Shooter

by Caroline Pignat

  “Who knows?” I add. “I might even take a year or two and volunteer in the orphanage or something.”

  He nods.

  Then, remembering why I came, I pick up the camera hanging around my neck. Swiping my thumb over the switch, I turn it on as I raise it and look through the viewfinder. His shocked face fills the frame.

  “Say CHEE-eese,” I say, in my Yearbook Editor way.

  He doesn’t, in his Xander way.

  Click.

  If that didn’t totally freak him out, now he gets even more awkward when I pull my seat over beside his wheelchair. His face gets all red. I take the strap off my neck and flip the camera around to show him the display.

  “See? You can edit right on the camera.” I press a few buttons and change the look. “Crop. Filters. Adjust the light. Or you can shoot black-and-white, if that’s still your thing.”

  I hold it out. He looks at it, at me, back at the camera.

  “I figured,” I explain, “since your Tank got wrecked…”

  He blinks. Repeatedly. He doesn’t get it.

  “My parents bought me a better one for graduation,” I say. It surprised me, especially when Dad said it was Mom’s idea—that she wanted to get me something special to help me follow my heart. That she knew how much I loved photography.

  Maybe she knows me better than I thought.

  “Anyway,” I put it in his hands, “I don’t need this, so it’s yours. If you want it.”

  Xander slowly lifts the camera. Looks through the viewfinder. Tests the zoom.

  I smile. “Hey, here’s something your Tank couldn’t do. Press this.” I push the timer button. “Hold it about here.” He does as instructed, holding it at arm’s length with the lens facing down at us side by side.

  3…

  2…

  1…

  Click.

  Xander turns it around to see the display. A black-and-white shot of us. Optimal selfie angle, of course. My hair is perfect. My pose, cute. My smile, wide. But I hardly notice any of that. All I see is the look on Xander’s face. The wonder in his eyes. The small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  He looks like a kid at Christmas.

  XANDER

  June 10, 2016

  Dear Max,

  It’s been nearly a month since the lockdown. Four weeks since I’ve seen you. Four weeks that I’ve been stuck in this hospital waiting to see if my legs will work again. I have to use a wheelchair, just like Professor Xavier (it is not half as awesome as it sounds). But the doctor says I have an 80 percent chance of full recovery. He says that the body has amazing regenerative powers. (All this time, I had a superpower and didn’t know it!)

  I asked Mrs. O’Neill if everything broken might eventually heal, like a bone. She said that anything is possible. Actually, it was her idea to write you. She thought it might help.

  I won’t be going back to school this year. I gave the police all my logs and photos of our missions. And you know how good I am at remembering all the details. They know everything now. I know I vowed to you that I’d keep our X-Men Missions secret, but I can’t keep that promise any more. I am sorry, Max.

  What you did was wrong. And even if I never did anything but hold the camera or buy the stuff, what I did—not telling anyone, not listening to that little voice inside me that said we shouldn’t—I get it now, that was wrong too.

  Lately, I’ve been thinking about you and me and Mrs. O’Neill’s Friendship Checklist. Yes, we had common interests, but the more I think about it, you were usually laughing at me, not with me. You often lied to me about your real plans and used me to get stuff. I thought we were friends, probably because you were the only one I ever had. But after doing a Social Autopsy, I must conclude, Max, that you did not see me as a friend.

  Realizing this made me feel hurt and frustrated and just plain stupid. But Mrs. O’Neill helped me see what I had not noticed: I was always a good friend to you. I admired you. I helped you. I shared with you (remember my jet that I never got back?). I even gave you my dad’s comics because I knew it would make you happy. I liked hanging out with you, Max. We had some good times. I’ll miss that.

  You taught me a lot of stuff, too, mainly about Marvel. Now, I love Marvel mutants. I totally relate to them. No, I cannot shoot laser beams from my eyes or adamantium claws from my knuckles—though that would be cool! I can’t manipulate the weather, fire, or ice, or control minds or metal. But I know what it feels like to be different.

  I think we both know what that’s like.

  I noticed something else, Max. In all the Marvel comics, the mutants start out hating what makes them different. But as they evolve they realize what it takes to raise a storm, read a mind, or even take a stand when no one else will.

  Courage.

  It takes courage to risk being different—but I think it’s worth it. It’s so worth it. Because what makes us different is what makes us powerful. And what we choose to do with that power can make us heroes.

  And I choose to be a hero, Max.

