by Sarah Cross
UPDATE: Avery’s help may be required.
18
LIFE IS GOOD. The mysterious mugger-capture got its own article in the paper (the glitter was a source of bewilderment for everyone involved), and Catherine and I are acing science. I stuck our latest A-plus lab report on the fridge to show it off, and my parents almost passed out.
“Maybe he has been studying at the library,” my mom said, gazing adoringly at the gaudy “Great Job!” sticker. “I thought he was looking at porn.”
I sighed dramatically at her and went back to polishing the gold stars on my Remedial English quiz.
So things are good—but not perfect. And they’re not even close to perfect for some of us. Which is why Darla and Sophie and I are meeting secretly at Sophie’s house: to figure out how to help Nicholas. I’ve got a mix of ideas in my head already—one of which I’m afraid to bring up, since I know it’ll spark a firestorm of genius-grade ferocity.
Darla and Sophie are crowded together on an overstuffed white couch, Darla’s sparkly laptop bridged across their knees. They’re staring intently at the screen, leaving me with a view of the bling-encrusted backside, custom decorated with rhinestones mosaic’d into the shape of Hello Kitty’s face.
“Two problems,” Darla says, holding up two fingers. “Not just Nicholas. Catherine, too. She’s as susceptible as anyone.”
“Susceptible to what?” I say.
“To Cherchette’s nefarious promises,” Darla says. “Duh.”
I nod like, oh yeah, of course; meanwhile bile’s creeping up my throat. Because Cherchette might be Nicholas’s best option—and I have to make Darla see that.
“Cherchette hasn’t met with Catherine,” I say. “I’d know. Catherine would’ve told me.”
“Maybe not yet,” Darla says. “But she will. And when she does, Catherine has to know that there are people she can count on. I know she acts like she doesn’t need anyone—but nobody’s that tough. In a moment of weakness, she could totally go over to the dark side.”
“Ohmygod, it’s not the dark side.” Sophie commandeers the track pad and starts scrolling. “And Cherchette doesn’t contact everyone. You should know that.”
“In a way she does. She sent Jacques after you.”
“Cherchette had nothing to do with that,” Sophie mutters. “Trust me, she’s not interested in me. I’m on her reject list.”
My head snaps up. “Reject list? What the hell is that?”
“It’s a list,” Sophie says, raising her voice uncharacteristically, “of all the known powered kids who don’t serve any purpose, who are basically losers, aren’t worth bothering with, et cetera. End of story. Any more questions?”
“She has a list of all the kids?” Darla says. “Why didn’t you tell me that? How many—”
“I don’t know!” Sophie shakes her head fiercely, blond hair flying. Then squeezes her eyes shut and sinks back into the couch. “Sorry. I just think it’s unfair, being judged like that. She doesn’t even know me.”
“Did Jacques tell you about the list?” Darla says. “Did he tell you anything else?”
“Umm, if you want information from him, why don’t you try talking to him, instead of over-the-top yelling at him and accusing him of stuff he’s never done?”
The girls steam for a few minutes, stubbornly web-searching in silence, trading control of the mouse and the keyboard. I zone out staring at Hello Kitty’s rhinestone face, wondering why Cherchette would keep a list of so-called rejects. It doesn’t make sense. Would Cherchette really do something that corrupt and calculating? She says she wants to help us. And when you want to help, you look for people who need help, right? You don’t divide them into heroes and zeroes, then turn your back on anyone who doesn’t rank.
“It’s probably not a reject list like you’re thinking,” I tell Sophie. “You’re like the most well-adjusted person I’ve ever met. It seems like Cherchette focuses more on screw-ups, kids whose powers are out of control and who’d be lost without her.”
“No such thing,” Darla says. “Neither you nor Nicholas actually needs her help. You just have to believe in yourself and be willing to work through the hard parts. There are pioneers in every field—it’s not like Cherchette even has the same powers as you guys. Do you think Marie Curie was like, ‘let me wait for someone else to teach me about radiation?’ No—she was hungry for knowledge and she dove in headfirst.”
