Action Figures - Issue Five: Team-Ups

by Michael C Bailey

  She smiles, joyful tears glittering in the corners of her eyes.

  The old me wouldn’t have jumped on the moment. Hell, the old me wouldn’t be sitting here in plain sight cuddled up next to another girl — but that, as I said, is the old me.

  Sara Danvers is dead. Long live Sara Danvers.

  I pull Meg into a kiss. Her lips are the softest, sweetest things I’ve ever tasted.

  I arrive home to find Carrie stationed on the couch, book in hand. She makes a show of looking at a wristwatch she doesn’t actually own.

  “A few minutes early,” she says. “Very good.”

  “My date wanted to leave a good first impression,” I say, “to make sure there’d be a second date.”

  Carrie beams at me. “Does that mean you two are —?”

  “We are seeing each other,” I say, joining Carrie on the couch, “officially and exclusively, but we’re not labeling it. We talked a lot, and we agreed that it’d be in our best interests to take it slow and easy and not rush to make this anything other than what it is.”

  Carrie nods approvingly. “I think that’s a very mature way to handle it. For what it’s worth.”

  “It’s worth a lot.” I feel my eyes burn with tears, but they’re happy tears — ecstatic, elated, blissfully overjoyed tears. “I kissed her. I had my first kiss.”

  Carrie squeezes my hand. “About damn time,” she says.

  We put off a post-date debriefing until the morning. Right now, all I want is to go to bed, fall asleep, and have dreams filled with music and dancing and tender kisses.

  I’m not disappointed.

  ELEVEN – SUPERBEAST AND RONNY VICK

  LETTING GO

  1.

  Today is the first day of the worst week of the year.

  Four years ago, my little brother Jeff died. A school bully named Ronny Vick pushed him down the some steps. Jeff should have fallen, got banged up a little, cried...no big whoop, you know? Stupid crap like that happens all the time in grade school.

  It was a freak thing. Jeff landed wrong and hit his head.

  Most people called it a tragic accident. A judge called it involuntary manslaughter and sent Ronny to a juvenile facility for two years. He got out last year and wound up at Kingsport High to finish school as a condition of his probation. He’s a senior, but under different circumstances, the guy’d be a college freshman by now...or, more likely, the assistant night manager of a 7-Eleven.

  Jeff died two days before Thanksgiving, which ruined the holiday for us that year and every year since. Most people spend Thanksgiving eating and drinking and watching football and arguing and lapsing into food comas on the couch. My family spends it the way we spent it four years ago: sitting around the house, eating takeout, and barely talking to each other.

  Mostly, no one talks to me. I was supposed to meet Jeff when school got out that day, but I was late. Blame happened.

  The quote-unquote festivities usually start a day or two before the anniversary of Jeff’s death. Today’s Sunday, which means it’s time to go to church. The parentals are on-and-off churchies most of the year, and when they do go they never push me to tag along, but today attendance is mandatory. We get dressed and head out early to eat breakfast at a little place on Main Street, where we pick at our food and pretend to have normal human conversations. Dad drones on about work, Mom talks about school committee stuff, and Gordon insists he has “a lot of solid leads” on a job. They’re not so much talking to each other as talking at each other, but whatever. It doesn’t matter to me; none of it is aimed my way anyway.

  “...and Phyllis volunteered to represent the school committee at the football game Thursday. I know why, and it has nothing to do with representing the committee or supporting the team,” Mom says.

  “Then why did she volunteer?” Gordon asks.

  “Because the school gay-straight alliance is sponsoring a raffle to raise money for the school’s Christmas parade float, and Phyllis is an uptight old woman who doesn’t trust ‘those kids,’” Mom says, mimicking Phyllis’s disgusted tone. “She’s had it out for the gay-straight alliance ever since it started. No, it’s not the gay-straight alliance anymore. Stuart, what do they call themselves now? It has a lot of letters, I remember that much.”

  I jump slightly, caught off guard by the fact Mom’s actually talking to me. “How should I know?” I say. My first full sentence of the day.

  “Sara’s part of that group, isn’t she?”

  “I guess. I don’t talk to her anymore.”

