Margaret scanned the form and paused, then looked up at me with one eyebrow arched over the rim of her glasses. ‘Honey, how old are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Do you understand the penalties for submitting a fraudulent Super Declaration?’
‘Yes, but I’m not—’
‘You’re telling me that your ability is turning traffic lights green?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure how you expect me to lodge that. Super abilities must be assessed at a registry counter within the Department. If you can’t show me your ability right now, then it doesn’t exist.’
‘I have plenty of documentation and footage,’ I said, pulling a USB out of my bag. ‘It’s all on there.’
‘As video footage can be tampered with, it is not an accepted form of demonstration under the Super Tax Act.’
‘Are you kidding me? How do you assess the people who can breathe underwater?’
‘Buckets,’ Margaret grunted.
‘Look, if you just come with me for five minutes—’
‘No can do,’ Margaret said. ‘Sorry, but you’re just going to have to accept that you don’t have any abilities.’
‘But I do,’ I protested. ‘Seriously, any traffic light, anywhere. Pedestrian or driving.’
‘That does not fall into any of the recognised power categories stipulated in section 2A of the Super Tax Act,’ Margaret said. ‘You can apply for an independent examination if you believe you’ve been wrongfully turned away.’
‘Great,’ I said, relieved. ‘I’ll do that, then. How do I apply for that?’
‘You fill out these forms.’ She slapped a book on the counter. It was thicker than some of my uni textbooks. ‘There’s a two-year waitlist.’
‘Look,’ I said, clearing my throat and trying on my best understanding smile. ‘I’m not psyched to be signing up for another tax, but I’m trying to be honest with you guys.’
‘I don’t deal in honesty,’ Margaret said. ‘I deal in forms. Fill out the appropriate ones and come back.’
‘Did you hear what you just said?’
‘Fill out these forms,’ she repeated, ‘and come back.’
‘Fine,’ I said, grabbing the book and walking off. I knew my ability would sound stupid to some people, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. I bet Margaret would recognise it as an ability the next time she was stuck in a two-hour traffic jam.
I tried to find other people like me. I put ads up at uni and spread the word on Facebook. I even wrote in to a news website with a story idea and their article went viral. I set up an email address for people to contact me, and hate mail flooded in from both sides—supers who thought I was looking for attention, and regulars who’d decided I thought myself above them.
The few cases that seemed legit turned out to be from tin-hat conspiracy theorists or people who wanted me to send nudes. After a few weeks, I stopped responding to anyone. After a few months, I stopped reading the emails altogether.
Finally, I came clean to the support group, and was met with silence. Amina reached over and grabbed my hand, but no one else said a thing.
And then, ‘So you have powers now?’
It was Chelsea, a thirteen-year-old blonde girl who’d been coming for a few weeks.
‘Well, not according to the government,’ I said. ‘But Amina’s seen them. It’s like—’
‘I don’t get why you’re complaining,’ Chelsea interrupted.
I started. ‘Excuse me?’
‘We’re all sitting around, waiting for our powers to manifest, and you’re complaining that yours aren’t super enough?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Chelsea, you’re thirteen—’
‘It’s Emily,’ she said harshly.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Emily, you’re thirteen. You’ve only just started going through puberty. Your powers are probably going to show up any week now.’
‘Hey now,’ Micah said.
‘Easy for you to say,’ Emily muttered.
‘Not easy for me to say,’ I snarled. ‘Try waiting another six years with nothing and then being told you’re not good enough. That who you are is never going to be good enough. You want to do that and then get back to me?’
‘But you got your powers, right?’ Emily said, looking bored as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger. ‘So what are you still doing here?’
I felt a lump form in my throat. ‘I wanted some support,’ I said quietly.
‘The people here want support because we might never have what you have,’ Emily said. ‘You don’t belong here anymore.’
‘Are you freaking kidding me?’
‘Hey now,’ Micah said.
‘No,’ said Emily. ‘I’m not “freaking kidding” you. You’re just taking up space now. We have real problems, much bigger than you having to fill out forms, and you’re trying to make this all about you.’
