The downside to all that private writing time was that my wrists grew sore after a particularly long and detailed journal entry, which was mostly about Scanlon Dorsey and how much garlic he'd cost my family so far. Yeah, I'd been keeping tabs. Mom had already begun noticing her dwindling garlic supply, but I wasn't about to talk. Well, not unless I got caught, anyway.
First test for wrist strength came when Mom and I went to Uncle Chung's for some Chinese food dinner. It was payday, so, yay for us. No frozen pizza.
"Good evening, Mrs. Plath!” Mrs. Zhang called out from behind her steam-filled counter. I wasn't sure if it was just me, but her little take-out place seemed to get foggier and foggier every time I went there. I could barely make out her silhouette as she waved a ladle above her head. “Haven't seen you in a while! I only see skinny boy here! What, no boyfriend with you tonight? You two not an item anymore or something? You real heartbreaker, huh? Tsk, tsk!"
"Good evening,” Mom said as we stood before the food counter. “I've been busy with work, Mrs. Zhang. And, no, Eric's solo tonight. No boyfriend anywhere. It's a bit of a miracle, actually."
Yeah, thanks, Mom. I glowered at the steaming trays of greasy food before me. I guessed adults forgot how it was, being sixteen and in a first relationship. Sometimes I thought that they were jealous because when a person was young, everything was pretty intense. You couldn't say that about adult romance. Older people were more, like, sly and conniving even when they flirted with each other. Then they jumped into bed and then woke up in the morning to realize that, hey, they had a spouse and children back home! So whom were they really in love with?
Okay, so I'd just made all of that up. I was a little inspired because I was forced to watch some horrible, sappy-ass chick flick on TV while waiting for Mom to get ready for this trip to Uncle Chung's. Liz was watching, anyway, and I didn't have a choice. Then again, I supposed I'd rather suffer through some sappy chick flick than be dragged to the kiddie ice cream parlor by Scanlon Dorsey because he figured that spoiling me would earn him brownie points with Liz.
"Special for today—buy two potstickers, get one egg roll free!” Mrs. Zhang said proudly, waving a hand before her face to dissipate the clouds that continued to roll between us. I still could barely see her in the fog. “Good treat for kid here. He needs bulk. If you let me keep him for a month, I'll make sure he eats everything I cook, and he goes home all fixed."
"I don't want to be fixed,” I gasped. “Dude, are you kidding me? I'm not a stray animal!"
"Eric, Mrs. Zhang's not a dude.” Mom leaned closer to Mrs. Zhang. “You're welcome to keep him for two months. Just make sure that he does his own laundry because, well, you know how teenage boys are."
Whatever, Mom.
Anyway, Mom finally got serious—though, frankly, I had a feeling that she'd been pretty serious about giving me up for two months—and ordered tonight's dinner. Before long we were walking back home, with Mom humming to herself while I struggled with the two plastic bags that Mrs. Zhang packed. My right wrist...holy cow, it felt like my whole hand was about to tear off its joint. I cursed under my breath the whole time, hoping pretty much that the next eventful moment that required a blow-by-blow entry in my journal wouldn't happen for at least another week.
Along the way, we nearly got run over by a stolen car. We heard the tires screeching behind us, and Mom and I automatically jumped away from the edge of the sidewalk. I almost fell into a pile of trash cans that were old and battered, and they looked like they hadn't been emptied in a month. Even in the early evening hours, the whole thing was just gross. I didn't need to see all that accumulated crap in detail. Besides, I wasn't sure if it was a trick of the dying light, but I could've sworn those garbage heaps actually breathed.
Mom grabbed hold of my left arm to steady me and to pull me closer to her while she froze, waiting for the car to fly by. It did, careening all over the place and nearly running over some drunk who was passed out and lying half on the sidewalk and half on the road.
"Stop right there!” someone shouted from somewhere above us.
