The Last Superhero

by Kristin Butcher

  I looked at her close for a couple of seconds and shrugged. “A few black freckles here and there, but that's it. How was he gonna write it? Dot to dot?”

  Wren sent me a withering glare. “That's not funny.”

  “You're right,” I said, instantly sobering up. “It isn't funny. But it is scary. Scary and out of control. This war you and Peewee are having is getting way out of hand. You have to stop it.”

  “Me?” Wren protested. “What about Ross? He's the one who started it.”

  “Who cares who started it?” I retorted.

  “I do!”

  “Why?” I demanded. “The things you do to him are just as bad as the things he does to other people.”

  “But I wouldn't do them if he didn't.”

  “Somebody's got to be the first one to stop. Why not you?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and stubbornly stuck out her chin.

  “Don't you get it?” I said. “If you don't stop ticking him off, you're going to get hurt.”

  “You're acting like this is my fault!” she exploded. “I'm the victim here, remember? I was the one who was walking along minding my own business when a stinky coat was thrown over my head, and I was dragged into the Tombs. Do you think I asked to be snatched out of the hall?”

  If I could have shaken the stubbornness out of Wren, I would have. What was it going to take to get through to her?

  “Yeah, Wren!” I shouted into her face. “As a matter of fact, I do think you asked for it. You're constantly baiting Peewee. The guy is a moron with an ego the size of a small country, and you keep making him look bad. You have to know he's going to come after you. And every time you get him mad, he just raises the stakes. I say we go to the office right now and report what happened.”

  “Forget it,” she snapped. “This is between Ross and me. If you go to the principal, I'll never speak to you again.”

  The next few seconds were like a stare-down at the OK Corral. Finally Wren rolled her eyes in disgust and walked into the girls' bathroom.

  I figured that was a hint for me to leave. I heaved a sigh and sagged against the wall. Wren wasn't the only one who could be stubborn. If she wouldn't let me go to the office, she was at least going to have a shadow for the rest of the day. Riley might have scared Peewee and Garth away for now, but they'd be back.

  Wren was in the washroom for over five minutes, but when she finally came out, she looked a lot better. Her outfit was still uniquely Wren, but at least it didn't look like it had been put it on with a corkscrew any more. Her hair was tied back too, and from the shine of her skin and the damp curls on her forehead, it looked like she'd washed her face.

  When she saw me, she bared her teeth and shut her eyes.

  “Jas,” she groaned, “go away. I don't want to argue with you any more.”

  “Terrific,” I said sarcastically and headed toward her. “I save you from Peewee, and my thank-you is ‘Jas, go away’. Did anybody ever tell you you have a warped sense of gratitude?”

  She sighed and started walking. I slid into step beside her.

  “Fine. Have it your way. Thank you for trying to help me,” she conceded. “But you didn't have to. I can—”

  We'd arrived at an intersection of halls, and I steered her to the right.

  “The library's that way,” she protested, trying to pull away.

  “That's true,” I nodded, “but we're not going to the library. We're going to the art room.” I felt her body stiffen. In another second, she'd start yelling. “Humour me, okay?” I said. “Consider it my reward for rescuing you.” Then I quickly added, “—even though you didn't need rescuing.”

  For a while we walked without talking. It's not that I'd given up trying to convince her to stop her war with Peewee, but I figured if I started in on her right away, she'd get her back up again and storm off. There'd be enough time for talking once we got to the art room.

  “I know what you're thinking,” Wren said when we were nearly there.

  I should have known I couldn't fool her. But I still wasn't willing to give up. Hoping humour might win me some points, I jibed, “Well, you're ahead of me, because I hardly ever know what I'm thinking, and I never know what you're thinking.”

  “Then I'll tell you,” she said, sounding amazingly calm.

  Was she sucking me in, or was she actually going to be reasonable?

  “You think that if you keep me in the art room long enough, you'll be able to convince me to lay off Peewee.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “And I think you're delusional,” she continued. “But that's okay. I'm going to let you drag me there anyway.”

