by Sarah Kuhn
My heart nearly stopped.
“They’re Mom’s hospital records!” I shrieked. I pulled the records free and brandished them in the air. “Look, there’s her death certificate. This is the missing part of the file! The end of the file.” I frowned, running my fingertips over my mother’s name. “What the hell is Kathy doing with this?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MY SECOND MISSION of the day had barely started and I already regretted it.
After determining there was nothing else of interest in Kathy’s booth, Aveda, Shruti, and I had hauled the hospital records, parchment paper, and the blue cabinet back to HQ. Nate and Scott were going to see if they could use a combination of scientific and magical tests to produce further clues. My mind was stuck on what it all meant, my head swirling with possibilities. But I had to shove those thoughts to the side to focus on my current mission. Which wasn’t going so well.
As planned, I’d met Sam at the Lazy Daisy, the café where Leah had spotted Poet. The place was packed with a wide range of the Bay Area’s more colorful characters, from cantankerous seniors to young artists angsting into their coffee to a loud gaggle of teenagers crowded around a tiny corner table. There was a constant buzz of chaotic energy running through the place, an endless soundtrack of silverware clinking and servers yelling “BEHIND YOU” as they contorted their bodies to move around each other.
The café’s design enhanced the chaos—cramped seating, low ceilings, and a collection of whimsical teapots haphazardly placed everywhere. Normally I would’ve loved a spot like this, but Poet was nowhere to be seen, and Ms. Bore and Mr. Brag were already doing their damndest to make this brunch as unbearable as possible.
“Really, Sam, we gave up a five-star eatery for this?” Emily said, making a face at her clearly sub-par cappuccino. “I know you’re all about that Bay Area quaintness, but I hoped we could catch up in a more . . . sanitary environment.”
“Sammy likes to keep it real,” Alex said, making finger guns at Sam. “I can dig on that. But, you know, I’d love more protein shake options.” He frowned at his food. “Aren’t you San Francisco types all about that crunchy granola stuff?”
“Not all of us,” I said. “Some of us are all about potatoes.”
“So funny,” Alex said, transferring his finger guns to me. “I’ve always thought she was so funny, Sammy. Why haven’t you two ever gotten together?”
“We’re friends,” Sam said, his voice tight. “As I’ve told you every time you ask me that. Also, she has a name, and you can address her directly instead of talking about her like she’s not here.” He used his fork to stab at his food with more force than necessary, his eyes on his plate. Being around Emily and Alex always made him tense up in a very un-Sam-like manner. I gave his knee a gentle squeeze under the table, trying to let him know I was there for him. If he wanted me to be there for him, that was. I still wasn’t sure what he wanted after his weird, distant demeanor this morning, and I was trying not to dwell on it or let it bother me.
After all, I needed to focus on the mission. I kept craning my neck to see if I could catch any glimpse of Poet. I was also scoping out the various servers, to figure out if one might be willing to talk to me about the teenage clientele. Though I could always soften ’em up if they were surly.
“So Bea,” Emily said, in that fake bright voice that indicated she was pretending to care about a random detail of my life. “Your hair. It’s so . . . quirky. Like a comic book character’s. I just read the most interesting academic article about how the colorful hair streak—or brightly colored hair, period—is a marker of the rebellious Asian girl stereotype in media. Apparently, creators started adding it to signify that their Asian girl character isn’t the docile, submissive stereotype—but in doing so, they created a whole new stereotype! Isn’t that hilarious?” She let out a peal of brittle laughter.
“Oh, um, yeah, that does happen sometimes,” I said, trying to keep my tone mild. “I’ve read some books by white people that totally do that. But I think that mostly applies if said Asian girl character only has the one personality trait, as expressed via that hair streak. If the hair streak is supposed to stand in for her entire personality, you know? Whereas I am a real person. With tons of personality traits.”
“Wow, that was so articulate,” Emily said, shaking her head, like she couldn’t believe I was capable of such a thing. “But don’t you think you have a responsibility—you know, being out there working retail, being so visible to so many—to represent well?”
“I dye my hair because I like the way it looks,” I said, with the brightest, sweetest smile I could muster. “If someone thinks I’m a stereotype because of that, they can fuck off.”
“Emily, give it a rest,” Sam said, glaring at her.
“Just trying to engage in stimulating brunch conversation,” she said, rolling her eyes at him.
“It’s not stimulating,” he grumbled. “It’s you being a jerk.”
“So Mom and Dad still haven’t talked you into going back to school, eh?” Alex said, clapping Sam on the back in what he probably thought was a jovial manner. “You know Em and I both have connections all over the Ivy League. We could put in a word—”
“That’s okay,” Sam said. “I’m still not interested. Hey, do you guys want more coffee?”
“Oh, Sammy, you’re still so young,” Emily said, shaking her head. “And you’re so smart. You were always the smartest of us.”
“You were,” Alex said, nodding emphatically. “You had so much potential. You could’ve taken it all in the little contest Em and I have going on, accumulating advanced degrees.”
“Oh, shut up, Alex, it’s so embarrassing when you boast about that stuff,” Emily said, laughing way too cheerily. It was clear that she didn’t find it embarrassing at all.
