Super

by Jones, Princess

  She ignored the greeting. “You have a little something on your. . .” she trailed off and gestured toward her face.

  “Oh.” I wiped my mouth and mentally said goodbye to the last of the doughnut. “So where do we start?”

  Cammie chuckled. I must have said something funny. She pulled a folder out of nowhere and opened it on the table. “Well, I’ve already come up with some action lists and divided tasks into the appropriate categories--you know, production, human resources, etc. I have timelines and spreadsheets. I have it all, actually.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “So what should I do?”

  “What I tell you to do.” She said it with no humor. She was serious.

  “Okaaaaayyyyy. What do you want to do?”

  “At the moment? Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  Cammie tilted her head to the side as if thinking. “Well, maybe not nothing. You could get me a coffee.”

  “A coffee? From the coffee cart? I mean, I guess--”

  “No, no, no. I can’t have that watery crap. I passed a Starbucks a couple of blocks up.” She opened her designer purse and threw a crisp twenty in my direction. Even her money was put together. “Tall, half-caff, soy latte at 210 degrees.” The look on my face must have been as ridiculous as that order sounded. “Not 190 and not 220. 210 degrees exactly.” She pauses. “Do you need me to write it down?” Without waiting for me to answer, she whipped out a post-it and wrote her order down in bright magenta ink. I took it without saying anything and made my way to the door.

  “Oh and Audrey?” When I turned around, Cammie was looking down at her paperwork, her brow furrowed like she was concentrating on something important.

  “Yeah?”

  She looked up and gave me a wide, serene smile. “You have the biggest sweat stain all down your back.”

  ***

  I went right to the bathroom from the conference room. Mellie was already there. At the moment, she was doing a fine job of whisper-screaming and a not-so-fine job of aiming the hand dryer down the back of my casual-and-cheap ensemble.

  “I cannot believe you didn’t notice!”

  “How was I supposed to notice? Using the eyes in the back of my head?” I whisper-screamed right back at her. I was doubled over trying to get my body under the hot air of the dryer.

  “I sent you an email telling you!”

  “I didn’t see it. You should have just come over to tell me.”

  “I couldn’t! I was on the phone with a client. You know, the reason I come to work everyday. And you need to check your email, Audrey. It should be the first thing you do when you get in. This might be why you keep getting fired from places.”

  “I know. And I can’t believe she noticed,” I added, referring to Cammie.

  “Who is she, anyway? I saw her walking in with Larry and he was practically drooling on her. She looks like that chick in Legally Blonde—all pink and blonde and perfect and whatever.”

  “I know, right? But that chick in that movie was actually nice. This one is not. And she’s the head of the merger committee.”

  The dryer timed out and Mellie slammed the button again. “Well, who’s on the merger committee?”

  “Um, me, I think. I think I’m the entire committee.” I filled her in on my new role at BK Paper and what Larry had said about my job depending on it.

  “Oh,” Mellie said when I was done. “So are you looking for a new job?”

  “No! Why? You think I’m gonna get fired?”

  “Why else would he do this? He has to be giving you enough rope to hang yourself. I could name four or five people who would be better for this than you would be. One of them would be the janitor.”

  I stood up and stepped back from the dryer. “I can do stuff.” Geez, that didn’t even sound convincing to me.

  “Ok, ok. Basically, you just have to do whatever this Cammie chick wants you to do until the merger goes through.” I nodded. “So what does she want you to do?”

  “Well, nothing. Except go get her Starbucks.”

  “Oh.” Mellie paused. “Did you get it?”

  “Shit. I gotta go.”

  ***

  I’d only been in Starbucks a few times and it was always with Mellie. She’d buy me a drink just so she didn’t have to go alone. I couldn’t afford high-priced coffee when my job was giving away something similar for free. Today Starbucks was full of the late-morning crowd, jonesing for a fix. The line was long but you’d be surprised at how patient you can be when you’re worried about losing your job and getting evicted if you don’t bring back the right drink.

