The Last Superhero

by Kristin Butcher

  All kinds of people were fussing over her—teachers, the school secretary, the principal, and—once the ambulance arrived—paramedics. I was the only one who wasn't allowed to get close. I had to sit in a chair by the door, which was almost like not being there at all. It was like I was watching the whole thing on television. I really wanted to talk to Wren, but from the look of things, she didn't even know I was there.

  A couple of minutes after the paramedics arrived, a lady flew into the room and made straight for Wren. She was pretty, and I figured she might be Wren's mom. But then Wren called her Grandma, and I practically fell off my chair. The woman didn't look like any grandmother I'd ever seen. Grandmothers are supposed to have white hair and sensible shoes. This one was a redhead in high-heeled boots.

  Aside from a slight concussion, a bruise on her cheek, and a cut on the back of her head, Wren was okay. But she got to ride in the ambulance anyway. Then after a few stitches and a couple of Tylenol, she was pronounced cured and sent home.

  At least that's what Mr. Taylor told me. After the ambulance took Wren away, I didn't see her again. But I couldn't get her off my mind, so after school the next day I went by her house.

  Her grandmother let me in. The high-heeled boots were gone, but even in pants and a sweater, she looked like movie star material to me.

  “You must be Jas,” she smiled. “Wren talks about you all the time. It's really nice of you to stop by.” Then she nodded toward the hall. “She's in the family room watching television. Go on through.”

  Wren was stretched out on the couch, and as soon as she saw me, she turned her face away and stuck a cushion over her head.

  I started to laugh.

  “It's not funny,” she mumbled into the arm of the sofa. “How would you like to have LOSER written on your face?”

  “No thanks,” I snickered. “But I wouldn't have thought it would bother you.”

  “Excuse me?” She pulled the cushion away and glared at me, but the anger in her eyes couldn't compete with the writing on her forehead, and I started to laugh again. She chucked the pillow at my head. “Jerk!”

  “Ah, come on,” I cajoled as I flopped down on the other end of the couch. “Where's your sense of humour?”

  “This is not funny! Everybody's going to stare at me.”

  “Everybody already stares at you,” I retorted, making a grab for her feet before she could kick me.”

  “That's different,” she glowered. “That's because of my style and personality.” Then she slapped her forehead with both hands. “This is not. This is just ugly!”

  I shrugged. “So turn it into one of your fashion statements. Wear a scarf around your head or add a few more doodles and make the word into an exotic tattoo.”

  In a flash she was on her feet. “What a great idea! You can help me. I'll go get a marker.”

  “I was just kidding,” I groaned, hauling her back down to the couch. “Don't worry about the writing. It'll be gone before you know it. It's already starting to fade,” I lied. “And besides, everybody knows about it. The story is all over the school.”

  She touched her forehead. “People know about this?”

  I nodded.

  “And how I got it?”

  I nodded again.

  “Terrific!” she exploded. “So the whole school is laughing at me. And the one who's laughing the loudest is Ross Melnyk. Just the thought of that guy makes my blood boil. Well, if he thinks this is over, he's crazy. I am going to get him so bad, he's going to be sorry he ever—”

  “Wren.”

  “—messed with me. Before I'm finished, he's—”

  “Wren.”

  “—going to be begging for—”

  I put my hand over her mouth. That didn't mean she stopped talking, but it did slow her up a bit. Finally she gave up, and that's when I took my hand away.

  She sent me her best scowl. “Why did you do that?”

  “It was the only way I could stop your motor.”

  “You maybe able to keep me from talking,” she sniffed, “but you can't stop me from getting even with Ross.”

  I shook my head. “For crying out loud, Wren. Give it a rest. It's over.”

  “Oh, no, it's not,” she argued. “That moron hurt and humiliated me. How am I ever going to show my face in public? I'm not just going to—”

  “Wren, stop!”

  I hadn't meant to yell, but I guess I had, because she closed her mouth and blinked at me in amazement.