  I stopped walking. “Oh, crap!”

  “Obviously you're thrilled.”

  “It's not that,” I groaned and pointed down the hall.

  “It's that!”

  “What?”

  “The door to the art room. I left it open. When Cassidy told me about Peewee hauling you into the Tombs, I forgot everything else and just took off.”

  “So the door's open. What's the big deal?”

  “Are you kidding?” I said and started to run. “There's a kiln in there, a compressor, acid for etching, toxic paints, expensive paper. Oh, man—if anything is stolen or wrecked, Mr. Dow is gonna kill me.”

  “I'm sure everything is fine,” Wren called after me.

  “Nobody even knows the art room's open at lunch hour.”

  “Cassidy knew, and if she did, other people probably do too. Besides, somebody walking down the hall could see it was open,” I said, skidding into the room with Wren right behind me.

  I quickly scanned the place. Everything was where it should be, and nothing was smashed or broken, except…

  “My comic's gone,” I said, staring at the table where I'd left it. The words echoed inside my head—gone, gone, gone—but no matter how hard they hammered at my brain, I refused to let them in. If I didn't acknowledge them, they couldn't be true.

  My comic wasn't gone; I just didn't know where it was. Maybe Cassidy had put it somewhere. Maybe. But why would she move that and nothing else? If she wanted to protect the stuff in the art room, why not just shut the door? Okay, so it wasn't Cassidy. What about Mr. Dow then? Maybe he's the one who took my comic. Maybe he came by, saw the door open and decided to teach me a lesson. Yeah, maybe—but he would've locked up the room. So it couldn't have been him either. Then who?

  “Jas.” Wren's voice penetrated my thoughts. “I found it.”

  I wanted to be excited and relieved, but something about her voice wouldn't let me.

  She was standing at the sink.

  I crossed the room like a prisoner on his way to the electric chair. As I got close, Wren backed away.

  I looked down, expecting to see my comic swimming in water. But it wasn't. In fact, there was no water in the sink at all. Just a heap of torn pages gouged with scissor holes. White glue and black powder paint oozed between the layers of paper, and on top of the whole mess—the final insult—was a big happy face squeezed from a tube of red paint.

  “Oh, god,” I groaned as the reality of the situation began to set in. “My comic is ruined. What am I gonna do?”

  Wren didn't answer. But then how could she? She wasn't there.

  FOURTEEN

  I should have gone after Wren, but I didn't. I couldn't. It was like somebody had zapped all the life out of me, and I was suddenly numb or paralyzed—maybe both. Except for a heavy rock where my stomach used to be, I was totally empty. I knew Wren would be looking for Peewee, and I knew I should try to stop her—or help her—but I just couldn't make myself move. All I could do was stare into the sink and watch my hopes for art boot camp rise like steam from the ragged edges of my comic and evaporate into the air.

  I don't know how many minutes I stood like that, but after a while the bell rang, and I forced myself to scrape the mess out of the sink and dump it into the garbage. Then, like a robot, I got my books from my locker and went to class.
When three thirty arrived, I put on my coat and walked home.

  It was an ugly day, windy and cold, but I didn't notice. I was so brain-dead, I'm surprised I put my jacket on. But I did—zipped it up too, though my hat and gloves stayed in my backpack where I'd stuffed them that morning. Not a smart move. By the time I got home, my ears and hands were frozen.

  It was Tuesday, so Debra was in the kitchen cooking up a storm.

  “Oh my god!” she exclaimed, taking one look at me and running to fill a basin with warm water. “Jas, what happened to you? Look at your ears! And your hands! Where are your hat and gloves?”

  I glanced down, fully expecting to see the gloves on my hands. In amazement, I lifted one swollen red paw and looked at it. Then concentrating as hard as I could, I aimed it at the zipper of my jacket. It brushed against the metal then fell lifelessly to my side again.

  It didn't matter; Debra was on top of things. In a matter of seconds, she'd whipped off my coat and boots and had me sitting at the kitchen table. Then she plunged my hands into a basin of water and wrapped a warm damp cloth around my ears. A few minutes later, a mug of hot chocolate appeared.

