Action Figures - Issue Five: Team-Ups

by Michael C Bailey

  “Ooh, good call. I’m supposed to watch Farley this Friday, I’ll ask her about it then. I’m sure Dr. Quentin wouldn’t pass up another opportunity to probe me.”

  Carrie and I glance over at Matt, who utterly fails to jump on Carrie’s obvious and deliberate set-up line.

  “I’m impressed,” I remark.

  “Huh?” Matt says.

  “Never mind.”

  At this time of day, the mall is eerily quiet. There’s no one here but us, store employees, and small groups of roving old people getting in their morning mall-walk. All the teens who’d normally hang out here are at their summer jobs or the beach, packing in as much fun as possible before school starts. We have the place pretty much all to ourselves.

  Carrie leads us to a lingerie shop on the first floor, near the middle of the mall. Posters of heavily Photoshopped women in skimpy lacey underwear welcome us from the display windows with come-hither stares.

  “I honestly don’t know if I should invite you to come in with us,” Carrie says to Matt.

  “I think you shouldn’t,” he says. “Me in a lingerie shop is all kinds of uncomfortable waiting to happen. You two go do your thing and text me when you’re done. We can meet up at the food court.”

  A saleswoman, who looks in real life as Photoshopped as the models on the display posters do, greets Carrie by name and immediately sets to the task of determining my proper bra size. Long story short, Carrie called it; I was way off on what I should be wearing. That mystery solved, Carrie and I spend a solid half hour searching through the store for underwear for every occasion: daily wear, special occasions, physical activity, light colors to go under light-colored clothing, dark colors for darker clothing...

  “This is a little overwhelming,” I say, glancing into my literally overflowing shopping basket, “and possibly insanely expensive.”

  “I know, the women’s clothing industry is insane. What we pay for one pair of panties could buy Matt two dozen pairs of boxers at Target. If it makes you feel any better, this is only our first draft,” Carrie says, gesturing at the basket. “We’ll pare this down to a manageable number.”

  Carrie’s idea of a “manageable number” is twelve sets of undies. I don’t think I’ve ever bought this much underwear in one shot.

  “Want me to text Matt?” I say as we leave the store, each of us toting hot pink shopping bags full of, as my late grandmother used to call them, unmentionables.

  “You know what? Let him hang out at the food court. We can manage this part,” Carrie says.

  With that, the spree kicks into high gear. Carrie leads me into a dozen different stores, where she scours the racks looking for clothing that will work with my body type. She babbles on non-stop about this piece emphasizing this part of my frame and that piece deemphasizing that part, about drawing focus here and distracting there, flattering my small chest and showing off my long, slender arms and legs. It’s like listening to Dr. Quentin blather on about physics.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” I ask at one point.

  “Mom was an obsessive What Not to Wear fan,” Carrie explains, “so I picked up a lot of tips on how to dress. The spirits of Clinton and Stacy are strong with me.”

  “I’m never going to remember all these rules.”

  “Sure you will. I bet by the end of this very shopping trip you won’t need me anymore.”

  “I’m always going to need you.”

  Carrie pauses in her search through a rack of pants and smiles. “Are you getting shmoopy on me?”

  “Maybe a little. I can get shmoopy with you if I want,” I say with a bit of mock indignation. “And I mean it. I feel like you’re the only person I know I can depend on, no matter what.”

  Carrie’s smile turns a bit sad. “That’s not true. You have my mom, and Matt’s finally coming around.”

  “I’ll say he is. You know why he came over this morning? To apologize for all the times he asked me out. He said he was sorry for not respecting my feelings.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow. Sara, that’s huge.”

  “I know.”

  “Huh. Looks like Matt Steiger is becoming a mature adult,” Carrie says with a small chuckle.

  “I know. I’m scared too.”

  “Speaking of people who’ll stand by you no matter what, have you spoken to Meg at all?”

