by Sarah Cross
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Sarah Cross
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Published in the United States by Dutton Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA)
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eISBN : 978-1-101-02480-5
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For peter, Who ALWAYS SAVES the DAY —S.C.
MAYBE I NEED A costume.
Trust me—I don’t want to wear a costume. Skintight spandex isn’t really my thing, the ski-mask-plus-bathing-suit combo didn’t exactly inspire confidence when I tried it on (please forget I even mentioned that), and where am I supposed to find a leather jumpsuit? But at this point I have to consider all my options.
And before you start thinking I’m a complete freak, I should probably admit something:
I have superpowers.
When other guys my age stay up too late on a school night, they’re probably on Xbox Live or finishing some last-minute homework. Right? I’m in the garage with all the lights off, dead-lifting my mom’s car because I don’t have a three-thousand-pound weight set, and hoping she doesn’t notice. Or I’m soaring through the sky, flying under cover of darkness because night is the one time I can risk it. The only time I can really be myself.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t care what would happen if anyone knew the truth about me. But I do care. I have to keep this a secret. No one can know—not my parents, not my friends . . .
It’s just that it’s getting harder to hide it.
Now that I have these powers, I feel like I can’t shirk the responsibility that comes with them. If I can maybe make a difference, shouldn’t I be out there, giving it my all? I’ve been patrolling my town for weeks, looking for some way to be useful—and I’m getting antsy, more ambitious. Rescuing cats from trees is fine, but what about real emergencies, like flash floods and fires and people being held hostage? There’s only so much I can do while pretending to be normal.
1
IT’S FRIDAY—ANOTHER AFTERNOON spent pounding the pavement in search of crimes to stop and people to help. And, as usual, I’m coming up mostly empty.
School let out hours ago and it’s already getting dark. I cruise by the elementary school, scoping the playground for would-be vandals and thinking about everything I still need to do tonight. The place is empty, except for one little kid playing basketball by himself.
I stop to watch him.
The kid dribbles the ball against the pavement twice, then hurls it at the hoop, throwing his whole body forward. The ball sails wide. He chases after it, sniffles thanks to a monster runny nose, and wipes his face on his sleeve.
He’s totally oblivious, lost in what he’s doing. Pound-pound. Huhn! The ball hurtles toward the net, drops off before it even comes close. Sniff! He scrunches his face. Tries again.
I should get going—the closest I’ve come to doing anything useful was picking up and returning a dollar someone dropped, and I still have to buy something for Henry. But giving this kid a few pointers won’t take long. I’m no basketball star, but—
“Air ball!” A pack of rowdy fifth and sixth graders bound across the playground, laughing at triple volume like they’ve got someone to impress.
The kid tenses up, stops his basketball mid-bounce. Almost in sync, I rise from my stakeout spot. These guys are tiny to me, but they’re giants to the kid—I can tell by the way he shrinks back as they approach. I drift closer, hackles up like an angry guard dog.
Before I get there, my cell starts ringing, cranking out a tinny version of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man.”
Not now!
wat u doin? It’s a text from Nate, my sort-of friend, the guy who weaseled his way into our group after he took my spot on the wrestling team—a spot he’d never have if I hadn’t voluntarily stepped down.
@libry talk ltr, I tap back.
He knows I’m supposedly at the library, thoroughly engrossed in my extra-credit science project. What’s up with bothering me? Henry’s surprise party isn’t till eight.
I bump the volume down on my phone—no more interruptions!—and glance up just in time to see the kid’s knees hit the pavement. When he tries to get up, the older guys shove him down again.
I cross the remaining distance in like three strides, jaw tight with my best vigilante scowl. I’m wearing all black; I have a ski cap pulled down over my eyebrows. I’m channeling Batman, protector of the playground instead of Gotham.
One of the bullies is kicking the little dude’s basketball around like it’s a soccer ball. It rolls over to me and I stop it with my foot.
“Hey! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
I’m nowhere close to being their size, but whatever—it’s a classic line.
“Oooh, like you? I’m so scared.” The alpha bully rolls his eyes. He and his friends start snorting and flopping around, bumping into each other—I guess to, uh, insinuate that I’m retarded? They’re throwing out lines like, “You want me to leave him alone; come make me,” and “What are you, his girlfriend?”
Hilarious stuff.
“It’s cool,” I say, strolling closer. I
toss the basketball into the air a few times—casually, like I’m messing around. But when it’s on its way down for the last time, I bring my hands together and pop it like a balloon.
