Sidekicks

by Jack D. Ferraiolo

  “Uh, what?” I ask, not sure I heard him correctly.

  “People are going to think you’re one of those perverts if every time you save someone, you have a … reaction.”

  “But … I couldn’t … It’s not like I meant to have an—!”

  “That isn’t the point, Scott. The point is that our job is to clean this city of the filth, not become dirty ourselves.”

  “But—”

  “We wear costumes as symbols of justice to the criminals who prey on the weak,” he says. “We don’t wear costumes because it ‘turns us on.’”

  “But … it doesn’t! I just—”

  “Look … you screwed up … I’m trying to be understanding about it. Just don’t let it happen again.”

  “Then get me another costume!”

  “Scott, I don’t think the costume is the problem. The problem is that you need to learn to control yourself.”

  My mouth hangs open. I have no idea what to say. I can’t decide if I want to yell at him, or curl up into a ball and hide under a table for the rest of my life. Before I can make my choice, the computer starts beeping. Our computer is wired into every alarm system in the city (and some we installed ourselves), so when it starts beeping, something is going down.

  “Alarm at 4357 West Salem Street,” Trent says. “Computer … Close-up.” The computer gives a close-up of the alarm site on the city map. “That’s IGO Computer corporate headquarters!” Trent says. “Come on … let’s suit up.”

  He sprints off.

  I stand there trying to process what happened. Did my mentor really just call me a pervert? And then ask me to dress the part? And still blame it all on me? And somehow leave me wondering if he’s right?

  “Come on, Scott,” he calls. “The city awaits …”

  I stagger along behind him, feeling angry and confused and embarrassed and guilty all at the same time. I have no idea how I’m going to put that costume on now, let alone roam around the city in it. It’s going to be hard to fight with my hands blocking “the view” the whole time.

  in the car; he needs that time to get into character, to “purge himself of the light and whimsy of Trent Clancy … to become a creature of darkness that preys on the evil of man … the scourge of the wicked … Phantom Justice!” Trust me, those are his words, not mine.

  I stare out the window, listening to the twinjet turbines of the Stealth Phantom, feeling more underdressed than ever. I wish for some sort of cataclysmic event—a system malfunction, a wrong turn into the river, a nuclear explosion—anything so I don’t have to get out of the car.

  “We’re here,” Phantom growls.

  “OK. No need to be angry about it,” I say.

  He turns and stares at me. “Less jokes, more focus.”

  Why’s he being such a jerk?

  We park in an alley on the side of the building. Phantom cuts the engines and we get out. Everything is quiet; nothing seems out of the ordinary. This can only mean one thing. Phantom and I look at each other, then look up the side of the building. The roof. Super-criminals always head to the roof.

  Our hydraulic grappling hooks zip us forty-five stories in twenty seconds. Phantom’s cape flaps above me, flowing around him like a large, inky shadow. My little red cape flaps weakly against my back. We land in our battle stances, the ones that make us look like we’re posing for an action figure box. We’re ready for anything … except for what we find.

  There’s no one there.

  In the past five years, Phantom and I have landed on hundreds of roofs to face off against hundreds of villains, but this feels different … like the air is charged with electricity. There’s an uncomfortable buzz in the pit of my stomach. My mouth is dry. My palms are damp with sweat, so I wipe them on the front of my shirt. It doesn’t help.

  “Be careful,” Phantom says.

  I start to answer him when something slams into the side of my head. I backflip out of my tumble and spring up to see what hit me.

  “Hello, Banana Pants!” comes a high-pitched voice, the same voice I remember from five years ago. Ugh. It’s Monkeywrench. Apparently, in those five years, he ditched the full-face monkey mask and skin-tight black bodysuit. He’s wearing a Kabuki-style monkey mask that cuts off at the nose, and a black leather-and-mesh outfit that isn’t dorky or revealing at all. In fact, he looks really cool. Dammit.

  “It’s been a while,” he squeals. “Did you miss me? Let’s see …” His eyes drop from my face to my tights. “Hm. Apparently not. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  The little jerk went right for the jugular, and I highly doubt that was his last comment on the subject.

  “Hello, Weaselwrench,” I say, trying to counter.

