Heroine's Journey

by Sarah Kuhn

  My gaze slid to Ichabod Lite’s table again, scanning for clues that might help me settle on a new emotion. I noticed a pile of papers that had been scribbled all over. Hmm. I’d been half joking about him being a frustrated novelist, but maybe that’s what he was? Okay, I could use that. I refocused, scrapping the joy, and went directly to the emotion favored by Asian elders everywhere, particularly big sisters who want you to cover up your light and be all boring and basic and shit: guilt.

  “Aw, man,” I said, forcing my shoulders to relax and my voice to go regretful. I gathered up the guilt, felt it deep in my bones, and sent it spinning his way. His face fell and he looked confused. “It’s such a shame when a book . . . encounters coffee that way. Such a shame for the author. It’s just . . .” I let out a massive sigh that would’ve made my ancestors proud. “. . . so sad.”

  “I . . .” Ichabod Lite’s eyes shifted back and forth.

  “Imagine if that author was you,” I said, making my eyes all big and pleading and projecting that guilty feeling at him with extra gusto. “Imagine if you worked so hard on your masterpiece, on shaping those words into coherent story formation, and all of that was undone in two seconds, thanks to a full cup of coffee and a bit of clumsiness, and it’s all . . . just . . . so . . . sad.”

  “I guess,” Ichabod Lite said, haughtiness overtaking his tone again. He frowned at me. I could tell he was struggling, but this guilt thing wasn’t doing the trick either. Goddammit. Asian Guilt is supposed to be the most powerful force in the universe.

  So what now? One thing that tended to be most effective with strong personalities was using an emotion they went to naturally, something that was an essential part of their core personality. But what was that here? What emotion had enough presence in Ichabod’s daily life to make an impact?

  “But I sincerely doubt this writer worked hard at all,” Ichabod sniffed, drawing himself up tall. “Certainly not as hard as I’ve worked on my novel, which interweaves themes of intergenerational trauma, the suppressed rage of men, and the universality of the human condition.”

  “Not to mention the theme of being boring as shit,” Leah said. Pancake snuffled in agreement.

  I took a deep breath and focused on Ichabod—really focused on him. His skin was red and mottled, his breath huffing and puffing with such force, such outrage, such—

  Wait. Of course. I should’ve seen it instantly.

  Ichabod probably never allowed something so trite as joy into his life. And he was clearly lacking the self-awareness necessary to feel guilt over anything. No, he was definitely powered by a single thing: righteous indignation. The conviction that he was infallible, persecuted, and unfairly treated by the entire universe. I could so use that.

  It was easy to summon my own righteous indignation, thanks to the phone that was yet again buzzing against my hip. I homed in on my annoyance at Evie and her five million text messages, her repeated mantra that I “wasn’t ready” to become a full-fledged superhero alongside her, her insistence on always seeing me as the teenager I’d once been, that broken girl with an abandonment complex and extreme lack of impulse control.

  I was so sick of having the same fight with her. I was ready, dammit. She refused to see me as I was now: a capable adult person doing capable adult things. I’d be a huge asset to her team; I could do so much. So much more than controlling irritating customers with my mind.

  I gathered up everything I was feeling and projected hard, sending it spinning toward Ichabod with all the force I could muster.

  Pumpkin spice all up in this bitch.

  Then I met his eyes, trying to make my gaze intense and understanding all at once.

  “It’s so unfair, isn’t it?” I said to him. “When people don’t recognize all the hard work you’re doing?”

  “Well . . . yeah,” he said, his indignation ratcheting up another notch.

  “You’ve probably been working on your book for . . . what? Five years?”

  “Seven,” he seethed, shaking his head. “I’ve written forty-three drafts and still. All I get are rejections.”

  “So unfair,” I repeated. “It’s like nobody truly sees you.”

  “Nobody does!” he spat out. “Nobody. It’s like I’m doing all this for nothing.”

  “I know how that feels,” I continued.

  “You—you do?” He blinked at me. Still indignant, but momentarily confused. Probably because I’d pivoted away from his favorite topic: himself.

