Rise of Heroes

by Hayden Thorne

  Every so often, we’d pass by construction areas, with workers carefully rebuilding the façade of a house or a business. Maybe bricks or antique-looking gates or window frames needed repair. At any rate, chinks in the old-fashioned armor appeared, and soiled men worked hard to hide all signs of contemporary material behind a phony old world shield. It was almost jarring, seeing bits of new lumber or cement against discolored and faux-rotting brick, iron, and wood. I couldn’t help but feel kind of gloomy at the sight. It was like being stuck in some odd time bubble where no one wanted to get out.

  As though to celebrate the triumph of fake age, rain clouds formed above, and I rolled down the passenger window to inhale the scent of rain. Even with the mix of smoke, steam, and other smells from different corners of the city, the scent of rain managed to cut through the thick, sluggish gases I’d been inhaling since I was a baby.

  It always had an invigorating power because it promised regeneration—newness, you know, cleaning off of dirt and growth in plants and all kinds of stuff like that.

  Liz sighed and broke the silence. “God, I hate PMS. Listen, I changed my mind. You get yourself a chocolate parfait, and I’ll keep the whole banana split. The way my hormones are going right now, I’ll more likely stick a fork in your hand than share.”

  The chocolate parfait was heaven. Then again, when did it ever fail me? My mood stayed low, though, despite my gluttony and Liz’s constant yakking about this, that, and the other. I regretted snapping back at Peter even though I knew I was in the right.

  We sat by the window, and I spent half the time looking out to watch passersby, dreading what I needed to do, which was to apologize to him. I was never good at reconciliations. For all my love for poetry and literature, I totally sucked at finding the right words when it counted the most. A mumbled “Sorry” and an embarrassed shrug were the best I could do, and they were never enough, especially when it came to Peter—even though he started the quarrel, the bastard.

  Chapter 8

  I chickened out the next day. It might’ve helped me find the guts, but it took a whole day in school to do something about it. I grew half a pair of balls the day after our spat. Peter and I were in nearly all the same classes, and we sat beside each other in those. All the same, I tried not to look at him during class, pretending I was totally focused when my mind was drowning in ideas on how to bring it up when the right moment came. I was lucky none of my teachers called on me, but I was sure it was the sort of good luck that came only once in a boy’s academic career.

  Basically I expected to be called on and drilled and pretty much embarrassed before the class the next day because, you know, my good luck karma thing would’ve been used up by then, and I’d be owing everything I had to the cosmos.

  Kids swarmed out of the building a minute or so after the final bell. I hung around my locker, keeping an eye on Peter as he collected his things a short distance down the hallway.

  He shrugged off his denim jacket and tried to stuff it inside his locker. No dice. He had too many books stored in addition to some odds and ends he’d collected or created in Art Class. The jacket refused to stay in, and things kept falling out whenever he tried to force the issue.

  I secured my locker and walked over to him.

  “I can take that home,” I said. Peter whirled around, startled. “Besides, it’s filthy. I can wash it for you if you can’t do it at home.”

  He regarded me in silence for a second or two before handing me his jacket. “Thanks. Althea sewed a new patch somewhere on the front, but she said it won’t get ruined in the wash.”

  I immediately looked for the patch. Althea was our Geometry buddy. The girl found proofs exciting, which I thought was beyond abnormal, but she helped me with my homework sometimes with the right bribe. I was sure she also harbored a crush on Peter despite the fact he’d been out for a year. The patch she sewed on his jacket was a white square with “Hazardous Nuclear Material” embroidered on it.

  “Where’d she get this?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. It’s fitting, though.”

  I folded the jacket and stuffed it inside my messenger bag while Peter finished sorting through his stuff. We were quiet for a while as we walked off together.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. “We have some leftover lasagna and pastries from yesterday—”

  “What was the occasion?”

  “Oh—it was my parents’ wedding anniversary.”

