Action Figures - Issue Five: Team-Ups

by Michael C Bailey

  “Psychoanalysis and souvlaki? Sounds like a winning combo to me. Have fun. Tell Bart I said hi.”

  “I will. Fly safely.”

  I throw my backpack over my shoulders and take a short walk to a patch of woods near my house, which I use as a secret launch-slash-landing pad. I don’t use it on a daily basis, but I’ve used it enough that the ground here has sunk to form a perfectly circular shallow crater.

  Before taking off, I slip on my headset, boot up my flight system, and lay in a course for the Quantum Compound. I cover the distance in less than five minutes.

  “Quantum Compound, this is Lightstorm. ETA one minute.”

  “Hey, Lightstorm,” Joe Quentin replies. “Copy on ETA. The door’s open, so come on in.”

  The Quantum Compound is a rambling structure on top of a hill overlooking the town. Among its many amenities, it has a proper landing pad for the benefit of flyers like me as well as for the team’s personal transport, the Raptor. I touch down and head inside, up to the Quentins’ family room, where I find Joe getting ready for his night out.

  Joe is a great guy. He’s laid-back, easy-going, soft-spoken, and he loves his family like crazy. He’s also seven feet tall; so broad he has to angle himself to fit through a standard doorway; and, as previously mentioned, has skin like stone. A lab accident is responsible for his inhuman appearance — a lab accident caused by his wife, Dr. Gwendolyn Quentin, but he’s never shown the slightest hint of bitterness over it. That speaks volumes about his character.

  This is another time when I become keenly aware of how strange my life has become. I’m totally used to Joe himself, but seeing him all dressed up always throws me a little.

  “Hi, Carrie,” Joe says as he fiddles with his necktie, a lavender job that compliments his tailored gray suit — and his skin tone — quite nicely. “Is this thing on straight?”

  “Not quite. Come here,” I say. Joe bends over so I can adjust his tie. “And what has you looking all snazzy tonight?”

  “I’m speaking at a political forum,” he says wearily, quite unenthused about the evening ahead. “I hate these things, but it’s for a bill expanding veterans’ services, so...”

  Because he’s virtually unemployable in most industries, Joe contributes to the household through public speaking engagements. He’s particularly involved in veterans’ affairs, an interest driven by the loss of his brother, an Army medic, to an IED in Afghanistan. The man has mastered the art of turning life’s lemons into lemonade.

  “There you go,” I say. “Pretty as a picture.”

  “More like a classic Greek statue,” he jokes. “All right, time to get going, I guess.”

  Joe can’t say who might return home first or when, but assures me I’ll be out by ten at the latest. No worries, I tell him. Not like I have anywhere important to be.

  I head to the dining room, where I find Farley inhaling a plate full of spaghetti and meatballs. Farley is an absolutely adorable little boy, full of energy but unusually focused for a six-year-old kid and, like his mother, scary smart. He spots me and practically flies across the room to give me a hello hug.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say, hoisting Farley onto my hip. Jeez, he’s getting heavy.

  “Hi Carrie!” he beams. “I have to go finish dinner. Will you sit with me?”

  “Of course I will. Come on,” I say, returning him to the floor. He takes my hand and leads me back to the table then resumes gorging. “Whoa, slow down, pal, I don’t want you choking on a meatball.”

  Farley mumbles something through a mouthful of pasta then proceeds to finish his meal at a more leisurely pace.

  “I got something special for us tonight, if you’re interested,” I say. “You’ve seen the Hobbit movies, right?”

  “Yeeeaaaahhhhh,” he says, squinting at me. He shares my undying love for the book and my utter contempt for the bloated mess that is Peter Jackson’s totally unnecessary trilogy. Like I said, he’s a smart kid.

  “Well, Matt gave me something for my birthday I think you’ll like.” That something is an animated version of The Hobbit that ran on TV way back in the seventies. I pull it out of my backpack and show it to Farley, who eyes it suspiciously. “Trust me, this is a million times better than the movies. Want to check it out?”