  “Weaselwrench? Is that the best you can come up with?”

  He’s right. Weaselwrench sucks.

  I start to make a comment about his voice not changing yet, but I’m suddenly drowned out by a jet engine–like sound. It’s Dr. Chaotic … flying. He’s wearing a set of propulsion boots and pointing a complex-looking weapon at us.

  “Well, well, well … if it isn’t Phantom Justice,” Chaotic says.

  Phantom Justice’s eyes narrow into slits.

  “You’re too late!” Chaotic yells. “I already have what I came for! And now, I’ll blah, blah, blah—” Chaotic starts going on and on in a rant involving (in no particular order): his superiority to Phantom Justice (I’m not even on his radar); his belief that we are fascist slaves to the corrupt corporate system; then back to his superiority to Phantom Justice. I keep my eyes on Monkeywrench, who, frankly, looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. To be fair, Chaotic’s rant is going on a little long. After five years, I guess they’re both a little rusty.

  Just as Dr. Chaotic seems to be running out of gas, a news helicopter comes buzzing onto the scene. Dr. Chaotic is momentarily distracted, and that’s when Phantom throws his shuriken. Even distracted, Chaotic is able to use his laser to knock out most of the small blades. Two get through and manage to hit one of his boots. The boot starts to spark and sputter, so Chaotic lands on the roof of the building. Cybernetic armor forms around his body.

  “Just a little something to even the score,” he says, sneering.

  Phantom Justice starts walking toward him. “It doesn’t matter what you do,” he says in his trademark growl, “or what you wear, I will bring you … to justice!!”

  “Come on!” Chaotic yells, then fires laser blasts from each of his armored forearms. Phantom sidesteps them, like walking in between raindrops, and closes in. He throws a punch. Chaotic gets his force field up, but a little late. The blow sends him sliding back ten feet.

  “Heck of a fight, isn’t it,” comes the screechy voice of Monkeywrench, right before he punches me in the jaw. I manage to roll with it, making the punch more of a glancing blow than the knockout it was supposed to be. It does wake me out of spectator mode, though.

  “Whoopsy,” I say. “Looks like someone’s a little slow and out of practice.”

  He throws a couple more punches, but I avoid them easily.

  “Didn’t you work out while Chaotic was away in prison?” I ask. “Hopefully, you kept your legs in shape … you know, so when he goes down again, you can run and hide like you did the last time.”

  “Ha! Idiot!” Monkeywrench is trying to laugh me off, but I can tell I got to him. He double flips toward me, then flips again and tries to connect with a windmill kick to the head. I sidestep, then send a flurry of jabs at his head; he sidesteps all but the last one. His head snaps back. I try to capitalize on it with an uppercut, but he’s too fast. He slides past me and tries a sidekick to the head. I block, then grab his foot, and twist. He twirls midair and kicks out, landing on the ground as if I just ordered him to drop and give me twenty push-ups. He gets a back-kick away toward my stomach. It hits me, but I push myself back to lessen its impact. It barely hurts, only knocking the wind of me for a couple of seconds. By the time I look up again, he’s facing me, in a fighting pose
, ready to go again.

  “Had enough?” he asks.

  “You’re kidding, right? Maybe you were the strongest little weasel in your ‘amateur cowards fight club,’ but you’re back in the pros now.”

  “You need shorter insults,” he says. “And looser pants.”

  I feint a left jab; he ducks right; I roundhouse kick and catch him in the face. I send another, but he avoids it and comes in with a left hook, but it’s a little slow. I duck under and give a double punch to the stomach. It knocks him back.

  “You used to be a decent fighter, Weasel. What happened?” I ask.

  “Well, while you were growing out of your tights, I was off living a normal life. Remember a normal life? Probably hard to remember something you never had.”

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. “Jealous because puberty hasn’t come yet? Don’t worry, Weaselwrench. Eventually, when you get your big-boy voice, you’ll get some big-boy body parts to go with it.”

  “HA! You and your big-boy body parts!” he sneers. “I mean seriously … every news station in the city made such a big deal out of such a … small issue.”