  “I put so much into the section of the store I manage,” I said, placing my hand over my heart. “Organizing and curating the gloriousness that is Paranormal Romance, and for what? Nobody appreciates it. Nobody appreciates me. Everybody still sees me as the loser eighteen-year-old college drop-out I was when I first got this job, and I’m like, hello? I’m twenty-two now. And I’ve never even gotten a raise.”

  “That’s . . . not right,” he said, blinking rapidly.

  “And also not true,” Charlotte murmured, sounding injured. I waved a hand to shush her. I was lying my ass off for the greater good.

  “No, it’s not right,” I agreed with Ichabod. “And that ruined book . . . well.” I made my eyes go a little dark. Haunted, even. “It’s from my section. That means . . .” I paused for dramatic effect and projected indignation at him extra hard. “It’s gonna come out of my paycheck.”

  “What!” he exploded, shaking his head. “That is so not right. I will organize a protest in your honor. Start a petition. Write a strongly worded letter. I will . . . will . . .”

  “Or,” I said sweetly, still projecting righteous indignation with all my might, “there’s actually a very simple way to right that wrong. You—er, the person responsible for this little coffee disaster just needs to admit it. And pay for the book.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” he huffed. “Wrongs must always be righted, hard workers must be avenged, and . . . and . . . I did it.” He shook his head—again, as if trying to get free. “I did it,” he blurted out again. His eyes widened, like he couldn’t believe his own behavior. “I am outraged . . . at myself. And I should absolutely pay for it.”

  “Get the sequel, too,” I said, unable to resist.

  “Yes. Yes.” He nodded vigorously. “And when I get home, I can start that petition—”

  “No need,” I said breezily. “That’ll be twenty-nine-ninety-eight plus tax. Leah and Pancake here can ring you up.”

  “Follow us!” Leah chimed in gleefully, waving Pancake’s paw at Ichabod. “You’re fucking brilliant,” she whispered to me as she led him back to the bookstore area. Pancake snorted in agreement. Ichabod was starting to look confused again, so I gave Leah the “wrap it up” hand motion behind his back, indicating she should proceed with the sale quickly.

  I smiled as I watched them go, allowing myself a tiny victory fist-pump. I knew it was small potatoes in the grand scheme of things, but it always felt good to bend a truly jerky person to my will, to defuse their dumbassery and make my small sphere of San Francisco a better place.

  “Take that, you mansplaining mofo,” I muttered under my breath, making finger guns at Ichabod’s retreating back.

  Bzzz! Bzzzz! Bzzzzzzzzz!

  The vibrations seemed extra angry and insistent. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I yanked the phone out of my pocket and saw that it was actually ringing this time—Evie had apparently escalated to a call after her texts had gone ignored. I tapped the screen and jammed the phone to my ear.

  “What?” I hissed. “What do you want? Wait, save it—I know what you want. And for the record: No, I do not forgive you, yes, I am still mad, and absolutely one-hundred percent yes, I am not speaking to you for the foreseeable future, so stop texting me and save your stupid non-apologies for someone who actually cares and just let me be mad.”

  “Bea—” she began.

  I hung up. Any sense of triu
mph I might have felt over successfully handling a difficult customer was totally ruined, washed away by the wave of rage that was pulsing through my entire body.

  Honestly. I could be lauded by my co-workers and save my place of employ from losing thousands of dollars in ruined books every year and still. All of it was undone by a moment of my sister reminding me that she would never, ever see me as the badass superhero I was meant to be.

  I flashed to Ichabod—irritating as he was, ultimately he just wanted what I wanted: for people to see him as he truly was, rather than what their initial perceptions might say. For people to give him the chance to become the complete, fully realized, totally awesome person he was meant to be and to live the truly fabulous life he was meant to live.

  “I feel you, Ichabod,” I muttered.

  Ugh. Really? Now this whole mess with Evie had me connecting with a truly awful human being. Thanks, Big Sis.