  “You’re still mad at her?” Dad says with a sigh and a shake of his head. “Stuart, you need to let it go and move on.”

  I slap my silverware down. “What?”

  “I said you need to let it go. Sara didn’t mean to hurt Missy,” Dad says. As far as he knows, I cut ties with Sara because she “accidentally” hurt Missy during her “suicide attempt," but the reality of what happened is totally beside the point.

  “You’re telling me I need to get over it and move on? You have got to be friggin’ kidding me.”

  “Stuart!” Mom says.

  “What? Come on, Mom, we do this every year. It’s the same stupid routine we go through every year,” I say, loud enough it catches the attention of the other diners. “Mandatory church on Sunday, family mopefest Monday through Wednesday, and then we spend Thanksgiving practically reenacting Jeff’s funeral.”

  “Oh, Christ, Stuart,” Gordon says.

  “Stuart, you need to stop,” Dad says, “right now.”

  “No, Dad. We need to stop,” I say.

  No one says anything as I push away from the table. No one calls me back as I head toward the door.

  “Come on in,” Missy says.

  “Thanks. Sorry I’m so early,” I say.

  “Not like I was doing anything important. Want something to eat?”

  “No thanks. Not hungry.”

  Missy gives me a look. “You are bummed out.”

  “Shyeah.”

  I follow her into the kitchen and take a seat in the breakfast nook, which normal people call “the corner of the kitchen,” while she finishes making her breakfast. She rolls up the sleeves of her kimono, something she brought back from her trip to Japan, and folds up her tamagoyaki, an omelet sort of thing her Uncle Seiji taught her to make. They’re crazy good.

  “Okay, maybe I do want something to eat,” I say.

  “There’s one keeping warm in the toaster over,” she says, pointing with her spatula.

  That’s my Missy. Always there for me.

  She sits down to eat. “All right, tell Dr. Missy what the problem is.”

  “You know what the problem is. Same problem I have every Thanksgiving.”

  “The annual Lumley Week of Mourning, huh?”

  “Yeah, but it’s more than that,” I say, and I fill her in on what Dad said to me about moving on.

  “Hm,” Missy says, popping some food in her mouth. I’ve never seen someone chew thoughtfully before. “Hmmm...”

  “You know, this new uber-focused you is throwing me. I miss the motormouthed Muppet of old.”

  “Oh, she’s still up here,” she says, pointing to her head, “jabbering away, blah blah blabbedy blah. I’ve just gotten better about matching the speed of my body with the speed of my brain. One of the things the Entity taught me. It was supposed to help me react quicker during a fight, which it has, but it’s also made me a lot less jabbery.”

  “Tell him I don’t like it.”

  “I do. I feel like I’m thinking more clearly. I’m definitely speaking more clearly. Listen to me! I. Am. Speaking. In. Normal. Sentences!” she chirps. I make a retching noise. “Well, I like it and I don’t care if you don’t because it’s me and I like me so nyah.”

  I crack a smile. “Did you do that for me?”

  “Yeah. Because you’re my best friend and I know what you need — and what you need to do with your family — see how I’m bringing it back around? — what you need to do w
ith your family is back off.”

  What?

  “I think you’re right that your parents are clinging to their grief, and that’s not good,” Missy says, “but you don’t get to tell them when they should stop being sad. Jeff was your brother, but he was their little boy. You know?”

  That wasn’t what she was supposed to say. She was supposed to agree with me. She was supposed to say my parents have gotten too comfortable being depressed about Jeff and need to get over it.

  “I also think it’s wicked hypocritical that you’re giving your parents a hard time for not moving on when you’re still pissed at Sara even though it’s been, like, five months and she was crazy at the time and she’s super-sorry she hurt you and hey look I’m babbling again!” She closes her eyes and takes a breath to center herself. “Anyway. Point is, you have to forgive Sara when it’s right for you, just like your parents have to move on when it’s right for them.”

  I push my half-eaten tamagoyaki away. Seems I don’t have an appetite again. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” I gripe.

