse (though I can’t imagine how). She ignores me and steps into the path of Amber and her boyfriend, Gerry Yannick, as they try to enter the cafeteria.

  “Can I help you?” Gerry says.

  “You’re talking smack about my best friend,” Sara says to Amber. “You’re going to fix it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Amber says with a smarmy little grin.

  “Yes you do, and like I said, you’re going to fix it — or else.”

  “You best not be threatening my girl,” Gerry says, stepping forward to loom over Sara. She doesn’t back away.

  “Your girl? Oh, aren’t you the dutiful boyfriend all of a sudden? Where was that sense of loyalty when you were fooling around with Becky McKidd Saturday night?”

  Amber’s head snaps around like it’s spring-loaded. Gerry’s eyes bug out of their sockets.

  “What? How? What?” he stammers.

  “Gerry?” Amber says.

  “What? No. I didn’t. No.”

  “You said you were home sick.”

  “I was. I was, honest.” He rounds on Sara. “Where did you hear that?”

  “The rumor mill’s not so much fun when it’s your name on everyone’s lips, is it?” Sara says, then she turns back to Amber. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to march into that cafeteria and announce that you’re the one spreading the rumor about Carrie, and that everything is a complete lie you made up because you’re a vile, hateful bitch.” Sara shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be in those exact words. As long as you get the point across.”

  “Psst. Right, as if,” Amber sneers.

  “You’re going to do it, or I promise you, by the end of the day no one’s going to be talking about Carrie’s fictional pregnancy,” Sara says, her smile turning wolfish. “They’ll be too busy talking about your actual pregnancy. You know, the one you had terminated back during February vacation.”

  Amber turns ashen.

  “What?” Gerry says to Sara, then again to Amber.

  “Don’t worry, Gerry, it wasn’t yours,” Sara says. Amber’s complexion fades from gray to chalk white.

  “Sara, stop,” I say, but no one’s paying attention to me.

  “You wouldn’t,” Amber says.

  “That all depends.” Sara steps aside, granting Amber and Gerry passage. She turns to me. “Problem solved.”

  “Sara,” I say, “how did you know all that?”

  “How do you think?” Sara says, tapping the side of her head. “Duh.”

  “Oh my God, you went into their heads?” I hiss.

  Sara frowns. “I think what you mean to say is ‘Thank you.’ I did that for you.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that for me. I didn’t ask you to violate their minds to get me off the hook for a stupid rumor.”

  “I did it anyway, because that’s what friends do: they watch each other’s backs.” Sara fixes me with a hard stare. “Won’t make that mistake again.”

  Sara blows past me, and a moment later the din of hungry students dwindles to a curious near-silence — near-silence in that only one girl is talking.

  “I have something I need to tell all of you,” Amber says.

  “Did you see it?” Malcolm says outside our web design class, a class that exists in name only. The end of the school year is two weeks away, and end-of-the-year apathy has settled in among students and teachers alike. Mr. Rose has us going over material from the beginning of the year to fill the period. Review work, he calls it.

  “See what?”

  “Angus told me Amber got up in the middle of the cafeteria and confessed she was spreading rumors about you being...you know.”

  “Oh, right, that. Yeah, I saw it.”

  “So she really did it?”

  “Uh-huh. It was quite the spectacle.”

  “Wow,” Malcolm says, a smile spreading across his face, “that’s great.”

  What the huh? “How is that great?”

  “How is —? Carrie, do you know what could have happened if one of our teachers caught wind of that rumor? They’re supposed to call our parents about stuff like that.”

  I see where he’s going. My mom might be well aware of our transgression but Malcolm’s parents aren’t, and I can’t imagine they’d take kindly to me defiling their upright, squeaky-clean son. Forget about the invitation to join the Forths in the Poconos. Heck, forget about ever seeing Malcolm again — at least not without a chaperone. And a chastity belt.

