Rise of Heroes

Masks: Rise of Heroes - 1 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product o...

Author: Thorne Hayden

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Masks: Rise of Heroes - 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. Masks: Rise of Heroes PRIZM An imprint of Torquere Press, Inc. PO Box 2545 Round Rock, TX 78680 Copyright 2007 © by Hayden Thorne Cover illustration by Pluto Published with permission ISBN: 978-1-60370-481-6, 1-60370-481-7 www.prizmbooks.com www.torquerepress.com All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680. First Prizm eBook Printing: September 2008 Printed in the USA


Masks: Rise of Heroes

Hayden Thorne

Illustrations by Pluto


Acknowledgments:

Many, many thanks to Lily, Jan, Jeanette, and Ben for their invaluable feedback and

nitpicking.

Dedication:

For Andy, of course


GLBT YA Books from Prizm Banshee by Hayden Thorne

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City/Country by Nicky Gray

Heart Sense by KL Richardsson

I Kiss Girls by Gina Harris

Icarus in Flight by Hayden Thorne

Masks by Hayden Thorne

Staged Life by Lija O’Brien

The Water Seekers by Michelle Rode


Chapter 1

My day began with my mother’s voice in my ear, going on and on and on about my grades and the crap dye job on my hair. Dad had already gone off to work, so he was spared one more coronary moment by my hands. Liz did nothing but stare at me from across the table. Her mouth hung open. “Wow, Eric,” she breathed, giving me a disgusting view of half-eaten cereal in her mouth. “Look, if my prescription was updated, we wouldn’t be having these accidents with Punk ‘N Go, would we?” I retorted. Mom rolled her eyes as she set down empty glasses by our plates. I immediately filled mine with milk. “All you need to do is tell us if you think your eyes have gotten worse, for heaven’s sake. It’s not as though setting up appointments with Dr. Stubbs means cutting your jugular open and sticking a straw in it.” Mom glanced at Liz, who’d redirected her jaw-dropping to her. “What?”


“Fine, fine. I’ll make an appointment, but I’m not changing my hair color. Seriously— what’s the fuss? So I’ve got blue streaks in my hair. Big deal.” “Streaks?” Liz echoed. “What streaks? You look like you’ve just shampooed in Smurf blood.” I narrowed my eyes at my sister but took the high road. In boring arguments like this, it was always best to keep that stiff upper lip and not respond. It said a lot about character, especially with me being three years younger than Liz. What was it about adults that they forgot what it felt like being a teenager? “Anyway, Eric,” Mom continued, “there’s this matter about your grades.” I sighed. “Yeah, I know.” She kept talking as she bustled around the kitchen. My grades stank, what was up with my Chemistry exams, why couldn’t I demonstrate as much interest in Geometry as I did Art, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam? I waited until her back was turned before fishing out my little vial of blue food coloring from my jacket pocket, which I quickly unstopped and emptied into my milk. There were only a few drops left as I’d made good use of my supply, and I made a mental note to wander off to the supermarket for reinforcements after school. The resulting color wasn’t as deep as I hoped. Nothing stole one’s thunder more than a sky-blue concoction, when one intended something along the lines of denim. Liz watched me in horrified fascination as I drank my Blue Breakfast Beverage in three massive gulps, hoping that my milk moustache made the perfect complement to my hair despite its wimpy shade. “You’re so mature,” she muttered, shaking her head. I pushed back my chair and stood up just as Mom turned around, a plate of eggs and bacon neatly piled on the platter she held. “I gotta go,” I said. “I’ll be late for school.” “As if punctuality made a difference before,” Liz said. “What about breakfast?” “Can’t. Sorry, no time.” I gave Mom a purposefully loud, sloppy kiss, leaving a sky-blue smear on her cheek, and then shuffled off. I only had two pieces of toast with butter and blue milk, and I knew that Mom was about to pounce on me with that grease pile she was going to set down on the table. I was sure she also knew that her efforts wouldn’t have made a smidge of difference. I wasn’t going to risk a premature heart attack over a full belly; besides, solid


sustenance was bad news to the ethereal. After brushing my teeth, I gave my hair one more critical appraisal. My home dye job wasn’t as bad as everyone insisted, but then again, my family had always been a bit drama queen-ish over the smallest, most insignificant things. They’d voiced concerns over my complexion as if genetics didn’t play a part (I could trace my paleness back to my great, great grandmother, who was, by all accounts, this delicate little thing who couldn’t stay out in the sun for too long). They’d complained about my skinniness, too (well, Mom had, anyway, and she never bought into the “late bloomer” argument). My hair was too shaggy, though it never reached past the top of my ears, with the back cut close and super short and the layers growing longer the higher they sprouted on my skull, spilling over my face in a dark, asymmetrical fringe. Their complaints placed more weight on the fact that my uneven bangs covered my eyes. They shouldn’t moan, really. I used to edge my eyes with a thin line of black. I could still remember that odd sound my dad made when I came down for breakfast looking pale, sullen, and kohl-rimmed for the first time. He made me think of a squirrel with TB. Knowing their responses to eyeliner, I thought that hiding my eyes under my bangs would be a kindness to them, but no. They were only slightly appeased when I began to wear glasses, which served as another shield, but they knew they could do nothing about my fashion sense. I mean, for God’s sake, I was sixteen—not to mention bored out of my mind. A stern warning from the principal’s office killed the eyeliner use after a week, but I found comfort in the thought that my glasses served as replacement eye edging. The frames were black, plastic, narrow rectangles, and they worked, I guess, well enough for my purpose. Now, of course, my problematic black shag had been given a bit of a facelift, and I’d worked random blue streaks all over (Punk ‘N Go, the best hair color brand for pennypinching teenagers). Smurf blood? Whatever.

School was school that day. Same tired classes, same tired teachers, same struggle between the status quo and the anarchists. Same longing stares behind my sketchbook, all aimed at Mr. Cleland, my art teacher, same smirking jokes from the In Crowd, a few


grimaces of disgust from conservative types, a smattering of appreciative comments from random kids here and there (“Cool hair! Can you do mine in magenta?”). The Quill Club (also known as the Queer Club since, apparently, aspiring teenage poets were believed to be angst-filled queer kids or simply touched in the head) didn’t seem too keen on meeting that day, but a couple of people in the group tried to organize an impromptu wiener gorge at Dog-In-A-Bun, which was smack in the center of downtown Vintage City. “I just got myself a copy of Wilfred Owen’s poems at Olivier’s,” Peter said as we ambled out of Renaissance High’s main building. Really, the school was only one building. “Took me forever to find it, but for fifty cents, the dust and asthma were well worth it.” “Are you going to bring it to the wiener gorge?” Peter flashed me a surprised grin. “You want to see it?” I shrugged. “Sure, why not? I’ve heard about his work, and I’d like to check it out.” Surprise turned to guileless pleasure. “I have to go home for it, though. I’ll meet you at the Dog.” “We’re all supposed to be there in an hour.” “Right. Later, Eric.” I watched him jog off toward his car, his tattered denim jacket nearly sliding off his shoulders with the weight of his backpack dragging it down. Peter Barlow was my best friend—the stereotypically quiet and overachieving mixed-Asian kid from an aloof and overachieving interracial family. Unless pissed off at me, he couldn’t express himself very well but for poetry and an occasional rebellious fashion statement: his old denim jacket. It was a thrift store buy, which he’d purposefully ripped up, marred with paint, and covered in all sorts of buttons with anti-censorship slogans (found them online, he said). He only wore that jacket once he was within school borders. Then he’d take it off and stuff it in his backpack before showing up at home. Sometimes I’d keep it for him. Otherwise, he was this clean cut, neatly dressed boy from one of the swankier neighborhoods of Vintage City. As for me, I usually rode a fixed gear bike to school, but I decided to ditch the bike that day for a casual stroll to Renaissance High. Nothing really fed a bored artist than an occasional saunter through Vintage City’s gray and grimy landscape. With the architecture mirroring European cities from two hundred years ago—which included the filth and stench of decaying brick, stagnant pools of water, and assorted


refuse from homeless people peering out of the shadows of dingy alleys—Vintage City nicely lived up to its name. We were subjected to occasional fog with a sickly cast (no thanks to our chemical -belching factories) as well as rain that seemed to be made of liquid metal. The city had always nurtured a love-hate thing with technology. We actually had a humble biotech industry several years ago, but bad management, shady practices, corruption, and several accidents that maimed, killed, or exposed workers to hazardous materials led to the closure of the largest genetics company and the migration of the rest of the smaller ones. What an odd thing to turn the clock back as though everyone was determined to blot things out and pretend like we were better off returning to what used to be. Technological advances were almost always disguised in two-hundred-year-old masks, so that shiny new conveniences still appeared dated, and people were pretty keen on maintaining the city’s antiquated charm. Heck, City Hall always boasted about the Department of Antiquaries, whose main job was to maintain a certain old-fashioned aesthetic from one end of the city to another. There was even a proposition drawn before about the use of gas lamps over electric bulbs, but that was one step too far for everyone, and the voters killed the proposition. Besides, how could one justify the presence of television and computers in houses that weren’t allowed electric bulbs? The Department of Antiquaries obviously enjoyed one too many hours on their two-hundred-year-old bongs. That said, we were never high on tourists’ itineraries. In fact, it’s safe to say that we were never anywhere near anyone’s itinerary. I guess we were either too ugly or too much of a cliché, but no one in the city seemed to mind because in the end, the world left us alone to wallow in our dinginess and faux-historical glamour. Since I didn’t ride my bike to school that day, I took the “flying” train to downtown Vintage. It was one of two rail systems we had, and it was an aerial train—efficient and convenient and appropriately rickety and faux-weathered. The cars were full as usual. It was always my luck, no matter what time of the day I boarded. I was forced to stand by the door of the last car, staring blankly ahead or with my nose between the battered pages of a two -dollar novel. Then it happened.


Chapter 2

I was on page fourteen when an explosion rocked the train, throwing people off their seats and knocking them against the floor, the windows, and each other. I dropped my book as I pitched forward, a quick grab of the vertical handrail that secured one of the side seats saving me from being crushed by catapulting bodies. The lights flickered violently and then died altogether. People’s screams filled the air. I clung to the bar with both hands, dazed, barely taking note of the odd angle of our car as it sat on the tracks. “Oh, my God, we’re going to fall!” a woman shrieked. “The door! Quick! Go to the next car!” We were on the verge of falling. Our car leaned at a slight angle, with the front end being the highest point. Smoke began to filter inside, and when I looked around, I found that the car now sported a burned rear, and small flames sliced through the thickening clouds of smoke that were slowly filling the air. People who sat at the back clawed and


stumbled their way to the front, their clothing nearly scorched, with some of them trailing smoke behind. I saw no one left on the floor or the seats, thank God. The side door at the spot where I stood had slid partly open and was rattling dangerously. I never knew until then just how flimsy and light those doors were. At the front end of the car, another door had been forced open, and people were pushing their way to the car ahead. I could hear the creaking and groaning of metal from outside, and then our car lurched, tipping some more, and it swayed a little. I could barely stand up. My feet kept slipping over the floor, and in an effort to pull myself up, I kicked hard against the weakened side door. It rattled, beeped a couple of times, and then slid fully open. “Shit!” I could see the city from where I now dangled, my hands aching as they held on to the bar, my legs poking out the door, unable to find purchase because of the car’s incline. People’s screams mingled with the smell of burning rubber, wires, and steel. It felt as though the car now half-hung in space, its front barely clinging to the car ahead of it, which was well on its way to being dragged off the rail, too, to plunge several stories below, where traffic lay snarled. Amid the confusion, I thought I heard laughter—hysterical laughter—and frenzied violin music coming from somewhere. The car shuddered once again, the sudden jolt loosening my grip, and I slid away with a desperate cry. I bumped against one of the side seats that flanked the broken door before falling out completely and tumbling into space. I heard the damaged car finally tear off the rail, taking several people with it. The descent was quick. I fell a few feet, screaming my throat raw, and then all of a sudden got caught in a strong circle of arms. Instinct took over, and I immediately squirmed around and clung to whoever—whatever—caught me, my arms looped around hard, muscular shoulders. What little air that was left in my lungs got knocked out of me completely, and all I could do was squeak and gasp for breath. My vision swam. My glasses clung to my head by one temple with a death grip around my right ear. There was something else—something much closer—and it flapped before me in a dark flash of fabric. A cloak? A curtain? A cape? In the midst of the confusion and the noise, it moved in the wind with a thick rustling sound that made everything all the more surreal, and time seemed to slow to a crawl though things happened in mere seconds. The thought that I


was hanging from someone’s shoulders lost its bizarre impact on me. In fact, I’d actually ignored it. Instead, I remembered the train and realized that it was all over for me. I waited to be crushed and so braced myself.

Oh, God, I thought, pinching my eyes shut. What a way to go. I’m too young for this shit. I could hear the passengers’ muffled screams, more breaking glass, and the groaning of steel. Any second now, I kept telling myself, and it would be over. Hopefully it would be quick, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. The mangled car, rather than catch up with me and obliterate me with its weight, never touched me, though I could feel how close it was. The voices and the heat from the fire that, I was sure, continued to spread inside. No, it never touched me. The car had been cushioned by something far more forgiving and now gently glided down to earth with me. There was a jolt. Then I felt someone’s hand grab the back of my jacket and pull me down, and I was dragged off my safety perch to land with an embarrassing plop on my butt on the pavement. “What the hell?” I blinked and looked up to find a tall, broad figure looming before me, its thick arms stretched up, the damaged train car held securely above me as though it weighed nothing. A pair of dark eyes flashed. “Move,” a low voice growled, and I did, scrambling to my feet and stumbling several feet away. There was a grunt, more metallic creaking, and I glanced over my shoulder in time to see the car set down with a clumsy bump. The large figure quickly leaped inside the smoke-filled compartment, and within seconds, bruised and frightened passengers swarmed out in various states of shock. The damage was at the rear, and it was extensive. Twisted and blackened steel, broken glass, and dying flames were all that were left of the car’s second half. I looked up to find a section of the aerial tracks obliterated. The rest of the train remained on the tracks, and I thought I could see another figure leaping—leaping!—from the old Banner Warehouse rooftop across the street and onto the train tracks, just behind the last car, which had been derailed. Its torn end poked off to the side, but thankfully it wasn’t dislodged far enough to endanger both it and the rest of the train. The figure was moving it back on the rails and pushing it forward to safety. My jaw had long dropped to the ground. “Holy cow,” I breathed as I strained to watch what was happening above. “What’s that?”


“Are you all right?” “What?” I blinked and turned to the person who addressed me. “Oh.” “I asked if you were all right.” He was a vision from head to foot. Strong, angular, dark features, his body sculpted by Olympian gods. If he wasn’t born this way, he probably was an obsessive-compulsive gym-bot. He had a cleft in his chin. God help me, he had a cleft in his chin. It was so pronounced that he could sideline as a letter-holder if he wished. He wore a bodysuit in a green shade so dark that one could mistake it for black unless the light touched it at certain angles. He also wore a cape in the same color. That certainly cleared up a few mysteries. I stared, and I didn’t care. I wondered if, rather than have his costume already made for him, he simply stood naked before his personal tailor and had all that bottle-green spandex sewn on him, given his bulk and the mind-blowing physics required for it to get inside such a tight getup. His hair reminded me of Edwardian Cambridge undergraduates, but that might have been because I’d recently developed a fanboy obsession with E.M. Forster’s Maurice, and he had the coy-yet-windswept intellectual look down. I wondered what brand of mousse he used. “I’m fine, yeah,” I finally stammered. It was certainly a good thing that I hadn’t been aware of how beautiful this man was when he caught me; otherwise, I’d have developed a boner while nearly plastered to his body, and it would have been embarrassing. Then again, he might not have felt it, anyway. It would likely take nothing short of an aroused stallion for him to feel signs of excitement pressing against his marble-like wall of muscles. He only gave me a cursory glance (for which I was heartbroken). “Are you sure?” “I’m sure, and can we do that again on our first date?” was the answer I wanted to give, but I ended up saying, “I’m sure, thanks.” He nodded, gave me a final once-over with bland curiosity, and turned his attention to the other passengers, who either stood or sat on the ground, wide-eyed and gaping at him. They were all fine, they said in halting speech. Then, in the midst of wailing sirens, falling debris, and shaken and bruised victims, he flew up to join his comrade above and busied himself with the damaged train. Within seconds, an army of police cars screeched to a halt nearby. Helicopters appeared above, and I exchanged stunned glances with the others. When I looked away to scan the immediate vicinity, I caught sight of something familiar lying on the ground a few feet away, mixed in with all sorts of debris.


It was my poor book, half burned and missing a good chunk of the first half of its contents. Was it a metaphor for something in my life? I was convinced that it was. The wiener gorge was forgotten. I was held up by the police for an obscenely long time for questioning before being released. How I managed to find my way home was a mystery I never fully solved since I refused to call home and have someone pick me up. Only Liz was around when I got home. She saw me drag myself through the door, but before she could say anything, I hurried up the stairs to my room and quickly took a shower and changed. She didn’t ask any questions, but I knew she had a few percolating in that college sophomore brain of hers. I said nothing about my adventures that evening and went about my homework and chores in a daze. Even Mom’s nagging over the garbage that I forgot to dump that morning didn’t faze me. As far as I was concerned, my world had just experienced a radical shift, and after scribbling another heart-wrenching haiku in my journal followed by lights out, I thought about my new idol, ensuring that his face was the last thing I saw before I finally drifted off.


Chapter 3

Vintage City was all a-buzz with the events of the previous day. From a dreary, sooty, acid rain-drenched metropolis no one would care to visit, we suddenly turned into a dreary, sooty, acid rain-drenched battleground between the forces of good and evil. “This is unbelievable,” Dad said as he frowned over the morning paper while Mom refilled his coffee mug. “I hope we’re not being invaded,” Liz piped up with a mouthful of cereal. I really didn’t know where my sister got her table manners. “I know those two flying guys helped out, but how can we trust them, for sure? Maybe they rigged everything!” I snorted. “What for? That doesn’t make any sense.” “I smell a conspiracy theory here,” Mom snorted as she took her place at the table. “We can’t really know for sure, Liz, but I’d rather give them the benefit of the doubt. Why on earth would they set things up? How could they profit?” “Yeah, really. It isn’t as though the city’s filthy rich or anything,” I appended, and


Mom nodded. “I don’t know. Something tells me that they’re bad news.” “I know for a fact that they’re not.” Well, that was a bold declaration, and I didn’t catch myself until it was too late. I looked around. At least Dad didn’t seem to be listening in on the conversation. He continued to read his paper, his brows deeply furrowed, his mouth moving silently as he carried on, absorbed. “And how would you know that?” I shrugged and met Liz’s gaze steadily. “Instinct.” What bull. According to Dad, the police had confirmed that it had been sabotage—that the last car’s link to the rest of the train had been weakened, and sticks of explosives had been responsible for the devastation of the aerial tracks. It had been either blind luck or the perpetrator’s incompetence that the explosives had gone off after the last car had rattled past it. The second idea alarmed me. A bumbling, hare-brained criminal could wreak even greater havoc by accident. Liz seemed to know it was bull, and she laughed (after she swallowed her food, thankfully). “Whatever, Eric, whatever,” she drawled before drinking her orange juice. “I’ll bet you, though, that if anything like the train incident happens again, we’ll see those two guys at the scene, rescuing people and making a grand show of things.” “That’s really lame. They never showed off yesterday.” “And how do you know that?” Liz paused, her eyes narrowing. “Eric, you’re not telling us something, are you? Were you there yesterday?” Damn. Mom and Dad stared at me now, both looking very, very surprised. Unfortunately my brain worked too slowly that morning, and I was still fishing around for something to say when Liz pounced on my silence. “You were there!” she cried. “And you never told us last night! No wonder you looked like hell!” “It was a shitty day in school.” “Eric,” Dad warned. “Sorry. All right, I was there. Satisfied?” I went on with a summary of my adventures, leaving nothing out but the sudden and explosive attraction I felt toward my rescuer. My family had long known that I was gay, and though in the end—once the dust settled from the surprise that followed my coming out, that is—they were pretty cool with it, I was sure that they wouldn’t take to the idea of a romance between their son and some


bizarre flying man as well as I’d have liked them to. They might be a reasonable bunch, but I knew that my family had their limits, and I wasn’t quite ready to test those limits yet. “Okay, that’s it,” Mom blurted out, throwing her hands up. “No more trains for you and anyone else in this household. Take the bus. I don’t care if slugs on Valium outpace those things, just take them!” “Mom, buses could be the next ones to be sabotaged.” “Well, what do you want? We can’t be held hostage by terrorists!” She glowered at me from where she sat, digging her fork into the skinny and rather dry-looking sausages on her plate. “Take the bus, Eric, and don’t argue.” “If public transport freaks you out, you can always walk,” Liz piped up. “You can pick up as much grime as you can before you reach school. Make a fashion statement. Start a new Goth trend.” “I’m not Goth. I’m being sixteen.” “Oh, jeez.” “Anyway, a building or crane or even a plane can be sabotaged, and I’ll be crushed by falling debris—brains and entrails all over the sidewalk. Way cool.” “God, you’re morbid.”

Public transportation didn’t freak me out as my family believed. I was merely speculating, but as always, no one understood. I told no one in school about what happened to me the previous day—only that I couldn’t make it to the wiener gorge because the train got blown up. My silence saved me quite a bit of grief, for sure, since no one talked about anything but the Flying Men Incident all day long. All the adolescent synaptic action nearly brought the entire school down with its thunderous crackling. If only Liz were there; she could’ve believed herself dead and in heaven, what with all the conspiracy theories that students were hatching. The most popular one—and most plausible, I guess—was the one about the Department of Antiquaries hiring a couple of super-aliens to rip the city apart in order to create an even greater atmosphere of Gothicism, one along the lines of abbey ruins all over Europe. I had to look that one up online when I realized that there was more than one meaning to “gothic.” “You missed the book,” Peter said as we wasted time in the library. It was the only


place for us to hang out when it rained, and we were too broke for a burger or two at one of the fast food joints across the street. “Are you still interested in checking it out?” “Yeah, sure.” He pulled the book out of his backpack and handed it to me with a hesitant little smile. “You’re into heavy stuff like Hesse, so maybe this is too simplistic for you.” “How can you be so sure? I’ve never read war poetry before. Anyway, I can never figure out what Hesse’s trying to say in his stories other than ‘life’s a bitch, and then you die.’ I’m sampling other stuff now.” To be fair, I got into Hesse because my favorite English teacher, Miss Blundstone, challenged me into reading more advanced fiction after seeing my passion for literature when I was fifteen. Had she not succumbed to cancer, she’d have still been my unofficial mentor. I owed her a lot and, God, I missed her. Biting off more than I could chew was my way of honoring her memory, it looked like. I felt like an idiot when I gave up on Hesse, but seeing how Jules Verne’s books were classics, I felt that my switch to Victorian sci fi/adventure/fantasy stuff would be forgiven. “I guess. I don’t know. You can borrow it. I’m halfway through the book, but you can have it for a while.” I glanced at Peter and noted his stiff, fidgety figure across the table as he stared at the book in my hands. His shoulders were hunched rather high, and a faint wincing expression crossed his features. “You okay, Peter?” “What? Yeah, I am.” “Hey, if you need to take a leak or something, it’s cool. I’m not keeping you.” “No, no, I’m fine!” he laughed, suddenly coloring. “I’m sorry, am I squirming again?” I nodded, but catching sight of another fleeting look of pain or nervousness on his face made me hold myself back. Peter was always an anxious sort, and I always blamed his family for forcing him into a situation of secrecy and denial with their sky-high standards. He wasn’t a drop-dead gorgeous boy, but he was still attractive. I’d never talked to his parents, but I’d seen them at a tolerable distance, which was probably where they preferred to keep me. He inherited his English father’s coloring and height and his Japanese mother’s eyes, hair, and cheekbones. He also inherited his parents’ scientific brains, which appalled him because his natural bent was artistic, and he excelled in everything else. I’d always thought him appealing in more understated ways, but he


seemed uncomfortable with praise and had a ready rebuttal on his lips whenever someone (me included) would dare say something good about his appearance. “Hey, you look nice and fresh this morning!” would always be countered with, “I just took a shower. It must be the new soap.” “Man, I wish I didn’t have acne problems. You’re lucky!” would be voided with, “I’ve got scars from chicken pox all over my back. Can’t get rid of those, unlike zits.” “Your haircut looks good on you!” would be brushed off with, “The barber had a good day.” After a while, we all learned not to praise him. It was sad. He tended to hide under layers of clothing, but I’d seen him in just a t-shirt, and he was pretty built. Not like a jock, but trimmer and just as firm. He took tennis lessons, he told me, practically every day. He’d been doing them for at least a couple of months now. I always thought of it as a bit excessive—even obsessive-compulsive—considering Peter’s notable lack of ambition in athletics. Holding my tongue, I skimmed through the book’s introduction and flipped to a random page and verse somewhere in the middle: But the old man would no so, but slew

his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one. I glanced up and met his gaze. “Thanks,” I breathed. “I’d love to read the rest.” Peter heaved a sigh of relief and slumped against his chair. He smiled—no, grinned— one of his rare, huge, irrepressible grins and nodded. “I’m sure you’ll like them. I actually thought of you when I bought it.” “My sister said I’m morbid.” His grin widened even more. “Case closed.” “I’m starving. You got time today? We can have something sweet and murderous at my home. It’s free.” The grin faded, settled into a small, wan smile. Peter shook his head. “Thanks, but not today.” “Oh. Tennis practice or something?” He hesitated and scratched the back of his head, grimacing a little. “No, not that. I just can’t, Eric. Not today.” I didn’t push him, even though the air between us just reverberated with tension. He shrugged helplessly and looked back down at the book that lay open before him—and to which he’d never given any attention since he brought it out. As he lost himself in his reading, I slowly realized that I sat, tensed and uncomfortable, on my chair as well. I


shook off the feeling with a soft, irritated snort, stretched my arms above me as I yawned, and slumped back, feeling loose-limbed and mellow. I suppose I grew more annoyed with Peter’s parents. The anxiety in their son was really catching. I also wondered if my friend’s older brother—whom I never met and whom Peter was always reluctant to talk about—suffered from the same pressure.


Chapter 4

About a week after the train incident, reports of street criminals getting caught by one or both of those flying men began to infiltrate the local news. On Monday, a purse snatcher ran into an alley with his spoils, only to find himself hoisted up by his grubby shirt and jacket. According to reports, the little sneak thief was taken and flown over to the nearest patrolling cop car and dumped unceremoniously in front of it. The thug was too frightened to do anything more than cower, and the cops were too stunned to demand answers. “I believe this gentleman’s yours, Officer,” the bizarre flying man reportedly said, even pointing at the woman’s purse that was just snatched. Then he flew off before anyone could utter a word. His physical description matched my rescuer: dark features, incredible physique, unbelievable strength. Oh, how my lonely evenings drifted along in sultry waves, my


imagination filled with what’s-his-name in all sorts of dangerous adventures with me. My hormones fired up, it certainly didn’t take much time for me to catch on, and I looked forward to reading the newspaper and watching the local news everyday, hoping to see more reports on my idol. He’d yet to be identified, but after the fourth lowlife was cornered and hauled off to the police, everyone began to relax, convinced that Bizarre Flying Man was on the side of justice. “The conspiracy’s so blatant, it hurts my brain reading about it,” Liz sniffed. “Then don’t read,” I said. “Easy enough, no?” “That would be giving up. I want to figure them out and do something about it.” I stared at her, frowning. “And what can you do? Gnaw their ankles ‘til they confess? You’d be smashed to a pulp before you could even lift a finger. Their ankles might be made of granite, for all we know.” “There’s such a thing as going through the proper channels. Duh.” I’d rather not know what those proper channels were, considering how many supervisors and political figures were kicked out of office because of corruption for as long as I could remember. Really, one couldn’t help but remember, what with Dad going on a polemic rampage every time he read the politics section of the newspaper. On Thursday, it was a carjacker. That same evening, an attempted robbery at Mr. Li’s Asian market was foiled. On Friday, it was a small gang of juveniles who were defacing the founder’s statue in the main square. The following day, it was a couple of drunk drivers attempting a drag race. In two of those instances, it was Bizarre Flying Man’s companion who got the criminals, and if BFM was elusive, this other guy was even more so. He was described as not as exceptionally built as his brother-in-arms; he didn’t wear a cape, and he wore a half-mask. From various reports as well, he didn’t seem to be possessed with the same strength as BFM, but he was way, way faster and more agile. He refused to speak unless forced to say something, and once he dumped a thug or two at the police station’s doorstep, he’d fly off—sometimes run away in a literal flash. As a team, BFM and Speedo (I’d yet to find out names here) complemented each other perfectly. For my part, I began to harbor a quiet, lingering resentment. It was hell enough to fall hard for some odd superhuman type, knowing that one could never measure up to those standards. It was even more so knowing that one’s object of lusty and romantic fantasies already had a partner—someone who not only complemented him with his own special


powers, but also one who might very well be BFM’s boyfriend. Who cared if he wasn’t gay? This was my fantasy and my bed sheets that were always demolished. As far as I was concerned, BFM was. That said, I’d learned to half-anticipate, half-dread the news. I’d checked my clock while struggling through my homework, and when the moment came, I’d saunter downstairs, pretending disinterest, yawning and stretching my arms or cracking my neck (my sister always hated that). Of course, when I did, it always happened to be at around the time of the local news, a coincidence that hadn’t been noticed until after the first week. “Your timing’s getting pretty good,” Liz finally noted as she lay on her stomach on the floor, her own homework spread before her. A mug of hot cocoa sat beside her geology notes, which were liberally sprinkled with brown drops. “I’m taking a break from homework. It just happens to be around this time. Anything interesting happening in the world lately?” She’d stare at me for a few seconds, her gaze questioning, but she’d always shrug and turn her attention back to the screen. “Not really. War, famine, earthquakes, tornadoes, flying men in spandex…” “Local news? Anything interesting? Not that I care, really.” As though waiting for the moment for me to introduce it, the local news segment would take over, and we’d be treated to new adventures in heroism. If it happened to be BFM who saved the day, I’d be there, rooted to the spot, holding my breath as I ate up every word of the reports. If it happened to be Speedo, I’d force myself to listen, silently hating and envying the presumptuous tart, and then walk away like a puppy that had just been kicked. I suppose the good thing that came out of this unrequited tragedy was the fact that my Golden Age of Haiku coincided with this period, and my journal nearly burst with gutwrenching exhortations on my bleak, windswept love life. I’d actually considered having my work published, but money and notoriety would be a slap in the face of art and the sensibilities of bleeding gay teen poets everywhere. For about a month after the train sabotage, Vintage City settled into a new found state of mystified contentment. The police were receiving unsolicited help, with smaller crimes being kept in check. The streets were being cleaned up night after night, and, from what I heard, legends began to be spun around dinner tables, in hair salons, and in bowling alleys. The mystery of our benefactors became the allure, and people fell in love with it


despite the faint whiff of doubt that still pervaded conversations around the water cooler. During this time, Vintage City’s intrepid reporter, Bambi Bailey, made it her life’s goal to pounce on our hero before her journalist rivals did. Two or three time, I would walk somewhere alone or with Peter, and there she’d be. Blonde hair swept up in a French twist, face caked with ten pounds of makeup, her suit freshly steam-cleaned—Miss Bailey would be scuttling back and forth on her Italian pumps, a cell phone plastered to her ear, a gasping cameraman loaded with gear limping behind her (sometimes cursing in Spanish or Swedish, depending on the day of the week). “If she’s looking for the next scoop, I don’t think she’ll get anywhere doing that,” I chuckled, nudging Peter with my elbow. He glanced briefly at her as she swept past us in a blonde blur, leaving a strong trail of floral perfume in her wake. “I feel sorry for those guys.” “Who, her and the camera guy?” “No, whoever she’s looking for.” “I doubt if she’ll get to them like that. It isn’t as though she can predict when and where the next crime will be committed.” “Uh—who’re you talking about?” “Flying guys in Spandex,” I replied. “Who were you talking about?” “I was thinking about the owners of that porn theater that got broken into last week.” Peter frowned. “Flying guys in Spandex? How can you be so sure they’re the ones she’s after?” “Isn’t it obvious? They’re the biggest headlines this stupid city’s had in ages. If I were some hotshot reporter, I’d kill for an interview. Then again, I’ll bet you she’ll be running around like this for a long, long time.” Peter shrugged, still frowning. “I guess it won’t be long before the publicity catches up with them. Hopefully not. Other than clean up the streets, they haven’t been running after the limelight.” “Everyone wants to know more about them.” “Pity. It won’t be long, then.” My friend was right. About two days after my last Bambi Bailey sighting, the news station trumpeted their victory. Miss Bailey, through her pluck, ingenuity, and, apparently, uncanny sixth sense, managed to corner BFM just as he corralled a tiny illegal gambling ring and generously served them up on a silver platter to the Chief of Police.


Heaven knew how long she’d been out, lying in wait, but when she finally appeared on live TV, her hair looked more like a half-collapsed haystack than a twist. Her suit had spots of grime, and her eyeliner was smeared. Her energy remained high, though, and she was still quite poised when she tried to interview our hero. “So—sir, what should we call you?” “Does it matter?” “It does, of course. Vintage City would like to know whom to thank.” He frowned and looked thoughtful. “Names mean nothing. I’m here to stop crime and uphold justice.” I winced. Liz (and, I think, my mother) sighed nearby. Dad snored under his paper. Miss Bailey laughed, tossing her head back, obviously flirting. I winced again. “I see. Well, would it bother you if I were to come up with something appropriate?” His frown darkened, and he pressed his mouth into a thin, tight line. Even from where I stood, at the opposite end of the living room, I could see his left eye twitch. “On behalf of the people of Vintage City, I’d like to thank you, Magnifiman, for your selfless devotion to justice and peace.” Magnifiman. Oh, God. Oh, hell. I think I died a thousand deaths after hearing her christen my idol, my innocence going up in smoke in that one single word. In my mind, I screamed at BFM to fly the hell away before Miss Bailey humiliated him any further. “Tell me, sir, where exactly did you and your friend come from?” “Where my companion and I come from has no bearing on what we do. Good night, Miss Bailey,” he replied in that low, silky purr that had long kept a tenacious hold in my mind. He turned to glower at the camera and then flew off before Miss Bailey could say anything more. Actually, even after he left, she couldn’t say anything. The camera still rolling, she merely stood there, gazing at the sky, dazed and almost swooning. “Er, Miss Bailey, you’re still on,” a voice—the cameraman’s—stammered. “Oh. Yes.” She blinked and then collected herself, but the dreamy smile remained even as she attempted a logical and objective analysis of our hero and his supreme physical strength and of his character. With a flick of an elegant wrist, she tucked stray hair behind an ear. “And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen. Magnifiman—Vintage City’s own paragon of virtue.” “Magnifiman,” Mom echoed, pronouncing this awful name as though she were


sampling the finest wine. “I think it’s perfect.” “Wow, I never realized how hot he is,” Liz added. “I wonder what his friend looks like. Did you see him, Eric?” “He was a shadow from where I stood.” “Ah, too bad. I’m sure he’ll be interviewed someday, too. I’m definitely watching the news from now on.” I slunk back into my room, my heart aching for my idol. I scribbled a couple of verses before I went to bed—sonnets, that time—yearning, outrage, and an empathic connection in iambic pentameter. Then I dreamed of him “arresting” me and taking me into custody. Not once did I demand to see my lawyer, and, yes, I came willingly. It was also during my Golden Age of Haiku when I grew to loathe the dawn hours and their murderous effects on dreams, and I think I messed with Mom’s mind when I insisted on washing my own clothes and sheets. Whoever masterminded the train sabotage lay low all that time, and there was a lull in terrorist activity. It felt as though we were simply being hypnotized into a state of passivity before the next big strike.


Chapter 5

Unfortunately, the Godawful name stuck, and Vintage City sang the praises of Magnifiman for days on end. What amazed me, though, was that when he was cornered for a two-second interview (an average length for him according to my watch), he never once contradicted it—never once showed that he cared what people called him. Miss Bailey obviously had the hots for the guy, and I was beginning to wonder if her interviews were really for journalism’s sake or if they were her means of showing off her elevated status as the only woman in Vintage City who could corner Magnifiman and induce him to talk. The local news grew more and more like a televised two-second date between them. It was certainly tough luck that Magnifiman despised publicity and glamour. The scant number of times she’d managed to catch him, he simply turned to ice, muttered something about doing his duty in the name of justice, glowered wonderfully at the camera, and then flew away before she could get another word in. There was one odd thing I noticed. I wasn’t sure at first if it was anything more than a


trick of the light, and I even doubted my recollection of the day when the train got blown up. Every time Magnifiman stood before the camera, something slowly took form on his chest. It started off as a vague, white blob—barely noticeable, so much so that I mistook it for a reflection of a really strong street lamp somewhere nearby, if not the remains of that evening’s dinner. Then the edges gradually sharpened, and a more definite shape formed. It must have been a couple of weeks since his first interview when a thick, white letter M was proudly displayed on that expansive chest of his. In succeeding days, a thin, white elliptical shape appeared, forming a diagonal ring around the M. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. Sometimes I’d sit with my nose practically glued to the TV screen in an attempt to make heads or tails of what I was seeing while my mom and sister barked at me from the couch, ordering me to move my ass out of the way. “Hey, guys, did you notice this before?” I once asked, pointing to the ringed M. Mom cocked her head. “I don’t know. It looks like a symbol of some sort. Was it always there?” “If it was, I didn’t notice it,” Liz said. “I mean, who’d want to look anywhere else but his face?” Uh, me? I stepped away from the TV, scratching my head. I could have been imagining things. I didn’t remember seeing it or any other mark on his outfit the day of the train sabotage, but then again, I was in too much of a shocked daze to think clearly. “That’s really creepy,” I muttered under my breath. I never brought the subject up, and I never understood had happened until well afterward. As for his partner—he was never Bambi Bailey’d. He had the advantage of speed, and, damn, did he make full use of it. He was on camera twice, while Magnifiman’s appearances far outnumbered his. In those two fleeting moments, I only managed to catch sight of his general appearance, which wasn’t at all bad. He was far from bulky, but he was still lean and fit—thanks to all the gazillion calories that were burned when one moved at light speed, I’m sure. He looked younger, too, but with his half-mask, I couldn’t really tell. He didn’t wear a cape like Magnifiman—only dark spandex and calf-high boots and, judging from the fact that I couldn’t see his hands, gloves. Because his appearances on TV were at night, he remained all the more elusive though he seemed to accomplish as much work as Magnifiman. Bambi Bailey, bless her smitten heart, tried every feminine wile to winkle a name out of Magnifiman.


“Oh, come on, I’m sure you call him something,” she drawled, her eyes half-closed. She was beginning to look a little too comfortable in front of the camera. In fact, her appearance also underwent a change with every interview she made. Her French twist vanished, and her hair flowed past her shoulders in a lush tumble of waves (sometimes curls). Her suit lost its jacket, and the matching skirt and smart white blouse shape-shifted into a body-hugging number. Understated jewelry sprouted like sparkling lichen on her arms and neck. If I had the ability to see invisible scents, I’m sure I’d have been staring at plumes of smoke rising from every pulse point on her body, which I suspected she completely doused in perfume. “If I do, I’m too busy to realize it.” “Well, with any luck, he’ll fly past us, and—” “He doesn’t fly. He leaps. Excuse me, please.” Whoosh! Off he went. I breathed a sigh of relief and mentally gave the side of justice another point on the scoreboard. God only knew what kind of hellish name she’d give the poor guy, who obviously wanted to be left alone.

