by Sarah Cross
“Fine,” I say. “Whatever.” It’s not like I’m afraid of these guys. But how am I supposed to put an end to this? Show up and let them pummel the crap out of me? Call my mom and get her to pick me up in the middle of it, so I look like a little kid?
Not cool.
One last threat and a clumsy throat-slitting gesture, and Butch and his posse are gone. I breathe. Exhaaaale. Three more hours until I have to deal with that crap.
As I push through the mass of messed-up students, my eyes catch Catherine’s. She’s studying me. No idea why. Maybe because she already suspects I’m an idiot, and today’s spectacle just confirmed it?
I nod like, “hey,” and keep going, moving with the wave of delinquent students into the hall, where the clang-and-bang of lockers meets shouts of, “Ha! You’re gonna get your ass kicked!”
I shrug it off, try to look tough—but honestly? I’m posing hardcore. Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
7
TWENTY MINUTES AFTERthe last bell, when the buses have pulled away and most of the adults have jumped ship, I’m standing on the run-down baseball field behind the school, surrounded by the more bloodthirsty half of our screwed-up class. Some of the kids are clinging to the metal backstop, the rest are spread out along the foul line, chanting:
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Butch and Big Dawg and the rest of the Bonecrushers are closing in. They’re wearing huge toothy grins—they don’t look like they ever get in fights with anyone who could actually hurt them. For a second I’m tempted to change that, put a stop to their bullying by showing them what it feels like.
But that would open up a whole other set of consequences.
Before Butch has a chance to “bring the pain,” Darla tries to stop the inevitable. She climbs to the top of the bleachers and starts waving her cell phone (which now has a blinking antenna poking out of it) like it’s a conductor’s baton. “Listen up!” she shouts. “You’d better make yourselves scarce, because a ginormous robot is about to bust out of those trees and kill you all!”
I wince.
A few heads turn toward the wooded lot that borders the school. Curiously, like, eh, a giant robot? A bird chirps.
I guess this would be a good sucker punch moment, if I was going for that.
Wind rustles the leaves, but no robot head emerges. The toy-loving cons quickly lose interest.
“I mean it! It shoots laser beams!”
Nice try, I mouth, giving her a double thumbs-up—right as a huge fist appears in my peripheral vision.
I dodge out of the way; it’s not my instinct to be a punching bag.
But I’d better learn. Fast.
Butch jams his knuckles deep into my stomach, uppercuts me; he’s wailing on me with these big fat clumsy combos, and I’m taking every hit, doubling over and acting like it hurts—like it’s supposed to. Like I’m normal.
But every punch lands with the intensity of a Nerf arrow. It’s like being in a vicious pillow fight, only more confusing, and scary, because up close their faces are brutish and stupid, flushed with glee as much as rage. They’re getting off on “teaching me a lesson.” Talking trash with their perfect teeth shining in my face.
A year ago, this assault would’ve had me on the ground with two swollen eyes, blood oozing from my nose and mouth. I would’ve winced at every kick to my broken ribs. And the grand finale, the moment that would finally signal “enough,” would come when I had passed out half dead.
That’s what they expect—I can’t believe I almost forgot that.
I’m still on my feet, fake-groaning but bouncing back every time. This could go on indefinitely, until these idiots get tired because this beat-down turns into cardio. And that? Might prompt someone to think about this.
So I wait for the next blow—a pathetic kick from Big Dawg, who can barely get his meaty leg off the ground—and I take a dive, choke on all the kicked-up field dust, curl into the fetal position, and let them kick the crap out of me.
I bite down on my lip to try to squeeze some blood out, squint through a dust cloud to see if they’re buying it, and—
Whoa.
I must be . . .
Imagining this?
There’s a black figure above me on the backstop, on the part that hangs over home plate. She’s crouched like an animal, tangled hair hanging down like a ghost in a horror movie.
She springs, pounces; flings herself through the air.
Catherine. Death from above.
