by Sarah Cross
Before I have a chance to say something, another car pulls up: a silver Jaguar XF, all shiny and perfect like it just drove off the lot.
Sophie perks up when she sees it—maybe she’s a car fan? Or it’s her parents’ car? I can say . . . I can go up to her and say, “Sweet car,” and she’ll be like, “I know, right?” and from there . . .
The driver’s-side door opens while the car’s still idling; the driver gets out and it’s not who I’m expecting. It’s a young guy, maybe seventeen, dressed like he stepped out of a magazine: dark-wash designer jeans, white button-up shirt with diamond cuff links (what is he, a gigolo?), and pointy leather shoes. He flips his platinum-blond hair out of his face and Sophie’s lips break into a big smile.
She shoves her manga into her bag and hugs him—in a friendly way, but with her cheek pressed to his chest. If he’s not her brother, I already hate him.
“Thanks,” she says. “I hope it’s not—”
“Never any trouble,” he says, opening the door for her like he’s some kind of Prince Charming. Agh! And he has an accent! Freaking lothario! He’s definitely not her brother. He sounds French almost, but mixed with something weirder, more interesting.
Sophie giggles as he kisses her forehead; ducks under his arm and darts into the car.
There’s something seriously weird about this. I want to jump out of the shadows (yeah, very normal) and yell, “Don’t go with him!”
But who am I to say that? I mean, she wants to be with this guy. Sure, she lied to her friends—but if your friend dressed up like a goth pirate, you’d probably lie to her, too. It isn’t my business. I don’t know her. We’re not together. And I’m the freak. What would we have to talk about, anyway? My exciting days of fake-studying at the library? The awesome group of friends I don’t have?
So I force myself to walk away, back down the dark part of Main Street, where I almost hope something happens that is my business—a mugging, someone starting a fight—so I can make a difference. Bust in and be someone. Get my blood flowing. Because I’m freezing; my body’s shaking; my breath—I blow it out, fwoosh—is like smoke in the air. I’m storming downhill, hands stuffed in my pockets and balled into fists. When I slip.
On ice. A patch of ice about as big around as a car, stretching from one side of the sidewalk to the other.
I fall and land smack on my ass. Spit out my mom’s favorite four-letter word and . . .
Stop.
Listen.
Was that a whimper? A . . .
An old woman’s voice, pleading: “Please don’t hurt me.”
3
PLEASE DON’T.HURT ME I take a deep breath, rise unsteadily to my feet. There’s not much light here—just a dim glow from the lamps farther up the street—but I can see it now, through the window of the store in front of me: ornate furniture, jewelry dangling from a statue’s long fingers. Walls lined with framed mirrors, with shelves of antiques, porcelain tea sets, vases, glass decanters.
And in the middle of it all, two masked men with guns. An old woman cowers before them, her arms drawn to her body like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
My heart skips. I’m pretty sure I’m not bulletproof.
But neither is she.
I crack the door open before I have a chance to reconsider. Maybe I can defuse this. I just have to be calm and keep them calm and—
One of the thugs turns his gun on me. Pivots and it’s in my face—and as much as I want to fix this, I can’t breathe. I’m staring down the barrel, trying to force my lungs to open up, my throat to open up.
“Easy,” I finally manage. “I know you don’t want to hurt anybody. You can take all the antiques you want, just don’t—”
“I’m not interested in a bunch of old furniture, kid!” The bottom part of his ski mask is cut off. Spittle glistens on his lips. “We’re here for the money!”
“Okay . . . you’ll get it.” I hold my hands up in that classic thug-placating way: I am no threat to you. “I work here with Grandma sometimes. I know the combination to the safe.”
The gun barrel flicks upward. “Open it.”
I make my way slowly past him, my back to the wall, heart beating so hard it feels like it’s gonna punch a hole in my chest.
If I do this right—please, please let me get us both out of this—I can save her. I won’t be defined by the bad stuff, the accidents, the debt that’s gonna give my dad a heart attack, the lies I’ve told Henry and everyone else. I’ll be a hero again.
