Supervillain High
by
Gerhard Gehrke
For Abby
Copyright © 2017 Gerhard Gehrke
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
Attribution—You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).
Noncommercial—You may not use this work for commercial purposes.
No Derivative Works—You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.
Edited by Brittany Dory at Blue Minerva Copyediting.
Cover Design by Greg Simanson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
1. Daddy Was a Bank Robber
“See that guy there in the purple mask robbing the bank? That’s my dad.”
Brendan stopped the video on his phone and waited for a reaction. Mr. Childes, his school counselor, nodded as if this was something he had heard before. The older man took his reading glasses off his slender nose and considered the student sitting across the desk from him.
“How interesting,” Mr. Childes said flatly. “So, your father is one of these superheroes who dresses up and gets into a lot of trouble.”
“Not a hero. One of the bad guys. He robs banks, armored cars, jewelry exchanges, and the like.”
“And for how long has he done that?”
Brendan looked for any sign that the counselor was asking something he already knew the answer to. Having been examined by more than his share of psychologists, Brendan hated that. Besides, didn’t everyone keep up with supers? Most people knew who the Drone King was, didn’t they? But Mr. Childes’s droopy face didn’t waver.
“He tried a few anonymous robberies about ten years ago when I was a little kid. Even back then, a few people in costumes were starting to show up, and it was like a fever took hold of him. He was one of the first. He made his debut as the Purple Wing a year later when he heisted a gold bullion delivery in New York. He was arrested two weeks after that robbery. Went to prison for two years.”
“A short sentence?”
Brendan shook his head and grinned. “He escaped. He’s been on the run since, but hasn’t been smart enough to not show his face in public. He calls himself Drone King because, well, he uses drones. Lots of them. I thought since he hadn’t been seen in over eight months that maybe he had retired. Then this showed up online last week.”
Mr. Childes nodded. He read from a monitor and worked a mouse on his desk. “Your records show that you were raised by your mother, Teresa Garza. No siblings. How much contact have you had with your father growing up?”
“He was either in jail or a fugitive. My mom heard more from the Marshals than from him, and the last time he called a couple of years ago she told him never to call again until he turns himself in.”
“And what about you? Did he ever try to keep in contact with you?”
Brendan remained silent.
Mr. Childes cleared his throat. “Brendan, I appreciate that you came forward with this when you didn’t have to. You’re new to this area and to this school. But I tell you in all sincerity that what we talk about in this room is confidential. I’m your counselor. Your counselor. I don’t tell other faculty or staff or even the school headmaster anything that you say. I’m not even allowed to tell your mother. My job here is to care for you and your needs. If this is something you don’t want to discuss, then that is fine with me. I want you to feel comfortable while in this room. Thank you for sharing what you have shared.”
Brendan shifted in his chair. He had never been with a psychiatrist, psychologist, or therapist that wasn’t assigned him by the city or state of New York. They had never treated Brendan as a patient, but as a problem. He also wasn’t used to anyone talking to him like this. It sounded so sincere that he immediately became suspicious that he was missing something. But Mr. Childes’s credentials were on the wall, and Brendan had checked him out online. An actual doctor of psychiatry who had graduated from Yale. And he was working at Dutchman Springs Academy as a counselor. His counselor. He bet his mother would have killed for him to have access to a guy like this back in middle school, when the anger had been at its worst.
“No, it’s okay,” Brendan said. “He hasn’t kept in contact with me. I try. I keep trying. He occasionally leaves a voicemail from a throwaway phone but never replies when I call back. The few times I pick up, he only has a minute before he has to hang up. It’s the same conversation every time. ‘I love you, I’m thinking about you, I hope we can get together soon and catch up.’ Stuff like that. I keep telling myself that I won’t get my hopes up. I haven’t spoken to him in person maybe ever. When I was five doesn’t count. I don’t know the man. So then when I see this video…”
Brendan felt a rush of frustration choke him up and hated himself for it.
“Take your time.”
Brendan shook his head. “I hope they catch him is all. And I read through the school handbook and know that there’s a strong ethics policy. So I thought I should talk to you. I don’t want this to be something that comes up later and spoils things.”
“You’re very conscientious. That’s admirable, and exactly what we want to see in those coming here. I must admit that this is a unique situation I would never have imagined helping a student with. I’m glad you brought it to me, even though you don’t know me yet. I assure you that the things your father does and has done will not affect you.”
“But it might. My mother could never have afforded to send me here, not in a million years.” Yet here he was, in a private preparatory high school in California, despite a juvenile record, expulsions, and mediocre grades.
“I see. It says here you were awarded private tuition through a grant. The details of the grantee are not known to me. But the school only accepts grant money from legal entities, so if this is indeed something your father might have set up, I must imagine that it’s legal. We didn’t accept a large briefcase full of cash, if that’s what you were worried about.”
