The Last Superhero

by Kristin Butcher

“Nah. Nothing like that.”

  “Good,” he said. “I'd hate for anything to put a damper on our celebration.”

  “What celebration?”

  Dad chuckled. “I didn't win the lottery or anything, so don't go getting too excited. I just have some news I think you'll be interested in. I thought we'd talk about it over a pizza.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I replied. I patted my backpack, thinking about the boot camp application inside. “I've got some news too,” I said. Then I grinned into the phone. “So maybe you better make that two pizzas”

  The cheese stretched like mozzarella elastic as I grabbed a third slice of pizza. “So what's your big news?”

  Dad took a swig of pop. “You first.”

  I put down the pizza and wiped my hands on my jeans. “Okay.” I couldn't wait to tell my dad about boot camp. “Remember when I started at Mt. Rigg last year, I told you about this really cool program they have at the art gallery?” I paused, waiting for his acknowledgment.

  Dad shook his head. “Sorry, Jas. You're always talking about art. It's hard to keep all your stories straight.”

  I rolled my eyes. How could he not remember? I'd been so pumped about the program, it was the only thing I'd talked about for weeks. Then when I'd found out I wasn't old enough to apply, I'd been totally ticked.

  “You have to remember,” I said. “Every summer the art gallery hires a professional artist to teach a two week course. Kids between ages twelve and fifteen can apply, but just twenty-five make it. The program only accepts the very best artists. Last year the focus was air-brushing. I wanted to take that so bad! Don't you remember?”

  Dad still didn't look too sure, but he nodded anyway.

  “Last year I wasn't old enough.” I slapped all the forms Mr. Dow had given me onto the table. Then I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. “This year I am.”

  “That's great.” Dad started leafing through the papers. “What's this year's theme?”

  “Action comics.”

  Dad looked up. “Action comics? I didn't know you were into that kind of art.”

  I shrugged. “I'm into every kind of art. Comics, printmaking, sculpting, painting—anything that's art, I'm into. I don't know very much about how to do action comics yet, but that's the whole point of taking the course.”

  Dad nodded. “True. It says here you have to submit an art sample with your application. What are you going to do?”

  “An action comic,” I said. “You have to. See?” I stabbed a finger on #4 of the requirement section.

  Dad read it. Then he frowned. “You're a good artist, Jas, but if action comics aren't your specialty, what makes you think you'll get picked for the program.”

  That kind of hurt. I had expected my dad to cheer me on, not shoot me down. I rounded up the papers and pushed them down the table.

  “Now don't go getting your shirt in a knot,” Dad said. “I'm sure you have as good a chance of getting in as anybody. I just don't want you to be disappointed.”

  “I won't be,” I retorted, trying to pick my pride up off the floor. Nobody could want this more than me. Couldn't Dad see that? “The deadline is three months away,” I said. “That means I've got lots of time to do a really good job. I'm going to work so hard on this comic, the art gallery will think I'm already a professional.”

  Dad pretended to slug me on the chin. “I have no doubt.” Then he started rapping his fingers on the table.

  “So, are you ready to hear my news?”

  I was still feeling a little deflated, but not so much that I wasn't curious. I picked up my pizza again and took a huge bite. “Shoot,” I said, though through a mouthful of pizza, it sounded more like, “Chood.”

  “I booked our camping trip today,” he beamed.

  “Awright!” We exchanged high fives. Our annual camping trip was the highlight of the whole year. Just me and Dad—fishing, hiking, and paddling our canoe. Our camping trips were the best. I took another bite of pizza. “I didn't know you could reserve campsites this far ahead. Did you get us a place in the Whiteshell?”

  Dad nodded, but he wasn't looking at me anymore. “Yeah, we're in Whiteshell Provincial Park, but I didn't actually reserve us a campsite. This year I thought we'd try a cabin.”

  My jaw dropped open like one of those wooden puppets ventriloquists use. It's a wonder the pizza I was chewing didn't fall out of my mouth. “A cabin? We never rent a cabin. Cabins are for wimps. Real campers stay in tents. You said so yourself. We always tent.”

