Welcome Home

by Eric Smith

  Carlos tried to remember to mark it down each year, so that his parents wouldn’t be taken by surprise, the fear and destruction of it all. But somehow he always managed to forget. By the time January hit and 1985 reset, it felt as if his family did, too.

  Carlos grabbed his phone and looked up the bed-and-breakfast his parents were staying in, then dialed the listed number. He asked the tired-sounding receptionist to connect him to the Heralds’ room.

  He hoped he wasn’t late. The phone connected to his parents’ room and rang. He hoped the building had withstood 1985. The phone rang. Carlos looked at Lianne lying on her stomach, unperturbed, bathed in the soft gray morning light and the blue glow of the television they’d left on. The phone rang. Carlos hung up and stared at his cell screen as if it was to blame for everything.

  Carlos climbed out of bed and quickly dressed, then leaned over his bed and kissed Lianne’s cheek, placing a hand on her back to gently wake her. When she opened her eyes, he told her he had to go. Worry immediately filled her eyes, so he kissed her again and told her it was okay, that she could stay, sleep in, snoop around, run around naked, order more pizza, do their homework, never leave, whatever.

  He had barely taken a driving lesson before, but he grabbed the keys hanging near the front door, got in his mom’s maroon Oldsmobile Ciera, and turned the ignition as if he’d done it hundreds of times before.

  Sunday morning, and the city was calm. The usually hellish traffic gave way to empty roads, the few cars around driving at a glacial pace, as if the drivers had never meant to get behind the wheel. Most people on the road respected red lights for only a second, then rolled through, even though, unlike Carlos, they were clearly in no hurry, had no pressing need to move on. Carlos kept his eye on the dashboard clock, thinking the shaking had been over for three minutes now. Five. Ten. He sped past cop cars with their lights on for no reason. Nervously slapping at the steering wheel, Carlos cursed the existence of distance, distance that had to be traversed. There was an unavoidable bond pulling him to his parents, a magnetic yank that felt more immediate the closer he got to them. It was not exactly magnetism, unless magnetism is the reason why people need each other (Who really knows how these things work?), in which case that’s exactly what it was.

  He pulled up in front of the bed-and-breakfast, turning on his hazard lights, the Mexican symbol for doing whatever you want with your car. Running right past the still-tired receptionist, Carlos made his way to their room and knocked, only then hearing the whimpering from inside. His parents could be stuck beneath rubble. The building could have collapsed in 1985; it could have burned. He did not understand enough about his parents’ world to know if they were safe, and so he pounded on the door. What could have been a cry or could have been nothing escaped from the room. He called out for them, panic creeping into his voice.

  That he could have a night with Lianne like the one he’d just had followed by this awful morning made absolutely no sense to him, even if he understood more than most that nonsense very much fit into this world.

  Carlos sprinted back downstairs. He thought of Lianne, and if she’d be safe if an earthquake struck right now. Would she sleep through it, mouth slightly open, hair streaked across her face? Would she stir, look around, think it all a dream? Would she calmly take cover and simply wait for it to pass?

  He wondered if this was what parenthood was like, never knowing if the people you cared about most were safe. The receptionist was flipping through a magazine, and calmly set it down when Carlos begged him to come upstairs with his master keys.

  Three minutes later, the shaking had been over for nearly thirty minutes, or thirty years, depending on your point of view. The receptionist jingled the set of keys as if he was auditioning for a role in a horror movie. Carlos had to keep himself from snatching them away and pushing the door open himself.

  When they entered the room, Carlos saw that his parents were huddled beneath a desk, the room perfectly intact except for the unmade bed. They saw Carlos and their tears changed from fearful to joyous. Carlos sprinted to his parents, not sure why he was crying. It was his fifteen-year-old heart that was to blame, loving and fearing all at once. The receptionist raised his eyebrows and walked away, a little jealous about the exchanged tears.