A good person.
My breath shudders through my lips, visible in the air in front of me, as I fumble around at the back of the store. I have no idea if there even is a safe.
“Please let my grandmother go,” I say. “She has a heart condition.”
“Get me my damn money and shut up.”
“I will,” I say. “Sorry . . .”
My foot catches on a rolled-up Persian rug and I trip; my hands flail out and make contact with a solid chunk of darkness in the moonlit store: a steel box, about the size of a minifridge. Is it . . . ? My hand finds the dial and then I’m sure.
“Hurry up.” The gunman’s footsteps—short, frantic—make the floor creak.
“Please, please don’t hurt me . . .”
I swallow hard. Don’t mess this up.
I crouch down like I’m working the combination, spin the dial with one hand while I test the safe’s weight with the other. It’s bolted to the floor.
Easy enough.
I wrap my arms around it, legs bent to either side, and pull—back arched for leverage. The bolts rip free with a grating, metallic shriek.
“What the—”
Before he gets the word out, I’m up. The safe probably weighs around two hundred pounds, but to me it’s like a paperweight. I toss it at the thug who’s been tailing me, yell, “Catch!”
His reaction is automatic. He drops his gun, flings his arms forward in an attempt to protect himself—but it’s not enough. The safe’s momentum knocks him back and off his feet, sends him crashing into shelves full of precious heirlooms, antiques that shatter in an explosion of sound.
The gunman and the safe fall together, half buried by an avalanche of glass and porcelain. A mirror slips free of its frame and breaks over his head. He’s stunned—we’re all stunned: his partner and the old woman are looking on in disbelief. But I can’t count on that to last.
I only have a few seconds before the second gunman regains his composure. I have to make them count.
Blood pounding in my ears, I snap toward thug number two, already imagining the scene if I’m too late: a bullet tearing through my chest, my heart exploding in a bloody mess, splattering against the wall. I see it again and again: the shot and then nothing but red.
I wrap my hands around his fist. I’m breathing hard, desperate to keep him from pulling that trigger.
He screams—
And I feel the structure of his hand crumbling, his fist folding in my grasp, until I’m holding something lifeless and broken.
He doesn’t stop screaming.
My stomach twists. Bile rises into my throat.
Shaking, I let go of his hand. The gun drops to the floor.
It doesn’t go off. It sounds hollow.
Everything I hear right now sounds like that:
The first gunman struggling to push the safe aside; the thud and tinkling crash as it turns over, pulverizes the shards of shattered glass. Heavy footsteps as he limps over to his partner, who’s cradling his hand, mouth open and crying out silently like he can’t even express the pain anymore, it’s so intense.
The old woman slinking back into the shadows, quickly, fluidly, debris crunching under her heels.
The thugs as they stumble out, shouting, “This wasn’t what I signed up for, you crazy bitch!”
“This kid’s some kind of monster-freak!”
The door as it slams behind them. More thuds as they slip on the ice outside. And then the shivering starts up ag
ain. My body temperature plunges as the room transforms.
If I thought I was cold before, I didn’t know what cold was. Living ice crawls across the floor like a slow-motion flood. Shattered glass mixes with ice crystals, turns into subzero flora, diamond-white spikes. I’m paralyzed as I watch, stunned into silence as a porcelain-pale woman enters the room.
She has platinum-blond hair and wears a white fur coat, spiked white stripper heels—like a Playboy Playmate crossed with Cruella De Vil. Some kind of sexy, dominatrix nightmare.
Maybe this is my brain freezing over—along with my heart—because I’m obviously not human, not even close to human. Humans don’t cripple people, don’t destroy limbs and extremities as easily as they’d open a door. Isn’t that what makes us different from—I don’t know—sharks?
“Don’t be afraid,” she says, pink-white lips parting in a smile. “You are among friends.” Her words are tinged by a strange accent. Familiar, but . . .
