Captain Superlative

by J. S. Puller

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful!”

  I held up a hand. “But,” I said sharply, “I’m not wearing a costume.”

  Captain Superlative shook her head, smiling. “You don’t have to!”

  “And I’m not picking a new name.”

  “But that’s half of the fun.”

  “I like my name.”

  “All right.” She tucked Selina into the crook of her arm and held out a hand to me. “Sidekick?”

  I took it. “Deal.”

  We shook hands.

  Our conspiring began over brownies, comic books, and study guides for the social-studies test. We must have been whispering and giggling almost to midnight. When Captain Superlative left, she gave me another hug and told me how proud of me she was. My cheeks flushed with heat, with warmth. In all of the excitement of beginning something new, though, I forgot that I’d never really gotten an answer to my question. I didn’t know why she’d suddenly decided to just be a superhero. It didn’t matter.

  I chose Captain Superlative. I chose the flood.

  And that’s how it might have ended. But instead, it was just the beginning.

  Birth.

  Becoming.

  Being.

  “Hi, Janey!” Captain Superlative called loudly from the other side of the front atrium. It was Monday morning and the sunlight was reflecting off the snow, filling the entry hall with blindingly white light. She was standing at the entrance to the seventh-grade hall, shining bright silver, handing out packets of paper to the kids as they passed her, disrupting and stirring the motes of dust.

  A few kids glanced back and forth between the two of us, but no one said anything. I didn’t know what to expect when I walked into school and everyone saw me with her. And on purpose. When no one responded, I realized that I still had a choice. Oh, sure, I’d signed on to this crusade under the velvety cover of a dark Friday night, but in the clear light of day, there was an opportunity before me to back out. It seemed like the sort of thing Jane would have done. But if my father was right, if I really was Janey! and some kind of hero-in-waiting, then I was going to move forward.

  The decision was made.

  I walked over to Captain Superlative’s side and she handed me a stack of papers—study guides for the big social-studies test with gleaming red staples. The two of us had gone over and over the vocab words on Friday. I’d never spent so much time studying for a test in my life, never felt so prepared to walk into Ms. Hinton’s classroom. I gave Captain Superlative a skeptical look, though. “Isn’t it a little late for these? The test is today.”

  “It’s never too late!” she said. “And I felt bad. I only made them for the kids in my class, but everyone could use them.”

  Shrugging, I took my stack and started to hand out the guides. For a few minutes, it was surprisingly uneventful, anticlimactic. Even a little boring.

  Then I heard it.

  Dagmar’s voice seared through the morning buzz. “Wait. There are two of them now?”

  Dagmar approached us from the main entrance, with April trailing behind her. They wore matching peacoats and matching Blue Shoes. Kids stepped out of the way, lingering on the sidelines to see what was going to happen. Dagmar looked particularly regal. Her curly hair was pulled into a tight braid that crossed over the top of her head, a bit like a crown. The aristocratic sneer on her face was exaggerated by the bright red of her lipstick.

  Naturally, Captain Superlative was unafraid. “Good morning, Dagmar,” she said brightly, offering her one of the study guides.

  Dagmar snatched the guide out of her hand and crumpled it up, all in one blazing movement. She tossed the guide to the floor, crushing it under the heel of her Blue Shoe. Kids gasped and shifted in the crowd, hoping to slip away unnoticed. Even April, standing behind Dagmar’s shoulder, looked surprised.

  Panic flooded into my chest. I turned to Captain Superlative. What happened now? The queen had spoken.

  Calm as ever, Captain Superlative turned to April and offered her a guide from the pile. April reached to take it, but Dagmar got in the way. “No one wants your study guides.” Her gaze passed back and forth between us, no interest in April’s feelings on the matter.

  “That’s not true,” Captain Superlative said. “Really, it’s just that you don’t want our help. And that’s okay. You’re a straight-A student. You’ll probably ace the test. But if anyone else wants a guide, they’re more than welcome to have one.”

  I’m not sure who was more thrown by Captain Superlative’s placid reply—me or April or Dagmar. Dagmar sputtered, her cheeks turning pink. “No one,” she repeated, “wants your study guides.”

  “You don’t speak for everyone, Dagmar.” I said it without thinking. Again. Just like the Friday before with Paige. This time, I had no regrets. And I had an audience.

  Ripples of surprise passed through the other seventh graders. “You really don’t, Dagmar,” someone said.

  “Yeah,” several others agreed.

  Suddenly there was a chorus of murmuring. Even April nodded her head. Just slightly. Kids were siding with us over Dagmar Hagen.

  Dagmar Hagen.

  “I’ll take a study guide,” said a thin voice. Paige walked over to the hallway entrance, her books folded into the crook of her arm. Her cornrows were gathered in a green ribbon at the base of her neck. I had a feeling she didn’t need a study guide, but she—of all people—didn’t have anything to lose standing up to Dagmar. Captain Superlative handed her a guide, and with a smile thrown in my direction, Paige headed off to her first class.

  The dam broke. Our classmates started lining up on either side of the entrance, getting louder and louder as they asked us to pass them guides.

  “Ms. Hinton always puts trick questions on her tests.”