  They embraced, arms and legs and more. They wiped at their tears. Carlos assured them he was okay, and they were okay. He didn’t tell them they’d survived before and would survive again, didn’t tell them the city had built itself back up long ago. They told him they’d tried to call but the landlines had been down. They didn’t tell him they had a strange sense of déjà vu throughout the shaking, didn’t tell him that the room they were in was still a heap of rubble and broken things.

  They got up and brushed themselves off. Carlos had not had breakfast yet, and so all he could think to say was “hi.” The three of them just kind of smiled awkwardly and cried at each other for a few moments. In addition to inhabiting different years, they were also different ages, and sometimes the gap between ages is even greater than the gap between years. Carlos was fifteen, his parents were both forty-seven, and that three-decade span hung around them like an elephant in the room that also had not had its breakfast.

  “Is everyone okay?” they asked each other. Yes. “Have a good time before the earthquake?” Absolutely. “How is Lianne?” Carlos blushed and looked away.

  Downstairs, the receptionist sent an email to his parents for the first time in months. Below the crust of the earth, the tectonic plates were done shifting around, having comfortably settled into themselves almost an hour ago.

  Then Carlos decided he should go, since everyone was safe and he was kind of interrupting their anniversary weekend. He was also interrupting his own planned cuddle session with Lianne. The receptionist felt all these plans in the air and sighed, wishing for more. More breakfasts, more cuddles, more anything.

  Janice and Cody Herald stood at the doorway, watching their son move down the hall. They were still shaken, no pun intended. More than anything they marveled at the person Carlos had become. They felt that they were good parents, but his marvelousness was not something they could take credit for. Somehow, in fifteen short 1985s, this kid they had raised revealed himself to be an astounding person, kind and caring, brave, fearless, and taller than they’d expected.

  Carlos returned to the car still parked in the middle of the street, unperturbed. He found a station that played eighties music and headed back home, hoping Lianne had fallen back asleep, just for the pleasure of slipping back into bed with her. Cars still drove at their Sunday speed, rushing through red lights and then slowing until they reached the next one. Sunlight streamed into the car, causing Carlos to marvel at the strangeness of the world, how fear could give way to calm, and vice versa.

  He wanted to make a note in his phone for next year, to suggest his parents leave the city during the earthquake. But then “Video Killed the Radio Star” started playing, which was his favorite song (though he’d never admit that to his parents), causing the thought to flitter away, swept out by the wind coming in through the open window.

  Back in the bed-and-breakfast, his parents felt their son’s thoughts shift from them to Lianne, with equal parts sadness and joy. Then they went downstairs to find a restaurant that was still intact, and ordered themselves some breakfast.

  Carlos failed to spot the significance of the relieved yet eager drive back home, his parents in the rearview mirror, Lianne waiting for him in bed. It would have been perfect for him to turn on his hazard lights and stop the car exactly halfway between them and her, and consider the shift about to take place. Except Carlos was too wrapped up in thoughts of Lianne to recognize what was happening. The spot on the back of her neck that, when kissed, would instantly send goose bumps down her arms. The faces she made when bored in class, trying to make him laugh. The graze of her fingers on his, the way it felt to have love in his life. He
sped right past the midpoint, the way most of us would.

  Adi Alsaid was born and raised in Mexico City, where he now lives, writes, coaches basketball, and drowns food in hot sauce. He’s the author of the YA novels Let’s Get Lost, Never Always Sometimes, and North of Happy.

  “Sometimes, the obvious divide in a relationship ends up being not much of a divide at all. That’s what I was going for in this story. I wanted the matter of adoption, the apparent chasm between parents and child, to be second or third fiddle. To age, earthquakes, but mostly to love.”

  Strong Enough

  by Karen Akins

  The light over the kitchen table turns green. It blinks on and off like a dying lightning bug. Everyone stops eating and stares at me.

  This is it.

  I gulp down a last bite of cinnamon oatmeal.

  I’ve always wondered why the emergency-signal designers went with green and not red. I mean, red would make more sense. Red means stop. Stop crime. Stop the bad guys. Stop the runaway train. But then Dad pointed out one time that green means go. Go fight it.