‘It’s a group sharing session,’ I pointed out. ‘I just took my turn.’
‘You shouldn’t get a turn,’ Emily yelled.
‘Hey now,’ Micah said.
‘Really?’ I said, rounding on Micah. ‘I’ve been in this group for nearly seven years and all you have to say is “hey now”?’
‘This is not about taking sides,’ Micah said. ‘You have a point, and so does Emily.’
Emily sat back in her chair, smirking like she’d won. Which I guess she had. Even Micah didn’t seem to think that I belonged here anymore.
‘You know what?’ I grabbed my bag and stood up, knocking over my chair in the process. ‘I’m leaving. Anna is right—’
‘It’s Emily.’
‘People have real problems, Nicole,’ I shouted at her. ‘Bigger than me getting your damn name right. And you know what, Michelle? I hope that if you ever get powers like mine, Rachel, that you go through this exact thing and realise what an absolute fucking bitch you were being.’
‘Natalie,’ Micah said.
‘Hey now,’ I said, pointing my finger at him. ‘I’m leaving the group, so you don’t get to tell me how to act.’
‘That was extreme,’ Amina said at lunch the next day. ‘I mean, I liked it. But it was extreme.’
‘I probably shouldn’t have gotten that riled up,’ I said, my forehead pressed into the table. ‘She’s only thirteen.’
‘You were right, though,’ Amina said. ‘I caught her telling one of the other girls that she’d never develop superpowers if she didn’t lose ten kilos because “fat people never get powers and that’s just science”. Sometimes thirteen-year-olds can be bitches.’
‘Okay, I feel less bad,’ I said, sitting up. A serviette was stuck to my head and I slapped it back down on the table.
‘Look on the bright side,’ Amina said. ‘You don’t have to pay that stupid tax and you can get wherever you want to go faster than anyone else. And by “look on the bright side” I mean that I literally cannot find a downside to this.’
‘I just wanted recognition,’ I told her. ‘I just wanted that little stamp on my license. My family threw a huge party when my cousin started breathing fire, but they’re never going to believe me about this. They’re just so elitist. They’ve all had stereotypical powers and anyone who doesn’t fit the mould isn’t going to cut it. My nonna doesn’t even have powers and she’s already embarrassed by me because she thinks I’m letting down the gene pool. “Natalie, you never marry if you no have powers. No man want woman without powers.”’
‘Well, screw your nonna.’
‘Ew.’
‘I’m serious,’ Amina laughed. ‘You know the truth and I know the truth, and anyone who spends any time around you is going to know the truth. So what if your family thinks it’s just good luck or a phase? Do they really need to know?’
‘No,’ I said, gloomily shovelling the food around my plate. ‘I just would’ve liked to make them proud of me.’
‘You can make them proud of you in other ways,’ Amina said, handing me a flyer. ‘How ab
out we go to this together? You said your family was struggling with the Super Tax, right?’
I looked at the flyer. Another ‘Stop the Super Tax’ march was being held in the city over the weekend.
‘I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘I mean, I should probably go because I know that I’m part of that community, but I just don’t feel like I belong there. Everyone’s going to be showing off their powers. That one guy is going to be playing hopscotch with skyscrapers like he does at every march, just so he can make the joke about leaping tall buildings in a single bound, and what am I going to be doing? Quietly turning traffic lights green? The street’s already going to be shut down for the march, so I will be zero help.’
Amina bit her lip. ‘The march isn’t just about showing off powers. You know that, right? It’s about solidarity and standing up for what you believe in. Do you believe in equality for supers or don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then go, Nat,’ Amina said. ‘Besides, it’s not like the people who can breathe underwater are going to be wheeled through the streets in fish tanks to prove a point.’
‘There’s a first time for everything.’
Amina took a deep breath and started packing up her things, shoving textbooks into her bag a little harder than was necessary.