  “Well...if you say it’s good.”

  “I say it’s good.” Satisfied, Farley nods. He scoops the last of his dinner into his mouth and makes a show of dabbing his lips with his napkin. Such a gentleman. “What do you say? Up for a movie night?”

  “Will there be popcorn and root beer?”

  “We can’t have a proper movie night without popcorn and root beer, can we?”

  “No, we can’t,” Farley says, quite seriously.

  Farley picks up his dishes, takes them into the kitchen, and deposits them in the dishwasher while I dig around in the cabinets for some microwave popcorn.

  “How’ve you been?” I say. “Anything exciting going on?”

  “I’m starting school next week,” he says.

  “You sound less than thrilled. Don’t you want to go to school?”

  “I guess,” he says with a shrug. “I’m going into kindergarten. Mom wanted to start me in first grade. She thinks I’ll get bored in kindergarten because it won’t be intellectually stimulating, and Dad thinks I need to learn how to socialize with kids my own age.”

  Did I mention that Farley is crazy smart for his age? He expresses himself better than a lot of my classmates — and several adults I know.

  “Those are both valid points, but between you and me? I think your mom might be right.”

  That puts a smile on his face, but briefly. He fidgets uncomfortably. “I’m scared other kids will make fun of me.”

  I don’t have to ask why that’s a concern. He comes from a family of famous super-heroes. His mother is a high-profile figure in the scientific community and his father — well, I think I’ve firmly established his unique qualities. Some kids might find such credentials pretty darn impressive, but the law of averages says there will be at least one little jerk who’ll use that information to make Farley’s life miserable.

  Of course, if said little jerk pushes Farley too far, he’ll find himself staring up at a towering monster who could literally eat him in a single bite — but that wouldn’t make things better, would it?

  “I hate to say it, but you’re right. Someone might make fun of you. That’s how little kids are. Heck, that’s how kids my age are,” I add, Amber Sullivan’s smug face popping into my head.

  “Why do they do stuff like that?”

  “Because they don’t like themselves,” I say, recalling Sara’s words. “For whatever reason, they feel bad about themselves and don’t know how to change that, so they try to make other people feel even worse.”

  Farley wrinkles his nose at me. “That’s dumb.”

  I finally find the popcorn and toss a big into the microwave. “Yes it is.”

  “How about you?” Farley asks. “Anything exciting going on?”

  “I’m also going back to school next week.”

  “You sound less than thrilled.”

  He’s not wrong. I mean, I am excited about junior year. I’m mostly excited that I’ll finally be able to take some interesting classes. I plan to enroll in the “Introduction to Law” course, and Matt convinced me to give the intro to physics course a try, thinking it might help me understand my powers a little better. I have a lot to look forward to. It’s that one thing I’m not looking forward to that ruins my anticipation.

  “I’m probably going to run into my ex-boyfriend. It’ll be kind of hard to avoid him when we’re stuck in the same building all day.”

  The bag of popcorn starts to sizzle. The first kernel goes off.

  “I haven’t seen him since we broke up,” I say, but then I correct myself. “Since I broke up with him.”

  “Why did you break up with him?”

  “Did your mom or dad tell you what happened to us over the sum
mer? With the King of Pain?”

  “Mom said a bad guy hurt you and your friends.”

  Dr. Quentin’s habit is to be completely up-front with her kids. I respect that. I also respect her for, this once, holding back on a LOT of ugly details.

  “That’s right. Unfortunately, he also hurt Malcolm. I was scared that some other bad guy might try to hurt him, and I didn’t want that to happen.”

  “Oh,” he says, nodding in understanding. “You miss him.”

  It’s not a question but an observation — and he’s dead on. “Yeah. I do.”

  “You could get back together with him.”

  I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot. Malcolm’s the sweetest, kindest, most supportive guy I’ve ever met, and I’ve seriously considered sitting him down and laying everything on the line — and I mean everything — and asking him to take me back. Then I remember why I let him go in the first place.

