by Sarah Cross
“If you think someone needs to be blamed for what happened to her, you’re gonna have to put that on both of us. I’m the one who opened Nicholas’s coat, not you. Do you think I’m a horrible person?”
“No, but—”
“Then stop it—or I’ll claw your face off. I still haven’t forgiven you for strapping me to that hospital bed, you know.”
“No fair killing me now—I’m still recovering.”
“About that . . . how do you feel? Are you any better?”
I sigh. “I’m not sure. I’m tired. And when I . . .” My throat clenches up. My eyes burn and Catherine’s face blurs as two tears roll down, too quick for me to catch. “When I tried to fly, I couldn’t get off the ground. Not even a few inches. I did everything I normally do, but my body . . . my body won’t listen anymore.”
“It’s temporary,” Catherine says. “It’s . . .” She swallows, avoiding my eyes, and then I know she’s as worried as I am. “You’ll be stronger. After.”
“What if I lose everything?” Damn it. My throat feels like there’s a sharp stone wedged inside, like I’ll choke if I don’t let it out. I’m trying to hide it and Catherine’s pretending it’s working. “Here.” She tugs the waist of her T-shirt away from her body and slices a section off with her claws. Hands it to me. “You’re leaking antifreeze again.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I mumble, wiping my face before anyone else comes to check on me.
“Seriously, I’m not doing this again—so I hope this is a good time for it.” Catherine takes a quick breath, then pounces forward and throws her arms around me and hugs me hard, the way you hug someone when you’re afraid they’ll disappear. “It’ll be okay. Whatever happens, Avery. I’ll be here, and . . . your friends will be here—”
“They’re your friends, too,” I murmur.
“And no matter how this Stage Two crap changes things, you’ll still be Avery. Even if we have to buy you a jetpack, you’ll fly again. You’re not going back to the way you were before.”
“I can’t.”
“I know. I know, and we won’t let that happen to you. You’re so past normal it’s sick. And if you end up with a heart defect, or whatever Jacques has, Darla can build you a robotic bodysuit with a built-in pacemaker, Iron Man- style. She’d probably love that.”
“Oh God, no,” I groan.
“Buck up,” she whispers. “I only get this supportive once or twice a year. So . . . I hope you enjoyed it. After tonight you’re on your own.”
“Storing it away in my memory,” I say.
She pulls away and I don’t feel as heavy anymore. Still tired, but . . . I’m still here. And I’ve got more than just myself to lean on.
Leilani’s gone—who knows where to. Nicholas is sitting with his feet propped on the wobbly ice rink, sipping Gatorade with Darla while Sophie sticky-scrambles up the side of the robot and into the cockpit, on a mission to salvage the most essential of Darla’s gadgets. Jacques stands below, playing spotter in case she slips.
I approach kind of hesitantly, not sure who’s gonna be pissed at me. “Is everyone okay?”
Darla points at Nicholas. “Rehydrating. And totally exhausted. But other than that, good.”
Sophie models the welts on her legs. “I feel like I got cornered by a very angry pitching machine. I want some hot chocolate. And I think I have five more adrenaline-fueled minutes before I pass out.”
“Enough,” Jacques says, motioning for her to climb down.
I take a few deep breaths then, working myself up to this. “Nicholas?”
The last time we spoke to each other, we were arguing about how I shouldn’t have taken his place in Cherchette’s Stage Two experiment. All he wanted was for his power to stop. To not be out of his control, violent, unpredictable, and dangerous.
And now, after what I did . . .
He downs the rest of his Gatorade, leans his head back, and closes his eyes. “I’m not going to say what you think I’m going to say, Avery. I’m not mad. You know what my brother says about battle? He says it’s not about the enemy—it’s about the person next to you. Your friend, your teammate. You’re fighting to protect them, and they’re doing the same thing for you. I never wanted it to end like that. I feel like it’s my fault that it happened, in a way, because I came here in the first place. None of this would have happened if not for that. But I didn’t know what to expect. I never thought you guys would be in danger. And I guess, when it comes down to it . . . I’m grateful I was here to help when you needed me.”
Darla flashes me a thumbs-up and a not-so-discreet wink through her cracked aviator goggles. She looks like she just ran a four-day marathon through the Sahara with only a juice box and some scorpion sweat for hydration—she should be passed out on the ground right now. But nothing gets this girl down. No matter what happens, she bounces right back. That’s got to be a superpower in itself.
Sophie covers her mouth with both hands as she yawns. “Ready to go home, team?”
We all nod with zero energy, giving in to the crash after so much fury: the calm after the storm.
Jacques catches Darla with a stern glance as she gets to her feet. “Is Benedict Arnold part of the team?”
Darla looks taken aback; she blinks so hard the cracked lens in her goggles wobbles. Then Jacques manages a small smile and she realizes he’s joking. Darla grins back big, a mix between embarrassment and giddy glee.
“No, but Jacques Morozov is on the team.”
“Told yooooou!” Sophie sings. She waves the two-fingered victory V in the air and yawns again, falls against Darla’s shoulder, green mascara’d eyelashes fluttering with exhaustion. “Good call, Mr. Wayne.”