  The question catches me off guard. I stand there for a moment, not knowing how to answer even though it’s a really easy question. I’ve been crushing on Meg Quentin hard since we met, but I was too shy to hit on her. It turns out she was crushing on me too, but I hadn’t come out yet, so Meg never hit on me. She was one of my few visitors while I was in the hospital. When I came out of my coma, she was ready and willing to claim me as her girlfriend. She wanted to be there for me while I got my life back on track, and God, did I want that.

  Instead, I said no. I asked her to give me some time to get my head together. I didn’t want to enter a relationship dragging ten tons of baggage along. That wouldn’t have been fair to her. She’s respected my wishes and stayed away, and that means the world to me — and yet, I want to talk to her so badly. I want to see her and hold her, and I’ve come so close to breaking my self-imposed radio silence, like, every single day. No one would blame me.

  But if things between us went bad because I jumped the gun, I’d blame me. I’d blame me for the rest of my life.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Carrie says in response to my lengthy awkward silence. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Really. It’s what I asked for.”

  Carrie nods then forces us back to the task at hand. “Let’s finish up here, hit the shoe store, then go take care of this insane mane of yours,” she says, playing with a lock of the always-frayed, frazzled mess I call my hair.

  Our time shoe shopping is mercifully brief. I’m pretty well shopped out and ready for a break. Fortunately, our next and last stop is the salon near the mall’s main entrance, and for that we get to sit.

  Carrie introduces me to Nala, her regular stylist, and instructs her to “Make this girl gorgeous.”

  Nala, an Asian woman with a cute little button nose, takes a length of hair between her fingers, feeling its texture. She examines my face next, intently, and nods.

  “Leave it to me,” she says.

  4.

  Bart once told me why my hair is always terrible; as a psionic, my brain naturally generates a small amount of static electricity. Bart solved the problem by shaving his head. Guessing correctly that I’d rather keep my hair, he suggested getting a perm. I was skeptical, but now I realize I was dumb for doubting him. It’s not a severe perm, more like a body perm that gives my hair some gentle curls, but it’s enough to kill the frizz factor.

  I get out of Nala’s chair, and Carrie immediately shoves an ensemble into my arms and sends me into the bathroom to get changed. She’s given me a pair of form-fitting charcoal slacks, a white blouse, and a gray vest because Carrie swears I can and will bring ladies’ vests back into fashion. I pull off the price tags, officially committing myself to my new look, and get dressed.

  The mirror in here is small, so I can’t get a good look at the finished product, but the expression on Carrie’s face when I step out of the bathroom speaks volumes. She has to clamp her hands over her mouth to keep from shrieking.

  “That’s a good reaction, right?” I say.

  Unable to speak, Carrie frantically waves me over. She turns me around so I can see myself in the salon’s widescreen mirror.

  Oh.

  A total stranger stares back at me. She has dark hair falling in waves down across her shoulders, and it’s pulled away from a face that’s grown used to having a scraggly curtain hiding it from view. The vest and pants give her a silhouette that I’d describe as lean rather than skinny, with gentle curves where I didn’t think she had any. My God, she even has a bustline. That’s new.

  “Carrie?”

  �
��Yeah?”

  “I look pretty.”

  She wraps her arms around me and squeezes. “Yeah you do. Come on. Let’s go show you off to the world.”

  The mall’s filled in since we arrived. It’s not, like, jam-packed or anything, but there are a lot of people here now — couples, a few kids my age, parents and their children getting some back-to-school shopping done. We reach the center of the mall, this weird...I don’t know what you’d call it. A salon? A patio? It used to be where the mall set up its holiday attractions for kids, like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, and now it looks like an airport waiting area for first class passengers. There’s carpeting, a bunch of cozy leather couches, sturdy wooden coffee tables...

  This is where it happened. This is where my powers kicked in full force.

  In the months following my fourteenth birthday, I suffered from increasingly bad headaches. Sometimes they’d put me on my back for hours, even a day or two. I also began picking up on people’s emotions, sometimes their thoughts. I thought I was going crazy. What else would I think? No one ever expects to spontaneously manifest superhuman abilities.