  “I totally forgot to study.”

  “Wait, that test is today?”

  Dagmar stood between the two lines, her lips slightly parted as her kingdom began to crash around her. April caught my eye, giving me a slight smile. It was the same smile she used to give me when my father told a particularly bad joke. As if everything that happened in third grade and after hadn’t happened at all. As if we were suddenly friends again.

  The warning bell rang. The hallway exploded into a chaotic mess. We ran out of guides as our classmates snatched the last few and raced off to homeroom. Dagmar remained still, statuelike. Her hands gripped her hips. Her eyes fixed on us. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Aw, calm down, Dagmar. It’s not a big deal.” Tyler Jeffries walked our way, his backpack casually draped over one shoulder. Dagmar immediately transformed, putting on the same sugary-sweet smile she used to charm the teachers.

  Tyler didn’t give her a second glance.

  He was walking toward…me. Directly toward me. I thought my eyes might bulge out of my head. “You have any study guides left? Ms. Hinton’s tests are absolute murder.”

  He was talking. To me.

  A strangled squeak threatened to bubble up out of my throat. Dazed and numb, I reached into my own bag. “Here,” I said. “You can have mine.”

  He smiled. “Thanks. But I don’t want to take your—”

  “No, I’m good,” I said, practically shoving it in his hands. “I think I can take the test in my sleep at this point.”

  “We studied all weekend,” Captain Superlative said.

  Tyler chuckled. “You’re smarter than I am,” he said. “The only time I even thought about the Greeks this weekend was when I got chicken gyros at the Hawthorne food court.”

  I laughed. “The only time?”

  “Remind me, who’s the god of war again? Is it Tzatziki?”

  “Pretty sure that’s a sauce.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Dang, I really should have studied.”

  “I think you’ll do all right.”

  “Guess we’ll find out.” He slipped the study guide into his bag and started to walk away. He looked back, over his shoulder. “Mo
ussaka’s the god of the sea, right?”

  “Poseidon!”

  His eyes lingered for a second longer before he turned, nodding to Captain Superlative. Then he was gone, pumping his fist in the air in triumph.

  I might have drifted off into a wonderful fog, except Dagmar was still posed in front of us. She’d seen the whole thing and let out a sharp laugh. “Good luck with that, Jane,” she said. “He’s never going to like you.”

  “I don’t know, Dagmar,” Captain Superlative said. “I’m pretty sure that Tyler likes everyone.”

  Dagmar pointed a manicured finger at me. “I see what you’re doing. That’s not how things work in this school.”

  It was true. Things had worked differently—until now.

  I shrugged. “Have a good day, Dagmar.”

  “Yes,” Captain Superlative said. “Good luck on the test! Or, as they say in the theatre, ‘Break a leg!’”

  Swallowing a scream of frustration, Dagmar turned her head up and stalked down the hall. April—who I’d completely forgotten was there—followed, waving to me and calling out, “Thanks, Janey!”

  So she still remembered my name after all.

  “Well, Janey,” Captain Superlative said, when we were at last alone. “How do you feel about your first test of bravery?”

  “Like I’m going to be sick,” I said, shaking my head a little bit. “I can’t believe we just did that to Dagmar Hagen.”

  “We didn’t do anything to Dagmar,” Captain Superlative said. “People made their own choices.”

  “It could really come back to explode in our faces.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But maybe not. Either way, it’ll be fun finding out what happens next.”

  “Yeah,” I said uneasily. “Fun.”

  I thought about Tyler’s lip, the way he’d smiled at me. The knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach started to loosen.

  Maybe this would be fun after all.

  Captain Superlative draped an arm around my shoulders and we started down the hall. She talked about our next great heroic scheme—something to do with doors—but I have to admit, I was only half listening. I looked from side to side, at the banks of lockers where other kids were putting away their coats, chatting with each other, scanning their new study guides. Some of them glanced up at us with smiles or waves. These were some of the same kids who’d formed a bubble around me back in third grade, who’d left me feeling isolated and without a friend in the world. I guess they’d changed since then.

  Or maybe I had.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Captain Superlative said, before curling up her fist and coughing into it. She was still in her coat, cheeks flushed pink from the morning air. It was Tuesday, and the lunch bell had just sounded. I’d spent most of the morning feeling like a bundle of nerve endings, ready at any second to become yet another target for Dagmar, but there’d been no sign of her today. Out sick, apparently. The panic had slowly started to melt away by the time Captain Superlative found me.

  “You okay?” I asked her.

  “Yeah.” She coughed again, but then took a deep breath and nodded, straightening up. “Just had to miss class. Family stuff.” She nodded toward a bank of lockers before slipping her arm over my shoulders. “C’mon.” She led me down the hall. “Let me drop off my stuff, then let’s head to the cafeteria. We’ve got a job to do.”

  It was nice to have a friend waiting to walk with me.

  “Hey, thanks for the study guide, Captain!” someone said, coming out of the classroom behind me.

  “You’re welcome!” she said, waving in no particular direction.

  A chorus of follow-up thank-yous sounded off. Yesterday’s test had been brutal, and a lot of the trick questions had been in the study guide. Who could remember that the ancient Athenian marketplace was called an agora?

