by Asta Idonea
The idea seemed farfetched, fanciful, and more like the plot of a movie than something that would occur in everyday life, but then my world had taken on a sense of unreality of late. I’d struck lucky in love, meeting and winning the heart of the man of my dreams, and I’d acquired superhuman powers. Following all that, someone throwing a bus at me in a kind of bizarre initiation or trial of strength no longer seemed quite so out there as it would have done three months ago.
What next? That was the most important question. If Mr. Hoodie’s intent had been to make me show myself, he’d succeeded. Would that be the end of it, or was there more in store? Had Greenbird just acquired his first archnemesis?
Chapter Fifteen
TWO MORE incidents took place that weekend. In the first, a woman nearly fell in front of an oncoming train. There was no need to make an appearance as Greenbird for that; I mentally caught her belt and got her back on the platform in time. To bystanders, it simply looked as if she had lost and then regained her balance. A concerned few crowded in around her, drawing her back from the edge and fussing over her as the doors opened and everyone boarded. No one gave me a single glance.
The second occurrence did require a costumed intervention. A bomb went off in a waste bin in Covent Garden’s bustling forecourt. The explosion was strange. All the debris shot skyward instead of outward, the only living things in immediate danger being the copious pigeons. However, it was clear the projectiles would cause havoc and potential injuries when they rained back down, so I yanked off my T-shirt, shoving it into my back pocket, pulled on my mask, and carried out damage control still in my jeans. I gathered the pieces, slowing and redirecting them as they fell. Then I settled them on the ground in a neat pile, all to the sound of applause and cheers from the crowd. Even better, I didn’t get a headache this time. My resilience seemed to be improving when it came to handling larger objects. The more I practiced, the fewer side effects I suffered. After returning a hearty smile and a wave to the eager onlookers, I flew away and found a secluded spot in which to restore my clothing to order and resume my day.
Changing clothes all the time was a pain. Comic book heroes never had trouble with it, but in real life, it was a nightmare. Such a wardrobe reversal was hard to accomplish on the spur of the moment, when disaster loomed and every second counted. It caused problems afterward, too, with all eyes focused on me. There was little to be done about it, though. The only other option was to spend the entire day walking around as Greenbird—something off the cards from the get-go. When I wandered to the supermarket for a pint of milk, I’d either be swamped by my selfie-generation fans or marched away in handcuffs because some prick had called the cops, who no doubt still wanted to speak with me following the bus business. And that didn’t even take Kane or work into consideration.
On the positive side, my flying was definitely improving. I hadn’t stumbled on the landing this second time, and I’d managed to stay afloat without too much trouble while also directing the debris, which, in and of itself, had required a great deal of mental dexterity. I guessed telekinesis was like a muscle—the more you used it, the stronger it became. Being up high still caused a few nervous pangs but only when I dwelt upon it. For the most part, I had other things on my mind while I was flying.
These two new events did give me plenty to ponder. The woman and the oncoming train may have been a simple accident, a misstep. The bomb, meanwhile, had an aura of intent, and not one that made me think of terrorists or religious extremists, although, I suspected that was the line the papers would take. A standard detonation would have blasted out in all directions. Even an absolute armaments novice like me knew that. The way this one had fired solely upward, in a concentrated stream, suggested careful control and an in-depth knowledge of explosives and their effects.
Now, perhaps a terrorist did fit the bill in that regard, but usually they sought maximum civilian harm and didn’t try to avoid unnecessary carnage. Thanks to my actions, not a single person present had suffered injury. Therefore, to my mind, the finger once more pointed at someone who worked within visual effects. It had all the markings of the bus incident. Had it been another test? If so, what was this guy playing at? Why didn’t he confront me directly if he had a bone to pick, or if he wanted to bond over our shared powers?
I had a strong sense that it was a man. The figure in the hoodie had looked more masculine, and these random acts of violence had a male vibe about them. Perhaps that was a tad sexist of me, but I honestly thought a woman in the same position would be far more subtle.
Social media continued to trend my name. At the same time, the mainstream TV channels had also picked up the story. However, they came at it from a very different angle. Theirs was a harsher stance. The evening after the bomb incident, one presenter suggested I had instigated the whole thing myself, in order to look good when I arrived and saved the day. Another proposed that I was a publicity-seeking magician and that my “powers” were mere illusions. Bastards. I’m sure some members of the public actually believed their lies, but my core fan base remained the Internet-savvy younger generations, and there seemed no end to their devotions, nor their inventiveness.
Following the memes, there was now an official Greenbird fan club—I’d joined, just for a laugh—which offered a series of fan-made Greenbird T-shirts, bags, buttons, tea towels, etc. My image graced every imaginable product, as well as a few so bizarre they left me scratching my head. Who needed a Greenbird onion bag? Or a Greenbird potato peeler? There was even an unofficial (yet wildly popular) Greenbird song!
This was what I’d long desired: worldwide fame and acclaim while still maintaining my privacy and relative anonymity. Add to that my stunning new boyfriend, and life couldn’t be any better. Well, maybe I could win the jackpot in the lottery. Money was getting tight, my bank balance dwindling at a steady rate, with more going out than coming in. On that front, I had recently heard from Phúc Lành’s nephew. The restaurant would reopen in a week, but until then I’d have to make do. That was a worry for tomorrow, though. Tonight I had far more pleasant occupations in mind.