“I guess you had one good idea,” Darla says. “But I was the one who first thought Jacques had potential. If you recall the time I . . .”
Nicholas rolls his not-glowing, back-to-normal eyes at me. Catherine groans and bumps my shoulder. “Why doesn’t she just write a poem about him? How did I end up with you people?” She growls when I throw my arm around her—half hug, half headlock, all awesome.
I look around at them—all my friends, people I didn’t even know a few months ago—and I’m just blown away. I can’t imagine being who I am without them in my life. They’ve become as much a part of me as my powers. Flight, superstrength, invulnerability. Darla, Nicholas, Sophie, Jacques. Catherine.
They’re freaking extraordinary.
EPILOGUE
RUNNING AWAY DIDN’T WIN ME ANY POINTS with my parents. My chores have increased, like, tenfold, and I have to do the really crappy jobs, like laundry—which is full of untold secrets I did not need to know. My dad’s underwear is so much bigger than his actual butt it’s frightening.
Night flights and the daily neighborhood patrol?—they’ve kind of come to an end. I can’t stay on my feet for hours, and flying . . . isn’t a reality right now. Fingers crossed that it’s only temporary. I’m trying not to think about it. I borrowed a few books from Catherine to distract myself. But it’s hard to ignore all the weird stuff going on with my body.
Occasionally I’m overwhelmed by extreme nausea and delirium. For a split second I even imagined I could see through my bedroom wall.
Crazy, right?
I wake with night sweats. Bad dreams that I never remember—only the unsettled feeling remains. And sometimes this intense pain racks my body, like my muscles are being torn apart. I wake up and have to bite down on my pillow to keep from crying out. The other night I bit through it.
I haven’t told anyone about that.
Do you like it?” Jacques asks Charlie, showing off his shiny silver Jaguar. Charlie nods shyly from under his oversize baseball cap, tail tucked into a pair of baggy sweatpants, XL Incredible Hulk shirt making him look like any other kid.
Charlie’s prepped for an extended sleepover. Catherine has reluctantly agreed to let her brother move in with Jacques, now that Cherchette’s gone from the mansion. No more garage living. No more abuse. J
ust country life and open air—Charlie will be free to be himself. But that doesn’t mean this change is easy for her.
“You ready?” I ask Catherine.
Catherine shifts Charlie’s overnight bag to her other shoulder. “I don’t know . . .”
“Give it a chance,” I say. “Charlie wants to go, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, but . . . he’s never been away from me before.”
“He’ll be fine. If anything, he’ll just end up spoiled and refuse to leave the house without his diamond cuff links.” I block before Catherine can gouge me with her claws. “Hey! Still recovering here! No cheap shots.”
Charlie says something to Jacques, his voice so raspywhispery we can barely hear him. “What’s that?” Jacques leans closer.
“Is there really a trampoline?”
“Ah . . .” Jacques smiles. “I think it may be in the shop. But we can buy one.”
“Cool.” Charlie ducks his head again, tugging the hat tighter over his ears.
“Be good,” Catherine says, smothering him in a feral-sister hug. “I have a phone now. Call me anytime you miss me. And eat all of your cereal, not just the marshmallows.”
“I will take good care of him,” Jacques assures her. “I promise. Whenever you want to see him, just call and I will come get you.”
“We can jump on the trampoline,” Charlie says. “And do backflips.”
Catherine manages a reluctant smile and helps Charlie load his stuff into the car, still full of instructions. “Don’t fight with the fish girl. And if Leilani plays any tricks on you, tell her I’ll rip her face off.”
“So we’ll see you next weekend?” I ask Jacques.
“Team meeting,” he says. “Of course I’ll be there.”
“Good.” I slap him on the shoulder. “We’re training Nicholas next week, so come ready to play football.”
After some last-minute adjustments they’re finally ready to go. Charlie waves good-bye as the Jaguar pulls away, and we wave back wildly, with big, enthusiastic grins to match his smile. But Catherine deflates a little once he’s out of sight.
She takes out her new phone, starts to dial Jacques’s number, but stops. “He’ll be fine, right? I’m doing the right thing?”
“Definitely.” I know this is hard for her—she wants her brother to be safe, and happy, and she doesn’t trust anyone else to protect him. She’s taking a huge chance. But I think this will actually work out.
She exhales, long and loud, and her shoulders loosen as the tension leaves her. “Okay. I’m going to try to believe that.”
The smell of pizza and fresh-baked cookies hits us as soon as we enter Sophie’s basement.
“Woo!” Sophie hops up and does her own version of a touchdown dance. “Score!”
“This is ridiculous.” Nicholas sighs and tosses his controller on the floor. He and Sophie are playing a newly purchased game of Madden on her Xbox, trying to get a feel for the mechanics of football. Nicholas is losing 42-0.
“You’ll be better at the real game,” I promise. “This is just a crash course in the rules. And learning what the various positions are.”
“I don’t want to go out for the football team,” Nicholas groans.
“It’s getting your dad off your back, isn’t it?” Darla says. “It’s like when I signed up for cheerleading camp one summer so my dad would stop harassing me about my inventions. It’ll work, trust me.”