“Yeah, but Nicholas’s power has serious consequences,” I say.
“So does studying radiation,” Darla says. “Hello, cancer.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, but that’s like the worst argument ever.”
Darla shrugs. “I stand by my point. In this world, you’ve got leaders and innovators, and then you’ve got the people who follow them. You have superpowers, Avery, and so does Nicholas—shouldn’t it be obvious which category you fit into?”
I want to tell her about Leilani—to explain that sometimes you need a mentor. I mean, come on: Obi-Wan, Gandalf? Shouldn’t this be part of Darla’s frame of reference?
I want to tell her that when you’re a living weapon, it’s irresponsible to go around blowing stuff up until you learn how to stop. But I can’t think of how to say that without sounding brainwashed. Darla’s convinced that Cherchette is evil incarnate.
“Soapbox time is over,” Sophie says, pastel-pink nails tapping the keyboard. “Can we get back to business, please?”
“We need a mission the whole team can take part in,” Darla says. “Something that makes Nicholas feel useful, so he’s not just tagging along. Once he realizes he can help people, not just hurt them, I’m hoping he’ll stop being so hard on himself.”
“He’s relentless,” I say. “I mean, I’ve done some messed-up stuff, too, and I feel bad about it. But Nicholas refuses to forgive himself. He’s dealing with a force beyond his control. How can anything it does be his fault?”
“We’ve tried telling him that,” Darla says. “With zero success. Which is why showing him is the only option we have left.”
Well, not the only option, I think.
“Nicholas is more than just his vortex,” Darla says. “He’s a good person; he cares about people and animals—just like Sophie is more than her stickiness. She’s loyal, and she has a good heart—that’s what really makes her strong.”
“Aww.” Sophie reaches over and hugs Darla. “Darla’s getting mushy.”
“Anyway,” Darla says, “Nicholas has another power, too. He claims it’s just a coincidence—but normal people get lost. Nicholas never does. If he’s been somewhere before, he can always find his way back. Ever since he was little. It’s like he has an internal compass or something. His sense of direction is infallible.”
While Darla’s been talking, Sophie’s been biting her index finger, grinning in anticipation. “You guys, I think I found something.” She turns the laptop toward me so I can read the headline.
LOCAL SCOUT TROOP STILL MISSING AFTER 24 HOURS
“Bingo.”
I’m busy,” Catherine says. “Not after ten you’re not.” I point to tonight’s closing time on Roast’s hours-of-operation sign.
Catherine’s avoiding me, latching onto any excuse to hang around here longer—rinsing out mugs, refilling the cinnamon shaker, scrubbing fingerprints off the glass dessert case. Like there aren’t three other industrious workers just dying to get their hands on those jobs.
“You’re afraid to do something heroic,” I say. “You’re afraid you’ll like it, and it’ll interfere with your I-hate-the-world persona.”
Catherine sprays my shirt with glass cleaner—totally uncalled for. She could just ask me to leave. Not that I would, but . . .
“Maybe I just want to get home and sit down. I’ve been on my feet all day; I’m not exactly in the mood to hike through the woods in the dark. Besides—those kids probably fell into a gorge and are dead by now. Let the park rangers sort it out.”
“That settles it,” I say, stealing her sp
ray bottle and tossing it behind the counter. “I’m kidnapping you. You are so unbelievably cold—you need some good, old-fashioned altruism to warm you up.”
Altruism: see Darla’s vocabulary. Also: selflessness.
I drag Catherine out the door and none of her coworkers stops me; one girl even smiles. They probably think it’s cute that scowly Catherine has a “boyfriend.”
“You’re so getting eviscerated.”
“I’m so not,” I say. “You’re gonna send me a thank-you card, handmade with little cats drawn on it, because tonight’s your lucky night.” I haul her down the street to a blacked-out parking lot and lift her into my arms like an oversize baby. “You’re going where no girl has gone before. Without an airplane, that is.”