  “For once, just listen,” I said, lowering my voice. “Your war with Peewee is finished. You win; he loses.”

  “How can you—”

  I raised a finger to shush her. “I'm talking.”

  She rolled her eyes and flung herself against the back of the couch.

  “This time Peewee went too far. He hit you and knocked you out. That's assault. It's a crime. I don't know if the school called the police, but if they did, Peewee could end up in jail. But since you're okay, and he hasn't been in trouble with the law before, he'll probably just get a warning.

  “The important thing is that he's finally been exposed for what he really is. The library regulars saw what he did to you, and when he got back to the multi-purpose room, Mr. Taylor was waiting for him. And since Peewee was in there without permission, he could be charged with breaking and entering too.

  “In the meantime,” I continued, “he's been suspended. Even sucking up isn't going to get him off the hook this time. Apparently his parents aren't too happy with what he did either. I heard he's been grounded until he goes to college.”

  “Are you serious?” Wren gawked. “All that stuff really happened?”

  I nodded. “Oh, yeah. It happened all right.” Then I broke into a grin. “But you want to know the best part?”

  “There's more?”

  “Uh-huh.” I started to snicker. “You're going to love this.”

  “Okay, so tell me.”

  I couldn't stop chuckling. “This is too funny.”

  Wren smacked the cushions of the couch. “Would you please just get on with it?”

  I sobered up and eyeballed her critically. “You're not exactly the poster child for patience, are you?”

  “Jas-s-s!” she growled.

  “I rest my case.” Then before she could haul off and punch me, I started in on my story. “From the very beginning, you said the reason you went after Peewee was because he was bullying the library kids. Right?”

  Wren nodded.

  “That's what I thought,” I said smugly. “So if Peewee stopped picking on them, would I be correct in assuming that you would leave him alone too?”

  She nodded again, but her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Well then, Miss Willa Rae Ellen Nott, protector of the weak, avenger of evil deeds, and keeper of truth and justice,” I announced, “it is my great privilege to inform you that you can officially hang up your sword. After yesterday, Peewee won't be bothering the library regulars any more.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  I could feel laughter bubbling up inside me again. “Well, it seems that after school yesterday, they had a little conversation with Peewee and convinced him once and for all to leave them alone. Of course, the fact that they shaved off one of his eyebrows, spray-painted his hands red, and glued his hat to his head might have had something to do with his decision.”

  Wren gasped. “You're kidding!” And then as an image of Peewee fixed itself in her brain, she started to laugh. “That is too funny! Darn! I wish I'd been there.”

  “I didn't see it either,” I admitted, “but the regulars took pictures and posted them around the school. They really did a number on him.”

  “Well, good for them!” Wren hooted some more. “I knew they had it in them. They just needed to get stirred up a little bit.”

  “Oh, they're stirred up all right,” I said. “Now that they've finished with Peewee, they've started campaigning to save the Quarry Street Firehouse.”

&nbs
p; Wren sat up straighter and stared at me. “What?”

  I grinned. “You heard me. This morning they were all over the school handing out notices about another meeting.”

  Wren sagged back against the cushions and clucked her tongue. “That's not going to do any good. Nobody will come.”

  I shrugged. “Don't be so sure. The regulars were being pretty persuasive.”

  “They couldn't be more persuasive than me,” Wren scoffed, “and I couldn't get anybody to help—not even the library kids!”

  I knew I was taking my life in my hands, but I said, “There's a difference between being persuasive and being pushy.”

  Wren's mouth fell open. “What are you saying? That I'm pushy? I'm not pushy!” she protested then she chucked another pillow at me. I caught it and threw it back. It hit her in the mouth.

  “Actually, Wren, you are. You're a good person, but you can be pretty bossy. You don't give people a chance to think for themselves.”

  For a few seconds she didn't say anything, then finally she squeaked, “Really?”

  I winced and nodded. “Yeah, kinda.”

  “You mean nobody likes me?”