  Well. I could. Now.

  Captain Superlative dropped her bag in front of a locker and started to turn the lock. “How did it go manning the doors this morning?” I’d agreed to hold them open for any teachers who came by with their hands full, just the way I’d seen her do it the day I’d followed her.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “I’ll bet those doors were no match for you!”

  “They were just doors.”

  “Never just.”

  “What did your family have you doing?”

  Before she could answer, a math worksheet drifted to my feet. “Look,” Captain Superlative said, pointing down to it. “Quick, there’s a citizen in need.”

  I laughed and picked it up. When I stood up, Tyler Jeffries was standing smack in front of me. Again. Two days in a row felt like winning the lottery. It felt like winning the lottery twice. “Thanks,” he said, taking the paper from my rigid hand.

  “No problem.”

  “Hey. It’s Jane, right?”

  “Yeah. Uh, you can call me Janey.”

  “Janey, the Greek goddess of social studies.”

  “I don’t know about that….”

  “Are you kidding? Without you, I would have said Feta Cheese was the name of the temple at the top of the Acropolis.”

  “You think with your stomach a lot.”

  Tyler barely had to pause before he made a comeback. “In my defense, food is delicious,” he said.

  “I guess it is.”

  “Also, I’m a ham.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” I said, remembering his football performance at Sunset Ridge Park. “Although I should probably point out that ham is also a food.”

  “Is it?”

  “Last time I checked.”

  He gave us a dimpled smile. “Oh well.” He shrugged. “Thanks again, Captain Superlative. Janey.”

  I couldn’t remember the rest of the walk to the cafeteria until I felt Captain Superlative nudge me with her elbow. “Janey?”

  “What?”

  “What’s the matter with you?

  “Tyler Jeffries knows my name.”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  Because he was Tyler Jeffries.

  The school cafeteria was a large square-shaped room with enormous gray and white tiles arranged in a checkerboard pattern on the floor. The sort of tiles that you would play “hot lava” on, skipping from white tile to white tile, pretending that the gray ones would melt your shoes. Of course, that was only a game. But the room had always promised danger of a different kind. It wasn’t quite the no-man’s-land that the hallways were—there were teachers milling around the perimeter—but it was still a place where Dagmar held court, where a word from her could make or break your spirit. Still a place where you could get burned. Even if she was out today, I still felt my throat tighten a little as we walked inside. This would be another test of my new resolve.

  Captain Superlative pulled a pair of brown paper bags out of her backpack, holding one of them out to me. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Mints,” she replied.

  I opened the bag, the smell hitting me. There were probably two hundred in there, all nestled in their own crinkly cellophane wrapping. They looked like jewels, glittering in the harsh, fluorescent light. “Okay. What are we doing with mints?”

  “The eighth graders have a science test today. Why don’t you go offer them to the kids who haven’t taken it yet?” she said. “They say that peppermint improves your memory.”

  I’d heard the same thing. My dad insisted that it was a myth spread by the peppermint manufacturers’ super-secret society—obviously headquartered in a hollowed-out volcano—to increase sales to gullible middle school students. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  She shrugged. “Does it matter? Some people do. And some people just like mints.”

  Okay. If I signed on for this ride, I was going to take it. I gave her a nod, grabbed the bag, and started to walk from table to table. Deerwood Park Middle School had long rectangular tables that stretched across the room, with benches attached to either side. There were no assigned seats, but the one
you took in sixth grade usually became your seat for life. That’s just the way it worked. For the last year and a half, I’d always sat at the very end of the bench of the very last table, closest to the door. Not exactly alone, but definitely isolated. I didn’t know what kind of reception to expect. It wasn’t that bad, though. Not bad at all. Everyone I stopped for took a mint. I got some smiles, a couple thank-yous. Several kids even thanked me by name. And not Jane. But Janey. Or, as my dad would have put it, Janey!

  “Is it true, what they’re saying?” a seventh grader asked me as she took a mint from the bag.

  “What are they saying?”

  “That you and Captain Superlative humiliated Dagmar Hagen, and there’s a video of the whole thing online?”

  “What? No. Nothing like that.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t tell if the girl was disappointed or skeptical. But she gave me a funny look before I moved on to the next table.

  I spotted Paige walking into the cafeteria, carefully balancing all of her textbooks and what looked like a dictionary in her arms. “Janey,” she said with a smile as I approached her.

  “Mint?” I asked her, holding out the bag.

  “Thanks.” She tucked her books under her arm and took one, twirling the end of the wrapper between her fingers. I lingered, watching her and watching the way she chewed on her lip. “You’re sitting with Captain Superlative today?” she said, after a moment.

  “Yeah. Over there.” I gestured to the table on top of which Captain Superlative was sitting with her feet on the bench, handing out mints. “You want to sit with us?”

  “Sure.”

  “C’mon.”

  We made our way over to the table, but just before we got there, Paige glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “You know what that means, right?”

  “What?”

  “Sitting with me and Captain Superlative?”

  “It means that I’m with you,” I said.

  She smiled slightly. “Good.”