  I tap the end of my spoon against my chin, and it accidentally bends in half. But I straighten it out before Mom has the chance to cluck about it. All the times I’ve pictured this moment, I’ve jumped up, run out the door in a rush. But right now, all I can think is stall.

  “Is it bad?” I ask.

  Mom leans over to read the info screen, squinting. “Define bad.”

  “Bad. Like, a crashing school bus full of children bad. Off a bridge. Into a whirlpool of piranhas.”

  “That’s exactly what it is, Gracie.”

  “Really?” I sit up straight and drop my spoon entirely.

  “No.” She tosses me a towel to clean up the oatmeal that spilled. “It’s a car broken down on Sycamore and Third. You’ve got this.”

  “But it’s blocking a lane of traffic,” I say, swinging the screen around to face me. “And people are using the turning lane to get around it. That’s dangerous. Kind of.”

  I pick up my spoon and shovel in a few more bites of oatmeal. “Maybe they should send someone else.”

  “You’ve already declined two test missions. And you’re the closest super.” Mom gives me a pointed look. The with-great-power-comes-great-blah-blah-blah look.

  “Super in training,” I say.

  “Super.” She kisses me on top of the head. “I’m not sure why you’re so nervous. You could lift a passenger vehicle in your sleep. In fact, I think you might have done that once. When you were seven and going through a sleepwalking phase. Oh, man—and I thought the newborn phase was hard . . .” Mom might be sitting across from me at the kitchen table, but I can tell from her vacant expression that she’s far away in Memoryland. “Do you want a ride?”

  “Nah, I’ll take my bike.” It would give me a little more avoidance time. Plus, it’s only a few blocks, right on the way to school, and a warm day for April. I try to switch my demeanor to calm, cool, collected—hoping my innards will follow, but they stay a twisting mass of nerves. My most recent simulations didn’t go great. Okay, they went awful. The last one, I forgot to move the bystanders back and knocked down a tree by accident. I have only my Test Mission left before I move on to an apprenticeship. But if I flub it, they’ll make me start over in the basics seminar.

  Needs to harness her strength. That’s what the eval had said.

  “Wear a sweater,” says Mom.

  “Yes, smother.”

  “A smother with a daughter who’s warm enough!” she calls over her shoulder.

  We lock eyes in a stubborn-off, but a laugh quivers at the edge of her mouth. I win.

  I still grab a hoodie.

  She can’t make me wear spandex, though.

  As soon as my parents realized they had adopted a super (even they had to admit my tendency to heft my crib above my head was a bit . . . much), they read books and went to workshops—anything and everything they could get their hands on—to help them figure out the whole trans-powered family thing. Which, it turns out, is about as easy and as difficult as figuring out the whole any-powered family thing. But they did appreciate the tips on handling tantrums when your toddler can punch a hole through a wall. A brick wall.

  Our garage is a shrine to my destructive wake. Broken toys, broken furniture, a whole pile of broken doorknobs, broken appliances. But Dad can’t blame last year’s grill disaster on me. I pull my hoodie on tighter and shiver against the morning chill that hasn’t lifted as I open the garage door. Oh, to have fireball breath like my friend Emma.

  Traffic has backed up to the next intersection, blocking the flow on two side streets. Crap. I pedal faster.

  The super assigned to oversee the test hasn’t arrived yet. A guy in a Volvo waves happily to me. I wave back, hoping for a few “friendliness” bonus points. Yeah, you smile, Mr. Broken Volvo, even though we both know the only reason you’re so happy is that a trainee superhero is a heck of a lot cheaper than a real one. Or even a tow truck.

  But then he points toward another vehicle, about five yards ahead. The Volvo isn’t the vehicle that’s stuck. The thirty-ton concrete mixer truck is.

  “Craaaaaap,” I whisper.

  “Finally!” The driver of the truck sticks her head out the window. “I’ve been waiting almost half an hour.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m, umm, still in training.”