“I’m dreaming,” I say. “I hit my head.” My lips feel numb, fat and swollen as they try to form words to make sense of this. “Someone shot me.”
“No,” she says, “you are unhurt. Leilani, come here, won’t you?”
The old woman glides toward us, spine straightening, features blurring as she gets closer: wrinkled skin becomes smoother, warmer; thin white hair uncoils, spills long and dark down her back. Her eyes grow fierce and more exotic; her lips fill out, too, till she looks like a teenage Victoria’s Secret model. With powers.
“Hello,” she says.
I scramble back, slipping and nearly impaling myself on an ice spear. “What’s going on?”
The blond woman sighs, draws a pale hand out of her glove. “Avery, please don’t feign ignorance. It will make this very tiresome.”
“I’m not feigning anything!” How does she know me? Has she been watching me?
“Surely you suspected you weren’t the only extraordinary person in the world.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. Okay: calm down. Give your story. And most importantly, LIE. “I came in to help that old woman. I felt bad. That’s not extraordinary.” My heart’s racing; my tongue tumbles over the words. And I can’t stop shivering.
How much did she see? How much does she know?
“Of course not.” The blond woman smiles. She looks mature somehow, in control—but her skin is as smooth and perfect as plastic. “You’re nothing special at all. Just a dull boy—is that it?”
“Yeah,” I say. Dull boy. Totally normal. “Exactly. And I have a curfew, so, uh, if you don’t mind—”
The woman shakes her head, like: Nice try.
She raises two fingers to her lips and blows, exhaling frost like fairy dust. The snow-white cloud swirls wildly and gradually takes shape, revealing a brittle ice butterfly perched on her fingertips. The butterfly’s wings creak back and forth mechanically—an eerily empty imitation of life.
“My name is Cherchette Morozov . . . And we share a very special bond.”
What was it? Was it lifting the car? Did she see me fly? For months I had worried that I’d screw up, let something slip. That I’d be found out. And if it ever happened, I had a plan. One simple, poorly thought-out plan: deny everything.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” I say.
Playing dumb. Yes. I am sooooo good at that.
“I know what you are going through,” Cherchette says. “You are hiding, you are afraid. But this does not have to be the case. You do not have to spend your life in fear that you will be hurt, or will hurt someone else.”
She bends her fingers and the ice butterfly skitters down, spreads its fragile wings as it rests in her palm. “That boy at your wrestling match—you broke his arm. Very brutal.”
Cold sweat trickles down my sides, my back. “That was an accident.”
“Was it? Ah well, accidents happens.” She smiles. “That’s what they say, isn’t it? But if they continue to happen, opinions will change. People will say you are a monster. You will be punished.”
I shake my head, start to protest: “No, there—” There won’t be another accident like that.
But when I curl my fingers into fists, I can feel the gunman’s broken hand against my palm, like a mangled phantom limb. My stomach clenches up all over again.
. . . some kind of monster-freak . . .
“You don’t know the full extent of your powers, Avery. You can’t possibly. They will grow and change as you do, increasing in intensity and in their unpredictability, if you are not taught to properly control them.”
I want to say: I don’t have powers! But looking in her eyes . . . it’s clear. She knows.
I hang my head, concentrate on breathing through my nose, inhaling icy air. It scrapes my lungs, steals my breath. When I exhale, I feel empty inside. Like I’ve lost something.
“I’m not here to frighten you, Avery. I’ve come to offer you a different life. I offer you sanctuary, guidance, a community—a family, if you will—of like-powered individuals. You’ll have a fresh start. All you have to do is come away with me.”
“Come away with you?” I blink at her, genuinely confused. “Why would I—”
“Do you love your parents, Avery?”
Her words cut me like ice. Tears sting my eyes, steam in the cold air.
I whisper it. “Of course I love them.”
“Then don’t you want them to lead the lives they were meant to live? They will never be able to help you, or teach you about your powers. They will be left frustrated, wondering what they’ve done wrong, and why you continue to cause trouble for everyone around you. They will never understand what you are going through, why you insist on bringing them so much heartbreak.
