Heroine Complex

by Sarah Kuhn

  “So it’s not broken,” I said.

  “It might as well be,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m going to get my supplies and patch her up and then we’ll move her to the ground floor bedroom.”

  “No,” Aveda said, her mouth flattening into a thin line. “The party tonight is a must.”

  “No parties,” he said. “You have to stay off your feet, and for much longer than tonight. No fighting, no workouts, no nothing.”

  “I can’t do nothing!” she snapped. “I’m a beacon of hope to this city. They depend upon me, and I must maintain a certain image of heroism for them. And they’ve been anticipating this moment—Aveda Jupiter triumphantly holding that symbolic key aloft—for months. Imagine how it will look if I don’t show up!”

  “Maybe there’s a compromise,” I said.

  “No.” Nate’s tone took on an air of finality. “Aveda needs to take this seriously or risk permanent damage to that ankle. She will sit here and breathe and that’s it. Likely for four to six weeks.”

  He frowned at me, as if all of this was my fault. “Don’t let her move until I get back.”

  And with that, he stalked out the door.

  “I keep telling him he needs to work on that bedside manner,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

  Aveda didn’t hear me. Her eyes were glued to Nate’s retreating back.

  “No,” she hissed. “This is not happening.”

  I laid a soothing hand on her arm.

  “There must be a solution here. Maybe we can Skype you in for the party.”

  “No!” She sliced a defiant arm through the air, nearly smacking me in the chest. “I have to be present. A face on some shitty little computer screen isn’t going to make my fans feel special. They want me, Evie. In person, interacting with them.”

  She planted her hands on the floor and attempted to push up, her face turning purple from the strain.

  “Don’t just sit there,” she growled. “Help me!”

  “Nate said not to move,” I protested. But I was already allowing her to drape her arm around my neck, was already hauling both of us to our feet as my undeveloped muscles screamed at the weight of her body sagging against me. She wouldn’t stop trying to stand until she saw it was impossible, so I might as well speed up the process.

  “I can walk,” she insisted. “I’ll show him!”

  I managed to drag us into a standing position. We were a two-headed monster, me quaking uncertainly as I battled to keep us upright.

  “To the door!” she rasped, her arm tightening around my shoulders.

  I attempted to sway forward, but it was no use. Our two-headed monster configuration could barely stand, much less move. I made it half a step then felt my legs give way as my foot slid through the sweat-and-sand mess coating the floor.

  “Gaaaaaaaah!”

  I wasn’t sure who cried out, her or me, but suddenly we were both on our asses and her face was twisting in pain. She disentangled herself from me and tried to push herself up again.

  It didn’t work.

  “Dammit!” she shrieked, pounding her fist against the floor. She leaned back against the wall, biting her lip. Her eyes locked on mine, frustration swirling in their coal-black depths.

  “Okay,” she said. “So I can’t stand up. Apparently.”

  “Right,” I said, as if she had come to this very smart conclusion on her own. “We should wait for Nate to come back. Then we can figure out a game plan.” I hesitated, not sure how to bring up the next bit. “And we’ll need to call Mercedes.”

  “What? That is the last thing—”

  “Aveda! You just admitted you can’t even stand. And if you’re incapacitated in any way, we’re supposed to call her so she can temporarily take over demon-fighting duties. Otherwise the city—”

  “The city needs Aveda Jupiter,” she sniffed. “Not some half-assed imitation.”

  “Are you afraid your fans will suddenly convert to Team Mercedes? Because that’s crazy—”

  “Yes.” She interrupted me a little too quickly. “It is crazy. It is also of utmost importance that my fans feel safe, and me being my usual invincible self is what makes them feel that way. I’ve never taken so much as a sick day. And I’m not about to start.”

  She frowned. And slowly the frustration in her eyes morphed into something else: a shrewd glint, a spark of something that was very likely an idea.

  Oh, God. Not an idea.

  “Evie,” she said, “remember the summer between third and fourth grade? When we got obsessed with that one movie?”