  I stared out the big picture window at the Brooklyn day going on outside. There were the usual suspects--hipsters on break from their jobs at startups, lifelong residents walking their gluten-free dogs and vegan babies, homeless junkies trying to panhandle enough to get their next high. Although Brooklyn had been evolving into a much more popular and trendier place than ever, certain parts like DUMBO still had a very small burg vibe. A huge emphasis remained on local mom-and-pop shops and big chains found it hard to break into the market. The Pinkberry we had gotten just a few months ago was a sign that change was ever approaching.

  I remembered the stationery store, The Paper Chase, next to Pinkberry making a big fuss. The owner was outside giving out flyers about the dangers of letting big chain stores into the neighborhood last fall. She had a big sign blocking the sidewalk. She cornered me and tried to get me to sign her petition but I was too busy trying to see when Pinkberry would open. I ended up tripping, knocking over her sign, and ripping it. She wasn’t amused.

  I could pretend to be mad along with everybody else but the yogurt was just too delicious for me to hate. Besides, the only sure thing in life is change. Twenty years from now, something new would be blowing through the streets and people would be complaining about going back to simpler time when Pinkberry was in town.

  As I watched the customers go in and out of the Pinkberry, I thought about the couple of bucks in my bank account. Then I wondered how much Cammie’s coffee would cost. Maybe I could redirect some of the change into a stop at Pinkberry. I could already taste the creamy, sweet and sour treat when my view was interrupted by a UPS truck. The driver hopped out and went inside the stationery store. I only had enough time to check out his legs in his short-shorts before it was my turn at the register.

  The barista asked me for my order. I pulled out the now-crumpled paper with Cammie’s order on it. “Can I get, uh, a tall, uh, half-caff, uh, soy latte at, uh, 210 degrees?” She gave me a look like she wished I would go fall down a flight of stairs. “It’s not for me,” I quickly added. She remained unimpressed, rang up the order, and wrote my name on the cup. A few minutes later, I was holding my future in the form of an overpriced coffee drink and walking out of the door.

  I glanced over in the direction of Pinkberry one more time and noticed that the UPS truck was still there. The driver was nowhere in sight but there was a guy trying very hard to look casual around the back of the truck. In my experience, anyone trying that hard to look like nothing was going on was usually trying to hide the fact that something was really going on.

  If I had been a normal person, I could have just walked by. But Supers are supposed to be better than that. At least that’s what they tell us in school. And since I was standing in my own district, I really didn’t have the luxury of pretending like I didn’t see what I said.

  I gripped the drink in my left hand and crossed the street. “Hey, is that your truck?”

  It was a stupid question. People are wrong when they say that there are no stupid questions. If you already know the answer to the question, it’s stupid. Still, it was the best I could come up with at the moment.

  He must have thought it was stupid, too, because he didn’t even bother to answer it. Instead, he spit out a “Shit!” and pushed me with enough force to knock me on my ass and spill 210 degrees of overpriced coffee on myself.

  I could feel the welts form
ing on my left arm even as I was rising again, and they hurt like a bitch. By the time I was on my feet, the guy had hopped in the truck and was starting it. Damn those UPS guys for leaving keys in the ignition! Another guy ran out of the stationery store holding three boxes. The back door of the truck was still open. The second man ran past me, knocking me back down. He threw the boxes into the back of the truck and jumped in screaming, “Go! Go! Go!”

  By the time I was on my feet again, the truck had zoomed down the street and made a hard right. I couldn’t have caught up to them if I was willing to try. As I stood there in the middle of the street, the UPS guy came running out of the store with the owner right behind. Both were on the verge of a major freak out.

  “Where’s my truck?! Did they take my truck?” the UPS guy yelled.

  Duh. “Yeah. I tried to stop them but they seemed like professional UPS truck stealers.” I shrugged.

  “How hard did you try?” asked the driver, eyeing me with suspicion.

  “Harder than the guy who left the keys in the truck, for sure.”

  They were both staring at me now. “Hey,” said the store owner. “Don’t I know you?”

  “No,” I said quickly, looking down and away. “I’m not from around here and I don’t know what happened to your sign.”