  “I know. I know” Dad said. “I just thought a cabin might be a nice change.” He tried to make a joke. “Your old man isn't getting any younger, you know. I could use a few conveniences. Toilet, shower, electricity—you gotta like that.”

  “No, I don't!” I protested. “That's not roughing it!”

  “Look, Jas,” Dad said, “I've already made the reservation. Be a sport.”

  “Why didn't you at least ask me first?” I complained.

  “Because I had a feeling this is how you'd react.”

  Dad wasn't making any sense. “Then why do it? And don't give me that bit about getting old. There has to be some other—”

  “I invited Debra to come with us.”

  Wham! I felt like I'd just been socked in the teeth with a baseball bat.

  “Debra?” I could hardly get the word out.

  He nodded.

  Debra was Dad's seven-month old girlfriend. She wasn't seven months old; that's just how long he'd been going out with her.

  I jumped out of my chair and started waving my arms around. “How could you do that? This is our camping trip! You and me! Why do you want to bring her?”

  “I thought it would be an opportunity for the two of you to get to know each other better.”

  “I don't want to get to know her better!” I yelled. “She's your girlfriend, not mine!”

  “Look” Dad said, dragging me back to my chair, “I know I should have checked this with you first. I'm sorry about that. But it's done now, so can't we just make the best of it?”

  I opened my mouth to yell again, but Dad hurried on before I could.

  “The thing is, I've put down a pretty hefty deposit, and if I cancel, I'll lose it. The first two weeks of July are prime vacation time.”

  A bell went off in my head, and I reached down the table for the art forms. It didn't take me long to find what I was looking for. I slid the paper toward my dad and thumped a finger on the date. “I can't go the first two weeks of July. That's when the boot camp is on.” I was practically gloating, but I didn't care. Dad had no right to invite Debra on our camping trip.

  For a couple of minutes he was quiet. “Hmmm,” he said at last. “That does pose a bit of a problem. But I think I have a solution.”

  I didn't like the sounds of that. “What?” I asked cautiously.

  “If you get accepted into this program at the art gallery, we'll postpone our camping trip until after it's finished. It'll be just you and me in a tent in the Whiteshell. Okay?”

  “What about your deposit on the cabin?”

  He shrugged. “I'll try to sell the reservation to one of my pals. Lots of them rent cabins for the summer. If I can't find any takers, the worst that can happen is I lose my money.”

  That sounded like a plan to me. I nodded and picked up my pizza again.

  “But…” Dad raised his voice a little, “…if by some chance you don't get into that art program, then you, me, and Debra go to the Whiteshell in July as planned—and we stay in the cabin.”

  Talk about relief! I couldn't believe Dad was letting me off the hook this easy. I grinned and stuck out my hand. “It's a deal.”

  As he hesitantly put out his hand too, he eyed me suspiciously. “You're giving in without a fight?”

  I flopped back in my chair. “What's to fight about? This is a no-brainer. The only thing that could mess things up is if I don't get into boot camp, and that is not going to happen. If I were you, I'd get busy trying to dump that
cabin.”

  FOUR

  I've been hooked on art since I was two. That's about when I got my first box of crayons and used them to scribble all over the walls. I guess I must have gotten in trouble, but I don't remember that part. The only thing that stands out in my mind was how magical it felt to see the wall come alive with shapes and colour. After that I was addicted. I had to draw. It didn't matter what I was drawing, what I was drawing on, or what I was drawing with. I just had to draw.

  In Grade Four, the teacher asked everybody what they wanted to be when they grew up. Most of the kids said fireman, nurse, teacher—that sort of thing. But not me. I said “artist”. I didn't even have to think about it. The word just flew out of my mouth like an unexpected burp.

  So getting into summer boot camp was major for me! It was a chance for my art to really take off. Not only would I learn a lot, but I'd get to work with a famous artist. I was so pumped, I couldn't get to sleep that night thinking about it. I also couldn't wait to get to work on my comic.