Mr. Childes smiled. Brendan wasn’t reassured.
“But again, you haven’t seen your father for nine years or more?” Mr. Childes asked. “How can you even be sure that the man behind that mask is him?”
Brendan picked at a fingernail. He decided he wanted the interview with his counselor to just be over. He needed to go to his dorm room and unpack. And he was tired. Jet lag and a long Dallas layover added up to not having slept in twenty-five hours.
But Brendan had watched the video over and over, had watched all the response videos and read the comments. His father’s name was known, even though it wasn’t the same name that he’d had when living with Brendan’s mother. Myron Reece was a famous felon. While these other sources provided little in the way of concrete proof to the criminal in the purple mask’s identity, the knowledge lodged in his gut and weighed heavy.
His daddy was back in New York, and the crime business was good.
2. Dorm
Brendan’s dorm room was narrow. With his arms outstretched, he could almost touch both walls. The single bed was new, firm, and long enough. In recent months his feet had hung off his sagging mattress back home, a fact he had kept to himself. He didn’t need his mom to beat herself up over yet another thing she couldn’t provide him, even though she couldn’t have missed his poorly fitting clothes.
With the grant came an allowance for transition and travel. A savvy airline ticket purchase had result
ed in both the hellish flight of the previous night and a surplus that Brendan had used to buy a few items of clothing. He’d left the remainder in an envelope in the bottom of his laundry hamper for his mother to discover later. He couldn’t remember the last time she had purchased anything for herself, including new shoes. Her one pair of white sneakers she wore to her hospital job looked like the victims of some horrible atrocity, beaten, spattered with stains, and flayed.
He looked out his window. The other three dorm buildings rose like short tear-shaped towers around a central courtyard and the student restaurant. Beyond the courtyard were the treed pathways that wound between the administration building and the rest of the school.
His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten anything besides a few complimentary packets of cheese crackers and a sandwich his mother had wrapped, with the latter consumed before he went through the first security check. The school booklet described the restaurant as a full-service cafeteria where all three meals were served at designated times, along with snacks available at any time of day. Food was included with tuition.
His phone read 10:30 a.m. Lunch would be served soon, and then he had afternoon orientation.
The sun was out. The desert sky was blue. The weather back home was a cool early fall that promised another cold winter, the misery of balmy humidity traded for freezing storms, snow, and mush on the streets and sidewalks within a span of weeks. He hated the cold. But here in Dutchman Springs, California, the sun always shined.
A sharp, pulsing beat broke through the modest hustle and bustle in the dorm. Brendan looked out across the hallway at a closed door that vibrated from a sound that made him think of a water glass being shoved down a sink disposal conjoined with a deep thrumming bass line. A dozen other boys around his age were in the process of settling in, moving luggage, and mingling. Brendan hadn’t spoken with any of them beyond passing pleasantries. Now everyone’s attention was on the room across from Brendan, their conversations drowned out.
One of the dorm monitors appeared and weaved through the students. He knocked at the closed door. When no one answered, he pounded with a fist.
The acoustic offender who opened the door looked surprised by the visit. He wore a black jacket with pronounced shoulder pads, and his jet-black hair was worked up into a pillar-like construction that defied gravity. He also wore more makeup than Brendan’s mother.
“Turn it down,” the monitor said. An impassive expression failed to dislodge him, so the student nodded, went into his room, and switched the music off. The monitor went away, but not before the kid uttered the word “Fascist.” Then he and Brendan made eye contact.
Brendan offered a raised palm. The salute was returned, and his neighbor closed the door. The music resumed at a slightly lower volume. Brendan went back to unpacking his own modest belongings.
They met again in the stairway heading down, the neighbor overtaking Brendan in a mad three-step-at-a-time sprint. Brendan flattened against a wall and caught a whiff of flowery hair product or cologne that reminded him of the Macy’s perfume department.
“Sorry, bud,” the neighbor said. “Running late.”
Then he tripped. The second-to-last landing was only a few steps away, but the boy still crunched into the wall with astounding speed. Glasses, a tablet, and some loose change scattered onto the floor.
Brendan helped him up. “Are you okay?”
The other boy snatched up the glasses and tablet but left the change. He worked his right arm in a painful circle.
“Nothing broken. Thanks, man.”
“Brendan.”
The boy began to head down the stairs, a bit slower, with a steadying hand on the rail. “Brian,” he said over his shoulder. “See you later.”
Later turned out to be five minutes, right on time for their food plan orientation.
Brendan sat next to Brian as they listened to a counselor give the freshmen in the school restaurant the rundown on menu options, the time food was served, rules for leftovers, rules for food in the dorms, and general conduct while eating. The smell of baking bread and the sight of the buffet line being stocked with bowls of fruit, salads, soup, and neatly arranged premade half sandwiches made him salivate. His stomach made a low extended grumble.