‘Woah, woah,’ I said, frowning. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I just…’ Amina cleared her throat. ‘You’re my best friend. I love you no matter what. But I don’t like this attitude. You’ve been brooding for weeks over something that actually doesn’t make your life any harder—’
‘That’s not—’
‘—logistically speaking,’ Amina said louder, drowning out my objection. ‘I’m happy that you’ve discovered your power, Nat, I really am. But since this whole thing started, it’s all we’ve talked about. You’ve never once asked me how I feel about the fact that I still don’t have any powers at all.’
‘We talk about that stuff at support group,’ I said weakly, feeling my throat constrict. I hated this conversation. I wanted it to stop. But a niggling voice told me that Amina was right; I honestly couldn’t remember the last conversation we’d had that wasn’t about me.
‘I want to be your friend, Nat,’ Amina said. ‘Not your acquaintance from support group. Just every so often I want to talk about something other than you and your powers.’
‘Okay,’ I said slowly. ‘Um, what are you doing for the assignment in—’
‘Not now,’ Amina groaned. ‘I can’t—I have a headache and I want to go home.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ I said, standing with Amina.
‘No,’ she said, holding up her hands. ‘I need a break for today, okay? And I think you do too. Just… I don’t know. Think about it. You have powers, but that doesn’t define you. It doesn’t have to be the only thing in your life worth mentioning.’
I sat in front of my computer that night, hair still wet from the shower, eyes still red from the self-indulgent cry I’d allowed myself. I was about to delete the email account I’d set up for people to contact me. I hadn’t checked it for nearly four months, hadn’t even thought about it, but people were still writing in.
One person was writing regularly, too. Someone called Archie Stevens, with the subject line RE: Proof. Probably another conspiracy theorist.
I selected all the emails and trashed them. I was about to shut down the account altogether when another email from Archie arrived.
Sorry for bugging you, the email snippet read, but I finally caught… My mouse hovered over the trash icon for a second before I sighed and clicked on Archie’s message.
… I finally caught it on camera and I thought you might like to see what I’m talking about. I know it’s stupid but what else do you call something like this?
There was a link below, and I hoped that my antivirus software was up to date. Then a private YouTube video loaded, and someone was speaking. ‘—get it to focus,’ the voice said.
The camera was facing a kitchen table, and a boy with shocking red hair and freckle-streaked skin walked backwards, squinting at the camera.
‘Hi,’ the boy said. ‘My name’s Archie, and I’m a Mediocre Hero.’ He cringed. ‘That sounded so stupid. This had better work now that there’s a camera on me.’
Archie reached out of frame and picked up a box of Oreos, upending it on the table. The biscuits rolled around in circles before settling in a pile. Then Archie swiped his hand across the stack as if to knock it off the table and onto the floor.
Except that didn’t happen.
The biscuits bounced back just at the edge of the table, refusing to fall. Archie looked at the camera.
‘Did you see that?’
As he swiped his hand back and forth, I put the video on full screen and watched the biscuits bounce up and down, side to side, spin wildly to avoid the edge of the table.
Not one crumb fell.
‘It’s any kind of food,’ he said. ‘I can still knock over a glass or something, just not food. But that’s… I guess that’s my power. Stopping crumbs from falling. It’s… yeah, I don’t know how I feel about it, but I don’t have to vacuum as much these days.’
‘What are you doing? Can I have one?’ A voice said from off-screen, and a boy of about twelve walked in and grabbed an Oreo off the table. I squinted and watched as a small trail of crumbs fell from his hands.
Archie walked towards the camera and switched it off.
It’s been a year since I found Archie. Or since Archie found me, I guess. It took a while, but we tracked down others like us: a dude who’s like a human ring light and takes the best selfies I’ve ever seen; a girl who never loses Wi-Fi, no matter where she is; people who act like actual compasses and can always find their way, but only in department stores and shopping centres; people who can always predict what happens next on TV shows, right down to the dialogue and inflection.
Even though we found each other and could talk about our experiences, it all kind of faded into the background. Once we stopped treating our friendship like a support group, it was like this weight had been lifted from all of us. We spent more time watching movies, going to trivia nights, and trying out escape rooms than we did talking about our powers.
