Evolution

by Hayden Thorne

  I grinned. “I know. Bunch of slackers.” My mood faded a little. “Is—uh—is Peter still pissed at me?”

  Don’t think so. He didn’t say anything or show anything to suggest that. Why, do you think you pissed him off well and good this time?

  “Yeah, like, enough to make him want to break up.”

  Over a stupid locker?

  My face warmed, and I shrugged helplessly. “I know, it’s dumb, but he didn’t even want to return my calls yesterday. I left him maybe four. And I said I was sorry after school. I don’t know what else he wants from me, you know?”

  Yeah, I guess he’s a bit sensitive.

  “A bit? Sure, if your definition of ‘a bit’ means elephant sized—and I mean elephant with severe elephantiasis everywhere.” Which made for a pretty gross mental image, by the way.

  Eric, you know him better than I do. Hey, do you want me to be, like, a bridge or something?

  My heart dropped. “Althea, don’t screw around. I don’t want you playing anything when it comes to me and Peter. Let me handle things.”

  Okay, but my offer still stands. I’ve never been a go-between for two gay boys before.

  “Or any other boys, for that matter.”

  Oh, you’re SO funny.

  I tapped my pen against my desk as I stared at my notes. “What’s new in the superhero side of things?”

  Hmm. Oh, yeah! Check this out. Peter asked me to see if I could tap into those walking dolls that were picked up, but I wasn’t able to. I couldn’t. It’s pretty creepy, Eric. It’s like we’re looking at old, old technology. Makes me think of Jules Verne type of stuff.

  I straightened in my chair, suddenly alert. “No kidding. You’re talking about a steampunk kind of thing? Old-time machines and wind-up dolls and all that?”

  Exactly! From what Peter’s told me, once they figured out how the dolls worked, the machinery just died, and no one knew how to get them back up again. So now they’ve got a couple of useless dolls in jail cells and no leads.

  Man-sized walking dolls in jail cells? That was new. Then again, I really shouldn’t be surprised at this point.

  “That’s bizarre. It almost sounds like their batteries were taken out or something. Or, like, they had an expiration date.”

  Yeah. But the police department’s still working with Trent and Peter, so when we talk about this, something new might have come up.

  I must admit I couldn’t help but feel a stab of jealousy at the thought that Peter and Althea were kickass crime-fighting buddies, that whatever transpired was firstly theirs to talk about and analyze, and I was kept outside the elite circle of two. Anything I learned about villains and how they worked had largely been handed down scraps of information from Althea, not Peter.

  She was willing to talk about it with me, but he continued to hold back as though he didn’t trust me at all.

  And that bit pretty hard.

  Hey, what’s up?

  “Oh, nothing. Just wishing that I’d hear about this sort of thing from Peter.”

  I don’t know, Eric. He’s got his own way of doing things. You gotta give him room for that. I don’t mind talking about superhero stuff with you, really.

  “I guess I should get used to being involved with a superhero,” I said with a forced little smile. It was time to end the conversation. “He tells me things, yeah, but only if I ask.”

  Sounds like a guy, all right.

  I shrugged.

  It’ll take a while, I guess. I’m still coping with the fact that I’m not immune to chores, and I’m the damn superhero in the family!

  “Reality sucks, doesn’t it?” I set my pen down and pushed my chair back. “Okay, I gotta go and take more meds. I guess I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”

  Yeah. See you. I’ll let you know if something new comes up. I’m just waiting for Peter to contact me again for more undercover type of work. Man, this is exciting.

  The monitor died, and I stood up, feeling more bothered than before. Oh, sure. Peter would contact Althea at the drop of a hat while ignoring all my phone calls. I could see how it was. I stalked out of my room and headed downstairs, grateful everyone had gone to work or school. I needed to be alone for as much of the day as possible. Sulking and self-pity didn’t allow any room for company, and I was in the mood for epic levels of wallowing.

  School had let out an hour ago, which meant that I only had a couple more hours—maybe three—before my family would be back home. I took my medication and hurried back upstairs, a sudden resolution filling my mind and energizing me even with my weakened condition.