  “No. If anything ever happened to him, I’d never forgive myself. I made the right decision.” Farley wraps his arms around my legs. “Uh-uh. Not good enough,” I say, kneeling down so he can give me a proper hug.

  2.

  The Hobbit proves a huge hit. Farley sits through the cartoon with a fascinated, wide-eyed expression of pure delight on his little face, never moving except to grab a handful of popcorn or take a swig of soda. He’s silent until the end of the credits, at which point we engage in a vigorous discussion about the movie, comparing and contrasting the animated version with the book and the Jackson trilogy (which we include only for the sake of a well-rounded debate, not because either of us like the thing).

  That lively conversation carries us well past Farley’s bedtime, but who am I to stifle a young boy’s passion for Tolkien’s greatest creation? When we realize what time it is, Farley abruptly loses steam and turns into a lean, mean yawning machine. It takes little prompting on my part to get him into the bathroom to brush his teeth. I see him to bed, and he fades out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

  I return to the common room and settle in with a book to wait for someone to relieve me. That someone turns out to be the member of the Quentin clan I least wanted to see.

  “Well, good evening, my dear,” Kilroy says, oozing with charm. Or just plain oozing. He’s not a bad guy at heart, but his junior lothario routine gets tired fast.

  “Kilroy,” I say. He takes off his coat to reveal a rather sharp pinstripe suit. I must admit, he looks good. Apparently, the Quentin men are built for suits. “Hot date tonight?”

  “Sadly, no. More like a big guys’ night out, mourning the end of another summer.” He tosses his coat over the back of an easy chair and plants himself on the opposite end of the couch. He leans back and strikes a casual pose, throwing his arms across the back of the couch and crossing his legs.

  “Sounds fun.”

  “It was until everyone else started whining about how tired they were already. Bunch of old ladies,” he gripes. “How was the little terror tonight?”

  I laugh. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but Farley was a pure delight, as always.”

  “I don’t get it. You never have a problem with him, but he never listens when Mom leaves me in charge.”

  “That’s because you’re brothers. Siblings have to fight. It’s the law.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he chuckles then he turns very serious. “Speaking of fighting, have you guys patched things up?”

  I put my book down. “Not really. We’re working on it, but Stuart and Missy are still mad at Sara, Matt’s still recovering from Sara breaking his heart...”

  “Sorry. That sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll figure things out.” He says it so offhandedly it doesn’t sound like a line. It’s a refreshing change of pace. “I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I know smart when I see it, and you’re smart. You’ll think of a way to get the team back together.”

  “Thanks. And what do you mean, you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer? Your mom is maybe the most intelligent person on the planet. I don’t believe for a second she’d raise a dummy.”

  “There’s no maybe about it,” Kilroy says, “but I’m not my mother. I’m not saying I’m a blithering idiot, but I know what I’m good at, and thinking isn’t it. Just ask Meg.”

  I laugh. Kilroy laughs. We have a nice little moment.

  Don’t ask me how that turns into us making out on the couch, but it happens. There we are, clutching at each other, furiously sucking face. The temperature seems to spike a hundred degrees and parts of me get tingly. I bury my hands in his hair, forcing him closer. His hands slide down my back to my waist, around to my stomach, and then up to my —

  “WHOA!” I yelp, shoving away from Kilroy. “Whoa whoa whoa. Okay, we’re stopping now.”

  “What? What’s wrong?” Kilroy says. His face shines with a thin layer of perspiration.

  “That was...the hands, the grabbing, the...oh, boy.”

  “What? I thought you wanted —”

  “What? You copping a feel?” Kilroy spreads his hands, a Well, yeah gesture. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  Wait, why am I apologizing? I wasn’t the one getting grabby. God, why do boys always think that the Point A of kissing leads directly to the Point B of my boobs?

  “I need to go,” I say, but Kilroy grabs me by the arm as I try to pass.