It was about a month and a half since the train sabotage incident, and Magnifiman and his partner became distinctive threads in Vintage City’s tapestry. No matter where I turned, I’d hear or read his name. Online, I even had the mortification of stumbling across a role-playing fan community. Magnifiman was the focal point, and his partner, whom players had dubbed Shadow Boy, was also there. Villains of all stripes pitted brawn and brain against the two heroes, with the community’s watchers cheering the characters on. Some demanded romantic subplots involving Bambi Bailey. Some suggested a tragic predestination. There were a couple of uber-feminists who ranted about the absence of super heroines and continually disrupted threads with all sorts of diatribes about online misogyny. Following a few more links with trepidation, I found other fan communities springing up, this time involving fan fiction. I hit the back button within a second. Then I took a shower, dressed, and wandered over to the Elms Theater, intent on conquering my mood with a one-dollar movie. I rode my bike to the theater, which was downtown. It was one of my favorite


hangouts for two reasons: cheap B-grade entertainment flashbacks and a building that was one of the authentically historic landmarks the city boasted. It went through several ownerships, and through the years, the stuff that was offered fluctuated in quality. The owners from two generations ago decided to take on classic B films since the two other theaters in Vintage City did a good enough job offering us current titles and art house stuff. Old, bad films became a mainstay of Elms Theater, and high school kids loved it. The theater only had one screen, and the offering then was When Dinosaurs Ruled the

Earth. I’d already seen that movie twice, but I was so hooked on the cheese factor that I couldn’t resist. Besides, I loved caveman dialogue in which “akita” and “nikro (or was it neekro?)” had all-purpose uses. I could only afford a candy bar and soon settled myself in a seat. The theater was about one-third full, with chattering and giggling teenagers scattered all over. I glanced at my watch and saw that we had about three minutes until the movie. I slumped against my seat, slowly relaxing and losing myself in the filler music. “How classy,” I murmured. Someone had decided to change the music from contemporary, schmoopy pop to classical. The violin solo was wonderful—soothing. I knew nothing technical about classical music though I’d listened to it a few times, and I didn’t know what kind of song was being played. Whatever it was, the melody was plain gorgeous in a strange sort of way. The notes seemed off, I thought. If one were to take the music apart, the individual notes might be a bizarre mix, but when strung up like that—into one flowing piece of music—everything seemed to make sense. I couldn’t put my finger on it as I strained to listen even more carefully. Yes, it made sense—and yet it didn’t. It was that weird intuitive thing that spoke, in a foreign voice whispering foreign words. I shook my head and then rubbed my eyes. “I feel so tired,” I sighed. “How much longer ‘til the movie?” The last thing I remembered was stealing a fuzzy glance at my watch and not recognizing the numbers that glowed faintly in the dark.


Chapter 6

My head felt swollen. It throbbed as though my brain was trying to break its way out of my skull and make a slimy beeline toward water because my whole body seemed to be on fire. Slowly, slowly, I felt something cold and harsh pressing against my back. I groaned, my eyes still closed, and I turned my head to the side. I realized that I was lying on the ground. “He’s coming to,” a voice muttered from somewhere close, and it was answered by another. “Is he hurt?” I sensed movement around me, and as consciousness continued to creep in, the noise took on a more definite form. Voices seemed to come from everywhere—talking, shouting, sobbing, groaning. Sirens and police radios broke through the cacophony. I felt a hand press against my cheek to turn my face up. “No obvious injuries just like the others. Good.”


“Look after him. I’m going back to the theater.” “I’ll join you there.” That voice—my eyes flew open instantly, and I found myself staring right into Magnifiman’s. He loomed above me, kneeling at my side, one hand cradling my face. Something soft cushioned my head, and I realized that my jacket had been stripped off me and used as a pillow. With any luck, he’d done it. “What happened?” I asked, wincing at another wave of pain that swept through my head. “Oh, ouch…” His hand moved from my face to press down on my shoulder, forcing me not to move. “Easy, kid. You’re safe. Lie still ‘til the medics reach you.” “Where am I?” “Outside City Hall with the others.” I stared at him. God, he was gorgeous. “City Hall? I was in the theater a minute ago!” “You mean two hours ago.” He paused, frowning. “You and the other kids from the theater tried to storm the mayor’s office. If it weren’t for security, you might have succeeded and done heaven knows what else.” He paused again, his frown deepening as he lost himself in thought. “Witnesses reported that you all fell unconscious—as though something wore off—in the middle of the skirmish with security. And you were strong— superhuman, almost. I’m sure you would’ve eventually overpowered armed men without weapons of your own.” I blinked. “What are you talking about? Is this a joke?” That seemed to snap him out of it. He looked at me as though startled; then he recovered, and I was once again staring at marble perfection. My gaze momentarily rested on his mouth. I swallowed. So close. So close. All I needed to do was to raise myself up on my elbows and… “It isn’t, I’m afraid,” he replied, his voice grave. “We’re up against something big— something more dangerous than what I first thought. You—” “Eric,” I blurted out in a desperate little voice. “My name’s Eric. Eric Plath.” “Thank you. You and the rest of the kids in the theater were pawns—maybe used as a test, even.” He straightened up though he remained kneeling beside me and looked off in the distance, once again deep in thought. “Yes, that must be it,” he murmured. “A mastermind’s behind this. A true genius in evil.” As though on cue, a breeze picked up, blowing his hair. The effect was so silver screen. I wanted to throw myself against him and


lick his Adam’s apple, but all I could do was cough and shift uncomfortably, praying that my hard-on wasn’t too obvious. Magnifiman had bigger things on his mind, though. “Thanks for helping,” I said. “I think I’m okay now. I can get up.” He turned to me and stretched out a hand, which I took (with excessive pleasure), and he pulled me to my feet. “I have to go,” he said as I teetered a little. The dizziness was still there, apparently. “Be careful, young man.” “I will, thanks.” “Be sure to wait for a medic.” “Sure, sure.” I flashed him an easy smile. He stepped back, his gaze still meeting mine, and then he flew off. I forced myself to keep him in sight, but I overestimated my strength and crumpled to the ground when another wave of dizziness swept over me. All around, kids from the theater were scattered within a police-protected section of the block. Some sat on the ground, some were being carried off in stretchers, and some huddled in little groups—disheveled, wild-eyed, and confused. Cops, paramedics, and firemen moved around us. I lay on the ground for a few more minutes. My mind was a painfully throbbing blank. Before long a paramedic appeared, and I was examined and questioned. I called home once I was cleared to leave. Mom picked me up several moments later, frantic and fussy. I didn’t have a minute’s peace from the moment she pushed her way through the crowd to the moment I crawled into bed with what seemed to be a hangover from hell. “I don’t understand this,” she said as she whipped back and forth in the kitchen, putting together something for me to drink while I sat at the dining-table, slumped and moaning against Mom’s crocheted placemat. “Even theaters aren’t safe anymore! What’s this world coming to? Innocent kids are hypnotized into committing crimes against City Hall—” Hypnotized? How? If it weren’t for the crappy state of my head, I’d have basked in the surrealism of the afternoon. “—and I won’t be surprised if younger children are next.” She finally walked over to the table and set something down with some force. The thudding of a filled mug against an oak table nearly blew my skull apart, and I yelped. “How’s your head, honey?” I sat up, and Mom pressed a hand against my forehead.


“Mom, I don’t have a fever.” “That’s for me to judge.” She fell silent, moving her hand to the side of my face and then to my neck. She sighed and straightened up, pushing the mug of hot apple cider to me. “No, you don’t have a fever. Here. Drink this, and then go to bed. Oh—take some aspirin, too.” I stared at the steaming concoction. “What’s this supposed to do?” “I don’t know, but it’s good for something. Anyway, we’re out of herbal tea. Now drink up.” I didn’t dream of Magnifiman that night, but I did have nightmares—pretty creepy ones, at that. I couldn’t remember anything significant other than the voice and how it affected me. It wasn’t Magnifiman’s, but it was a low, melodic one—sinister and seductive, murmuring something that sounded like a chant or a prayer. I couldn’t understand the words if there were any, but I felt their impact in my gut, and I was being pulled in different directions, not at all caring where I was going. “Just keep talking,” I said, “and don’t stop.” It never stopped. I felt as though I was being swept away in a river of words and sounds, and I offered myself to it. When I woke up the next morning, the headache was gone, but I was drained. I could barely move from my bed, but I forced myself to get up, anyway. I washed my face and gargled before going downstairs. In the dining room, everyone was assembled for breakfast. The table was set. Dad was reading the paper aloud in a steady yet mildly confused voice, with Mom and Liz listening in shock. No one even noticed me when I entered and made my way to my seat. Everyone—and everything—seemed frozen in time. I walked behind Dad’s chair and glanced at the page he was reading from. I didn’t see the news. The front page, rather than being crammed from edge to edge with several depressing reports all at once, only had one article, which filled every inch of space. I paused and leaned closer. It wasn’t an article, I realized. It was a manifesto—a smug introduction and declaration of war by some freaky nut job called The Devil’s Trill.


Chapter 7

The entire staff of the Elms Theater was found tied up, gagged, blindfolded, and crammed in the manager’s office. They could remember nothing of what happened leading up to their rescue—that was, other than getting stuck in the dark when the lights all went out while they were busy with the theater’s opening procedures. “Like, everything went dark,” the girl who usually ran the snack bar’s cash register said during an interview with one of the local TV stations. “And then I woke up in Mr. Sykes’s office, like, blindfolded and shit. Someone’s butt was in my face, and, you know, I’m like, that’s gross.” I watched the news, stunned. I tried to think back to the moment I arrived at the theater. I didn’t recognize any of the employees there, but then again, the theater paid such dismal wages that the turnover there was pretty high. Besides, I hadn’t been there for two weeks. I didn’t expect to see the same people on my return. No, I never thought anything of it. I’d already been questioned by the cops, and I


described everything to them—from the state of the theater to the other kids and the staff. At least now they had physical descriptions. Considering the fact that my brain was slowly oozing out of my ears when they questioned me, I hoped that what I said made some sense. The news reporter turned to the camera and proceeded. “Reports from the teenagers who were caught in the middle of this bizarre crime didn’t make any sense to the police.” Oh. “Victims’ physical descriptions of the staff conflicted with each other, and they ranged from strange to downright disturbing, with one young girl claiming that the man who filled her popcorn bucket looked like her uncle’s corpse. Another boy insisted that the theater manager’s nose was cut off. Sgt. Vitus Bone of the Vintage City Police Department is now convinced that the teenagers’ accounts were manipulated, maybe a deliberate effect of the strange hypnosis they were under.” Sgt. Bone appeared on camera, looking his usual grim self, his splotchy, bloodhound cheeks wobbling as he spoke and coughed and cleared his throat of perpetual phlegm. “The confused descriptions are obvious signs that point in the direction of a masterfully engineered mind-control drug—cough!—one that manipulated its user even to the final second, when its effects were supposed to be wearing off. Oh, no—hrrrum!—what little of it was left in these kids still had the same mind-altering intensity. No one knows what the imposter staff looked like. Whoever planned yesterday’s incident—hrrrum!—made sure that his tracks were perfectly covered, down to the last detail. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I never thought him to be an eloquent speaker, but there it was. His secretary must have written his statement for him. At the same time, I racked my brain in an effort to remember what descriptions I gave the police. The bizarre thing is that I couldn’t remember a single detail other than the fact that, yes, I spoke to them. “Damn,” I breathed, staring at the TV. “Was that an effect as well?” Was I—and the other kids—manipulated into giving police all sorts of nonsensical information to throw them off the scent and then, once the “drug” wore off, into completely forgetting what it was we told them? It certainly made sense to me. Then all talk shifted to The Devil’s Trill, who’d confessed to the crime—his “delightful experiment,” as he claimed in his manifesto:

I only regret, ladies and gentlemen, that my Noxious Nocturne didn’t last as long as I’d


hoped. It is, however, still undergoing lab tests with obliging Ficus trees (I detest animal experimentations). Oh, and there’s no need to cheer for that temporary setback. I’m a patient maestro, and I believe in all good things to those who wait. I’ve other toys, which I’m sure Magnifiman will be pleased to play with. For the moment, I’m watching and waiting. Have a good day. He’d yet to show himself to everyone. For the moment, he was simply this dangerous shadow that lurked around the fringes, waiting for the next perfect opportunity to strike, and an undercurrent of paranoia and unease settled over the city. Magnifiman and his partner behaved no differently. They remained in the shadows as well, the classic game of chess playing out with Vintage City serving as grimy bricked chessboard. Online role-playing games exploded with activity, now that the master villain had just identified himself. Peter sat beside me in Art Class a couple of days after, and he was, in a word, pissed. “Why the hell didn’t you call me? We could’ve done something together at your place or mine, and you’d have been safe!” he hissed, hiding behind his easel. His newsprint pad sat before him, completely untouched. Fifteen minutes of the class had already passed, and Peter had yet to set charcoal on paper. Instead, he ragged on me while I tried to keep my focus fixed on our project, which was to sketch the “still life” that Mr. Cleland attempted to put together (three old and discolored dictionaries, an abandoned Thermos bottle, a small pot of wilting begonias, and an economy-size bottle of antacids). “Remember last week’s lesson about light source,” Mr. Cleland said. “Don’t be afraid to capture shadows in your drawings, and for God’s sake, don’t try to be clever and pull another Cubist thing on me.” I couldn’t help but muse over the silliness of my earlier crush on Mr. Cleland. He was a good-looking guy, yes—tall, a bit bulky, with the loveliest green eyes I’d ever seen. I remembered falling hard for him on the first day of school, and my infatuation never once wavered, a fact for which I’d always been proud. I half-killed myself working hard to please him, even go above and beyond what he asked and put out twice the work that everyone else did. He appreciated it, yes, and he rewarded me with extra credit, endangering my status in my classmates’ eyes, considering how much of a Teacher’s Pet I was turning out to be. I didn’t give a damn what they all thought until Peter knocked me out of the stratosphere with a blunt, “Do you think all this sucking up will get you anywhere closer to college?”


Now, I walked into the art room with an adult’s stride and an adult’s presence of mind. I stopped sneaking peeks at Mr. Cleland from where I sat. All the sad-eyed yearning faded, to be replaced with an objective and work-hungry mind. The extra credit work stopped, and I was finally in command of myself. Of course, that was because all that heartbroken yearning had shifted its direction from the good-looking Art teacher to a certain flying hero. “Eric, are you listening?” “What? Yeah, I am. Stop yelling.” “I’m not yelling. I’m trying to make you think.” “And what’s that supposed to do? It’s not going to change what happened two days ago. So I got restless and went to the movies. Big deal.” “Big deal? You could’ve gotten hurt. Hell, you were hurt!” I sighed and set my charcoal down and then faced him. Ignoring my charcoal-soiled hands, I rolled up my sleeves and stretched my arms out to Peter. “Do I look like I’m hurt? No bruises, see? Not a stitch or a missing body part anywhere. None. I had a hell of a hangover, but that was it.” Peter’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the whole point. You don’t get it, do you?” “What’s there to get? I’m okay! Man, what else do you want from me? A promise to call you every time I’m bored, signed in my blood? And even if we’d decided to do something together yesterday, what guarantee would we have had against being victims in some other way?” I’d never seen Peter’s face turn so red. He glowered at me for a moment, looking as though he was about to take me by the collar and shake me hard. Instead, he turned his attention back to his work—that is, he finally began to sketch something—and said nothing in return. I watched him attempt to create something, but it was very obvious that his agitation was ruining things for him. He soldiered on, though, and marred his newsprint pad with this unidentifiable configuration—something Cubist, almost. Annoyed, I shook my head and returned to what I was doing. Peter reminded me of Mom in so many ways—those irritating, bullying demands for my sake—but at least Mom had a good reason. Peter wasn’t family, and he sure as hell wasn’t my parent. I let him stew in his juices for the rest of the class. We didn’t exchange another word for the rest of the day, which was also pretty typical when we quarreled, but I figured that it was always the best policy to give him (and me) as much space as possible. We could talk


things out again once our heads cooled, and frankly, I wasn’t in any mood to put up with his nagging. Thank heaven Liz picked me up from school that day. I was so tired by the time the last bell rang that I didn’t think I could have managed an eight-block bike ride back home. “I’m having girl issues, and I need a banana split,” she said while I laid my bike down on her truck’s bed. “Unfortunately, I can never finish one, so I’m sharing it with you.” “That’s cool,” I replied, hopping onto the passenger’s seat. “I kinda need something, too.” “Hmm. Boyfriend problems, huh?” “Best friend problems.” Liz merged into traffic in a smoky screeching of tires and a half-second glance at oncoming vehicles. A car’s horn blew behind us as we sped away, but Liz didn’t seem to notice. “I’m surprised you aren’t together—you and Peter. I mean, he’s gay, right? You’ve been best friends since grade school—” “Classmates since grade school, best friends since freshman year,” I corrected. “Well, I don’t know—like I said, I’m surprised you aren’t a couple. In fact, you might as well be married to each other, the way you’re joined at the hip.” I laughed, slumping in my seat. “I don’t like being joined at the hip. I think it’s offensive, to be honest with you. It’s almost like no one can think on his own unless the other person’s there.” I shuddered. “That’s creepy.” “Some people think that’s romantic.” “I don’t.” I felt Liz steal a glance at me. “So what happened today?” “Nothing.” She sighed, shifting gears and stepped hard on the gas. We ran a red light and nearly sideswiped a decrepit old truck piled high with gravel. We passed by the train tracks, and I glanced up. Construction was still going, and no one knew how long it would take before the aerial train would be up and running again. I’d yet to take the subway to go anywhere, but I expected it to be overworked now that the other train was temporarily crippled. It was travel by foot or bike for me. For several minutes, there was nothing but silence in the truck. I didn’t want to think about Peter, and I didn’t want to think about Magnifiman or The Devil’s Trill or my Chemistry Lab (for which I expected to be royally chewed out by Mom and Dad). Vintage


City’s dreary charm kept my mind blissfully empty. Two-hundred-year-old brick walls looked more weathered. The grime appeared to have crept out by another inch in a span of twenty-four hours, eating uneven surfaces everywhere in their wake. Steam rising from grates on the pavement looked grayer and thicker than usual. Stagnant pools here and there gave the impression of black, bottomless wells of rank water. The occasional wasted face that peered out from the shadows of neglected alleys reminded me more and more of living corpses. Pedestrians in Italian suits or the latest hot trend from the Emporium Grande would obliterate these faces from my view. Every so often, we’d pass by construction areas, with workers carefully reconstructing the façade of a house or a business. Maybe bricks or antique-looking gates or window frames needed repair. At any rate, chinks in the old-fashioned armor appeared, and soiled men labored to hide all signs of contemporary material behind an antiquated shield. It was almost jarring, seeing bits of new lumber or cement against a sea of discolored and weathered brick, iron, and wood. Watching an offending patch of newness get hidden away came as a relief to me though I couldn’t help but feel a pang of gloominess at the sight. It was like being stuck in some odd time bubble where no one wanted to get out. As though to celebrate the triumph of false age, rain clouds formed above, and I rolled down the passenger window to inhale the scent of rain. Even with the mix of smoke, steam, and other smells from different corners of the city, the scent of rain managed to permeate the thick, sluggish gases I’d been inhaling since I was a baby. It always had an invigorating power because it promised regeneration—newness. Liz sighed and broke the silence. “God, I hate PMS. Listen, I changed my mind. You get yourself a chocolate parfait, and I’ll keep the whole banana split. The way my hormones are going right now, I’ll more likely stick a fork in your hand than share.” The chocolate parfait was heaven. Then again, when did it ever fall short? My mood remained low, however, despite my gluttonous indulgence and Liz’s constant prattling about this, that, and the other. I regretted snapping back at Peter though I knew that I was in the right. We sat by the window, and I spent half the time looking out to watch passersby, dreading what I needed to do, which was to apologize to him. I was never good at reconciliations. For all my passion for poetry and literature, I sucked at finding the right words when it counted the most. A mumbled “Sorry” and an embarrassed shrug were the best I could do, and they were never enough, especially when it came to Peter—despite the


fact that he started the quarrel.


Chapter 8

I chickened out the next day. The distance of time helped me find the courage, but it took an entire day in school for me to do something about it. I grew half a pair of balls the day after our spat. Peter and I were in nearly all the same classes, and we sat beside each other in those. All the same, I tried not to look at him, during class, pretending rapt attention when my mind was drowning in ideas on how to broach the subject when the right moment came. I was lucky that none of my teachers called on me, but I was sure that it was the sort of good fortune that came only once in a boy’s academic career. I expected to be called on and drilled and consequently embarrassed before the class the next day. Kids swarmed out of the building a minute or so after the final bell. I lingered at my locker, keeping an eye on Peter as he collected his things a short distance down the hallway. He shrugged off his denim jacket and tried to stuff it inside his locker. No dice. He had too many books stored in addition to some odds and ends he’d collected or created in Art


Class. The jacket refused to stay in, and things kept falling out whenever he tried to force the issue. I secured my locker and walked over to him. “I can take that home,” I said. Peter whirled around, startled. “Besides, it’s filthy. I can wash it for you if you can’t do it at home.” He regarded me in silence for a second or two before handing me his jacket. “Thanks. Althea sewed a new patch somewhere on the front, but she said it won’t get ruined in the wash.” I immediately searched for the patch. Althea was our Geometry buddy (the girl found proofs exciting, which I thought was grotesque, but she helped me with my homework sometimes with the appropriate bribe). I was sure she also harbored a crush on Peter despite the fact that he’d been out for a year. The patch she sewed on his jacket was a white square with “Hazardous Nuclear Material” embroidered on it. “Where’d she get this?” I asked. “Don’t know. It’s fitting, though.” I folded the jacket and stuffed it inside my messenger bag while Peter finished sorting through his stuff. We were quiet for a while as we walked off together. “Are you hungry?” I asked. “We have some leftover lasagna and pastries from yesterday—” “What was the occasion?” “Oh—it was my parents’ wedding anniversary.” “Happy anniversary to them. They didn’t go anywhere special?” I hesitated. “No. Too expensive.” I shrugged off my embarrassment. “It was cool, though. We celebrated as a family. It was a small, quiet party—if you can call it that.” Peter chuckled, and I glanced at him. He walked with his head bowed, but he was smiling. Cautious relief washed over me. “So—you interested?” He looked up and nodded, his smile softening. “Sure. Thanks.” “You can call your parents from our living room.” “Okay.” I purposefully left my bike at home, gambling on my success in reconciling with Peter and having dinner with him as a peace offering. We took his car—always a mildly disconcerting experience because the damn thing was cleaner than a museum, and I could


hear my germs charging forward en masse to conquer new territory—and said very little to each other all the way. Liz had a late class, and Mom and Dad were at work. Being home allowed me the luxury of comfort in the face of an awkward reconciliation, and once we crossed the threshold, I was nearly myself again—talking, laughing. Peter looked around, reacquainting himself with my house. It had been months since he last visited, and having him there once again was a miracle in and of itself, considering how strict his parents were. I suppose, in the tradition of the kid from the wrong/bad side of town (or something to that effect), it was like living out a cliché. My family lived in a row house in the older part of the city—three stories, very narrow but fairly deep, and sagging from top to bottom from decades’ worth of accumulated dirt. It wasn’t a ghetto, but it was far, far inferior to any of the wider and more luxurious terraced houses in Peter’s neighborhood. My family barely clung by our fingernails to middle-class respectability, and even then, Mom and Dad had always been adamant that neither Liz nor I needed to keep a job while in high school. My sister now worked part-time at her junior college’s bookstore, but I remained jobless, with not much to show for it, grade-wise. “Sorry for the space,” I said as I led him through the cramped hallway in the direction of the dining-room. Like every other room in our house, it was clean but inconveniently loaded. “We’ve been collecting all sorts of junk, and we can’t get rid of the others to make room.” “Packrats,” Peter snickered and then nearly tripped over a crate that was filled with Dad’s unused tools. The crate sat on the floor and against a wall, but it was big enough to pose a hazard to anyone who walked down the hallway. “Sorry,” I said again, this time smiling sheepishly as I gave the crate a kick, pushing it back against the wall. I stared at it for a moment. “Sorry.” “It’s okay. I didn’t hurt anything.” I shook my head and turned to Peter. “No—I mean, I’m sorry. You know—” I waved an awkward hand toward the front door. “I’m sorry we fought.” There. I took a deep breath as relief washed over me. “I’m sorry I was a jerk. You were worried, and I wasn’t tuning in to that. I don’t know—maybe I didn’t want to, which is pretty lame.” Peter looked at me with an expression that I couldn’t read. He was a taciturn sort— that fiercely private, evasive artist type—and I’d always suspected that he spent a good deal of his time standing before the mirror, mastering the art of emotional control—and


failing in practice. He might not talk much, but he wore his heart on his sleeve. I’d always looked at him as two people in one body. Like opposing forces crammed in one container, forever at odds with each other. It was bad luck that I wasn’t the best person to offer him anything by way of comfort or empathy. At that moment, however, I found myself on unfamiliar ground. I tried to sense his mood, but I couldn’t. It left me feeling a hell of a lot more vulnerable than I wanted to be. “What?” I prodded. Peter finally broke into a smile. “Nothing. I didn’t expect that, is all.” “Well, I am sorry.” “I know. I’m sorry, too.” A different kind of discomfort was now beginning to set in. I turned sharply away and walked forward. “Right. This way to the feast.” “What kind of pastries did your mom make?” “Apple turnovers—actually, she didn’t make them from scratch. They were on sale at the supermarket. Come to think of it, so was the lasagna. I need to heat them up still. Do you want to call your folks now while you wait?” “Sure. I’ll find my way to the living room. I think I remember where it is.” I listened to his footsteps stop and then pick up again, receding this time as he retraced his steps toward the living room. In the dining-room I busied myself with the food, getting the place settings right while the microwave groaned and clicked. Before long the table was nicely laid out, and I was retrieving soda bottles from the fridge. The comfortable domesticity of the whole thing didn’t escape my notice, and every so often, I’d chuckle at my imagination’s attempts at recreating sedate home life for me and my partner, whoever that might be in the end. “Yikes,” I breathed while poking around the refrigerator for the butter. “Whoever’s going to end up with me had better know how to cook.” Soft footsteps presently broke through my thoughts, and Peter’s voice interrupted my work. “Done,” he said as he entered the dining-room. “Are they pissed?” He hesitated. “No.” I walked over to the table with the drinks and set them down just as Peter took his place. He looked pensive—distracted. His brows were slightly creased, and his gaze was


distant. For a second or two, I wondered if he was aware of me. “Is something wrong?” I asked. “Hmm? Oh—no, everything’s fine.” Peter flashed me a tight smile. “I just got distracted for a bit there. Sorry.” “That overachieving brain of yours needs to take a break.” “Yeah. It can be a real bitch sometimes.” “Your family’s proud, though.” Peter helped himself to a roll and absently tore into it, ignoring the stick of butter I pushed toward him. “Sure. I’m everything they always wanted.” I glanced at him, but he’d busied himself with the lasagna. “You sure you’re okay?” “I’m okay! Quit fussing!” He laughed. “Sorry, sorry.” “Listen, do you want to do something after this? Movie? Arcade? A walk by the river? Whatever?” “Uh—what about your folks?” Peter shrugged. He was still laughing, but I sensed a bit of desperation in his outburst. His laughter sounded almost miserable. “I’ve earned a night off. Hell with it. I don’t care if they ground me.” He took a deep breath, and that moment of desperation faded. Peter leaned over his plate and stretched out his arm on the table to take my hand in his. “Let’s do something after this, Eric. I don’t care what it is as long as I—we, I mean—get to do whatever we want.” “Well—” “I’ll pay.” “Coffee and poetry at the Jumping Bean? I feel like getting wired all night, and I don’t give a damn.” Peter squeezed my hand gently, his grin frozen. “Done.”


Chapter 9

Frozen food leftovers for dinner. Used-book-hunting at Olivier’s afterwards. Bluefood-coloring-shopping after that. A quiet stroll by the river, which really wasn’t as idyllic as one might think, seeing as how the river was once a victim of those biotech companies, and environmental cleanup continued well after their demise. I half-expected to see threeheaded animals pop out from the depths, if not Loch Ness Monster clones tease people from afar. All the same, the walk was relaxing. The caffeine orgy at the Jumping Bean topped off a very pleasant evening, with Peter driving me back home at around nine p.m. He actually looked proud in his defiance as the car idled, and I was getting ready to leave. “I guess it’s my turn to treat next time,” I said, flashing him a caffeinated smile. “It might not be for a while.” “Why? I’m not that broke, you know.” He laughed. “Idiot. I’m talking about myself. I’ll be grounded after tonight.” “How can you be so sure? Your mom and dad might let you off. It isn’t as if you’re


screwing around everyday.” “I’ll be grounded. Trust me,” he replied with conviction. He paused, drumming his fingers against the wheel. “Well—if I’m about to go to hell in a hand basket, I might as well make sure that I earn the trip.” The car still idling, Peter leaned close, pulling me toward him with a gentle hand behind my head, and kissed me. Full on, our mouths moving against each other, our tongues touching. I’d never kissed anyone before, but it didn’t matter if I was going about it correctly. I stiffened in his hold for a moment, completely taken aback, but he worked his magic on me, and I practically melted against him. My eyes slid shut. I moved my hands around his shoulders, pulling myself closer to him despite the awkward placement of the car’s stick shift. The intimacy, the warmth, the feeling of vulnerability—it was frightening, allowing someone else that much power over me. All that time, I’d always believed that I was the one in control. I was the one who swaggered and spouted off cynical jokes and observations about the world, while Peter listened, anxiety simmering just below the surface. But while we kissed, I knew that if he were to tell me to drop dead on the spot or cut my belly open or eat poison, I’d do it. Without question, without hesitation. Maybe that was what a kiss did to a person. Maybe after the moment had passed, I’d be laughing at myself in front of my bedroom mirror. Nothing else mattered in that one encapsulated slice of time, however. He kissed me, and I kissed him back, not even thinking that it might be the first and last I’d ever enjoy with him. We stopped eventually and held each other, a bit stunned, I guess. Nothing could be heard but our breathing and the car’s soft purring. I pressed my face against his hair and did what I could to absorb him—his scent, his warmth, his touch. I watched wisps of his hair shiver with every breath I took. “I’ll see you later, then,” I murmured. “Yeah.” And that was it. I was standing at the doorstep without being aware of getting out of the car, watching the rear lights retreat and vanish in the darkness. I didn’t even realize that I had my keys in my hand. Dad was in the living room, lying stretched out on the couch. He looked sated and


sleepy as he watched TV while absentmindedly rubbing his stomach with one hand. He must’ve finished off the lasagna for dinner. He glanced at me as I walked past the living room door. “How was it?” he asked. “Fantastic.” “Pretty strong?” “No, no—slow and gentle.” “You had decaf?” “What?” “What?” I blinked, and my face burned. “Oh. Nothing. The coffee was—uh—pretty good. I’m wired for the night.” “More energy to work on your Chemistry, I hope.” “I guess so,” I said, heaving a sigh of relief. God, that was close. He nodded, turning his attention back to the TV. “Yeah—the Jumping Bean’s got the best coffee around. And thanks for leaving a note, son. I know it bugs you when your mother and I nag you about these things—” “It’s cool, Dad. Really.” I paused, leaning against the doorway. Dad was watching

Blade Runner on cable. He’d seen that movie, what, a dozen times already? And that wasn’t counting the theatrical release. “I’m glad you guys nag me about things. Better that than not giving a damn at all.” “You missed the news. That mannequin man—” I blinked. “Magnifiman?” “Yeah, him. Boy, that name leaves a bad taste in my mouth.” “Unfortunately, we’re all stuck with it.” Dad nodded. His eyes remained glued to the TV, and I could imagine his pupils turning into throbbing spirals from all those light waves and stuff. “Anyway, Mannequin Man was pretty busy tonight—got several thugs off the street, and it turned out a couple of them worked for The Devil’s Trill.” “No kidding! What were they doing when they were caught?” “Trying to break into the jeweler’s on East Fifth Street.” “That sounds a bit petty for The Devil’s Trill. I’d expect him to target something bigger and more important, not a small jewelry store.”


“I think you’re right. Maybe they’re testing something out.” “Or maybe it was a diversion. Did the news show what they looked like?” “No. They’d already been hustled over to the police station by the time that Bailey woman popped out with the camera.” Dad and I exchanged glances. Then, as though on cue, we both frowned at each other. “This must be the longest conversation we’ve had since you turned into a crazy teenager, son,” he said, looking mystified. “Yeah—I think so, too.” A moment of awkward silence passed. “I guess I should get ready for bed.” Dad sighed (as did I) and yawned, once again looking relaxed and contented as he turned his attention back to the movie. “All right. Good night, Eric.” Liz was in the shower, and Mom was finishing up in the kitchen. I kissed her good night, swore to go over my Chemistry Lab with her at my earliest convenience (not a good enough time frame for her, and she insisted on talking to me tomorrow at breakfast), and threw out the garbage before heading to my room. I tried to keep my thoughts fixed on Peter and our evening together—especially the kiss. I forced myself to reflect, to savor, and to ponder the future, but my mind remained scattered. It wasn’t because all the events leading to that night kept me off-balance, with little opportunity to breathe. I frowned at the ceiling after I turned off my bedroom light. I couldn’t sleep, not because of Peter or the Noxious Nocturne or Magnifiman or the kiss. It was something else entirely—a quiet, nagging voice from some distant and uncharted corner of my mind, whispering to me in an endless, wordless stream. It stirred something in me—something deeper, something that worked at an intuitive level. I didn’t understand what it was, and neither did I understand my mind’s insistence in pulling out bits of memory from that afternoon a couple of days ago, when I went to the theater for cheap entertainment. That quiet, nagging voice, however, insisted that it had nothing to do with the bizarre hypnosis to which I was a victim. It kept redirecting me to my rescue, but while I could recall my return to consciousness and my conversation with Magnifiman, I couldn’t see what it was to which intuition was trying to alert me. There was something about my rescue that didn’t sit well with me, I guess. A tiny detail that my subconscious picked up, and it tugged away at the fringes of my mind. I replayed that afternoon several times that night, wondering what the hell it might be, but I kept coming up short. Maybe it was because the situation was so chaotic, and my head was still


under The Devil’s Trill’s spell. I couldn’t say for sure. “Screw it,” I sighed and burrowed under the covers.


Chapter 10

Mug shots of The Devil’s Trill’s thugs appeared in the following day’s paper, and for that, I was grateful. My Chemistry Lab was forgotten (temporarily, at least, but I’d take any and all reprieve with boundless gratitude) as Mom and Liz crowded around Dad to gawk at the pictures. The Trill’s henchmen didn’t look altogether unusual other than the fact that they sneaked around in tuxedoes and masks, guns in holsters snuggling nicely against silk. I helped myself to some milk, which I liberally sprinkled with blue food coloring from my freshly-acquired supplies. Denim blue, finally. I took my seat, ignoring my family, and set my glass down with a triumphant snort. “So what were they doing at the jeweler’s yesterday?” Liz prodded. “Stealing, of course,” Mom replied. “Though I’ll have to say that they could’ve done better than that particular store.” “Are they saying anything, Dad?”


“Nope. If they had, I still wouldn’t expect the police to say anything about it unless they want to cause unnecessary panic.” “How many criminals were caught last night? Did they keep a head count, honey?” “Uh—wait. I’m looking. Ah, here it is. About twenty were picked up by Mannequin Man.” Liz chuckled as she walked back to her seat. She spotted my Blue Breakfast Beverage and grimaced, but she said nothing to me. “Magnifiman had a full night, it looks like. Hopefully some of those arrests were made by his sidekick.” “I don’t think so, but just because it isn’t mentioned here, doesn’t mean that it’s not the case.” “If he’s being paid to clean up the streets, he’d better be helping out.” I watched Liz spread about half a pound of cream cheese on her bagel. “I doubt if they’re being paid. Aren’t real crime fighters independently wealthy—or just plain generous to a fault? You’ve got to admit, people with superpowers are high maintenance. Money should be a necessary evil.” My sister laughed. “Good looks, brawn, and independent wealth! I want to marry the guy!” “What about brains?” “I’d rather hold off on that. Absolute perfection is a bit scary. I’ll take what’s there, thanks.” “Well, I’m glad they’re around to help,” Mom said, straightening up. “How about some bacon and eggs, Eric?” “No thanks, Mom.” “You’re welcome to color your eggs blue.” That was a low blow, and I must admit that my resolution wavered a bit. Then I remembered my Chemistry Lab and studied Mom— nope, no signs of recollection, with her mood being its usual upbeat self. Best not to disturb the waters and concede, at least this once. “Okay, okay, I’ll have one of each. No food coloring required. I’m trying to save every drop of the stuff.” “You’re underweight. You’re having two of each.” “Can I have them baked, not fried?” Mom blinked. “Eric, your breakfast’s going by way of the frying pan. Honestly, the way you go on and on about my cooking—you’ve been listening to that woman on that


frou-frou cooking show on cable again, haven’t you?” “No, my arteries, actually,” I muttered as I helped myself to a bagel, trying to ignore the expired date on the bag. I saw no signs of mold anywhere, and careful sniffing yielded nothing but the usual smell of bland factory-produced food. “I heard that.”