“Oh, shit! Move, move!”
The Bonecrushers hustle, banging into each other in their haste not to be her target.
I roll onto my side just in time to see Catherine slice into Big Dawg. She barely pauses before she launches herself at her next victim.
Meanwhile, Big Dawg can barely speak. The front of his jersey has five long slashes in it like a bear attacked him. Dark red blood is starting to seep through. He touches it with one beefy finger, then he screams, hauls A across the field and through the parking lot and finally into the street, where he just keeps running until he’s out of sight.
There’s a mad rush to safety then. This might be a school full of badasses, but nobody wants to really get hurt. Even the hardcore thugs who supposedly take a bullet every other weekend don’t want a piece of Catherine.
I don’t want to get in her way right now, which doesn’t explain why I’m still lying here, sucking blood off my lip as the Mary Janes hurry past us shrieking, and the cornered Bonecrushers are offering up their next homemade Sphinx cakes in exchange for their lives. I’m totally neglecting my own safety.
I’m thinking.
It’s impossible for a human fingernail to slice through flesh like that. Impossible—just like lifting a car before you’re old enough to drive it. Or flying. Or getting the crap kicked out of you without a single bruise to show for it.
Cherchette’s voice pierces my head: Surely you suspected you weren’t the only extraordinary person in the world.
Catherine shakes her hair out of her face, scrunches her nose, and flicks her fingers like she’s got something gross on them. Then she blinks and it’s like she’s coming back to herself, shifting from an ultraviolent hurt machine to your typical antisocial girl. With, uh, anger issues. I guess.
The field is even more of a mess than it was before. Smears of blood stain the dirt, and the faint smell of Bonecrusher sweat sours the air. Darla’s standing where first base should be, shifting her backpack from one shoulder to the other, nervous-tick style. I wish she would run.
Catherine turns her attention to me at last. “Were you just gonna let those freaks kill you?”
“I’m a pacifist,” I say, and cough.
“More like a masochist. Even Gandhi would’ve kicked those guys in the nuts.”
I pause a moment to picture Gandhi delivering a swift kick to Big Dawg’s balls. “It was no big deal,” I say. “But, uh, thanks for saving me.”
“Don’t expect it to happen again. You’re lucky I was hanging around.”
“Hey, yeah.” I smile, as I realize: “You waited for me. You knew this was gonna go down, so . . .”
She spits on the ground. “Like hell! I had detention.”
“HA!” Darla claps her hands over her mouth, but it’s too late: the laugh is out. Catherine pivots, nails upturned in a bring-it gesture.
“Something funny, stalker?”
“N-no! Just . . . the idea of you actually showing up for detention . . .”
“Yeah, I’m sure you know a lot about me. Like what? Where I live? Where I work? Where I’m gonna bury you after I rip your throat out?!”
I grab Catherine around the waist as she lunges for Darla, claws primed for homicide.
“Move!” I shout. “Now!”
Darla spins on her heel and runs, backpack clanking like nobody’s business.
“Get your hands off me!” Catherine’s thrashing around so fiercely she’s breaking a sweat. “Let go of me or I’ll
—”
“I don’t want to fight with you. I’m making sure you don’t do something you’ll regret.”
This is going to be bad. This is going to be so bad. Unless she wears herself out and is too tired to slay me, those nails will be slicing through my throat the second I let go.
“You need to calm down,” I say. “Or get a scratching post or something. Darla isn’t—”
BAM!
That was the wrong thing to say.
The back of her skull is rock hard. Ow.
“She wants to be friends with you but she doesn’t know how.”
“I don’t need friends,” Catherine growls. “And I’m not looking for some stupid support group.”
“You’ve already got one, whether you like it or not.” I take a deep breath, prepare to get skull-slammed in the nose. “Me.”
She laughs. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“You have to ask?” I let her go; spring out of the way in case she comes after me. “We, uh . . .” I try to remember how Cherchette put it. “We share a special bond.”