  “What? You’re not even a real one? Great.” She says the last word just loud enough that I know she meant me to hear it.

  “We can start as soon as my supervisor shows up.”

  “Like that one?” The lady points toward the sky.

  Sure enough, a rep from the Enhanced Abilities Council hovers above a maple tree, its fuchsia buds on the verge of unfurling. I can’t remember what work name he goes by. Blaze, maybe? It’s something fast like that.

  His lips purse together in a taut line. He gives a little wave with his tablet. I’m not sure if it means “Hello” or “Proceed” or “This is too early in the morning to oversee a teenager tackling a traffic jam.”

  Blast. I snap my fingers. His name is Blast.

  I rest my hands on top of the Volvo’s roof and take a long, steadying breath like they teach us in training.

  Creak . . . groan . . . creeeak.

  “Umm, Miss?” says Mr. Volvo.

  “Hmm?”

  “I think you’re hurting my shocks.” Mr. Volvo taps my elbow. Sure enough, I’m pressing his car nearly to the ground. I let go so fast it bounces a good foot off the pavement.

  “Sorry.” I hear the tap-tap-tap of Blast’s tablet above me. Points being docked before I’ve even started.

  Okay. Back to the calming breath.

  Honnnnnnnk. The concrete truck lady leans on her horn. “Come on!”

  I look up. Blast makes a move-it-along motion.

  Creeeeeeak.

  I’m pressing down on the car again.

  “Sorry.” I let up easy this time, barely a jostle, and take two steps back.

  I’m too strong. The thought bubbles up unbidden, and the images of all the broken things in our garage follow closely behind. But then I look over at the concrete truck. I’ve never lifted anything that heavy. Ever. I’m not strong enough.

  “Take your time,” says Blast, but I’m sure to him everyone is a snail. The truck lady huffs and throws her hands up in the air, and even Mr. Volvo lets out an impatient sigh.

  I suck in another breath. Okay. I can do this.

  I walk up to the truck and find a good, solid grip point on the frame. I begin to lift.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Toot.

  “Could you step out of your cab, please?” I ask the truck lady. She heads over to join the group of bystanders.

  I start to lift the vehicle again. Tap-tap-tap. Double toot.

  Check
that the ignition is off, brakes are on. I look up to get the go-ahead from Blast. He gives me a bored thumbs-up.

  I recenter myself. Begin to lift. My arms strain. It’s an odd sensation for me, to feel resistance, a challenge for my muscles.

  Nothing.

  I step back and stare at the truck. Thirty tons of impossible.

  I bite my lip. Maybe I could scoot the truck out of the way. I’ll still have to figure out a way to lift it over the median into the parking lot.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  I look up at Blast. I can’t tell if he’s grading me at this point or checking his email.

  While I stand there debating, the driver whips out her phone.

  “I’m calling a tow,” she announces, and the crowd bursts into a cheer.

  My whole body droops. I look over at the parking lot. It’s twenty feet, but it might as well be twenty miles. But then I see a familiar minivan, with its dented hood where I leaned too hard and an “I <3 My Super” bumper sticker.

  Mom.

  She must have driven the long route here to get around the traffic.

  The tow truck rounds the corner, lights flashing. If he gets involved, I can smooch this test goodbye. Mom opens her car door, probably to tell me to hop in, to let the professionals take over. But she walks ten steps forward and points at an empty spot.

  “It will fit here, I think,” she says. “What do you think, Gracie?”

  We lock eyes in a stubborn-off. My lip curls up. She won.

  I’ve got this.

  I take a final deep breath. The oxygen rushes through my veins and fuels every cell, down to my toes and deep into my core.

  I don’t hesitate. I grab the undercarriage of the truck and hoist it up, not pausing until it’s over my head. I grit my teeth in concentration. Every step is a strain. I totter at the curb. The crowd gasps, but I regain my footing and place the vehicle down as gently as an egg crate.

  The crowd claps, then dies down and moves on. Truck lady doesn’t bother to thank me. Blast enters a final tap-tap-tap and flies away.