  Now she was in a reminiscing mood? “The Parent Trap? Mills, not Lohan?”

  “Yes. We borrowed each other’s clothes, got the same haircut . . .”

  “Serenaded everyone in our general vicinity with an off-key version of ‘Let’s Get Together’? I remember.”

  Seriously, why was she on this tangent? I wondered if she’d also hit her head.

  “What does that . . .”

  Her lips curved further. She cocked her head to the side, waiting for me to figure it out.

  Wait. Panic flared in my chest. I swallowed hard, shooing it away. Panic was not in my wheelhouse.

  But surely she wasn’t suggesting . . .

  “Evelyn Tanaka,” she breathed. “You can be me.”

  Okay, so yes. She was totally suggesting that.

  “Um.” My voice was calm and controlled, even as my hands fisted at my sides. “Let’s discuss the many reasons why this is a bad idea. Number one: we look nothing alike.”

  Though we’re both twenty-six years old, my dark brown tangle of curls was the antithesis of Aveda’s smooth sheet of raven hair, my freckled nose the blotchy version of her clear skin. Her eyes were a startling black, mine a half-assed hazel. Her features were angular and elegant, mine rounded off and occasionally cute. We did have similar builds—short and slender—but hers was one straight, athletic line and mine curved here and there, punctuated by decent-size breasts and hips.

  “We’re both Asian,” she said dismissively. “That’s enough for some people.”

  I rolled my eyes. She was Chinese, I was half-Japanese. Even our Asian-ness didn’t match.

  “And doesn’t Scott have something that will help? Some kind of glamour token thing?” she added.

  “What about after the party? I can’t fight. I can barely run without keeling over. And I don’t exactly have your charisma.”

  “I know, but—”

  “The point is, I definitely can’t be you for four to six weeks.”

  She waved a hand. “I’m sure Nathaniel’s exaggerating the seriousness of my injury; I should be back on my feet by tomorrow. This’ll just be for tonight. So I keep my promise to the fans.” She smiled brightly, a bit of that trademark imperiousness creeping back into her eyes. “Aveda Jupiter always keeps her promises.”

  I took a deep breath, forcing my hands to unclench. My palms had gotten sweaty again. I had to pull out the last weapon in my arsenal: the biggest reason this absolutely, positively was not going to work.

  “Can we please remember I can’t be the center of attention? That kind of thing puts way too much pressure on me,” I said, making my voice extra calm, extra soothing. “Everything else, whatever you need—someone to clean costumes, someone to clean toilets, someone to hold the wind machine so your hair blows out behind you in the most becoming fashion—I’m here. I’m always here. But we’ve talked about why I need to stay out of the spotlight. Especially at something like a party. With all those people. We’ve talked about that.”

  “Don’t be such a drama queen,” she said. “It’s just the fans. They’re perfectly normal. Regular schmoes!”

  “Aveda—”

  “And you’ll have Lucy with you. She’ll keep back the worst of the lot.”

  “Ave
da—”

  “Please.” Her hands clamped on my shoulders. “Please, Evie. I’ve always been there for you, haven’t I? Now I need you to be there for me.”

  Her gaze bored into me, single-minded and intense.

  I felt my resolve start to crumble. The truth was, she had always been there for me. After the spam musubi incident, she’d declared herself my playground protector. Any would-be bully who so much as looked at my crayons was greeted with a blood-chilling glare and an “Oh, I wouldn’t.” She’d held fast to that role through the years, fiercely guarding my lunch money once we graduated to first grade, making sure my hair didn’t look totally stupid at our first high school dance, and insisting on having “a nice little chat” with the funeral home when they’d tried to charge me up the ass for Mom’s burial. (I was pretty sure the “chat” had been neither nice nor little—after that, the funeral home director cowered whenever Aveda so much as looked at him.)

  And of course, she’d been there for that night three years ago, when I was the one tantruming and she was the one doing the comforting.

  She’d saved me yet again.