  “I am on your side, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you what you want to hear. You’re being unreasonable. I mean, jeez, you can forgive Ronny Vick but you can’t —”

  I jump to my feet so fast I knock the table out of place by, like, three feet. “I did not forgive Ronny Vick,” I say. “I never forgave Ronny Vick.”

  Missy, calm as ever, says, “Okay, you never forgave him, but you’re on better terms with him than you are with Sara.”

  “That’s not —”

  “Last year,” she interrupts, “you stood up for Ronny when Angus and Gerry called Ronny a killer in front of everyone. You showed more kindness to the kid who took Jeff away from you than you’ve shown Sara, and at least she apologized for what she did. Ronny never has.”

  Technically, he did apologize. Kind of. During his sentencing the judge let him read a statement, which included the phrase “I’m sorry” a thousand times, but he sounded like a little kid reading a book report in front of his class. There was nothing sincere about it. As far as I care, he hasn’t done a damn thing to earn my forgiveness.

  Neither has Sara.

  “I’m not forgiving her,” I say, and Missy gives me a weird smile.

  “I’m not telling you to forgive her,” she says. “I’m telling you she’s sorry for hurting you, and I’m telling you that you’re not the kind of person who holds onto anger. What you do with that information?” She shrugs. “Up to you.”

  Missy lets me hang out at her house all day, which almost becomes all night. Dr. Hamill puts the brakes on that plan when he gently suggests I should go home because we both have school tomorrow.

  Mom and Dad are in bed by the time I get home, but Gordon is still awake. Shocker. It’s not like he has anywhere to be tomorrow.

  Gordon raises the remote like Voldemort preparing to smite Harry Potter. He turns the TV off and says, “Where have you been?”

  “The magical land of Nunya,” I say.

  “Nunya?”

  “Yeah. Nunya business.”

  “Why do you always have to be such a smart-ass?”

  “Why do you always have to act like you’re my superior officer? Dude, look, I’m not in the mood for one of your stupid lectures, okay?”

  Gordon gets off the couch and moves to the center of the living room, ready to block me if I try to leave in any direction except the front door, and man, is that tempting.

  “Well, tough, because you’re getting one,” he says. “Do you have any idea how hard this time of year is for Mom and Dad?”

  “Seriously? That’s your opener? No, Gordon, I have no idea how hard it is for Mom and Dad.”

  “Then let me bring you up to speed...”

  “Dude. Sarcasm. Come on.”

  “Acting like a smart-ass again,” Gordon mumbles to himself. “Pal, you need to can the attitude, grow up, and start being a little more supportive. Mom and Dad need you, especially this time of year.”

  “Gordon, I’m the last person Mom and Dad need or want.” Gordon’s face pinches up, like it always does when he’s confused. “Do you even remember what it was like around here when Jeff died?”

  “Yes, Stuart,” he says softly, “I do remember. I remember it very well.”

  “Do you remember how Mom and Dad barely talked to me? How they couldn’t even look at me? Do you remember Mom screaming at me when she found out I was late picking Jeff up at school that day? You remember what she said?”

  Gordon’s face goes slack. Yeah, he remembers. “Stuart, Mom was...she was upset. She didn’t mean it.”

  “Then why is it, every year around Thanksgiving, she shuts me out?”

  His instinct is to contradict me, to defend Mom, but he stops himself. I can see the gears in his brain working overtime to replay the last three years’ worth of Thanksgivings. He’s searching hard for one moment that’ll totally destroy my claim, and he comes up empty.

  “Mom does love you,” is all he can offer.

  I head upstairs to go to bed. “Uh-huh,” I say. “Sure she does.”

  And that’s how day one of the worst week of the year ends.

  2.

  Day two ain’t much better.

  The morning’s nothing but dead air. Mom and Dad say good morning to me out of habit but don’t hit me with any start-of-the-day small talk. Gordon doesn’t say much either, but that’s because he’s paying real close attention to the tag-team cold shoulder I’m getting from the parentals.

  Gordon offers to drive me to school. I pass. I’d rather walk, I say. He argues that it’s freezing out, which it is, but A) I can’t feel it and B) I need to put some space between me and everyone else with my last name.