  “Happy anniversary to them. They didn’t go anywhere special?”

  I hesitated. “No. Too expensive.” I shrugged off my embarrassment. “It was cool, though. We celebrated as a teeny family unit. It was a small, quiet party—if you can call it that.”

  Peter chuckled, and I glanced at him. He walked with his head bowed, but he was smiling. Cautious relief washed over me.

  “So—you interested?”

  He looked up and nodded, his smile softening. “Sure. Thanks.”

  “You can call your parents from our living room.”

  “Okay.”

  I purposefully left my bike at home, gambling on my success in reconciling with Peter and having dinner with him as a peace offering. We took his car—always a crazy unnerving experience because the damn thing was cleaner than a museum, and I could hear my germs charging forward en masse to conquer new territory—and said very little to each other all the way.

  Liz had a late class, and Mom and Dad were at work. Being home gave me the much-needed comfort in the face of an awkward reconciliation, and once we crossed the threshold, I was almost myself again—talking, laughing.

  Peter looked around, reacquainting himself with my house.

  It had been months since he’d last visited, and having him there once again was a miracle in and of itself, considering how strict his parents were. I suppose, in the tradition of the kid from the wrong/bad side of town, or something to that effect, it was like living out a cliché. My family lived in a row house in the older part of the city—three stories, very narrow but fairly deep, and sagging from top to bottom from decades’ worth of accumulated dirt.

  It wasn’t a ghetto, but it was way under par to any of the bigger terraced houses in Peter’s neighborhood. My family barely clung by its fingernails to middle-classness, and even then, Mom and Dad had always been firm about neither Liz nor I needing to keep a job while in high school. My sister now worked part-time at her junior college’s bookstore as part of her financial aid program, but I stayed jobless, with not much to show for it, grade-wise.

  “Sorry for the space,” I said as I led him through the cramped hallway in the direction of the dining room.

  Like every other room in our house, it was clean but inconveniently loaded. “We’ve been collecting all kinds of junk, and we can’t get rid of the others fast enough to make room.”

  “Packrats.” Peter snickered and then nearly tripped over a crate filled with Dad’s unused tools. The crate sat on the floor and against a wall, but it was big enough to pose a hazard to anyone who walked down the hallway.

  “Sorry,” I said again, this time smiling sheepishly as I gave the crate a kick, pushing it back against the wall. I stared at it for a moment. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I didn’t hurt anything.”

  I shook my head and turned to Peter. “No—I mean, I’m sorry. You know—” I waved an awkward hand at the front door. “I’m sorry we fought.” There. I took a deep breath as relief washed over me. “I’m sorry I was a jerk. You were worried, and I wasn’t tuning in to that. I don’t know—maybe I didn’t want to, which is pretty lame.”

  Peter looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read. He was a taciturn sort. I’d learned that word from my vocab quiz, by the way. He was the seriously private, evasive artist type. I’d always suspected he spent a good deal of his time standing before the mirror, mastering the art of emotional control—and failing in practice. He might not talk much, but he wore his heart on his sleeve.

  I’d always looked at
him as two people in one body. Like opposite forces crammed in one container, forever at odds with each other. It was bad luck I wasn’t the best person to offer him anything that would’ve made him feel better.

  At that moment, though, I found myself on unfamiliar ground. I tried to sense his mood, but I couldn’t. It left me feeling a hell of a lot more vulnerable than I wanted to be.

  “What?” I prodded.

  Peter finally broke into a smile. “Nothing. I didn’t expect that, is all.”

  “Well, I am sorry.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, too.”

  A different kind of discomfort was now beginning to set in. I turned away and walked forward. “Right. This way to the feast.”

  “What kind of pastries did your mom make?”

  “Apple turnovers—actually, she didn’t make them from scratch. They were on sale at the supermarket. Come to think of it, so was the lasagna. I need to heat them up still. Do you want to call your folks now while you wait?”

  “Sure. I’ll find my way to the living room. I think I remember where it is.”

