The Last Superhero

by Kristin Butcher

  “So you're leaving?” I was totally confused.

  She rolled her eyes. “Don't be ridiculous. If I go out there, Ross'll cream me.” Then she kind of waggled her fingers at my artwork and backed away. “I'm just going to give you some space so you can work. Just because I have to hide out in here for a while doesn't mean I have to get in your way. Go on. Don't mind me. I'll be quiet as a mouse. You won't even know I'm here. I swear.” Then she zipped her lip and tiptoed to the other side of the room.

  It was a nice gesture, but it didn't last. In fact, only about five minutes—just long enough for me to zone out and submerge myself in my comic. Then just as I was getting set to draw the villain's slimy paws tightening around his victim's throat, I felt hot breath on my neck. I spun around so fast, I nearly took Wren's nose off.

  “Darn it, Wren!” I fumed. “What the heck are you doing now?”

  As usual, she didn't answer my question. Instead she stabbed a finger at the drawing I was working on, and in a voice electric with disbelief, she said, “Is that the bad guy?”

  I glanced at where she was pointing. “Yeah,” I replied warily. “What of it?”

  “Well,” then she kind of smirked, “I don't know a lot about superhero comics, but that is one goofy-looking villain. I bet his victims die of laughter, right?”

  I looked back at my drawing. “What are you talking about? This guy is very scary.”

  She shook her head. “No, he's not. He's too cuddly to be scary. He looks more like a stuffed toy than a menace to society. And all those zits—”

  “Those are warts,” I corrected her.

  “Really?” She bent forward for a closer look. “Hmmph. And here I was feeling sorry for the guy cuz he had a bad case of acne.”

  “I thought I wasn't going to know you were here,” I reminded her icily.

  “That was before I realized you need my help.”

  “I don't.”

  “Don't go getting all defensive. Your artwork is really good. I'm just pointing out a few problem parts.”

  “The villain is one part, not a few.”

  She screwed up her face apologetically and squeaked, “Well, there are a couple of other teeny tiny little things you might want to fix.”

  And for the rest of the lunch hour, she told me what they were.

  After that I had the art room to myself again. Apparently Peewee got tired of waiting for Wren to show her face, so he took his revenge out on her locker instead—Krazy Glue in the lock and liquid honey through the vents of the door. It was a real mess. There was honey oozing onto the floor even before the custodian cut the lock off. A lot of Wren's stuff was wrecked. If she was upset, she never let on. She probably didn't want to give Peewee the satisfaction. The principal made some announcement over the public address system about vandalism and what would happen to the culprits if they got caught, as if that was going to make a difference. But at least the score was even again, so Wren came out of hiding.

  Which meant I could finally work in peace. I never admitted it to Wren, but she'd been right about my comic. I'd been so wrapped up in it that I wasn't really seeing it any more. But when she'd pointed out the flaws, they suddenly jumped right off the page. It was one of those you-can't-see-the-forest-for-the-trees kind of deals. Anyway, I spent the next lunch hour fixing stuff, and when I left school that day, I was feeling pretty good.

  Until I stepped outside and January cold smacked me in the face. One breath of icy air and my nostrils froze shut. I tugged my wool cap down over my ears, hunched down into the collar of my jacket, and started for home. It's only a fifteen minute walk, but in the middle of winter it feels like an expedition to the North Pole.

  As I squinted into the wind, I began to wonder if maybe that's where I was. Straight ahead of me on the corner of the school parking lot, somebody in an embroidered blue parka, knee-high mukluks, and fur-lined leather mitts was marching up and down the sidewalk, handing out pieces of neon-coloured paper to anyone who'd take them. Though all I could see was the parka, there was no doubt in my mind who was inside it.

  What was Wren up to now?

  NINE

  If I'd been smart, I'd have kept on walking. But curiosity got the better of me, and before I knew it, my feet had carried me over to where Wren was.