  But first I had to do some research. I got started the very next day.

  There were eight of us holding up the wall outside the library. We were strung out in a line like beads on a necklace. Nobody was talking and nobody was looking at anybody. We were all just staring at the floor, as if counting the tiles was the most important thing we'd ever done in our lives.

  But when we heard the tap, tap, tap of high-heeled shoes coming down the corridor, we all turned toward the sound and pushed off from the wall. As the librarian hurried toward us, the bracelet of keys around her wrist jingled like the bells on Santa's sleigh.

  “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” she apologized as she unlocked the door. “I know I'm late, but I had to track down a wayward shipment of books. Turns out the set of Underground to Canada I ordered ended up at some school in Alabama.” For some reason that seemed to tickle her funny bone, and she started to laugh. But when nobody else did, she sighed and said, “Read the book.” Then she threw open the door and announced loudly, “Ladies and gentlemen, the library is open.”

  While she'd been talking, we'd all been inching forward so now we were in a tight semi-circle around the entrance. But before we could head inside, an enormous bellow erupted from the girls' bathroom behind us. “Finally!” the voice boomed, as the washroom door burst open and a black and yellow blur shot into the hall and through our huddle like a linebacker trying to tackle the quarterback. I wasn't sure if we'd been attacked by a small tiger or a very large bee, but whatever it was, it was now sprawled on the library floor.

  The librarian stalked over to where it was lying. “Miss Nott!” she scolded the heap on the floor.

  “Aw, come on, Miss Holmes,” the heap complained. “Have a heart. It sounds like you're calling me Miss Snot. I'm just plain Wren.”

  “My dear, you are not plain anything. If I don't see you, I hear you, and if I don't hear you, I see you. Once—just once—I'd like not to know you're here.”

  “I'm always here,” the heap replied.

  Miss Holmes rolled her eyes. “Don't remind me.” Then she reached out a hand. “Come on. Get up off the floor.”

  As the girl stood up, I finally saw her face. It was the crazy girl from the locker, and by the looks of things, she hadn't mellowed much over the weekend. You could still hear her coming a mile away, and now you could see her from that far too. Her legs—in yellow and black striped stockings—stuck out the bottom of an enormous black sweater that was cinched in the middle with a wide yellow belt. The sweater must have belonged to a giant, because it almost reached the girl's knees. The shoulders were at her elbows, and even though the sleeves were rolled up a few times, they still hung down over her knuckles. Around her neck was a bunch of necklaces—all yellow and black, and on her feet were pointy-toed ankle boots—also yellow—that buttoned up the side. Her wild hair was trapped inside a yellow woolen hat.

  She didn't exactly blend into the crowd, but even so, I was the only one who was staring. The other kids walked around her like having a black and yellow body on the library carpet was an everyday thing.

  Up until then the girl hadn't noticed me, but it was only a matter of time. Oh sure, she might not remember who I was and look right through me. On the other hand, she might recognize me—and freak out. There was no way of predicting, and I wasn't willing to take the chance. Turning my head so she couldn't see my face, I hurried inside.

  I don't usually hang out in the school library during lunch hour, but I had an idea for my action comic, and—like I said before—I needed some information before I could begin. I glanced around the room. The place was filled with book shelves. What I needed must be on one of them. But which one?

  I headed for Miss Holmes, who was now manning the checkout station in the middle of the library. If anyone could answer that question, it would be her.

  She was flipping through a bunch of papers. I waited for her to look up, but when a minute or so passed without her noticing me, I cleared my throat. “Excuse me.”

  “Mm-hmm?” she mumbled.

  “I need some help.”

  Finally she peered at me over the top of her glasses. Then, like magic, her expression went from bored to energized. “Well, well, well. What have we here?” she beamed. “A fresh face? A new patron? A convert to the library rank and file?” She was practically rubbing her hands together and drooling, and she looked as if she might leap over the counter any second.

  “Actually I'm doing some research,” I said, watching her warily.

  “Then you've come to the right place,” she replied, dropping her papers and scooting around the desk separating us. “What sort of research are you doing?”