“Tell me you did not just feed me that line.”
“It’s not a line—it’s true. We both have powers!”
All my frustration, my hope, spills out in that moment. I feel like I just handed over my future and now I have to wait to see what she’ll do with it.
I count my heartbeats. They’re thudding in my head like a metronome, marking the split seconds she spends staring at me, her expression wide-open and exposed. Scared.
And then it’s gone. Catherine closes up. Turns on her hate face.
“Powers,” she says. “Wow. You really are retarded.”
Great. I finally tell someone the truth about me, and she acts like I’m insane.
“Don’t be like that. We can—I mean, I need someone to talk to about this. You do, too, right?” I’m grasping, following her as she steps back, claws at the ready. She’s not interested—I’m only making it worse. But I can’t let go.
I saw it in her face. I saw it.
“Why would I want to talk to a delusional freak?” She practically spits the last word. Steps around a tangled clump of branches like a dancer navigating a stage. Doesn’t even look at them.
“Because.” I take a deep breath. “You know I’m not delusional. And maybe you’re this badass tough girl, but I doubt you have all the answers. Do you even know why we’re like this?”
Something more than ferocity flickers in her eyes. Does she want to know? Does she already know? Whatever it is only lasts a second.
“Don’t ever mention this again.” Catherine stalks away and then toward me, jabs a claw at my face, razor-sharp nail an inch from my eye. “And if you start spreading lies about me, I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.”
“Why would I tell anyone about you?” I throw my hands up. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I have as much to lose as—”
She screams. Clenches her fists so tightly I’m afraid her hands will bleed. “You don’t want me to do something I’ll regret? Then get out of here! Get the hell away from me!”
I bow my head and bite my tongue. Leave, like she asked me to.
But I’m not giving up.
8
I SPEND THE whole walk home kicking rocks in the road and cursing. I’m pissed at myself for ruining my first shot at superpowered friendship, for just plunging in without a game plan. First impressions count for a lot; first forced confessions are even trickier. I should have thought of that, should have remembered how freaked out I was when Cherchette approached me.
By the time I get to my street, I’m worked up to the nth degree, somewhere between angry (because I’m a moron) and ecstatic. Yeah, I screwed up—but I found someone extraordinary today. All I need is another chance.
Catherine will chill out once she realizes I’m not her enemy, and then . . .
Um, why is there an Aston Martin in my driveway?
I circle that beautiful creature like a jackal who just discovered a dying zebra and can’t believe his luck. Did my dad lose his mind and buy an Aston Martin to soothe his midlife-crisis-having heart? Like: “I’ll be damned if my son’s going to bankrupt us, I’ll do it myself”?
The car’s totally immaculate: no crappy gym bag in the back, no dirt ground into the carpet. Leather interior, ice-blue paint job—this is a car for James Bond, not my dad. I keep looking over my shoulder, like the rich dude who broke down in our driveway will be back any second, and is gonna bitch me out for touching his car.
I tear into the house, yelling, “Dad! Did you buy an Aston Martin?” I think about warning him that my mom’s going to kill him, but I want him to take me for a ride first.
The last person I expect to see is Cherchette. She’s on her hands and knees in front of our TV, all tangled up in electrical cords and A/V cables. She’s wearing leather boots and a tight white skirt with a slit up the back. I, um, yeah.
I think I should be freaked that she broke into my house but I’m a little more confused than that. “What are you doing?”
“Avery.” She gives me this weird pouty look that totally clashes with the severity of her face. “I wanted to finish before you arrived, but this machine is not working. Now you’ve ruined your surprise.”
“Surprise?” This definitely still counts as a surprise. I did not expect to see this woman in my living room.
“I bought you a video-game system. You don’t have this one, do you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have one at all. My parents are like cave people.”
Slight exaggeration, but still: my mom acts like having at-home access to video games will ruin my chances of going to college, turn me into a serial killer, and ensure that I never get a girlfriend because I’ll be too busy propositioning hookers in Grand Theft Auto. Never mind that every other guy I know has one, and they’re fine.