“And if you tell them the truth, they will try to help you, but they will be clueless as to what you need. They will take you to doctors, scientists, psychologists. You will be no more than a test subject. You will lose your freedom, your humanity. You’re anything but a dull, simple boy, Avery—but they will destroy you, crush everything that is special about you. I want to save you from that fate. Won’t you let me?” She flutters her eyelashes, blue and flecked with ice crystals. Coyly. Menacingly.
I crouch down, hold my head. Press my palms to my eyes to keep the tears in.
“I am not exaggerating, Avery. The world will hurt you. And it will not look back. That is why I offer you my protection. A new home, where you can learn about your powers and live without fear, no longer forced to hide your gifts from everyone around you. It’s the only way you will truly be safe.”
“She’s right,” Leilani says.
“Shh, let him be,” Cherchette murmurs. “He will come around.”
“I, if I—” My voice comes out in a croak. “If I said yes. If I wanted to go with you, what would I—what would happen?”
“You need only to contact me,” Cherchette says. I hear her heels as she crosses the room: stiletto spikes cracking the ice. She kneels down and slips a card into my jacket, tilts my chin up with her hands.
“I know you are overwhelmed right now, and will need time to make your decision. I will check on you again very soon.” She smiles almost warmly, her perfect skin refusing to crease. Her eyes glint a dark, arctic blue.
And then she’s closer to me, closer, and her lips brush my cheek, searing my skin with a white-hot frozen heat. “Be good now,” she whispers.
My cheek burns where she kissed me. I sit there in a daze as the ice around me melts, and I don’t snap out of it until blue and red lights flash through the window, until I hear the police officers get out of their cars, until I’m sitting in a puddle and the wreckage around me is dripping, disintegrating, and I realize I have no excuse, no explanation—that “I don’t know” or “it was an accident” isn’t going to cut it this time.
I stand up with my hands up before someone can yell at me to put them there.
4
LAST SUMMER, I BECAME A HERO. Totally by accident.
> I was riding my bike around my neighborhood on a boring Wednesday afternoon, sweating my ass off and daydreaming about having parents who would let me run the air conditioner while they were at work, when I heard a scream. A freaking-out, oh-my-God-I-just-backed-over-my-kid-with-the-car scream.
I slammed my feet down to stop, dumped my bike, and ran over.
Mrs. Pearson, the kid’s mom, was in shock, eyes locked on her little guy: a toddler with his leg trapped under the wheel. She was not doing that calm, together act you need in a crisis.
“We can lift it,” I told her. “Come on, help me!” But she didn’t take a step; her hands fluttered around her mouth, she was totally hysterical. So I grabbed the back bumper, stood near the middle, and tried to brace with my legs. I was used to working out for wrestling, but you wouldn’t look at me and think, Whoa, amazing strong guy is here! And I sure as hell didn’t think that about myself.
I had an adrenaline rush like you wouldn’t believe. I felt like I was going to choke on my own racing heart. Or be sick.
I lifted that car off the ground like it was a box of old clothes—like it was my bike instead of a car. And—
I was so stunned by how easy it was that it scared me.
Mrs. Pearson scrambled to get her son, and then backed away, clutching him to her chest. Still, I couldn’t let go. I was stuck with the license plate almost staring me in the face, muscles tensed and full of blood, thinking, over and over again: These are not my arms. Who is this person?
Finally, I calmed down. I lowered the car to the driveway.
Sweat was pouring down my neck, my back; I sat down in the grass and kept pushing my hands through my hair. Even when the ambulance pulled up, and the paramedics packed the kid onto a stretcher and brought him in, I was still sitting there, hands rubbing up and down my arms, wondering if I was at risk of breaking myself, or if I’d imagined the whole thing.
I must have looked shell-shocked. The paramedics asked me if I felt like I’d pulled a muscle, hurt myself. And then somebody contacted the news stations, and that was that. Reporters beat my mom to the scene and took about a million pictures, interviewed me while I was still in a daze.