  For a while it felt like all of this was happening to someone else. My brain was totally detached from the action. But as my frozen parts began to thaw, pain brought me back to life, and I started hopping around like a tap dancer on a hot stove. My hands were burning something fierce, but Debra still wouldn't let me take them out of the water. As for my ears, they were throbbing so hard, I could barely hear.

  “Why on earth did you walk home without covering up?” she demanded once I'd finally thawed out. “It has to be thirty below out there.”

  “I dunno,” I shrugged. “I guess I forgot.”

  “Forgot! How could you possibly forget? Couldn't you feel the cold?”

  I shook my head. “No.” As stupid as that sounded, it was the truth. But I knew Debra wasn't going to buy it, so I added, “I was kind of preoccupied.”

  “With what? The end of the world?”

  I slumped back in my chair and sighed. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “Oh, Jas, I'm so sorry,” Debra said after I told her about my comic. “That's awful! What's the matter with that kid? Why would he do something like that?”

  It took all my energy just to sigh. “We're not talking about a regular person, Debra. This guy doesn't think like everybody else. All he cares about is getting even. He wrecked my art because I was helping Wren.”

  “But that's so wrong! Doesn't he know how important that comic was?”

  “That's why he wrecked it,” I pointed out wearily.

  “And so now Wren has gone after him?”

  I shrugged. “Probably. She's on his case over everything he does, and she knows I needed that comic to get into boot camp. I'd be surprised if she didn't go after him.”

  “Shouldn't you try to talk to her?”

  “And say what? She wouldn't listen to me anyway. She never does. And besides, maybe she's right. Somebody needs to teach Peewee and his pal a lesson. It's just that it shouldn't be her. It should be me! Me and all his other victims. But the library regulars are too scared to go after him, and at the moment I'm too depressed. I just want to crawl into a cave and stay there for the rest of my life.”

  Debra put a hand on my arm. “I'm so sorry, Jas. I can't even begin to imagine how horrible this must be for you. I know you had your heart set on going to art boot camp. And you've worked so hard. It's not fair. When is the deadline?”

  “The end of the month. One week from now.”

  “That's not much time, is it? To draw a comic, I mean?”

  “No kidding,” I muttered.

  Debra took a deep breath. “I know this is probably a stupid question. After all, you've been working on your comic for months already, but is it possible to do up another one before the deadline?”

  I didn't even bother to answer. I just let my head fall backwards on my neck and stared at the ceiling.

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “I just thought it might be easier and faster the second time. You know—because you've already done the research, you've worked out the story, and you've sketched the characters so many times, you can almost draw them with your eyes closed.”

  “No problem,” I replied sarcastically. “I'll just do it in my sleep.”

  “Okay,” she mumbled. “I get the picture. But what if…I mean, do you think…” She stopped and shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “What?”

  “No. It's okay. Just another dumb idea.”

  “You might as well tell me,” I groaned.

  She shrugged. “Well, I was wondering if the people at the art gallery would give you an extension—considering the circumstances and all.”

  Even though I knew my chance for boot camp was lost, a part of me had been hoping Debra had a miracle up her sleeve. But she didn't, and suddenly I felt more depressed than ever. I shut my eyes and shook my head. “The art gallery people don't care about my problem. I'm just one person. There are kids all over the province working like dogs on their comics. If the art gallery made an exception for me, it'd have to do it for everyone.”

  She opened her mouth then closed it again.

  “Another idea? Look, Debra,” I sighed. “It's not that I don't appreciate you trying to help, but there isn't anything you can think of that I haven't already thought of myself. I'm screwed. It's as simple as that.” I'd been talking pretty normal up till then, but suddenly I started yelling. “I hate this! It makes me so mad, I want to kick a hole in the wall. Peewee had no right!” Then through gritted teeth, I added, “If he were here, I'd punch his lights out. He's wrecked everything!” I slammed my fist on the table so hard that some of the water in the basin slopped over the edge. “I just wanna stop thinking about it! It's eating my guts out!”