“Ah. Well. We know that entertainment must evolve, just like everything else.” Cherchette winks at me conspiratorially. “Would you help me to get this working, Avery?”
I don’t have a game system, but Henry has three of them, and whenever he slept over he’d pack at least one in his backpack and we’d hook it up in my basement. Should be easy.
I’m untangling the monstrous octopus of cords, amazed at the mess Cherchette made, when she starts apologizing. “I understand that things went badly the other night. I didn’t intend that. I don’t blame you if you’re angry.”
“Why would I be angry?” I rip open one of the plastic packages with my teeth. “Because you set me up and almost got me arrested?”
“Yes, I suppose I deserve that.” She sighs. “But I had to see what you would do, Avery. You insist on putting yourself in this ‘hero’ role, and while it has been on a small scale . . . I had to see how you would react if a more dangerous situation presented itself.”
“And?”
“And I am worried.”
Cherchette’s kneeling next to me on the carpet, and a cloud of cold wafts off her, like when you stand in the refrigerated aisle in the grocery store. The air in my lungs feels like winter.
“The ‘criminals’ you encountered were carrying unloaded guns. If you had interfered in an actual robbery, you would have been killed.”
“Maybe,” I say, shivering. My fine motor control’s shutting down. I have to try twice to plug in one of the cables. “Maybe not.”
A buff space marine appears on the screen, his boot balanced on a dead alien’s armored back. I’m watching the shiny graphics of my new game, but my mind’s replaying the moment that gun got shoved in my face. Staring down the barrel, sure that I could make everything right. Not knowing the threat was never real.
“I want you to understand these things before it’s too late. You have a wonderful gift. I don’t want it to end up hurting you.”
The game’s theme music booms like a moody opening salvo.
“Is it working? Wonderful!” Cherchette claps her hands. “Now we’ll play.” She gives me controller
one and keeps the other for herself. “Be careful not to throw the controller at the screen, Avery. I read about that—it will break.” She sounds concerned, which strikes me as absurd. I mean, she set me up to go toe to toe with two thugs in an antiques shop—wasn’t she worried about me breaking crap there?
“I’m not going to put a hole in my parents’ TV. Don’t worry.” I choose the cooperative mode; skip the intro and vanquish the first few enemies while Cherchette examines her controller.
“How do I do this?”
“Uh, just hide behind something. Or mash some buttons; you’ll see what they do.”
“He won’t stop jumping!”
“Try a different button. If you keep hitting that one, you’re going to keep doing that.” I try not to laugh as Cherchette gets vaporized by an alien, then sputters in shock that the alien was cheating.
We play for a while longer, Cherchette displaying some very dramatic poor sportsmanship, and then she tells me she has to go.
“But I will be in touch. And”—she reaches down and pats my head, sends a chill down my spine—“I’ve settled your bill with the antique-store owner. He’ll refund your parents’ money shortly. So don’t worry about that.”
“Really?” I can’t help it; this goofy smile takes over my face. My mom and dad might even let me out of that crappy school if the owner says he realized it was an accident or something. “Thank you! It was . . . a lot.”
“I will always take care of you.” Cherchette drapes this little fur cape over her shoulders, and gazes at me like . . . I dunno, like a proud parent or something. Her eyes narrow when she smiles, just a sliver of blue shining through, but the skin on her face remains as smooth as always. Like a watchful statue’s.
“See you soon,” she coos.
As soon as Cherchette leaves I yank all the cables out of the TV, bundle my new game system in a blanket, and run upstairs to hide it in my closet. Time flies when you’re having fun with a morally suspect ice goddess—my parents will be home any minute! I run back down and tear the box up, cram it into the bottom of our garbage can, and even dump some nasty leftovers on top so my parents are less likely to find it. I’m washing splattered spaghetti sauce off my hands when I hear the garage door open.