Peter was grounded, but he took it all in stride. He appeared more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. More confident, even, which got me to wonder. Hell, I didn’t even recognize him when I was at my locker, sorting through my junk, and I turned when I heard my name called and saw this boy waving at me from the other end of the hallway, grinning toothily. It was a reflexive move to look behind me just in case it was another Eric who was being saluted, but I only saw the usual swarm of students hurrying to and from their lockers, chattering and laughing. “I was calling you, Plath.” Peter sauntered over to me, his usual well-dressed self. The only difference is that the boy was glowing—almost literally. I looked suspiciously at the dreary fluorescent lights overhead. “Hi, Eric.” Althea stepped out from behind Peter, half-pissed, half-glum as she eyed me through her thick glasses. “How’s it going?” “I’m doing great, thanks.” “I’ll bet you are.” She knew. I looked at Peter, who nodded and shrugged with a sheepish little smile. Great. Poor Althea—I loved her to pieces, but now I dreaded the fallout, if any. I didn’t have a lot of friends—girl buddies, even less so. Initial impressions in Althea’s case said nothing more than heartbreak. Althea Horace of the Mystery Machine, we always called her because she was the flesh and-blood incarnation of Scooby-Doo’s Velma, save for the fact that she was black. Althea’s baby dreads followed the shape of a chin-length bob, and a pair of oversized, black-rimmed glasses subtly complemented her rich, chocolate complexion. She was also fond of turtleneck sweaters, and it was through Peter’s joking encouragement that she went all the way and wore short pleated skirts regardless of the weather, but she drew the


line where the shoes were concerned and wore boots instead. “You look good,” I offered, my face hot. “Yeah. Whatever.” Althea then sighed. “Thanks.” “I’m grounded,” Peter said, his voice non-committal. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t be. For how long?” “A week.” “I guess that’s not so bad.” He smirked. “You say that now. I’ll give you a week to change your mind.” I stared back, surprised into silence. The bell rang, and the three of us fell into step together as we made our way to our first class. I kept Althea sandwiched between us, seeing how she was looking more and more miserable as the conversation wore on. I did that in hopes of getting her involved, but it only made things worse because Peter had tuned her out, behaving as though no one else existed but him and me. When I offered to carry Althea’s books, I thought I heard her growl. She remained quiet as we walked up the stairs to the third floor, and Peter, his anxiety gone and his confidence stoked, yammered nonstop, giving me my second shock of the day. I think I spent my time gaping at him, my mind sending out warning signals about poor Althea. He didn’t pay attention. She snapped once we reached the third floor landing. Turning to Peter, she swung her fist and slugged him in the shoulder, sending him staggering toward the wall. For someone who stood at five-foot-one, she sure packed an impressive wallop. “Ow, what the hell?” he yelped. Althea drew herself up and squared her shoulders back with a contented smile. “There. That felt good.” She looked at me. “I swear, they’re either gay or priests. It’s really pissing me off.” “Or both,” I stammered, poised to defend myself. She left me alone, though. It was Peter who’d broken her heart. Then again, I could never tell with girls. “Since you’re grounded, Peter, I’d like to borrow your boyfriend this afternoon. The traveling carnival’s about to pack up and move, and I want to check it out before it’s gone. I need an escort. Two would’ve been better, but shit happens, apparently.” “You’ll probably be my escort, not the other way around. Looks like I’ll be welldefended against freaky clowns.” Peter gingerly massaged his shoulder while I opened the door to the third floor for


Althea. “You don’t need to ask for my permission. Eric’s free to do whatever he wants. Not like I can do much, being walled up at home after school. God, where’d you learn to hit like that?” “Bruce Lee. That one-inch-punch thing. Read about it online. I haven’t gotten it right yet, but I’m working on it.” Althea vanished through the door and trotted off to class while I hung back, waiting for Peter. I chuckled and shook my head. “Serves you right. Insensitive bastard.” “What? What did I do?” I rolled my eyes. “Ignored her, that’s what. She was right there, a couple of inches away, and you just kept on talking over her.” “Did I?” “Yes!” He grimaced. His mood mellowed out, and for a second or two, I thought I’d just caught a fleeting glimpse of the old Peter. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’ll have to make it up to her sometime.” “You’re a different person,” I noted, cocking my head thoughtfully. “Not in a bad way, though—just different. I’ve never seen you this upbeat and restless.” “Oh,” he chuckled, coloring a little. Then he shrugged. “I’m in the doghouse—sort of—and for good reason.” “You know, I’ve never seen anyone enjoy being grounded this much.” “I’m a sucker for punishment,” he replied, kissing me once assured that we were alone. “It’s the cause of my punishment that’s been my mood enhancer today. That said, I’d do it again if given another chance.” “Don’t tempt fate, for Chrissakes, or I’ll never be able to go out with you. I’m forced to wait a whole week as it is.” “Tempt fate? Oh, you mean like this?” Another kiss or two—actually, it was a longish series of kisses—actually, it was something close to a torrid make-out session, yes, on the third floor landing, with me getting slammed against the wall and pressed there, Peter’s mouth, hands, and body serving as a very exciting anchor. We were the only students in the stairwell, and in the crazy melting swirl that used to be my brain, I could barely hear distant footsteps and voices fading off as well as doors opening and closing. Self-control (whatever was left of it) managed to drag itself out of the muck and give me


a sharp slap upside the head. I pushed Peter away and tried to hold him at arm’s length. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. I never until then realized how strong he was—though it might be because he was horny—and it was a struggle getting him off me. Then again, I guess it was very likely because I didn’t want him to stop, either. I swallowed and waited for my breathing to quiet down. “We’ll be late.” “I know. I don’t care. I’m beginning to enjoy this rebellion stuff.” He smiled, his eyes a bit glazed, and traced my mouth with a finger. “You almost broke my back, throwing me against the wall like that.” “Did I hurt you? Jesus, I’m sorry.” The glazed look was still there. This time a bit of fear tempered it, and I had to smile to reassure him. “I’m all right, seriously. I didn’t hit my head. Just got the wind knocked out of me—caught me off guard. Looks like your tennis lessons are paying off.” “Yeah. Looks like they are,” he stammered. “Okay, I think I’m ready.” Taking a deep, unsteady breath, he stepped away and led me out of the stairwell. Thank heaven for slackers. About half a dozen students scurried up and down the hallway, frantically searching for their classrooms. Peter and I crossed the threshold of ours just as the second bell rang. I glanced in Althea’s direction and caught her staring daggers at us, her arms crossed on her chest. Whether she was blessed with the keenest perception a human being could ever have, or we were way too obvious, I couldn’t say, but that look of hers spoke volumes of what she knew. Well, I suppose the fact that we entered the room a good three or so minutes after her would have been a dead giveaway. Reflexively, I ran my fingers through my hair and straightened out my jacket and shirt, just in case. I took the empty seat in front of her while Peter sat beside me. I flashed Althea a crooked little grin as I deposited my bag on the floor. She merely narrowed her eyes and mouthed, “Skank.”


Chapter 11

The carnival, ironically enough, was situated in the abandoned corner of Vintage City’s industrial area, where the biotech companies used to flourish. It was almost fitting. The carnival—which went by the name The Solstice Masque—presented itself as the blue-collar equivalent of Cirque du Soleil, and the grounds swarmed with employees in grotesque costumes. One would say that they looked like genetic mutants. The rides, which were pretty tame, were quite old. The merry-go-round, the tilt-a-whirl, the Ferris wheel and the swing carousel reeked with age, from the rickety creaking of moving joints to the soiled and scratched paint. Animal and cherub carvings looked like relics that were salvaged from the darkest corners of the oldest antique shop. The wild, manic expressions on the horses’ faces and the wide-eyed, watchful looks with which wooden cherubs regarded carnival visitors had that distinct glamour of madness to them. I couldn’t help but stare back, enthralled and somewhat spooked. The waltz from the calliope that served as our musical background had an odd, off key quality to it, not


unlike the violin music I heard in the theater several days ago. In this instance, though, there was nothing ominous about the sound—nothing threatening. It was merely spooky. With the swarming figures of costumed carnival workers and the clouds of smoke and steam being belched into the air, the fairgrounds kept us in an atmosphere of phantasmagoric mystery. Althea adored it, of course. As a peace offering for stealing her hoped-for gay boyfriend, I shelled out what was left of my allowance for cotton candy and gave it to her. “Pretty cool,” she breathed, looking around. “Want to check out a ride?” “Nah—I might have nightmares. I’m here to enjoy the view.” She nodded in the direction of the old, abandoned buildings some distance from the fairgrounds. “Except for those, anyway. Someone should’ve had those torn down.” “They could be used for something else,” I offered. With all the lights, the laughter, and the music that transformed the empty concrete lot, the old biotech buildings looked like decrepit shells looming above us. Darkness served as partial cloaks, obscuring much of them from view. Their silhouettes and their windows’ faint outlines appeared sepulchral, and what bits I knew about the industry back in their heyday didn’t help alleviate the tickling crawling of my skin. Reports of people dying or getting hurt during lab tests that went wrong were better known, but there were also rumors that floated around involving genetic manipulations and the monsters that came out of the test tubes. “I doubt it. At least I hope not. That place is bad news.” “Was bad news, you mean.” Althea shrugged and tugged at her cotton candy with sticky, pink-stained fingers. “I guess. When I look at those buildings, though, I feel like they’re alive—their windows watching everyone, their walls breathing. Drives me nuts. They really should be torn down.” I laughed, draping an arm around her shoulders and steering her away from the outer edges of the fairgrounds. “You’ve been watching way too many Twilight Zone episodes, honey.” “Uncle Moses used to work there. Can’t remember what he did—security, I think. He said all the hoity-toity scientists there were pretty freaky. Like, secretive and obsessed.” We stopped before the merry-go-round and leaned on the iron fence. Children, adults,


and teenagers swarmed on and off the platform while a couple of costumed workers ushered them to and from the ride. Althea continued to talk, but I half-listened. My attention was divided between my friend and the carnival staff—at least the pair assigned to the merry-go-round. They were dressed in bodysuits of giant orange and black polka dots, with white full masks and glittering wigs that mimic black and orange straw. The masks, I thought, were interesting—white with nothing else but small, round eyeholes and bulbous noses. No mouths. I’d never seen anything like those before, and when a woman with a small boy in tow paused to talk to one of them, she didn’t seem to have trouble understanding what was being said in return. From where I stood, I could only see the carnival worker nod his (her?) head and gesticulate. I didn’t know how long I watched them, but eventually that dream-like state I was in faded. I grew distinctly aware of the two costumed people standing by the gate—no longer surrounded by people—and staring back at me, while the merry-go-round creaked along in a circular dance. “Damn it, Eric, are you listening?” Althea snapped, and I felt a sharp jab of an elbow against my side. “Ouch! Yes, I am!” I turned to her, grateful for the interruption. She frowned at me and then looked past my shoulder. “What were you checking out, anyway?” “Nothing.” “Liar.” “Just those two guys working at the gate. Their masks distracted me.” She rolled her eyes. “Quit making fun of them. It’s bad enough that they’re stuck in a crap job like this.” “I’m not making fun of them!” I paused and stole another glance in their direction. They’d turned their attention back to their work. “I don’t know—there’s something—you know—oh, hell, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I can’t put my finger on it.” “It’s not worth it, then.” “You have to admit that the carnival staff’s a bit strange. It could be their costumes, but still…” Althea sighed and pulled away from the fence, giving my sleeve a tug as she walked off. “It’s a masked carnival, Eric. That’s their hype. Deal with it. I have to say, though, that I like it. It’s different from the other carnivals that come our way.”


We sauntered over to the shooting gallery, and along the way, I couldn’t resist sneaking another peek at the merry-go-round. The two masked workers stood at the gate, and they were once again watching me. Directly behind them, looming into the night sky and barely visible, were the hollow corpses of the old biotech labs, their small, black windows following my progress like sunken eyes as I wove my way through the crowd. Funny, I thought, but those buildings almost looked like giant white masks, with small eyeholes and no mouths. We stayed at the carnival for a good two hours. Because we were both broke, we couldn’t really appreciate the offerings of games and toys and junk food. The rides were always full, and we simply watched from the perimeters, enjoying the lurid displays of color and lights, the smell of old paint, old wood, and machine grease, all commingling with the faint odor of coming rain. We didn’t talk about the old biotech industry and simply chatted about school and plans for college, which proved to be a pretty unwelcome one in the end. Althea hoped to move out of state, but she wasn’t sure if she qualified for financial aid, and as for me, I’d been putting off any plans to look into potential schools. The change from high school to college was the one I dreaded the most, I guess. The thought of losing my friends to the more independent world of university education frightened me, and I’d been refusing to set my mind on it. Now that I had Peter, the thought stung even more. He was bound for some Ivy League school hundreds of miles away, I was sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to study overseas. His dad was British, so I expected Peter would have some help choosing something suitable at the other side of the pond. “I guess I’ll look into the colleges around here,” I said without much enthusiasm. I stared at my faded sneakers, vaguely noting that they needed new shoelaces. “Liz is studying at the junior college in Barron, but she’ll be transferring to a state university once she gets her electives out of the way. I might be doing that, too, but I haven’t really decided.” Althea patted my back. “Just get the hell out of this city, Eric,” she said. Then she laughed. “Damn, that was what Uncle Moses used to say to Mom when he was still alive! I should be more original than that.” We left presently, and Althea drove me back to school, where she waited while I retrieved my bike in the dark—an unnerving moment for me, who’d never stayed past five p.m. in school. I stood in the dimly-lit parking lot at the other side of Renaissance High,


hearing nothing but my breathing and the metallic sounds caused by my bike and my Ulock against the rusty bike rack. In the desolation, I couldn’t help but feel as though I were being watched. I kept looking over my shoulder or glancing at distant, black windows or shadowy corners. Once reunited with Althea on the street, I had to laugh at myself. I’d never been a nervous sort, and all of a sudden, I’d begun to pick up on things that never bothered me before. To an extent, it was a bit annoying. I rode a couple of blocks with Althea driving her old VW bug next to me, and we parted ways when she had to turn into one of the side streets. For the rest of the way, I entertained myself with Vintage City’s nightlife, which, in some ways, made me think of

Blade Runner with its wet, gray, oily, smoky landscape. Wouldn’t it be cool, I thought, if cyborgs existed alongside humanity? Then again, I’d also read Frankenstein, and I suppose it would be asking for too much to have humanity take responsibility for what it might reap.

Mom appeared in the hallway, her hair set in curlers, her favorite lounging robe draped around her like a wrinkled curtain, her coffee mug filled to the brim with some steaming concoction. “Where’ve you been?” she demanded. “Do you know what time it is?” “It’s only eight o’clock, Mom.” “I don’t give a flying fig if it’s only eight o’clock! Why didn’t you call? You could’ve left a message! We didn’t know where you were, who you were hanging out with—we wouldn’t have known where to start looking! We don’t even have that Barlow boy’s number!” I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. My messenger bag, with all my books and notes as well as Peter’s denim jacket, was slicing right through my shoulder with its thick strap. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.” “You’re sorry. Is that it?” “Well—what else am I supposed to say?” “Where’ve you been?”


“The carnival. Althea and I hung out there for a while.” “A girl. You were with a girl. At the carnival. Where anything could’ve happened.” I stared at her. There it was again—the melodrama. The only thing missing in our household was some person standing in the background, playing slow, depressing violin music. “Mom, we were in a crowd, and there were families at the fairgrounds. There was no reason for you to worry.” “Oh, so you want some deadbeat mom, is that it?” “No! You know what—see? You’re blowing everything out of proportion again!” Mom shook her head. She’d been furious before, for the same reasons as this, but this time, she was practically frothing with rage. I didn’t get it. She took a moment to sip from her mug and calm herself down. Then she nodded at me. “You’re grounded, Eric,” she said in a quieter, calmer voice. “What?” “You heard me. You’re coming straight home from school for the rest of the week. You’re not going anywhere during the weekend. You’ll be working on your homework and your chores, and I’ll see to it that you get them all done. You got that? Now go clean up and eat your dinner—and don’t argue.” “Wait a minute—” “I said don’t argue.” She stepped aside and jerked her head in the direction of the stairs. From the living room, I could hear Dad and Liz talking over the TV. “I can’t believe this! This is bullsh—” She raised a finger in warning. “Are you cruising for a two-week sentence, kid?” I stared at her, stunned, and then stalked off without another word. I gave the living room a quick, resentful glance when I passed the open door. Then my pace slowed and then stopped, my attention fixed by the rush of sounds that came out of the room. Liz and Dad sat on the couch. They were debating something, and neither of them was aware of my presence. The news was also on. Amid the jumble of voices in the room and the monotonous reporting on the TV screen, I managed to glean something about a kid from the neighboring city of Barron. He’d been gay-bashed outside an arcade—a popular family hangout—and was being treated for his injuries at All Saints’ Hospital. I guess nothing sank in until I was halfway up the first flight of stairs. Then a cold numbness swept over me, and I paused and looked back. Mom was still in the hallway,


but she wasn’t watching me. She’d turned her back to the stairs. Judging from the way her head was bowed and the way her shoulders shook in little spasms, I knew that she was crying. I swallowed, crept up the stairs, and washed up.


Chapter 12

The couple that’s grounded together stays together.” I shrugged, vaguely aware of Althea’s gaze on me as we walked to the parking lot. We’d just parted ways with Peter, and after a two-minute “date” in front of our Art classroom—a light conversation, a kiss, and an embrace (once the coast was clear, that is)—I was beginning to feel the sting of our punishment. “It was my fault,” I said as I fumbled with my U-lock. It always took me several attempts before the damn thing cooperated. “I should’ve called home.” “Want me to come with you? I can talk to your mom. I was the one who dragged you off after school in the first place.” I was touched. “No, it’s cool, Althea. Really. If anything, she’ll likely take you in and stuff you with food while locking me away in the attic with my homework. Besides, she’s still at work.” “What drama.”


“Girl, my bedroom’s the attic, remember?” I stuffed the U-lock in my bag and straddled my bike. Althea made no move to go—merely stood beside me and gave my front spokes a couple of light kicks. “Quit that. You’ll screw up my wheel.” “Sorry. Well—when you and Peter are done serving time, maybe we should do something, like—I don’t know—go to a movie or pizza or something.” “That would be great.” She frowned at my bike’s front wheel. Something needed to be said still. She sighed eventually, breaking out of her momentary trance. “Hey, Eric. Don’t be pissed if it takes me a little while to get used to you and Peter together.” “Oh—hey, I don’t expect anyone to take to it easily. It’s cool. I’m sure it came as a bit of a shock to you yesterday.” I winced. “Actually, I didn’t expect it to be known for a while.” “Yeah, well, that was me. I tried to ask Peter out, and he told me why he couldn’t make it. I know, I know, he’s gay, but I didn’t give a damn because, well—” She broke off and shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck, not looking at me. “Man, this is all screwed up, you know?” “Yeah—yeah, I know.” “You guys have always been sort of like brothers to me, so I’m kind of freaking out over this, too. It’s almost incestuous, isn’t it? Ugh.” I laughed in spite of myself. “Whatever it is you take in the morning, I’d like to have some.” “Bite me, Plath.” She adjusted her backpack and walked on, while I kept pace with her on my bike. Because she kept a snail’s pace, I’d ride circles around her to keep myself from toppling over. I almost felt like a favorite pet dog, capering around his beloved mistress. “Gay or priests—I swear to God,” she muttered under her breath, which ended the subject. One of the quirks of adolescence had always been the nature of punishment that was doled out. I’d had my share of trips to the doghouse, of course, and I’d often question what I saw as the inconsistent logic in the sentences that were handed down. That afternoon—or, rather, the first day of my grounding—I was ordered to go to Dad’s favorite Chinese take-out joint for dinner. Mom had left a note and some money on the dining room table for me.


And come straight home from Uncle Chung’s, she’d written. “I thought I was grounded,” I grumbled, pocketing the money and tossing out the list of food I was expected to bring home. I never needed a list, considering my family’s preferences for pretty standard stuff, which never varied. Chow mein, fried rice, beef with broccoli, and hot and sour soup. That was our usual Chinese menu, which I tried once to upgrade with an order of honey walnut prawns, but Dad didn’t take to the sauce very well and suffered a night-long love affair with the toilet afterward. Uncle Chung’s take-out joint didn’t open until five, so I spent the afternoon doing chores and skimming through my homework. The house was desolate, and I actually felt the sting of loneliness within doors. The only sounds to be heard were the refrigerator’s clanking and humming, as well as Grandma’s old clock in the hallway. Every so often, I’d stand by the window and look out, but everything seemed too detached and past my reach, the glass panes serving as reminders of my situation.

Actually, that was just my way of dragging my feet because I had Geometry homework, and it involved proofs, and Althea wasn’t around to help me. God, I hated Geometry. When five rolled around, I’d gone from reluctant errand-boy to eager escapee, and I hurried out of the house for a six-block trek. The tiny hole-in-the-wall was situated in a rather dingy part of the city—dingier than most of it, anyway. One had to walk past run down shops with faded signs, shady-looking types leaning against filthy walls, and narrow side streets lined with people’s laundry hanging on wire or rope that crisscrossed back and forth above the street. From windows everywhere, I could hear voices—babies wailing, people shouting, TVs and radios blaring. Sometimes someone would be singing something operatic. About a year ago, there was one girl who tried to pull an Audrey Hepburn thing and sat on her window ledge, strumming a guitar and crooning Moon

River. Unfortunately, someone living in an apartment above her didn’t care for her style and dumped a pail of water (most likely dirty) on her head. Watching the entire thing unfold was as close to a cinematic moment as I could possibly get, and I think I momentarily forgotten my errand as I stood across the way, gaping at the scene. I knew quite a few people who lived there, though, and they waved at me when I passed. I guess that familiarity and sense of connection threw me off for a bit. I negotiated my way in and out of side streets without hesitation, my steps guided more by the odd need to be friendly to those folks I knew—probably because I hadn’t seen them in a long time, and I was swept up in some kind of nostalgic wave. The safest way to Uncle Chung’s


was a straight line from point A to point B. I didn’t even stop to think. I reached the place eventually, though. “Why only this?” Mrs. Zhang demanded. “You’re too skinny! I know your father will eat most of the food!” “It’s all for art. That and I’m going through a really clumsy period in my life,” I replied, to which Mrs. Zhang shook her head, muttering something in Chinese as she moved from one end of the steam-filled counter to another, stuffing take-out containers with my order. “Clumsy period, my ass,” she said, her round face pinched and sweaty under a voluminous hairnet. “The problem with teenagers today is that they’re so vain—designer clothes, fancy cars, and this!” She paused in her work to reach out and give my bangs a light tug. “Blue color in your hair—like Papa Smurf blood!” “It’s all the rage, you know.” She snorted and waved me off. “Now teenagers try to lose weight and live on rice cakes.” “I actually hate rice cakes.” “Here. You’re getting a potsticker on the house.” Sure enough, she swiped a particularly big, overstuffed dumpling from its greasy pan and tossed it in a small container. “That’s worth a good ten pounds of body fat, Mrs. Zhang,” I said blandly. “Make it fifteen! Here!” She threw a couple of fortune cookies in the bag. “I’ve got you to blame if I get overweight.” She flashed me a grim smile and nodded her head. “Good! You need more meat on those stick arms of yours.” I paid for the food and retraced my steps with a pile of Styrofoam containers squished into one bulging plastic bag. Mrs. Zhang double-knotted the handles, which always irked me because it meant that I had to hunt around for the only pair of scissors we had in the house to cut the bag open to access dinner. She called it security. I preferred to think of it as a form of Chinese torture. Funny how life worked. Walking to Uncle Chung’s was almost like a lazy stroll through the countryside. A dark, dank, slimy countryside, sure, but a countryside all the same. Walking back home proved to be a different matter entirely. I’d turned a few corners and walked straight into a police scene—complete with haphazardly parked squad cars, their lights flashing, and people running back and forth, waving flashlights all over


the place. All activity was centered on an alley, with the squad cars blocking the only entrance. “Search over here!” “Wilder! Birch! The next alley!” “The trail’s gotten cold, sir.” “Go, go, go!” I hurried over to the other side of the street and tried to keep as far away from the action as I could. Here and there, a few people shuffled out of their shadowy hideaways to gawk. I lingered, momentarily drawn into the bizarre attraction of the scene. Fugitives, I thought—maybe thugs who worked for The Trill were at it again. They must have been busted doing something and were chased into one of these alleys. It was too surreal, the way the scene unfolded before me. For several paces, I kept my gaze fixed on the squad cars and the murky figures of running officers until I felt my back bump against something solid. I turned around and found myself standing beside an old building—an abandoned one, from all appearances, though there wasn’t much that distinguished it from the tenanted buildings that flanked it. The rotting door was barred, and so were the windows—that is, save for one. One of the windows at street level had a few wooden planks nailed across it, but they weren’t enough to cover the entire frame. Most of the planks barred the bottom half of the window, and the upper half remained untouched (unless the planks that used to be there had rotted away or were pulled out by someone). The glass, thick with filth, was practically opaque, but the top half was broken through. Only a few jagged pieces clung to the window frame. The lights in that street were pitifully few and dim, and they cast a dull, sickly hue over what little they could touch. At that moment, I found myself staring at a face that watched me from inside—safely hidden in the darkness and framed by those jagged bits of window glass. I could barely make out the outline of his head, but I knew that he was pale, and his hair was slicked back in a very stylish ‘do. His eyes peered out from the shadows and were fixed on me, and from the way they narrowed ever so slightly, I could tell that their owner had broken into a smile once he knew that I’d seen him. The skin on the back of my neck crawled. I heard a soft, low chuckle and a couple of murmured words that I couldn’t quite catch. The voice was quiet and teasing. One could say that it was seductive. “Hey—”


But the face melted into the shadows, and before I could alert anyone, something clamped around my chest and waist. Then the pavement vanished from under my feet, and the world suddenly dissolved in a rush of air. I felt myself lifted high and fast, my stomach alternately tightening and falling as though I were riding a roller-coaster. A wild, frantic sound escaped my throat as I clung to my family’s dinner for all I was worth, and I was hurled across some unfathomable distance by something that was wrapped around me. I had my eyes closed tightly the whole time, and just as abruptly as it first started, it finally ended, and I was once again on solid ground. Dizzy, a little nauseated, and in utter shock, but unharmed. My scattered mind eventually caught on to my situation—sprawled on the sidewalk, the plastic bag of Chinese food lying nearby. Little by little, I grew aware of warmth and pressure around my shoulders, and it slowly vanished. “No place for you there,” a voice whispered just as I was released. “What…” I opened my eyes in time to catch a dark figure flying—no, leaping—back into the darkness and onto the roof of a crumbling old tenement. “Magnifiman?” I gasped, struggling to my feet. “No, wait! That guy you’re looking for—I know where he is!” No, it wasn’t Magnifiman. Just as the figure vanished somewhere on the rooftops, another figure—larger, bulkier—flew up from the direction of the alleys I’d just passed, and it followed the first one into the night. A minute or two after that, a car screeched to a halt across the street, and out leaped Bambi Bailey—glamorous and wielding a microphone, yelling at her poor, scattered cameraman as he stumbled after her. “Come on, before he flies away!” “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” “Over here! Hurry!” “I’ll bet you he’s gone. You spent too much time in the makeup chair again.” “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Lloyd.” I listened to their footsteps fade into the night, their voices gradually mingling with the distant confusion of sounds where I was sure the police were. I staggered off to collect my family’s dinner, hoping that Mrs. Zhang’s double knot truly saved our meal and kept everything snug and accident-free. It had. No, I didn’t say anything about my brief and unexpected adventure to my family. It


was bad enough that I suffered from very mild but lingering motion sickness for an hour afterward. The news reports later that night told us of a jailbreak—the Trill’s thugs, naturally. Officers on duty were affected by the same weird hypnotic music that got me and those other kids at the theater, and it was violin music that they were listening to through an old radio they kept around. They’d let the prisoners go and locked themselves in the emptied cells. The fugitives were never found despite all of the efforts of Magnifiman and his partner. “So it looks like this Devil’s Trill is using classical music to screw with people’s minds,” Liz noted as we gathered around the TV after dinner. Mom agreed, sighing her disappointment. “All this talk about Mozart’s music being good for your mind…” “Yeah, really,” I grumbled, chewing on a cuticle. “And everyone gives my generation all sorts of shit over rock music.” I stayed up a bit late as I struggled with my Geometry homework, but in time, I was done and got ready for bed. After washing up and brushing my teeth, I stood before my mirror, naked. I took careful note of my arms, my chest, and my legs—skinny, as Mrs. Zhang noted. And pale—too pale, I was forced to admit, but genetics had everything to do with that. I shook my head and dressed into an old t-shirt and boxers. I’d wolfed down that solitary potsticker and followed it with the two fortune cookies at the dinner table earlier. I suppose those fifteen pounds of body fat would be making themselves known soon enough. I dreamed of Peter that night—or at least I thought I did. The breeze coming through my open window brought with it something unusual but calming, yet I couldn’t remember a single thing about it. I guess I was already half-asleep and dreaming then, but I did remember whispering good night to a familiar presence before passing out completely.


Chapter 13

The police were out in full force the next day. Everywhere I looked, there was a cop on foot, scowling at the crowd as he paced around the block (or two). Here and there, a squad car would crawl along, predator-like. “Fugitives still at large, eh?” I asked, nodding at a car that just puttered by. Beside me, Peter sat on the top step of the low concrete stairs that led to Renaissance High’s main entrance. “Looks like it. Here.” An open canister of roasted salted almonds appeared, and I helped myself. For a few seconds, nothing could be heard from either of us but muffled crunching. School had let out, and we were waiting for Peter’s mom to arrive and pick him up. Peter’s car was now off-limits—yet another punishment that had been doled out, but for what reason, he refused to tell me. Sure, his eyes lit up in mild anger when he told me about the car, but apparently it was a matter that he deemed to be no one else’s business but his, and he bit back additional


detail. “It’s just something really stupid,” he finally said and left it at that. To what extent I missed the old Peter—the quiet, nervous, self-deprecating friend who flourished in all subjects but Art and English despite his passion for them—I didn’t know. I felt a little confused, to be honest. He’d grown more and more confident, and he’d boast—though in low whispers— about his recent acts of rebellion. He was told to go here, and he instead went there. He was expected to do A, and he instead did B. His choices were questioned, and he defended them until he was (metaphorically) bloody, refusing concession or negotiation, which had always been the way his family resolved difficulties. He’d also begun insisting on branching off on his own, an admission that puzzled me. To my questions, cajoling, and teasing, he continued to avoid further elaboration. “Maybe I’ll tell you if you crank your Tease Meter up,” he said with a sly grin. There was some palpable stirring going on in my jeans in response to that. At any rate, his car was confiscated by a pair of irate parents, and he was set to suffer one of the countless humiliations an adolescent could ever endure: to be picked up from school by either his mom or dad. “I know that Magnifiman and his partner were out helping the cops,” I continued. “I was there last night. I saw them, and guess what.” “What?” “I saw the Trill.” Peter glanced at me with an incredulous little smile. “No, you didn’t. No one knows what he looks like.” “I do. At least I think so. My gut tells me that it was him I saw last night.” “What do you mean? Where was he?” The smile was still there. I was sure that Peter was just humoring me. “Inside an abandoned apartment building. I saw him through one of the windows. We kind of stared at each other for a while, actually.” Peter chuckled and shook his head. “Just the shadows, Eric.” “I figured no one would believe me if I said anything—not even you,” I sniffed, drawing my knees up and resting my chin on them. Before us, another squad car puttered along. “I don’t care. I know what I saw.” “Then why didn’t you say anything to the cops?” “It’s a little difficult saying anything when you’re picked up and thrown clear past a


gazillion blocks by someone who moves just a teeny bit too fast for comfort.” “What?” “Never mind, Barlow,” I sighed. “It’s no use. The long and short of it was that I was taken away from the scene—for my safety, I guess—and then abandoned three doors down from where I live. I didn’t have the chance to tell anyone what I saw, and even if someone wanted to listen, I don’t think I’d have been able to, anyway. I felt sick to my stomach from that trans-neighborhood bungee adventure and wouldn’t have been a good witness in the end.” Peter looked faintly stricken. Then the shadow faded, and he was once again regarding me in mild amusement. “That was some adventure,” he offered. “I’m sorry. I hope the nausea didn’t last too long.” “Yeah, well—it was cool, come to think of it. I’ve never been involved in any superhero situation before.” I paused. “Other than the sabotaged train, that is.” “It might be cool in retrospect, but do you really think that you could survive any more of those freak adventures?” “I don’t know. I think so.” I met Peter’s gaze and was surprised to see him looking earnestly at me, his eyes darting in every direction as though he was trying to read my face. “What?” “You really don’t mind being involved with a freak?” he pursued, his voice barely above a whisper. Ah, there was the old Peter back. “You mean ‘involved in a freak adventure’? No, I don’t.” “Oh—yeah, that’s what I meant.” He crammed nearly a fistful of roasted almonds in his mouth. Then a car’s horn broke up the conversation. We both turned to see a sleek silver Jaguar parked illegally nearby, with Mrs. Barlow poking her exquisitely-coiffed head out the window as she waved at Peter. As it tended to happen whenever I saw his parents, I did a double-take when I looked at her. Peter’s resemblance to her in some ways had always been quite striking, and with his recent surge of confidence, I’d even add that he was kind of hot. If only my immersion into romance didn’t confuse me so much, maybe I’d have done a far better job expressing my appreciation for him. I’d been so used to treating him like a best friend and nothing more. Now it wasn’t enough, and I didn’t quite know how to go about getting what I wanted out of this. The farthest I’d gone was to drag him into a stall in the third floor boys’ restroom half an hour after the final bell, and there we made out.


Nope, it wasn’t ideal, and though students had mostly left the building by then, we knew that we were still gambling on our privacy. Afterwards, that awful guilt would creep back, and I began to feel as though I just crossed the line again. Peter didn’t seem to be bothered by the intimacy, but I almost always dealt with the pleasure and excitement with cool distance and an overly casual attitude toward him. It was all too—strange—and something in my gut told me that things weren’t going to go back to how they were before. “Gotta go,” he said, and we both stood up, gathering our stuff as we did. “I’ll see you, Eric.” “Maybe sometime I’ll be able to have dinner at your place,” I blurted out, unthinking. I didn’t know where that came from. It could have been nerves, seeing as how Mrs. Barlow was staring keenly at me from where she sat. I felt as though I was being studied—and not in a good way. “Yeah, maybe.” “Well, enjoy today’s tennis lessons.” “I never do,” Peter said with a wan smile before jogging over to his mom’s car. I waved as the Jaguar pulled out and sped away in a silver blur. “What, no kiss?” I muttered, somewhat deflated. An approved meeting with Althea at the Jumping Bean immediately after helped lift my mood. The coffee shop offered computer access to its patrons, and for the most part, kids took advantage of the half-dozen computers there to play some online game. The computers weren’t in use when I arrived at the Jumping Bean, but Althea was there (no surprise), monopolizing one keyboard. There were a scattered handful of patrons that afternoon—college students and professionals, all lounging around with their noses buried between the pages of books or periodicals. Sarah Vaughn crooned beautifully in the background. I tiptoed over to Althea in hopes of surprising her. Once I stood less than three feet away, however, I just froze and stared. She sat straight and stiff on her chair, and her hands were flying all over her keyboard. Her face was blank, her eyes fixed forward, but for the briefest moment I wondered if I was going insane. Althea’s eyes were open, but I could see no pupils anywhere. A pair of white eyeballs peered through her glasses, with her lenses reflecting the screen’s light and flashing images.


“Hey, Althea,” I said once I found my voice. She blinked and stopped her typing. The computer screen froze, blacked out, and the computer rebooted. Althea turned in surprise and then smiled at me. Her eyes were normal. I swallowed, mentally gave myself a sound shaking, and then took my place beside her and chatted away. “Just surfing,” she said. “Bored as usual.” She looked back at the screen, which had just restored itself to its normal settings. “For the life of me, though, I can’t remember where the hell I went. I mean…” She paused and glanced at the clock behind the counter. “I’ve been here for at least fifteen minutes.” “Porn sites, no doubt.” Althea rolled her eyes and walked over to the counter with me, the strange little episode forgotten. Later that evening, the Magnifiman-and-Sidekick-versus-all-criminals-and-lowlifes scorecard, according to Bambi Bailey and her new beauty mark (just above her upper-lip), was close to a dozen. Petty thieves, drunks, and minor hooligans were on that night’s menu—nothing from the Trill’s corner. Magnifiman was once again caught for a twosecond interview, and I could have sworn that he actually looked bored doing his job.


Chapter 14

The day finally came when I was no longer grounded, and neither was Peter. He still couldn’t use his car, however, so I grudgingly conceded to a minor extension of his sentence. “Right now I really can’t do anything,” he said as we sat on the usual stoop, waiting for the usual ride to come for him at the usual time. “Once I get my car back, we’ll go out on our first official date.” “In the meantime?” He rolled his eyes. “Play Romeo and Juliet.” “Oh, puke.” “I don’t know. I think you can give Claire Danes a run for the money.” “Shut up.” I went to the bank after school. It was a dark, foggy day in Vintage City (pretty typical all year round), and with my hormones still raging from a too-short moment with Peter in


the boys’ restroom (third floor again), I wasn’t in a very good mood when we parted ways. Funny how one’s self-absorption can really screw his awareness of the world around him. The bank—one of three in Vintage City—appeared normal from the outside. In fact, had I given it more attention like I should have, I’d have realized that the calm was abnormal. But no—my frustration was a bit slow in cooling off, and it was pretty damned awkward and uncomfortable walking around with a raging hard-on that refused to cooperate despite all efforts at turning myself off. Desperation had reached levels so high that drastic action was needed. Heaven help me, but I was left with no option but to fantasize over Sgt. Vitus Bone if my hormones continued to bug me. I reached the bank before taking that fatal step, however. I pulled out my wallet and fished around for Mom’s bankcard then expertly fed it into the ATM machine. I keyed in Mom’s PIN, and all hell broke loose. The screen blinked a couple of times. Then a message flashed in painful white letters: “Please Insert Card.” “What the hell?” None of the keys worked. The screen merely blinked every time I pressed something. Even the “cancel” button didn’t work, and the machine kept pleading for the bankcard. Great. Just great. I started to pound my fist on the keypad. When that didn’t work, I redoubled my efforts, this time using both fists while hurling curses at the fucking thing for eating Mom’s bankcard. “Piece of crap!” I cried. “You lousy, stinking waste of—” Then the bank’s doors burst open, and a group of men in tuxedos and half-masks ran out, all loaded with money bags. A couple of them were armed, and I instantly froze. Maybe they wouldn’t notice me if I didn’t move. Then again, maybe not. The distant echo of police sirens alerted the bunch. One of them spotted me and pounced, looping an arm around my throat with a hissed threat. “Steady as she goes, kid. If you try anything funny, I’ll kick your skinny ass from here to Sunday. Or if I feel charitable enough, I’ll just break your neck.” “Wait—money—” I choked as he started to drag me away. “I don’t need your money. What would you have at this time, anyway? You’d have blown all your allowance on disgusting cafeteria junk.” I frantically pointed at the ATM machine. “Card—card—”


“We don’t take credit cards, either. We ain’t yuppie crooks.” He dragged me, gasping incoherent protests about the cannibalized bankcard and the money I never got, toward a waiting limousine. His buddies had already clambered in. He was using me for his shield just as the police pulled up and hopped out of their cars (two squad cars, at that—where the hell was everyone?), guns drawn. I felt the barrel of a revolver against my temple. “Go ahead, pig,” he shouted over my head, “if you want to see a nice collection of skinny teenage brains splattered all over the sidewalk!” Distress over Mom’s money (I’d begged and groveled for her bankcard in a moment of desperation over the cost of art supplies) allowed me a few seconds of philosophy. My brains decorating the pavement would be a tragically poetic way of leaving this world. I thought of Peter and the first official date we would never have. What about that empty chair in the dining room? I could imagine Mom still laying the place settings down as though I were still around—possibly doing so for the rest of her life, crying her eyes out every time. I thought of Liz and all her teen idol posters on her bedroom wall—the ones whose toothy grins I’d colored with a blue crayon when I was ten years old. Actually, I never regretted doing that, and even with death staring me in the face, I still didn’t feel inclined to regret it. Of course, there was Dad and all those three-second conversations we’d had. I wondered how he’d fill up those odd blocks of time from then until the day he’d die. Oh, jeez. Perhaps in my next life, karma would deal me a gentler blow. “Hold your fire!” “Yeah, that’s right! Put your guns down!” My captor laughed. The cops held back, and I was stuffed inside the fanciest getaway car I’d ever seen. Plush carpeting, AC, piped-in classical music, a group of men in tuxedos and silk masks (never mind the fact that they all aimed their revolvers at me)—I never realized how well villains lived. “Don’t try anything funny, kid,” one man barked. “That’s cool. I don’t mind being quiet,” I stammered. I was lying on the floor, wondering if I was going to get sick, but the limo was one exceptionally smooth ride, and motion sickness never came. A moment of tense silence followed, but when they realized that I wasn’t about to give them any grief, they all relaxed and lost themselves in some bizarre cocktail party. There was this panel of buttons just above the seats, and with just a push, one of them activated


some kind of built-in wet bar that rose up from the floor. A rectangular panel shuddered and then slid open, revealing a darkish hole. “Move it, kid! You’re in the way!” one of the men snarled, and I quickly scooted off and scrunched myself against the back of the driver’s seat, staring at the thing that slowly rose up from some secret compartment under the floor. What a contraption that was, too. It was like something from a James Bond movie, all compact and covered in plush carpeting, with drinks tucked away inside the mini-cabinet with the glasses. I wondered how the logistics worked, but given my state, my brain refused to function past ten actively-firing synapses. I looked back at the panel of buttons while the drinks were being prepared, itching to push every single one of them in hopes of discovering their dirty, kinky secrets. I could feel my fingers twitch in anticipation. “Martini time! In-and-out, gentlemen—good for Benny, I guess. In-jail-and-out.” The group exploded in braying laughter. I was even offered a drink despite my age while my captors all fell into quiet conversation. With guns still aimed at me, I couldn’t refuse. Another push of the button, and the wet bar vanished back into the floor. I tried to strain my ears in hopes of picking up words that could be used as clues while sipping away. The hum of their voices as well as the soft music in the background made it difficult to discern anything, and the martini certainly wasn’t helping. Half the time, my mind would wrap itself around my predicament. So what was going to happen to me now? How did hostage situations work, anyway? Would I be delivered to their leader? Would I be tied up or caged up in his hideout, my defenses mechanically being chipped away by daily seductions in the form of candlelight dinners, soft music, and poetry until I willingly submitted to my captor’s lust? Whoa, what on earth was in that martini? On the other hand, would I simply be done in, my miserable body tossed into some roadside brush or buried in a shallow grave? Given my luck as of late, I was inclined to put money—my mom’s money, if I had it—on the latter option. Then the limo shuddered as though it were riding through an earthquake. It began to sway in all directions, sending everyone rolling off their seats and over each other. Martini glasses flew all over the place, drenching suits, carpeting, and one helpless high school kid. As though happening in slow motion, I watched as bodies tumbled and bounced off each other, the floor, and the car doors. Guns scattered, and I was sure that one of them was


going to go off accidentally, with the barrel pointing right between my eyes. I could only pinch my eyes shut from the sight, praying and choking as I got pummeled in all sorts of ways. When the dust and the martini cleared, I was buried under a bunch of masked and tipsy men. “What the hell? We’re flying!” someone roared. I struggled to sneak a peek from where I was pinned, gasping for air. One of them had dragged himself to a window, rolled it down, and was now looking out. I glimpsed nothing but sky outside. “Great,” another sighed. “It’s Magnifiman again. I told you clowns not to use the limo! We might as well paint a bull’s eye on our foreheads!” “What did you expect us to use, moron? Damn mopeds? This is the only transport we have!” “Well, we do have an image to maintain,” someone piped up. He sounded pretty blasé about the whole thing. Obviously he’d been there and had done that. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. “You can’t just ride any car if you work for the Trill.” I really had to hand it to The Devil’s Trill. He certainly had class. In a surreal sort of way, I expected that I was supposed to feel privileged being kidnapped by a group of bourgeois hoodlums. “He’s taking us to the police station!” the lookout said. “The roof again?” “Yeah, where else?” “God, I hate when he does that.” “Bad luck for you, Benny, for getting picked up twice now.” Well, there was one of those fugitives from the jailbreak, at least. Had I been in the mood, I’d have asked, “How many cops does it take to break the Trill’s goons out of jail?” The limo continued to sway and roll us around for several more moments before I felt it descend. We’d reached the rooftop of the Vintage City Police Station, and Magnifiman was safely depositing us to, apparently, a reserved spot for the Trill’s henchmen. I imagined a gaggle of armed police officers forming a ring around the spot as the vehicle was lowered. Maybe Bambi Bailey was already there, camera and microphone poised. The limo settled with a rough jolt. The door was torn from its hinges, and two by two, flailing masked men were yanked out until only I remained, wheezing and sore.