I shot a disbelieving look at Sam, but his eyes were firmly trained on his food. He seemed determined to weather this conversation by not responding to either of them.
“There’s still time for you to get out there and really do something with your life,” Emily continued. “I know you say you’re happy hanging out, fixing people’s cars—”
“Oh, buddy,” Alex interjected, “if you could take a look at my new Maserati while we’re in town? It’s making this clinking noise. I’d be much obliged.”
“Is it the, um, photos you’re worried about?” Emily pressed. “The ones in that silly calendar? I know you’re probably thinking they’re the sort of thing you want to actively hide from a grad school application, but a lot of admissions offices actually like that kind of . . . color.”
“We just think it would be great for you to broaden your horizons in general,” Alex chimed in. “Get out, see the world, meet new people . . .”
“Yes,” Emily urged. “Maybe meet someone special.” Her gaze darted to me as if to say: Not like this weird-hair, weird-clothes, unmotivated bad influence and bad representing stereotype you’re always keeping company with.
“We just want you to be happy, Sammy,” Alex said, suddenly looking solemn for no reason.
“We do,” Emily said, pressing her lips together and looking down at her food like she was about to get super emotional over the dire state of Sam’s future.
I shoveled hash browns into my mouth and looked at Alex, then Emily, then back at Alex again. Were they for real? They had always talked down to Sam and treated him with a certain level of disdain, but this display of faux concern was a new tactic—and it had my blood boiling. Who were they to tell him how to live his life when they clearly didn’t know him at all? He didn’t just “fix cars”—dissecting the inner workings of engines was his passion. He wasn’t embarrassed by his calendar photos—he was proud of them. And he was still the smartest of all of them—that wasn’t even up for debate.
I turned to Sam, hoping to see him straighten in his seat, about to fight back. He usually fo
ught back. But today, he seemed listless, like he was just going to take whatever they slung at him, let them diminish him until he was ground down to nothing. The only time he’d spoken up was to defend me. He was slumped in his chair, poking at his food with his fork.
For some reason, that made me even madder. As much as I rolled my eyes at his cockiness, his smugness, his heartthrob swagger, seeing it all taken away was unbearable. And if he wasn’t going to fight back, I would.
I gathered up all my rage and indignation and projected it directly at Ms. Bore and Mr. Brag: I can’t believe I’m such a pompous asshole, I thought. I’m sorry, Sam.
“I can’t believe I’m such a pompous asshole,” Alex said out loud.
“Yes,” Emily said. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
Their faces had that glazed, docile look, and I felt a vicious twist of triumph.
Sam’s head snapped up. “What . . .”
You heard me, I thought at them. Pompous. Asshole. And I’m not just sorry for this time, I’m sorry for every time I’ve made you feel small or diminished or less-than.
“You heard me,” Alex said, his voice taking on a monotonous quality. “Pompous. Asshole.”
“And I’m not just sorry for this time,” Emily said, mirroring his tone. “I’m sorry for every time I’ve made you feel small or diminished or less-than.”
Sam turned to me, a million different emotions playing over his face. “Bea,” he said. “Stop it.”
I leaned back in my chair and examined my nails. “Stop what?”
“You know what,” he hissed. “Stop. Now.”
But we’re her puppets, I thought at them. And we kind of deserve it for being such complete and utter tools.
“But we’re her puppets,” Alex said.
“And we kind of deserve it for being such complete and utter tools,” Emily added.
My triumph surged, power coursing through me. That’s right, assholes.
“Bea.” Sam grabbed my hand, and pulled me to my feet. “Outside.”
He placed a hand at the small of my back and steered me through the chaos of the café, toward the exit. I didn’t protest. At least I’d gotten him to finally take action and get away from his awful siblings.
We exited onto the sidewalk. I noticed the big gaggle of teenagers who had been crammed into the corner table lingering outside. A few of them gave us curious looks, but most seemed engrossed in their conversation.
“Why did you do that?” Sam said, crossing his arms over his chest. I realized I had never seen him truly angry—he was usually much too busy being all heartthrob-esque and smug for that. But right now, he looked . . . well, angry. Really angry.
“They were being awful to you,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “They don’t respect you at all. And you just sat there and took it, and I couldn’t take that, I had to fight back—”
“How I handle my siblings is my business,” he retorted. “And anyway, this isn’t a demon-infested battlefield. This is brunch. You can’t just go around mind-controlling people because they aren’t doing what you want them to. What happened to your code, Beatrice?”
My face flushed. “My code is evolving,” I said. “That’s what has to happen when your powers evolve, Sam, your superheroing code evolves with it—”
“And that’s another thing,” he said, shaking his head in frustration. “What’s happening with your power? You need to talk to Evie—”
“Now who’s telling whom how to deal with their siblings?” I snapped. “How I deal with Evie and this superheroing gig is my business—”
“Not when it puts you in danger,” he said. He scrubbed a hand over his face, overwhelmed with frustration. Then he stepped forward and put his hands on my shoulders. His face was intense and earnest, and he was staring at me like he could see my every thought. “Bea, when you passed out yesterday, it was really fucking scary.”