A familiar shadowy figure flew down and landed several feet in front of the car, and it was like ballet. Magnifiman stood in classic superhero pose with legs apart and hands on hips, cape flapping jauntily behind him, which made me wonder if his superhero powers also came with his own breeze that made him look perfectly cinematic every time he struck a pose. The car didn't slow, and all we saw was it going straight for him and then getting swept up in one fluid motion. Magnifiman held it up above his head like it weighed nothing and flew off with it.
"Good evening, ma'am!” he called out.
"Good evening! Thank you!” Mom yelled back, waving. I just stared.
When the street was again safe, Mom and I moved forward. Her mood restored itself, and she was once again humming while I struggled with the two bags of Chinese food. I think we were about a block away from home when Mom suddenly stopped. I had to walk another ten feet forward before I realized that I'd just left her behind, and my wrists throbbed. Irritated, I stopped and turned.
"Mom? What's up?” I said.
Mom didn't answer right away. She just stood there, quiet, as if she were listening for something that only she could hear. She looked up, sweeping her gaze along the top of the grungy apartment building across the street from where we stood. I stared at it, frowning. I didn't see anything unusual there. It was typical lower-middle-class housing, with decaying bricks and some broken windows, the lights all yellow and murky. Nothing looked suspicious on rooftops anywhere, either.
"Mom!” I called. “Come on, these things are heavy! And I'm starving!"
She didn't seem to hear me still, but after several more seconds of standing, listening, and searching, she finally sighed and walked toward me.
"I'm sorry, honey,” she replied, taking one of the bags from my hold and gently guiding me back home with a strangely firm hold around my free arm.
"What's wrong? Did you hear something?” I asked.
"Hmm? Oh, no. It was nothing. I thought I saw something move up there, but it was just my imagination.” She ended that with a small laugh that sounded a little tight and forced, but I didn't push things. We just fell silent for the rest of the way, and once we crossed the threshold, I suddenly realized that I was panting and a little sweaty. That was because we'd practically run the rest of the way home, or at least Mom had made me pick up my pace for whatever reason. Like we were running away from something.
I was a little unnerved by that, but I said nothing to her when I followed her to the dining room and helped her set the table. I did try to watch her, though. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary other than the fact that her hands trembled a little, and she didn't bother to hide it.
After dinner, I called Peter and got his voice mail. No surprise there, but I did make sure to stay up kind of late to wait for his call back. It didn't come till about eleven, and he sounded dead tired.
"Hey,” he said, yawning. “What's up?"
"I'll keep this short, I promise. Sounds like you had a pretty rough day out there."
He chuckled. “Comes with the territory."
"Okay, did Trent say anything about the neighborhood where he nabbed a carjacker? Mom and I were out, and we saw everything. But other than the carjacking thing, was there anything else he mentioned to you about the area?"
Peter was silent for a moment. “Uh, no, really. Why, did anything else happen?"
So I told him about Mom's odd behavior and the rush home, as though she were running away from a threat.
"I wonder if she saw something,” I said. “She really looked like she was suspicious of something in the area, but when I tried to look around, I didn't see anything weird or out of place. Then again, it was getting dark, so the shadows didn't help. Mom still seemed freaked out when we were at home, but she wouldn't talk.” I shivered. “Talking about it kind of makes my skin prickle. It was just creepy."
"Okay. I'll tell the oth
ers about what you said. That area's always been bad news, Eric. I wish you and your family would take the longer and safer route to Uncle Chung's."
I smiled. “I know. After tonight, though, I wouldn't be surprised if Mom forced me to take the bus just to get some takeout Chinese food from now on."
"Just be careful, okay?"
I promised. After saying goodbye, which always took us around five more minutes before actually hanging up the phone, I decided to get a little more involved in superhero work, even if only as a “casual observer” of the unusual. Maybe I could recruit Freddie, seeing as how his chameleon powers could work pretty darned well for my purpose.
Too bad I didn't exactly know the first thing about detective work, but, hey, I was open to on-the-job training. Or whatever.
* * * *
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 8
* * * *
You know, there's a special place in hell for bullies of all stripes. I mean, Gorilla Grip Cohen has reserved seating waiting for him when the time comes, and I'm sure it'll be at Satan's right hand. Hopefully inside his Latrine of Fire. For other jerks, though...