Their tough, no-fear expressions crumble. “Oh, snap!”
All five take off across the playground. The alpha bully trips on his shoelaces and one of the other kids charges right over him; a third kid screams that his older brother’s gonna kick my ass—but he waits until he’s at least a hundred feet away from me to do it.
“You all right?” I say to the little kid. His head’s down, but he nods, sniffles; he’s busy examining the hole in his jeans. There’s blood on the frayed denim.
“You broke my basketball.” Sniff!
Oh. Crap. Yeah, I did, didn’t I?
“Sorry about that. I’ll buy you a new one, okay?” I crouch down next to him, dig out my wallet, and offer him twenty bucks—more than half of my buy-Henry-a-last-minute-birthday-gift budget.
Sniff! He smears his tears with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to play anymore. I’m too small.”
“Pff! Too small? You’re just getting started!” I ruffle his hair and he laughs, even though I’m pretty sure that’s an annoying gesture. “You might be eight feet tall one day!” He squints at me skeptically, and I grin. “Stranger things have happened.”
I extend a hand to help him up, and a sudden chill races down my spine, makes my body convulse.
It’s hitting me again.
I hunch my shoulders, tug my hat low so it covers my ears. The weather’s been almost “balmy” lately, according to my mom. But my body’s shaking like I got caught in a blizzard. My skin’s slicked with cold sweat.
I try to tell myself it’s because I need to eat, or I’m getting sick, but I know it’s not that simple. Something’s wrong with me.
“C’mon,” I say. “I’ll walk you home. And if any of those kids are waiting for you, they’ll have to deal with me.”
“Okay.” He takes my hand with his tiny, tear-covered one. “Thanks.”
Aww. See how nice that is?
For a second I forget that I’m a first-class deceiver, a destroyer of property and all-around screwup.
It doesn’t take long to be reminded. When I pull out my phone again, it’s full of texts from Nate and Milo, and a voice mail from my mom.
Mom: “Don’t be out too late! I want you up early tomorrow mowing the lawn. And I swear to God if you break the mower, Avery . . . (sigh) I’ve got a whole list of chores for you to do. Don’t think you’re not going to do EVERYTHING you can around here to pay back—”
I delete it; I already have that lecture memorized: she’s going to give me more hell about destroying Henry’s dad’s car, blah blah, hell, blah. Not that it was destroyed. I just . . . broke the door and shattered some windows when I slammed the door too hard. It was an accident. And it was totally his choice to buy a new one.
Nate: dude y r ur grdes so bad if ur alwys at libry? dont 4gt ur settng up 4 h’s bday. u got party stuff from lacey rt? h will luv bday banner n plates! so old school lol hllo were r u Av?
Milo: get ther erly it gets crwded u ther yet? wat u buy hm?
BURP!
By the time I get the kid home, it’s almost seven; I’m supposed to be at Roast by seven-thirty so I can hang Henry’s “Happy Birthday” banner and set out all the party favors and “Happy Birthday from Pikachu!” plates and napkins and stuff. It’s kind of lame, but . . . I guess it’s supposed to be funny. I dunno; it was Nate’s idea.
I also have to buy Henry a present. This is important. Because even though Henry’s my best friend, I’ve blown him off a lot lately. Like, he’ll want to hang out and play Xbox, or practice moonsaults on his trampoline, but when he calls I’m halfway across town waiting for some crisis to occur, so I end up resorting to my I’m-studying-at-the-library lie.
But what’s the alternative? Tell him the truth?
Tell him that I quit wrestling after I broke Mike G.’s arm not because Coach made me, but because my strength was out of control and I was afraid I might hurt someone again?
And that, um, not only do I have powers, but that I feel like I need to do something good with them so I’m more than just a destructive force?
He’d think I was totally delusional. Or he’d make me show him, and then he’d believe me—but that would be worse. Because he’d brag to Milo and Nate. And then the news would be everywhere.
I can’t come clean and fix everything, but I don’t want Henry to think I’ve forgotten about him. We used to do a lot of cool stuff together. Like in seventh grade, when we plotted out this whole wrestling rivalry, and we put on WWE-style shows between classes. He’d hit me with a folding chair that we stole from the orchestra room, and I’d elbow drop him in the hallway. We spent a lot of time washing chalkboards that year, but it was worth it.
Those are some of my best memories. I’ve just been busy lately, and “all heroism, no play” means that the only “super” I’ve been to my friends lately is super lame. I need to make it up to them, to prove I’m not a deadbeat friend. I’m hoping a kick-ass birthday party will help.
