by Sarah Kuhn
And then there was silence as underwear swirled around us and Evie and I just stared at each other.
What in the world . . .
“Wowie!” Maisy squealed, shattering the quiet. She was still perched behind the coffee counter with Dave and Shruti, but now she was holding her phone up, filming us, her face lit with glee.
“That is the most action we’ve seen in months!” she crowed. “Finally, a full taste of what San Francisco’s dynamic duo can do. The city better recognize!”
I knew this was Maisy talking, going on one of her usual hyperbole-laced bouts of speechifying, but damn. It felt good. Every word made the smile on my face stretch wider, made the rush of energy course through my veins faster. Because this was what my mind and body and soul had been craving all these months. I was invigorated. Alive.
I was Aveda Fucking Jupiter. The party was back. And I was the life.
I turned to Evie. We were both still breathing hard, faces flushed. I felt my grin widen and she smiled back and it was one of those moments where we didn’t have to say anything, because we could practically read each other’s brains.
The dynamic duo.
We were amazing together.
I know, right?!
Maisy gave us an expectant look, as if prompting us to make with the pithy superheroine catchphrases, already. I met Maisy’s eyes and opened my mouth, hoping to verbalize everything I was feeling. But then I noticed she had moved her camera to focus on something off to the side.
Hmm, maybe Evie was going to start us off? I turned back to her. But she wasn’t making with the catchphrases, either. Instead she was completely focused on the thing Maisy had adjusted her phone-camera to capture.
Nathaniel Jones. Big, scary half-demon. On bended knee. Presenting the love of his life with a gigantic diamond ring.
“Evie,” he intoned, his deep voice low and serious. “Sorry, Evelyn. I should say Evelyn, right?”
“You can say whatever you want,” she murmured. She sounded in a complete daze. I couldn’t blame her.
“Evelyn,” he continued, his mouth tipping into a gentle half-smile. “I meant to do this at breakfast, but—”
“The Lucky Charms,” Evie squeaked out, putting it together. “The ring was in the Lucky Charms. That’s why you didn’t pick out the purple ones for me.”
His smile widened. “Yes. I managed to rescue the ring from your bowl before we left HQ, just in case Beatrice decided to put everything in the dishwasher.”
Oh. So that’s why he’d looked nervous.
“Sooooo romantic,” Maisy hissed in my ear. She’d moved in closer so she was standing right next to me, still filming.
“In any case,” Nate continued. “I was going to try again at tomorrow’s breakfast, but this incident made me realize once again how short our lives are. How potentially fragile. How—”
“How easy it is in our line of work to get sucked into a big-ass portal and die an untimely and terribly undignified death?” Evie finished. Her words were teasing, but her voice was tremulous, full of tears.
“Yes—wait,” Nate said, his brow furrowing. “I should have checked you and Aveda—and actually myself—for injuries or even simple wounds before I initiated this proposal. Perhaps I should do that now—”
“Don’t you freaking dare!” Evie yelped. “I mean. Please. Just . . . continue.”
“Very well.” Nate smiled again. “Before I met you, I didn’t know what it meant to love someone. I didn’t know I could love someone. But you—and your ridiculous cartoon duck t-shirt—changed everything.” He held out the ring. “So will you—”
“Yes!” she shrieked. “Oh my god, yes!”
“Awww,” Maisy drawled as Evie tackled Nate and pulled him into a kiss worthy of a Hollywood end credits sequence. “The battle was an exciting appetizer. But this proposal video, my dears, this is the main course. Just beautiful.”
It was beautiful. So why did I feel so deflated?
DEMON ENCOUNTER REPORT
Submitted to: Sergeant Rose Rorick (Demon Unit, SFPD Emergency Service Division), Dr. Nathaniel Jones (Aveda Jupiter, Inc.)
Submitted by: Beatrice Constance Tanaka (Super Awesome Note Taker/Researcher/Mentee who really deserves to be promoted to an official non-Mentee position at AJI, don’t you think?)