  “Are you listening?” She shook me a little. “You’re the only person I can trust with this. Evie, please . . .” She hesitated. I looked up, meeting her gaze. The intensity had faded and her eyes were pleading, almost teary. “Remember,” she said, “we’re like The Heroic Trio . . . except there’s only two of us. You remember that, right?” Her voice quavered a little.

  I sighed, covered one of her hands with mine, and squeezed. “Of course.”

  Seeing that shred of naked vulnerability flaring in her eyes . . . well, it was disconcerting. And it reminded me, suddenly and viscerally, of our days as totally mundane preteens, stealing booze from her parents and watching The Heroic Trio on a loop. It reminded me of that flash of hurt I’d seen earlier, when she’d asked if anyone had mentioned her spinning backhand.

  It reminded me that I was probably the only person who knew that piece of her—the piece that was capable of being hurt—existed.

  “All right.” I gently extricated my shoulders from her claw-like hands. “I’ll do it. But this has to be the only time. Okay?”

  Her head bobbed up and down, her eyes flooding with relief. “Yes, yes, of course. Like I said, Aveda Jupiter always keeps her promises.”

  “And as far as The Heroic Trio goes: this means I’m the Michelle Yeoh,” I added. “This settles it once and for all.”

  She let out a surprised, croaky laugh. “Fine,” she said, a trace of amusement creeping into her voice. “You’re Michelle. And I love you for it.”

  I gave her a half-smile and slumped against the wall. My jeans felt gritty with the sand from the destroyed boxing bags.

  It’s just another task, I thought. Just another thing for Aveda. Add it to my to-do list.

  I had a sudden flashback to that reporter telling me I had the world’s worst job.

  But dammit, I thought, squaring my shoulders, I’m still the best at it.

  From the official website of Demon City Tours:

  Demon City Tours

  For the Bold Traveler in Search of Something Different!

  Are you looking for a vacation that puts the “super” in supernatural? Do you like your wildlife extra “wild”? Would you enjoy witnessing the true “power” of superpowers?

  Come visit beautiful San Francisco, the only spot in the world where adventurous tourists can encounter real, live demons!*

  Take one of our tours of former Otherworld portal locations and thrill in the carnage wrought by demon attacks!** Learn about the city’s first big portal from our knowledgeable guides! Visit the HQ of famed San Francisco superheroine Aveda Jupiter and catch her in ass-kicking action!***

  Our tours will give you a sense of one of the most unique cities on the planet: its supernatural history, its demon infestations, and the heroine who keeps its residents safe!

  No need to make reservations in advance: we accommodate walk-ins and same-day requests!

  *Demon sightings not guaranteed. Attacks are unpredictable in terms of both time and place . . . which just makes them more exciting, in our opinion! In case of attack, it is recommended guests take out travel insurance.

  **Extra surcharges may apply for certain locations. Guaranteed stops at Blue Bird Vintage, Holistic Tea House, and Greg’s Crazy Toys, all of which have roped-off areas with meticulously preserved, 100 percent authentic wreckage from their respective demon attacks.

  ***Aveda Jupiter sighting not guaranteed. Select photo ops may be available, pending Ms. Jupiter’s busy schedule. Tour vehicle stops in front of HQ, but guests are not permitted inside. In the event that Ms. Jupiter is not available, Demon City Tours will offer guests the opportunity to meet other superpowered residents of San Francisco.

  Most Recent Reviews of Demon City Tours:

  “As a longtime comic book fan, I thought it’d be awesome to tour the one city where you can see actual demons, instead of just boring animals or scenery or whatever. But this was actually kind of boring, too. There were no demon attacks the week I visited and the ‘former Otherworld portal locations’ are museum-like: musty, dusty, not that exciting. And we didn’t even get to meet Aveda! They subbed in some ‘superpowered’ guy named Dave who can make a room hot or cold on demand. I got the idea after, like, two minutes. Sounds like things were pretty exciting eight years ago, when that first big portal opened up. But now? I gave it five out of five ‘mehs.’”