  I listened to his footsteps stop and then pick up again, receding this time as he retraced his steps. In the dining room I busied myself with the food, getting the place settings right while the microwave groaned and clicked. Before long the table was nicely laid out, and I was taking soda bottles from the fridge.

  The comfy homey feel of the whole thing didn’t escape my notice. Every so often, I’d grin stupidly at my imagination’s attempts at picturing quiet home life for me and my husband, whoever that might be in the end.

  “Yikes,” I breathed while poking around the refrigerator for the butter. “Whoever’s going to end up with me had better know how to cook.”

  Soft footsteps presently broke through my thoughts, and Peter’s voice interrupted my work. “Done,” he said as he entered the dining room.

  “Are they pissed?”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  I walked over to the table with the drinks and set them down just as Peter took his place. He looked pensive—distracted. His brows were slightly creased, and his gaze was distant. For a second or two, I wondered if he was aware of me.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “Hmm? Oh—no, everything’s fine.” Peter flashed me a tight smile. “I just got distracted for a bit there. Sorry.”

  “That overachieving brain of yours needs to take a break.”

  “Yeah. It can be a real bitch sometimes.”

  “Your family’s proud, though. Of you, I mean.”

  Peter helped himself to a roll and absently tore into it, ignoring the stick of butter I pushed toward him. “Sure. I’m everything they always wanted.”

  I stared at him, but he’d busied himself with the lasagna. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay! Quit fussing!” He laughed.

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  “Listen, do you want to do something after this? Movie? Arcade? A walk by the river? Whatever?”

  “Uh—what about your folks?”

  Peter shrugged. He was still laughing, but I sensed a wee bit of desperation in his outburst. His laughter sounded almost miserable. “I’ve earned a night off. Hell with it. I don’t care if they ground me.” He took a deep breath, and the moment of desperation faded. Peter leaned over his plate and stretched out his arm on the table to take my hand. “Let’s do something after this, Eric. I don’t care what it is as long as I—we, I mean—get to do whatever we want.”

  “Well—”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “Coffee and poetry at the Jumping Bean? I feel like getting wired all night, and I don’t give a shit.”

  Peter squeezed my hand gently, his grin frozen. “Done.”

  Chapter 9

  Frozen food leftovers for dinner. Used-book-hunting at Olivier’s afterwards. Blue-food-coloring-shopping after that. A quiet stroll by the river, which really wasn’t as idyllic as one might think, seeing as how the river was once a victim of those biotech companies, and environmental cleanup continued way after they disappeared.

  I half-expected to see three-headed animals pop out from the depths, if not Loch Ness Monster clones tease people from a distance. All the same, the walk was relaxing. The caffeine orgy at the Jumping Bean topped off a very pleasant evening, with Peter driving me back home at around nine p.m. He actually looked proud in his rebellion as the car idled, and I was getting ready to leave.

  “I guess it’s my turn to treat next time,” I said, giving him a caffeinated smile.

  “It might not be for a while.”

  “Why? I’m not that broke, you know.”

  He laughed. “Idiot. I’m talking about myself. I’ll be grounded after tonight.”

  “How can you be so sure? Your mom and dad might let you off. It isn’t as if you’re screwing around every day.”

  “I’ll be grounded. Trust me,” he said, sounding all firm. He paused, drumming his fingers against the wheel. “Well—if I’m about to go to hell in a hand basket, I might as well make sure I earn the trip.”

  The car still idling, Peter leaned close, pulling me toward him with a gentle hand behind my head, and kissed me. Full on, our mouths moving against each other, our tongues touching. I’d never kissed anyone before, but it didn’t matter if I was going about it correctly. I stiffened in his hold for a moment, completely shocked, but he worked his magic on me, and I practically melted against him. My eyes slid shut. I moved my hands around his shoulders, pulling myself closer to him despite the awkward placement of the car’s stick shift.