  I gave myself a quick sponge bath and dressed up, checking the clock every five minutes to gauge my progress. After brushing my teeth and combing my hair, I shrugged on my winter jacket despite the warm-ish temperatures outside, and left the house with my bike.

  I knew where the antique store was, and I headed there without a second thought. I was determined, more than ever, not to return home until I secured a job there, or anywhere, for that matter. Child labor laws and parental permission? I’d have to deal with those later. Besides, leaving the house and doing something for myself distracted me from Peter. Better than epic levels of wallowing, no?

  The antique store that Althea had been pimping out to me was a small shop tucked away in a dark corner of Fourth Street. Heavy furniture, faded knickknacks, chipped oil paintings and china—nearly every inch of space in that tiny, murky shop was cluttered with old things that smelled strange and gave me the creeps. I could’ve sworn I spotted some stuff that must have been on pirate ships, not including a wooden mermaid statue with dirty, cracked paint.

  I nearly freaked out when I saw the damn thing peering out at me from one of the darkest areas of the shop.

  I swept my gaze across the area when I stepped across the threshold, and that was enough for me to be overcome by the gloomy atmosphere of the place. The store had lights, yeah, but they were on the dim side—like they’d been chosen to add to the overall look of the place or something. I could feel the weight of time pressing down on me, like each piece being sold was totally possessed with it. Years and years’ worth of lifetimes and private stories seemed to whisper to me from all corners as I picked and squeezed my way farther and farther inside. Seriously, it was like being in one of Dad’s old Vincent Price movies, only without the coolness of Vincent Price anywhere.

  Faint music broke up the heavy silence. Classical music. Violin music. I tried to shake off all associations with the Devil’s Trill, especially when I thought I recognized the piece that came on.

  I remembered hearing it being played in school by one of the music students who stayed late, practicing his lessons.

  “That’s Beethoven’s minuet,” Peter had said when I paused to listen to it. “My mom has that on one of her Beethoven CDs.”

  I caught a glimpse of the counter and made my way toward it, humming the tune to myself. A woman sat behind the counter, reading a book that seemed to be just as old as everything else in the shop. She looked up and watched me as I neared, giving her a nervous little smile.

  “Hi, may I help you?” she asked in a low, raspy voice.

  “Hi, how’s it going?” I stammered, shoving my hands deep in my pockets. “I was wondering if—if you were hiring right now.”

  “Full-time or part-time?”

  “Um, part-time?”

  She set her book down and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter and clasping her hands as she stared at me in silence for a short but really awkward moment. Althea had told me the woman reminded her of one of those gypsies from old books and stuff. I wasn’t sure how, but then again, I figured my friend was just getting me all turned on by the idea of working for strange people.

  The woman in the shop looked to be in her early or mid-thirties. Her hair was full and curly, a nice reddish-brown shade that fell past her shoulders. She was pale, but then again, if she spent most of her hours tucked away in the shop without exposure to light of
any kind, it shouldn’t come as a surprise. Her eyes were a weird kind of light blue, a pretty creepy color when they fixed their gaze on me. I felt like I was being stared at by a porcelain doll or a glassy-eyed corpse.

  Whoa.

  Otherwise, though, she looked normal and even modern. Her black turtleneck enhanced her figure just as nicely as her jeans, which were just this side of skintight. I could think of a long list of straight boys from school who’d kill to take her out for a date—if they were her age, that is, unless they were into women who were, like, twice their age. In which case, they were fucking pervs.

  “Have you worked retail before?” she asked, and I shook my head, my confidence withering.

  “No. This would be my first job.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Then came the crazy weird part. For the briefest moment, she looked as though she recognized me, or at least saw something familiar in me.

  “You’re an Olympia…”

  I blinked. “Uh—no, I’m a guy. My name’s Eric.” I frowned, completely confused now. “Do I look like someone called Olympia?”