  I tapped her on the shoulder, and when she turned around, I said, “Nice outfit. Just get back from Nunavut?”

  She screwed up her face. “You're just jealous. Not only is this a gorgeous jacket,” she did a pirouette to show it off, “but it's also toasty warm. Which is more than I can say for some people's coats.” She nodded toward a guy in a skimpy windbreaker. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his jeans.

  I shrugged. “He's just being cool.”

  “Cool!” Wren cackled. “Freezing is more like it. Doesn't the guy know it's winter?”

  “What's all this?” I asked, changing the subject and gesturing to the pile of papers in her arms. “A Wanted poster of world bullies?”

  She made a face. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  I grinned and helped myself to a paper. On it was a photograph of an old, dilapidated building that looked like it would fall down if you breathed on it. Underneath, in bold black letters, it said: Do your civic duty. Save the Quarry Street Firehouse. Meeting in the school library Thursday, January 20th, at noon. Be there.

  I snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  Wren scowled. “What is your problem?”

  I waved the paper at her. “A little pushy, don't you think? Why don't you just round everybody up with a whip? What's this all about anyway? I've never even heard of the—” I glanced at the notice again, “—the Quarry Street Firehouse.”

  Wren rolled her eyes. “For an artist, you're not very observant. You walk by that fire station all the time, but you don't even see it.”

  I frowned. “What are you talking about? There's no fire station around here. The closest one is over on Copley, and that's a couple of miles away.” I peered at the paper again and shook my head. “I don't know this place.”

  Wren heaved an aggravated sigh. “Yes, you do. It's right on the corner of Quarry and Markham. It's that really skinny brick building. You know—two storeys high? Huge green wooden doors? It's almost completely covered with ivy?”

  It was the green doors that jogged my memory. “You mean that shed where the city workers store their equipment?”

  “It's not a shed,” Wren corrected me. “It's the Quarry Street Firehouse. It was built way back in the 1800s. The first fire-fighters weren't even really fire-fighters. They were volunteers—people who lived in the neighborhood. They didn't even have hoses. When there was a fire, they put it out with pails of water! They were called the Quarry Street Bucket Brigade.”

  “They could probably have stored a lot of buckets in that shed—er—I mean firehouse,” I smirked.

  Wren stomped on my foot.

  “Ow!” I complained. “What'd you do that for?”

  “This is serious,” she snapped. “City council wants to tear the firehouse down. We can't let that happen.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean ‘why’? That building is a landmark. It's part of the city's identity. It's what makes—”

  I cut her off. “I'm not asking why you want to save it. Why does city council want to knock it down?”

  “It wants to turn the property into some kind of pit stop for walkers,” she growled. “Can you believe that? It wants to destroy an important piece of this city's past and replace it with grass, flowers, and a park bench. Oh, yeah—and a bronze plaque so that while people are resting their bunions they can read about the firehouse that used to be there.” She growled again.

  I knew it was a mistake to ask, but I couldn't help myself. “What's so bad about that? The building is practically falling down anyway. At least a plaque will remind people it used to be there.”

  Wren shut her eyes for a few seconds as if she was trying to hang onto he
r temper. “That's not the same thing,” she said at last. “Just come to the meeting.” Then she turned away and went back to shoving notices in kids' faces.

  Judging from all the chairs set up in the library, Wren was expecting a big turnout. I wasn't that optimistic. For one thing, most kids had probably never heard of the Quarry Street Firehouse. And even if they had, I couldn't see them caring whether or not it got torn down. I mean it's not like it was a fast food joint or an arcade.

  To tell you the truth, the only reason I went to the meeting was because I knew Wren would rag on me for the rest of my life if I didn't. But I hadn't thought I'd be the only one there—except for Wren and Miss Holmes, that is.

  The library regulars didn't even show up. What does that tell you? They'd rather fight off Peewee and Garth in the hallways than spend their lunch hour listening to Wren.