Magnifiman’s figure filled the doorway (even only as a shadowy form, he looked breathtaking). Then he leaned inside with an arm outstretched. “Are you all right?” he asked in that familiar silky purr. “I guess so.” “Here. Let me help you out.” I let him. Gladly. He pulled me out of the battered vehicle and into the damp, gray air, his eyes appraising me with distinct curiosity this time. It was questioning, with an eyebrow rising in a high arch. That martini was something else. Whatever it was those thugs had mixed into the drink, it certainly left me with all sorts of extremely pleasurable perceptions. I thought his eyes lingered a touch too long. In fact, I was convinced that he let his gaze wander up and down my body, and I wasn’t even the beefcake type. Vanity stoked in spite of my bruised state, I raked my fingers through my hair in a bit of a slutty come-on, vaguely noting the angry voices of both police officers and thieves as the Trill’s henchmen were handcuffed and led away. “Thanks,” I said, exhaustion finally setting in. “I thought I was done for.” “You’ve been pretty lucky.” Lord, the irony. “Am I the only repeat victim in this city?” I asked. “Just about, yes. Listen, did these men say anything about the Trill and his next plan?” “No, nothing that I could understand. They were quiet when they talked. I’m sorry.” I’d completely forgotten how gorgeous he was. My heart raced, my skin prickled, and my gaze instantly fell on his much-admired Adam’s apple. I bit my tongue. All those early fantasies involving Magnifiman and the thousand and one ways I could be rescued, arrested, or punished flared alive. “No, don’t be sorry. You’re unharmed, and that’s what matters.” “Thank you,” I said. “It’s really cool how you got us.” He suddenly fell silent and regarded me, unblinking. His gaze darkened. His brows furrowed. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, bringing his face closer to mine. My eyes widened. Was this the moment? A rescue, an unmistakable attraction, a brief shaking off of inhibitions? Superheroes were only human, weren’t they? I held my breath, relaxed my jaw, and parted my lips a little. Never mind that tiny screaming voice in the back of my head that was going “Peter, hello! Hello!” He stopped a mere two inches away, and he sniffed. His scowl deepened. “You’re


underage, and you’ve been drinking,” he growled. I felt the blood drain away from me. “It was an in-and-out martini!” I protested. Hello, Freud. “I only had a couple of sips!” “Only a couple?” “Well—they were long sips, sure, but I only did it twice, I swear!” He narrowed his eyes. “Oh, come on—you screwed around when you were my age, didn’t you? Hell, everyone does it!” He pulled away. I was looking once more at a marble statue: beautiful, perfect, but painfully repressed. I wondered if he threw himself into his calling with all the singleminded determination and rage of a madman. In fact, I wanted to ask him if he was Catholic. “Young man—” “Eric.” “Young man, I’m taking you back home, but I want you to promise me that you’ll stop acting like a child with all this rebellious underage drinking nonsense. Keep a clear head, keep to the straight and narrow, or you’ll end up like one of those thugs we just took in.” Ouch. Ouch. He took me home. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the method of transportation, and no one should entertain any romantic ideas about that—yes, despite the first Superman movie and that schmoopy flying-date-with-Lois-Lane bit. He soared above the city, his thick arms outstretched, and I clung behind him, my arms like steel bands around his neck while I fought the urge to look down. Being kept from plummeting to earth and going splat on asphalt by nothing more than one man was a terrifying thought. Maybe it would have been better had he held me against his front, but I had a feeling that he needed his arms for navigation. They were like a pair of meaty joysticks, but that was just my addled brain doing its utmost in avoiding all sorts of horny references. And, yes, pressing my body against his granite-like back was a very, very embarrassing situation for me, and I prayed that he didn’t feel anything funny coming from my jeans. The air was cold. The fog smelled like chemicals and rot, and the threat of rain grew stronger with every minute. Flying over Vintage City was as charming as a stroll through a landfill. I think I coughed all the way home. I gave him directions the way I would to a cab driver. We presently set foot at my


doorstep, and Magnifiman even rang the doorbell while I slithered down his back, shivering and swallowing and grimacing at all those toxins I was sure I’d inhaled en route. Liz opened the door and then nearly fell back with a tight little shriek. “I believe this young man—” “It’s Eric, damn it,” I croaked. “—is yours, Miss.” Liz merely gaped at him while I staggered across the threshold. I turned around in time to see Magnifiman nod sharply, step back, and take off with that familiar whoosh, while Liz continued to stand there, completely immobilized. “Yeah, whatever.” I sighed as I shuffled in the direction of the stairs. In my room, I saw that Peter had called and left a message. “Call me,” he said. “I’m worried.” Uncanny timing, as always.


Chapter 15

My family being too freaked out over my adventures, I was made to swear not to speak of it to anyone. So I told Althea and Peter during lunch. One was a good friend and the other my boyfriend. It wasn’t as though I was telling just anybody. By and large, they were stunned but took the news well enough once they were assured that I was unharmed. Well—Althea did, anyway. “You should’ve called me after Magnifiman took you home,” she said later that day. “I could’ve gotten your mom’s bankcard back.” “Oh, you could’ve, could you?” “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I can.” “Uh-huh. Sure. How’re you going to do that? Are you saying that you’re just like Magnifiman, all tricked out with bizarre powers?” Althea shrugged without taking her eyes off her Geometry homework (we were in the library then). Her hand flew—almost literally—over her notebook, and diagrams,


numbers, equations, and all sorts of formulas appeared in a neat configuration, following a line from the top of the paper to the bottom. No erasures, no scratch marks, no detour arrows pointing this way and that. Everything that came out was perfect. She didn’t even stop for a second as she sorted through the problems in her head, and it was always unnerving watching her work. One would think that she had a computer for a brain. God, if Mom were to find out about Althea’s talent, she’d be bugging Mrs. Horace for recipes to use for my daily nutrition. “I just know how to get those stuck cards out of ATM machines,” she replied, punctuating that with a big, loud yawn. “Christ, if you can solve these Geometry problems like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if you can communicate with an ATM machine just by staring at it.” “Sure! It’s pretty easy, actually.” I laughed, crossing my arms on the table and resting my chin on them as I watched her. “You’re a hardcore wonder girl. I’d marry you if I weren’t gay.” She spared me a glance and snorted. “Nice try, Eric, but I’m not doing your homework for you.” “You suck.” “Listen, Peter’s going to kick my ass if he finds out that I’ve been coddling you. I’ll help you out here and there, sure, but I’m not going to hold your hand all the way through. You’re smart enough, Eric. Figure things out yourself.” Peter? Oh, great. Now he was my academic conscience? I tried to talk to him about that afterward, when we were alone, but our conversations kept getting hampered by a string of cross-examinations from him. I told him nothing about my momentary lapse in judgment when I was rescued from the Trill’s clutches, but he must have sensed what I was desperately trying to hide from him. I guess my inability to look him straight in the eye when I told him my adventures pretty much gave me away. I felt like crap, of course, and his being hell-bent on finding out particulars did nothing but dig the knife deeper and then twist it around. “So what did you and Magnifiman talk about after he got you out of the car?” was one question. “How come you didn’t call your parents or your sister to pick you up from the police station?” was another. That one was closely followed by, “Why’d you let Magnifiman take you home?” Then there was, “Did he fly you home?” which was immediately appended with, “Why didn’t you say no?” The cherry on top was, “So what


else happened between the two of you, huh?” “I’m still a virgin, I’ve no idea what it feels like kissing him, and above all, my body parts are all intact and functioning normally, which is the most important issue here, isn’t it? There!” I said, throwing my hands up. “Don’t cop an attitude, Eric. What do you expect from me? You want me to roll over and play dead while you get kidnapped or hypnotized or dragged inside some junky, abandoned building?” “No, but you could at least treat me like I’ve got half a brain in my head. I really hate it when you ride my ass like this! If you think you’ve accomplished something with all your nagging, the answer’s yes. You’ve managed to make me feel stupid.” That did it. He backed down, red-faced, and mumbled an apology. I could tell, though, that he was still bothered by the whole thing. Maybe some ridiculous jealousy ate away at him, and he appeared to have a hell of a time coping with it—I wasn’t sure. Regardless, the situation was getting out of hand, and I didn’t know what to do. “You don’t understand. This is all really crazy, and I’m trying my best,” he sighed in a voice that just dripped with fatigue. He wasn’t even acting. I could tell that he hadn’t been getting enough rest lately. His complexion was nearly translucent, and shadows were beginning to form under his eyes. I think he might have lost a teeny bit of weight, but I couldn’t be sure since he hid under two or three layers of clothes. Regardless of what we happened to be doing, I could still sense an undercurrent of tension in him—like he was on the alert—watchful and cautious. It was my turn to back down after a moment observing him. “Hey, I’m sorry,” I said, drooping, and I pulled him close and held him tightly. “I’m sorry. I know you’re worried about me. It isn’t fair to just brush your concerns aside like they’re nothing.” He nodded against my shoulder but kept quiet. From the way he held me, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was forcing himself into silence—that maybe he’d just come this close to saying something he probably shouldn’t. “Is something wrong?” I prodded though I dreaded what might come out. “Things are getting so damn complicated.” “What’s so complicated?” “Just this—all this,” he replied, his voice a little tight. “I’ve never been involved with anyone before, Eric. All this is too new, and I’m never sure if what I’m doing is right for


you—and for us. I’m sorry. I can be an overbearing jerk sometimes, and I can’t help it.” “It’s okay. It’s okay,” I murmured against his ear. “Don’t worry about it.” “Easier in theory than in practice, you know.” Peter’s arms tightened around my waist. I winced. I knew that he was right. He gave me a friendship bracelet—or the closest facsimile of one, anyway—not long after. He’d made it himself, he said with a wary little smile. He’d looked up instructions on how to make traditional friendship bracelets, but he found them too tedious and decided to come up with his own methods. Instead of knotting individual strands around each other, he simply braided them. The bracelet was nothing extravagant—only a thin ring of color-coordinated floss that looked pretty stark against my skin. Three shades all woven together—three shades of blue, at that (the boy knew his way into my heart). In this age of cyberspace, I couldn’t really identify those three shades by name, but I could by using that all-purpose nondithering colors chart. The floss was in code numbers 00066, 0066CC, and 99CCFF. Braided together, the colors pretty much toned each other down, and the overall effect was nice and subtle. The one detail that stood out was the single gold thread that was woven into the mix. Moving in and out of the pattern, it gave the bracelet a whole new feel—like a muted accent that carried more significance than what could easily be seen. “So how long did it take you to make this?” I asked as I watched Peter secure it around my wrist—my left wrist, just above my watch. “Not too long. I might be terrible in Art, but I’m pretty handy in some things.” “How come I didn’t get one?” Althea demanded from where she sat, not five feet away. The three of us were hanging out at the benches of Renaissance High’s parking lot, killing time while waiting for Peter’s mother—who’d called to say that she was running a little late—to show up. Althea had been checking out the proceedings for a while now, glowering the whole time and picking away at a scab on her knee. It was disgusting, but I didn’t dare tell her, considering her delicate state whenever she was in Peter’s company. God only knew what was running through her head while he was giving me some romantic token like that friendship bracelet he’d made. I wouldn’t be surprised if I died a million times in her imagination and in all sorts of horrible, painful ways. “I didn’t know if you were into this sort of thing,” Peter replied, giving the knot he made one final tug before releasing me.


“Duh—of course, I am!” “Okay, okay, I’ll make you one. Sorry for the oversight.” Althea made a face as she rubbed the back of her neck. “No, that’s okay. I’m sorry I got pissy on you two.” “I really don’t mind making you one. In fact, I’m beginning to think that it would be a good idea. It’s the only way to avoid…” His words trailed off and faded into silence. Althea and I exchanged mystified glances. “Avoid what?” she prodded. “A fight—I guess.” Peter topped that off with a lame chuckle and a blush. “Um—I’m not aiming for a fight, dude. Don’t worry about it. I’m cool, really. I was just being immature. It’s all typical crap from me, you know.” Peter didn’t seem to be listening to her. All that time, his gaze was fixed on my wrist, and his brows were crinkled as though he were in very, very deep thought. Then again, considering his intensity, I wouldn’t be surprised if Peter were to stop and contemplate the higher meaning of friendship bracelets. Althea looked at me and dismissed Peter with a tired rolling of her eyes. “Hey, I think you overdid the knot,” I said. I’d been lightly toying with the bracelet and had just discovered that Peter used a square knot, and it was tightened so much that the knot itself seemed to have vanished. I blinked and backpedaled. The knot did vanish. I brought my wrist closer to my face and stared long and hard at it. “Where did it go?” There was no sign of a knot anywhere though I saw Peter carefully tie one just a moment ago. It seemed to have melted, literally, so that the two ends of the bracelet simply fused themselves into one seamless line. “What is it?” Althea asked. “The knot,” I stammered, showing both her and Peter my wrist. “It’s gone. Seriously, look—you might think I’m crazy.” They both stared at the bracelet and then each other. Neither of them seemed fazed. It was infuriating and disconcerting at the same time. “There’s a knot there. There should be one! Peter, what’s going on?” “What do you need the knot for?” he replied. “Are you thinking of taking the bracelet off sometime?”


“Well—yeah—like when I’m in the shower.” “You really shouldn’t be taking it off.” I sniffed. “I know how friendship bracelets work, Peter. I’m just not keen on having organic things grow on mine because I happen to take showers everyday. I mean, look— it’s thread, not stainless steel.” “You’re a drama queen.” “Look at it this way, Eric. You’re wearing a wedding ring sort of thing,” Althea piped up. “Yeah. Exactly,” Peter said. “But it’s more than just a wedding ring wannabe.” I was growing more and more confused by all this. “Then what? Look, this is starting to get a little too creepy. Where did the knot go?” “It’s there, Eric. It’s always there. You just don’t see it.” “Where?” I glanced down. Then I moved the bracelet around my wrist. The knot remained invisible. “Peter—” I felt a pair of hands take hold of my head, one on each side, and force me to look up. Immediately I was falling headlong into a pair of dark almond-shaped eyes. “Calm down, Plath.” “But something’s not right—” “Eric, will you trust me?” he asked, his voice low and gentle. Only sixteen, and oh, so mature. In retrospect, I guess one of us had to be. I wasn’t exactly sure how to answer him. Something strange was going on, and it felt as though only I could sense it. I clammed up, but Peter played dirty. One way of breaking down my defenses was for him to gently trace my mouth with his thumb while he held me in place. The warmth, the soft friction, that faint smile that lightly creased his face—I was gone in seconds, and my jeans needed some adjusting. “Eric?” “Yeah—okay.” “You can’t take that bracelet off. Promise me that you won’t try to cut it off or damage it in any way.” “You gave it to me. Why would I want to mess it up?” He smiled grimly. “I made it for you, and it’s for your own safety. Please don’t screw around with it.” “Safety?”


“Trust me, Eric. I know nothing makes any sense right now, but it will, sooner or later.” I swallowed, not liking the sound of that. Nevertheless, I replied, “I won’t touch it if you don’t want me to.” “Promise?” “I promise.” Peter seemed to melt then, his shoulders sagging as tension left his body. He leaned forward and kissed me, his hands still securing my head. If I had my way, I’d have pulled him down in a writhing tangle on the asphalt, but we had an audience, who was probably wishing more excruciating death scenes on me. I was forced to limit my appreciation of Peter with an eager, open-mouthed kiss, a restless tongue included. I guess I was getting a hang of the new, improved Peter Barlow at that point. “Thanks,” he whispered against my mouth before pulling away. He left me panting a little—sort of like one of those corseted heroines and their white, ample, raggedly heaving boobs, virginal and helpless against the backdrop of wild cliffs and brooding mansions. Only this time, I was skinny, flat-chested, slightly on the too-pale side of ethereal, with a creepy handmade bracelet marking my wrist. As for my great, romantic backdrop—it was the gray, drab parking lot of Renaissance High, a heavy canopy of dark clouds above, threatening rain and more muck on the streets. But, hell, I didn’t care. The new Peter Barlow was growing on me, and as far as I was concerned, he could sweep me off with one mind-bending kiss on wild cliffs, in brooding mansions, or at some crummy, deserted urban parking lot. Althea, momentarily forgotten, resumed her scab-picking, grumbling under her breath. Above us, faint thunder broke the silence, and the familiar smell of chemical-laced rain softly touched my senses. I wondered how many helpless outdoor plants would fall victim to the downpour this time around.


Chapter 16

Bambi Bailey’s beauty mark traveled all over her face. One would think that it had its own GPS or that it was quite adept at using Google Maps. Before she appeared on camera, it had become a game between me and Liz to place bets on the beauty mark’s new “home.” Peanut M&Ms were at stake, and I proved to be a better gambler than she. There was only one time when neither of us won, though, and that was when the beauty mark—for whatever reason—lost its hold and popped off Miss Bailey’s right cheekbone just as the camera began to roll. Sometimes I wondered if we were the only ones who noticed this new phenomenon, seeing as how these faux moles were very small and inconspicuous and would easily be invisible to inattentive viewers. It was obvious that Liz and I needed hobbies—preferably a life. After my near-kidnapping, The Devil’s Trill upped the ante. Another attempt at hypnotizing people took place, this time with a small, quiet retirement home being the chosen playground. The Happy Willows Retirement Home, always known for its calm


and cozy atmosphere—no one in Vintage City, I was sure, could’ve imagined their frail, sweet grandmother turning into a Vin Diesel protégée, knocking down security guards with her tiny fist or swinging her walker above her head as though it were a high-tech, uber-nunchuku. That was what happened, though. “It was a pretty clever move for the Trill to choose his victims this time,” Sgt. Bone barked during an interview. Perhaps taking Miss Bailey’s cue, he’d begun to appear on camera with his splotchy face nicely powdered to a matte finish. “A group of helpless seniors—cough!—doing Tai Chi in the community room were manipulated—no, brainwashed—hrrum!—by music from a radio that was left behind in the room.” “How can that happen, Sgt. Bone, when those folks were supposed to be doing Tai Chi?” “It was a radio, Miss Bailey—hrrum!—that was left there by another resident, but no one’s—cough!—claimed it yet. We’re now questioning whether or not someone from the—cough! hrrum!—retirement home owned it.” “Cough drops are on sale at Dunlop’s Pharmacy, sergeant.” “Well, good for them!” “But I think they’re out of the cherry-flavored ones.” “Can we get back—cough! cough!—to today’s incident, Miss Bailey?” “Ah, yes. It could’ve been planted, you mean? The radio?” “Exactly. According to witnesses, the radio wasn’t turned on while the residents were exercising—cough!—but sometime in the middle of everything, it did—hrrum! Damn it!— and what happened to those kids in the Elms Theater, happened to these poor seniors.” “And they—” “Attempted to hold the mayor and the supervisors hostage, yes—cough!” “What does the Trill hope to achieve, sir?” Miss Bailey quickly touched her beauty mark with a finger. I imagined that she was ensuring that it was still where she left it. “Other than piss everyone off?” “Yes, sir.” “Take over the world, I’m sure—hrrum! Don’t all master criminals want that?” “I see. And how are the victims now, sergeant?” Vitus Bone nodded. “Very well. They’ve been treated and—cough!—released. As a matter of fact, they recovered from—hrrum!—their hypnosis much better than the kids.” “How so?”


He squared his thick, rounded shoulders, the air of authority thickening around him. I could actually feel it through the TV screen. “No side effects—no headaches, dizziness, nausea. That can only mean one thing.” “There wasn’t any phlegm there, hallelujah,” Miss Bailey, looking amazed, muttered into the microphone. “And what’s that, sergeant?” “Cough!—It means that The Devil’s Trill has perfected—cough!—his Noxious Nocturne, Miss Bailey.” And with that declaration, he glowered at the camera, that air of authority turning into one of virtuous outrage. “All those poor Ficus trees he experimented on!” “He’s evil—rotten to the—hrrum!—core.” “Thank you for your time, Sgt. Bone, and good luck!” Miss Bailey then turned back to the camera and yammered on about that day’s incident at the Happy Willows Retirement Home, her beauty mark bobbing sprightly with every word (Liz won this round as she’d guessed the little black thing to be set on Miss Bailey’s chin—a little east from the midline of her face). Liz shook her head while idly tossing a handful of M&Ms into her mouth. “There’s no rhyme or reason to what the Trill’s doing,” she said. “He’s all over the place. Even all those so-called crimes are half-assed. I mean, like this one, for example. He’s only managed to see part of his scheme through, and the rest of it’s completely foiled by Magnifiman and his partner.” “You’re right. The Elms Theater, the jewelry store, the bank—nothing’s been accomplished.” “I’ll bet you, Eric, that he’s just experimenting—like on those Ficus trees. These reek of dress rehearsals, know what I mean?” I frowned at her. “He’s practicing—or testing the waters?” “Yup. Exactly.” “Then what’s he trying to prepare himself for?” “Hey, I’ve already figured out part of the puzzle. It’s your turn to find out the rest.” With that, Liz scrambled to her feet, snatching the now-empty candy bowl and then marching off to the kitchen for refills. I looked back at the TV. Another reporter was now on, but I expected Miss Bailey to corral Magnifiman sometime soon, and hopefully he’d be able to answer some of our questions. What Liz had just said made sense to me. The Trill seemed to be toying with


things—seeing how they worked, what kind of adjustments were needed. We were all rats in his maze. He didn’t appear to care that a couple of superheroes kept thwarting his plans. One scheme foiled? Go on to the next one. No big deal. In the meantime, quietly perfect the previous plans and then try them again later on. I scratched my head, and my thoughts drifted to the good guys. They’d been active in bringing peace and order in the streets of Vintage City, not once choosing one kind of criminal over the other. Everything was treated as a serious threat, so much so that I began to hear quiet grumblings here and there about Magnifiman’s fanaticism. I realized that the good guys worked no differently from the bad ones. Their efforts at seeing justice done appeared equally “light” and not at all awe-inspiring—like the Trill’s aborted efforts at causing all sorts of chaos around the city. Were the superheroes also testing the waters? They did, after all, show up at about the same time the Devil’s Trill did. Did their simultaneous advent mean something? Something caught my eye in the yellow dullness of the living room. I looked down. The friendship bracelet Peter gave me was intact. It was the gold thread that he’d woven into the braided floss that caught my attention. It appeared to glow softly—very softly— perhaps because of the TV or even the old light bulbs in the room. I could never tell. The effect was quite pretty, though, and strange though it might sound, I actually felt safe, feeling it cradling my wrist. I went online afterward and lurked in different RPG communities. There was talk of world domination, yes, but what interested me the most was the sudden explosion of new villains—all senior citizens, all kicking major ass. I suppose my favorite would have to be The Cardigan. He was a portly old man in a mustard-colored cardigan and a black beret. He could kill at twenty paces with his exploding cigars and poisonous pipe-weed. His cane shot poison darts. It was a dead heat between him and Magnifiman, but I had homework to do, so I couldn’t watch the showdown to its finale. A close second came The Silver Swan—a white-haired femme fatale, who appeared in a costume that was an obvious rip-off of Bjork’s albatross couture at the Oscar Awards once upon a time (bless the internet and its archive of celebrity embarrassments from every generation!). Only this time everything was doused in silver glitter. She sashayed around with a little compact, which she’d flip open and blow, and thousands of sparkly things would fly out and overpower Magnifiman (or whoever happened to be standing within twenty feet of her). I’d have loved to see her work with The Cardigan against the good


guys, but her player insisted on autonomy. In the meantime, Bambi Bailey had been kidnapped, and Magnifiman was tearing the whole city apart to find her because, yes, they’d been engaged in a long, long, long, drawnout romance marked by unresolved sexual tension. He was hopelessly in love with her, but he refused to acknowledge it. Now he was in danger of losing The Only Woman in the Universe for Him, and he was beside himself. His young sidekick, Shadow Boy, was being chased by Mary Sue—who actually appeared as septuplets because each fourteen-year-old player refused to surrender her character, and that was the concession the girls had reached after a nasty flame war that found its way to The Wank House (an online community where people regaled in flaming each other senseless). There were also variations of Mary Sue—all identical to each other but playing different roles. One set of septuplet Sues were from the dark side, and they schemed to turn Shadow Boy against Magnifiman while engaging in romantic trysts with the girls. Another set of identical Sues straddled good and evil. They were the mavericks, and they shared the same aim as the rest of the Mary Sue clans. Poor Shadow Boy was besieged left and right by girls too beautiful and too perfect to be real (in a manner of speaking, that is), and who fought each other to the death over him. How he managed to work alongside Magnifiman while being dogged like that by gaggles of swooning fangirls always fascinated me. At the same time—and I was embarrassed by this fact—I’d actually begun to harbor vague jealous feelings toward the Shadow Boy subplot. If I were only halfway decent in role-playing games, I’d have created a gay character who’d give Mary Sue a run for her— or their—money. The Happy Willows incident kept Vintage City buzzing for a few days afterward. Frantic families visited their relatives as well as those poor residents who’d no family left. I suppose, if anything good came out of that, it would be all that attention and outpouring of concern for complete strangers. I wouldn’t be surprised if families adopted some of them on the spot and took them out for the weekend. The next time I met up with Althea, she was livid. I figured that something was about to blow, judging from the “Death to the Stupid World” look on her face throughout our Geometry class. Normally she’d be happier than heck—even bordering on the smug, at least whenever she looked at me while working on proofs.


“The Trill attacked Happy Willows!” she roared as we took our spot in the cafeteria. I stared at the mess of tasteless glop, dry bread, crumbly chips, and poison-in-a-soda-can that sat in a miserable group on my lunch tray. I really ought to bring a bagged lunch before Renaissance High’s cafeteria murdered me with Health Department-sanctioned meals. I waited for my stomach to stop turning by toying with my glop (spaghetti, in other words) with my limp plastic fork. Peter needed to swing by the counselor’s office for a quick conversation about his university choices, so he wasn’t able to join us. “He did? No kidding.” I tried to be cute. Apparently my charm meter wasn’t cranked up high enough. “The son of a bitch!” “What’s up?” “My grandmother was there!” Now that, I didn’t know. My knowledge of Althea’s background had been nothing more than snippets she was willing to share about her pharmacist mom, her deadbeat dad (who had fled the country rather than take up his share of the responsibility in raising a daughter), and her favorite but deceased uncle. I never liked pushing people into telling me more, so I never pursued the subject. “No kidding. Is she okay?” Althea nodded, her brows tightly drawn. “Yeah, she is, thank God. Everyone involved is okay.” “I hope she didn’t get manhandled.” “Manhandled? She was the one who kicked down the door of the second floor conference room!” She looked at me, her expression alternating between fury and awe. “It was a drop-kick, too, they said! Can you believe that? A drop-kick! And she’s eighty years old!” Then she paused and hesitated. Fury and awe turned to guilt, and she blushed. “God, what I’d give to see her in action. Mom always said that Grandma never took shit from anybody. Even set the dogs on my dad when he came around to take my mom out for a date.” She paused again, and this time, she grinned. “What if she had a walker? Can you imagine what she would’ve done with it?” “Probably use it to jam elevators. Or reshape it with her bare hands into some other weapon.” “She’s totally hardcore.” “Your grandma’s bitchin’.”


“For real.” I patted her shoulder in sympathy and support. It was always good when someone sorted through her crisis without much outside help.


Chapter 17

Mom’s birthday was two days away, so Dad and I went out to shop for a present. It was Friday afternoon. Dad went to work early that day in order to leave two hours before his usual shift ended. He wanted to be stealthy about it, but judging from the little gleam in Mom’s eyes that morning at the breakfast-table, I was sure she knew. Then again, I guess having Dad pull the same thing year after year pretty much gave her an inkling. We decided to take the bus because the car was in pretty bad shape, and Dad didn’t want to give it reason to break down further. Dad always towed me around when out shopping for Mom. For better or for worse, I was his fashion advisor and his financial consultant—not that it mattered much, really, since the man rarely ever listened in the end. I used to protest, demanding to know why Liz didn’t take the job. Apparently she used to do it, I was told, but she proved to be on the high maintenance end of things when it came to gift-giving, and she was promptly fired. We walked past the smaller stores, stopping here and there and surveying their


merchandise. Dad wanted to get Mom a new sweater and didn’t have a single clue as to what would work the best. How long had they married again? “Here, you know what’s trendy,” he said as we stopped before a shop that specialized in handmade stuff from Nepal. “Dad, those things are really cool, but they’re also pretty expensive.” A small handsewn bag that had enough room for a wallet, a makeup kit, and keys cost forty bucks. What were the chances of that same item costing a buck or two to produce? “Your mom likes these,” he replied, pointing to a printed cotton patch top. It was one of those loose, comfortable things with long sleeves and a bodice that could hide every sin imaginable in one voluminous mass. The patterns in the patches were pretty funky— flowers and geometric shapes that were forced together. I was sure that any pedestrian wearing that shirt would never have to worry about being run over by inattentive motorists. “It costs seventy bucks. Yikes.” “But your mother will love it.” “Dad…” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Eric, you’re no help here.” “We only have a limited budget. Can’t we go somewhere cheaper? I’m sure Mom won’t mind.” “We’re not going to your second-hand store.” “You know what I mean, Dad.” “I always thought that gay men knew how to choose clothes.” I cocked an eyebrow at him—even peered over my glasses and not through them, very schoolmarm-like. It was always strange pulling something off like this. At five-foot-five, Dad stood five inches shorter than I, and not only did he look like WKRP in Cincinnati’s Les Nessman, but he had that jittery thing going, too. Even his glasses seemed the perfect match for the neurotic newsman. One of my earliest memories was turning to Mom during the opening credits of the series’ gazillion reruns and asking her if Dad was an actor and if “that nervous little guy with glasses” was really him. “You’ll say that I’m bound for musical theater, next.” Dad looked sincerely puzzled. “Well—aren’t you?” “No.” “Huh.”


“Dad, I want to get a Ph.D. in Literature, I can’t stand dandies, and I think musical theater’s overrated.” I actually had a bit of a crush on Joshua Bell, but he was classical music, not musical theater, thank heaven. I’d yet to scrounge up enough money to buy a used CD of his recordings, so he could serenade me at night. “If you can’t stand dandies, what’s with the Smurf blood hair thing, then?” “That’s not foppery.” “Poppy what?” “Nothing, nothing.” “Well, you’re still being fussy about your look. You even have one of those things.” He pointed at my friendship bracelet. I hoped I didn’t blush. “Dad, it’s called being a teenager. A lot of kids have this.” “Sure.” We ambled on to another shop and peered through the display window. I’d already moved on. Apparently Dad hadn’t. “Eric, if you’re aiming for a Ph.D. in Literature, you’d better do something about your grades—especially Chemistry and Geometry,” he observed, scrunching his face against the glass. “I don’t see why I should,” I replied sulkily. “I don’t need science and math for a degree in literature.” “Not a good excuse, son. Try again.” I sighed and scratched my head. “I’m working on it. Chemistry and Geometry, I mean—not another excuse.” It was already nearing dinner. We decided that a bit of food in our bellies should help us with the decision-making. We were too far from Uncle Chung’s, so we looked around for Chinese food and ended up in Vintage City’s only mall. Flanked by smaller independent shops, the Emporium Grande loomed a good three stories above pedestrians, its façade given the same dated, weathered fate as its humbler neighbors. Talk about being forced into the status quo. I could only imagine the snide conversations whispered between the empty shops at night while Vintage City slept: “Think you’re too special for us, eh?” “Check yourself out. Slap you with rotting bricks, and you’re that grand, after all.” “Oh, dear. You’ve got new grime over by the main entrance.” “No, that’s a piss stain. My, my. Drunks love you, don’t they?”


“Yak, yak, yak. Bite me. I still smell better than you losers.” The food court in the mall was in the basement, in a manner of speaking. The Emporium Grande was like three rectangular donuts stacked atop each other. All the shops lined the periphery. Each floor opened up in the center area, so that shoppers could rest against steel and glass rails while peering over to watch other people mill around in the food court, which was one level below ground. Potted plants and bland-looking water fountains littered the scene, with scattered tables and benches covering every inch of available space that was there. Everywhere I turned, I found harried parents, idle teenagers, and screaming children. I could barely hold a conversation with Dad without shouting outright into his ear. God, I hated the mall. Dad and I hustled over to the Dragon Terrace, which was Dad’s second favorite Chinese food joint. We ordered something edible and inexpensive and eventually found a free table, quickly claiming it before a giant of a man with a wicked mullet and tattoos covering his arms could reach it. Behind him a train of five surly children stomped. A couple of those kids broke the monotony by turning around and pounding each others’ skulls with their fists. Their father didn’t appear to know what was going on behind him—or he simply didn’t care. Dad and I ate our meal in relative silence, given the noise around us. The hubbub of usual mall activity, though, didn’t compare to what came several moments into our meal. Something crashed right through the roof and hurtled down toward the basement. Before it could hit anything or anyone, however, it stopped about a dozen feet above the basement floor—or more specifically directly above this poor woman, who was trying to eat pizza while breastfeeding her baby. Debris rained all over the place—plaster and wood, but no glass, thank God. People screamed. Most scrambled for safety toward the food stands, which lined the periphery of the food court, while those unable to vacate their tables simply dove under them, the breastfeeding woman included. I peered out from under our table. Hovering above us were two grappling figures— Magnifiman and someone in a black bodysuit and a red velvet cloak and hood. My jaw dropped to the floor as I stared, bug-eyed, at the two of them. They were locked in serious hand-to-hand combat, with their arms and legs tangled as they writhed and struggled against each other. They reminded me of gigantic snakes fighting each other from the way


they rolled around and slithered in the air—as though they were on solid ground the whole time. Every so often a fist would appear above either man’s head. Then it would vanish, and a loud crack would be heard as blows were dealt. Grunts, snarls—all sorts of primal sounds underscored the rawness of the scene. “Holy cow,” I breathed. Then, suddenly remembering my dad, I glanced over my shoulder to see if he was okay. He huddled under the table behind me, but he had his head bowed to the floor and his hands and arms covering it defensively. His poor battered hat had tumbled off and now lay in a useless heap under one of the benches. “Dad, you okay?” He nodded but didn’t budge from where he was. There was another crash above us, and more people screamed as water and glass this time fell all over the place. I peered out in time to find Magnifiman and The Devil’s Trill (it was pretty obvious that he was the other guy) soaking wet as they lunged for each other from opposite directions. They were thrown against the first level railing, shattering a huge portion of it. The Trill vanished past the gap they’d created with a roar of anger and pain, while Magnifiman broke his momentum by turning himself over like a cat in mid-flight and kicking hard against the now damaged first level floor. Using it like a trampoline, he heaved and flung himself away from where the Trill had gone, allowing him sufficient distance as he hovered, panting with fists clenched (striking a very admirable figure, I might add), far above us and close to the gigantic hole he and his enemy had created in the roof. Around us the mall lost power, and only a few lights remained functional. Blinking against tiny bits of debris that continued to fall on us, I caught sight of the early evening sky above. “Come on, buddy,” Magnifiman growled. “We’re not done yet.” “No, we aren’t,” the Trill hissed from somewhere in the dusty shadows of the first level. It was strange hearing his voice. All this time, he’d been nothing more than some shadowy figure whose existence depended on word of mouth, newspaper articles, and the occasional thug. Now he was there, in flesh and blood, and though I never saw his face, I was sure that it was the same one I’d spotted in that abandoned building not too long ago—staring at me in the darkness, grinning before melting into the night. His voice was high and thin. It reminded me of the twang of a guitar string. Then the Trill flew out of the shadows (that he could fly surprised the hell out of me)


and went straight for Magnifiman, who waited, gauging the time to perfection, then leaping out of harm’s way a split second before the Trill reached him. He flew out into open air and vanished, the Trill crashing against the railing of the topmost level this time, destroying a smaller portion compared to the one on the first level. People who dared to peek out and watch the fight dove back under cover. The Trill emerged from his blunder quickly and flew through the hole in the roof, following Magnifiman in a surreal game of tag. Those of us left behind continued to cower, waiting and listening. Somewhere outside, we could hear more shattering glass, wood, and plaster as well as occasional shouts and grunts. Then a figure appeared, crouching on the edge of the damaged roof and peering inside. He leapt gracefully from the roof and landed on the undamaged portion of the top level’s railing. He balanced on the rounded, slippery steel rail seemingly without effort as he continued to survey the devastation left behind by his partner. Against the near darkness, one could barely make out his silhouette, but I knew it was Magnifiman’s partner. I tried to catch as much as I could from where I huddled, but a loud boom from somewhere outside shook the earth, and I quickly ducked back down. People around me screamed again. “Don’t worry!” a voice from above called down to us. “You’re all safe in here. Whatever you do, don’t step outside until the police and the paramedics come.” My heart stopped. “Wha—Peter?” “They’re coming! Please, everyone, stay where you are!” I felt my universe come to a complete standstill. Oh, my God. “Peter?” I stammered again. My voice was weak, and it came out more like a whisper than a call. Even my dad, who was less than three feet away, wouldn’t have been able to hear me. There were some shuffling sounds and then another rain of dust and plaster, but the guy—Shadow Boy, I told myself over and over—didn’t speak again. Yes, Shadow Boy. Not Peter. It couldn’t be Peter. I crawled halfway out and braved the debris as I looked up, but the figure was gone. Somewhere in the distance, police and ambulance sirens wailed. Every so often, there’d be the sounds of something breaking, but those noises grew more and more distant. I was sure that Magnifiman and his partner were trying to draw their enemy as far away from the downtown area as they could. But who the hell cared about that? Little by little, stunned and terrified shoppers


crawled out of their hiding-places. Some cried, some whipped out their cell phones, and almost everyone began to talk at the same time. “This is ridiculous!” the tattooed guy with the mullet snarled nearby. “What the hell are they doing, fighting like that—and in front of so many kids? You try to raise your children right, keep ‘em away from violent video games and TV shows and movies, and then this happens!” “Yeah,” a woman piped up, but I couldn’t see where she was. “And they blame parents for all those violent, screwed-up kids.” “I’m writing a letter of complaint to the Mayor’s office. This shit ain’t right,” the man declared, earning himself a few scattered words of approval. Then one of his kids pulled hard at his sister’s ponytail, and Tattoo Dad turned and gave the boy a loud smack upside the head, nearly sending the kid tumbling forward. “Didn’t I tell you to stop doing that shit? Didn’t I?” he cried. The boy shrank back, whimpering and rubbing his head. I glanced at Dad and found him curled up on the floor like an armadillo in denim and cotton. I recovered his hat from where it rolled then gently nudged him. He finally raised his head and stared at me, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. “Are you okay, Dad?” I asked, giving his hat back. “I am,” he gasped, and we both slowly crawled out. “How about you?” “Yeah,” I said as I sat down on the bench, for my knees just buckled from under me. “I’m fine.” I knew that I wasn’t, though. I could barely feel him sit down beside me as he tried to recover from his own shock. I stared around me, unseeing, before looking down at my hands, which rested limply on my lap. The friendship bracelet couldn’t be seen in the murkiness, but the thin gold thread could be. It appeared to glow softly, sometimes fading from sight. The cops arrived within moments. They swarmed into the mall, waving flashlights and brandishing guns.