Short Summary: Nate almost got killed, but then he didn’t! Yay! (Note from NJ: Please revise so this is less colloquial.)
Long Summary: Analysis of all collected data (detailed below) on Otherworld Specimen #4595 is inconclusive, but seems to indicate it should now be classified as either deceased or sent back to the freakin’ Otherworld, YASSS!! (Note from NJ: This is not an official classification). Specimen presented as a solid “energy bolt” that appeared to be of the same substance that makes up the Pussy Queen Portal (also known as the “dark portal” or PQP) and was definitely aggressive in nature, attacking N. Jones and threatening other individuals on the scene. Samples taken from PQP after the attack matched samples taken three weeks ago, but we are still upgrading the status of the portal from dormant to suspicious activity/pending investigation. Working theory is that a new specimen from the Otherworld was attempting to use PQP to come through to our realm—and probably not for anything fun, like roller-disco bootie cosplay mash-up night at the Palladium on Saturday! (Note from NJ: I don’t know what these words mean, but I believe this is editorializing.) In any case, it did not leave anything behind and further gathering, testing, and analysis of PQP samples is recommended as is a thorough supernatural scan of the premises. Specimen was defeated through joint efforts from Evelyn Tanaka and Aveda Jupiter.
Addendum: Report Writer would like to issue a big SHOUT-OUT to N. Jones for popping the question in totally baller fashion and giving this particular demon encounter one of the best resolutions in recent history! I mean, I guess there’s also the resolution where none of us are dead and that’s good, too. But for serious, WAY 2 GO, future bro-in-law!!!
(Note from NJ: This addendum is unnecessary, colloquial, and contains too many exclamation points . . . but I will leave it as is.)
CHAPTER THREE
I SPENT MOST of the night lying awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to puzzle out my deflated reaction to Nate’s proposal. I knew it wasn’t about the proposal itself; anything that made Evie that deliriously happy made me happy, too.
I stared harder at the ceiling, trying to call up the exact sensation I’d felt watching Maisy coo over the newly engaged couple. The closest thing I could liken it to was the feeling that had developed the longer Evie posed as me: a toxic, queasy little knot at the bottom of my stomach, a snarky voice in my ear telling me I wasn’t needed, I wasn’t even wanted, look how well everyone got on without me. At times during the Evie-as-Aveda charade, it had almost seemed like Team Aveda Jupiter functioned better . . . without Aveda Jupiter. And now, when Evie and I seemed poised to finally emerge as a dynamic duo of evil-fighters, things were apparently more exciting when I was off-screen, cropped just out of frame.
Maisy’s voice echoed through my head: This is the main course.
Was I really that much of a diva, incapable of sharing the spotlight with anyone else? Was that the real reason I couldn’t figure out how to be a good friend? I thought I’d nipped my attention-craving insecurities in the bud. But perhaps I still had a long way to go.
These were the kinds of thoughts I couldn’t share with anyone—not even Evie. I was more open with her than I’d ever been with anyone, but there was still a part of me I always kept hidden away, just for myself. One of the reasons she seemed to like me right off was that I never displayed any weakness. So at some point, I had unconsciously decided I couldn’t.
I had to be Aveda Jupiter: her protector, her unofficial big sister, the one who took down the bitchy white girls who bullied us at recess. Sure, that meant stuffing down any fear or vulnerability
of my own, but when she’d given me one of her big, grateful smiles and looked at me with something resembling awe, it had been worth it. That tiny, locked-away part of myself was like the truest version of Annie Chang: the soft, vulnerable piece I could never let anyone else see. The Clark Kentiest version of myself.
So, as I finally drifted into fitful sleep, I resolved: I would just have to try harder. Do better. Be the best superheroine and friend I knew I could be. That was the Aveda Jupiter Way. Identify the problem, then identify the solution and work hard and be awesome and through sheer force of will, fix it.
Hell, don’t just fix it. Kick its ass.