  I feel a spark of anger, and for the barest instant, I forget my training. I just want to wipe that stupid sneer off his stupid face. I fire a sloppy right hook. He avoids it easily but doesn’t take a shot. He knows he’s gotten to me. “But then again, maybe you like the attention,” he says, a twisted little smirk on his face. “Maybe you like everyone looking at your—”

  “Shut up!” I say, and fling another sloppy right. This one he avoids completely. When I follow through, I’m completely off balance. He spins away from me, his back against mine for a moment, and then he grabs my right arm and flings me off the roof.

  “See you later, Bright Buns!” he calls after me.

  “Way to go, kid,” I can practically hear Louis’s voice in my head say as I fall. “Remember that lesson about not letting your enemy get under your skin and distract you? You know, the one I teach you JUST ABOUT EVERY DAY? Yeah, well, you just failed it. Now pull yourself together and act like a professional.”

  I fall ten stories, onto the roof of the shorter building next door. I’m not seriously hurt, but ten stories are ten stories; I’m going to be sore in the morning. I pick myself off the ground, leap over to the other building, and start climbing. I have to get back in the fight before they do Phantom some serious damage.

  Sure enough, Dr. Chaotic has managed to pin Phantom Justice’s arms behind his back in some sort of electrified netting. Monkeywrench is whaling away on Phantom’s face and stomach. Phantom is taking the blows; he looks tired but unhurt for the most part. The news copter is catching all of this, which means that everyone watching at home knows that I’m a complete failure. I leap the length of the roof and tackle Monkeywrench.

  “Get offa me, you perv!” he yells.

  Without the distraction of Monkeywrench, Phantom Justice is able to break free from Chaotic’s netting. I look behind me to see if Phantom needs a little help, just in time to see him rip an entire half-ton air-conditioning unit off the roof and hurl it at Dr. Chaotic. I guess he’s OK. The air conditioner grazes Chaotic’s armor, just enough to throw it out of whack. The armor is now sparking and twitching.

  While I’m watching this, Monkeywrench is able to squirm out from under me. Rather than continue the fight, the little coward bolts, firing one last parting shot over his shoulder: “See you around, pervert!”

  Dr. Chaotic also bolts, but neither Phantom nor I have anything left in the tank to give chase. It’s hard enough just to stand. My shoulder and ankle are already starting to stiffen up. I limp over to Phantom Justice. “You OK?” I ask him.

  “Yeah,” he says. “It’ll take more than what that little gnat has to hurt me.”

  I nod. I wish I could say the same thing.

  Monkeywrench, I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that little jerk’s twisted smile as he looks down at my tights … I hear the screechy voice as he points and laughs. “Nice costume, Bright Buns! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  Trent is still asleep when I leave for school the next day. I can tell right from the start that it’s going to be an awful day. Just picking up my backpack is an exercise in agony. I’m groggy from the lack of sleep, and everyone at school can’t stop talking about what an idiot I am. I’m able to tune it out for most of the day, but after a while it really builds up. I’m on my way to seventh period when I start to lose my cool.

  “Oh, man … Phantom Justice was getting POUNDED!” Some kid from my math class (I think his name is Justin) is talking to a small group of his friends from the lacrosse team. Justin (I think) is the son of some singer from some band I should probably know, but don’t. “Where the heck was Bright Boy?” he yells.

  “Changing his tights,” one of the lacrosse kids says. Everybody laughs.

  “Monkeywrench must’ve really messed him up,” some other lacrosse kid says.

  “He came back at the end,” I hear myself say. The kids turn to look at me. I’m not sure if their confused expressions are because I’m defending Bright Boy, or because everyone in school knows that kids who aren’t on the lacrosse team aren’t supposed to talk to kids who are on the lacrosse team. It’s an unwritten rule. “He knocked Monkeywrench off of Phantom.”

  “Yeah … nothing like coming in after it’s almost over,” Justin says. “Where was he before that? Phantom Justice needs a better sidekick. I bet I could do it.” His friends loudly agree that he could.

  Usually, I laugh stuff like this off … but it’s been a tough week. “Uh, no you couldn’t,” I say. “You guys have ab-so-lutely no clue what it takes to be Phantom Justice’s sidekick, OK?” Everyone is looking at me like I just grew an arm out of my forehead.