  Her brows, raised high just a moment ago, now came together in a deep, thoughtful furrow. Those pale, glassy eyes continued to stare long and hard at me, like they were looking for something. For what, I’d no idea. All I knew then was the seriously freaky feeling of being eaten alive by sight. I expected to have nothing left of me by the time she’d done. My shoes, maybe, or a piece of tattered and bloody cloth or even a patch of skin quivering in a pool of gore.

  I cleared my throat. My hands were damp inside my pockets. “I just wanted to say that—that I’m a good worker, and I learn pretty fast. I, uh, I’m pretty handy at taking out the garbage. Or washing dishes.”

  She nodded, pursing her lips and tapping her perfectly manicured fingernails against the countertop. “Hang on a sec. I need to go to the restroom,” she said, sliding off her chair and vanishing into a back room. I didn’t even see the door. In the dim light, it simply blended into the wall. I took several deep breaths to calm myself, coughing violently when I breathed in dust instead. Jesus.

  * * * *

  I barreled through the streets on my bike, glancing at my watch and keeping track of time. My family would be back within the hour. I should be out of my clothes and back in bed before then.

  I ran up the stairs and barricaded myself in my room, quickly shedding my clothes and shoving them in a crumpled bundle inside my closet. When I got into bed, I couldn’t rest. I stared in disbelief at the ceiling, not exactly sure how I felt. Actually, I was depressed, more so now than before.

  The long and short of it was that I didn’t get the job. I’d embarrassed myself in the worst way I possibly could—short of walking through the streets naked—and despite Ms. Whitaker being very understanding and sweet, I still left the antique store completely mortified.

  Deep down, I suppose, I never expected to get the job. I guess I kind of knew all along it was hopeless for me from the get-go. Save for babysitting, I really wouldn’t be able to land something without my parents’ signed permission—my home state was being a real big pain in the ass with their laws—and God only knew the nightmares that waited for me in the babysitting business. Children were products of Satan’s poop hole, and they’d eat me alive unless I got to them first. Ugh.

  So, now what? I was sure, seeing as how I’d survived this long without a job, I’d cope with the disappointment well enough despite the hit my pride took. I was also sure I could make myself useful to my parents in other ways, not just financially. Chores and errands: I could do those. Then again, I’d always been doing those since the moment I’d popped out of Mom, all slimy and gross. It sure didn’t look like my sad little existence wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

  The restlessness that had become so awfully familiar rippled through me again. It felt like a thousand ants marching across my body from head to toe, and I tossed and turned under the sheets, muttering and cursing. It was such a bizarre sensation, and it seemed to grow worse by the day. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t figure out where it came from. The conversation I had with Peter just recently came back, and I toyed with possibilities again.

  “I don’t know. Even if we weren’t going through a financial crisis right now, I think I’d still fight for a job. I just, I feel so restless. All of a sudden, you know? It’s been like this for a while now—since—since the Trill got to me. I mean, I wanted to be busier before like, get a job and stuff, but somehow it feels more urgent now.”

  “You’ve been through so many tests. Nothing’s been found. I doubt if being messed around by the Trill has anything to do with your restlessness.”

  “I feel like I’m stuffed inside this tiny little box, and I can’t move, and everything’s beyond my control. Gee, paranoid much?”

  “I go through that a lot. Can’t say the same about Trent and Althea, though.”

  “Yeah. Maybe it’s something psychological. Maybe I’m jealous that you and Althea are suddenly important heroes, while I’m just this useless average guy with nothing to offer.”

  Was that the reason? I was growing more convinced it was. I wanted to be useful in one way or another, to my family, to my friends, to the people of Vintage City, not this pathetic doormat with so-so grades. I didn’t have the words to show how much that ate away at me. For one crazy moment, I actually wished my parents had had me designed at the genetics lab.

  “God, this sucks!”

  Time to rest.

  “Oh, great, I’m hearing my brain talk again.” I sighed. “Am I coming down with something? Am I stressed out to the point of hallucinating? What the hell’s up with this?”

  You’ve been through quite a bit of stress.