  “Carrie, no, don’t go,” he pleads. “Come on, sit back down.”

  “Kilroy,” I snarl.

  I’m a nanosecond away from telling him to let me go or pull back a stump when Dr. Quentin enters the room. That causes Kilroy to jerk back his hand like I’m made of molten steel. On instinct, we both stand ramrod straight and assume innocent “Nothing!” smiles (the universal reaction of teenagers caught by parental figures in the middle of adolescent shenanigans).

  “Oh, hello, Kilroy. Didn’t expect you home so soon,” Dr. Quentin says. “Good evening, Carrie. How was Farley?”

  “A perfect little gentleman,” I say, aiming the comment at Kilroy as much as at his mother.

  “I’m going to bed,” Kilroy says abruptly, and then he dashes away.

  “Let’s settle up and get you home, shall we?” Dr. Quentin says.

  “Actually, Dr. Quentin, I was wondering if we could work in trade?” She raises a curious eyebrow. “Matt had some interesting theories about how I could use my powers in new and different ways...”

  “You mean he had a hypothesis. A theory is a concept that has been established as true through testing; a hypothesis is an unproven concept that can be tested.”

  Pedantic much, Dr. Quentin?

  What am I saying? Of course you are. It’s part of your charm. Anyway...

  “But he didn’t know how to help me figure any of it out, so I thought maybe you’d like to work with me?”

  When Farley gets really excited, his eyes get as wide as Frisbees. It seems he inherited this behavior from his mother.

  “Are you asking me to experiment on you?” Dr. Quentin says.

  “Um...experiment with me,” I say, “but yeah.”

  She clasps her hands together and grins. It’s like I told Dr. Frankenstein I found this really cool brain in a jar just sitting there in the street.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” she says.

  3.

  “You’re letting Dr. Quentin experiment on you?” Sara says.

  “With me. She’s experimenting with me,” I say. “We are experimenting together.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.”

  I thrust my mug at her. “Shut up and pour the coffee.”

  Sara smirks and fills my cup. “What are you going to work on?”

  “Don’t know. I threw out some of Matt’s ideas, but she didn’t seem attached to any one in particular. Guess I’ll find out when I get there.”

  “Have fun being a guinea pig.”

  “I prefer the term ‘willing human test subject,’ t
hank you very much.”

  Sara turns her attention to this morning’s breakfast experiment: Belgian waffles accompanied by spicy sausage links. “How was Farley? Give you any trouble?”

  “Farley was not the Quentin boy giving me trouble last night,” I mumble. Sara makes a quizzical noise. Sorry, Sara, I’m not up for reliving that humiliatingly awful lapse in judgment. “Farley was fine. Delightful as always.”

  “He’s a good kid. They’re a good family. Weird, but they’re all good people.”

  There’s an undertone there, and I know what she’s thinking about. Rather, I know who she’s thinking about. I want to tell Sara to give Meg a call, but I promised myself I wouldn’t be a noodge about this. I have to trust that Sara knows what she’s doing.

  Which is better than trusting my instincts on romantic matters, that’s for sure. The history of my love life consists of several pseudo-boyfriends who didn’t actually love me (nor I them), one incredible real boyfriend who I dumped, and one ill-advised make-out session. An expert of affairs of the heart, I am not.

  I take off after our late breakfast. I call in my approach as I near the Quantum Compound, and I’m pleasantly surprised by who picks up on the other end.

  “Hey, girl!” Meg chirps. “What brings you to our lovely neighborhood?”

  “Hey, Meg. I have some business with your mom. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there.”

  “Cool. See you on the landing pad.”

  Meg is right there when I touch down, her pale blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She’s close to my age but looks more like a college student — which is appropriate, considering she recently started her freshman year at the Berklee College of Music in Boston. Higher education agrees with her. She gives me a big smile when I land and a bigger hug.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” I say.

  “I wanted to grab some stuff for my dorm room,” she says. “My roommate didn’t bring much with her, so I have space to spread out.”