  “I wonder what made her do that?” Malcolm says as we file into the classroom. “Maybe she got an attack of guilty conscience?”

  Yeah, an attack of guilty conscience leveraged by no small amount of emotional blackmail.

  “You know what we need?” Malcolm says in that easy-going, no-worries way of his. “Some nice, quiet us time. What do you say we head to Coffee E after school, just you and me, grab something to take on the road, and head up to Milne’s Woods. You, me, caffeine, and nature. How does that sound?”

  I smile. It sounds fantastic.

  So, of course, Edison has to call an all-hands meeting for this afternoon. His text reads: HS needed @ HQ ASAP. You know it’s urgent if Edison isn’t spelling out every last word.

  I beg off on my plans with Malcolm, claiming I’ve been called in to work (technically not a lie), and promise to make it up to him on...well, nuts. That would be Friday because I really do have work the next three days.

  Oh, and let’s make things a little worse, shall we? I’m dead certain Edison plans to formally brief the Squad on the King of Pain, which means I either tell the team myself and cheese off Edison, or I stay quiet, let Edison do the talking, and betray the team’s No Secrets, No Lies Rule. Damned if I do...

  Screw it. I’m used to Edison being mad about something. Once we’re clear of school grounds and away from prying ears, I tell the others.

  “Whoa, back up,” Stuart says. “The dude tried to strangle himself by flushing a bed sheet down the can?”

  “Well, kinda-sorta,” I say, “but basically, yeah.”

  “Man. That’s all kinds of sad.”

  “What’s sad is he didn’t succeed,” Sara says, echoing Edison’s distasteful thoughts on the matter.

  “Why did he try to kill himself?” Missy asks. “Isn’t he supposed to be a crazy dangerous bad-ass evil genius Hannibal Lecter guy?”

  “I guess that’s the point,” I say. “Dr. Quentin said people like him are major control freaks, and when they’re not in control anymore, they lose it.”

  Being in what amounts to solitary confinement isn’t helping much, I bet. I’ve heard that solitary can break a person down fast, and based on my mercifully limited experience with total isolation in a Byrne prison cell, I can understand why. I sat in one for maybe two hours. It felt like two days.

  “Is that what Edison’s going to tell us?” Matt asks. “That the King of Pain tried to off himself?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Well, I promise to act surprised. What? Oh my God!” Matt says, feigning shock convincingly enough. “Why would he do something like that?”

  “Don’t,” I say. “I’m going to confess to Edison right up front I told you about it.”

  “Your funeral,” Stuart remarks.

  “Maybe, but look, he’s finally warmed up to us and I
don’t want to screw that up. Let me take the heat on this one. He’ll be less likely to freak out if I admit I broke his confidence than if we all lie to his face about it.”

  “Must be nice to be the golden child,” Sara says.

  “Man, what is it with you lately?” Stuart says. “You’ve been acting all —”

  “Stuart, I swear to God if you say ‘bitchy’ I’ll slap you so hard even you’ll feel it.”

  Stuart holds his hands up and, wisely, lets the subject rest.

  We reach Protectorate HQ via the Wonkavator. Edison is at the end of the line, in the subbasement, and he doesn’t bother with dragging us all the way up to the conference room.

  “Sorry to pull you in like this, but I promise I’ll keep it quick,” he says.

  “Edison, they know. I told them the King of Pain tried to kill himself in his cell,” I say. Edison narrows his eyes at me. “I know, you told me that in confidence and I —”

  “Yes, I did,” he says, “which appears to have been a mistake on my part. I thought I could trust you.”

  Ah, the classic Concorde Guilt Trip Technique — an oldie but a goodie. Sorry, boss, but I’m not going to play that game anymore.

  “Hero Squad Rule Number One: no secrets, no lies. We made a promise long ago to never keep anything from each other,” I say. “That’s why I told them about the King of Pain, that’s why I’m telling you I told them. Total honesty all around. If that’s a problem then cut me off, but if you’re going to keep me in the loop, I’m going to keep the Squad in the loop.”