  For ten minutes she stood beside a table heaped with posters, photographs, pie charts, newspapers, and books. She didn't say a word. She just stared at the library entrance as if that was somehow going to make people start walking through it. I felt kind of sorry for her. She'd gone to a lot of work for nothing.

  “Let me go check the corridor,” I said, springing out of my chair. “Maybe the notice fell off the wall or something.”

  But before I could take a step toward the door, it swung open, and two of the library regulars slithered through it. As soon as they saw Wren and me though, their faces went all panicky, and they practically fell over each other trying to slither back out again.

  “Wait!” Wren hollered and took off after them.

  They froze.

  “Don't leave.” The way she said it, I kind of expected her to throw her body in front of the exit to block their way.

  “Sorry,” one of the kids mumbled. “We thought it was okay to come in now.” Then realizing Wren might take his words the wrong way—or the right way—his eyes started looking everywhere but at her. “I mean, we thought your meeting was cancelled ,” he backtracked.

  Wren frowned. “Cancelled? Why would you think that?”

  The two guys exchanged uneasy glances like they'd just been caught in some kind of trap. One of them gestured toward the hall.

  “Because that's what it says on the sign?” It was a statement, but it sounded more like a question.

  Wren's eyes narrowed, and I swear I saw smoke coming out of her ears. “What sign?” she growled.

  The kid pointed to the hall again.

  “The…the one out there.”

  Wren yanked open the door and disappeared into the corridor. In ten seconds she was back, shaking a paper angrily in my direction.

  “You see this!” she demanded.

  “Not real well with you waving it around like a flag,” I said, making a grab for it.

  It was the notice about the meeting. Wren had plastered copies on every bulletin board in school as well as on the wall outside the library. Except now it had the word CANCELLED scrawled across it in big black letters.

  “No wonder no one showed up!” Wren fumed.

  I wasn't so sure that was the sign's fault, but I wasn't about to say so. Instead I said, “I don't get it. Why would somebody write ‘cancelled’ across the notice?”

  “Isn't it obvious?” Wren practically spat the words out. “So nobody would come to the meeting.”

  “But why? Who'd want to wreck your meeting?”

  She jammed her fists onto her hips and glared at me like I was brain-dead. “Who do you think?”

  TEN

  Nobody could say Wren was a quitter. Peewee might have messed up her meeting, but she wasn't giving up. I thought she'd want revenge—when it came to Peewee she usually did—but this time she surprised me. Instead of going after him and Garth, Wren started making plans for another meeting. She put new signs up everywhere and even made an announcement over the school's public address system.

  She scheduled the meeting for the very next day. I can't say I was real happy about that. It meant two straight days of not working on my comic. The deadline for art boot camp wasn't that far away—just three weeks—and I still had quite a bit to do. But if I missed Wren's meeting, it was guaranteed she'd have a cow.

  “Do you really think you're going to need all these chairs?” I asked as we started setting up the library.

  Wren stopped dragging a table to the side of the room and stared at me in disbelief. “You think it's going to be like yesterday, don't you? You think nobody's going to show up.”

  I shook my head. “I didn't say that. But you've got enough chairs here for half the school. I don't think you'll get that many people.”

  Shows you what I know. Once the library door opened, kids poured in from everywhere. It was like they were coming to a rock concert—we're talking standing room only! I don't think even Wren expected a turnout like that.

  But, boy, it sure lifted her spirits. As the library filled up, so did she—kind of like a balloon getting fat on air. She stood up straighter, her eyes danced, and she couldn't keep the grin off her face, no matter how hard she tried.

  By the time the last kid had squeezed through the door and Miss Holmes had declared the meeting full, Wren was positively beaming.

  As for me—I was confused. I didn't get it. The day before, not a single person had shown up for the meeting, but today the library was jammed. Call me cynical, but I was having a hard time believing all these kids cared what happened to the Quarry Street Firehouse. So why had they come to the meeting? I was just about to ask the guy sitting next to me when the wail of a siren pierced the air—like there was a fire truck right there in the library.

