“Hey, Dad!” I call. “You maybe should’ve thought more carefully about what you decided to name me. I’ve grown into a wildfire that won’t be put out.” In my peripheral vision, I see a crowd is gathering. “You wanted your precious comics. So here they are.”
With that, I lower my torch and light the corners of the top box. Dad stands motionless as the boys on either side of me quickly pull out their fliers and start lighting and spreading, lighting and spreading the fire. Before anyone can make a move to stop us, we have the entire stack of boxes burning.
Once the fire’s going, I flick the feather dad gave me into it before pulling the inventory list out of my messenger bag. I begin reading loudly, “Fantastic Four, 1961, issue numbers one through sixteen! Fantastic Four, 1981, issues two-three-five through two-five-one…”
The crowd around us gasps in horror and heart-attack-to-go guy nearly flings his body onto the burning boxes. Luckily, a younger guy holds him back, because the fire is really going by now and his burning corpse would’ve smelled pretty rank.
“The Amazing Spider-Man, 1978, issue numbers one-seven-six through one-nine-six.” I continue reading my list to the Argh!’s and No!’s and even occasional screams from the crowd when I read off some of the particularly rare and expensive items. “Tales of Suspense number thirty-nine!” I call out and hear a loud whimper, meaning that at least somebody realizes it’s the very first appearance of Iron Man. When I glance up at my dad, I see that he’s using the handcart to hold himself and his enormous red bird costume upright. Reaching up slowly, he pulls the cardinal head back like a giant hood, revealing his hair, all sweaty and plastered to his head. His blackened eyes are closed.
When I picture how he looks in that moment, when we turn and leave him there like that, with those boxes still burning, I like to think my dad feels remorse.
I hope that underneath all those phony red feathers, he’s mourning more than his burning comic collection. I hope he’s mourning me and Josh and all that was and can never be again. I hope he regrets letting go of everything that he should have held on to.
I take my brother’s hand as we walk away from the blazing fire in slow motion. It’s about time we rescued ourselves.
• • •
“You know, Blaze.” Dylan pauses before climbing into the back of Superturd. “I thought your pose in that photo was rather tasteful.”
“That photo shall never be spoken of in this minivan! Ever!” I command.
He holds up his hands. “I barely even looked, honest.”
“Right,” I say, “and my beauty mark is…”
“Directly underneath your right nipple,” Dylan recites, then winces. “Honestly, Blaze, I still respect you.”
Josh shoves Dylan shaved-head first into Superturd and says to me, “What I don’t get is, why is it okay for models to show everything they’ve got?” He gestures to a towering billboard that features an underwear model with swirling hair. “But when a regular girl does the same thing, she’s suddenly accused of being a slut. Seems unfair, don’t you think?”
I look up at the girl in the ad. Her exaggerated pose makes it seem as if she thinks her breasts are her source of power. “Who knows?” I say. “Maybe she gets called a slut too. At least my picture isn’t five stories high in the middle of Manhattan.” I think about how exposed that must make her feel and decide my little cell phone photo circulating around Butler may not be the absolute end of my life after all.
It hurts like hell to be gossiped about, but I’ve come to realize that what other people think of me is honestly none of my business.
As Josh and I climb into the front, I ask him, “So how on earth did you even know I was here?”
“Mom mentioned something about you staying at Amanda’s. I know you hate Amanda and her mom doesn’t like you, so that had to be a lie.” Josh rubs the back of his neck. “Then I heard Dad’s message on the machine about needing his damn comics for Comic-Con, so I checked the basement, saw the comics were gone, and knew right away where to find you.”
“But how did you pay for train tickets?”
Josh grins. “I stashed a handful of dad’s comics away a long time ago. Sort of an emergency fund. Quentin gave me a good price for them.”
“I’m sure he ripped you off.” I laugh.
“He said to have you call him.”
I blush. “Yeah, we already talked.”
Superturd immediately erupts with sing-song teasing. “Ooooh, Blaze and Quentin…”
I nod and laugh at the taunts, not really minding all that much. “All right, enough, enough. I still can’t believe you guys just showed up.”
Andrew says, “We followed the flow of folks to Comic-Con and bought our costumes along the way.”
Ajay flips his towel cape behind him. “Four bucks from a homeless guy selling stuff. Instead of a yard sale, it was a shopping cart sale.”
The other boys start reciting what they paid for their makeshift costumes, but I just keep staring at Josh.
“So you came to rescue your poor humiliated sis, huh?” I say.
“Well, someone had to do it.” He shrugs.
“How’d you know Dad wouldn’t come through for me?”
Josh looks me in the eye. “If you haven’t noticed, Blaze, our dad is sort of an asshole.”
“I guess so,” I say. “But how is it you’re so okay with that?”
“I think it’s because I never really needed him.” Josh shrugs, then says meaningfully, “I’ve always had you.”
I put my hands over my face. “I’m so sorry about that stupid photo!”
“Are you kidding?” Josh says. “Coach is a jerkwad! You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Don’t worry, Blaze, we got him for you,” says Ajay.