Kane was back in town. He’d called me two hours ago to say that he was home, and he asked me to give him some time to unpack and freshen up, and then come over. I made my way to his front door, a cheap bottle of supermarket red in hand, and rang the bell. The now-familiar tune brought a smile to my face even before the door opened to reveal Kane wearing nothing but a towel about his waist. His skin had dried, but his hair still looked damp—something I confirmed when he pulled me into a kiss and I skimmed my fingers through the thick strands.
“Mmm. Missed you.”
Kane’s murmured words went straight to my groin, but I tried to play the adult, rather than a randy teen. “Me too. How’s the family?”
“Later.”
It was an hour later when we finally settled side by side on his sofa, drinks in hand, Kane’s hair glistening from his second shower. We discussed our respective weekends. He shared news of his family’s minor dramas, while I carefully avoided talk of my adventures. Save for my trip to the grocery store, from whence I’d emerged with a bag full of items, none of which had been on my list. That was an all-too-common occurrence for me. Some weeks I lived on chocolate and fruit juice instead of real food. Or I had done before Kane came along. Now he made sure I ate well whenever we dined together. Sometimes too well, considering my weight gain. Then again, at my age, I ought to get into better habits. Youthful metabolism wouldn’t last forever. And it seemed that even superpowers didn’t help when it came to fighting the flab.
Inevitably, talk eventually turned to Greenbird. Kane expressed a delightful blend of enthusiasm and disbelief as we compared notes on the world’s first real-life superhero. (It relieved me to learn that he believed the social media accounts over the TV suppositions.) As he spoke, I watched him carefully, looking for any sign that he knew, or guessed, the truth, but there was nothing in his voice or body language to suggest he harbored any suspici
ons as to Greenbird’s true identity. My secret was safe for now.
In storybooks and fantasy films, the heroes’ love interests always learned the truth in the end, one way or another. It was too big a secret to hide forever. I did plan to tell Kane the truth about me… just not yet. Our relationship was still so new. As was my superhero status. Once I knew both were stable and enduring, I promised myself, I’d bare my final secrets. Today was not that day.
What would Kane say if he knew? If I were honest with myself, it was that more than anything else that held me back. How would Kane take the news? Would he be impressed? Aghast? Or would he be angry that I’d not confessed to the powers from the start? After all, he’d made it clear how much he hated dishonesty. Truthfulness was the one and only thing upon which he insisted in our relationship, and I feared he’d cast me off for having lied to him.
I couldn’t bear the thought of that happening. That’s why I needed to wait for the right moment, when all the signs pointed to acceptance and forgiveness, not to horror and hurt. I trusted that I’d recognize the moment when it arrived. Until then I’d remain shtum.
WHEN I woke in the morning, Kane’s side of the bed was empty and cold, so I wiped the sleep from my bleary eyes, donned a pair of his pajama bottoms, and plodded downstairs. I found Kane in the kitchen, humming a jaunty tune as he dropped four slices of bread into the toaster and depressed the lever. Two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice already stood on the counter, and hot water bubbled in the kettle, close to boiling, ready for our respective cups of tea and coffee.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Kane said in a voice far too chipper for the time of day. “Breakfast’s almost ready. I thought I heard the letter box. Can you check while I butter the toast?”
“Sure.”
I wandered down the hall, and sure enough, there was a small envelope upon the porch mat. A glance at the front revealed Kane’s name, but there was no stamp affixed to the top right corner and no return address on the rear. It had been hand-delivered, so it had to come from a member of Kane’s family or one of his close friends. I wondered why they hadn’t rung the bell. Perhaps, like me, they thought the hour too early for anyone to be up and about.
Returning to the kitchen, I tossed the envelope onto the breakfast bar. “Letter for you. Hand-delivered, not in the post.”
Kane gave a thoughtful hum and carried two plates of toast to the counter. He made a second trip, this time returning with two steaming mugs, which he set beside the plates. Relieved of his burden, he slid onto the bar stool to my right, and while I dug in to the toast before it got cold, he picked up the envelope and tore it open.
“Shit!”
“What’s wrong?”
Without a word, Kane held out the sheet of paper. I brushed the crumbs from my fingers and took it.
Shit indeed. I saw at once what had Kane so riled. It was fan mail, of the obsessive kind, full of declarations of undying devotion and extortions to accept said love. There was no signature and no return address, but someone had dropped it off by hand. Assuming the author and the amateur postman were one and the same, this person knew where Kane lived—a closely guarded secret out of the bag.
“Police?” I placed the sheet facedown on the counter.
Kane fingered his slice of toast, picking it up only to drop it again, sending crumbs flying. “No. I don’t want to make a big deal over nothing. The letter is full-on, but it contains no threats, and I doubt someone that into me would want to share, so I’ll assume, for now, they don’t plan to reveal my address to anyone else. It’s you I’m most worried about, Os. This person may not take well to the idea that I’m already spoken for. They could turn nasty.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.” I caught his hand and stilled its flighty movements. “I can take care of myself, Kane. I’ll look out for you too.”