  “Yeah, I suppose I’ll get over that. I just don’t understand why I’m suddenly so—so dissatisfied and impatient.”

  You’ll understand yourself soon enough.

  “I guess so.”

  Chin up. Besides, you’ve made some progress here. You earned some downtime.

  I made progress? What progress? Embarrassment? Battered pride? I suppose that would be called progress in my case. A weight lifted off my shoulders all of a sudden though I still hadn’t been able to answer so many questions about my motivations. I couldn’t help but grin stupidly at the ceiling. I was still jobless, I was talking to myself, and it was time for me to move on. Was that good or bad? Too bad I didn’t feel sleepy enough for a nap.

  What are you talking about? You ARE sleepy.

  Oh. I snickered and turned to my side, facing the window and the fading light outside. “Yeah, I guess I am,” I whispered, terminating that with a yawn.

  My thoughts drifted to Peter as I slowly faded. I’d come home to no messages from him. He must be taking care of homework. Then maybe later he’d be taking a break from cleaning up the streets and spending some time with me like he used to. I frowned against my pillow. I sure hoped he’d gotten over his supersensitivity by this time. I hadn’t seen him or heard from him in over a day, and I already missed him like crazy.

  Chapter 7

  “Drat! Foiled Again! Magnifiman, Calais, Mystery Fire Girl Thwart Puppet’s Planned Heists—Three Times!” the newspaper screamed in heavy black and recycled gray the following morning.

  “Awesome! Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Liz exclaimed, her eyes sparkling as she peered over Dad’s shoulder to read the headlines.

  Mom marched to the table and set down a steaming platter of sausages next to the plate of rich, greasy tater tots. Just looking at what we had for breakfast was enough for me to feel my arteries constrict again. I almost expected them to sue me for subjecting them to daily mealtime trauma. From somewhere behind me, where the kitchen counter was, came the distinct smell of toasted bread.

  My belly gurgled. Now that was the breakfast of champions. I shot out of my chair and hurried to the refrigerator, rummaging around for my homemade, natural, sugar-free strawberry
jam from Mrs. Horace’s kitchen. Carrying my treasure back to the table, I couldn’t help but glow with pride at the handmade label, on which Mrs. Horace had nicely scrawled “Eric’s Special Jam.” Her homemade jams were to die for, and it had become a bit of a tradition for her to give me a couple of jars whenever she had some leftover after her initial canning process. That was the reason why “Eric’s Special Jam” was always half-full or three-quarters full or five-sixths full, never a hundred percent. Whenever I visited Althea on a weekend, there’d be a jar waiting for me. I felt so loved.

  When my plate of freshly made toast appeared, I nearly smothered each piece with strawberry jam, vaguely wondering what blue jam would look like. I shook my head. I should ask Mrs. Horace if she made the same stuff in blueberry, preferably denim-hued blueberry.

  “It looks like the Shadow Puppet’s upping the ante,” Dad said as he laid the paper down, spreading it over his plate and silverware. Good thing there was no food on it. He bent over the printed pages, pushing his glasses up his nose as he frowned. “There were at least a dozen of his walking dolls roaming around the streets last night, targeting different stores in the downtown area. In three incidents, the dolls were caught while they were breaking in. The third time around, they barely even made it to the back door when they were—holy smokes!—they were incinerated!”

  Dad paused and glanced up, drop-jawed. We all met his look of shock in very much the same way. Anyone who would’ve walked in on us at that moment might’ve mistaken us for a bunch of pasty, gross mannequins, wide-eyed with mouths hanging open, breakfast displayed in mid-chew.

  “Incinerated?” Mom echoed after a brief silence.

  “That’s what they say here. There was nothing left of the dolls but wooden legs, still in their pants and shoes, burned and smoking from the knees up. The police say the dolls must’ve been blasted with fire just as they were walking up to the Aiglentine Perfumery. Around four pairs of legs were found at the scene.”

  Liz and I exchanged incredulous looks. “Yikes,” I breathed. “It sounds like a cartoon, doesn’t it?”