Unfortunately, since I made that kid take the twenty bucks, most of my money’s gone and I have to go the cheap route and get Henry a bargain-bin Incredible Hulk T-shirt—and hope he just thinks it’s ironic. Then I zip home and climb in through my open window, grab some wrapping paper and the decorations, slap on some cologne—because hey, there will be girls there—and fly to Roast under cover of darkness, cutting through the woods or empty parking lots whenever possible.
I really shouldn’t be flying, but if I get there any later, Henry’s surprise will be ruined—and then I’ll really be screwed. My friends barely trust me to pull this off as it is. I just hope they appreciate it, because if anyone saw me flying, I would be dead. DEAD. Scientists would have me in a government lab in about five seconds, checking to see if my pee could cure cancer.
Vivisection leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Roast is crowded when I get there, just like Milo said it would be. Basically, every kid who doesn’t feel like going to Denny’s is here—late-night hangout options are slim. Tack on adults who don’t like sports bars, a scattering of poets, and you’ve got table availability that’s almost nil.
But I won’t be deterred. It’s Henry’s birthday; I’m on a mission.
I stake out a spot by the massive coffee roaster (it looks like a furnace, but smells better), and wait for a four-person table to open up—then, when it does, I pounce, throwing all my stuff down to claim it.
Paper Pikachu hats tumble out of the bag. A few sophisticated hipsters gape at me, appalled.
“Birthday party,” I explain. And then I ignore them.
I go to town decorating, setting out the matching paper plates, napkins, noisemakers—every ridiculous item you can imagine. Nate’s friend Lacey even stuffed a few balloons in the bag, so after I order something (a cupcake and a smoothie, so the manager doesn’t kick me out), I sit down and start blowing them up, tying them off, and then taping them to the table.
Awesome. Henry’s gonna pee his pants laughing.
I need permission to hang the birthday banner, so I pop one of the paper hats on my head and beeline to the nearest employee: a girl around my age who’s dressed all in black. She’s busy pushing a broom around, messy brown hair hanging in her face. I figure she won’t mind being interrupted.
“Hey, do you mind if I—”
“The sign-up list is over there,” she says, jerking her head toward the counter. In a . . . not-very-friendly way. “What? Aren’t you here for open-mike night?” Then she squints at my head. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“Uh . . .” My hands go to the Pikachu “I Choose You, Birthday Boy!” hat; suddenly it seems like a bad idea. “Nothing.” I slip it off my head. God, this is gonna seem even stupider. “Do you think I could, uh, hang this banner? For my friend’s birthday?”
She blows a piece of hair out of
her face, scowls. “I don’t care if you hang yourself.”
“Uh . . . okay, thanks.” I slink away from her, cringe all the way back to my table. Yikes. What’s her problem?
The banner is rainbow-colored. It’s shiny and metallic, and crinkled tinsel dangles from the edges, like fringe on a scarf. It’s the most obnoxious thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m just about done hanging it when the applause starts. Followed by microphone feedback, and the obligatory “Welcome to Roast’s open-mike night! Thank you all for coming!”
Ugh. No offense to poets, but I hate poetry. The only thing worse than people expressing their innermost feelings is when they have to make them rhyme.
I settle into my seat and take a big slurp of my smoothie; lean my head against the wall, anticipating agony. There’s a girl sitting at the table across from mine who looks like she’s getting ready to read—she’s in the middle of some weird transformation: from geek to goth?
She’s busy wriggling into a black t-shirt with a metallic silver coffin on it, tugging it on over a tee that says: I ❤ ROBOTS. She takes off her glasses and blinks a few times before one of her friends—this cute blonde: wavy hair, pink hoodie, tiny-hearts-and-cupcakes charm bracelet on her wrist—starts lining the girl’s eyes with black eyeliner.
“Stop blinking, pleeease,” the blond girl singsongs.
“Sophie, you’re poking me in the eye. It’s an unavoidable reaction. I’m—ow!—protecting my cornea.”
“Tell your cornea to take one for the team. Otherwise you’re gonna look like a raccoon.”
There’s one more person at her table: a guy, my age but, uh, sensitive-looking? He’s the only person here who’s more overdressed than I am. He keeps adjusting his trench coat, like he’s trying to pull it closed more, twisting the collar and tightening it around his throat. I hope he’s not the blond girl’s boyfriend. Probably not, since geek-to-goth girl is sitting between them.