  I turned my phone off and stuffed it in my pocket for the rest of my shift.

  Which I knew would piss Evie off.

  No, this was not a mature action. But if my big sister insisted on seeing me as a child, then I sure as fucking hell was going to take a little bit of immature joy in acting like one.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I DECIDED TO spend a few calming moments in the It’s Lit bathroom before heading home after my shift. Maybe a little zen would soothe me, and then I’d be able to present my arguments to Evie and Co. for the millionth time in a reasoned, totally mature way.

  I suppose some people might argue with my choice of the word “mature” applied to a presentation involving so much glitter. But my series of Why Bea Should Join the Superteam posterboards required pizzazz to get my point across, and nothing says pizzazz like a shit-ton of glitter.

  I slumped to the floor of the bathroom, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at the toilet, the sink, the wall. I breathed deeply, trying to allow the cozy atmosphere of the bathroom to drain my anger. The pink lighting was gentle and womb-like, and the little dishes of potpourri strewn around the room added a not-too-overpowering floral scent. But the best part—the part customers always raved about—was the wall opposite the toilet, which Leah had set up as a sort of evolving art installation. We’d put out markers and craft supplies, and customers and staff had doodled and pasted their creations all over the wall, leaving empowering messages (“Yassss, queen—and you’re ALL queens!”), reader recommendations (“Nalini Singh’s latest is FIRE EMOJI”—coupled with an actual drawing of a fire emoji, in case the message wasn’t clear), and tiny bits of decoration (the whimsical animals made out of cotton balls were my personal favorite).

  I stared at the wall and hugged my knees to my chest. Images from the night before flashed through my brain, Evie twisting her hands together in that nervous way that indicated she was feeling guilty about “being mean” to someone. “We don’t think you’re ready yet, Bea,” she’d said. “There are so many split second decisions that happen during this stuff, and . . . and . . .”

  “And you have not exactly proven yourself to be a model of good instincts when it comes to decision-making in general,” Aveda had cut in, regarding me sternly. Aveda is never worried about “being mean.” “No offense,” she added hastily, when Evie shot her a look.

  They always gave me the same speech. Even though I was constantly changing my presentation to them. My posterboards featured a wide array of ever-changing spreadsheets and charts and fun graphics (and glitter!) showing exactly how and why I’d be an asset to the team. And okay, yes, sometimes I also got distracted by a bright, shiny new tangent and made a whole new posterboard around that and Evie just had to go and remind me that part of my problem was lack of focus—

  Well. Anyway.

  Evie and Aveda had been official co-heroines for four years and best friends for way longer than that, and their bond was so tight they had some kind of weird and totally not supernatural telepathic connection with each other. That connection had come in handy over the years as they’d battled the various demons who had swarmed San Francisco—and it was hard to imagine a time when demons hadn’t swarmed San Francisco. It had all started thirteen years ago, when a wannabe demon queen named Shasta (or at least that was her human cover name) opened the very first Otherworld portal to the city. She’d actually been trying to take over the city for years, having staked out Earth as the realm she wanted to rule. Her raiding party of humanoid demons had come through that first portal, set on invasion. But unfortunately for Shasta, her portal was so unstable that it snapped shut immediately, killing her invasion team and sending their special demon superpowers into various human bodies—like mine and Evie’s and Aveda’s. It also had aftereffects, smaller portals that kept opening up and depositing smaller demons on our doorstep.

  Aveda had christened herself Aveda Jupiter, beloved superheroine of San Francisco, and fought these “puppy demons”—piranha-like pests who imprinted on the first earthly object they saw. Evie had been her personal assistant for a while, but now they were legit partners, and San Francisco definitely needed them. There was only one Otherworld portal left in the city—a dark, mysterious thing located on the floor of local lingerie shop Pussy Queen. Though the portal itself was mostly closed and mostly dormant, its presence had allowed supernatural energy to leak through slowly over the years. That meant there was still a plethora of supernatural shenanigans to be had in the city, but they were unpredictable: One week might find Evie and Aveda battling mysterious invisible pests at a greeting card store (“Greetings from Ghost Town!” I’d crowed—they hadn’t laughed), another might have them trying to figure out why a statue in Japantown had come to life and started attacking people.