  I was in this very spot, with Matt and Stuart, when my telepathy fired up for the first time, and every thought of every person in the entire mall invaded my mind at once. Imagine being in a room full of people, none of them talking, and then, out of nowhere, they all start screaming right in your ears. They scream and scream and they just won’t stop.

  Overwhelmed, I lapsed into a catatonic state. I didn’t wake up for close to a month, and then only because Matt figured out what happened and contacted Mindforce, who brought me back. He took me under his wing and taught me how to control my powers. The first thing I learned was how to block out other minds. Fortunately, I learned quickly and was able to shut out background psychic noise, but the world was never as quiet as it was before my powers manifested.

  It’s so quiet now.

  There’s no noise. There are no voices. I can’t hear anyone. I can’t feel them, not like I used to. I’m alone. Isolated. I can’t feel anyone, not even Carrie, not even my best friend. God, when did it get so hot in here? I can barely breathe...

  “Sara? Sara! Hey!”

  I blink hard. Carrie has me by the arms, her fingers digging into me.

  “Sara,” she says again. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine,” I say. I sound hoarse. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. You froze up. You were breathing funny and staring off into space...”

  I let out a shaky, nervous laugh. “I think I had that anxiety attack Bart warned us about.” Carrie tightens her grip, to the point that it hurts. The pain helps clear my head and bring me back to reality. I laugh again. “Wasn’t so bad.”

  “Do we need to go?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “No. Let me sit for a minute.”

  Carrie eases me into one of the couches. Ooh, this is comfy. I’m sorry I made fun of you, mall lounge.

  Lounge. That’s the word for it.

  Carrie keeps one hand firmly on my shoulder, like she’s worried I’m going to fall off the couch in a dead faint. It’s not an unreasonable concern. I force myself to take long, slow breaths until my head stops spinning and my stomach calms down.

  “I’m good,” I say. “I promise. I’m good.”

  Nevertheless, Carrie keeps her arm firmly looped around mine until we get to the food court. Matt sits at a table at the edge of the court, hunched over his phone. He doesn’t look up until we’re about to sit down, and when he does, his mouth falls open.

  “Whah,” he says, checking me out head to toe.

  “You approve?” Carrie says.

  Matt nods. “Yeah. Definitely. Sara, you look...” He swallows, hard, composes himself, and says in a way that’s impossible to interpret as a neutral opinion, “You look amazing.”

  I feel my cheeks burn. I might not have those kinds of feelings for Matt, but his opinion still means a lot to me. It has a much different effect on Carrie, whose smile vanishes to be replaced by a mortified grimace.

  “I believe I was promised lunch for my services,” Matt mumbles to the table.

  “Yes. Right. What do you want? We’ll go get it,” Carrie says, clearly happy to draw attention away from the suddenly awkward atmosphere.

  Matt scans the food court, checking out his options. “I’ll take bourbon chicken from the Cajun place and a slice of pepperoni from the overpriced pizza place,” he says. “And a Coke from wherever. Dealer’s choice.”

  “Bourbon chicken and pepperoni pizza? Weird combo.”

  “Yours is not to question why, yours is but to go and buy.” He flicks his hand, dismissing us. “Off you go.”

  We don’t get far. We turn around and almost run down one of the last people I care to see under any circumstances: Amber Sullivan, Kingsport High’s queen mean girl...although, I have to admit, she’s not quite as intimidating dressed in a blue Best Buy shirt.

  “Carrie,” she drawls, dripping with her usual contempt. It takes a few seconds for her to recognize me. “Sara?”

  “Amber,” Carrie says. “Nice shirt.”

  Amber’s face tightens like she bit into a lemon. “My dad made me get this stupid job. Said I needed to start earning my own money and learning how to be responsible.”

  “Oh, believe us, we didn’t think you joined the job market of your own volition,” Matt says. “That would have required initiative.”

  “Whatever. Jump off any good buildings lately?” Amber sneers at me.

  “Hey!” Carrie says, moving toward Amber. Matt jumps out of his chair, knocking it over.

  “Don’t,” I say. “Guys, let it go.”