I shouldn’t be surprised that Amina was right; she’s always been smarter than me.
And it turns out Amina’s a regular super. She started levitating in her sleep a few months ago. It didn’t help that she’d fallen asleep on the couch after we’d watched The Exorcist. I’ve never screamed so loudly in my life.
Most people still don’t believe us. They think we’re blips on the radar of the Super Generation; those kids who never got powers and can’t let it go. And maybe we are. Maybe it’s all in our heads. But if this is what being mediocre means, I’m pretty damn happy with it.
Take that, Margaret.
Marlowe was crying. She hadn’t meant to, but the moment she’d reached the edge of the reed-lined lake she had collapsed, and the dam had burst. For what felt like hours, she sobbed the heartbroken sobs of a girl whose whole world was ending. When she finally ran out of tears, the sun was setting, casting the wetlands in a dim twilight. Above Marlowe’s head, the stars were winking into existence one by one. Orion, the most familiar and comforting constellation to her, sparked high above. Instinctively, she searched through tear-blurred eyes for his belt—a habit she had developed years ago during family camping trips, before she grew up and realised she hated camping.
At this time of year, the day clung desperately to the world, and Marlowe knew it would be twilight for a long time. Her hands had become sticky from wiping at the ropes of snot that flowed from her nose and over her chin. Marlowe was an ugly crier.
I should wash my face, she thought.
As she shuffled down to the water, she became aware of someone watching her. No, not someone, something. The prickling at the back of her neck didn’t subside when Marlowe looked up and saw a black swan staring at her. It was almost in
visible against the darkening lake but for the bright, ruby-red slash of its beak. She maintained eye contact with the bird as she splashed her hands and face with bronze water that was the same temperature as the tepid air around her. The swan watched her the entire time, unblinking and unmoving.
It was not quiet or peaceful here in the wetlands; the screaming of cicadas and the calling of frogs bored its way into Marlowe’s skull. She couldn’t think, but that was a good thing. Apart from one word, her mind was empty. One word that broke free and echoed the cicada’s cries, so that it seemed like the whole world was screaming the same thing: hopeless, hopeless, hopeless. It was inescapable. Her body recoiled at the sound, curling inward as if to protect her heart. Only when she nearly fell did she realise that she was shaking violently and couldn’t stop.
Then, suddenly, underneath it all was a new sound. A hissing that grew louder and louder until Marlowe was forced back and back through the mud and away from the lake. The sound was loud enough to drown everything else out. The swan waded and waddled its way slowly up the bank, its baleful glare still fixed on Marlowe. She could not tear her eyes away. She tripped on a mangrove root and went sprawling in the mud. For a moment there was silence. Not just the quiet heartbeat of a summer night, but true, deafening silence.
And then the swan screamed.
With a rush of wings its huge black bulk was airborne. It passed over Marlowe, its feathers brushing her face in the barest of whispers, before it disappeared into the night.
Marlowe ran the whole way home.
When she woke in the morning, the sun was hot and glaring, and Marlowe hoped the night before had all been a dream. A strange dream, but a dream nonetheless. She sat up and barely smothered a scream. The swan sat at the end of her bed, a blotch of darkness in the bright room. The loud ticking of her clock echoed around the room as Marlowe stared at the intruder. Her mother knocked at the door and Marlowe sent her away.
‘I’ll be up in a minute!’ she grumbled.
Marlowe scooted slowly to the edge of her bed and, when the swan didn’t respond, swung her legs over the side. The second she put her weight on the balls of her feet, the bird lashed out, biting the arm closest to it. Marlowe recoiled and cried out. It had been a small bite, but blood welled up between her fingers—much too red in the early morning light—and tears sprang, unbidden, in Marlowe’s eyes. She needed to get a band-aid, but they were in the bathroom. She tried three times to get up and to the door, but each time, she barely took a single step before the swan attacked. Finally, defeated, Marlowe sank to the floor and curled up beside her bed. She hurt all over. There was no way she was going to make it out the door today.
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