  I shook my head. “It's not so much that they don't like you; it's more like they're afraid of you.”

  Wren's mouth dropped open again. “Afraid? Kids are afraid of me? You make it sound like I'm a…a…a bully. Are you saying I'm like Ross?”

  I hesitated. If I said much more, I could get hurt. “Well, your tactics are kind of the same, but there's one humongous difference. He's a first-class creep, and you…well, like I said before, you're a good person, which is why the library regulars are getting on board this Quarry Street Firehouse thing. You helped them, so now they're helping you.”

  There was a pause before Wren, doing her best not to explode, quietly asked, “So what are they doing that's so persuasive?”

  I cleared my throat to fight back the smile tickling the corners of my mouth. “Well, for one thing, they are making sure people know that it was because you stuck up for them that Peewee did what he did to you. They're telling everybody that you're sort of like Zorro or the Lone Ranger. You fight evil, but sometimes you can't do it alone.”

  “And kids are buying that?”

  “Why not? It's true. Except for idiots like Peewee, most people want to do what's right and good. They just need to feel like it's their own idea.”

  Wren didn't say anything. She just looked down at her hands.

  “The other reason I think the regulars will get a good turnout is that they're bringing in a bunch of speakers who support the cause—a professional hockey player whose great-grandfather was rescued from a fire, the retired chief of a fire station in the city, and the President of the local Heritage Preservation Association. They'll have all kinds of ideas about what to do to save the old firehouse.”

  Wren looked up. “Really?” she said. The electricity was back in her voice. “When is this meeting going to be?”

  “Monday at lunch in the multi-purpose room. Will you be back to school by then?”

  She nodded. “I think so. My grandmother wants me to stay home one more day, but I should be fine by Monday.” Then she moaned and slapped a hand over her forehead. “Unless my beautiful label hasn't worn off by then, in which case I'm sure I'll be deathly ill.”

  EIGHTEEN

  As I opened the front door of the house, warm air—saturated with the smell of cooking food—sucked me inside. From the kitchen came a great clanging of pots and pans, followed by the hollow thud of a cupboard door closing.

  “Dad?” I glanced at the clock on the wall. He wasn't usually home from work so early. Kicking off my boots, I trotted down the hall and into the kitchen. The fridge door was open, and someone was rummaging around inside—but it wasn't my dad.

  “Debra?” I said. “Is that you?”

  She pulled her head out of the fridge and grinned. “Oh hi, Jas. I didn't hear you come in.” Then she dove back into the fridge. A minute later she was out again, hugging a couple of covered plastic containers, an onion, a tomato, and three wilted stalks of celery.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  She glanced at the food in her arms then at the pots bubbling on the stove. “Cooking?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I can see you're cooking. But why? You cook on Tuesdays, and today is Thursday.”

  “I know,” she nodded, dumping the food onto the counter. “But I've accumulated a whole bunch of overtime hours at work, and my boss has been hounding me to use them up, so I decided to take the afternoon off”

  “And this is what You're doing with it? Wouldn't you rather be shopping or getting your toenails painted or something? I thought that was the kind of stuff girls liked to do.”

  Debra laughed. “Some girls. I happen to like cooking, and I like to share what I make with people who like eating. From what I've seen so far, that would be you and your father. Besides, I haven't told your dad that I won't be going on the camping trip yet. I was hoping to do that tonight after softening him up with a gourmet meal.”

  “He still doesn't know?” Dad hadn't mentioned anything, but I thought he was just waiting for me to say something first. Either that or he was still trying to talk Debra into going. The funny thing was that the idea of her coming with us didn't bother me like it had when Dad had first suggested it. In fact, I sort of didn't mind at all any more. Since Debra had been hanging around, I'd realized she wasn't your usual girly kind of girl. Oh, she was pretty enough and she wore dresses and earrings and that sort of thing, but she liked football and hockey too, and she didn't ask dumb questions during the games. She even liked camping and fishing—had her own rod and everything.