Chapter 18

“Violent Showdown in Downtown Vintage!” the newspaper’s headlines screamed the following morning. Everyone sat at the table, staring at Dad—waiting with utmost patience as he tried to sort through the news so he could summarize it for us. Our breakfast was fast congealing on our plates. It was certainly a good thing that I didn’t bother to mess around with my eggs with blue food coloring. I’d have the nasty experience of seeing over-easy eggs turn cold and hard, and somehow blue quasi-fossilized eggs sounded really disgusting. “Mannequin Man caught the Trill red-handed,” Dad presently declared from behind the paper. “Apparently the Trill was about to booby-trap the subway.” Liz whistled. “Damn. With the aerial train still out, that would’ve been a real mess. Now I’m wondering if all those other jobs he tried to pull were just for practice, or if they were diversions.” She paused and glanced at me. “Like mixing the important and the trivial together to throw people off guard.”


“Sure,” I mumbled, swirling my spoon around my cereal bowl. I could’ve colored the milk blue, but I was pretty moody that morning. “You know, Eric, I just realized that you keep getting yourself mixed up in these things. Were you born under a bad sign or something?” “Yeah—something like ‘loser, ahoy!’” Mom clucked. “Now, now, honey. Don’t be such a teenager. You know you’re not a loser. Now have some orange juice and take your vitamins before I get mad.” “So Mannequin Man gets the Trill,” Dad continued, “while his partner—that superkid—rounds up all the Trill’s thugs. Did it pretty fast, too—guess that’s his superpower. Speed. Too bad that Bailey reporter can’t corner him the way she’s able to corner Mannequin Man sometimes.” “He’s too quick for her,” Liz sniggered. “Hey, Eric, can you imagine what kind of name she’ll be coming up with for him? Something like Perky Feet Boy, maybe. Or Flying Feet Kid. Or Speedy Gonzalez—but that’d be copyright infringement, wouldn’t it? Speedy Kidzalez. How’s that?” “Pathetic.” “You’re a real charmer this morning,” she said before turning her attention back to Dad. “The Trill got away,” he said, to a chorus of Awww from Mom and Liz. “His goons are behind bars—hopefully for good—” “And hopefully radios are banned from the police station!” Mom cut in. Dad grunted his agreement. “—but The Devil’s Trill escaped.” Dad, finally done with the news, folded the paper and set it aside. “I can’t even begin to imagine the cost of all the damage the fight caused. It wasn’t just the mall that got in their way. Three other buildings up and down the street got pummeled.” “From what I heard in last night’s news, those were mostly superficial damages,” Liz offered, her words partly muffled by the bagel in her mouth. I’d no idea why she got away with her table manners because Mom rode my ass with every mealtime infraction, no matter how small. “Not as bad as what happened to Emporium Grande.” “That’s really gross,” I grumbled at her, and she wrinkled her nose at me. Earlier that morning, after taking a shower, I tried to cut the bracelet up but failed. I wasn’t sure if it was because the scissors were simply bad or if the bracelet was made of


some bizarre material that couldn’t be damaged. Either way, the scissors did absolutely nothing to it. I was about to ask either Liz or Mom to use the knife on it, but breakfast was hijacked by last evening’s drama. I did my Saturday chores after breakfast. I worked as quickly as I could, so I’d have enough time to sort through my issues. When I went upstairs to my bedroom, I found that Peter had called while I was in the garage, vacuuming the car. “How about a date?” he asked in an easy, almost sexy drawl. He even lowered his voice a little for maximum effect. My answering machine, even though it was ancient, absolutely loved his sound and seemed to conspire with him. I was this close to picking up the phone and calling him with an eager, breathless, “Yes!” As it was, though, I simply listened to his message and then deleted it. I made a phone call, but not to Peter. Within seconds, I was listening to Mrs. Horace’s young-ish, sprightly voice at the other end of the line. Actually, Mrs. Horace was young still, having had Althea when she was only nineteen. “Oh, hi, Eric,” she said. “How’s the family?” “Good, thank you. How’re you, Mrs. Horace?” “Haven’t been in the way of all the weird stuff that’s been going around here lately. Thank God for that.” I nodded, sitting cross-legged on the floor and leaning against my bed. I caught sight of my bracelet and immediately sat on my left hand to keep it away from my line of vision. “You’re one of the lucky ones. And I’m sorry to hear about Grandma,” I said. I hoped that my tone was light. “It was scary, but we’re all glad she’s safe.” I nodded and fell silent. I was never good in small talk where adults were concerned. “So you want to talk to Althea?” “Yes, ma’am. If she’s available.” “I think she’s done with homework. Let me check.” I waited for a few moments, wondering what I ought to say to Althea. Calling her was a knee-jerk response to hearing Peter’s voice on my answering machine. It was avoidance, plain and simple. “Hello?” “How about a date?” I blurted out. She snorted. “I don’t go out with two-timing weasels. And I’m not doing your


homework. Try again.” I looked down and stared at the weathered floorboards. Normally I’d be fiddling with something, using my free hand, but I continued to sit on my left hand despite its growing numbness. It was all I could do to observe the floorboards and remind myself that my room needed sweeping. Jesus, what was that stain in front of my wardrobe? I blinked and then squinted for a better look, but no dice. Whatever it was, it looked pretty nasty. “Ice cream? We can share a banana split if you want.” There was a brief pause. “What’s wrong, Eric?” she asked—gently this time. I shrugged. “I don’t know. You free after lunch?” “Uh—yeah, sure. I’ll tell Mom.” She paused again. “You’re not breaking up with Peter, are you?” I grimaced. “It’s only ice cream.” “Okay. Just checking. Girls sense these things, you know.” “What things?” I stretched both legs out since they were beginning to cramp up. I kept my left hand tucked under my butt, though. “Emo crap. Anything romantic, especially.” “Must be the estrogen. Okay, I’ll pick you up at one.” “On your bike? Forget it, Eric. I’m not sitting on your handlebars—like in one of those commercials for Valentine’s Day that makes me puke all over myself. I’ll pick you up in my car.” I was hoping she’d say that. “Okay,” I replied with fake reluctance. “See you then.” After hanging up the phone, I picked up the scissors again (I’d left it on my bed) and tried my luck. I knew I wasn’t going to go anywhere with it, but I kept snipping and slicing away. I guess it was more symbolic than anything else.

I’d completely underestimated both the size of the banana split and our combined ability to finish the whole thing. How annoying. The ice creamery should’ve put a warning on their menu—something like “Minimum Guest Requirement: Three or More Per Serving.” Had Peter been there, I was sure we wouldn’t have struggled with it the way we did. Althea tried—in her usual underhanded, girly way—to get me to talk about my “deal.”


I didn’t take the bait, for which I was proud. Besides, what would I tell her?

My boyfriend’s this freak who moves around at the speed of light, catching crooks here and there. I don’t know how to handle it. Hey, are you going to eat that? Oh, yeah—that would’ve been a really interesting exchange right there. For the most part, I simply avoided giving her a direct response and just told her that I was going through a bit of a funk and then coaxed her into entertaining me with stories—any kind that would’ve kept my mind off Peter. To what extent she believed me wasn’t at all clear, but I’d caught her maybe twice looking at me strangely. It was that unnerving stare that girls usually gave—the narrowed, sidelong glance, the mouth pinched while thoughtfully sucking on a spoon. It was the look I’d always get from Liz whenever she caught me for something. A minute of that—that was all it usually took me—a minute of that look, and I’d be confessing to all sorts of sins, real and imagined. It’d be worse if Liz happened to be PMS-ing. I squirmed in my seat. “What?” Althea continued to stare me down. “Nothing.” Another effective girly weapon—the passive-aggressive one-word response. “Okay, fine.” I looked back down to scoop out another helping of ice cream and banana, painfully aware of her gaze, which I could feel like a lead weight all over me. “Althea, quit that. You’re getting a little too creepy for me.” “So what did Peter do?” “Nothing.” “Bull. What did he do, Eric?” I sighed, scooped out a large chunk of ice cream and crammed it into my mouth. It bought me some time, and it proved to be the most delicious gag one could ever use in conversation. I flashed her a close-lipped smile, feeling excess ice cream trail down my chin. Althea watched me with a grimace of disgust. “Dude, I can’t help you if you don’t want to talk, and I know you’ve got boyfriend problems because you’ve got that look on your face.” “Whur mouf?” “What look? It’s hard to describe—closest would be deer-in-headlights.” I shrugged again and took in more ice cream before swallowing the previous spoonful. Some of my teeth began to hurt from the cold. Nuts. That meant another visit to the dentist.


“Okay, I guess I can get used to this one-sided thing.” She downed a spoonful of ice cream, smacking her lips contentedly afterwards. Then she hesitated and turned serious as she regarded me. For a moment that seemed to stretch well past eternity, she appeared to struggle with herself—stared at me, chewed her lip, looked down at her ice cream, toyed with her food, and then glanced back at me with a frown. “What now?” “I know I can trust you, Eric.” I blinked. “Urhm?” Munch, munch. “I gotta show you something after this.” We tried. We did. It was a heroic, noble effort, but we were defeated by a banana split. I wanted my money back, damn it, but the cashier only laughed at me and waved me off with a condescending, “I’ll see you again, cutie!” Whatever. Althea led me away, bypassing her car and dragging me down three blocks to the nearest bank. We stopped before the ATM. I stared at it, with bad flashbacks hitting me between the eyes. “What’re we doing here?” I asked, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. I glanced at Althea and was surprised to find her watching me seriously. “Do you remember what I told you before—about me being able to talk to machines?” she asked. “Uh—yeah, sure.” I frowned at her and then shifted my gaze to the ATM’s little screen and the jerkily-moving animated bankcard that flitted back and forth. A cheery welcome in bright yellow text followed it like a comet tail. Althea stepped up to the ATM. “Here. Watch.” She fell silent and stared hard at the keypad while resting her left hand on it, her fingers relaxed. For a brief moment, nothing happened. Then there was a quick flash of light from the screen—as though it shortcircuited. “Hey, watch out!” I reached out to pull her away and then froze. Althea didn’t move, didn’t even appear as though she were aware of what had just happened. She continued to touch the keypad, her face a mask of pure concentration. Then the keys—their neat, symmetrical outlines glowed a faint pale blue. One second, two seconds, throbbing all that time before fading away until the keys were back to their old, plain, discolored selves. The screen flashed again before turning black. Then numbers appeared, moving from top to bottom, following a line, and scrolling in a never-ending


train. “What the—” I breathed, gaping at the screen. My skin crawled. Images from the recent past suddenly flashed before my mind’s eye—images of Althea solving mathematical problems, her hand moving side-to-side, following a long, regular line down her notebook, her numbers filling up practically every bit of available space. The numbers continued their march in split-second time until everything went black once again. The process must’ve taken not much more than twenty seconds from start to finish. Althea took a deep breath and then turned to look at me, pulling her hand away. She didn’t at all appear upset or disturbed by what had just happened, but she seemed eager for my reaction—in a strangely detached way. “Did you see that?” “I did, yeah,” I stammered. “What the hell happened?” “I just accessed the bank’s database—extracted some kind of list. Not sure if they’re accounts or what since everything’s pretty fuzzy. I don’t remember the information, though. I haven’t mastered retention yet.” She nodded at the ATM. “And there’s no trace of me anywhere in the bank’s security system. Like I was some kind of ghost that just haunted the main computer and left nothing behind.” “How? All you did was touch the machine and—” “And talk to it. No, actually—more like I connected with the system. Yeah, that’s what happened. I told you before that I could do that, remember?” Althea watched me closely. I couldn’t believe she was so impassive. It was almost as though she’d just taken on the qualities of a machine—a calculator—a central computer. It was a far, far cry from the sensitive girl I last saw at the cafeteria after the Happy Willows incident. And she certainly didn’t look and sound like the girl with whom I’d just shared a banana split. I took a faltering step back. “You connected with the machine?” “I can do it, yeah. My brain did, anyway” “What about the camera? I’m sure it’s got you recorded.” Althea glanced at the small black square just above the screen and touched it with the same hand she used on the keypad. I heard a faint whirr that started out quietly and then grew louder. The camera had been hacked (hacked or possessed?). I pictured one of those old-fashioned reels, only a hundred times smaller, moving at a frenzied speed for a few seconds before fading back to a faint whirr and then complete silence. Althea looked back at me with a sassy little smile.


“I just erased the film and killed the camera.” “What—you’re a criminal!” She shook her head. “I trust you, Eric. I know you won’t blab about this to anyone. I just had to show you what I can do.” “No—no—this isn’t possible.” “It is, though. It’s been getting worse and worse—for a couple of weeks now, I can’t hold a calculator or use a computer without accidentally tapping into its main system and extricating stuff from it. Or just screwing around with information—changing data or moving stuff around, and I don’t even know how I do it. At the moment, I’m trying to learn how to control my power. It hasn’t been easy.” “It isn’t possible! There’s no power here!” Althea raised a brow. “Like it isn’t possible that Peter can move at the speed of light or jump from street level to the rooftop, right?” What the hell? “How did you know that?” I demanded, my focus dimming. “He told me. He’s also aware that you know about him.” “Wha—he told you? How?” Althea shrugged and rubbed the back of her neck, flashing me a sheepish little grin. “When I accidentally hacked into his computer while playing Gargoyles and Demon

Spawn with him—and found, you know, data that I wasn’t supposed to.” She winced, hunching her shoulders. “Peter caught me because I was panicking and couldn’t get out of his computer. I was stuck and couldn’t go back to the game. My character got obliterated by Head Gargoyle Gargantua and left Peter’s character to be turned into mercenary meatloaf for Gargantua’s harem.” “I always knew that that’s a messed up game,” I muttered in spite of myself. “So we had a conversation afterward. Yeah, your boyfriend took me out for dinner, but it wasn’t a romantic date, so don’t worry about me stealing him away.” “And?” “We outed ourselves to each other, I guess.” She looked at her shoes, frowning. “He told me that there are a few others like us. Somewhere—everywhere—and they don’t know it yet. We get into our powers—” “Powers—” “—at different times, supposedly, depending on genetics. He got to his months ago, and I’m just discovering mine. I guess it was nothing more than luck that I haven’t really


mastered this computer power thing of mine, and whatever data I extracted from Peter’s hard drive didn’t stick with me. I remember the process, but I can’t remember the actual details of what I found. It’s weird—like waking up from a dream that you can’t remember the moment you open your eyes. It’s almost like shadows—ghosts—nothing tangible left, just traces of something.” She breathed in deeply and then looked up. Her expression was different. It was both unreadable and yet not, like she’d stepped back a few paces, leaving a phantom image of herself, which I recognized and yet didn’t because it seemed so unreal. I stared at her, freaked out and repulsed. She’d changed. I could tell now. The process seemed to be rapid—just like the computers she could hack into with nothing more than the power of her mind. As if someone had turned on a switch, she became robotic. I didn’t know how long that state lasted, if at all. Maybe she took on the quality of a machine when she was around one or when she “channeled” one. Did it matter, though? “You and Peter?” I finally said, taking another step back. When she reached a hand out to me, I instinctively leaped away, horrified. She let her hand drop to her side. I thought I caught the briefest flash of something across her face—a shadow of an emotion. Regret, maybe? Guilt? Anger? I couldn’t tell. Not that I wanted to. “I’m sorry, Eric, but I wanted you to know this. You and Peter are the only real friends I have, and I trust you.” Althea managed the vaguest smile. “Even if you try to convince us that you’re no good, you really are. I’ll say it again and again ‘til my head drops off.” I held my hands up to quiet her while backing away some more. “I’m going home. I can’t deal with this shit. You shouldn’t have said anything, Althea.” “You would’ve found out one way or another.” I crossed my arms over my chest and hugged myself. Not that it did me any good. Even with my jacket on, I shivered and actually felt a hollow kind of chill wrap itself around me. “I don’t want any of this!” “You deserve to know everything. I’m sure Peter will try to talk to you, too.” “I don’t give a rat’s ass what I deserve and how long it’ll take me to understand that you and Peter are freaks!” I spat out. I couldn’t look at her again—that fixed stare, that odd, assessing look—God, it was like being in a bad sci-fi movie involving pod people. I turned on my heels and hurried away. “Leave me alone, Althea! You and Peter! Just leave me alone!” I wouldn’t be surprised if she simply watched me, that tiny smile still on her face. Instead, though, I heard, “Eric, come on!” Her tone sounded normal—plaintive and


frightened, not cold—and maybe I should’ve stayed behind. Instead, I redoubled my efforts and broke out into a full run, never once looking back.


Chapter 19

Mom’s birthday proved to be a Godsend. For nearly twenty-four hours, I was completely distracted from recent events. Peter hadn’t contacted me since, but I expected him to as long as I avoided returning his call. I was sure that he’d heard from Althea by then. Liz cooked spaghetti, and I made garlic bread. It was easy. Just take the loaf out of the freezer, unwrap it, and follow instructions. Presto. Because of our disastrous trip to the mall, Dad’s shopping got pushed back to Saturday instead, and he had to take care of that without my help. He ended up buying a nice sweater for Mom, which he presented in a lavishly wrapped package. I wouldn’t be surprised if he paid as much for the gift wrapping as he did for the sweater itself. Of course, to what extent his shattered illusions of my gayness affected his decisionmaking remained unknown, but I must add that the sweater he picked was pretty cute. One side of me went “Awww, Dad…” The other merely inspected my cuticles, smug in the


thought that my dad simply got lucky that time. As for the kids’ gift to Mom, Liz and I pooled our resources. That is, she coughed up the money for us both while I swore indentured servitude to her for a week. She had a job, after all, not me. “Oh, this is going to be sweet,” she crowed, her eyes flashing. “I’ll give you a ‘To Do’ list tomorrow.” “Fine, fine,” I grumbled, kicking an imaginary pebble and drooping before her. Talk about being born under a bad sign. “As long as you don’t send me to the store to buy your tampons and stuff.” “You got lucky there, kid. I just had my girly issues. My bedroom and my truck will love you, though.” “Whee. I can’t wait.” At dinner, we presented Mom with movie passes and stamped certificates for prepaid movie grub. After feasting and general merriment, I was stuck with the dishes. It was then, while staring at the Godawful pile sitting in the sink, that I resolved to do something with my spare time. A good sized chunk of time had just been given back to me, I realized then. Peter and I had already broken up even before we broke up (even before our first official date, for Chrissakes!)—at least as far as I was concerned. Outside my chores and homework, what leftover time that could’ve been spent with him now needed to be filled. I therefore resolved to freak out my parents and tell them—firmly, with a straight face— that I was going to find a part-time job. I couldn’t think of a better way to cope with things. I also couldn’t believe how many fucking dishes we used in a single day, considering how small of a family we were. Sheesh. Once I’d ensured that my hands were nothing more than a couple of giant albino prunes attached to the ends of my arms (Mom’s dish gloves were too small for me to use), I went to my room for some quiet time. Mom and Dad went out for a movie after deciding on Ocean’s Thirteen, and Liz was on the phone, yakking away. It had been a while since I last picked up a book, so I’d hoped to indulge myself until bedtime. My new, used copy of Around the World in 80 Days remained untouched, and I needed to fix that. I washed up and changed. Snagging the book from my desk, I made my way to bed.


Then the nightmare began. Who would’ve thought that Althea Horace—dear, sweet, smart Althea Horace of the Mystery Machine—would give the Marquis de Sade a run for his money? My old, beat up, second-hand computer flared to life on its own. The screen throbbed with a spectral blue light, which eventually quieted down to black space. I stood before my computer and gaped as small white letters appeared across the screen.

Hey, Eric, check this out. I’m in your computer now. No—I AM your computer. Fear me. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus Christ on a cracker. My mouth formed voiceless words for a good half a minute. Eventually something came out. “Get your ass out of my computer! This is trespassing, Horace!”

You can’t prove it. “How’d you get here?”

Same way I got into the bank’s main computer. My brain’s connection’s growing stronger by the minute, the more I practice. It’s like, when I touch the keys, I fuse myself to the computer, and my mind becomes something like a part of its hard drive, and it moves and explores on its own. “You’ve no idea how crazy you sound.”

I’m not kidding. Look, have you ever read ALICE IN WONDERLAND? It’s something like that when I’m connected—like I’m falling down the rabbit-hole, and I can see all sorts of things in weird flashes of light and color, but it’s really my brain that’s experiencing all these things because it becomes a part of the system—not my body. I feel like a ghost that’s haunting cyberspace. It’s an out-of-body experience, Eric. Literally. Right now, my mind’s communicating with you through your computer, while my body’s sitting at my keyboard like a mannequin. Or a corpse, if you feel morbid. “Should I start calling you Hal?”

Hal who? Hey, listen, if you’re going to change clothes, you’d better warn me so I don’t have to watch you. Either that, or do it in the bathroom. I’ve never seen a gay boy naked before. Reflexively, I looked down at my front. “And?” I demanded. “What did you expect to see? Two penises or something?”

Okay, I take that back. Sorry. But that doesn’t mean I want to see you naked. Peter, sure. You, no.


“Liar. You can’t see a thing.”

Okay, you got me. I was just playing. All I can see right now are flashes of light and color, like I said—just weird visual stimuli—like pulses. But I can hear things. I mean, duh, I’m holding a conversation with you right now, and you don’t even need to be on your computer to chat with me. Pretty cool, huh? I quickly fell to my hands and knees and crawled under my desk, fumbling around for the computer’s power cord and giving it a yank. Sparks flew as I severed the connection from the wall outlet, and I crawled back out, holding the plug with a triumphant grin. Then my heart stopped for the hundredth time that day.

Nice try, gorgeous. Too bad I’m getting a real hang of this superpower shit. “Leave me alone, Althea! Get out of here!”

What, you think I’m screwing around with something big like this? Oh, and I forgot to tell you before that you need a haircut. I glowered at the screen. “You need a brain transplant.”

Oh, my God. Wait, wait—look, I can do this now. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy… Althea filled up the entire screen until it scrolled endlessly, just as it happened in The

Shining. My stomach turned. I looked over my shoulder with a shudder, half-expecting Jack Nicholson hovering behind me, wild-eyed and drooling, an ax in his hands. “Hey, cut that out!”

LOL LOL LOL LOL LOL! “What do you want from me? What?” I didn’t realize it until after I showered the monitor with a desperate spray of spittle that I’d grabbed it on each side and had begun to shake it as I would a person’s shoulders.

Dude, back off. You’re screwing up all the light pulses in here. It’s making me dizzy. “I’m going to call your mom and tell her what you’re doing.”

Can’t, sorry. She’s out with friends, having her nails done. I threw my hands up and walked off to find a washcloth, which I dampened with a bit of water. Then I shuffled back to my computer and wiped the screen, wondering how all this would have looked had there been a hidden camera somewhere, recording everything. “Althea, I’m not kidding,” I said, defeated. “I’m having a hell of a time dealing with


this. I need space, so I can think. Okay?”

You forgot to say ‘Simon says.’ I rolled my eyes. “Screw you, Horace.”

All right, all right, fine. I’m going. Don’t think that I asked for this, Eric, because I didn’t. It just happened, I can’t understand why, and you can’t change anything, either. “I never said that I could.”

Oh, and one more thing. If you hurt Peter, I’m going to cyber haunt your ass. And you know damn well I can. I tossed the washcloth across the room. It didn’t make it to the dirty hamper and landed on the floor with a dull, wet splat. I tried to avoid looking back at the monitor, but Althea was insistent, and I heard a loud beep come from my possessed computer. “What now?” I barked, turning back to it.

Do you think I’ll look good in spandex? I shook my head and shuffled off to bed, stooping once to pick up my book, which I’d dropped in my initial shock. I heard muffled shuffling outside my bedroom, and I looked up to see a sheet of paper peeking out from under the door. It was Liz’s ‘To Do’ list, as promised. I was apparently set to clean her bedroom and her truck for an entire week, run a few odd errands here and there. I scowled as I read it. “Hey, wait a minute,” I stammered. “We gave Mom movie passes, not a cruise.” I whipped out my calculator (I was tempted to call Althea and have her figure things out for me, but a close encounter with a computer-morphing friend once that day was more than enough for me). I figured out the amount of time it’d take me to get these things done, and calculate what would’ve been my earnings using minimum wage rates. My sister would owe me, it turned out, and she’d owe me big. I set everything aside and curled up with Jules Verne. After school tomorrow, I was going to hustle my butt downtown. Hopefully a head of blue streaks wouldn’t be a detriment to my job-hunting. I tried not to think of Peter while I read, but it was hard, and I ended my day sitting in front the TV, watching The Twilight Zone. Life should come with “stop” and “rewind” buttons.


School was uncomfortable. Peter and Althea had obviously talked because Peter kept his distance, though I felt his eyes on me the whole time we were in class. I skipped lunch and hid in the library, munching away at an illicit peanut butter and jelly sandwich while lurking behind a gigantic atlas in some dusty, unfrequented corner. Art Class proved to be painful since the only available spots Peter and I could find were easels and benches that stood no more than six feet away from each other. I didn’t spare him a glance and just took my place, but, God, the hour went way too slowly for comfort. I’d hoped that Mr. Cleland would walk around the room and inspect our work and stand like a barrier between me and Peter, but he didn’t. I even had a conversation rehearsed in my head in case he did. My sketch sucked. I couldn’t focus, what with Peter looking at me from time to time. I wished he’d quit it, but I didn’t have the guts to look him in the eye and tell him off. What irritated me even more was the fact that I actually felt guilty as though everything was my fault, and I couldn’t shake the feeling off. I suppose the only reassurance I got out of this was the idea that I was the one who got screwed over in this whole deal, not him. He had the advantage of me the entire time—even lied to me with all his tennis lessons excuses, which I was sure were training hours for his nightly crime-fighting sprees. The friendship bracelet on my wrist was a constant reminder of him. If my suspicions were correct, given what Peter had told me about protection when he gave it to me, the bracelet was a tracking device of some sort. Like one of those microchips some people surgically implanted into their pets to prevent lost animals. One could certainly look at the situation two ways—as a touching, flattering gesture of love and protectiveness or as an insulting display of possession. Frankly, I felt like a damn dog. Sometime during the class, Peter dropped his pencil, and it rolled in my direction. Oh, great. I stifled my annoyance and retrieved it for him. That was the only time I allowed myself to look him in the eye, but I also made sure that it was a quick one. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “No sweat.” I turned my attention back to my drawing. “Can we talk?” “No.” He fell silent, but the air felt doubly charged between us. I couldn’t stand it. My concentration faltered with all the tension, and I nearly shouted in joy when the bell finally rang. Leaping up and gathering my supplies, I hurried out of the room—even pushed my


way out, when before I used to wait patiently until everyone had gone. Peter didn’t call me back, and he didn’t follow. Thank God. I saw Althea in the midst of the tired, dizzy swarm of students looking for their lockers. She stood by a wall and watched me, but I merely gave her a cursory glance before moving along. I blamed her for wrecking my perception of so many things—even school, for heaven’s sake. As I wormed my way through the students, I actually wondered which of them were like Peter and Althea. Mutations of some kind. Freaks. Biological or genetic experiments. The valedictorian? The homecoming queen? The head cheerleader? The long-haired metal kid? The science genius and his coke-bottle glasses? The quiet, pimply kid whom everyone ignored or laughed at? Hell, even members of the Bible Club might be affected. I found my locker, took care of stuff, and then left. On my way home, I steered my bike down side roads and took a lazy, meandering route back. I needed to be as far away as I possibly could from busy traffic as well as the rapidly multiplying scenes of construction all over Vintage City. In fact, traffic had worsened. Only the subway was working, the aerial train still under repairs, and now streets were blocked here and there because of construction work. Charming. So much damage done by the forces of good and evil in addition to the usual weathering of fauxantique façades. I’d hate to have been the one in charge of the city’s finances that time. I passed by the abandoned biotech area. The desolation was frightening. It was a world of concrete and cement, weeds pushing their way out of widening cracks and fissures on the ground, where cars used to park when scientists, security guards, data specialists, and so on, went to work there. Ugly blocks of gray buildings with a few broken windows loomed above me. I remembered The Solstice Masque when it occupied the area with its faded, baroque rides and masked attendants. I stopped my bike and stood on the side of the road, staring at the asphalt wasteland. The carnival came every year, and compared to the other traveling carnivals and circuses, it never stayed long enough. I frowned at the scene as I worked things through in my mind. Yes, the masked carnival came at a certain time of the year, regardless of the weather, specifically marking a point in the calendar, which made me wonder about the significance. I glanced up at the old buildings past the broken and weed-choked lot. The genetics industry—so much promise, I was told, with all sorts of hope pointed in the direction of stronger, healthier generations to come.


Althea’s Uncle Moses told his tiny, struggling family to get the hell out of Vintage City. I blinked and got back on my bike, riding away, feeling the skin at the back of my neck prickle.


Chapter 20

The online RPG community was going through a down time of sorts. Bickering broke out for the gazillionth time since the community was created, and people slowed the game down by spending more time at The Wank House for a Magnifiman Role-Playing ShitStirring Orgy. I avoided watching the news after doing my homework and, following dinner and final chores, I simply went to bed. No one in my family knew that Peter and I were together, let alone aware that we were going through some rough patches. Liz might’ve expressed openness to my having a boyfriend, but I never tested the waters where Mom and Dad were concerned, and I wasn’t sure if I should. Thank God Althea didn’t bug me that evening. I probably would have thrown my computer out the window had she possessed it again, and I needed the stupid thing despite its age and outdated programs. It was about nine—an hour before my usual lights out—and I lay sprawled in bed,


restless and irritable. I wondered if this was what PMS felt like though with a touch of gluttony thrown in. I stumbled out of bed and groped my way to the bathroom, took a piss, and groped my way back. Did I notice that my bedside lamp was suddenly turned on, with the intensity of the bulb dimmed to a very comfortable and sleep-inducing glow? Did I realize that I’d left my window open and that my bedroom, being a converted attic, was rather out of reach from the people downstairs? No. No, no, no, a thousand times, no. I shuffled back to bed and flopped down, staring bleakly at the ceiling. “I think we really need to talk.” “Jesus!” I yelped, sitting bolt upright in bed. Peter sat in the corner, on a scruffy old chaise that I’d found at a garage sale and had begged Dad to buy. And, yes, he was in uniform—as in, well, Shadow Boy get-up. That was the first time I’d seen him dressed that way, all the other times having been limited to glimpses in the night, with him moving away at such a rapid speed. His half-mask was black, and with it following his hairline, it appeared to blend in. The only distinction between his hair and the mask was the faint sheen of the strands that dipped over his brows. The cut below his eyes followed the lines of his cheekbones and covered his nose, further accentuating those features of his, which I’d always thought to be some of his strongest. His mask matched his elbow-length gloves and boots, which rose just a few inches below his knees and tightly hugged his calves. His bodysuit didn’t mimic Magnifiman’s bottle-green shade. It was a reddish-brown thing, the exact color difficult for me to pinpoint since the light was set at a very muted brightness. There were, however, very thin, very faint designs on the fabric. When I squinted my eyes for a better look, I found that those designs were really accents in gold—squiggly lines that converged and diverged here and there, their overall appearance mimicking capillaries in a human body. Unlike real capillaries, though, the lines were uniformly very fine, barely visible in muted light. When illuminated from certain angles, I was sure that they must have looked quite impressive, giving off a faint shimmer against their red-brown background. Peter also didn’t have a mark or symbol on his chest. I could only assume that it was because he’d yet to be identified the way Magnifiman was. Not that Peter wanted to, from


what I could see. Magnifiman didn’t seem to mind public attention and in fact appeared to use it as a silent deterrent against crime, and he’d also been rather protective of Peter’s identity—always fielding Bambi Bailey’s questions. He reminded me of... “An older brother,” I whispered, stunned. “Oh, my God.” Peter remained quiet for a time, sitting in the corner with his legs crossed (knee-to-knee, thank you) and both hands resting on his lap. We stared at each other for a time in silence before I managed to find my voice again. “Are you going to be abusing your powers from now on—breaking into my room like that because you can?” “Only when I need to see you. Besides, you didn’t give me much of a choice. And I did

not break into your room. You left your window open.” I scooted back defensively and nearly grabbed a pillow (as if that thing would’ve served as a shield). “What do you want, Peter?” I asked, my voice shaking a little. “It’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?” “It’s enough that you’re violating my privacy,” I snapped. “There’s no need to be a smartass on top of that.” “All right. I’m sorry.” He paused—then quietly added, “I’m here because I lied to you.” “Hell, yeah, you did!” I shifted on my bed and slithered cautiously toward one end— the one closest to the door. “All that crap about tennis lessons and not being available for anything—what were you thinking?” He tilted his head very, very slightly to the side. “That something like this would happen, and I was right. Eric, what would you have me do? Come up to you and say, ‘You’re the reason why I came out to my family. I’ve been in love with you longer than you think, and by the way, I’m a genetic mutation’? Give me a break!” “You could’ve trusted me at least! Or do you think I’m too stupid to understand?” “Do you honestly think that telling you my situation would’ve made a difference? How sure are you that you’d have taken everything in without a problem? I mean, look at the way you’re behaving right now.” I frowned at him. “It’s because you screwed around with me, Peter.” “Oh, really? Are you sure it isn’t about my being different?” He sighed and shook his head. “Try again, Eric, because what I’m seeing right now doesn’t jive with all that ‘why can’t you trust me’ bull.” I pinched my mouth into a tight line, anger rising. What the hell?


“I never asked for this, you know. Mom and Dad did. Yeah, they did—don’t give me that look. I never wanted to spend my nights answering the call of victims up and down Vintage City. I can’t even find the time to take you out on a date! How about a movie with you and Althea? Or just hanging out somewhere—a park or diner or coffee shop or something? Do something normal, for God’s sake?” “What about your brother?” Peter flinched a little, but his composure remained perfect. “You figured it out. I guess it was a pretty easy step after finding out about me. My brother—Trent loves it. You’ve seen him. He basks in his job—like Althea. He’s made for this, not me.” “I’ve never seen your brother—in normal surroundings, I mean.” “No, he’s too busy working for Dad—” “How can he do that without being recognized? His pictures are all over the papers, and he’s on TV a lot.” Peter laughed quietly and without humor. “He doesn’t at all look like his alter ego.” “Okay, I don’t get it. I don’t,” I blurted out, waving my hands to end the conversation. “I just—I want to go to sleep. I’m tired. I don’t understand anything. I’m feeling a little sick to my stomach at everything that’s happened.” “Eric, my family knows about you. They’re also aware that you know about me—if not both Trent and me, anyway. And they want you to come for lunch or dinner sometime.” “What?” “If you want to understand, that’s the way to do it. You’ll believe my parents, not me. Will you come? For them, at least? They’ve only seen you from a distance, and they want to know you better.” It was my turn to flinch. I looked away and let my gaze moved around my room, restless and guilt-ridden. Then I stared at my hands. “I don’t know…” “Eric, you’re not the only one who’s a little messed up by all this. How do you think I feel? I’m the one who’s a freak, not you.” I glanced up sharply to protest, but he silenced me with a look. What on Earth was I going to do? Reassure him by saying that he wasn’t a monster? And that, after I made it very clear to Althea the previous day by telling her—oh, something along the lines of “You and Peter are freaks”? I dropped my gaze again, mortified and ashamed, and nodded. “Okay. I’ve got nothing special planned for a while. Choose whatever night you


want.” “All right. I guess I’ll call you once my family agrees on a date.” He moved to stand up but froze when I asked, “That day at the mall—you knew I was there, didn’t you?” “I did, yeah.” “Because of this?” I raised my left hand, and he nodded. The tiny gold thread glinted dully against my bracelet. “You knew that I was going to recognize you when you talked.” “I did, but I needed to say something to all those people. Better to risk discovery by you than to just leave innocent people wondering what the hell was going to happen to them, especially when they’re all trapped like that.” “So this thing has some bizarre homing device whatchamacallit inside?” I stared long and hard at my bracelet, turning my wrist this way and that in hopes of wresting some of its secrets out. “Yeah, it has. The gold thread’s like a homing device—my invention, too,” Peter replied, a hint of smugness in his voice. “It stores data and transmits everything to my computer.” “No kidding. That sounds cool.” I’d have asked him more questions about it, but I also realized that not only was I not blessed with the ability to understand such advanced technological stuff, but some superhero things simply should never be deciphered. The myth, the glamour, the romance—for all my cynicism, I still desperately clung to those. “Once Althea masters her powers, she could easily take control of that bracelet, too.” I snorted. “She’d probably try to block the data or manipulate it somehow to throw you off my scent. I’m sure she’s just dying to play a joke like that sometime.” “Only if I tell her what the bracelet’s about and how it works. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt you, Eric.” I nodded. My anger had long gone. Guilt remained, but also sadness. I was less confused than before, but not by much. If anything, my confusion had gone down a different path altogether—from him to me. Maybe Peter was right about me, but who could say for sure? Hell, I couldn’t even figure myself out most of the time. Pride, wounded, urged me to brush these thoughts aside and settle on something else. My mind fumbled around the past, and an old nagging question came alive. “Peter, were you around when the Trill took over the theater? I could have sworn I heard your voice when I was waking up.”