When I was younger, one of my role models was Battle Angel Alita, the star of a long-running manga series. Alita was a beautiful young woman who also happened to be the toughest cyborg ever, a steely-eyed fighter who never settled for less than absolute excellence. (And despite what modern Hollywood adaptations might have you believe, she was definitely Asian.) In one of her most iconic panels, Alita stares into the distance, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, everything about her radiating total determination.
“I do my best in a fight—always!” she says. “It’s that simple!”
And that, I decided at a young age, would be my credo. I do my best in anything—always. But in my current state of identity crisis-ing, my usual Aveda Jupiter mojo kept eluding me.
I supposed I’d have to try harder to locate that as well.
The next day, Evie and I decided to return to Pussy Queen and do a thorough search for any possible signs of lingering supernatural activity. Nate had tested the multiple samples he’d taken (and really, his dedication to science was extra impressive considering that he and Evie mostly wanted to sex each other’s brains out after the big engagement) and there didn’t appear to be any change in the makeup of the portal. I couldn’t help but feel like it was mocking me.
Still, even though the portal refused to give us any clues, something had happened in those few thrilling moments, and nobody wanted another wannabe demon queen coming through, so a fact-finding expedition was in order.
Wow, leaving the house two whole days in a row. I tried not to get too excited.
Before we could head out, though, I had business to attend to. And not the kind of business I enjoyed—you know, the demon-fighting kind.
I tapped the recent contacts area on my phone, hit the appropriate number, and steeled myself. I had to psych myself up for this call every week, making my breathing even, making my voice neutral, and mentally going over every single one of my accomplishments since grade school as I waited for someone to answer. Sometimes I also lit the therapeutic candle Evie had given me that was supposed to smell like “peace of mindfulness,” but it never seemed to perform its promised function.
Therapeutic candles are no match for the unstoppable force known as the Asian Mom.
“Anne?” the familiar, clipped voice finally said on the other end of the line.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, wondering how she always managed to sound disappointed before I’d uttered so much as a word.
“You are early this week,” she said, the disapproval ratcheting up a hair.
Who gets disappointed in someone for being early?
My mother, that’s who.
Mom and I had a regular phone call every Tuesday at five p.m. It was part of the good Chinese American daughter code of duty, and since I was a bad Chinese American daughter in pretty much every other way—too loud, too temperamental, bad at math—I tried to adhere to it. But every once in a while, superheroing messed with the schedule.
“Evie and I have to go investigate some things,” I said, cringing at the way my voice tipped up, automatically taking on the cadence of a small child trying to make herself sound important. Even after all these years, I was constantly questing for that unattainable treasure: the approval of my parents. “Possibly evil things.”
“Mmm,” my mother said, which was her usual response to anything involving my superheroing career. She always managed to inject that single syllable with a whole orchestra of disapproval. “How is Evie? Still seeing that boy who wears all the black?”
“Yes, Mom. In fact, they just got—” By the time I realized my mistake it was too late to change what I was saying. So I tamped down on what I knew was about to be a tidal wave of frustration and finished my sentence: “—engaged.”
“Engaged!” my mother exclaimed. Well, not so much “exclaimed” as made her voice a tiny bit louder. My mother was not big on overblown displays of emotion. “Isn’t that something? Maybe she can help you find someone.”
“I don’t want someone, Mom,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m doing perfectly well with a fulfilling career that allows me to save people’s lives on a regular basis.”
“Mmmmm,” she said again, stretching it out a bit. “Yes. Well.”
And then we lapsed into the awkward silence that had become a hallmark of our phone calls. When I’d first started superheroing, it had been a revelation. Finally, something that combined everything I was good at: athletics and fashion and protecting the downtrodden. And foolishly, I’d believed it would finally make my parents proud of me. But superheroing wasn’t the life they’d had in mind for their daughter. It was flashy, glory-seeking. They wanted me to be more like my model minority cousin Sophie, who had been on the doctor track since the age of five. When I’d started out as Aveda Jupiter, I’d sent my parents news clippings about my exploits and all the people I was saving. They’d come back with: “That’s nice. Did you hear about Sophie? She’s a doctor. Also, she’s getting married. To another doctor.”