  “Oh, like you do?” Justin says. And now he’s up in my face, and it’s taking all of my willpower not to fling him down the hallway on his head.

  “I know better than you,” I say before I can stop myself. Oh God … what am I doing?!

  Everyone starts laughing. “Yeah, right!” Justin says. “Tell us what you ‘know.’”

  I’m tired, and not thinking straight, but I’m also frustrated. I’m this close to flipping around the hallway, leaping onto the ceiling, then yelling into all their faces, “I’m Bright Boy! I always have been! I’ve been right here under your noses!” I want them to see up close what I’m capable of … just how fast and strong I am, because they seem to have no idea how far out of their league I am. And then I want to explain to them that even though I’m a plus/plus, I still train my butt off. Why? The same reason they practice lacrosse, even though they already know how to play. The difference is that if Justin and his buddies fail, they lose a lacrosse game; if I fail, some nutjob takes over the world.

  I’m this close to opening my big, fat mouth, when a hand closes onto my shoulder. The hand tries to whirl me around, but at the moment, I don’t want to go, so I don’t. I just stand there, stubborn and defiant. Then I notice all the lacrosse kids watching me, and I know that if I don’t drop it, I’m going to have a lot of questions to answer … a lot of rumors to crush. The hand on my shoulder tightens its grip. I can barely feel it. I sigh, then start my act.

  “Ow,” I say with all the enthusiasm I can muster … which isn’t much. “That really hurts.” I turn around, and come face-to-face with Jake Berkshire and his group of idiots.

  “Hello, Snot,” he says, as if changing my name from Scott to Snot is still the funniest thing anyone has ever done ever. His friends laugh as if to confirm it … again. I sigh … again. I know the most painful thing about this encounter for me is going to be Jake’s “jokes.”

  “Get outta here,” he tells all the other kids. They all leave without a second thought. “What are you doin’ in my hallway, Snot?”

  There isn’t a correct answer to that question, so I just keep my mouth shut. In a weird way, Jake and his friends just pulled me out of hole. They stepped in right as I was on the verge of giving my iden
tity away. In a weird way, I’m grateful, and I’m not about to waste my second chance by losing my temper.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, Snot. I said what are you doin’ in my hallway?”

  “Yeah!” one of Jake’s friends shouts. “Sissy!” another one says. The goodwill I felt for them is just about gone. I’m back to restraining myself from hurting them.

  “I asked you a question, jerk-face!” Jake says, then punches me. It’s a ridiculous punch, and I almost mistime my reaction because it takes forever to get to my jaw. I go limp and roll with it, so that Jake doesn’t snap his wrist. It feels like someone just hit me in the face with a balled-up tissue. His friends start laughing and cheering, and I’m using all my willpower to not put them in the hospital.

  Then Jimmy “Cracked Ribs” Douglas tells Andrew “Broken Arm” Buckley, Shane “Concussion” McConaughey, and Jake “Multiple Fractures” Berkshire that he thinks I’ve had enough. For his act of thoughtfulness, I mentally downgrade Jimmy to “bruised sternum.”

  Before the fight can go any further, lo and behold Dr. White, the foreign languages teacher, comes around the corner, just as she did yesterday. “Hey! Break it up!”

  Jake and his friends stop in their tracks. They look nervous. This time, I’m trying not to laugh.

  “Break what up, Dr. White?” Jake says, a look of cagey innocence on his face.

  Dr. White levels an intense stare at him. Impressively, Jake never drops his eyes.

  “Oh, this is not what it looks like. Scott here fell down, and my friends and I were just helping him up. Right, guys?” Jake’s friends look like they’re going to sprain something “yeah” and “of course”-ing to his suggestion.

  Dr. White’s eyes narrow behind her half-rim glasses. “Mr. Berkshire, there are some people in this school who are impressed with your charm. I am not one of them.”

  “Well let’s just ask Scott what happened,” Jake says. “See what he says.”

  “Well, Mr. Hutchinson?” Dr. White asks. “Are you going to stand up for yourself, or are you going to perpetuate Mr. Berkshire’s awful bully cliché?”