He nodded. “That was me. I couldn’t stay, obviously. I was supposed to keep the kids company for a bit while Trent snooped around, but I had to argue my way out of that because—well—I didn’t want you to recognize me when you came to. Trent didn’t put up much of a fight, thank God, but my parents chewed me out.” He shrugged, shifting his weight a little. “I’d rather be lectured by them than have you discover that I’m some kind of mutant. Stupid, really. I figured it was only a matter of time before you knew, anyway, but I didn’t want that moment to come so soon.” I stared at my hands, mulling over what he’d just said. I felt miserable—not for myself, but for him. “That night when I was walking through East 33rd Street—” “I took you away from that place.” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I hope I didn’t make you too sick from my speed. It’s like your whole body experiencing whiplash, and it’s—downright nasty.” “I recovered quickly enough.” “That was some gall on my part. Taking you away like that, thinking that I was doing the right thing and all—like a regular white knight you probably didn’t even want—let alone need.” He chuckled lamely. “I can be too impulsive sometimes. Well, you already know that. That was the reason why my parents took away my car for a while. I was supposed to stay close to Trent and help him out, but I didn’t.” “Well, at least your impulses benefit someone. Mine don’t. They never do.” I remembered that moment very well. Perhaps the one detail that kept an unwavering hold on my mind was that whispered excuse he made once he ensured that I was safely somewhere else. I didn’t recognize his voice then, and knowing now who it was, I looked back at that moment with a shaken perspective. I’d never been good in this romance thing. In fact, I didn’t expect myself to be in love until I was—hell—thirty or thereabouts, given what I’d observed of the gay romance situation online. With Peter, I wasn’t at first sure of anything other than the fact that every moment spent in his company, regardless of what we did—studying, talking, quarreling, making out—not a single moment ever felt out of place, as though it were meant to happen. There was no way I could fully articulate what seemed normal and natural. Doubts? Confusion? Sure. They came with the territory. They were also normal and natural. I might not have known that then, but I did now. All it took was for Peter to show up in my bedroom, clad in spandex, leather, and silk. “I don’t know,” he said, breaking up my thoughts, “I honestly can’t imagine you being


like one of those stick-up-your-ass types.” He paused, gesticulated vaguely. “Your hair neat and really short, your clothes in light neutral colors, your glasses like those thin metal frames that remind me of business suit models. Uh—no. Give me character over convention anytime.” I made a face. “I don’t know if you really want me to get on your nerves sometimes.” “As opposed to what? Practically being a corpse? No thanks, Eric. I’d rather be surprised or thrown off my center. Sure, I might bitch about it sometimes, but really, I’d rather take you as you are, drama queen-ness and all.” He paused, scratching his nose thoughtfully despite his mask. “By the way, I know you like Trent.” I must have shrunk to the size of a gnat. I was also very much aware of the intense heat that bloomed on my cheeks, and I couldn’t meet his eyes. “Oh. That obvious, huh?” I stammered, and Peter chuckled. “I’m never too far behind my brother, so I’ve sort of seen how you respond to him. Besides, one of my powers is acute hearing.” I coughed. “Eric, I don’t expect you to be a saint. I don’t. I might not like it, I have to admit, but I don’t. I can’t. It’s unfair to you. Besides, Trent’s got a pretty skewed advantage of turning into the media’s ideals of perfection. Everyone and their dog is doing cartwheels to get his attention. I don’t see why you should be immune. It’s one of his abilities to embody perfection, so don’t beat yourself over it.” “Nothing happened.” “I know. Nothing ever will, either. Trent’s straight. That’s the only thing that’s keeping me from going crazy over this.” I guessed as much. Shrugging weakly, I said, “I’m sorry. Fucking hormones get me all the time.” “Yeah, well…” Peter paused and picked idly at his gloves. “It makes for some pretty interesting superhero-brothers-working-side-by-side dynamics, let me tell you.” Better not to say anything to that, I told myself, and bit my tongue. I wondered how girls felt, having men fight over them. Hopefully just as badly as I felt. Then again, maybe not. A brief moment of silence passed between us, during which I felt the tension dissipate. Then I toyed with my bracelet, now painfully self-conscious, my sins exposed. “Do you know who the Trill is?” I met his gaze, a little shamefaced, maybe, but more relaxed than


before. Peter nodded, a faint smile forming. “That’s classified information. Sorry.” “Oh.” The downside to not being a superhero, I guess. Another awkward moment of silence stretched out. We were back on familiar ground. Then he moved to stand up, stretching a little (and blessing me with a lovely view of straining muscles against spandex, which was always a notoriously bad secret-keeper— Peter really knew how to play dirty). “I need to go.” “Well—don’t let me keep you from cleaning up the streets,” I joked, still shamefaced, as I followed him to the window. “If it’s any comfort, you’re one of my better motivations for keeping the streets clean.” His voice had dropped to a softer volume. Then he stopped midway, his head bent as he debated something. He looked over his shoulder and leveled me with a calm, steady gaze. “I’ll take that bracelet off you if it bothers you so much. I’m sure right now it’s nothing more than a reminder of what I am.” My cheeks warmed for the hundredth time that evening. My conscience was getting a serious pummeling, and I certainly didn’t expect relief to come anytime soon. “No, don’t worry about it. It—yeah, it bothered me for a while, but I understand now.” “Are you sure? Only I can break it apart, you know.” Yes, I knew that—too well, as a matter of fact. I feigned pure, wide-eyed innocence. “Oh, really?” Even with the dimmed light in my room and the shadows cast by his mask, Peter’s eyes narrowed significantly, and I saw just how much he could see right through my bull. But he said nothing and simply turned around and walked on ahead to the window. I assumed then that we’d reconciled, but it wasn’t for me to force a confirmation of the matter. Besides, I was still reeling from the shock of discovering his identity as well as the mortification of realizing my own deficiencies when it came to him—and us. I shadowed him all the while—like a kicked puppy. He clambered onto the window sill, nearly sending my heart dropping to the ground, but then I quickly realized that even if he were to tumble off, he wouldn’t be hurt with his reflexes. He moved like an acrobat—graceful and sure, quick and steady—turning around to face my bedroom and crouching down in order to look at me, with one hand holding on to the window frame.


“So—how does it feel wearing that?” I asked, embarrassed but too curious to hold back. “Liberating. But it can be pretty hot sometimes. I’ve already put in a request for material that does a better job wicking away sweat.” I frowned, chewing on my lower lip as I fought to absorb the idea of being in a relationship with a superhero. All my desires, my desperate need for normalcy on many levels despite my celebration of fringe culture and of outcasts—their very foundation had been rocked, very likely split in places with cracks that grew with every minute spent in Peter’s company. A quiet voice in the back of my mind, though, kept whispering all sorts of reassurances. Everything was okay, it insisted. Everything was as it should be. Just go with it. “How do you transform?” He shrugged. “I slide down a chute.” “You’re kidding, right?” Peter shook his head. “I wish I were.” “Ah. Okay. I guess it’s better than—you know—something real hokey like—like Sailor Moon or whatever. What’s the chute for, anyway?” “Our way out of our headquarters.” Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Eric, haven’t you learned anything from Batman?” I rolled my eyes. “Up until a couple of months ago, I didn’t even know that superheroes existed. Give me a break. So you got transport or something? Like Batman?” “Sure—my brother’s Turbo Wonder.” “Huh?” “Trent’s got a bike—humungous and totally tricked out. You should see it.” I cocked an eyebrow. “He flies. He doesn’t need a bike or a car or a yacht.” “Trent likes gadgets. It’s out of my hands. Besides, the Turbo Wonder doesn’t have wheels, and it kicks ass zipping through the city like a hovercraft—only on air.” I scratched my head. “But—how come we’ve never heard of this super bike thing before?” “Trent’s careful to park it somewhere safe. Then we go on foot from there no matter how many times I tell him how useless it is to go half-ass on that bike. I mean, think about it. It’s either we use it all the way or just leave it behind, right? He won’t listen, though. He might be Mr. Perfect, but he’s also a bit obsessive-compulsive. If that thing got scratched,


kiss your ass goodbye. I think the bike’s due for a maintenance or something. We might not be using it for a couple of days.” “It must be a bitch keeping it in top shape.” “We’ve got special mechanics for it. Trent does, anyway.” I stared long and hard at him, my emotions shifting from confusion to irritation to shock and then to amusement. Laughter bubbled in my throat, and I couldn’t hold it back. I exploded, my whole body shaking while I clamped my mouth with one hand to avoid being heard by the rest of the household (never mind the fact that I was well beyond their hearing). Peter snickered, his composure exquisite. I could swear that he’d matured twenty years since he first kissed me. The old Peter might make himself known every so often, but all in all, this new incarnation of his had slowly taken over, and bit by bit, he was assuming his proper place in every possible way. His transformation was marvelous to behold though it kept me a bit unsettled and very much uncertain about myself. With all the changes happening to Peter, I didn’t know if I had it in my power to catch up with him. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” he said. “It’s not my place to do it. I promise you that you’ll know all that you want to know when you come over to hang with the—family. God, we sound like the mafia, don’t we?” He smiled crookedly. “It’s okay. I think I understand. This is just all unexpected, and—well—I’ve never been in love with a superhero before.” In love. Yes, it looked like I was. Suddenly the soot-and grime-laced, dreary world of Vintage City felt so warm and fuzzy and smelled of chocolate in boxes, not of garbage and rank pools of water. Julie Andrews, knock yourself out on your Austrian hills. Peter reached out and gave a few strands of my bangs a light tug. “You’re lucky, Eric. You only needed to come out once,” he said. He regarded me for one more moment before turning and leaping off. I could barely make out his silhouette as he flew in a graceful arc into the night. His final words were playfully spoken, but they hurt like hell.


Chapter 21

I was up early the following morning, shocking my mom. I set the table and puttered around the kitchen, asking her if there was anything else other than dumping the garbage that she needed me to do. She nearly fainted in front of the stove. “What’s wrong, honey?” she asked after taking several deep, calming breaths. “Nothing. Just thought I’d help out around here.” “Okay. What happened in school?” “Nothing! Come on, Mom…” She stared at me with narrowed eyes, sizing me up, working hard at digging past the angelic aura. “Eric…” she growled. I threw up my hands. “Mom, I’m only trying to be helpful. What the heck?” She sighed, turning her attention back to the griddle, which was now giving off gray— almost industrial—columns of smoke. “Something’s up,” she replied, pouring pancake batter onto the discolored non-stick surface. “I can smell teen fear a mile away, you


know.” “Okay, well—if I don’t even bother offering help in the morning from now on, don’t get on my case about it. I tried, and I got nothing for it,” I groused, sitting down at the table. “Nothing but insults, anyway.” Mom snickered. “Honey, all kidding aside, I know something’s up.” She flipped the pancakes over, and I listened to them sizzle. I glanced at the clock. It was six thirty. Dad and Liz wouldn’t be moving around until nearly seven. Calming myself with idle finger-tapping against the table, I asked, “Mom, how hard was it for you to take to my being, you know, gay?” All movement at the stove stopped. Then Mom looked over her shoulder and regarded me, wide-eyed. “What brought this on?” “Nothing,” I stammered. “Okay, I had a talk with a friend—last night—and the subject came up.” She nodded and turned back to her cooking, scooping up the pancakes and piling them on a large platter. “It was—pretty difficult, I’ll admit. I can’t articulate the feelings that came with your announcement. They were…” She paused and was silent for several seconds. “Mom, it’s okay. You don’t need to say anything more about it. I’m sorry if I’m opening old wounds.” “No, no, it’s not old wounds, Eric. I guess—I guess they’re more like fears. Yes, that’s it. Fears.” She turned and walked to the table and set the pancakes down. Stepping back, she fixed me with a thoughtful, almost sad gaze. “If anything overwhelmed me and your father at that moment, it was fear. We were afraid for you. I’m talking being sick to our stomachs kind of terror. Your safety out there, Eric; we can’t always protect you. We sure can’t keep you from living your life, but we also know that we can’t keep the world from hurting you because of who you are.” She nodded, her gaze now taking on a faraway quality. “We’ll always love you, but we can only guarantee so much.” I swallowed and fidgeted in my seat. “Yeah. I understand. Thanks, Mom. Really— thank you. Other kids have gotten it worse from their families.” “I know.” She sighed and waved both hands to end the conversation. “I—I don’t want to think about those poor kids right now. It only makes me want to destroy something.” I smiled in spite of myself and watched her carry on with the breakfast preparations. My thoughts flew back to my conversation with Peter the previous evening. I owed him


much more than an apology. I knew that. I realized it even before he left my room, yet I did nothing. My pathetic, lame inaction embarrassed me, and I didn’t need hindsight to know that. The worst thing here? It would be my blatant hypocrisy, my utter gall, shunning Peter and Althea for being different, while seeking reassurances from my mother over my sexuality. Was I really sixteen years old or ten? “Mom?” “Uh-huh?” “I won’t be having dinner here. Tonight, I mean.” “Uh-huh…” “I, uh, I’ll be out on a date.” The bustling stopped for the second time. Mom leaned against the counter, crossing her arms on her chest, and leveled me with another look of amazement. “Okay. Lay it on me, Eric.” The heat that suffused my face was agony. “I’m going out with Peter. It’s our first date. You know, movie and dinner—that sort of thing.” “I see. When did you guys start getting serious?” “I don’t know—a few weeks ago. I can’t remember. It was pretty gradual-like, you know?” I watched her watch me, and in the impromptu stare-down challenge, I lost. In a humbler voice, I added, “Nothing’s happened, Mom. We’ve only been hanging out in school. You can ask Althea if you don’t believe me.” She nodded. “I believe you. What time are you leaving?” “I don’t know. I have to ask him out first.” The look of amazement turned to one of incredulity. “You haven’t asked him? Eric, what makes you think he’ll say yes to a spur-of-the-moment thing? You’re talking about the Barlow boy, right? Isn’t his family a bit—you know—uptight?” “He’ll say yes,” I replied, my voice surprisingly firm. “Oh, really?” I grinned at her and nodded. Mom pinched her mouth into a thin line, shook her head, and carried on with her work. “Be back home by ten if you’re going out to a movie. Not one minute later.” “Okay.” I paused, waited. Then I drummed my fingers on the table. Then I shifted my weight on my chair. Then I swept my gaze around the kitchen, in search of absolutely nothing. Then I made soft clucking sounds with my tongue against the roof of my mouth.


“All right, Eric, what else do you want?” Mom sighed while cooking eggs. “Can I have some date money? Like, thirty bucks?” “Don’t kid yourself. Fifteen.” “Twenty-five?” “Eighteen.” “Twenty-three?” “Twenty.” “Uh—twenty and an extension of my curfew?” “Twenty. Don’t push your luck, kid.” “All right. Thanks, Mom.” God, that was humiliating. If anything made me resent the fact that I continued to be forbidden from finding part-time work for my own spending money, it would be that. My first ever date, and I had to haggle with my mother for pocket cash. Ouch. Too bad I didn’t challenge her to a wager. Peter said yes when I asked him, the crimeridden streets of Vintage City be damned. I was probably setting him up for some major trouble with his family and his superhero, super-perfect brother, but seeing the look on his face when I asked him out made me oblivious to any and all repercussions. Putting it into words would be a superhero feat if I were to be so corny about my references. We stood in front of his locker in silence for a longish moment while the rest of Renaissance High just bypassed us in a buzzing swarm. Peter stared at me with a look of shock, disbelief, amusement, and concern (the latter point he verified when he pressed a hand against my forehead as though feeling around for a fever). I narrowed my eyes at him. With my glasses, my bangs, and his hand in the way, I was sure that my look of disapproval pretty much lost its kick, but what the hell. “So what—is that a yes or a no?” I asked. “What do you think?” he asked, a grin slowly forming. He kept his hand on my forehead. When Althea hurried past us, she said something like “You won’t be able to feel anything solid under that skull, Peter!” I toyed with the idea of rigging my computer with a super virus and cajoling Althea into possessing it. That ought to teach her. It was tough making the call, forcing Peter to choose between me and his family, but hell with it. We waited a long time for that. In the end, once we stepped outside, he gave me


one more mini-speech about going to hell in a handbasket before crushing me in an embrace and a kiss that felt as though he’d just vacuumed my tonsils out. Then he bounded off to his car so he could head home, disappoint the family, and prepare for something—well—normal—to do. I rode my bike home, wheezing and bruised, hoping that he didn’t break any of my ribs. It was modern romance all the way. We went dutch, watched The Curse of Count

Chocula at the Elms Theater (it was a double-bill with Ssssssss!, but we knew our junk film limits), and laughed ourselves sick over the movie at Sahib Indian Restaurant. Peter didn’t get into trouble for ditching his super-brother that evening. Yes, even heroes needed a break from being good guys sometimes, and it was nice to see his family come around to that fact. They surprised and impressed me that evening—so much so that I was beginning to look forward to meeting them.


Chapter 22

It had been a week since our talk and our date, but Peter hadn’t said anything yet about that agreed-upon dinner-or-lunch-date with his family. Then again, the streets of Vintage City had been very sprightly as well. “The last few nights have been busy,” he murmured against my ear while I grappled with him on the back seat of his car. That was a vast improvement from the boy’s room on the third floor, but we still had to be extremely careful with our final parking spot. We were always—always—well outside the city borders, tucked away in some obscure corner of a natural preserve or something like that. Trees were our best friends. Then again, I guess being attacked by thugs or bigots wouldn’t have been much of a problem for us. Peter told me that regardless of his appearance, he still had his powers. That day following our first kiss, when he slammed me against the wall of the third floor landing—that was only a faint indication of his real strength. It was too bad, really, that other gay kids didn’t enjoy the benefit of the same kind of protection from their


boyfriends or girlfriends. I hoped—really hoped—that if there were other people out there who’d yet to come into their powers, some of them were queer. “No rush. I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered back, tangling my fingers in his hair and ending the conversation with an eager kiss. Yes, absolutely no rush at all. I’d always wondered how two teenagers of identical height—five-foot-ten and still growing (I think)—could squeeze themselves in the back seat of Peter’s car. Then again, youthful hormones were a pretty potent force. Anything was possible once turned on. I also made a mental note to have a gentle talk with Peter about controlling his superpowers whenever we were being intimate. Small bruises up and down my arms and torso were multiplying like Tribbles. I didn’t want my family to ask questions. I ought to add that much gratitude was extended to Mr. and Mrs. Barlow for allowing Peter a bit of leeway when it came to normal teenage stuff. They knew about us, finally, and though I’d hate to be a fly on the wall when they discovered that their beloved younger son was involved with some blue-streaked kid from the lower end of the economic scale, I still appreciated their acceptance. I half-dreaded the hoped-for dinner as I’d always looked at it as something akin to meeting one’s future in-laws. Althea became Peter’s protégée, in a manner of speaking. Once I’d gotten over the freakish nature of her powers, I slowly inched my way back to her side, and the three of us would spend an occasional hour in the library, with Althea “hooked up” to the computer and using her home computer for hacking practice. Peter and I would flank her, with Peter coaxing and soothing her whenever she began to panic for whatever reason. As for me, I stood guard. “I’ll bet you she’s got a collection of porn stashed away in her hard drive,” I noted.

Not as much as you, she retorted in white text across the screen. I’ve seen your collection. I nearly choked on my own spit. Peter glanced over her head to level me with a look I couldn’t decipher. “You’ve got a collection? How’d you manage to get past all those parental controls?” “What parental controls?” “Okay, never mind.” He gave me that I’m-watching-you sidelong look before turning his attention back to Althea. “I don’t have porn stashed away anywhere, Peter. Althea just likes watching me squirm.”


Too bad you’re not into furries, Eric. That would’ve made my evening in your computer a lot more interesting. The only furry things I found there were dustbunnies you’ve been collecting in your folders. How about clearing your files every once in a while and saving your poor C drive some grief? Besides, the visual pulses they cause are kind of freaky. “Shut up, Horace.” There was a time when Peter and I were invited for lunch at her home, and we spent a glorious Saturday being fussed over by Mrs. Horace before taking over the computer for more “exercises” for Althea, who was coming into her powers pretty impressively. As Peter noted, she was made for this. She reveled in her abilities, and she often stayed up late just mastering them. Sometimes she’d fire off several emails to both me and Peter, listing all the things she’d managed to accomplish, even analyzing certain “bugs” in the “system.” “I think she’ll make a pretty formidable ally,” Peter observed with a grin as we both read her newest message from one of the Jumping Bean’s computers. “Have you and your family thought of recruiting her? I mean, you’ve got Trent, who’s sort of like the main brawn of the group. Then there’s you, who’s got speed and strength. Althea can be the brains.” Peter nodded, sipping his latte. “I’ve mentioned the same thing to my parents, but they’ve been pretty elusive about it. I pulled Althea aside a couple of days ago and asked for her opinion about forming some kind of group. She likes the idea. Right now I’m waiting for Mrs. Horace’s opinions about Althea’s abilities.” “Opinions?” I frowned at the screen. “You mean she doesn’t know about Althea yet?” “I don’t think so, but I’ve told Althea that she needs to talk to her mom about it. She said she’ll do it, but it’s been tough getting around to, you know…” “Coming out to her parent,” I finished, meeting his gaze. Peter’s smile turned rueful. “Yeah.”

As the story always went in comic books, the good guy and the bad guy squared off until the day hell froze over. The Trill’s henchmen were caught a few more times for different offenses that ranged from petty to nearly-almost-threatening. They were locked away as though for good, but time and again, someone helped them escape (radios now


being strictly controlled in Vintage City, even banned outright in some places—like the police station, for instance) and wreaked greater havoc in the city. Apparently the Trill’s operation was a good deal more complex than what we’d all first thought. New spies, new toadies, and new brawn in silk masks would crawl out of the woodwork. One would think that the Trill was operating an underground breeding camp for Supervillain Aides. I wouldn’t be surprised if they held debutante balls right before those bastards crept out of their holes to destroy something and screw up my commute. None of those things bothered Magnifiman. He seemed to revel in them. In fact, every time I saw him on T.V., he looked a touch too hungry for justice to be served, glowered more darkly at the camera. He was reported to have turned rougher in the way he handled slime—flexed his muscles more significantly, tore up bad guys’ clothes whenever he yanked them out of a burning truck or crumbling building, shook them like rag dolls until their heads resembled bladders on sticks the way they whipped back and forth on their shoulders. A couple of jailed crooks threatened to sue him for whiplash. They even appeared on camera with neck braces on. I guess, having tasted a head-to-head battle with The Devil’s Trill (though bad, bad,

bad Magnifiman for letting the villain go), he’d finally come into his calling, finally settled into his role with all the single-minded determination of a man on a mission. “The man’s a god,” Liz sighed one evening, her gaze dreamy as we watched the news. “He’s just—perfect.” I snorted. “Oh, come on. He’s a man who happens to have superhuman powers.” “You’re so cynical. Don’t tell me you can picture him getting drunk or fooling around with women or, hell, spitting out a cuss word or two.” “What makes you think he can’t do all those things?” Liz rolled her eyes. “Eric, apparently all of Vintage City but you knows that Magnifiman’s untouchable. And guess what? He’s yet to prove us all wrong.” “He let the Trill go.” “It was done on purpose. It’s like a cat playing with a mouse before the kill.” “Oh, yeah? The mouse can’t be found now. Good work, kitty.” “Blah, blah, blah. If there’s anyone he’ll prove wrong, it’ll be you. Just watch. He’s better than perfect.” “That’s one hell of a moral pressure you’re all placing on the poor guy,” I muttered. Liz was quiet for a moment, idly chomping on crackers as reports of a fortune cookie


bearing a startling resemblance to the Virgin Mary filled the screen. Then she glanced over her shoulder and leveled me with an accusatory look. “Why can’t you go out there and get screwed over again, so Magnifiman can take you home like before? I’ll try to get him to stay longer when he does.” “What the—are you trying to whore me out?” “That’s a pretty harsh way of looking at things.” She sniffed, turning her attention back to the TV. “Never mind. It’s obvious that you can’t be anything better than a melodramatic dork right now.” “Give me your bankcard, then. That ought to be a magnet for crappy luck.” The Devil’s Trill seemed to flourish in equal degrees as his archenemy. In fact, I’d begun to think of the two as classic yin and yang, two diametrically opposed forces that needed each other in order to exist. Magnifiman stood for severe control, while the Trill was, in every respect, all that was impulsive to the point of destructiveness. The Devil’s Trill began his career in mayhem stumbling around, filling up his résumé with petty thievery, foiled bank heists, a temporarily disabled train system. It appeared to be no different from Magnifiman’s own exercises in justice—carjackings, purse snatchings, vandalism. Having come head-to-head with his archenemy, the Trill had tasted real action—had caught a glimpse of all sorts of diabolical possibilities that soared well beyond hypnosis via his Noxious Nocturne and victimized Ficus trees. Just like Magnifiman, he now tasted higher glory, and he aimed to achieve just that. It seemed as though the two needed to come face-to-face—if only for one fateful moment—in order for their respective roles or—dare I turn to clichés?—their destinies to unfurl before them. The down side to the fascinating development of the forces of good and evil in Vintage City was that, being a relatively small population to begin with, we locals were constantly endangered the moment we stepped out of our doors. I half-expected everyone to be given tally sheets, in which we could list the different situations in which we’d fallen victim to the Trill’s schemes and then rescued by Magnifiman and Peter. It would all be for bragging rights in the end: “I was a victim ten times this month! How about you, Sally?” Vintage City also became a never-ending construction zone. With all the head-butting from both sides, chunks of the city’s carefully-designed façade fell away, victims of forces that were too well-matched to allow either to win. That meant lots of money being siphoned into city maintenance, but despite the all-too-obvious inconvenience, people didn’t seem to care much about it.


“As long as we’re being protected by that marvelous Magnifiman and his sidekick, I don’t mind paying the cost of the damages. He’s our Paragon of Virtue. We’ll always need someone like him,” a woman declared on TV (one of Miss Bailey’s dozen or so Magnifiman-related special segments in the news). She stood on the corner of 23rd Street and Madison Boulevard, which suffered some damage from a too-short dogfight between Magnifiman and the Trill. Construction workers, soiled, soaked in sweat, and fumeinhaling, staggered and grunted in the background. New bricks were quickly and efficiently attached to all “holes.” The overall effect in the end was surreal—new, unspotted, and vibrant bricks commingling with their grimy, piss-stained, and sullen brethren. Here and there, these uneven patches appeared throughout the city. That pseudo-authentic nineteenth-century European image suffered from a pretty bad case of eczema. That woman’s sentiment was echoed again and again, regardless of who was interviewed. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief—they all loved Magnifiman. Except the thief, of course, but he still enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame with the camera aimed straight at him as he flashed viewers a broken-toothed, black-eyed smile, courtesy of Magnifiman or Peter, as he was handcuffed and led away. That said, Liz’s wish for me to have my luck screwed over again and again came true, but she never got her wish to have Magnifiman rescue me and fly me back home. Yes, I became a victim of the Trill’s insane schemes at least three more times. I’d been trapped in a burning building. I’d been swept away in a flood, which a breached dam (that was located one city away) had caused. I’d been in another hostage situation, that time involving the Vintage City Palace of Art and an exhibit of Rembrandt’s portraits. The Devil’s Trill had fancied about half of the collection and thought it a fantastic idea to simply pluck them off the walls, while his goons stood around, aiming guns at the museum’s visitors as we all huddled in one corner. Magnifiman helped me out every single time, but he didn’t take me home, thank God. After that conversation with Peter, I’d gotten over my petty lust over Trent’s alter ego that I was almost resentful whenever he rescued me. “Hey, you don’t have to fly me home,” I said after the Trill’s henchmen were handcuffed and were marched out of the museum. I expected them to be out of jail by midnight. Magnifiman regarded me calmly. “I wasn’t going to,” he replied.


“That lady over there,” I continued, pointing at a young woman who was rather pretty and who was on her cell phone, chattering nervously with someone as she sank down on a marble bench. “She looks like she’s in a pretty bad way. I think you should fly her home.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not public transport. She can take the bus if she wants.” “She looks so vulnerable. I feel sorry for her. Don’t you feel sorry for her?” Around us the police activity continued, the cacophony of harsh voices and children crying and adults asking a gazillion questions all at once made normal conversation nearly impossible. “I feel sorry for all innocent victims, young man—” “It’s Eric. You know, E-R-I-C.” “—but even sorrier for the fools who turn into irredeemable villains.” “Yeah. Sucks to be them.” “You can say that. Now if you’ll excuse me, justice needs to be upheld.” He terminated his part of the conversation with a sharp nod before striding off, his cape swishing jauntily behind him. People around him stared in varying degrees of wonder and lust. “She—she’ll still be here in case you change your mind! Oh, and did you notice how much of a looker she is? She’s hot!” I called out to him as his massive, perfect figure melted into the swarm of people around us. Once he was gone, I heaved a sigh of relief and silently patted myself on the back. I’d done Peter and me a good turn. A very good one. Later that evening, Peter stopped by my bedroom (he needed to take a fifteen-minute break from crime-fighting, he claimed), perching himself on the window ledge and shaking his head at me. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I guess it’s over between you and Trent, eh?” “I’ll recover.” “Damn. And I was having so much fun watching you soil your pants in front of him, too.” I scratched my head. “God, I thought Althea was bad with the sadism thing.” “Oh, you think that’s bad? How about this—I’ll be picking you up for that promised dinner with my family tomorrow night.” “Is it a black-and-white affair? Or spandex?” Peter merely grinned. Then he raised his hands and stretched out his legs, teetering for a


moment on the window ledge before tumbling backwards like a doll with its limbs sticking straight out. He vanished, falling out of my window and to certain death below—only to give me my second coronary by turning himself around and using the pavement like a trampoline, kicking his booted feet against it and hurling himself up and away. He even

waved at me as he flew past my window: Bye-bye! Toodle-loo! See you later, alligator! It was as if he hadn’t shaved ten years off my life expectancy just a few seconds ago. It was a pretty common trick he played on me now, the saucy bastard. It never failed, either, no matter how many times he did it. I’d always lunge forward just as he vanished, throwing my arms out for him, crying out his name and feeling my heart drop to my shoes. When he flew past my window, I’d sag against the ledge, groaning and cursing his name. I always swore to strangle him the next time he did it. Unfortunately I always ended up soiling my pants instead.


Chapter 23

Dinner with the Barlows was at seven o’clock the following evening. Precisely. I arrived with my heart in my throat. I was also freshly-showered, my hair nicely trimmed (but really just a shortened version of my bangs-heavy shaggy haircut, which kids at the Quill Club called an anime ‘do), the blue streaks muted to a genteel hue. I didn’t have much by way of decent clothes and so simply showed up in a black dress shirt and jeans. And cologne—hopefully not too much of it, either. Peter said that I fussed too much. I told him in-laws frightened me into fake conservatism. The Barlow estate stood in the swanky northern district. With Vintage City being so desperately determined to mirror European architecture, even the wealthy lived in terraced houses. That said, their properties still remained a cut well above the rest. The houses in the area were taller, wider, and deeper than their middle-class counterparts. They might have the same bricked-up look as our homes, but it appeared as though even Nature favored their havens. There was less grime, less filth, fewer stagnant


puddles, fewer markers of an economically-burdened life. The window and door frames looked forever freshly painted, the window panes crystal clear. Even when seen from outside, the curtains could easily be identified as thick velvet in some cases. The curtains we had at home were gifts from my maternal great-grandmother, who crocheted every single one of them until, literally, her heart stopped. Mom still kept the last unfinished piece in her hope chest. “Don’t be nervous,” Peter said, giving me a gentle nudge with his elbow. “You’ll charm the pants off them.” “I think I’m going to be sick.” “Stop that.” “Do your parents have powers, too? I just want to know beforehand—you know, in case I piss them off. I want to know my chances for getting pulverized by heat vision or arctic breath or fire blades.” Peter blinked. “You really need to stop hanging around those fan communities.” “I can’t help it. I’m out of old books to read.” “Then our next date will be at Olivier’s. Does depressing philosophical stuff sound good to you?” I took a deep breath. He probably thought I was exaggerating. I sure as hell wasn’t. “Okay, I’m ready.” We kissed briefly before getting out of his car, and he led me inside. I was glad—God, was I glad—that they didn’t have a butler. It was enough for the house to cow me without any of the staff’s help. The interior blew me away with the richly paneled and papered walls, the Persian rugs that were, I was sure, set down on specific areas of the house for specific purposes (other than to intimidate the skin off unwary visitors), the dark and well-polished furniture commingling with tasteful antiques, the family portraits in huge gilded frames that served as priceless breadcrumb trails that led me from room to room. I suspected that while most of these portraits were authentic, there were some that were created more recently, with money being poured into the projects in order to ensure a more “dated” appearance. If this were so, I was impressed. With a few subtle hints here and there that gave some of the secrets away, the paintings still looked so uniformly old. The chalk-complexioned sitters in historical European or Japanese costumes watched me as I followed Peter, and I could feel the derision in their oil and-turpentine eyes.