I was on my way home from my tutorial with Dr. Dibbs, when I spotted a kid who looked about my age or slightly younger being taunted by a couple of older ones. He wasn't really responding to them, and I guess that was a good sign that he was smart enough not to lower himself to their level, but it still pissed me off. I mean, I'd been there before.
The kid was overweight. Not obese, but overweight enough to be picked on. He also had tons of freckles along with curly red hair, which made him an even bigger target for stupid jokes. He didn't look poor or anything. He was actually dressed up pretty nice, a backpack slung over his shoulder, but that didn't stop those morons. They looked like total punks who also might have been jocks at the same time. I mean, they were pretty built for their age, dressed in tattered jackets and denim. I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd carried those little switchblades in their pockets. Seriously, I couldn't get any better in describing a couple of cliches.
"Hey, have you seen pigs fly?” one of them asked as they trotted behind the kid, every once in a while reaching out to tug at his backpack or give him a “playful” shove.
"Nope, but maybe ol’ Big Bird here might want to show us how it's done,” his buddy replied. “Hey, Biggie, how about jumping off a roof and showing us how it's done, huh?"
They went on for a couple more moments, poking and laughing, calling the kid names, and I saw that among those who were walking around the general area, no one seemed to be aware of what was going on. Then again, maybe they'd grown pretty indifferent to other people's misery. We were at a small side street that didn't have a lot of pedestrians since rundown tenements surrounded us, not shops. I kind of figured that those idiots hung around the area and just decided to have fun at this poor guy's expense. Since I was at the cross-street, waiting for the light to change when they appeared, I decided to jump in.
"Hey! Leave him alone!” I called out.
"Huh? What? Leave who alone, faggot?” one of them yelled back, and his friend laughed, giving me the middle finger. “Oh, you mean Baby Huey over here?” He gave the kid another quick shove. The boy stumbled forward a couple of steps, but he just set his mouth in a grim line and adjusted his backpack. He didn't break his stride, otherwise. I felt really bad; I was sure he was used to crap like this.
"It's all fun and games,” his friend added. “Speaking of fun and games, how about giving us some fun, huh? It's been a while since I got to blow off steam."
"Dude, seriously? That's lame,” his buddy said. I thought that was lame, too, but funny as hell. I mean, who'd want to get it on with that loser? I wouldn't be surprised if his hands had already filed a restraining order against the rest of his body.
"Shut up. So how about it, huh, princess? You look a little anemic and skinny, but I'm sure you're used to kneeling down, and I'm not talking about praying, either.” Neanderthal Number One walked up to me and draped an arm around my shoulder. He looked me up and down before pointing at my legs. “You think he's got some pretty strong knees?"
"You're an asshole,” I said, surprised at how calm I sounded despite the fact that I was crapping myself.
Neanderthal One, who was as tall as me but way heavier, smacked me upside the head pretty hard. I yelped as I staggered forward, and he laughed, “What? What did you say? You want my asshole? You all hot for a poke, faggot?"
"Damn, dem queers are getting pretty brave, proposi—eeeeyyyargh!"
I ducked with a little cry just as something whooshed down, plucked those two troglodytes off the street, and flew off with them. I glanced up to find them sailing away, each goon held in one of Magnifiman's meaty arms. I smirked as I watched them flail and scream.
"Serves you right, jackasses,” I crowed, gingerly rubbing the back of my head. It throbbed from the major smacking I'd gotten. “Give ‘em hell, Magnifiman!"
I sighed and brushed off my jacket as I stood back up, reminding myself to take some aspirin when I got home. Then I remembered the other kid and turned around. He was still standing there, watching the sky and looking pretty impressed. He was also very, very calm about the whole thing, which I thought was amazing.
"Hey, are you okay?” I asked, and then he turned to me with a frown. No, really. That's gratitude for you.