  “Sometimes there are good reasons to keep secrets,” Edison says.

  “I don’t disagree, and if you give me a good reason to keep my mouth shut, I will, but you didn’t give me any reason to say nothing about the King of Pain,” I point out, “and frankly, Sara has a right to know what’s going on with him.”

  Edison, after a moment of thought, says, “Fair enough, but from now on, all information about the case comes directly from me or Bart. No more second-hand accounts. Acceptable?”

  I glance over at Sara. She nods.

  “There you go,” I say.

  “Then here’s your first update,” Edison says. “The King of Pain spent twenty-four hours in the Byrne medical center for observation then went back to his cell under a suicide watch. No developments since then.”

  “What about the case itself?” Matt says.

  “Nothing new to report yet, and don’t expect a lot of significant movement anytime soon. We have to coordinate efforts between our DA and district attorneys in a dozen or so other jurisdictions across the country, they all have to collect backlogged evidence from other super-teams, arrange follow-up interviews — and that’s just to get the case kicked up to the superior court level.”

  “How long is this going to take?” Sara says impatiently.

  “It’ll be months, possibly a year or two before it goes to trial,” Edison says, “then, assuming we get a conviction, there’s a second trial for the punishment phase, which is even more involved, then there’s the automatic appeal...”

  “You’re saying he could be sitting in jail for years before he’s executed.”

  “That’s the process,” Edison says, simultaneously apologetic and resentful.

  “The process sucks,” Sara spits.

  TWENTY

  A dark cloud hangs over Sara in the days that follow our meeting with Edison. Her bright moods are fewer and farther between (and not all that bright), she’s even quicker to anger than before, and her apologies have stopped entirely. Stuart and Missy have become hesitant to speak to her at all for fear they’ll draw an outburst their way. Matt, bless him, he keeps trying to cheer her up, but Sara rebuffs his efforts each and every time — sometimes more harshly than necessary.

  Authority figures aren’t safe from her temper, either. Sara spends Wednesday afternoon in detention after mouthing off to Mrs. Moony, her math teacher. It seems that in the last few weeks, Sara’s test scores have jumped from an average score of seventy-one to perfect one hundreds (plus the extra credit questions), and Mrs. Moony questioned this remarkable turnaround — by which I mean she accused Sara of cheating. Sara took offense and told Mrs. Moony to (censoring slightly here) prove it or F-off.

  The cruel twist? Sara admitted to me she had been cheating, by pulling correct test answers out of other students’ heads. She blew this off as no big deal. As long as no one got hurt, she rationalized, why shouldn’t she use her powers to make life easier for herself?

  I’ve always wanted Sara to get comfortable with her powers, and now that she has, the phrase be careful what you wish for is playing in my head like an earworm.

  My biggest fear now is that her temper will turn toward my mother, but so far Mom’s the only person who appears to be getting a pass from Sara’s wrath. Thank God for small miracles, but I can’t count on the peace lasting. Something’s got to give eventually.

  Something’s going to give. It’s just a matter of when, and who gets caught in the fallout.

  I do my best to drive all these thoughts out of my head as I get ready for my dinner date with Malcolm, but they’re not going anywhere. I fix my hair, put on makeup, get dressed, but it’s an unconscious ritual. I’m only going through the motions.

  Boy, am I going to be a fun date tonight.

  I head downstairs to wait for Malcolm. Sara, as has become her habit, is stretched out on the couch, hands folded on her stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t move. She just lies there.

  “You going to get together with the others tonight?” I say.

  “Why? So they can spend the night not talking to me?” Sara says. “Malcolm’s here.”

  The doorbell rings a full thirty seconds later.

  “Hey,” Malcolm says, greeting me with a kiss. “Hi, Sara.”

  “Malcolm,” she says to the ceiling.

