Wearing the Cape

by Marion G. Harmon

  "Now, we need to discuss your training," Ajax said, folding his hands. "We must begin immediately, and I'm afraid you're going to have to disappear for awhile."

  "How long?" I asked with a sick, sinking feeling. "Orientation Day is next week."

  "At least a month, closer to two."

  I heard a sharp crack, and looked down to realize I'd broken my cup. Bits of china dropped from my fingers and the remains of my coffee spilled over the saucer.

  "Astra," he said kindly, ignoring the mess. "You're the second strongest Atlas-type in Chicago now. There are only seven stronger than you in the country, three of them in the military. More than anything you need to learn control, and until you do you're not only dangerous to everyone around you, you can give away what you've become in a thousand easy ways. If you want to keep your secret safe, keep your friends and family safe, you need to remove yourself from your normal life until you have experience with your new strength and abilities."

  I shook my head in desperate denial, but thought of last night and the pillow. It could have been Gray. Or Mom or Dad. Oh God. Mom gave my hand a squeeze and I was afraid to return it. The world wobbled and I realized I was breathing fast.

  "But school—I'm going to pledge Phi Mu with the Bees. We're sharing rooms in Palevsky Commons…"

  Dad shook his head.

  "No honey, you're not. Your mother and I have already come up with a cover story for you. We're going to tell everyone your cancer may be coming back. Since Aaron is interning at John Hopkins, you're going there for testing and treatment and staying with Aaron and Cindy. They'll be able to supply enough details to make the story completely believable. You'll be able to take online courses at UofC from right here at the Dome, so—"

  "And I've got to lie to the Bees? Tell them I'm sick again?"

  Julie's family lived in our parish, and after Shelly's funeral she'd ruthlessly dragged me into her circle, which ‘til then had only included Annabeth and Megan. Together since middle school, the Bees (Brennan, Bauman, and Brock) had reigned as the benevolent dictators of the It-crowd of Oak Park. They hadn't been my crowd, but by Julie's decree the Bees had become "Hope and the Bees." We'd worked hard to keep the team together, to all get accepted at UofC. We'd be sisters forever, aunties to each other's kids.

  Mom squeezed my hand again.

  "You'll be able to tell them eventually, dear. Just…"

  I nodded, blinking. "I know." The thought of Annabeth trying to keep my secret was sadly funny. She could… for maybe five minutes. A day tops, and if I couldn't tell one I couldn't tell any. "Where will I be staying?"

  * * *

  The Dome is as self-contained as a military base, and Ajax explained that everybody had an apartment, even the Sentinels who lived elsewhere when not on the job. When he opened the door and ushered us into "my" apartment I stopped and stared, momentarily distracted from my misery by shock at the luxury of my jail.

  The main room was a combination living room and entertainment center, lit by the same kind of indirect lighting as the halls, with the biggest TV screen I'd ever seen outside of a movie war-room. Tiptoeing into the bedroom I found a queen-size bed buried in pillows, a smaller flat-screen TV I could watch in bed, and a study nook. Through the door into the bathroom I could see one of those decadent five-head showers complete with waterfall you read about in fancy home-improvement magazines. A kitchen corner held a large mini-fridge and attached microwave and pantry. Ajax pointed out an apartment phone next to it, for when I wanted to call Willis and ask for something I didn't stock. If I was too lazy to walk down the hall to the common dining area and fix it myself.

  The closet, a huge walk-in, held a full sized mirror and changing space. Dad just looked around and nodded; the accommodations befit his princess. Mom promised to have my stuff packed and over by tonight. She whipped out her cell-phone and took pictures of everything, and I knew they'd have paintings and art for the bare walls and spaces in a couple of days if I didn't stop them.

  Ajax stepped out to give us a moment alone, and Dad drew me into a bear hug. He pulled back, still holding my shoulders, and dropped a kiss on my forehead.

  "Well," he said.

  I nodded quickly, then gave up and threw my arms around his neck, barely remembering not to squeeze. He squeezed for me, lifting me off the carpet, while pointing out gruffly that my laptop had a web-cam and I hadn't left the city. And in a couple of months I'd be able to come home, and everything would be back to normal.

  I didn't agree, but didn't fight.

  Mom gave me a kiss and informed me she expected me for mass and Sunday dinner before I "flew out." And then they were gone. With my new super-duper hearing I heard them talking to Ajax as they headed for the elevator—wringing all sorts of promises from the man.

  I flopped onto my new bed. The sheets had an absurdly high thread-count.

  Somewhere Shelly had to be laughing, but I didn't think it was funny. I tried not to feel like an unwanted pet abandoned at the side of the road, a dog that’d gotten too big for the house. My chin quivered warningly and I took a deep breath, using oxygen to fight off defeat.

  I wanted so much to agree with them; two months, then I could have my life back. Dad couldn't stand the idea of his little girl risking her life, getting hurt. I'd been so looking forward to college life with the Bees. Everyone had plans for me, and I liked them.