When it became clear they found my chosen occupation embarrassing, I’d concocted a cover story so they’d never have to be associated with it. Aveda Jupiter’s parents were dead, killed in a tragic cable car accident before she’d been old enough to truly know them.
Annie Chang’s parents, however, were alive and well and had plenty of time to tell her what a disappointment she was.
“Don’t wear that greenish color you are so fond of to the wedding,” my mother said, as if reading my thoughts. “It washes you out. Makes you look ill. Like you looked when you ate too much char siu at Sophie’s valedictorian dinner and—”
“I got it, Mom. No green, no pork.”
The awkward silence returned. And felt loud.
“Say hi to Dad for me,” I finally said—my usual way of ending the call. My father preferred a silent mode of disapproval to my mother’s more verbal methods and never talked on the phone.
“Please give our congratulations to Evie,” Mom said. “I will send over some oranges.”
“I’m sure she’ll love that,” I said, trying not to sound like I was wondering why my parents never sent me oranges. I liked oranges. (Almost as much as I liked watching Scott eat them, but that was a thought spiral for another time.)
I tapped “end call” on my phone and bounded downstairs, mentally cycling myself away from the tension my mother always instilled in me.
“There you are!” Evie said, as I reached the foyer.
“Here I am!” I agreed, trying to sound chipper. “So Rose is meeting us there. She’ll bring one of those cool scanner things with her.”
“Dang, the chosen scanner will be stoked,” Evie said. “It probably hasn’t seen any action in months.”
“And neither have I,” chirped Lucy, appearing by Evie’s side. “So I’m coming, too.”
Evie cocked an eyebrow and we exchanged a knowing look. Lucy had struck up a flirtation with Rose Rorick, the stoic head of the San Francisco police department’s Demon Unit (a special squad in the Emergency Service division), a few months ago. It hadn’t progressed any further, though—at least not yet.
“You two still haven’t gone on an actual date?” I asked her.
“We haven’t gone beyond a copious amount of texting,” Lucy said, br
ushing her long, honey-colored locks off her face. “Last week, we graduated to the occasional use of emojis.”
“Don’t you usually move faster than that?” I asked.
“Yeah, you’re like the Quicksilver of dating, only with way better hair,” Evie chimed in.
“Oh, I am, darlings, I am,” Lucy said. “But compared to my usual conquests, that Rose is a cool cucumber. I have to employ a more meticulous courting strategy.”
“Oh, shit.” Evie gawked at her. “Lucy. You like her.”
“Pfft,” Lucy said, suddenly in a huff. “Such language. Let’s get going.”
“Yes,” I said, tightening my power ponytail. “Onward to Pussy Queen.”
I pushed the door open, ready to begin our determined march and conduct whatever acts of superheroism the city might need.
Unfortunately, our determined march was cut short. Because the Victorian was surrounded.
Our HQ location was no secret; it was a regular stop for tourists and fans, and locals had mobbed the place right after Evie and I defeated Shasta, hoping to catch a glimpse of the heroines who saved the city. But the crowd had tapered off quite a bit recently and today wasn’t quite at the mob level; there were maybe thirty people gathered and I recognized many of them as my—well, our—most dedicated fans. But they were still blocking our path, a loosely formed fence of humanity keeping us from continuing our journey to Pussy Queen.
We came to an abrupt stop on the porch, gazing out into the crowd, unsure of what to do. It was a situation we hadn’t had to deal with for a while.
“Do you think they saw the video of us battling the energy bolt?” Evie whispered. “Maybe they’re worried about the safety of the city or something?”
“Maybe,” I said. “In which case, let’s reassure them. It’s what we do.”
I faced the crowd and flashed them my megawatt grin, the one that had inspired more than a few loving photo collages on Tumblr. I felt out of practice. The act of stretching my face that much made my cheeks hurt.