  Debra didn't say anything. But then, what was there to say? She couldn't fix the problem, and she couldn't make me stop feeling lousy about it. So she just got a towel and wiped up the water.

  “Sorry,” I said, “but if I didn't yell, I was going to explode.”

  Debra looked around the room. “That would certainly have made a mess of the kitchen.”

  Despite how crummy I was feeling, I snickered. “That's sick.”

  She smiled. “Maybe, but you have to admit it cheered you up a bit.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  There was a pause, then she said, “I think I know something else that might cheer you up too.”

  I doubted it, but I had nothing to lose by listening.

  “What?”

  She took a deep breath. “It's about that deal you made with your dad. You know—the one about boot camp and camping?”

  I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “Dad told you about that?” I was surprised and also a little embarrassed. If Debra knew about the deal, then she also knew I hadn't wanted her coming with us.

  She nodded. “I'm really sorry about that. If I'd known how you felt, I would never have let your dad talk me into tagging along.”

  That's when it dawned on me—I'd lost! Not only was I out of boot camp, I was going to have to go camping in a cabin—with a girl!

  Debra must have read my thoughts, because she reached out and touched my hand. “It's okay,” she said. “I can't do anything about the cabin—you're stuck with it, I'm afraid. But at least the trip can still be just you and your dad. I'll sit this one out.” She smiled. “So you can spit and cuss and not brush your hair the whole time, just like always.”

  I blinked several times. “Are you serious? You're really not coming with us? Does my dad know?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet, but he will. Leave that part to me.”

  FIFTEEN

  I wasn't going to boot camp. It was one thing to say it, but making myself believe it was a whole different matter. I guess it still hadn't completely sunk in when I went to my bedroom to dump my school bag, because I automatically turned to my drawing table—like my comic was going to be si
tting there, waiting for me to work on it. I felt sick to my stomach all over again.

  I stayed in my bedroom until Dad got home. I was trying to sort out how I felt. One second I was mad enough to rip Peewee's head off, and the next I was so depressed I felt weak. When Debra called supper, I was somewhere in between.

  Dad could tell right away that something was wrong, and when I told him what had happened, he went purple in the face and jumped up from the table.

  “What are you doing?” I swivelled around in my chair just in time to see him grab the phone. “Who are you calling?”

  “The police!” he growled as he angrily punched 911.

  But before he could hit “talk”, Debra sprang up from the table and put out a hand to stop him. “You can't do that,” she said. “911 is for emergencies.”

  It was my turn to leap up. “Police? What do you want to call the police for? Don't do that, Dad!”

  “Why not?” He scowled at me.

  “Because this isn't a police thing. ‘Yes, officer, that mean kid ripped up my comic. Throw him in jail!’ Get real, Dad. The police would laugh in our faces. And besides, what can they do anyway? It's not like I can prove who did it.”

  “Well, then I'm calling the school.” He got set to dial again. “What's the number? And what's your principal's name? Tucker? Tanner? Turner?”

  “Taylor,” I said, “and how should I know the school's phone number? I never call it. Anyway, nobody's going to be there at seven o'clock at night except the custodian, and he won't answer the phone.”

  “Well, then I'm going to school with you first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll settle this thing then.”

  “Dad!” I groaned, flopping back onto my chair. “I keep telling you, it's not going to do any good. I know Peewee wrecked my comic, but I can't prove it. So even if Mr. Taylor believed my story, there's nothing he can do about it. All that will happen is Peewee will make me pay for squealing.”

  As I lay in bed that night reliving the whole disaster again and again in my mind, I got to thinking how everyone had a different idea what to do about it. Wren was all about revenge. She wanted to hurt Peewee as much as he'd hurt me. An eye for an eye and all that. In a way, she and my dad were the same. They both wanted justice; they just had different ways of going after it. Dad was willing to leave matters in the hands of the authorities, while Wren was more of a vigilante. As for Debra, her big thing was getting me back to the drawing table.