  But.

  Like I'd told Mom and Dad, it felt wrong.

  You're not suddenly indispensable, Atlas had said. And he was right. But he was wrong, too.

  I couldn't save little Kimberly or her mom. But yesterday the news report that gave me their names credited five other "saves" in the Ashland bombing to the new mystery woman. To me.

  Gifts were to be used; the parentals had taught me that. So, what now?

  One thing at a time.

  I wiped my eyes and reached for my cell.

  Chapter Six

  Even in the beginning Atlas never went for the briefs-outside-the-tights look, but there are plenty who did and I started with the spandex shorts and cape. What possesses a person, already a freak to begin with, to put on a cape and mask and let people give her a funny name? All right, I will grant that there are good reasons for the mask. And the codename. But the rest? What are we, ten?

  Astra, Notes from a Life

  * * *

  I phoned Susan to call in sick again, though I hated to. Mom's best event coordinator, a perpetually harried woman who always had pencils and pens stuck in her ragged French bun, she could run the show without me if it came to that. I promised faithfully that I'd be there the next night unless I was dying (an unfortunate word-choice considering my new cover). I'd be careful, not touch anything remotely breakable, whatever, but I wasn't going to miss it. I wouldn't allow it.

  Then I texted Julie to tell them I couldn't make it to our lunch-date and make sure that all three of the Bees were going to be at the gallery. I promptly got three WTF? responses and felt even worse; always busy with school and the foundation, I'd never blown off the Bees. As I wondered how I was going to be able to lie to them, someone knocked on the door.

  Quin stood outside with another jumpsuit for me, this time with a mask and wig.

  "The newsies got footage of you leaving the bomb site, so you're part of the story," she explained as I changed. "They didn't get a great picture, but they're running it again alongside the new Teatime Anarchist story; the DSA found the safe-house where the bombs were made, but he's still in the wind and he released a new video-file promising more death and destruction if the feds don't back off."

  She handed me the wig.

  "So we need to bring you out at a press conference as soon as we can, where people can stop speculating and see you. You're the one positive piece of this story. The body-scan part of your checkup Monday gave us all the measurements we needed, so we're going to see Andrew right now."

  "Andrew?" I asked to distract myself from the images of the bombing my mind conjured
up. I could still smell it, like smoke in my clothes.

  "The designer for the sartorially sophisticated superhero. The team picks up the tab for his creations—all part of the PR."

  Tom drove us in a car with tinted windows, and Andrew's studio turned out to be off Michigan Avenue not far from Bennigan's Tavern. It had a narrow front, just a solid oak door framed in decorative molding with Andrew's Designs in gold above the lintel. Andrew assumed, I supposed, that if you didn't know what he designed you didn't need to know.

  Inside, at the end of a long hall hung with tracklights lighting gallery prints of celebrity superheroes (mostly high-fashion shots by famous photographers for magazines like Vogue and GQ), we met Andrew in a cozy parlor. Andrew wasn't what I expected; the man stood tall at around six foot two, as tall as Dad though Dad was heavier. Andrew didn't have an inch of fat on him. He looked like GI Joe gone civilian, and he was all business.

  Pulling a stack of boxes out of a wardrobe, he pushed me behind a screen and told me how to dress. I had trouble with the mask and he helped to pull and tug the thing snuggly back and over my head, then led me out to stand in front of a three-way mirror. He fussed briefly with the fall of the cape while I stared at the girl in the full-length mirrors, speechless.

  The outfit was the same blue and white scheme as Atlas' leather jumpsuit, but the resemblance ended there. Instead of a jumpsuit, I wore a two-piece costume with a short cape. The blue top was a sleeveless leather vest with a sweetheart neckline, belted at the waist, over a pair of white spandex boyleg shorts. The vest hugged my small waist and hid inserts that changed my immature bust to a more grown up one, and the white cape hung from buckles on the shoulders to just barely below the costume bottom. A white eight-pointed star sat on my chest, its cardinal points longer than its secondary points so that it looked a bit like a compass symbol except that the "south" or down point was longer than all the others. The silver buckle at the waist sported the Sentinels' trademark S.

  Both Atlas and Quin wore token masks, domino masks that only hid the bit of face around their eyes, but mine gave serious coverage The snug half-mask of blue leather covered my face from just below my cheekbones to past the edge of my scalp, with a cleverly attached wig that darkened my platinum-blond hair by several shades and added five or six inches to fall down behind my shoulders. White leather gloves and blue boots with hidden lifts completed the outfit.

  Taken all together it seemed to hide nothing and exaggerate nothing, but...

  "Well?" Quin prodded.

  I hardly knew where to begin. "I still get mistaken for a middle-schooler, but this... it's amazing."

  The costume didn't have the "do me" look that modish superheroines were adopting, but it transformed me from someone who didn't look like she should be driving into an unmistakable adult. And a superhero.