“You already told me that,” I grumbled.
“And I’m telling you again because you refused to talk about it last night,” he said. “Your power totally overwhelmed you in that moment. Or maybe it was the Otherworld magic overwhelming you, like Nate and Scott were talking about. You need to figure out what’s going on. And you can’t keep doing stuff like that—” He gestured back to the restaurant, where Emily and Alex were probably wondering what had happened to their loser brother and his loser friend. “—until you figure it out.”
“Samuel, I’m currently on a mission to liberate my mother from the Otherworld,” I said, shaking him off. “I don’t have time to stop and figure things out.”
“I’m worried about you—”
“Why?!” I glared at him. “You don’t need to be. We’re not . . . like that. With each other.”
“Like what?”
“You know what.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “We have fun together. We sometimes compete with each other—also all in good fun. But we don’t fight like this. We don’t worry about each other like this.”
He shook his head. “No matter what happens with . . . whatever we’ve been doing, we’ll always be friends. And friends worry about each other. You messed with Emily and Alex because you were worried about me.”
“No.” I shook my head emphatically. “I messed with them because it was fun.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said.
I shrugged. “Believe what you want.”
I turned on my heel and walked away, tears burning my eyes. Why had I said that? It was a total lie. Was I really so afraid of giving up ground, of ceding any points to him? Was I pushing him away because he’d seemed so distant this morning? Or did I not want to admit that yes, I had done it because I was worried about him, because I had felt a burning need to defend him?
Whatever the case, I needed to get away from him right now. I needed to clear my head. Our “just for fun” entanglement was messing with me, distracting me from my quest to free Mom. Talk about being distracted by the ultimate shiny thing.
I hustled down the street, wrapping my arms around myself to shield from the chill of the marine layer. In the distance, I spotted the gaggle of teenagers who’d been loitering outside the café. They were walking now and seemed to be moving forward as one, like a little amoeba of hormones and feels. They were still chattering eagerly and were clustered around something. I picked up on snippets of their conversation as I got closer.
“Wow . . .”
“So cool . . .”
“Your best one yet . . .”
“You are, like, the greatest artist of all time . . .”
“And writer! Don’t forget writer . . .”
I stopped cold in my tracks. The teenage amoeba had stopped too and was now just straight up blocking the sidewalk. I craned my neck to see what they were clustered around, what they were all raving about. But I had a sneaking suspicion I already knew.
There, in the middle of the circle, was Poet. Her squad had been so crammed into the corner table at Lazy Daisy, I must have missed her. She looked very different than she had a couple days ago. Her stringy hair was swept off of her face, her eyes were lit up with excitement, and she was beaming broadly. She was holding up her sketchbook, flipping through the pages, and her friends were responding to every single page with loud exclamations of adoration.
But . . . wait. Hadn’t she told me she was super unpopular? That she had no friends and everyone thought her art was weird and nerdy? Had she sensed my former outcast status and lied about that to bond with me or something? But if she was channeling the spirit of my mother, why would she do that? None of this made sense.
“Hey!” I called out, standing at the edge of her little friend/fan circle. I waved, trying to get her attention. “Hey, um, cool artist girl! Remember me? From the Wave Organ? I kind of saved your life and stuff, and then we had a totes weird encounter—”
She spot
ted me then. Her big grin faded immediately, and all the color drained from her face. Then she clutched her sketchbook tightly to her chest and ran.
“Hey!” I yelped. “What are you . . . I just want to talk to you!”
I darted around the teenage amoeba and sprinted after her.
“Oh em gee,” I heard one of them exclaim. “She’s so mysterious—it totally enhances her artistic persona!”
“What the hell, Poet,” I growled, increasing my speed as she rounded the corner. I followed, keeping her in my sight. She was fast, but I was gaining on her. I concentrated on a feeling of exhaustion, of pure I want to stop and sent it spinning at her full force. And then I sent that specific thought for good measure: I want to stop. I want to stop. I want to—
NO.
The thought smacked into my brain. It was like a big brick wall smashing into my I want to stop directive. And it hurt about as bad as if I’d run into an actual brick wall.
“Guuuuuuhhhh . . .” I stopped, doubled over, and clutched my head. I tried to straighten up and saw Poet running off into the distance, getting farther and farther away from me. I sent the thought in her direction again, but my mental throw felt weaker, like I was haplessly tossing a crumpled tissue at a wastebasket.
I want to—
NO.
The brick wall thought smacked into my mind again, and I screamed out loud.
Fuck. Okay. So either Kathy Kooper was hiding out somewhere around here, or Poet also had the ability to push back against my mind with hers. Even more reason to catch her, but I’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. I gathered all my strength, focused my mind, and started running after her again.
She was much farther ahead of me now, and she seemed to be heading for the water. I followed her to the same waterfront path I’d sprinted down only a few days ago, when I took note of the Golden Gate, the majestic views. Hmm. Actually, she was duplicating that route pretty much exactly. Was she heading for the Wave Organ?
“It’s closed down right now!” I bellowed after her, even though I knew she probably couldn’t hear me. “There’s no place to hide over there if that’s what you’re thinking!”