  The intimacy, the warmth, the feeling of vulnerability—it was freaky, allowing someone else that much power over me. All that time, I’d always believed I was the one in control. I was the one who swaggered and spouted off cynical jokes and observations about the world, while Peter listened, anxiety bubbling just below the surface.

  But while we kissed, I knew if he were to tell me to drop dead on the spot or cut my belly open or eat poison, I’d do it. Without question, without hesitation. Maybe that was what a kiss did to a person. Maybe after the moment had passed, I’d be laughing at myself in front of my bedroom mirror.

  Nothing else mattered in that one frozen slice of time, though. He kissed me, and I kissed him back, not even thinking it might be the first and last I’d ever enjoy with him.

  We stopped eventually and held each other, a bit stunned, I guess. Nothing could be heard but our breathing and the car’s soft purring. I pressed my face against his hair and did what I could to absorb him—his scent, his warmth, his touch. I watched wisps of his hair shiver with every breath I took.

  “I’ll see you later, then,” I said quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  And that was it. I was standing on the doorstep without being aware of getting out of the car, watching the rear lights retreat and vanish in the darkness. I didn’t even realize I had my keys in my hand.

  Dad was in the living room, lying stretched out on the couch. He looked sated and sleepy as he watched TV while absentmindedly rubbing his stomach with one hand. He must’ve finished off the lasagna for dinner. He glanced at me as I walked past the living room door.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  “Fantastic.”

  “Pretty strong?”

  “No, no—slow and gentle.”

  “You had decaf?”

  “What?”

  “What?”

  I blinked, and my face burned. “Oh. Nothing. The coffee was—uh—pretty good. I’m wired for the night.”

  “More energy to work on your Chemistry, I hope.”

  “I guess so,” I said, heaving a sigh of relief. God, that was close.

  He nodded, turning his attention back to the TV. “Yeah—the Jumping Bean’s got the best coffee around. And thanks for leaving a note, Eric. I know it bugs you when your mom and I nag you about these things—”

  “It’s cool, Dad. Really.” I paused, leaning against the doorway. Dad was watching
Blade Runner on cable. He’d seen that movie, what, a dozen bazillion times already? And that wasn’t counting the theatrical release. “I’m glad you guys nag me about things. Better that than not giving a damn at all.”

  “You missed the news. That mannequin man—”

  I blinked. “Magnifiman?”

  “Yeah, him. Boy, that name leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

  “Unfortunately, we’re all stuck with it.”

  Dad nodded. His eyes remained glued to the TV, and I could imagine his pupils turning into throbbing spirals from all those light waves and stuff. “Anyway, Mannequin Man was pretty busy tonight—got several thugs off the street, and it turned out a couple of them worked for The Devil’s Trill.”

  “No kidding! What were they doing when they were caught?”

  “Trying to break into the jeweler’s on East Fifth Street.”

  “That sounds a bit petty for The Devil’s Trill. I’d expect him to target something bigger and more important, not a small jewelry store.”

  “I think you’re right. Maybe they’re testing something out.”

  “Or maybe it was a diversion. Did the news show what they looked like?”

  “No. They’d already been hustled over to the police station by the time that Bailey woman popped out with the camera.”

  Dad and I exchanged glances. Then, as though on cue, we both frowned at each other. “This must be the longest conversation we’ve had since you turned into a crazy teenager,” he said, looking mystified.

  “Yeah—I think so, too.” A moment of awkward silence passed. “I guess I should get ready for bed.”

  Dad sighed, as did I. He yawned, once again looking relaxed and contented as he turned his attention back to the movie. “All right. Good night, Eric.”

  Liz was in the shower, and Mom was finishing up in the kitchen. I kissed her goodnight and swore to go over my Chemistry Lab with her at my earliest convenience. This wasn’t a good enough time frame for her, and she insisted on talking to me tomorrow at breakfast. Before heading to my bed I threw out the garbage.