  She shook her head. “No. But I will. Tonight. I promise.”

  I frowned. “Maybe that's not such a good idea.”

  She eyed me curiously. “What do you mean? Why wouldn't it be a good idea?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, you know. It sort of makes me look like a sore loser.”

  She waved away my argument. “Nonsense. This was my idea, not yours. I'll make sure your dad understands that.”

  “It's not just that,” I said. “What about the money Dad put out on the cabin?”

  “What about it? The two of you will be staying at the cabin, so he won't lose his deposit.”

  Rats! I'd forgotten about that. “Uh, yeah. That's right. But don't you think it's kind of mean to go back on your word? You told Dad you would come, and now you're backing out.”

  Debra gave a little squeal, and her mouth fell open. “What are you talking about?” She slugged me in the arm. “I was doing this for you!”

  My gaze dropped to the floor, and I mumbled into my shirt, “Okay. Then in that case, come with us.” I let my eyes slide up to look at her again and added, “Please. I want you to.”

  There was a long pause as Debra thought about what I had said. Finally she nodded. “Okay. Okay, Jas. If you're sure you really want me to, I'll come.” Then she got this puzzled look on her face. “But what made you change your mind?”

  I took a really deep breath and let it out slowly. But it didn't help keep a huge grin from spreading across my face. “We could use a cook.”

  That's when she slugged me again, but the gleam in her eyes told me she wasn't really mad.

  “I'll get you for that,” she teased as she went back to preparing supper.

  I sniffed the air again and grabbed a handful of chopped carrots from the cutting board. “What're you making?”

  “Déjé vu Delight.”

  “What the heck is that?”

  “Leftovers,” she grinned.

  “Leftover what?” I asked through a mouthful of carrot. I lifted the corner of one of the containers she'd dumped on the counter. “Do you know what's inside this thing? Or how long it's been in the fridge? That appliance has been known to turn harmless bowls of mashed potatoes into enough penicillin to fight a small epidemic. You're not going to make us eat anything fuzzy, are you?�
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  Debra laughed. “It would serve you right if I did. If there are science projects happening in this fridge, it's your own fault. Have you and your father ever considered cleaning the thing out?”

  I shrugged and grabbed another hunk of carrot.

  “Obviously, you're not that picky,” she said as I popped it into my mouth. “That carrot has seen better days too, but now that it's been scraped and washed, you can't even taste the mold, can you?”

  I immediately whirled around and spat the whole works into the sink. Then I turned on the tap and gulped water until every particle of carrot was gone.

  That's when I noticed Debra laughing so hard, she was weaving all over the kitchen—a pretty good clue that I'd just been had.

  “You tricked me!” I tried to sound offended, but I wasn't really mad. It was a pretty funny joke, even if it was on me.

  “What's all the commotion?” my dad grinned from

  the kitchen doorway. I hadn't even noticed him come in. He plunked his lunchbox on the counter and started unbuttoning his coat. “You two sound like you're having a party.”

  I jerked a thumb in Debra's direction. “Your girlfriend here is. I, on the other hand, am just trying to stay alive.” I clapped a hand on my father's shoulder. “Say, Dad, how about we order Chinese tonight?”

  That sent Debra into another fit of laughter, which—judging from the expression on my dad's face—just confused him more.

  “It's okay,” I told him. “She'll be fine. We'll all be fine—as long as we don't let her feed us.” Then, patting my dad on the shoulder again, I headed down the hall to my room.

  I went over to Wren's house again after school on Friday to update her on the latest with Peewee.

  “I sure wouldn't want to be him,” I said. “He's toasted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he is so screwed, his hair has gone curly. Mr. Taylor talked to all the library regulars one by one, and they told him every nasty trick Peewee's ever pulled. So not only is Peewee suspended for a week, he's also on probation. If he steps out of line even one time, he'll be kicked out of school.”

  “You're kidding!” Wren gasped.