  But whatever the demon issue, they were always there, ready to save the city yet again. And I wanted to be right there with them. I knew that whenever they said no they were probably thinking back to the time I’d rebelled and sort of, kind of, temporarily joined Shasta in her evil-doing ways. All because I’d been pissed off at Evie, of course. But I’d changed.

  How could Evie know I wasn’t ready, that I’d make bad decisions now, if she never even gave me the chance?

  Someday I’d hit on the exact right strategy, the exact right argument to convince her. Leah and I had been working for months on a special secret project, something that would send me into the kickass superheroine stratosphere.

  I stood and walked over to the craft wall. I ran my fingers over the notes and cotton balls and attempts at papier-mâché. Studying the wall was strangely intimate; like seeing everyone’s secret innermost thoughts on display. Maybe it was the anonymity of it—when you wrote down a sentiment and put it on the wall, you never had to say it out loud. You didn’t have to sign it. You could just let it be.

  And judging from some of the more colorful entries (“I know you cheated on me, Greg, my revenge will be swift and sweet!”), people felt like they could share things from the very depths of their souls. I had my own increasingly expansive doodle crawling down the far right side of the wall, accompanied by various thoughts I had on various days.

  I never want to be normal

  I want to live an extraordinary life

  I want fabulous adventures, fabulous food, and fabulous sex

  I shook my head at the doodle. All this wanting. Where was it getting me, exactly? Time to make a more declarative statement. I picked up a marker, pressed it firmly against the wall, and wrote:

  I will be the greatest superhero of all time

  Then, for good measure, I added: Just you wait

  “You know it, Lin-Manuel,” I murmured.

  I knew I’d come back tomorrow and find someone responding with enthusiasm to the Hamilton reference. Most people wouldn’t notice my bigger proclamation, and if they did, they probably wouldn’t care.

  But for just a moment, it felt good to move past wanting, to reach for something real.

  * *
*

  I breezed out of the bathroom, all set to head home and redo my Why Bea Should Get to Join the Superteam presentation, when I was stopped by a familiar figure.

  “Hey,” said Nicole Yamamoto, my nemesis. (This is how she must be referred to at all times, a simple “Nicole” will not do.) She placed a perfectly manicured hand on her hip and jiggled her empty coffee cup at me. “Refill?”

  Even though she’d spent the last hour pretzeled up in a café chair, reading all the books she’d so carelessly ripped from the shelves and wasn’t going to buy, there wasn’t a wrinkle on her perfect beige pencil skirt and crisp white blouse. The side part in her smooth sheet of black hair was so precise, it looked like she’d done it with a ruler. And she was looking at me with her usual extreme disdain, that special Nicole brand of condescension that said, Yes, I am an important paralegal doing important paralegal things and you are a tiny flea whose purpose is to serve me even though we used to be BFFs who did gross things together like eat sand out of the sandbox. Also, your hair is dumb.

  “I’m off work, my shift just ended,” I said, trying to shoot some of that disdain right back at her. “Try, I don’t know, the person actually standing behind the coffee counter?”

  “There’s no one there,” she said, rolling her eyes at me. “And I need to caffeinate before I stay up all night with the stacks of research I need to do for the case I’m working on. It’s kind of important.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, resisting the urge to roll my eyes right back at her. “Since it’s important, I guess I should clock back in and make sure your every need is fulfilled, eh?”

  “That would be great,” she said, without missing a beat. She gave me a tight, prissy smile.

  I felt my shoulders tensing up. “Listen—”

  “Did I hear someone say coffee? Because I have coffee.” Sam Fujikawa dashed up, toting two full to-go cups. He handed one to Nicole and flashed her his patented heartthrob grin: way too many teeth showing, dark eyes sparkling in a way that seemed to imply he had just fucked that coffee six ways from Sunday.