“Oh, hell no!” Her eyes go wide and she does this scramble-struggle thing that’s totally ineffective, since I’ve got a firm grip on her already—there’s no way I’m letting her fall.
“Calm down; this is totally safe. On three. One, two . . .”
Her claws sink into my arm as we take off and I stifle a gurgle of pain. It’s just like getting ten rabies shots at once, I try to tell myself, putting on a brave face for Catherine’s benefit.
The wind picks up and everything below us gets smaller: empty parking lots become black squares, streets curve like snakes, and tiny lights glimmer everywhere. I bully my way through air currents, try to keep the turbulence to a minimum. Catherine’s got her head buried in my shirt, her claws taking up permanent residence in my flesh.
“Don’t you want to look?” I ask. “When are you going to experience this again?”
“Hopefully never!”
“You’re the one who complained about being on your feet all day.”
Her threat to eviscerate me gets carried away by the wind, replaced by a shriek as I dip lower, eyes narrowed to pick out our meeting spot: a deserted picnic area bordering the state park. I told Darla I’d be flying in (that was a hell of a confession), and she signals me with a flashlight so I know where to land.
As soon as my boots touch down, Catherine wriggles loose and curls into a protective crouch. I think she’d kiss the ground if she wasn’t worried about getting a mouthful of muck.
“Eeeeee!” Sophie squeals. “Avery, you have to take me up sometime. Like, right after this.” She tries to help Catherine up, but the cat-girl is rooted, unwilling to be any closer to the sky than she has to. “Are you okay? What was it like to fly?”
“Um, you’re bleeding,” Darla tells me. Good thing she’s an inventor and not a doctor—I don’t think she reacts well to flesh wounds. In the glow of the flashlight, she’s looking sickly pale—but it might just be the dark red of her flannel lumberjack shirt contrasting with her geek pallor. Because yep, ever the master of disguise: she’s dressed like Paul Bunyan. Knit hat, flannel shirt, jeans, boots, and a trusty robotic blue ox—she’s all set for a night of search-and-rescue and/or logging.
(I’m kidding about the ox. Maybe.)
“Catherine got a little excited on the way over,” I explain. As my eyes adjust to the artificial light, I take in the scene: Nicholas is loading bottled water and a first-aid kit into his backpack. Jacques is aloof, fixated on his open hand, icing his fingers one at a time, then thawing them. The Jaguar is parked on a slope, mostly hidden by a black tarp and some overhanging tree branches.
Oh, and Sophie? She’s outfitted in a black neoprene leotard and ballet flats, with a camouflage hoodie as her token nod to wilderness survival. That and a sparkly utility belt.
“We have to be careful,” Darla says. “The official night search party consists of fewer searchers than the one during the day, and they’ll be keeping to trails so they don’t lose anyone—but they are out here, and they’re not going to be happy if they find us. Our best bet is to plunge into the forest itself—if the scouts are lost, that’s probably where they are. Also, be aware that the search-and-rescue teams have dogs who will sniff us out no problem, so we need to steer clear of them if we want a shot at saving these kids.”
Catherine scowls. “I hate dogs.”
“How do you intend to locate the scouts?” Jacques asks. “It seems presumptuous to assume you will find them by wandering randomly through the forest.”
“Nothing I do is random, Morozov.” Darla unfolds a map of the state park and aims her flashlight at it, illuminating a complicated code of red-marker outlines, dots, dashes, and stars. “This is where the scouts started, ’kay? This is where they were last seen by their troop; these are the areas the search parties have already covered; and these are the areas they’re most likely to have explored based on a number of variables including but not limited to: their heights, weights, physical capabilities, and interests as declared on Facebook. Trust me, we will find them.”
“The genius is a little sensitive about being questioned,” Sophie whispers. “Don’t take it personally.”