“Ugh. Commoner,” they seemed to whisper between antiquated frames. Peter led me to the second-floor drawing room, and there I met Mrs. Barlow. She’d been immersed in a book when we entered, and she glanced at us, smiled, and stood up in one graceful, fluid motion while setting the book aside. That hard, assessing gaze I got from her a few weeks before from the safety of her sports car was gone. In fact, she seemed to be incapable of being cold and assessing, now that I stood just outside her personal space. Peter was so much like her. The eyes, the cheekbones, the aristocratic grace and restraint—Mrs. Barlow, now that I saw her up close, was a gorgeous woman. “Hello, Eric,” she said in a low, melodious voice that only hinted at an accent. “It’s nice to meet you, finally.” She held out her hand, which I shook. “Likewise,” I stammered, stealing a careful glance at Peter, who’d stepped away to watch the proceedings with a nervous smile. “Peter’s said so much about you. Well—whatever he’s willing to share, anyway.” She laughed and winked at her son. “That’s bad news,” I said, aghast that my hand felt cold and clammy against hers. Peter grinned, shoving his hands in his pants pockets and rocking lightly back and forth on his feet. “I had to censor out the sordid stuff, Eric. Not a lot of substance was left.” “You’re so funny.” I sniffed. “He didn’t leave out that bit about your hair. I think it’s a charming color you’re using.” “Oh. Uh—that’s—that’s Smurf blood. Everyone says so. I toned it down, though.” I winced and raked a hand through my bangs. “Don’t be silly. That’s not Smurf blood, dear. It’s cerulean. At certain angles, it turns into sapphire.” My face was on fire as I stared helplessly at Mrs. Barlow. “Thank you.” I turned to Peter and whispered, “What’s cerulean?” “By the way, Eric, Mr. Barlow and my other son won’t be able to join us.” Peter shook his head, his brows knitting. “Work? Again?” Mrs. Barlow nodded. “I’m afraid so. Your father will be at the lab for a while— something about a toxicology report that wasn’t done right. Trent’s out as always, said he thinks he knows where the Trill’s operations are. He sends his apologies.” I looked at mother and son and then back again, blinking. “Shouldn’t this be talked


about in your hideaway or something? I mean—it’s all classified information.” “This is our hideaway, dear. What my son does—” Mrs. Barlow paused, coloring a little. “What our sons do, I mean, isn’t any different from what everyone else in Vintage City does. It’s a job—a part of everyday life. When they go out to clean up the streets, it’s no different from a father who packs up his briefcase and walks out the door to get to work.” “The only difference is that we’re all mutations,” Peter added. “Here you go again.” “Okay, okay, I’ll behave. Sorry.” Mrs. Barlow shook her head at her son and then turned to beckon me away, smiling. “Peter requested a Nepalese menu tonight.” “That sounds good, thank you,” I replied. We presently found ourselves in the immense dining room, where the dinner table was already laid out with expensive china and polished silverware. The food was also set out on platters and huge, decorative bowls. Like the rest of the house, the dining room was magnificently paneled and papered, with a few more ancestors leering at us from their heavy baroque frames. A cluster of fresh flowers were neatly and beautifully arranged in a large silver bowl in the middle of the table, with some blooms stretching up as though to touch the ceiling, while some cascaded in languid clusters over the bowl to rest on the white table cloth. I expected footmen to hover along the periphery of the room but was surprised to find ourselves alone. Maybe, I thought, the staff had the power of invisibility. To test my theory, I veered off to the side and walked as close to the walls as I could. Then, while Peter helped his mother to a seat, I stamped my foot down on a spot where I imagined an invisible pair might be. I didn’t hear a disembodied voice yelp or curse, however. It was a disappointing experiment. Peter looked up at me, startled. “Eric? What happened?” “Nothing. Just tripped over my own feet.” I took my place, and dinner began. The subject of Peter and Trent’s superpowers was deftly avoided for the first fifteen minutes. The conversation drifted here and there, with Peter and his mother talking most of the time, recounting funny moments from the past, interesting conversations, funny accidental incidents from Peter and Trent’s childhoods. Little by little, I relaxed in my


hostess’ company. She was an intelligent, beautiful woman, and though she was wealthy, she still came across to me as someone who was no different from my mom in so many ways. She had her quirks, she had her biases, her girlish moments. She was extremely proud in so many ways, she was articulate and almost stiff at times in conversation, but she had a great sense of humor that crept out at odd moments and kept me snickering and snorting. It was almost difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that she’d given birth to a couple of superheroes. I must have fallen silent for a long time. In fact I must have lost myself in my own thoughts as I tried to figure things out, sort through my own preconceptions and replace them with facts. I wasn’t even aware that Mrs. Barlow and Peter had noticed my distraction until Peter called my name, and Mrs. Barlow laughed gently. “Oh—sorry. I was just thinking,” I said, my face heating up. “I’m sure you were, but that’s fine, Eric. I know that you’ve got questions—a million of them, no doubt,” Mrs. Barlow replied, smiling as she sipped her wine. I lightly tapped my fork against my plate—a bad habit of mine at the dinner table, I was told—hesitating. An encouraging nod from Peter made me go on. “How did Peter and Trent get their powers?” “They were born with them.” “We were made-to-order babies,” Peter broke in. “We had our reasons,” Mrs. Barlow said, frowning at him. “Eric, Mr. Barlow and I have family histories of health problems. Cancer for me, Lou Gehrig’s Disease for Mr. Barlow. In my husband’s case, his father died of ALS, but tests have shown that he didn’t inherit the genes. All the same, there was always that nagging thought in the back of our minds about sporadic gene mutations down the line. I’ve watched cousins, uncles, and aunts die from cancer. I might be safe right now, but again, what about my children? The situation to us was—at least back then—plain and simple.” I frowned, confused. “So—they were mixed in a genetic lab or something?” Like test tube babies, I wanted to add, but it all sounded so cold and sordid. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the thought of Peter being “created” in a lab. “It’s called Eugenics, which involves genetic technology. Their DNA was manipulated so that flaws and other risks—involving physical appearance and health—were eliminated, yes. Intelligence was preserved and enhanced.” She paused to refill her glass and take another drink from it. A faint, unsettling feeling swept over me as I watched her. She’d


transformed a little, turned from an extraordinary yet ordinary woman into a pale, distant, calculating mannequin. “When those genetic labs were open, people from all over—those who could afford to, that is—flocked to those offices, anxious to be assured perfect, healthy children. I saw other parents, Eric. Some were scarred from past illnesses. Some couldn’t walk. There were a handful of cancer patients. Some had physical abnormalities. The unknown frightened us. We all shared the desire to make sure that our children wouldn’t suffer the way we suffered. Do you understand?” I glanced at Peter, who was now helping himself to more rice. I couldn’t believe how calm he was through all this. Then again, I suppose he’d already gone through so much angst and plain mental stress at first being told about his genetic “designing.” I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he must’ve felt. “I guess so,” I replied. “But—what about the powers? Genetic manipulation wouldn’t have caused them on its own.” Mrs. Barlow nodded and sat back with a heavy sigh. “You’re right, of course. It wouldn’t have. What none of us knew then was that a few geneticists were experimenting with our own DNA without our knowing. In fact, that was the reason why the labs closed down. Yes, there were too many accidents, and there were too many people killed in the course of their operation, but these accidents had nothing to do with people hoping for a better life for their children. It had everything to do with what went on behind closed doors. The records vanished, the data destroyed. Some of the smaller labs were purposefully set on fire, according to police investigation, to prevent discovery, and the geneticists who knew exactly what went on either died or simply disappeared. The people who snitched were mostly those in housekeeping or security, and even then, what they said didn’t make much sense since they were never there during the experiments. They only suspected things based on random clues they found in the offices when they came in to work. The lab workers who only performed mundane tasks were never in on anything, either, so they could never really accuse anyone specifically.” “Pretty impressive cover-up, I say,” Peter said. “No kidding,” I muttered, stunned. “So these other lab types were kept away from the rest of them?” “They were. The labs were largely a commercial venture if you were to think about it. So smaller or more mundane procedures for individuals—or research done for corporate and academic clients—financed the labs’ daily operations. There was nothing illegal in


what they did. It was only a select group of genetic engineers—scientific mavericks—that crossed the line.” Mrs. Barlow paused and stared at her food, her fine brows creasing. “They took advantage of people’s hopes and toyed with them—altered them somehow— and threw them back into the gene pool. I can only imagine that they hoped to step away and watch what would happen in ten, fifteen, twenty years’ time. What did they want from all of those things? I really don’t know. No one does. All of them are inconclusive, Eric. They’re all drawn from testimonies done by those housekeepers and security workers. Piecemeal information that was questionable at best—that was all we could go by when the labs closed down.” “So no one was arrested or brought to court?” “No one was prosecuted. Even the labs’ owners got away—as in they vanished. No one knew where they went. It almost seemed as though they never existed, just like the labs, their cohorts, and the experiments. We all believe that they masterminded the operation.” “How long did this go on?” “About five years. Some say it’s not long enough to cause significant damage, but I disagree.” I helped myself to more food but found that my appetite had gone a little. It was all I could do to force an occasional rice kernel down my throat. “So now we’re all seeing the results.” “We are. Peter and Trent and your friend Althea are now coming into their powers. Yes, Peter told us about her. There are others out there, too. From this city and beyond. My guess is that the speed of their development depends on genetics. Not all of them will be good, either.” I gnawed my lower lip. “The Devil’s Trill, too?” “Yes. The Trill as well.” “Then—what’ll you do when others start showing up? Will you be forming a league or something? Then work together to, you know, keep the planet safe and so on?” Mrs. Barlow smiled. “That’s a possibility, but right now, my sons are on their own. It’s really up to them. Their father and I can only try to be good parents. When their genes were altered, everything went well beyond our control.” Control. Boy, that was an ugly word all of a sudden. I caught Peter’s face as he listened. A shadow momentarily darkened it, and he seemed to sink into a brief, fleeting gloom. My chest tightened. Not once had I thought that


parents would go to certain extremes to ensure a better life for their children, pretty much leaving nature out of the loop. Even without the experiments done on him, Peter would still be, in some ways, unnatural. Without his consent, without his knowledge, he was purposefully designed to be as close to being a perfect human being as he could be. What the experiments did was push him several paces beyond that, with strange super abilities now a part of his reshaped humanity. Was his being gay a part of that manipulation as well? Or was nature simply too formidable a force to overcome completely? I could only imagine that it was an unexpected development, and I was glad that this particular “accident” had happened. It was bad enough that Peter had shown—had lived under the constant pressure, in fact—supreme abilities in everything scientific and mathematical, while his heart had always lain in literature, art, and music. Was that a glitch in the system? I was inclined to think so. Was that because of Eugenics or those illegal experiments? I couldn’t rightly say. At this point, anything was possible. There were limits to playing God, apparently. Reading Frankenstein should be a requirement in adulthood. I felt a mix of resentment and sadness for Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, though. On our way to the dining room, I’d caught sight of a corner of the drawing room—one that was, apparently, dedicated to their accomplishments. I remembered several beautifully framed certificates as well as photographs of either of them shaking hands with people I could only guess were luminaries in their field though I didn’t recognize any of them. Mr. and Mrs. Barlow had gained so much with the use of their natural abilities—Mr. Barlow in the field of geophysics, Mrs. Barlow in mechanical engineering. That they’d be so vain and frightened of mortality and of nature—to the extent that they’d have their own children carefully designed to their specifications—shocked and nauseated me. It also saddened me in a way. With all their privileges and advantages, most of which people of my sort could only dream, they lived almost like trapped rats in a maze. “Mrs. Barlow, are Trent’s abilities kind of weird?” I blurted out. Peter choked and then stifled a laugh behind a cupped hand. His face reddened, and he shook his head at me, still sniggering. Mrs. Barlow blinked. Her hand was frozen in mid-air as she held a fork aloft, piled high with food that dripped through the prongs. “Beg your pardon?” “Trent’s powers—I noticed something strange on TV,” I replied, unfazed. Then I went


on and described the strange appearance of the symbols on his chest. “Oh, that. I wish I could tell you, Eric. I really do. The thing is that our education happens while Peter and Trent develop their abilities. We’re really no wiser than they.” “Aren’t you worried about your own safety? I mean, you’re their mom and all…” Mrs. Barlow smiled wistfully. “Mr. Barlow and I have long learned to take life one day at a time. We’ve been chastened in the worst possible way. Humbled through the dangers our children were exposed to in those labs. It’s a lesson that’s ongoing.” She glanced at Peter with a look that I thought was apologetic, regretful. And I’m so sorry we did this to

you, she seemed to say. “Is—uh—is this your headquarters?” I asked, now feeling a little goofy. I tried to avoid looking at Peter. “Headquarters…” “The chute where Peter and Trent transform—is that here somewhere?” Mrs. Barlow again glanced at her son, who tried to keep a straight face but failing miserably. “Peter…” “Sorry, Mom. I couldn’t help it,” he stammered behind his napkin. His face was worse than an overripe tomato. “Random information like that shouldn’t be thrown around,” she said, her voice firm. “You know you’re only exposing yourself and your brother to danger.” “It’s Eric, Mom. Of course, I trust him. He’s the only one I talked to about this.” Mrs. Barlow sighed, and I saw her mouth “Teenagers” before sipping her wine. Then she looked at me with a tired, apologetic smile. “We’re candid about Trent and Peter on a number of things, but not all. It’s classified information, Eric. I’m so sorry.” Ah, yes. The travails of having a superhero for a boyfriend. My initial resentment gone, thanks to Peter’s chirpy mood, I relaxed in my seat and carried on with the conversation. By the end of dinner, I really didn’t give a flying fig where headquarters were, where the chute was located, if there was an underground cave that housed a super computer, and all that. I simply didn’t care. For all of Mr. and Mrs. Barlow’s faults, they were still parents, and they still loved their children in their own way. When I subtly withdrew myself from the conversation in hopes of watching mother and son interact, they carried on without even noticing my silence, and I was treated to a pretty funny—and yet natural—scene in which Mrs. Barlow scolded Peter for some of the things he did while in superhero mode. Lecturing him on the reckless


way he’d negotiate his way through crowded and dangerous neighborhoods at high speed was like lecturing a kid on his driving habits. “You don’t know what’s around the corner,” she declared, gesticulating with her fork. “The way you rush around without checking your speed, you’ll run smack against a parked van or something worse—” “Mom, I can’t do that. I can’t. My reflexes won’t let me run into any obstacle. I thought you knew that already.” “So that means you’ll just go sashaying around the city at breakneck speed, without thinking ahead of any dangers that might be there? Peter, it’s not like you’ve got a built-in airbag that’ll help you.” “What’s the use of my sensors then? They’re the ones that keep me from crashing into anything. You’re worrying over nothing, you know.” Mrs. Barlow cocked a delicate brow. “We have a guest. Don’t be sassy. Oh, and if you’ll be out with Trent tomorrow, mind your curfew, please. Nine-thirty doesn’t mean nine thirty-one, all right?” “Aw, Mom…” I received another apologetic little smile and an offer of dessert, which I gladly accepted. Mango cake—rich, refrigerator-cold (as it ought to be served, I was told), and simply heavenly. All that time, while Mrs. Barlow sliced up my portion and served it to me, she and her son continued their light argument over Peter’s need to master his speed. It was surreal and wonderfully domestic. “Here’s my boy,” she seemed to say, “who drives me crazy as any kid drives his parents crazy—who’ll always be an outsider—and I don’t care as long as he knows how to handle himself.” Normalcy. Yes, that was it. A made-to-order baby who was further altered for reasons unknown—who turned out gay—who’d kill to be a poetic genius, not a rocket scientist— who could hear with superhuman clarity, move at high speeds, leap over great heights and distances—he was normal. Me and my love affair with blue food coloring, blue crayons, blue hair dye, depressing existential German fiction—normal, hell! Whose business was it, anyway?

Yeah, I thought, my gaze straying back to Peter. He’s normal. He’s okay. Fuck everything, he’s more than okay, and he always has been. When our eyes finally met, I let myself go, not caring a jot if Mrs. Barlow saw me, and mouthed, I love you.


I’d never seen Peter smile so wide.


Chapter 24

“So much for dinner with the in-laws.” I looked at Peter and watched his shadowy profile as he stared down at the black waters. We went to the park after dinner and spent some quiet time there, walking slowly around the lake, occasionally stopping to watch the moon reshape itself on the gently rippling water. “What?” He shrugged. “I was hoping that Dad and Trent would be there.” “They were busy.” “They always are. Like father, like son.” “I’ll bet you that the news is full of reports right now about Trent and what he’s done. Hey, he might’ve found the Trill’s headquarters while we were having dinner!” “God, I hope not. I told him not to hunt around for it without me.” Peter shrugged, his gaze still on the water. “Well—I guess next time would be better.”


“Hey, I enjoyed talking to your mom. She’s pretty cool. Smart as hell, yeah, but really cool.” “Intelligence is a bad thing, eh?” Peter laughed. “You know how it is. Just kidding, of course.” “I’m surprised I didn’t end up seeing a therapist.” I gently ran my hand up and down his back. “You’re stronger than you think you are.” “How would I know that it isn’t because of genetic technology?” “We don’t need to know. I’m happy with what’s already there. The only thing I worry about is whether or not I live up to your standards. I mean—the gap wouldn’t be so much if it weren’t for Eugenics. Now it’s like, you’re a thousand times better than I always thought. Being average is suddenly—way less than average now. Know what I mean?” I felt his hand take mine and hold it firmly. No one else was around in that area at that time of the night, so we stood there, hands clasped. I returned home that night knowing a hell of a lot more and saying far, far less than I could. I’d sworn myself to secrecy, and I didn’t need Peter and Mrs. Barlow looking to me for reassurance to make that pledge. I loved Peter. That was enough for me to remain silent and guarded.

I appeared at the breakfast table the following morning feeling nice and refreshed and abnormally cheerful. Dad and Liz, as usual, were talking about the news, which I missed when I returned home the previous night. I’d gone straight to bed after greeting everyone and giving them a vague, non-committal report about the Barlow household. Mom must’ve been disappointed as she’d always been curious about the family. Anyone outside our social and economic sphere, actually, fascinated her. “Any new developments while I was away?” I asked as I plunked myself down on my chair, reaching out for a bagel—hopefully one that wasn’t expired—as I did. “You missed something really freaky last night,” Liz said between sips of her orange juice. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new bad guy.” “Huh?” “Show him, Dad.”


Dad looked up at the mention of his name, momentarily puzzled. “What? Oh—oh, yeah.” He lowered the paper and laid it out on the table, spreading the pages and covering his plate. “Here. Come over here, Eric.” I stood up and hurried to his side and read the page he pointed to. There was a sighting the previous night, while I was having a posh, private dinner at the Barlows’. It was another man—a young one—stalking the rooftops and watching Magnifiman and the Trill’s henchmen battle it out in the streets of Vintage City. Witnesses couldn’t say for sure what the guy looked like—only that he was in a bodysuit like Magnifiman, Peter, and the Trill, but no cape. He was also seen to have a couple of small—very small—hellish assistants. Tiny figures that were shorter than dwarves were said to be spotted beside him, at times flanking him. Witnesses couldn’t tell if they were children, but whatever they were, they moved on their own. “A couple of shrunken assistants from hell?” I asked, my brows knitting. “Is that what they’re saying?” “Sort of,” Liz replied and moved one of her arms to demonstrate. “Everyone’s guessing that they’re about two feet tall—like dolls, but alive. Anyway, it’s really freaky. Very

Twilight Zone.” “Does anyone know who this guy is?” “Nope. He disappeared before anything could be done.” “Then how can we be so sure that he’s one of the bad guys?” “Because his tiny dolls from hell sawed the head off the founder’s statue. Someone saw them just as they were finishing it off. It’s only logical that they did it under his orders.” I blinked. “That stupid statue’s an eyesore, anyway. Now we can finally get rid of it. If anything, he’s a hero.” “Eric, don’t be silly,” Mom said as she walked to the table with a platter of eggs. “It was done as a warning, obviously.” “Did the guy himself say for sure?” I prodded, still skeptical. “No, but he left marks all over the place.” “Like what? Tiny footprints or handprints in the cement? Was there a dead princess in a glass coffin somewhere in the vicinity?” “Don’t laugh, son,” Dad said. “Okay, what were they, then?” Dad narrowed his eyes at me. Then he coughed. “Okay, they left tiny prints on shop


windows and marks like fingernails being dragged across wood or cement or what—you know, five lines that were scratches. A few people argued that some of the marks left on windows were tiny nose prints, not fingerprints. Who could say for sure?” I scratched my head. “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess even villains have to start somewhere.” “He’s sort of like Zorro, it looks like,” Liz cut in with a firm nod. “Only he wears spandex. And he makes tiny people do the dirty work for him and leave signs of their presence—at least handprints, anyway. And he’s a bad guy.” “Well…” I let my words fade and left the conversation hanging. Not that everyone noticed, anyway. They continued to talk about the news, shifting the conversation to other things within seconds. I simply took to my seat again, lost in thought. A new villain? Someone who was just coming into his powers? That certainly made sense. Given how the Eugenics labs were active in a five-year span, I imagined that heroes and villains would be around our ages as well as Trent’s. I chewed my bagel as I pondered. How long would it take for Vintage City to turn into a full-blown battleground between the forces of good and evil? I could barely hazard a guess as to how many more heroes and villains were out there, their DNA simply waiting for the right moment to bloom, bear fruit, and raise some ass-kicking hell. In school, everyone was buzzing about the “new arrival,” while I huddled in a corner with Althea and Peter, sharing a bag of gummy worms that was on sale at the supermarket. Three bags for a buck? I was sold. “What do you guys think?” I asked, my voice hushed. We were in the library as usual. Not at a computer like before since Althea seemed to have progressed quite nicely and quickly with her powers. She’d yet to tell us about her conversation with Mrs. Horace about her abilities, but we gave her as much space as we could and kept the pressure off. “I tried to surf the wires,” Althea whispered back (“surf the wires” was her reference to her computer-possessing abilities), “but I couldn’t find anything. Whoever he is, he’s really new.” “God knows how long he’s been coming into his own, though,” Peter said as he thoughtfully gnawed on a worm. “He might be visible now, but it takes a little while for someone like me—or Althea—to get to that stage of his development. I’ll bet you he’s been practicing or whatever at home or somewhere else that’s private.” “A headquarters, you mean,” I noted cheekily. Peter caught it and merely rolled his


eyes at me. “He’s got an obvious weapon—a couple of them, actually—and he’s starting to use them to deface property,” Althea said. “How dangerous is that? Do you think they’re out to kill?” Peter shook his head. “I don’t know. Something tells me that they aren’t—like the Trill. The new guy’s here to cause all sorts of problems, but somehow I’m convinced that he isn’t going to be a maniacal butcher.” “Defacing property’s his modus operandi?” I asked. How strange. Any gang member could’ve done the job without a couple of uber-dolls. Why would a Eugenics Baby bother doing something as common as defacing property? I stuck a worm in my mouth and let half of it dangle to my chin, quivering. “I’m sure he’s building up to something more serious. At the moment he’ll be pulling off all sorts of petty stuff here and there, but his methods will evolve the stronger he gets,” Peter replied. “Well—whatever his purpose, you’d better be careful when you’re out there,” I said, and he chuckled quietly. “If you want me to…” “Peter…” He continued to chuckle, but I felt his hand cover mine and give it a reassuring squeeze under the table. “I wonder what the Trill thinks about him,” Althea mused, her words partly muffled by three worms she’d crammed into her mouth. “He’s probably pissed as hell that someone’s out there to upstage him.” “If the two of them would go after each other, that’d be a relief. That’s less work for me and Trent.” “There’s also a chance that they’ll be joining forces,” I warned. “Oh, God. What I’d give to be a fly on the wall if that happened. It’s just like villains to bicker and one-up each other even when working as a team.” Althea cocked a brow at Peter. “Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?” “Haven’t you learned anything from Batman?” he sighed. “Jeez, people.”


Chapter 25

With Vintage City’s streets suffering construction blockage here and there, thanks to Magnifiman and the Trill, there was at least one consolation that could be had from the wild ride to which we were all subjected. Sgt. Vitus Bone and the rest of the police department had gotten their act together, and the Trill’s goons now filled up about half of the available jail cells. Not a single thug managed to escape. It was a miracle. “It appears as though The Devil’s Trill’s operation is grinding to a halt,” Bambi Bailey declared one evening. She spoke with smug confidence, her beauty mark apparently taking up permanent residence just above her upper lip, just right of center. It was with heavy hearts that Liz and I gave up our guessing game. “With the exceptional efforts made by Vintage City’s police department and the phenomenal abilities of our own Paragon of Virtue, Magnifiman, the streets are one hundred and ten percent safer than they were last year.”


“Don’t forget Peter,” I muttered, pressing my face against an old throw pillow to muffle my words as I lay on my stomach before the TV. “Trent isn’t the only one working his butt off, lady.” The Trill had attempted his hundredth career heist that day, and half of his henchmen were picked up pretty easily. The rest managed to disappear despite the police’s best efforts, but it was still argued that no embarrassing jailbreak had taken place for—well—a couple of weeks. I suppose that would be a record for Vintage City’s police department. “Now as for Magnifiman’s mystery companion—” My eyes widened. “Oh no, you don’t.” “—the young man deserves as much credit as his older, stronger partner—” “Yeah, talk about biased. Peter might not be as strong, but he’s a thousand times better at hustling himself from point A to point B.” “—but how can we properly thank him when he’s camera shy?” “You don’t thank him, Miss Bailey. Now move along. There’s nothing more for you to see or talk about.” She grinned, tossing her hair. I winced. “No one knows his name—” “And it’s damned better to keep things that way!” I felt a slight nudge against my foot. “Eric, why are you screaming into the pillow?” Mom asked from the couch behind me. I could only shake my head, pressing the throw pillow—now damp with my spit—more tightly against my face. “—even Magnifiman says that he prefers not to be named. And as the boy flies like the wind—”

Too late! Too late! Peter! “—my news colleagues—the young interns, anyway, who adore him—decided to call him something proper because—well—they said that my naming ability downright stinks—” I closed my eyes. My body felt so tense and tightly wound that I was in danger of spontaneously combusting right then and there. “—something, shall we say, with a heroic, romantic bent to it. And since we can’t go on calling him ‘Magnifiman’s partner’ forever, we’ll have to address him as—”

I hate the world. “—Calais. Those interns are so romantic.” My eyes flew open, and I stared in shock at the floor. Calais? Where had I heard that


name before? Bambi Bailey smiled. She looked positively beatific. “Because we want to give credit where credit’s due, we’d like to say thanks publicly to the unsung hero, the quiet, hard working partner in the shadows. Calais, if you’re watching, Vintage City’s honored to have you as one of theirs.” She paused then added, “The young ladies, especially, who’re now betting money on whether or not you’re single.” “Oh, that’s a lovely name,” Liz cooed from the couch, where she sat crammed with Mom (Dad was forced to go to a bingo social that his boss put together), sharing a gigantic bowl of popcorn between them. “It has a nice, elegant ring to it. Calais. Hmm— now I want to see him. I’ll bet he looks appropriate for his name, too, the way Magnifiman does his name justice, physically.” She gave a little girlish sigh. I threw the damp pillow to one corner of the living room and scrambled to my feet. Ignoring my family’s complaints of blocking their view, I scurried out of the room and ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. I barricaded myself in my room and promptly went online, doing a search on Calais. There it was—Calais, a winged hero, the son of the North Wind. Those girls did their homework. I sat back in my chair and stared at my monitor. Little by little, a smile broke out, and I whispered Peter’s superhero alias again and again, feeling the word gently roll over my tongue. Calais. Yes, I could live with that.

“It’s disgustingly sappy,” Peter groused the next day. “I could’ve lived with Shadow Boy.” “The RPG geeks aren’t happy with your new name.” “I feel their pain, believe me.” If looks could kill, Peter’s coffee would’ve churned, boiled, evaporated in three seconds, and left nothing but thick, black residue clinging to his cup’s interior. The smoke from incinerated coffee would’ve left soot lining our nostrils. “I think it works for you.” “So I’m a Greek Myth now?” “Hey, listen,” I said, meeting his gaze above my favorite iced mocha drink, “if you’d come up with your own name and given it to them, you wouldn’t have to put up with


their choice.” Around us, the Jumping Bean swarmed with cynical, intellectual life. Edith Piaf’s voice trembled, filling the air with exquisite French melodies. An occasional grinder or blender drowned her out. The atmosphere hung thick with the smell of roasted coffee. The computers were being used, but it didn’t matter. We simply needed some time to ourselves for a couple of hours just bumming around. Peter and I had just emerged from Olivier’s, one used book richer each, with me salivating over a yellowed copy of H.P. Lovecraft’s selected short stories. “As for me,” I continued with a playful shrug, “I quite like it.” “Great. Now I’m pigeonholed.” Peter sipped his drink, drumming his fingers against the table. “That’s one reason why I didn’t want to have a name.” I blinked. “Not having a name can just as easily pigeonhole you. You’ll always be this weird, mysterious boy lurking in the shadows. Invisible, mute, nothing more than Magnifiman’s sidekick. Heck, not having a name puts all the spotlight on Trent even if you do half the work since it looks as if you don’t care.” Peter hesitated. “Well, I kind of don’t…” I waited for him to finish, but he let things hang. I sighed. “I care. I’d draw blood if I saw that you weren’t being given proper credit for all the hard work you do. I guess I was more afraid of Bambi Bailey giving you some crap name like the one she gave Trent—no offense to your brother. I was ready to give up the ghost last night when she started talking about you, but karma intervened.” His gaze moved from his drink to me and back to his drink. God, the struggle. The pride. I could feel the war raging inside him from where I sat, across the table from Peter. I allowed a moment’s silence to run its course. I was about to speak more encouraging words when he finally grumbled, “I wonder how much research went into their choice.” “It’s really appropriate. I stayed up late last night just digging around for more information. Oh, and guess what? I read somewhere that Calais and Orpheus were lovers. Go Greeks!” Peter chuckled, shaking his head. He’d struggled against it, but the battle had been won, and it was a pleasure watching him surrender. “You really shouldn’t trust everything that you read online, Eric.” “I like that bit about Orpheus enough to trust it.” “You’re hopeless.”


I asked not to be driven home since I had a couple of errands to run for Dad, and I needed the economic versatility of my bike for that purpose. On my way home after taking care of those errands, I once again rode my favorite industrial detour, weaving in and out of traffic and flying through dingy alleys toward the abandoned biotech section of Vintage City. It was while we were at Olivier’s, digging around the second-hand treasure trove they maintained, that I realized I hadn’t touched my journal in a dog’s age. No dour adolescent musings, no helpless, bitter invectives against the cosmos, no haikus. The last item in particular horrified me. I lost touch with my private world and my artistry when Peter became my boyfriend. My world had shifted from myself to him, and while I regretted nothing, I still couldn’t help but feel some guilt for neglecting a very significant part of myself. I needed to rouse the artist from his comatose-like state. I needed to be inspired again. Peter certainly never forbade me from pursuing my hobby. I simply allowed myself to slack off, and I was convinced that taking the desolate path home that day would help spark something in me. It was once again time to be poetic, to be inspired by urban decay. Familiar landmarks became my world as I rode my bike past the hollow, weathered buildings and the deteriorating lot where the carnival once stood. Snatches of conversation with Mrs. Barlow trickled through my mind—appropriate mind fillers, I guess, for the environment. The desolation bore down heavily on me, all initial warmth and cheer in Peter’s company shedding their layers until I was left with nothing more than a chill and the unsettling feeling of being watched. Maybe because I was all alone. I didn’t know. But I’d had this sensation before—at Renaissance High’s parking lot that one evening after taking Althea to the carnival; riding through the area in broad daylight; while mingling with people at the carnival… I sucked in a breath and quickly braked, nearly sending myself tumbling over my front wheel. At this point I’d nearly passed the empty concrete lot. Straddling my bike, I looked back and surveyed the area, scenes and sensations from different points in the past flooding my mind. Masked carnival workers watched me that night. From the distance, the empty, blackened windows of dead genetic labs stared at me. They were watching me. Everyone. They made me feel watched. I didn’t know if the rest of the city felt the same.

They took advantage of people’s hopes and toyed with them—altered them


somehow—and threw them back into the gene pool. I can only imagine that they hoped to step away and watch what would happen in ten, fifteen, twenty years’ time. Mrs. Barlow’s words crept in, whispering, grazing, caressing, while around me a cold breeze stirred, tossing scraps of soiled paper around. “This is crazy,” I breathed. Improbable. Even impossible. And yet, I couldn’t shake off the thought—the creeping sensation. The Solstice Masque had been a fixture at Vintage City for a number of years. I didn’t know exactly how long they’d been coming by, all decked out in grotesque costumes and masks, wandering through the giddy crowds like distorted phantoms on the prowl. “I’ll ask Althea,” I told myself as I stared at the dead windows of dead buildings. “She can probably find something about the carnival.” My mind awhirl, I mounted my bike and pedaled away, ignoring one final burning question. If Althea and I discovered something about The Solstice Masque, what then? Hell, I didn’t have a clue. I even clean forgot about my poetry.

Sorry, Eric, I can’t find anything on them. Well—other than crap I dug up on MySpace about hooking up with some girl or guy while messing around at the carnival, drunk or high. Don’t make me repeat what I read. It makes my brain shrink from Teh Stoopid. I frowned at the white text as it alternately throbbed and spluttered on my computer screen. “Damn. I guess I’m not that good of a detective after all.”

Nah. Just because you can’t find anything on it, doesn’t mean that it’s harmless. Do you think they’re up to no good? “Just a hunch. I keep thinking that they’ve got something to do with the old genetic labs that closed down.”

You mean like they used to work there or something? I nodded. “Yeah. Exactly. It’s a weird theory, I know. Pretty far-fetched and even stupid, maybe, but I figured it was still worth pursuing. I learned that from Sherlock Holmes.”

So setting up their carnival at Vintage City has something to do with the labs, then? What would they want? “I don’t know.” I leaned back against my chair and sipped my hot chocolate, lost in


thought. “Probably watch what’s going on. See the results of their experiments.”

That’s pretty creepy. Damn it. I had cotton candy from them, too. “Althea, I’m sure their cotton candy wasn’t tainted.”

Oh, yeah, that’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have any. “I was broke, and I spent whatever was left of my allowance on you, you high maintenance geek.”

Consider the score even, boyfriend snatcher! Oh. Speaking of, is Romeo coming around for you tonight? I don’t want to get caught in the middle of mushy shit. “Uh, no. He didn’t say anything. I’m keeping my window open, anyway, just in case.”

Aren’t you cold? “No.”

Not cold, just horny. Makes sense. I gulped down the last of my hot chocolate and stared at my empty mug. “I need a refill,” I said, standing up. “Thanks for surfing the wires, Althea. Looks like you’re really coming along here.”

No prob. Can I peek around your computer? “No. Scram.”

Wait! I just learned how to create dummy files! I’m a bit iffy on it, so I need to experiment with your computer. “You’ll probably be planting all sorts of pornographic dummy files in my C drive, and I’ll get into trouble for it.”

It’s tempting, but no. Can I? Please? Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease? I’ll keep everything clean and boring, I promise. “Okay, okay, go ahead. I’ll delete them when you’re done,” I sighed as I walked to the door. I didn’t see what Althea typed up in response, but the computer gave off a very happy beep when I opened the door and stepped out. I returned to my room ten minutes later, completely loaded. Hot chocolate in one hand, a plate of sliced bread in the other. White, soft, squishy bread for dunking purposes. I was in for a gorgefest. I set the dishes onto my desk, ignoring the flashing text on my computer screen. “How much longer will it take, Althea?” I asked, moving off to my bathroom to wash my hands. I heard a series of beeps and rolled my eyes. She must have just given me the middle finger, I thought. “Girl, shut up. You know I need my computer now.”


I turned off the light in the bathroom and stepped out… …and walked right into a tall, warm body just beyond the bathroom door. “Oh—Jesus!” I gasped, stumbling back a pace or two. “Peter, quit sneaking up on me like—” But it wasn’t Peter who stood before me. Tall, thin, almost spectral in his black bodysuit and red cloak, the black half-mask devoid of expression but for a pair of crescents representing smiling eyes, The Devil’s Trill regarded me in silence for a moment, tilting his head slightly to the side. Under his mask, his lips—white and thin—twitched. “Good evening, my dear sir,” he said in that odd guitar string voice of his. “I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of being introduced to you.” “I know who you are,” I stammered, backing away and finding myself pressed against a wall. “What the hell do you want?” My room hardly had furniture. Where I was pinned, I had nothing within reach that I could use for a weapon. The Devil’s Trill, moreover, for all his suave ease, looked to be nothing more than a pile of tensed, coiled muscles under spandex, about to spring into action at the tiniest provocation. He’d have me in a headlock if I so much as shuffled an inch to either side. No, it was better to stand still and hope for survival and an intact body. I heard another beep from the computer and stole a glance in its direction. RUN!

ERIC, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! The words flashed wildly against the black screen as line after line stretched from one end of the screen to the other, repeating, overflowing, pouring down to the bottom of the screen until the text appeared like an endless army of marching ants going side to side and top to bottom. My stomach tightened in a painful knot. Dear God—how long had she tried to warn me? How many times did I need to knock my head against the wall? Althea couldn’t communicate but through text. Unless I paid attention to the computer screen the moment I stepped inside my room, there was no way my attention would’ve been caught. Well—except for her frantic beeping, I guess. “A moment of your time and attention, if you please.” “I don’t think so,” I breathed, looking back at the Trill. “I won’t keep you too long, I assure you. I understand how precious time is for high school boys—especially those enjoying a particularly romantic time in their lives. Carpe


diem, carpe diem, as the poets say.” “I’m not interested. Now get the hell out of here before—” “Well, tsk, tsk, indeed. I was hoping to proceed along more civil lines. No threats, please, Mr. Plath. Threats are so barbaric.” I blinked, swallowed. “How’d you know my name?” “I have my ways. Now, I need to ask you again. Will you do me the honor, my dear sir?” he cooed, stepping aside and gesturing in the direction of the window with a flourish and a graceful bow. It definitely felt like an invitation to throw myself out. So much for civility. I held my ground. “Tell me what you want.” “Alas. You give me no choice. What a dreadful waste of time and effort this has been.” With that, he raised a gloved hand, his palm facing me. “At least you can’t blame me for not trying. I might be a supervillain, but I take pride in being exceptionally well-bred.” In the briefest of moments, I managed to catch sight of a tiny hole in his palm. Then my vision was filled with smoke—sweet-smelling, icy, and thick. I blinked a couple of times and gasped. Then everything went black.


Chapter 26

When I came to, I thought that I’d somehow been transported to Venice.

Good job, Mom and Dad! All this time you were saving for a kickass European trip, and you didn’t tell me and Liz about it? You sneaks! Hoo, boy. Liz and I must’ve gone off and gotten drunk on Italian wine or something because I sure as hell couldn’t remember a blasted thing about where we went, what we did, and how I managed to get back to my hotel room. Funny thing was, the hangover wasn’t there. I woke up, confused and muddled but without a headache or any other sickly symptoms of overindulgence. I lay on a soft, warm bed and stared at a ceiling fresco that was as lush as Venetian frescoes could be. Pagan gods, shepherds, nymphs, all half-naked and cavorting around in pastures, meadows, and forests. I ogled from where I lay, awash in Old World sensuality. The moment didn’t last very long, though, when I realized something. Where were the gay boys in this luxurious sea of spotless flesh? God, how typically heterocentric.


Little by little, my senses began to pick up a few things. The room I was in smelled of old furniture and old fabric, and faint—very faint—hints of flowers. Everything was bathed in a warm, golden glow, and I raised my head to look around, catching sight of antique wall sconces in delicate fleur-de-lis. The curtains were of old dark blue velvet edged with gold tassels. The furniture was all in subtle, monochromatic brocade and rich, mahogany wood. Even the bed I lay sprawled on matched the furniture in understated elegance. Somewhere—I couldn’t tell where the source was—soft, violin music could be heard. I wished I knew more about classical music other than the fact that I wanted to sleep with Joshua Bell. Whoever the composer was—it could very well have been the Trill himself—the music was remarkably soothing, gentle. I sat up, blinking, the truth of my situation bearing down on me in bits and pieces. No, I wasn’t in Venice. Mom and Dad weren’t off on some romantic gondola ride. Liz wasn’t running all over the city sampling gelato and maxing out Dad’s credit cards. I was kidnapped. Snatched from my own bedroom by The Devil’s Trill. I took a few calming breaths. “Oh, my God,” I whispered. I crawled out of bed and poked around, testing out the windows (which were made opaque by the buildup of dirt outside, so I couldn’t peer through them, and they couldn’t be opened, to boot) and turning the doorknob (no luck there, either). I walked to one of the antique nightstands and spotted a little note lying there, with an old, discolored key resting atop it.

I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience, my dear Mr. Plath, it read. Unfortunately, your obstinacy left me with no other choice but to use force. I am, however, very keen on making amends. If you could join me at dinner, I’ll ensure that you’ll be promptly returned to your charming little hovel with nary a scratch. Use the key to exit your room, please. And don’t touch the Ming vases. I had the most dreadful time stealing them and would be loath to see them damaged in any way. “Hovel?” I sputtered. “First he kidnaps me, and then he insults my family?” If I weren’t so freaked out at the moment, I’d have drunk ten gallons of water and then pissed into his precious Ming vases. I tore the note, tossed the bits aside, and walked to the door with the key, my heart hammering furiously. How could I get out? The walk to the dining room felt like a walk through history. I was impressed. Everything, from top to bottom, was literally covered in antiques and all sorts of collectibles. Nothing appeared to be made in the recent century. Portraits, furniture,


books, rugs, what have you—God only knew how much the Trill shelled out for these things. Oh, wait. I forgot. He stole every single one of them, more likely. Never mind. The dining room wasn’t difficult to find. Judging from his headquarters’ configuration, I was pretty sure that I was inside a terraced house, but I’d no idea where. Everything stretched out from front to back, not side to side. I saw no signs of his henchmen anywhere. Chewing on a fingernail, I crept forward. The Trill was alone at the dinner table when I entered the dining room. He was still in costume, with his mask still on. The table was laid out almost the same way the Barlows’ dinner table was laid out. A lush floral centerpiece accented the polished silver dishes, goblets, and cutlery. Steaming food—very likely Italian—invited me from where they were carefully and decoratively contained. It was a far, far cry from the frozen dinners and simple fare that my family could afford to serve at the table. My stomach growled. I was sure my tongue dangled from my mouth like a wet, dripping flag. The Trill waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Welcome, my dear Mr. Plath. Please, make yourself comfortable. There’s no need to be so concerned about the meal. It’s all organic.” I sat down at the opposite end of the table, eyeing him warily. “Okay, I’m here. Now what do you want?” “At this point, sir, nothing else.” “I don’t understand.” “I’m quite done.” I felt the blood drain away from me. “What the hell did you do while I was out cold?” “Oh, nothing to do with your virtue, of course. I don’t swing your way.” Now that was embarrassing. I squirmed in my chair. “Chrissakes, you know what I mean.” He laughed, his voice a twang of a thousand guitar strings. Chills crept up and down my spine at the sound. “Feisty creature, aren’t you? Do calm down, sir, and enjoy the feast. Venetian fare, including the wine.” “I’m underage.” “I understand that you didn’t exactly object to being served a martini in my—staff’s— company.”


I blinked, torn between fear and anger. “I can’t really say no when they’re all pointing guns at me, can I?” He nodded cheerfully. “Point taken. There’s iced lemonade if you prefer that. Now then—do help yourself. As I was saying, I need to make some amends by hosting a lavish enough dinner for two in your honor. It’s the least I can do, really, for your time and your patience.” I hesitated but helped myself to some food, anyway. I dared not take my eyes off him. “What did you do to me?” “My dear sir, you’re worrying yourself over nothing. Do you feel strange in any way? Drugged out or something?” “No,” I replied reluctantly. “Did you see any marks on your arms, legs, or backside?” My face turned hot. “I haven’t bothered checking.” “You’ll be disappointed if you expect something. Cuts or bruises or tattoos—I assure you that you remain unmarked, young man. Do try the roasted sardines. They’re my favorite Venetian dish.” He sat back, idly sipping his wine as he watched me sample the food. “I still don’t know what you did to me.” “Took care of you, of course! Laid you out on the finest bed in my best guest room! Didn’t you see the frescoes? Aren’t they marvelous?” I slowly chewed on a roasted sardine, which turned out to be pretty good, but I didn’t want him to know that. “Look, what the hell’s going on?” “Why, don’t you want to know more about your host?” “Uh, duh.” “I’ll take that as a yes—crude, perhaps, but a ‘yes’ all the same. Now then—who am I? Music—the highest, most perfect form of art. I’m control, I’m passion, I’m anarchy. Every note requires precision. Every signature, a perfect understanding of the composition; otherwise, a waltz stumbles into a march. Displace a note, and everything changes. See how powerful music can be? You can’t do the same with the written word. A displaced word only creates idiocy and earns a red mark from an irritated pedagogue. A missing visual detail in a painting only leads to a curious question about the artist’s state of mind—worse, a ridiculous treasure hunt for more errors.” He smiled. “What do you want from Vintage City?”