A ghost of a smile lit Kane’s gloomy expression. “Well, aren’t you my hero?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“You know, Os, sometimes I can’t make you out. On the one hand, you’re so innocent and weak. It makes me think of you as the kid who was always bullied at school—the one in need of protection.”
“Gee, thanks.” I tempered the huffed words with a squeeze of his hand.
Kane shook his head, but I was pleased to see his smile widen. “Other times, I think there’s a whole other person hidden inside you—someone strong and assertive. Almost like a Hyde to your Jekyll.”
“And we all know how well that turned out for the good doctor. So, which of my two incarnations do you prefer? The man or the monster?”
“You could never be a monster, Os, and I like both equally because they are both a part of you. I love you.”
I jerked at the unexpected declaration. “You what? Why?”
“No need to sound so surprised. Geez, anyone would think you believed yourself to be totally unlovable.” Kane pursed his lips and regarded me. “This would normally be the point when you tell me that you love me too. Unless you don’t. In which case I’ve misread the signs and made a complete fool of myself.”
“No! I mean, I do.” I glanced down at our joined hands. “You know I do.”
Kane leaned in and we shared a deep, poignant kiss. It was almost enough to make me forget about breakfast and suggest we head back upstairs, but as I pulled away and opened my mouth to propose as much, my gaze fell on the sheet of paper. I immediately sobered.
“So, what are we going to do about that?”
Kane shrugged. “I guess nothing for now. I’ll keep it, in case anything further happens, but unless the guy becomes a nuisance, it’s probably best to leave well alone.”
“How do you know it’s a bloke?”
“The language and the handwriting both look masculine to me. Plus, when women get overenthusiastic in their letters, they usually include either references to me turning straight for them or thinly veiled allusions to wanting to watch me in bed with another man.”
“Oh. I see.”
The thought that it was a guy made me even more uneasy. However, I put that down to my insecurities about being able to hold Kane’s interest for long. Then I remembered—he’d just told me that he loved me! Kane Teague loved me, Oswell Outterridge. Plus, I was now a bona fide superhero, graced with my own theme song and onion bags. With those two things working for me, what did I possibly have to fear?
Chapter Sixteen
MY FIRST day back at the restaurant was fraught. I spent the daylight hours stressing over what Phúc Lành would say. Was he going to keep my secret? He must have seen news reports about Greenbird by now. Would he put two and two together? I walked into the kitchen with my shoulders tensed, but the moment Phúc Lành saw me, he flung his arms around me. The action was so unexpected, it nearly sent me flying—and not in my recently acquired fun manner.
Through a flurry of Vietnamese and a series of increasingly erratic, bordering on violent, hand gestures, I ascertained that he could add up to four but that he planned to keep this knowledge to himself. (The finger to the side of the nose gesture is apparently universal.) By the time I’d expressed my thanks and offered admiration regarding his redecorating efforts, the first customers arrived and the night got underway. For a Tuesday, the place was packed. Everyone had missed their favorite haunt these past few days, and they were keen to reconnect both with each other and the food.
The jovial atmosphere soon rubbed off on me. I temporarily forgot my earlier concerns as I bustled from table to table, distributing plates and bowls and glasses, lingering here and there between orders to exchange greetings with the regulars. Although I’d not worked there for long, I had grown fond of them all—more so than I’d realized until now—and it was a pleasure to see them back in their accustomed seats, the terrible events of the other week expunged.
Our guests seemed even less keen than usual when it came to departing. It was close to midnight by the time we ushered the last of them out of the door. One o’clock came and wen
t before we completed the cleanup and scoffed down some leftovers. I yawned as I slipped on my jacket, reached into the pocket for my phone, and checked my messages. I’d sent a quick text to Kane during the evening to let him know it would be too late a finish for me to swing by his place afterward. He’d replied since then, saying that he’d see me tomorrow. The extra kisses at the end of the message brought a broad grin to my face.
The delayed departure meant I’d missed the last Tube service, so I’d have to take the longer route home, by night bus and on foot. The bus sped past me as I ambled down the street, and I had to up my own pace to make it to the stop in time. It looked touch and go at one point, so I did also reach out with my mind to prevent the bus’s doors from shutting, allowing myself a few extra seconds.
The journey across town was uneventful, and by the time we pulled up to my stop, only a handful of people remained in the vehicle, which was near the end of its route. Outside, a chill breeze swept against my face. I shivered and tugged up my collar to protect my neck from the wind’s icy breath. The bus closed its doors and continued its journey, and I did likewise, stepping out in an effort both to keep warm and get home faster.
Lost in thoughts of the cup of hot chocolate and snug bed that awaited me, it was a while before I noticed the steady tap of footsteps behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of someone, but I couldn’t make out their features under the guttering streetlight, and I didn’t want to stare. A few months ago, I might have been nervous in a similar situation, but these days I had the means to defend myself if it came to that. I was likely doing the guy an injustice, in any case. He was probably just another late-night worker, as eager to reach home as I was.