  I turned and quickly walked back across the street to Starbucks to get another overpriced coffee drink. I was already failing at one job. I needed to avoid getting fired from the other one.

  Chapter 8

  You can’t really tell who’s a Super and who isn’t just by looking. Well, unless they’re doing something that’s out of the ordinary, like flying or moving things with their minds. Supers aren’t always born to other Supers but we usually are. It’s kinda like a recessive gene that begins showing up during puberty. In my family, we all have it. That’s both a blessing and a curse. But then again, most things are.

  I’ve always thought it was kinda cruel that this thing shows up just when puberty hits you. You’ve already got acne, a training bra, and a brand new set of surging hormones. Now let’s just throw a big ole pile of steaming Super on top of that. There isn’t enough money in the world to get me to go back to that time. I’m sure my parents would tell you the same thing.

  I was already annoyed when I arrived at my parents’ place. By the time I got back with Cammie’s coffee, she was nowhere to be found. I guess she cut out early, but not before leaving me a list of stuff to get done. So much for not having anything for me to do.

  I left the office too late to pick up my suit from the cleaners again. As I swiped my Metro Card in the turnstile, I realized that I only had 45 cents left on it. The subway ride to the Upper West Side was long and standing room only. I was standing so close to the man behind me that I was pretty sure I got pregnant during the ride.

  As always, I couldn’t help but compare my parents’ neighborhood to my own. My parents live in a quintessential New York neighborhood. It looks like the set of a Woody Allen movie or a How I Met Your Mother episode. Adorable little brownstones that cost five times my rent each month. Clean--well, clean for the city--streets. Trendy little restaurants and bars everywhere you look. A diverse mix of well-to-do (or pretending to be well-to-do) families and couples.

  On the other hand, my neighborhood featured a bodega with bulletproof glass encasing the register, litter everywhere, and a 24-hour chicken shack that you could smell from three blocks out. I grew up with the cute brownstones on the nice clean streets, but truthfully I was more at home with the smell of fried chicken in my nose.

  Even with the promise of free food, dinners at my parents’ house were rare for me. In theory, my mother liked the idea of having weekly Sunday dinners but in practice, she’d been pretty busy. Even though she and my father have both retired, Mom still served on committees and boards for whatever organization or cause she was into at the moment. And she always had some big project or renovation going on. I can’t count how many times the color of their bathroom tile has changed in the past 10 years. My bathroom, on the other hand, has stayed a nice grungy brown color ever since I’ve had it.

  I rang the bell and waited on the front stoop. My parents bought their brownstone when we were little and I spent most of my growing-up years there. I remembered sitting on this very stoop as a kid, wishing I could fly. At the moment, I still wished it.

  My dad opened the door and I couldn’t help but grin. My father has always been a large man but he’d packed on a few more pounds since he’d retired. We had the same reddish hair but his was just a halo of fluff. We also had the same nearsightedness, but he actually wore his. He was wearing another one of his mismatched outfits that came from equal parts being a dude, being a color blind, and not giving a fuck. “You came,” he said.

  I stepped inside and gave him a one armed hug. “As if I had a choice. I was blackmailed.”

  He shrugged unapologetically and motioned me to follow him “This isn’t how you raised me. I know you said at least one time that we couldn’t blackmail people.”

  “I raised you to do what you have to do, Junior. Never forget that.” I smiled at my childhood nickname. He’d wanted a boy that would take after him. I wasn’t a boy but he got his wish in other ways.

  Dad led me through the foyer and into the living room, where a documentary on sharks blared from the TV. Seated on one of the couches was a rather large man in a dress shirt and slacks. He had a short buzzed haircut and bulging arm muscles. He looked like he spent his free time in a gym or in a gym parking lot buying steroids. His biceps were so big, I found myself wondering if he could touch his own face without help.

  I stayed standing but Dad plopped down and waved an arm in the general direction of the guy on the couch. “Audrey, this is Rodney. Rodney, this is the daughter you’re not having sex with: Audrey.”