I let my hands drop, open my eyes wide and scan around the van at the four of them. Everything is quiet a moment, and I calmly ask, “What do you mean you got him?”
The boys all look away, except Ajay, who tells me, “As soon as we found out he’s the one who posted the photo, we went out to the student lot and slashed the tires of his pickup.”
I wince. “How many tires did you slash?”
“All four of them.” Dylan grins.
Josh adds, “We each got to do one.”
“Guys!” I picture the risk they took just to get revenge on Mark. They totally stuck up for me. My heart swells with gratitude, and I realize love is the best superpower anyone could wish for. And it’s one I already have.
“That is so wrong,” I say, but I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice.
The boys look relieved as I picture Mark stuck with four flat tires trying to get a ride. If a girl drives him, I hope she has read my comic.
A new issue of The Blazing Goddess has been forming in my mind. It features a villain called the Gossip Monger, who turns people into cyborgs who believe everything they hear. The Blazing Goddess has to defeat him while defending the kids who are targeted by the mindless robots. I may need to include a vigilante gang of thirteen-year-old soccer players wearing crude superhero costumes and distributing justice. And of course I’ll want my own Comic Book Guy sidekick, armed with a plethora of snarky catchphrases. Thinking of Quentin gives me glow-in-the-dark insides. I rub my new ring with my thumb and think of how much work it’s going to take for me to rise like a phoenix out of the burning mess of my life. I’ll probably have to face horrible insults every day until graduation. My thoughts must show on my face, because Josh puts his hand on my back.
“Hey, Blaze,” he says, “everything’s going to work out just fine.”
And you know what? Maybe it’s the Superman suit, or maybe Josh just has some sort of telekinetic mutant powers or something, because hearing him say it, I actually believe it’s true. Things will work out just fine.
I give my brother a small smile, start up the van, roll down the window, and weave my way into the traffic crawling down 11th Avenue.
“Hey, Blaze,” Dylan calls from t
he back as I merge into the heavy flow of cars. “Do you think if I send in this coupon they’ll still send me these X-ray glasses?”
“Why, Dylan?” Andrew teases. “You want to come back here and see what Spider-Man is packing underneath his costume?”
“Hey, pass a few of those up here,” Josh calls to the back.
“I have to admit,” Ajay says, “these Iron Man issues from the nineteen-eighties are pretty addictive.” In my rearview mirror, I see him grab another handful of comics off the giant mound in the back.
Oh, but wait.
Did you actually think we burned all those comics? Seriously?
When the boys and I went back to get the boxes, they helped me quickly empty them into the back of Superturd. Then we filled the empty boxes with stacks of the Comic-Con programs from the bins. All that burned were a bunch of programs, because, hey, my Dad may be a total asshole, but he did have a kickass collection of comics.
“Read up, boys!” I call back to my minivan-full of Superhero Cretins. “We’ve got a long drive home.”
Special thanks to Superagent Ammi-Joan Paquette for believing in me and for smashing through force fields of rejection with grace and determination. To Aubrey Poole, my fantastic editor who soars above and beyond and to all of the incredible folks at Sourcebooks. Thank you so much for giving Blaze the chance to fly. Special thanks to Anne Cain for expressing Blaze’s awesome talent with her own. And to Derry Wilkens for helping Blaze soar far and wide.
To the remarkable EMLA GANGOs, Verla’s fearless Blueboarders and my cosmic critique buddies Alison Ashley Formento, Amanda Coppedge, Shana Silver, Kristen Spina and Michelle Castrofilippo. You folks fill this writing adventure with infinite goodness, wisdom, and laughter.
To Mom, thank you for raising me to love books and for giving me mustard seed faith (even when it nearly landed me in clown college). And thank you, Paw, for your awesome sense of humor and generosity. To Gerry, mentor extraordinaire and owner of the most amazing comic collection on the planet. To super-galactic siblings: Jenna, the wolf-whisperer, and Zach, the baby-wrangler. (I’m still waiting for a waterpik rematch.) To besties, Donna and Dorene, and to my extended legion of family and friends. Thank you all for your support, prayers and inspiration.
Most of all I want to thank the people who put up with my catch-phrase, “Just a minute,” as I worked on this book. Trinity, my Sweetie 3.14… and Aidan, my trampoline champion. Remember, “Cromptons never quit.” And especially and always to The Best Mate. Brett, you can be pretty funny—just not as funny as me. Thank you for making the journey such a blast.
When she was seventeen, Laurie Boyle Crompton painted her first car hot pink using forty cans of spraypaint. The paint dried a bit drippy, but the car looked great when it was flying down the back roads of Butler, Pennsylvania, where she grew up. Laurie now lives near New York City but she loves to visit the mountains and maintains a secret identity in New Paltz, New York, where she and her family can often be found crawling over rocks or tromping through the forest. You can visit her at www.lboylecrompton.com or read more about girls and comics at www.gofangirl.com. Blaze is Laurie’s first novel.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
Blaze Page 22