Brian arched an eyebrow and looked at Brendan. “What was that?”
“Hungry.”
“So it seems.”
After Brendan went through the line, servers clad in dark purple aprons laid out chili and hot bread bowls. Feeling guilty, he made a second pass, adding shredded cheese, cilantro, and cut onions to the chili.
“You in training for something?” Brian asked. He ate part of his half sandwich and laid it aside. He next began to peel an orange with a long thumbnail that was painted green.
“Just been on a plane all night. Where you from?”
“Portland. You?”
“New York.”
Brendan ate, and Brian watched. The chili was tame but tasty.
“There’s more,” Brian said, tossing his head towards the food line.
“No, I better stop.”
“So you’re making yourself stop. You could eat more.”
Brendan nodded.
“Fascinating. You may want to visit the nurse to take care of that tapeworm.”
“Only when you see her about your terrible taste in music.”
***
Brendan’s modus operandi was to get to each class early so he could get a seat in the second row and nearest the door, all the better to be invisible to teachers used to fishing for slackers at the back of the class, with the added bonus of being the first one out. Unfortunately, the classes here didn’t cooperate. Desks were arranged in circles or clusters to encourage student group interaction. Teachers had teacher assistants who immediately engaged Brendan with conversation and eye contact and a hand on his arm or shoulder.
He’d had a few days of this now, and today noon break couldn’t come fast enough. He wanted to find an online road map with the quickest route away from this school, the educational opportunity of a lifetime be damned. But instead he returned to his phone and the latest video of his father. He watched it two more times. Focused on the face. Was it his father’s face?
Lately he’d been forced to send his father actual emails. But the last one he’d sent had come back in seconds with an error message. The address was unknown. Account deleted, more likely. Brendan skimmed the video comments section for clues. He didn’t believe his dad would be one to engage with his public, but he had nothing else to go on.
“Drone King is a classic stomper with the goods to boot,” a comment read.
“He’s a tool who needs to be put down hard like the rest of the villain trash,” said another.
A third: “Saw him last year when he snatched the armored car off the Manhattan Bridge. Gave me a thumbs-up. Class act. A1++.”
Four thousand more comments followed. The video had over sixty thousand likes. He clicked on the video’s author and looked for anything else on their uploads, but all he found were reposted urban rock concert clips.
The video description gave the same time and date as the police report and the news channel footage he had examined. Seventy response videos all featured rants of support or derision, with a dozen from people in front of their computers wearing various homemade supers costumes. Brendan found these exasperating, but he watched them all. Cowled and shadowy pretenders growled threats. One silver spray-painted kid with a blinking set of glasses offered to be Drone King’s sidekick. Two mostly naked girls sharing the same camera had dyed themselves red and bedazzled their skin and wore lace masks over their eyes. They promised sexual favors to his father, even though they weren’t much older than Brendan. He reported the video.
“So is that what you’re into?”
Brendan pulled his phone close and turned. A girl from his last morning class, English literature, stood over him. The student self-introductions had faded from memory. He suddenly couldn’t even
remember the teacher’s name. The girl’s blue eyes narrowed, and her lips curled into a slanted smile.
“You’re Brendan, right? It’s Lucille.”
“Hey.”
She sat down on his bench, bumping him with her butt. He scooted to give her space.
“What are you watching?”
He looked down at his phone and tilted it her way. “Nothing. Just a bad guy doing a robbery.”
He saw the two girls still onscreen and swiped the video away.
“That doesn’t look like a robbery.”
“That was a misclick.”
“Aww, look at you. You’re blushing.” She studied his face. “Well, we have English together. Maybe we can hook up. Get some work done. Maybe we’ll have an afternoon class together, too.”
His words weren’t working. He nodded. Girls like this didn’t normally talk to him.
“Anyway, gotta go. Nice to meet you, Brendan.”
She got up and gave a backwards wave as she walked down the open corridor away from class.
“Lucille,” he managed, and he wondered how red his face was.
3. Interview with the Headmaster
“Please have a seat.”
Headmaster Sperry Appleton, a tall pale man with a shiny white sweep of hair, nodded to a set of four chairs in front of a goliath desk of richly stained dark wood. The desk itself was bare but for a desktop terminal and a tablet computer propped up on its case. Light pouring in from a row of windows shined off the desk’s polished surface. Once Brendan sat, the headmaster came around and shook his hand before leaning on the desk in a practiced casual pose.
Brendan studied the headmaster for some clue as to the purpose of the meeting. The notice to see the headmaster had appeared in his text messages that morning. He was supposed to be in his geometry class. Why would the man in charge of the entire academy want to see him?
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