  “I am not going to let her or anyone talk to you like that,” Carrie says, throwing a cold glare over my shoulder at Amber.

  “Carrie.” She meets my eyes. “It’s okay. Really.”

  “Sara,” she begins. She’s itching to take Amber down a peg or five, most likely by slapping her so hard her kids will be born cross-eyed.

  “Carrie, after everything that’s happened to me this year, do you honestly think anything she says can get to me?”

  Carrie’s fists uncurl, and the tension drains out of her shoulders. I lead her away and give Amber a polite nod.

  “See you at school,” I say. Amber tries to think up some soul-crushing parting shot but utterly fails. All she can do is make a disgusted sputtering noise and stalk off toward the Au Bon Pain counter.

  Instead of praising my decision to take the high road, Carries says, “Why did you let her get away with that?”

  “Amber Sullivan is a desperately unhappy girl,” I say. “She doesn’t know how to be happy, so she puts all her energy into making other people as miserable as she is. I refuse to play that game with her anymore.”

  Carrie sighs. “I can’t get anything right today. First Missy, then I parade new and improved you in front of Matt when he’s finally making an effort to get over you...”

  Poor girl. Her whole day has been an exercise in good intentions going wrong. “Your heart’s in the right place,” I say.

  “I should stop trying to fix everything,” she says, and I can’t help but laugh.

  “Come on. We both know that’s not going to happen. Maybe you should stop trying so hard. Missy needs to come around in her own time, and Matt...well, he admitted he expected to have relapses, and that’s not unreasonable. He’ll adjust. We all will, but you can’t force it.”

  Carrie manages a weak smile. “Jeez, first Matt starts acting like a mature adult, now you’re all reasonable and levelheaded.”

  “We were bound to catch up to you eventually.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I mean it. You’re a good influence,” I say, taking Carrie’s hand. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I bet Matt would say the same thing. You know, if he had a shred of self-awareness.”

  Her smile grows. “Thanks.”

  A few months ago, my
life changed forever. I lost almost everything that meant anything to me, and I’ll never get it all back. I’m not okay with it, but I’m learning to be. I have to. Like it or not, this is my new normal.

  You know what? Things could be worse.

  FOUR – LIGHTSTORM AND THE QUANTUM QUINTET

  TRIALS AND ERRORS

  1.

  Ever since I got my super-powers, my life has warped into a bizarre funhouse version of a normal teenager’s life.

  For example, I have an after-school job working for a lawyer. It pays well and offers generous benefits, like extended leaves of absence for when an employee (say, for example, me) has a crisis of conscience and needs some time to clear her head. The twist? The lawyer in question happens to represent one of the nation’s foremost super-hero teams.

  Exhibit B. I recently broke up with my high school boyfriend. I broke up with him because I was afraid some murderous psychopath might use him as leverage against me. Again.

  Exhibit C. On occasion, such as tonight, I babysit for a sweet little boy who is part of a very nice family. However, when the little boy gets angry or scared, he transforms into a hulking monster who can juggle refrigerators. His family includes the world’s smartest woman, a man with skin like polished granite, and twin siblings who can, respectively, throw lightning and short out electronics.

  So, yeah. Life is weird.

  I tend to forget how weird, but every so often something reminds me that I do not live in a normal world. At present, that something is Sara reminding me that I have to be at the Quentins’ house in fifteen minutes and my blithe response of “Don’t worry, it only takes me a couple minutes to get to Sturbridge.”

  Please note that Sturbridge is something like seventy miles away. Almost everything is a short trip when you can break the sound barrier.

  “What are you going to do tonight?” I ask.

  “I have a date,” Sara says.

  “You what?” For a glorious moment, I think Sara has reconnected with Meg and they’re going out, but then she goes and ruins it.

  “With Bart,” Sara smirks. “Like a dutiful, responsible patient, I told him about the anxiety attack I had a few days ago and he insisted on seeing me. I said, ‘Not without dinner,’ so we’re checking out some Greek place he’s always wanted to try.”