“But my dad’s on the phone with the coach practically every night,” Nicholas says. “He’s so excited it’s sick. What’s going to happen when I don’t make the team? This might be the worst idea you’ve ever had, Darla.”
I cram the controller back in his hand. “You’ll make the team,” I say. “We’ll make sure of it.”
“Besides, I’ve never had a truly bad idea,” Darla says.
“That’s true,” Sophie says. “That heartfelt poem you read at Roast? Great idea.”
“It was excellent!” Darla protests.
“Yeah, and the ‘R.I.P. Marie Curie’ shirt,” I throw in.
“Ooh, good one!”
Darla sinks lower into her beanbag chair, face hidden behind her blingtastic Hello Kitty laptop. She’s doing her typical genius grumbling, insulting us with words we don’t understand.
“Hmm, she must be really mad,” Sophie says with a grin. “That last one was in Latin.”
Catherine’s watching us like an anthropologist observing aliens for the first time. She’s working her way through the plate of football-shaped, pink-frosted sugar cookies, scrunching her nose each time I point sternly at the pizza, trying to get her to eat something that doesn’t have frosting on it.
“Ohmygod!” Darla spins her laptop around on her knees, so forcefully it nearly goes crashing to the ground.
It’s a news report from a few days ago.
We gather around to read it. Nicholas mouths the words, his eyes opening wide—amazed or in disbelief or both.
AMNESIA VICTIM FOUND IN VIRGINIA
A picture of the victim accompanies the article—and it’s definitely Cherchette. Platinum-blond hair, blue eyes, supermodel-tall, etc. The report says she’s been taken to an area hospital, and that police are seeking to establish her identity.
“Virginia?” Catherine says.
Nicholas rubs his hands over his face. “I used to live there. That means she’s . . .”
“Alive,” I say. My heart wrenches. I’m relieved and I’m not. What does this mean for us?
“Your vortex,” Darla says. She slams her fist down on the carpet. “I can’t believe I never thought of that! It doesn’t destroy things! It teleports them! Ohmygod barbeque eureka what-what!” She hops up and starts dancing; links hands with Sophie and they whoop it up and scream and twirl around.
“Nicholas! Aren’t you excited?”
He nods, still in shock. “My dog, Boots. He could still be alive. I have to find him.”
Catherine’s rocking back and forth restlessly, like a dark cloud just drifted over her. “Amnesia. How long does that last? Do you know how freaking bad this is for us? How long before she uses her ice powers in front of someone? What if her powers are completely out of control? Does she even know she has them?”
Darla stops dancing. “Um . . . crap.”
“Yeah, exactly. And unlike some people who end up in the news”—Catherine nods in my direction—“there’s no good way to cover up her powers. Adrenaline doesn’t go far toward explaining an indoor ice storm.”
“I have to call Jacques,” Sophie says. She picks up her phone and starts dialing. “We could find her. Maybe even rehabilitate her! So that like . . . when she does regain her memory, she’ll be a better person.”
Catherine snorts. “That’s realistic.”
We all wait as Sophie excitedly informs Jacques that his mother’s alive—a victim of teleportation, not destruction. But as they talk, her voice goes from cheery to troubled. Her eyebrows turn upward, perplexed. “So, what does that mean?” she asks him.
Finally she hangs up. “Um, you guys? Jacques says Leilani left yesterday morning. At first he thought it was random. But she took Cherchette’s passport. He thinks she went to find her.”
Leilani: the girl who thinks we destroyed her life and considers us her enemies. Who can slip in and out of crowds anonymously and become anyone she wants at will. If she finds Cherchette before we do, and fills in the blanks with her one-sided view of how things went down, Cherchette will be poisoned against us forever; there’s no chance we’ll be able to help her. She’ll be coming for us, and not to bring us “home”—this time it’s going to be all about revenge.
We can’t just wait to see how this turns out. We have to do something.
It looks like our superteam is coming out of retirement.
SUPER THANKS TO...
My agent, Laura Rennert: ninja, goddess, and all-around purveyor of awesome. You believed in Dull Boy from the very beginning, and found the perfect home for it—that means
the world to me and I am so glad you’re on my team.
My editor, Sarah Shumway: visionary, champion, and a true marvel with a red pencil. You saw Dull Boy’s potential and helped me to make the book a thousand times better. Working with you has been nothing but fun every step of the way.
Thanks also to Stephanie Owens Lurie, Mark McVeigh, Andrew Harwell, and everyone at Dutton who has had a hand in bringing Dull Boy to readers.
Miscellaneous thanks to sassy librarians—you make the world go ’round; to my butler, Alfred, for cookies and pep talks—but especially cookies; to Brian K. Vaughan, whose Runaways inspired me to finally put my superhero dreams into book form.
Extra-special thanks to Peter, my husband and BFF, who read this book more times than any sane person should have to, and wasn’t afraid to tell me exactly what was wrong with it—even when I threatened him with my laser eyes and scowl of doom. You’re cute and your critiquing skills are awesome! I promise you only have to read this book one more time.