We double-check our gear and set off, flashlights low to the ground: shuffling across an unending blanket of dead leaves, tripping over fat spidery tree roots and soft, rotting logs. The ground sends us hiking up and then stumbling down; we cross valleys and troop past rock ledges, cursing at near ankle-twists when holes appear out of nowhere or rocks slip loose of their moorings.
It’s hard to see where you’re going, and watching the ground pretty much ensures that you’ll be hit in the face by skinny branches. Low, curving shrubs turn out to be full of thorns. Sophie does her best to skip over them, but her bare legs are being massacred. Nicholas’s trench coat keeps getting snagged and yanking him back.
Catherine’s the only one not having trouble; she doesn’t even bother with a flashlight. Immune to missteps, she prowls through the woods like she owns them, frequently turning around only to see that we’re at least twenty feet behind her, then asking impatiently, “Are we doing this or not? What are you waiting for?”
An hour passes, two. The muddy ground keeps sucking Sophie’s shoes off, until Nicholas volunteers me as the team pack animal and I let her hop up and ride piggyback. When we hear dogs barking, or inadvertently get too close to one of the trails, we veer off in the opposite direction, cutting deeper into the woods.
“I hope we’re not walking in circles,” Sophie says.
“We’re not,” Nicholas assures her. “We’ve backtracked a few times but we’re making progress.”
Following the sound of rushing water, we come to a wide gorge with a stream at the bottom—maybe thirty feet down, and the gap itself is ten feet across. Catherine paces until she comes to a point where a fallen tree trunk is lodged across the gorge and forms a makeshift bridge.
“Score,” she says. “This was getting boring.”
She springs onto the trunk and pads across it before we can stop her, quick and sure-footed like the gymnast girls who show off on the balance beam during gym class. Only if she falls, she’ll break every bone in her body. Thank God she doesn’t do any cartwheels.
Catherine’s safe on the other side before my heart has a chance to stop, smirking like, what? You doubted me? Maybe it was a bad idea to bring badass risk-taker girl on this mission. She’s totally getting back at me for flying.
“Way to take the initiative, Catherine!” Darla says brightly. “But, um, we’re not going that way.”
“Why not?” Catherine says. “The missing kids had access to the trails, right? That means they could be anywhere. My random decision is just as likely to result in success as your random decision.”
Okay, clearly Catherine missed the tirade earlier.
“My decisions are not random!” Darla exclaims. “I base them on a careful series of calculations and re—”
I clamp my hand over Darla’s mouth. Rude, but it has to be done. “Good call, Catherine. I’ll get the others over.” She’s squinting to ward off my flashlight beam, but I think she’s happy.
“First come, first served,” I say.
“I hate to turn that down, but this is, like, the first time these crapp
y shoes have been useful,” Sophie says, plucking off her trashed ballet flats and sticky-stepping across the log bridge. “But feel free to rescue me if I fall!”
No heart attacks this time. I hover close by to make sure she gets across, then fly Darla and Nicholas to the other side, using an underarm carry. Darla tries to convince me she needs to be flown back, because she forgot something on the other side—but the whole time her eyes are darting around obvious-liar style, so I just promise to fly her again some other time.
That leaves Jacques on the other side. “You trust me, right?” I call across.
Tick, tick, tick.
Seconds pass. My flashlight beam catches glimpses of frustration, uncertainty. But when he finally answers, he’s the picture of cool composure: “Why would that matter?”
Jacques extends his arms like a conductor and focuses until water from the stream below begins to rise into the air, slush turning to a bridge of rough, glistening ice. He steps to the edge of the gorge and treads calmly across the ice bridge, barely quickening his pace when the ice behind him begins to crack. Once he reaches the other side, large chunks of ice break free like puzzle pieces and fall, until there’s no trace of the frozen walkway.
When I look more closely, there’s a thin film of sweat on his forehead. He doesn’t look chill at all. And I wonder: Did Jacques shatter that walkway on purpose, just to prove how badass he is? Or did he overextend his powers?