  Rodney turned his head to me and waved. “Hi, Audrey.” He didn’t seem embarrassed by my dad’s lack of tact.

  “Hi.” I sat down next to Rodney.

  Rodney looked over at me. “Hey, you kinda look like your sister.”

  “Yeah. It’s probably because we have the same parents.”

  Rodney’s brows knitted in confusion. I bet you get confused a lot, don’t you?

  “Wait. What do you mean?”

  Before I could reply, my sister came sweeping into the room. Ella is three years older than me and a million years more mature. This was illustrated by the fact that I was wearing a wrinkled workplace casual button up and a pair of khakis. My hair was held back in a frizzy poof by a 99 cent headband and the only thing on my face was cherry lip gloss that I had to keep applying because it tasted so good I was eating it off my lips every five minutes. Ella, on the other hand, was wearing a very adult looking pale gray pant suit, her hair pinned up in a knot that probably had a French name I couldn’t pronounce. Although we had the same reddish brown curls in theory, her hair was usually straightened and there was never any sign of frizz.

  The differences didn’t end there. Ella is a brainiac. She never forgets anything. If she sees or hears something, it’s permanently stuck in her brain. She literally remembers being born. This is great for running the astrophysics department of NYU, publishing a series of bestselling novels about an astrophysicist who solves mysteries in her spare time, and serving as consultant on countless movies. It’s terrible if you’re her little sister.

  “Audrey.” That was so like Ella. No greeting. Just a statement confirming that still I existed.

  Before I could answer, my mother’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “Ella, ask Audrey to come and help us in the kitchen.”

  “I’m right here,” I yelled back.

  Ella rolled her eyes and gestured for me to come. I turned to Dad and whispered “Help.”

  He shook his head no. “Somebody has to go. And it ain’t gonna be me, Sweetie.” He gave me a push in the direction of the kitchen but thoughtfully put a beer in my hand as he did.

  Ella gets her Super ability from my mot
her. Not only is my mother ridiculously knowledgeable about everything, she is the type of woman who doesn’t do anything halfway. When she’s making some presentation for the board of the charity, she’s killing it with every fact and figure known to man. When she’s yelling at the plumber because her upteenth bathroom renovation isn’t done, she uses every curse word possible.

  And when she’s in the kitchen, she owns it. She’s the type of woman who owns several aprons and makes things from scratch. She’s the kind of woman who makes place cards for a Sunday dinner with five people in attendance, all of whom are either related or sleeping together.

  She’s so annoying.

  As I walked into the kitchen, Ella was putting on one of Mom’s guest aprons and handing one to me. Who has guest aprons? Oh yeah. Mom does. I said “Oh, you want me to help?”

  Mom smiled serenely at me. I knew that smile. It was dangerous. “Of course we do, Audrey.”

  I took a swig from the beer bottle. “I thought I was invited to eat dinner. Not to make dinner.”

  Ella sighed the sigh of a thousand annoyances. “You always do this, you know? It’s just a little help before you go in there and eat your free meal of the day.”

  “Oh I’m sorry, Ella. Are you paying for this meal or are you here eating free, too?”

  “Not the same way you are, Audrey. I could buy a meal if I wanted.”

  “Ok, ok, ok. You two are giving me a headache,” Mom said. She pointed to Ella. “Take those rolls out of the oven and be quiet.” She handed me an apron and a spoon. “You stir this sauce and be quiet.”

  I obeyed but I had an attitude. I stared down my mother and sister. With her dark hair held in an updo and tasteful dress, Mom made it clear where Ella got it from. They looked like sisters. And I looked like someone who had been left on the doorstep as a baby. If only that were actually true.

  A short while later, we put the food out and Mom called the guys into the dining room. Mom was at one end of the table, Dad at the other, Rodney and Ella on one side of the table, and me on the opposite side. The first few minutes were spent doling out food and working out the logistics of the meal. Dad offered me another beer and I asked him for three shots of tequila. He told me to get drunk on my own dime and placed another beer bottle in front of me.