  “Well, basically I need to find out everything I can about superheroes.”

  “Superheroes? Do you mean like sports figures or celebrity superheroes? Or are you talking about historical heroes like Paul Revere or mythical heroes like Hercules?” She started walking toward the bookshelves on the far side of the room. “The mythology section is full of superheroes. You have your Greeks and Romans, of course, but there's also the Norse legends and the—”

  I shook my head. “No, not that kind of superhero.

  I'm talking about Superman, Batman, Spiderman, Green Lantern. You know—comic book superheroes. Do you have any books on them? Some comics maybe?”

  Miss Holmes' eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you sure you're doing research?”

  “I swear,” I said, crossing my heart. “I'm applying to boot camp at the art gallery, and I have to submit an action comic. But I need to know about the superheroes that are already out there so I can do something different.”

  Miss Holmes' body relaxed again and her expression became thoughtful. “Ah, now I see what you're getting at. I'm not sure what we have in the way of books, and the comics are always out, but there must be something. Give me the afternoon to see what I can find. In the meantime,” she crooked a finger at me and headed for a computer, “let's see what's on the Internet.”

  In no time, she'd hooked me up to a bunch of different sites. I hauled out my sketchbook and pencil and quickly started making notes and gesture drawings. I hadn't realized there were so many superheroes—and super villains. But then, what's the good of a hero if he doesn't have an archenemy to save the world from?

  In the back of my mind, my own superhero started to take shape. He was still pretty hazy, but even as I checked out Captain America and Cyclops, I found myself sketching the features of my own comic character. He would be younger than most superheroes, and he'd live in a school, because he was actually a ghost. He was dead, but he wasn't dead. I felt myself getting pumped. This was going to be fun. Now what super powers would he have, and what sorts of things would change him from a mild mannered bit of chalk dust into a defender of the weak? And who would his enemy be?

  Even though I was totally zoned into what I was doing, I gradually became aware of somebody talking. At first the voice was just annoying, like a fly that keeps buzzing a
round your head when you're trying to watch television. But little by little the voice pushed itself right into the middle of my thoughts. There was something familiar about it—familiar and very irritating.

  I looked up from the computer screen and shook my head in disgust. Of course the voice was irritating. It belonged to Peewee—the kid who'd spit on me. He was standing by the checkout desk talking to Miss Holmes, and he was sucking up to her big time. I was embarrassed just listening to him. The really sad part was that Miss Holmes was soaking up every word.

  Peewee was telling her about some documentary he'd seen on television on the disastrous effects of drought in Africa. He practically recited the whole program. He said he'd been stunned and horrified—those were his exact words—by the living conditions these people had to endure—that was another one of his words.

  I'm telling you, he practically had Miss Holmes crying. Her face looked like a piece of paper someone had crumpled into a ball.

  I don't know how long this went on, but it felt like hours. Why was Peewee telling Miss Holmes all this? Did he want a book? Was he working on a project? Did he want to join the Peace Corps? What? I wanted to scream at him to get to the point.

  Then out of the corner of my eye I saw the kid at the next table move real quick. I looked around just in time to see Peewee's trusty sidekick jabbing a ruler into the kid's side. Then he moved on and did the same thing to the kid at the next table.

  I shook my head. What a team. Peewee created a diversion while Garth the goon tortured everybody in the room.

  I felt myself tensing up as he got closer to me.

  But he didn't even see me. He was looking in my direction, but I might as well have been a window. He was staring right through me. Then suddenly he was in a big rush. He nodded at Peewee and headed for the exit. I turned to look where he'd been looking. That's when I saw a flash of yellow and black on the other side of the room. It was Wren. She was crouched low, and she was scurrying toward the front of the library. From where Miss Holmes was standing, she couldn't see Wren, but Peewee sure could.

  He glanced at the wall clock. “Yikes, look at the time. I was supposed to be in the science lab five minutes ago. Gotta run, Miss Holmes. If that documentary comes on again, be sure to watch it.”