  Monday I'd been just plain 'Hope,' and now a superhero looked back at me. Even my own family wouldn't recognize me.

  Andrew watched me closely.

  "Have Atlas show you how to hang everything from the belt. And what do you think of your crest?"

  "My what?" I couldn't look away.

  "The star symbol. I thought of just using Atlas' 'A' since you share the same initial, but I think you really need your own."

  "Oh." I turned to face him. "It looks good, I guess."

  He sighed.

  "Astra, the crest is the most important part of the costume. You can change your costume style, even your colors when you graduate from being a sidekick, but you'll never change the symbol unless you're trying to create a whole new superhero persona."

  "Purist," Quin laughed at him. "It's a marketing thing, Astra. Atlas has his Roman 'A', Chakra has her pink lotus, and I have my crowned diamond. We even sell them on t-shirts and stuff."

  "Oh," I repeated. I tried to look at it critically, but shied away from the idea of having a symbol.

  "I like it," I finally said.

  "Done, then." Andrew clapped his hands, rubbing them together.

  Then he turned to a folder he'd brought with him. It held page after page of color sketches of Harlequin costumes, from her standard diagonal-checkered bodystocking to frilled skirts and tights, ruffled shirts and patched vests, cravats and tied sleeves, waistcoats and jackets, slippers, shoes, boots, and hats, hats, hats. The sketches ran from playful to sexy, formal and even businesslike. Delighted, Quin spent some time poring over the designs while Andrew watched her, smiling.

  I made some comments, but mostly just sat trying catch up in my head. At the end of the hour Andrew shooed us out with a smile for me and a wink for Quin.

  Back on the street I turned to Quin to ask just what the wink had been about, and a flash lit off in my face. I knew the lanky, grinning guy under the tousled dirty-blond hair holding the camera.

  "The!" he said. "Turn this way! And who's your friend?"

  I almost blurted his name.

  Confronted by Terry Reinhold, a photo-journalist and columnist who worked Chicago's superhero and society beat for his column, City Watch, Quin looked dumbfounded. She scowled.

  "Terry..."

  "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

  "'The'?" I asked.

  "Her name, don'tcha know?" Terry grinned at me. "Her first name, at least: The Harlequin?"

  Her scowl deepened. "Terry, so help me—"

  "So are you going to introduce us, or am I going to have to wait till Monday like everyone else? This shot'll make a handy column topper till then. The Harlequin seen leaving Andrew's with stylish new mystery woman."

  "Damn it Terry!"

  "C'mon, Quin. I've been staking Andrew's out for two days. You've got to give me something."

  Tom had pulled up, drawing more attention from afternoon strollers. Quin ground her teeth.

  "Get in."

  We got in, Terry in the front passenger's side, where he twisted around to face us as the car pulled away from the curb and I tried to figure out how to arrange the cape.

  "So?"

  Quin rubbed her temples.

  "What will it take for you to bury the picture until Tuesday? I want a clean debut."

  Terry nodded, obviously expecting it.

  "You want it dramatic. No worries. First interview."

  "You'll have to do the interview right after the press conference. I will vet the questions."

  "Don't you trust me to know what's off limits by now? I'm hurt."

  "You're a journalist, you can't feel pain. I'm more worried that Ast—my associate has no experience with the wiles of the press. You know the drill; I'll be there, I'll vet the questions and—"

  "And if I ask any question you've declared out of bounds or go over your on-the-spot veto that'll be the last time I'm allowed in the Dome. You're a hard woman; are you free for dinner next Friday?"

  "Get out."

  Tom had conveniently stopped us at a light at the dramatically appropriate moment. Terry opened the door, but looked back over his shoulder.

  "Someday you'll say yes. I'm that irresistible."

  The light changed and we pulled away, and Quin let her head fall back on the seat headrest. Tom raised the dividing window, and, looking at the glass I realized distractedly that our ride was armored.

  "I've got to do it some time," I offered. Hesitated. "And I like Terry."

  She frowned.

  "Do you think he might recognize you?"

  I thought about it.

  "I don't think so. He covers a lot of Mom's events, and he interviewed her a couple of times, but I'm mostly invisible. I don't think he'd out me if he did."

  She sighed, agreeing. "He's no tabloid reporter and he does know the Deal."

  The unspoken deal, capital 'D'. News agencies only used the codenames of superheroes who wanted to keep their private lives private, even if their private identities were publicly known. Superheroes who tried to keep their private identities secret weren't fair game for investigative journalists either; heroes routinely and successfully sued reporters
and news agencies in civil court on personal injury grounds for breaching their secret identities. The courts recognized a superhero's right to privacy and the shield of an official "super identity." Mostly.

  I chewed my lip, wondering if a mask, wig, and wonderbra would really be enough.

  "Terry's good people," I said at last. "You could do worse on a Friday night, too. For that matter, what's the deal with Andrew? I've seen boys chase girls with flowers and concert tickets before, but never with costume designs."