  It’s a sad statement on my life when I actually look forward to going to school. At least it’ll be an easy week. Everyone’s thinking ahead to Turkey Day, so no one’s interested in doing anything resembling work. On my way to my locker, I overhear a dozen different conversations about the great Kingsport-Plympton rivalry, holiday travel plans, who’s making which family favorite dish for dinner...you know, stuff that doesn’t apply to me. Last time I actually celebrated the holiday, it was —

  Well, isn’t this some ironic timing?

  “Morning,” Carrie says as I stuff my jacket into my locker, exchanging it for textbooks I won’t actually use.

  “Hey.”

  “My mom wanted me to let you know that you’re welcome to join us for Thanksgiving again, if you don’t have other plans,” she says, but she’s delivering the invitation to my feet instead of my face.

  “Tell her thanks but no thanks.”

  “Because Sara’s going to be there?” It’s a dumb question with an obvious answer, so I don’t bother replying. Carrie’s lips press into a thin line. “Sara knows how much you enjoyed Thanksgiving with us last year, so she’s offered to leave the house for the day.” She looks up at me, and I half expect laser beams to shoot out of her eyes and blow up my head. “This is Sara’s first Thanksgiving without her parents. Mom and I are the only family she has, and she’s willing to give that up for you.”

  “I didn’t ask her to do that.”

  “No, you didn’t, but she’s doing it anyway.” Her expression softens when she says, “I want you both there. You both deserve to be there,” then hardens again. “But if your grudge is more important to you, you can take it elsewhere, because I don’t want it at my Thanksgiving table.”

  Carrie ends her mini-speech by dramatically turning on her heel and marching away. Yow. I sometimes forget how badass she can be. I’m honestly too impressed to be upset.

  From that point on, the day is a big snooze. Everyone sleepwalks through their classes, including the teachers. The final bell rings, and everyone shuffles to their lockers like a zombie horde.

  Malcolm catches me at my locker and offers me a ride to the youth club. I’ve been working there for a couple of months now, and it’s a really cool gig. I mostly run the
game room, but sometimes I help Mal supervise whatever’s going on in the gym; other times I wander around the clubhouse and make sure no one’s getting into trouble. The kids seem to like me, and I assume the director, Mrs. Dean, likes me, considering I was there all of two weeks before she decided to throw me a weekly stipend — which, as fake rocker David St. Hubbins once said, is like money, but it’s not enough to actually call it money, so they call it a stipend.

  Whatever. It’s more than my brother makes.

  The first order of business is the daily staff meeting. Everyone gathers around the pool table in the center of the common room, which doubles as the club staff’s meeting room. The clubhouse used to have an actual meeting room, but Mrs. Dean thought the space would be better off as a game room. Anything for the kids, she always says.

  “Afternoon, everyone. We’ll make this quick,” Mrs. Dean says. She reviews the schedule for the week and our daily assignments then asks if there are any questions. There aren’t, so she turns everything over to her right-hand man — I mean woman, Peggy, a girl my age who’s been volunteering at the club since her freshman year.

  “The buses should be arriving shortly. Mal, Stuart, away with you,” Peggy says, making a big go away gesture. “Go forth and welcome the kids with your handsome faces.”

  If nothing else, this job is good for the ego.

  The first bus rolls in and eases up to the sidewalk. The door swings open, and the kids pile out, eager to get inside and have some fun after a long day at school. Well, most of them are eager. One boy — Steve, I think? — clumps down the steps like he’s walking down death row. He’s a nice enough kid, but he doesn’t do much. He doesn’t play games or hang out with the other members; he just grabs a quiet-ish corner of the clubhouse and reads all afternoon and avoids human contact.

  Everything suddenly grinds into slow motion. Steve extends a leg to step off the bus, and a kid in line behind him gives him a shove. It’s not a hard push, but the timing is perfect. Steve pitches forward and goes splat on the sidewalk, and a nuclear bomb made of ice goes off in my stomach. For a moment I’m totally paralyzed, frozen by the worst attack of déjà vu I’ve ever experienced in my life, and it isn’t until Steve bites back a sob that I snap back to reality.