  “Ready to get going?”

  “Ready,” I say, putting on an empty smile. “Let’s go.”

  I’d hoped to be out and gone before Mom got home, but no such luck; the door opens as I reach for the knob. Mom steps in, and Malcolm goes deer-in-the-headlights rigid.

  “Malcolm,” Mom says coolly.

  “Ms. Hauser,” Malcolm says.

  Mom looks to me. “What’s on for tonight?”

  Sounds like small talk, feels like an interrogation. At least I’m on something resembling familiar ground.

  “Nothing special,” I say. “Dinner out.”

  “Sterling Lounge,” Malcolm adds. “Carrie said she’s never been, so...”

  “Hm,” Mom grunts. “What time do you expect to be home?”

  “Early,” I say. “Nine-ish?”

  “Nine-ish,” Malcolm confirms.

  “Hm,” Mom says again. “Have a nice dinner.”

  “We will. Thank you,” Malcolm says.

  Mom heads upstairs to, I’m guessing, change for her own night out with Ben.

  “On that cheery note,” I mumble.

  “Yeah. Good-night, Sara,” Malcolm says.

  “Try and keep it in your pants, cowboy,” Sara responds.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Malcolm, come on,” I say. I practically have to drag him out of the house.

  “What was that about?”

  “Ignore her.”

  “Carrie...”

  “Look, she’s been...” Malcolm waits for my explanation — my excuse. “I don’t know. She’s been so angry lately, about everything, and I don’t know why anymore and I can’t fix it and right now, I don’t care. I want to forget about her tonight. I want to forget about Sara and school and work and everything that isn’t you and me. Can we do that?”

  Malcolm nods, smiles. He always has a smile for me.

  “Of course we can,” he says.

  We all need distractions.

  Life is always going to dump on you, in big ways and little, in tiny portions and in heaping helpings, and solutions t
o whatever problems are plaguing you at any given time don’t always come quickly or easily — or at all. That’s why you sometimes have to stop trying to fix things and indulge in a little escapism. There’s nothing wrong with spending a few precious hours that the world doesn’t suck and everything is awesome.

  It’s best when this self-imposed state of denial comes naturally. When it’s forced, when you put conscious effort into shoving your troubles to the back of your brain, it only serves to heighten the anxiety, the worry, the stress. You’re aware you’re trying to ignore something, which makes you more aware of what you’re trying to ignore.

  (Is anti-Zen a thing? If it isn’t, I think I’ve accidentally invented it.)

  Case in point: Malcolm spends our evening doing his very best to boost my spirits talking about all the good stuff coming up for us: the end of the school year, a summer full of fun and frolic, a vacation getaway to the Poconos — good stuff, all of it, but he’s trying too hard. As a result, I spend what should be a pleasant, relaxing, romantic dinner with the boy I love fretting about all the garbage waiting for me when it ends, namely Sara’s increasingly foul mood. Coming in a close second would be a mother who no longer trusts, perhaps no longer likes my boyfriend.

  “Carrie?” he says.

  “Yeah?”

  “I know you didn’t want to talk about anything heavy tonight —”

  “Still don’t.”

  “— but I think you need to. I can tell your heart isn’t in this.”

  “No, it is,” I insist. “Honestly.”

  “No, it isn’t, because that piece of cheesecake has been sitting in front of you for five whole minutes and it’s still there,” Malcolm says, pointing with his fork at a generous slice of cheesecake topped with raspberry sauce that has had exactly one tiny bite taken out of it.

  Man, I’m in a worse mood than I thought.

  “Betrayed by cheesecake. I thought we were friends,” I say to my dessert.

  “Come on, Carrie, talk to me.”

  I lay down my fork. “Do you know what I hate more than anything?”

  “Sexism, math, your Mom’s coffee, kale, and Peter Jackson’s quote-unquote bloated, overblown, uber-indulgent version of The Hobbit,” Malcolm says.