  I’m glad we met. Despite the ending, I’m still glad our stories mixed like a crossover series. Remember when you first told me about crossovers? I hated the idea of characters from one comic appearing in another. The Avengers should not be in a battle with the X-Men. Characters should stay in their own worlds where they belong. (Honestly, I don’t even like it when my foods touch.) But then you showed me the A vs. X series…and I loved it! Almost as much as my Star Wars comics. You were right. It’s good to mix things up sometimes. I think that if a character gets too comfortable the story gets predictable and boring. Other characters bring tension and conflict, problems and drama, lots of drama—but like Ms. Carter and Stan THE MAN Lee say, that’s the key to a great story.

  Maybe it’s also the key to a great life.

  I’m not sure when I’ll be able to deliver your letter. I’ve seen the newspapers. I’ve read the horrible things the press is saying about you and your home life. But even if no one else cared about you—I did.

  You mattered to me, Max. And I just wanted to let you know.

  Your friend,

  Xander

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The characters in this novel are fictional, but it still took a village to raise them. I wanted Izzy, Hogan, Alice, Xander, Noah, and Max to be relatable, recognizable, as real as possible, and that meant research. Lots of research. I am so thankful to my friends and colleagues who were key resources in developing each of these characters.

  Thanks especially to:

  —my kids, Liam and Marion. Liam, thanks for teaching me all about comics, even if you won’t let me touch them. Marion, thanks for inspiring me with your amazing photography, and for your great shot, used in the last chapter. You guys are MARVELous. (See what I did there?)

  —the fabulous gang at the 2014 Carver-Stinson Seaside Writing Workshop, who first met the novel’s characters and gave me the courage to keep going. Thanks to Jocelyne Stone, Gwynn Scheltema, Shannon McFerran, Miriam Koerner, Joyce Major, and Peter Carver, and a special thanks to Kathy Stinson for the insights and feedback in our one-on-one session. I came away from that week with great memories, new friends, fresh ideas, renewed confidence, and a newfound obsession with knitted socks.

  —Constable Sean Carroll of the Ottawa Police Service, and Sandra Lemieux of the Children’s Aid Society of Ottawa, for taking the time to answer my many questions about procedures and resources. Thanks for all you both do to keep our kids safe. You guys are amazing!

  —my agent, Marie Campbell, who raises the bar, coaches me over it, and cheers me on. Without you, I’d still be wishing from the sidelines.

  —Lynne Missen and her editorial team. Lynne, thanks for all the ways you helped me find these characters’ voices. Thanks especially for believing in mine.

  —Vikki VanSickle, for your enthusiasm, encouragement, and especially for helping me become a tweet-gramming fool. Thanks to you, I’ve found a whole new platform to promote my work and
embarrass my kids.

  —my parents, Peggy and Alan, and my husband, Tony, who always say they want to read my first draft (even if they don’t) and always say it’s good (even if it isn’t). I would never have started writing without your encouragement. And would never have finished it without your mojitos.

  And a special thanks to the awesome staff and students at All Saints High School, who inspire me daily. I am honored to share in your stories and grateful for the many ways you enrich mine. In particular, I’d like to thank:

  —the All Saints grade 12 Photography class: Lina Akkawi, Savannah Atout, Jessica Box, Max G., Sydney Hill, Emily Hobson, Samuel Inkoom, Ashley Irwin, Jessica Jonas, Justin Kaluski, Kristen Langdon, Kathleen Lebel, Nicholas Lypps, Peter M., Morgan O., Janelle Rowsell, Trisha Santos, Bianca Texeira, Jacob Tynski, Justin Winters, Nathan Yee, and their fabulous teacher, Graham Mastersmith. Thank you for taking on Xander’s photos as a class assignment and for showing us the world through his lens.

  —Carolyn Dyer and Jennifer Percival, for your photography support.

  —Erin Connolly, for being a fabulous mad scientist and prank imagineer.

  —Jenn Scrim and your wonderful group of Educational Assistants in the High Needs Room, whose resources and recommendations helped me come to know Noah’s experience and perspective.

  —Cheryl Orzel, Danielle Baillie, and Sydney Dowd, for sharing your amazing insights and profound experiences on DREX trips.

  —Wendy MacPhee, Amy Talarico, and Donelda Pleau, for your knowledge, wisdom, and wonderful empathy both inside and outside the Resource Room.

  —our amazing Student Services and Administration teams, who patiently answered my countless bizarre questions that began with, “Hypothetically speaking, if a student…”

  —every hero that I have journeyed with in my grade 12 Writer’s Craft classes. I’m so glad our stories crossed, even if it was just for one semester. I hope your adventures continue to be epic.

  Thanks to you all for being in my village!