  —Drea L., McMinnville, OR

  “Our group got to see the very end of an Aveda Jupiter takedown! I’ve been following her exploits on the Holding Out for a Heroine website and she was just as tough and kickass as promised. Although . . . I still don’t quite get what her power is? Other than being tough and kickass? I guess I can see why her main fame is with SF residents and superhero fanatics. But hey, that just meant more room on the tour bus for me!”

  —Steven R., Bangor, ME

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I HATE CRYING. To me, it is a useless action, a sign of weakness, and a total waste of time. Think about it: in those moments you spend allowing salty rivers of angst to stream down your cheeks, you could be fixing whatever caused your tears in the first place.

  I first came to this conclusion the summer Aveda and I turned eleven. Neither of us was interested in boys yet, and we were content to spend entire afternoons on dorky activities like making up our own theme songs using the battered Casio keyboard we scored at Goodwill.

  It was also the summer we discovered The Heroic Trio.

  Let me back up a little.

  While Aveda appointing herself my playground protector was great for me, it wasn’t always so good for her. Mouthing off to bullies got her in trouble with teachers. That, in turn, got her in trouble with her parents, who had very specific ideas about what a good firstborn Chinese-American daughter should be: demure, studious, and on the doctor track by age five. Aveda had a temper. Aveda had a theatrical streak. Aveda insisted on shouting down bitchy little Kelly Graham when she made fun of our “weird eyes” after we kicked her ass in dodgeball during second grade recess. (I was prepared to slink off once the teasing started up. Aveda told Kelly her “whole face” was weird, so she should probably shut up about other people’s eyes.)

  I loved her for all of this. And while she basked in my admiration and reveled in protecting me, she desperately wanted adoration from her parents as well.

  She couldn’t control her outspokenness, and even though she gave it her all, she could only manage Bs in math and science. That kept her off the doctor train, so she was always searching for something else she could be The Absolute Best at. Something that would impress her parents and force them to finally accept her as their perfect daughter.

  She put together impeccable outfits, color coordinating her socks with her ponytail holders.

  She train
ed until she was the only kid in our class who could do three whole pull-ups.

  She ran for class president every year—and usually won.

  I cheered her on through all of it, my outfits and attitude never nearly as fabulous. I couldn’t even do one pull-up. But I was always there. That was how I defined myself: by being reliable and loyal and present. I patted her on the back, iced her injuries, and picked the occasional bit of lint off her stylish sweaters.

  None of Aveda’s feats were quite enough to win the approval of the elder Changs, who regarded these non-demure, non-doctorly accomplishments with a stern “Mmm” and a suggestion that she request extra credit homework in math.

  It wasn’t until that summer—the summer of The Heroic Trio—that she finally found a purpose. And in a way, so did I.

  We’d been allowed to trek into San Francisco that day and were dragging our preteen limbs through muggy July, our hands sticky with melted ice cream. Aveda spotted a poster displayed outside the Yamato Theater—a grotty establishment that mostly showed old Hong Kong action movies. The poster featured three Asian women striking badass poses.

  “Evie, look,” Aveda breathed, smashing her nose against the display case. “Asian lady superheroes.” She ran her sticky fingers over the title. “The Heroic Trio.”

  “Cool,” I said, my voice thin and weary. We’d had a long day of running around in the sun and I could feel myself sugar crashing from the chocolate double-scoops we’d just crammed into our gaping maws. “Annie, it’s getting dark. We should head home.”

  She whirled around and planted her hands on her hips. “We need to see this now.”

  Even then she was bossy.

  I didn’t get home until after dark and was grounded for a week, but the movie was worth it. As we watched those three Asian lady superheroes kick and punch and badass their way across the screen, Aveda’s sweaty hand crept over the armrest and clutched mine, her grip tightening until I thought she might break my fingers off. But I didn’t mind. My own heart felt too big for my body, beating against my breastbone so hard that I was sure it was mere seconds away from bursting clean out of my chest. We knew we were witnessing something big enough to knock our world off its axis: superheroes who looked like us.