"I can take care of myself. I've got what it takes to beat those creeps,” he huffed. Adjusting his backpack once more, he walked on while I cocked an eyebrow at him.
Wow, you're very welcome. It's no problem at all. My pleasure, really. I shook my head and muttered a few choice words about people who wouldn't know class if it bit them in the ass. I carried on, my mood a little sour, and things didn't get any better when I passed by a small electronics shop with a bunch of old, used computers sitting behind the display window.
Just as I walked by, the computer monitors flashed a bright white, startling me. I turned and saw the screens of about four monitors flickering before fading into black. Then white text marched across the screens, so it looked like I was seeing echoes of the same dumb message.
Remember bingo night! I'll call you when the time comes! [33333333
I rolled my eyes and walked on. Before rounding the final corner into my street, I passed a couple of shop owners who stood, smoking, on the sidewalk, looking pretty grumpy.
"I can't afford to have the ventilation fixed,” one of them said. I recognized him. It was Mel Bryant, whom everyone in the neighborhood called “the gentle giant” because though he was this big, hulking guy who could intimidate anyone with just his presence, he was the nicest, most generous mechanic who'd always shared some down-home cooking with me when I was a little kid. He was Dad's mechanic, and I used to get treats from him while Dad and I waited for him to change the oil or something. From a poor, rural region, where blacks were still being treated like crap, he never talked about the bad stuff he put up with all his life.
The other guy was Francisco Hernandez, who owned the tiny grocery next to Mel's garage. He listened in silence, his hands in his filthy apron's pockets the whole time. “Yeah—I keep telling Mr. Rush that the building—our building—needs repairs. He doesn't listen. He even said that if the roof hasn't caved in, we shouldn't have anything to worry about."
Mr. Bryant shook his head as he threw his cigarette on the pavement and squashed it with his foot. “Landlord, my ass. As long as he gets the money, he don't give no crap about vents making noise."
"I'll have to do the repairs, myself,” Mr. Hernandez said, wiping his nose with his sleeve, and grimacing. “Once I find the time, I'll do it. Right now? No time."
"Hell, who does?"
I passed by and waved at them both. They stopped their conversation and greeted me, but I didn't bother engaging them, seeing as how they seemed a little upset over the shabby conditions they were forced to put up with, day in and day out.
* * * *
Mom and L
iz were set to watch The Sixth Sense that night. Talk about a miracle. Mom, who was always too freaked out to watch horror movies, agreed to watch The Sixth Sense. She even looked kind of smug when Liz announced it over dinner and invited me and Dad to watch with them.
"Really?” I said, blinking at Mom. She just grinned at me.
"Honey, what's there for me to worry about? I'm not going to be in a dark theatre, the lights will be on, and it's in the living room."
"Besides,” Scanlon piped up (did I mention that he had dinner with us tonight?), “I'll be there to keep you ladies company."
Liz flashed him a tight-lipped smile, and Mom laughed. Across the way, Dad looked a little puzzled but kept quiet, while I narrowed my eyes at my food. I'd have given Scanlon another death glare, but since he sat beside me, it was a little hard trying to mask it without looking like I had some weird visual defect.
"So how about it, scamp? You up to some goose-pimply entertainment tonight? Ah-woooooo...” he said, the final bit being a cheesy moan that was supposed to make him sound like, you know, a ghost.
"I'm actually getting all goose-pimply right now, thanks,” I said, instinctively stiffening when he reached in front of me to take the pepper shaker.
Man, Disney's Haunted Mansion had nothing on the Plath dining experience. I looked at Liz with my best why-can't-you-marry-him-now-and-convert-him-to-normalcy look. Unfortunately, she was too busy giggling at Scanlon's cleverness.
I sighed and lightly toyed around with my dinner for a bit. We were having tuna fish casserole, which never agreed with my stomach. I expected a miserable night on the toilet later. “Mom, can we have a dog?” I blurted out.
"So you can feed him your food while I'm not looking?” Mom replied, all smiles and sweet motherly vibes mowing me down.
Curse of Arachnaman Page 7