  Talk about an attention-grabber!

  After a couple of seconds, Wren switched off the tape recorder, and the room got stony quiet. I looked around. Nobody had dropped dead from a heart attack, but I wouldn't have made any bets on what had happened in their gitch.

  Ignoring the glare Miss Holmes was sending her, Wren launched into her speech. “Fire is one of the most valuable tools people have. It keeps us warm. It cooks our food.”

  “And it lights our cigarettes!” some clown in the crowd piped up. Most kids grinned or snickered.

  A little of the sparkle went out of Wren's eyes, but she kept talking. “But if fire gets out of control, it can be a deadly killer. It can destroy entire forests and towns. Imagine a lighted cigarette rolling out of an ashtray onto a couch. In just three minutes, not only could the couch be on fire, but the entire house could be in flames too. Think about being trapped in that. You wouldn't stand a chance. Do you have any idea how hot fire is?”

  “Not as hot as Cindy Westerman, I bet!” It was the smart aleck kid in the audience again.

  “Mr. Popowich.” Miss Holmes sent the kid her best evil eye. “Your heckling is not appreciated. If you can't be quiet, you'll have to leave.”

  The kid hung his head—to hide his grin.

  Wren wasn't smiling any more. She picked up a bar graph comparing the temperature of fire to other hot things.

  “But it isn't just the heat that kills,” she continued.

  “The smoke is deadly too. Not only does it eat up all the oxygen in the air, but it's full of deadly poisons. And if that's not enough, think about the fact that eventually whatever is on fire is going to fall down and crush you.”

  “What's your point?” someone called out.

  “Yeah,” a few other kids chimed in, while a lot of others nodded. I have to admit I was getting a little antsy myself. I mean, who wants to spend their lunch hour listening to a lecture on fire?

  “The point,” Wren raised her voice, and the room quieted down again, “is that the people who fight fires risk their lives everyday, and they deserve some kind of recognition for that.” She held up a picture of the Quarry Street Firehouse. It was the same one as on the notices, but this one was poster-sized.

  “This is the Quarry Street Firehouse” Wren said. “It was built almost a hundred and fifty years ago. For seventy-seven of those years, it was th
e only protection people around here had from fire. It started with volunteers who put out fires using nothing but pails of water. After a while the firehouse got a truck—not the big yellow kind with ladders and hoses. This one was just a wagon pulled by horses. But it carried a big vat of water, which made fighting fires a lot easier. Then the city got piped water and fire hydrants, so things got even better. Over the years, equipment kept improving, and eventually modern fire stations were built. That's when the Quarry Street Firehouse was closed down. These days it's just used to store equipment for city workers. And now the city wants to get rid of it completely.”

  Wren's voice had become quite soft by the time she got to that last sentence, but now it boomed again. “And that is so wrong! That old firehouse and the firefighters who worked out of it should be remembered and honored—not swept away like they never existed. We have to make the city see that. We have to make the city restore the firehouse—not destroy it! And I know how we can do that.”

  Wren looked around the room to see what effect her words were having. “Any questions?”

  A hand went up. “Yeah, I have a question,” the boy said. “When do we get our coupon for the free burger meal?”

  “Free burger meal?” Wren repeated, tilting her head curiously to one side. “What free burger meal?”

  “The one at Danny's Dogs and Burgers.” The kid jerked a thumb toward the hallway. “It's on notices all over the school. Come to your meeting, and we get a coupon for a free burger combo at Danny's.” The kid swung around to look at the rest of the audience. “Right? Isn't that what it said on the notice?”

  Throughout the library heads started nodding, and I felt like I was at a bobble-head convention.

  Wren still looked puzzled. “I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have any coupons.”

  An angry murmur sprang up around the room.

  “Are you trying to jam out on us?” somebody demanded. “You promised us free burgers if we showed up. Well, here we are. We've listened to you talk for almost half an hour. So now, give us our coupons.”