“An adventure. Do I need to have a reason for being? Mr. Plath, I simply am.” I shook my head. “You’re not making any sense.” He laughed again. “Do you question Magnifiman’s existence?” “Well—he’s here to deter crime.” “And you think I’m here to turn things on their heads.” “Yeah, I suppose. It’s common sense, isn’t it?” “Ah, yes, well—everyone wants to think so. A charming idea, to be sure, but simplistic. Mr. Plath, some things in the universe just plain are. They exist for no other reason than their own sake. Is that so difficult to understand? Does anyone question the purpose behind the existence of the platypus?” “You’re comparing yourself to a platypus? That’s new.” I helped myself to some vegetables. “And, no, I don’t question it.” “There you are.” “You know, after comparing yourself with a platypus, I really can’t take you seriously anymore.” “Look, can we forget about the damn platypus? In the end, you silly boy, when one steps back and observes the intricacies of the tapestry’s weaving, he sees balance in all things—balance that requires no questioning, no doubts, because, yes, everything’s as it should be. And that’s the lesson to be gained here. Have some bread, please. It’s completely gluten-free.” I regarded him while munching thoughtfully. Odd, but I felt relaxed now. Relaxed and loose. Defiance had won out over fear at this point. “I suppose I really can’t guess your parents’ minds when they went to the genetics lab to get you designed.” The Trill, who was drinking, snorted and blew red wine all over his dinner. He fell back, pressing a napkin against his face as he roared. If he didn’t have a back rest, I imagine that he’d have toppled over to roll on the ground. “Very astute! Very astute, indeed! Yes, don’t pretend to know my sire’s mind. A frustrated musician can only offer so much logic—like Beethoven’s father, you see. I’m pleased to say that he never beat me in a drunken rage, but, goodness, he fed my mind with possibilities.” “That would count as child abuse, considering how you turned out,” I muttered over my drink. He shook his head. “You really are a charming young man, Mr. Plath. I can see what


that ridiculous, treacle-bottomed Calais sees in you.” His grin broadened when I gave a little start. “Yes, I’ve seen you two together. How on Earth can I not? But such is the way with teenage love—impulsive, reckless, passionate, all-consuming. Poor Calais would risk drawing you into danger with his evening visits to your little attic space, and he doesn’t even know it. I’m sure he’s warned you against other dangers that you might face out there in the streets, and yet, there he is, working like a trail of moonstruck crumbs, leading me to you. The dear boy—so confused—so in love. I’d call him the Boy Blunder, but that’s already trademarked.” I swallowed my food, forcing it down my constricted throat. I felt a little dizzy. “Watch it, jerk. I don’t care what you do to me. Just leave him alone, or I’ll make you sorry you even thought of messing with us.” Boy, that was lame. Having seen him go head-to-head with Magnifiman, I was quite sure of his ability to take my head between his fingers and pop it like a grape if provoked. Unfortunately, a plain, ordinary high school kid with bad Geometry and Chemistry grades could offer nothing much in the cosmic battle between good and evil—nothing much but a feeble threat if he thought that his darling’s in any danger. Maybe I should’ve glowered while threatening him. “Oh, I’m leaving him alone. I’ve never once touched our charming young Romeo. My business, you see, is with Magnifiman.” “And I’m supposed to be involved in that?” “That would be a ‘yes,’ yes.” I grimaced, pressing a hand against my forehead. “You’re beyond strange. I don’t even think a shrink’s going to help you and whatever issues you might’ve had with your dad.” “Oh, dear. Adolescent insults. After all the trouble I’ve gone through, planning this feast, giving you the best bedroom for a non-resident…” “Yeah, well—you deserve more than insults, you psychopath. Thanks for lunch or dinner or whatever the hell this is, but I’m done.” I pushed back my chair and started to rise. Another wave of dizziness swept over me, and I clung to the table’s edge to keep myself from falling off. “Oh, God—what—” “Ah, yes. Must be the sardines. Special spices, you know—a family kitchen secret.” “Y—you drugged me with your fish?” Through the rapidly thickening fog, I glimpsed his figure as it rose from its seat. “It was either that or blindfolding, gagging, and tying you up after your meal, my dear boy. And


that’s a very crude alternative. I despise soiling my hands in such a manner. Transporting you back to your cozy little hole, unconscious, is the easiest method for supervillains. It says so in the handbook.” “Handbook?” What the hell? I struggled to get up but instead felt the ground open up beneath me, and I was once again sucked into the night.


Chapter 27

What came after was a string of nightmares. I didn’t know if I was awake or not, but I was very well aware of voices fading in and out of my consciousness. My parents, calling my name—Liz, urging me to wake up—Althea, threatening to kick my ass if I didn’t open my eyes—Peter, quietly ordering me to get up. I didn’t know how long I remained in that horrible state, floating in the dark, on fire and yet shivering from chills, unable to move my lips to speak, feeling my tongue thickened and glued against the roof of my mouth. My head throbbed. It wasn’t painful, but it was uncomfortable all the same, and like the voices, it faded in and out. I could feel nothing in my hands and feet. Just numbness, fire, and cold. I could only call out to my family in my mind. Eventually, though, the fever dissipated, the chills stopped, and the voices grew steadier. I couldn’t open my eyes yet, but at least I emerged from my drugged state little by little. Mom was talking to me when my mind finally felt clear of the effects.


“We’re here, Eric. You’ll be fine. Dr. Burford’s taken care of you. Sleep now.” I felt her hand press against my forehead, and I shifted under the covers, still unable to open my eyes, and promptly drifted off to a deep, dreamless sleep. All was bleak, gray-skied, acid rain-drizzling normalcy when I finally came to. I lay in bed under God knew how many layers of blankets. I was soaked with sweat, but my family left my window partly open for fresh air. I stared at the countless trails of rain that ran down the window, gently loosening my mind from the cobwebs and the thick darkness of sleep. In bits and pieces, events of the most recent past came to me.

I’m quite done. My blood ran cold at the remembrance. I immediately moved my hands under the covers and felt around. I’d been cleaned up, I was sure, and then dressed into my pajamas before Dr. Burford was called. I wondered if anyone—Mom and the doctor, anyway— noticed anything strange on any part of my body. Dad was at work, and Liz had gone to school. Mom remained home to look after me, and the jubilant yet tearful embraces I got from her when she came to my room with hot water and a washcloth made me feel like a ten-year-old again. I came down with chicken pox at that age, and Mom was terrified that I wasn’t going to make it past the fever’s crisis point. I did, with a few scars on my back like Peter, which I’d always treated like a badge of honor. “Mom, what happened?” “You disappeared, Eric.” She asked me to sit up, so she could wash my face and arms, but I offered to clean myself up in the bathroom. Mom was too relieved to argue, and she sat on a chair she drew up next to the bed. She seemed to spend more time observing me than listening to what I was saying, her eyes constantly roving all over my face as though in a perpetual search for something she could never find. “Then you showed up again, unconscious, on your bed.” “Someone came to my room and found it empty?” “Your friend Althea called us and asked for you—” “She did? I thought…” I paused and realized I was about to go one step too far. No one in my family knew about Althea. Not even her mother, from what I remembered of our last conversation, knew about her powers. If my friend called for me, she did it to make sure that someone in the household went up to my room and found that it was empty. Good thinking, girl! “That’s cool. I’m glad she did,” I finished instead.


“We couldn’t find you anywhere. We went to the police, but they told us to wait fortyeight hours. So we did the searching ourselves.” “Where did you find me?” Mom shrugged helplessly, her eyes reddening. “Back in your room—lying in bed, completely passed out. We went to the police station at around ten the night you disappeared. We spent the next few hours combing the streets for you. Then we went to bed when nothing came up.” She paused to dab her eyes with the washcloth. “We all skipped work and school the next morning, and Dad even called around—your favorite hangouts, mostly—to see if anyone knew where you might be. It was Liz who found you in your room. We sent her here to take one of your pictures from your desk for copying. We heard her screaming for us after a few minutes.” I frowned. “I was out for a few hours, then,” I said. “Yes, you were.” “Then you called for the doctor…” Dr. Burford was a good friend of my dad’s. He was probably the only physician I knew who still made house calls—at least for his buddies. Considering our financial situation and Dad’s violent abhorrence of hospitals, having Dr. Burford around was a real Godsend. Mom nodded, smiling and taking one of my hands in hers and pressing it gently. “Your friends came together. I didn’t need to call them. Peter’s been keeping our phone busy when your father wasn’t using it, calling every hour, almost.” “How—how long was I out?” “A couple of days. Your temperature was pretty high.” I swallowed. “Did you change my clothes?” Mom nodded, and I continued. “Did you see anything on me? Marks or bruises or whatever, anywhere?” There was a brief silence at first, as though Mom were suddenly reminded of something. She stiffened. The air around us chilled even more. “A few faint bruises that looked old,” she presently replied, her eyes narrowing, her mouth losing its softness. I recognized that look. I was in trouble. “I know they’re not from drugs. Any idea where they came from?” Oh, damn. I couldn’t answer. God, my face was on fire, and that was enough for her. “Eric, I know you’re in love with that Barlow boy, and I’m glad that he loves you, too, but, for God’s sake, you’re only sixteen, and—”


“Mom, nothing’s happened. I swear. I’m fine. He’s fine. We just, you know…”

Yeah, Mom, we drive off after school, find a safe spot, and make out in the back seat like there’s no tomorrow. Unfortunately, Peter can’t control himself when he feels, you know, horny, and his superpowers kind of work their way into our private moments. He just gets a little too rough with me sometimes. Oh, sure. That would make a charming confession. “Okay. This isn’t the time for that. We’ll talk about it later. You’re not off the hook yet, young man.” She sighed heavily, shaking her head and looking exhausted. My heart resumed its beating. “Other than those bruises, I saw nothing. Why do you ask?” “It would’ve helped me figure out what happened.” Mom’s eyes widened. Her hand stiffened against mine. “You mean you don’t know?” I hoped I didn’t blush even more, but I did manage to look her in the eye while lying through my teeth. My gut twisted the whole time I fed my mother all loads of bull, but I needed to do it. Being taken by The Devil’s Trill, of all people, was one less thing for her to worry about. “I don’t, Mom. I swear. All I remember was taking up hot chocolate and bread to my room, washing my hands, and then walking smack against something dark and solid. Everything went black then, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed.” “Oh,” she said. “I—I guess that’s a relief then. I promised the police to contact them as soon as you’re able to talk. Since you can’t remember anything, they won’t have to bother you—I hope. You’re back. You’re safe and healthy. That’s all I want.” She leaned close and kissed my forehead. “Now rest,” she said. She stood up and collected the hot water and washcloth and was gone within seconds. I waited for several minutes to make sure that she wasn’t coming back. Then I tiptoed to my door, opened it slightly to listen. I could barely hear Mom moving around downstairs. I shut the door and tiptoed back to bed, but I picked up the phone and called Peter. His answering machine picked up, and I cursed under my breath.

Of course he isn’t home, dumbass—he’s in school. The whole world’s in school. I didn’t leave a message and just hustled over to the bathroom to wash up. Once scrubbed clean, I stood before the mirror in my bedroom to scan my body for signs of the Trill’s handling. Save for the impossibility of getting a good, thorough view of my back, a long, close examination yielded nothing other than those faint incriminating


bruises I got from Peter. Somehow, though, I couldn’t feel any relief from it. I was convinced that the Trill did something to me while I was passed out. Considering the way his skills in causing mayhem had enjoyed visible progress, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that what had just happened to me was simply one more step up the ladder of Supervillain Proficiency. I desperately needed to talk to—no, to see—to be with—Peter. I shrugged off all dark thoughts and turned my attention to a more casual appraisal of my appearance. Still pale, still skinny. Mrs. Zhang would be upset if I were to tell her that her weightgaining potsticker and double-dose of fortune cookies didn’t work. I also couldn’t help but wonder what Peter would think if he were to see me like that, exposed in all my bony glory. “Hopefully not too grossed out,” I muttered, my spirits sagging a little at the hopelessness of my gay boy aesthetics. I suppose I could always work out, but I didn’t have the money for gym membership or even the cheapest weight training equipment. That is, my parents didn’t have the money. If I dug around the house, maybe I could manage to find a stack of old, heavy books I could lash together and use for weights. The cold, wet weather finally got to me, and I hurried off to throw on some warm, thick clothes and go downstairs. It had only been less than two hours since I woke up, but I felt great—as though I’d never been drugged or fed suspicious sardines. Mom fussed over me the whole day, and I faked a slight indisposition if only to avoid having to talk much. I was too preoccupied with my adventures and especially the conversation I had with the Trill. Could something merely exist for its own sake? I fought to wrap my mind around it. There had to be a reason, I argued, but what? Maybe I was too young, maybe I was too stupid, maybe I was too ignorant of the world—whatever the reason, I couldn’t find a good enough explanation for The Devil’s Trill’s existence. Like he said, he simply was. “Why are you around?” I kept whispering. I got nowhere fast. As I ate lunch while Mom flitted around the kitchen and elsewhere in the house, I could have sworn that I heard the Trill laughing quietly from somewhere nearby. Mocking me with a complacent: Let yourself go, you silly thing, and accept things as they are—without

question. You’ll find that life’s a great deal improved if you did. Who needs logic twentyfour hours a day? Not I. Neither do you. And you know that I’m right. “Maybe you’re right,” I whispered again before shoveling food in my mouth.


Hallucinations sucked.

Of course I’m right. “Don’t flatter yourself. As far as I’m concerned, this is the only time I’m conceding to you.”

Feisty chatterbox, aren’t we? Take care now. Best not to talk like a neurotic, with your mother only a few feet away. You know she’ll be asking too many questions. I blinked, my mouth frozen in mid-chew. Was I just holding a conversation with the Trill? How the hell did he know that Mom was there with me? Where was his voice coming from? Hell, I didn’t even know if what I was hearing was real or not. In the meantime, Mom set down a steaming plate of nuclear drumsticks. “There’s something wrong with the oven, sweetie, just when I planned to roast some chicken. Hope you don’t mind having microwaved drumsticks for now. Dad might be able to fix things when he comes home tonight.”

Ugh. What’s this contemporary mania for prepackaged food? Are you aware that human bodies decompose much more slowly nowadays, no thanks to all the additives we consume in our food? We, sir, are all pickling ourselves alive with every meal. What a disgusting thought. “Oh, my God.” I dropped my fork, startling Mom with the sudden clatter. I quickly pushed my chair away. “Oh, no, he’s here.” “Eric? Honey, is there anything wrong?” Mom started to walk toward me. I reflexively leapt out of my chair, knocking it over, and scuttled to one side of the table. She stopped, blinking. “Eric?”

Did you just throw a piece of furniture down? Goodness, that was subtle. I ought to give you a lesson on finesse, Mr. Plath. “Nothing, Mom—I just—remembered something I need to do.” I took a few breaths and steadied myself. “I have to go.” “What? Where? It’s raining right now.” “I know,” I stammered. “But there’s something I forgot to get for—uh—”

Music class. “Dude, I’m not taking Music classes. Butt out.”

No music classes. How crass. Well, so much for the youth of today. “I said, butt out! God, you’re worse than Althea!” “Eric, who’re you talking to?”


“Nothing—no one—I was just trying to think out loud—you know?” I hurried to the door. “Mom, I gotta go. I won’t be long, though, I promise.” “Where are you going?” Mom demanded, her voice turning harsh. She stood at the other end of the dining room, her arms akimbo, her brows raised. “Eric, you just got over a fever and a kidnapping, and you’re waltzing out the door like that?” “Mom, I’ll be back soon.” “Eric! Come back here!” I ran down the hallway and tore past the front door. I even ignored my bike in my hurry. I just needed to get the hell out of the house, keep the damn Trill as far away from my mom as I could. It was still drizzling when I stepped out, and I was glad that I’d put on a thick, warm hoodie (though an old pair of sneakers in the rain wasn’t a very good idea). I pulled down my hood, but while it helped keep my head from getting wet for the time being, my glasses weren’t safe from the weather, and I blindly fumbled my way through the city. I didn’t know where I was going—only that I wanted to go as far away as possible from my hovel. I meant, house. Yes, house, damn it. I ran out the door, and my pace didn’t change until I’d wandered several blocks away, turning into little side streets here and there just to ensure that Mom wouldn’t be able to shadow me. I hoped to reach the farthest point in the city by the time fatigue overtook me, but all I managed to do was lose my way somewhere in the dingier neighborhoods. I kept reading the street names aloud to myself, forcing my foggy memory to recognize of them, but nothing sounded familiar. In time, I simply gave up.

A very clever move, running off to the seedier corners of the city. I must confess that it took me a while to understand your intentions, but it was well worth the effort. Bravo, sir. I’d completely forgotten that he could hear me. The litany of street names I’d been muttering to myself surely would’ve given him an excellent map to use if he chose to hunt me down. “Oh, shut up, you psychic vampire.”

I will, I assure you, but not without conditions. “Great,” I sighed, throwing my hands up.

Tsk. Have you learned nothing from— “Yes, yes, yes, what I know about life, I learned from Batman.”

Excellent. You’ve done your homework. At this point, my feet were wet, and my soaked sneakers were making all sorts of


embarrassing squishing sounds. I was also beginning to shiver against the cold, and a good part of my jeans were also damp. If I were to engage in a surreal conversation with someone who existed in my head, I might as well look the part. I turned into one alley, grimacing as I hopped over slimy black puddles. A battered old dumpster stood against the rear wall of a filthy tenement. I’d rather not dig around the main bin, but I managed to spot an old cardboard box that had been discarded and left next to it. I broke it down, stomping it flat and sitting on it, huddled beside the dumpster. The tenement’s jutting roof helped keep the rain from washing me down though the occasional breeze scattered the raindrops, and I was pelted with cold, dirty water. I drew my knees up to my chin and hid my face against them. No one from my family would be able to spot me here, I told myself. I clung to the hope with tired desperation. I looked around and spotted a couple of questionable, shapeless lumps at the end of the alley. I could only assume that they were homeless people, bundled up in filthy rags and hiding under makeshift tents that were nothing more than old blankets and cardboard boxes thrown together. I wasn’t so sure at first, but when one of those shapes swayed against the grimy wall, I knew I was right. Hopefully they’d leave me alone. I turned my gaze away and again settled against my damp knees. Peter’s friendship bracelet was still there—wet and cold and uncomfortable around my wrist, but it still gave me comfort. He was sure to find me. “Okay,” I whispered, my teeth chattering. “What conditions are you yammering on about?”

Just one, really. I need you to go to Magnifiman’s headquarters. “I don’t know where they are.”

Oh, I think you do. You’ve had dinner with the family, haven’t you? “They never told me where their headquarters are.”

Their home, Mr. Plath. Just go to their home, and I’ll take care of the rest. I swallowed. “I won’t.”

Might I remind you that I know where you live? Your dear, sweet, doting mother— your overworked, simple father—your bright, lively sister—it’s a charming household you have. “You’re not going to lay a slimy finger on any of them.”

My dear boy, I don’t need to lay a finger on them. Give me some credit, please. I never stoop to soiling my hands with crude criminal methods. It’s quite enough that I know


where you live, trust me. Oh, God. That only meant that any harm done to my family would be subtle and less direct. If he was able to manipulate people with his music, I was sure that he’d be able to hurt or kill them using the same methods. “What did you do to me?”

I made you listen to music. My experiments before didn’t work because mental manipulation took place while the subjects were awake, you see. I learned, quickly enough, that claiming a person’s mind while he’s asleep is far, far more effective. I frowned against my knees. “Listen to music? I don’t remember—” Yes, there was music. There was. When I awoke, I heard faint music in the bedroom but didn’t think much of it then. The melody was so gentle and light that I’d dismissed it as nothing more than a pretty composition. “Jesus.”

Indeed. Imagine what I can do on a larger scale. It would be a symphony at its most glorious. The Trill broke off to laugh—a madman’s laugh. I hated to think how his frustrated musician father was. He could’ve been dropped on his head as a baby—who knew? The only thing I knew was that he’d raised a pretty screwed up kid. There really ought to be a law requiring a special license if one intended to breed. Too many kids turn into victims of their own parents. That sucked in monstrously big ways. “I’d rather kill myself than give you what you want.”

Hurt yourself, my dear Mr. Plath, and it’ll be farewell to an entire family unit. A murder-suicide? Poetically tragic, if you ask me. The bastard.

Stay where you are then. If you won’t take me there, we’ll have to get young Romeo to do it for us, no? I gambled. “How would you know for sure that Calais will find me?”

Why, he always does! Don’t be coy. You know he’ll always find you. “You mean he’s got some built-in radar.”

So naïve. My dear sir, young love will always find a way around difficulties. A bit of a cliché, I’ll admit, but it’s quite true. You’ve got Calais firmly wrapped around your finger. The poor boy has no choice but to exist, superpowers and all, if only to worship at your sneaker’d feet. “Do you always talk like that? Like a bad Valentine’s Day card?”


Insults bore me to tears. My heart hammered. He seemed to know nothing about the bracelet. I latched on to that tiny sliver of hope—though what I wanted to do with it remained to be seen as I’d yet to figure out what my next move would be. Judging from our so-called conversations, it also appeared as though he couldn’t read my mind—only respond to what I verbalized. I mouthed a silent prayer for that added bit of luck. For several moments, I mulled over things while shivering in the rain. Mom surely would be barreling her way through Vintage City’s streets right now, furious and frantic, searching for me. She might’ve called Dad at work, too. If I stayed away from home, maybe the whole family would follow suit, running around the city, ready to wring my neck if they found me, but that was what I needed: for them to be away from the house for as long as possible. Frankly, I’d rather be killed by my own family than a smarmy musical genius with some really whacked out ambitions.

Are you falling asleep, sir? I sighed. “Not if you keep yakking away in my brain. What the hell do you want now?”

Your cooperation, sir. What else? I rolled my eyes and glowered from the damp, uncomfortable shield of my hoodie. “If you want me to stay awake, keep on babbling. I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me all sorts of things about music and violins and so on.”

Why, a boy after my own heart. The Trill babbled on about violas and minor classical masters who never got the respect they deserved. I understood nothing of what he talked about, but I was pleased. If there was anything concrete I learned from Batman, it was that the criminal mind, for all its brilliance, was abnormally narcissistic. Coax it into a self-indulgent one-sided conversation, and he or she would be putty in my hands. I needed to keep him talking until Peter found me. Then we could figure out what to do with this leech. “Uh-huh. Sure. Yeah.” What effective, stock answers. Bored with the hopeless, grungy scene before me, I hid my face behind my knees. The Trill’s voice—no longer disconcerting—settled into a low hum that soothed. It seemed to alter itself, actually. It faded, then strengthened its sound, then faded again, this time washed over by a very faint static-like buzz. It almost felt like I was listening to a radio station, whose frequency was


being interrupted. Strangely enough, I saw nothing odd about it and accepted the sound as one of those background noises that I could eventually ignore. I yawned, my eyes fluttering shut. The steady patter of light rain blended all sounds into a kind of inner-city lullaby.


Chapter 28

I actually fell asleep under such miserable conditions—yes, with the Trill’s voice going on and on and on. I guess I was a hell of a lot more tired than I first thought. When I came to, I was slumped against the dumpster, completely soaked, my nose running, my limbs cramped. The rain didn’t get worse, but the light drizzling continued through the day. There was silence in my mind—or was it my ears? The Trill had stopped yakking. It was almost spooky, that peace and quiet. I almost felt as though I’d been cut loose and left floating in space. When I forced myself upright, I glanced at my watch and saw that I’d been out for about ten measly minutes. I could barely stay on my feet after struggling to stand up. Endless pinpricks ate at my legs and feet, and I had to lean against the dumpster again until the blood properly circulated through my limbs. I was also probably developing pneumonia or whatever brutal respiratory disease could come from an unexpected nap in a filthy, rain-soaked alley. I didn’t care. I only hoped that my family was safe—scattered


somewhere in the city, sure, but safe all the same. Once my legs regained their strength, I escaped my dingy hideaway. I needed to figure out what to do. Not an easy task, given my run-down and feverish state. The only thing I was sure of was that I wasn’t going to betray Trent and Peter, I wasn’t going to let the Trill hurt my family, and I was ready to use myself as a pawn to destroy him. Unfortunately, it was one thing to be resolved to do what was noble and right. It was completely another to be properly equipped to pull it off. I had no weapons. I had no special powers. I had nothing. I wasn’t even smart enough to come up with something clever despite the knowledge that I still had Peter’s bracelet, and it could be my only salvation. I never cared about being an average, inconsequential kid, but, God, it sucked being one at that moment. Hope goaded me on, however. Past conversations with Peter about certain technological wonders flooded my mind. I clung to those memories, took comfort in the possibilities of a proper end to this situation. Suddenly I heard a faint buzz—like static electricity or the sound of a disrupted radio frequency. It fizzled, faded, fizzled again, and gradually, a familiar voice grew louder and more distinct.

…so don’t believe everything you see on film. Damn. “Huh? What film?” I asked, rubbing the back of a hand against my nose. I couldn’t believe that he’d been talking non-stop all that time. Didn’t he notice my silence? The guy must be a hell of a lot more narcissistic than I first thought if he kept yakking on and on, with obviously no one else listening at the other end of the line.

Tsk. Heavens. You were the one who brought it up. Is your memory going already? “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been asleep all that time. Are you on drugs or something?”

My dear, cantankerous friend, one should ask YOU if you’re on something. We’ve been engaged in a very enlightening chat for the past several minutes. I’m amazed, really, by your knowledge of music. One wouldn’t think that you’d know more than time signatures and Mr. Copeland’s RODEO in that beef commercial. A few seconds of faint static followed. Then came silence. I stopped in my tracks, frowning. What was going on? And what was this nutcase talking about? Unless I actually held a conversation with him while I was asleep, I sure as hell wouldn’t have managed something like pretend interest in what he had to say about classical music and film.


The momentary static cleared, and his voice came back.

Ah, very good! For all your sharp tongue, you’re still a damned sight more useful than I first believed. Are you indoors now? Indoors? “You’re hallucinating. You’ve been experimenting with your Obnoxious Nocturne one too many times, it looks like.”

It’s Noxious Nocturne, thank you, sir, and frankly, I’m growing quite weary of your odd juvenile ways. “And vice versa,” I muttered as I moved toward the alleyway’s entrance.

Now that you’re inside Magnifinitwit’s headquarters, stay there. That’s a good boy. I’m tracing your location. What on earth? Headquarters? Hosts? A sharp headache came on. I grimaced, rubbing my temples with my grimy hands. “I think I’m going insane,” I groaned. “Someone shoot me.” More static. More fluctuating frequencies. I was stuck with a defective mind leech, and my head felt as though it were about to burst. The Trill’s voice continued its crazy seesawing and indecipherable train of thought.

…yes, good lad. Now ask them when they’ll be back and insist on waiting for them. I need you to stall. I rolled my eyes and stepped out onto cracked pavement. The small avenue that opened up to me was no less dingy and grimy as the tiny alley I’d just emerged from. Run-down tenements loomed around me. Clotheslines that linked both sides of the street in crisscrossing arcs looked like giant, lifeless cobwebs above me. I’d go on further to say that nothing appeared out of place were it not for the halfdozen squad cars that were parked in front of me, blocking my way. Lights flashed, breaking up the dreary gray monotony of the area. Police officers had taken their positions as well, crouched behind their cars, their guns drawn, all of them aiming at me. I froze, my heart dropping to my feet. “Oh, my God…” “Stand right there, son,” an officer called out. “Raise your hands and place them on your head.” “What—what’s going on?” I stammered, obeying. “I’m not a criminal.” I instinctively glanced down and grimaced at the mess that were my clothes. “Okay, maybe I look like one…” “Just do as we say, and you won’t be hurt.”


The static in my mind—or my ears—broke through icy fear.

…quite good at this! You’ll make a very good assistant! Have you considered working for a supervillain before? My voice couldn’t find its way out of my constricted throat as I stared like doomed deer at the guns that were all aimed at me. I couldn’t even move. My head felt like it was being torn to shreds, but I couldn’t even respond to the agony. “Wait a minute,” I said, finally, my words weak and thin to my ears. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” “Just stay where you are, son. Don’t move those hands.” The officer who spoke immediately got on his radio and spoke to someone. No one else moved. All eyes remained on me. Here and there curious, drawn faces peered out of broken windows. There were no other people on the streets, though. In the meantime, static filled my senses. The Trill’s voice vanished completely though he didn’t seem to be aware of anything wrong. The last time I heard him talk, he was still chattering happily about my skills at being a Supervillain Aide Applicant. The static was soft and gentle enough that it easily turned into background noise, and I managed to ignore it. I was too busy dying of terror where I stood. I certainly didn’t have the time or the presence of mind to move a single cell in my body. Even the escalating confusion of the Trill’s bizarre one-sided conversation in my head was effectively ignored. Amid worsening static, he continued to praise me and my so-called talents at villainy, while giving me more instructions on how to distract my hosts when they arrived home—presumably Mrs. Barlow, Peter, and whoever else would be there. “Thank you, Officer!” a familiar voice called from somewhere above me. “I’ll take it from here.” There was a whoosh, and something large fell, landing in a wet, muddy splat several feet in front of me. “Peter?” I whispered. “Don’t move, Eric,” he said, raising a hand. It was Peter. Calais, that is. In costume, a bit muddied, unsurprisingly, but looking absolutely stunning, now that I saw him in his usual haunts and in daylight. That he came at a moment when I needed him the most only made him all the more beautiful to behold. I silently blessed his bracelet. It was embarrassing, but I couldn’t hold back the tears. The


relief was overwhelming—almost agonizing, ironically. I was going insane, my body was falling apart, and I was this close to being turned into human Swiss cheese by a group of police officers. He was my only constant. He moved toward me with light, cautious steps—as though I were armed and dangerous. “Peter,” I whispered, tears mingling with the rain. He stopped right in front of me. “What’s going on?” He merely pressed a finger against his lips to silence me. “Ssshh,” he whispered back. Then in a louder voice, he said, “Fantastic job, girl! You rock!” I blinked, watching him in confusion. He once again signaled me to keep quiet. The static I’d been hearing happened again. This time it fizzled for several seconds, completely drowning out the Trill’s voice. Then it stopped.

Of course, I rock! I don’t do crazy stuff like this for nothing, you know! “Althea?” I breathed.

Hey, hot pants. How’re you feeling? “Like hell,” I stammered. “Where—where are you?”

Headquarters, of course! Duh! What do you think I’ve been doing the past hour? “What headquarters? I thought you were in school.” I couldn’t help but laugh and cry. Relief, confusion, disbelief—I needed a stiff drink.

Believe it or not, we played hooky for you. Yeah, YOU. You owe us, bucko. Headquarters are at home. My bedroom, actually. “Althea intercepted the connection,” Peter said. “She’s been holding a conversation with the Trill using an altered voice—your voice, actually, that she worked into her program—while you were passed out. It’s a good thing that you kept up a conversation with him for a while; otherwise, she wouldn’t have enough audio data to download.” “My voice?” Peter nodded at my hand. “Your bracelet, you goon. I let her connect to our master computer through hers, and she traced you through the readings we were getting from your bracelet.”

It was a bitch getting audio data, Peter. The damn bracelet wasn’t meant for that, and I had to create all sorts of codes in a rush just to alter the program for what we needed. “What—I don’t understand. How can she get into my mind?”

No—it’s not hypnosis, Eric. Don’t believe the Trill. He’s been lying to you the whole


time. All this crap about hypnosis and music and stuff—I don’t think he’s gotten that far in his experiments. He will eventually—maybe—but not yet. Peter touched my hands, and I pulled them off my head with a grateful sigh. He then turned and gestured to the police officers, who all stood up and withdrew their guns. One of them shouted orders. “Then—what’s with the voice I’ve been hearing? He could hear me, that’s for sure. We’ve been talking all this time.”

Your glasses. “Huh?” Peter gently pulled my glasses off and turned it over to show me. I squinted hard since my eyesight was so bad, and the detail he wanted me to see was so small and barely visible. I could see nothing more than a couple of faint marks on the temple tips. “It’s like a radio—walkie-talkie type thing—but definitely digital. Althea wasn’t sure if she could actually access it, but its technology’s advanced enough for her to take over— barely. If it were something crude and outdated, she wouldn’t be able to surf the wires, so to speak. I guess that’s the only downside to her powers.”

I’m definitely not an old-fashioned girl. “So—the whole time that I was passed out at the Trill’s hideaway—he wasn’t using his Nocturne thing to manipulate my mind. All he did was rig my glasses and then screw around with me by saying that he used music on me.”

You got it. “The bastard.” I paused, rubbing my eyes with my damp sleeve. God, I wanted to beat the crap out of him. “My family—he said that he’ll kill them if—” “It’s not a good idea to go home yet,” Peter replied. “Your family’s fine. They’ve all been evacuated from your house. At the moment, the place is being scoured for hidden devices and stuff.” “Where are they?” “At a safe place. I’m supposed to take you there.” I watched Peter fold my glasses’ temples, but he held on to them. “What about the Trill? Shouldn’t you be going after him?” “Trent’s taking care of him as we speak. He’s got the rest of Vintage City’s police department with him, backing him up. Althea kept the conversation with him long enough for us to trace the source.”


“The Trill’s screwed, then,” I said, laughing tiredly. Peter smiled behind his mask. “I’d help Trent out, but we agreed that this is his fight. The Trill’s thugs are mostly behind bars. The rest of them are hiding somewhere. We might not be able to round them all up, but as long as their boss is taken in, they’re defenseless.” I nodded. “How’d you guys find out about my glasses?” “Poked around your room when you were returned, unconscious. It was Althea who spotted them when we visited you.” “You sense hidden computer chips or something? Is that another power of yours? Super sense?” I prodded, bringing my face closer to my glasses and talking into it as though it were a microphone. I felt ridiculous.

Uh—no. I spotted them. And there’s no need to shout, dude. Ow. “So—that’s it?” I looked at Peter, shaking my head. “It’s a little too simple for someone like the Trill.” “The Devil’s Trill might be a supervillain, but he’s still like one of us, Eric. We haven’t completely mastered our powers, and he’s yet to master his.” Peter grinned wryly. “We’re sort of going about the whole good guy-bad guy battle to the death thing pretty awkwardly right now. We’re all beginners at this. He’s bound to screw up, and so are we.” “I hope not. I’m talking about you, that is. He can screw up as many times as possible, but not you,” I said. My teeth began to chatter, and my nose ran. I was definitely on the verge of pneumonia, which might account for the fact that something about the whole thing didn’t sit well with me. I was relieved beyond words to have Althea and Peter there, but a strange fear lingered, and I couldn’t figure out what it was—or why it existed. Peter held on to my glasses. “We need these, Eric,” he said. “Althea and I never had enough time to study the technology used on you, and I’ve got a feeling that it’s not going to be easy extracting it from your glasses.” “It’s okay, I guess. My old pair’s still at home, and I can use them for now. I need a new prescription, anyway.” Another wave of pain surged through my skull, and I stumbled against Peter. He caught me by my arms and held me steady. “My head hurts like hell. It’s probably from the radio signals or whatever that kept hammering at my ears.” Peter listened grimly. “You need to be tested. I’ll talk to your parents about x-rays or cat scans—” “No, no—we can’t afford it.”


“We’ll figure something out, but you do need to be tested.” He hesitated, looked around us, and quickly gave me a reassuring kiss on the forehead. “Come on. I’ll take you to your family.”

Aahhhh—just another day in the life of a superhero. “Thanks, Althea,” I called out. “You were brilliant. I should take you out for a banana split or something”

I know. Too bad I’m grounded. “What? Why?”

Oh. Mom found out about the ATM stunt I pulled—remember, Eric? I killed the bank’s camera and all that? “She knows about your powers, then…”

Yeah. It was her idea to give me an almost genius IQ, after all. My coming out to her was more of a shock to me than it was to her. I guess in a way I kind of knew, but I didn’t really accept it, you know? I glanced at Peter, who smiled sadly before leading me away. The squad cars had already gone—no doubt in the direction of the Trill’s hideaway. “Peter, did you really need to have all those cops here, pointing their guns at me? I thought I was going to be blown away.” He grimaced. “Sorry. That was the chief’s idea, not mine. Okay, now stop. I’m taking over.” He ordered me to turn around and embrace him. I held on tightly and pinched my eyes shut. “Don’t go too fast, plea—AAGH!” By the time the last word came out of me, we were in space, and my stomach was doing somersaults. I should’ve properly timed the trip to the “safe place” where my family hid (which was, it turned out, Bruno’s Pizzeria and Casino). It must’ve been no more than five seconds, I think, and while I nearly threw up as a side effect from Peter’s incredible speed, I didn’t suffer whiplash.


Chapter 29

The Devil’s Trill’s hideaway was apparently directly below Vintage City’s Opera House. How very gothic Victorian. I hoped that it also had an underground lake and stuff, with secret doors and passageways connecting it to different dressing rooms backstage. Andrew Lloyd Weber would’ve been pleased. It was no wonder then that the window through which I looked when I was there was blocked. It only made me wonder if the Trill suffered from any vitamin deficiency, given his lack of sun exposure. Obviously, his brain did. At any rate, Magnifiman triumphed in the end. The showdown there was pretty impressive, according to accounts. The Trill was traced to his underground lair, and there the head-to-head battle began, with Magnifiman inching his way up to the main opera house, luring his nemesis out. There the police waited. City Hall tore its hair from the roots after seeing the damage done to one of the city’s greatest buildings. Smoke, crumbling plaster, tattered velvet curtains, broken seats—


anything that could happen to an historic icon of high culture did happen. I think the mayor bawled like a baby in his office for days. He hadn’t gotten over the decapitated statue of Vintage City’s founder, and now he had the Opera House. Vintage City looked like a broken mosaic, with its faux nineteenth-century charm tattered in places. No one could deny the modern core that everyone seemed determined to shun. But they had the Trill, and I guess they needed to take the bitter with the sweet. When the smoke cleared, he was dragged away in a straitjacket, howling and swearing to return, and I’d no doubt that we’d be seeing him again soon. Magnifiman rose from the carnage, dusty, soot-covered, but invariably unharmed. Still perfect, still gorgeous, still striking a heroic pose with that self-consciousness that felt so theatrical to me. I thought I saw a breeze pick up, moving his hair (and dust particles) just like in the movies. I guess it was only proof positive that Trent simply loved being a hero, and I was glad for him. He smiled grimly at the camera, while Bambi Bailey, also covered in dust and soot (she’d picked her way through the debris just to get to his side before he’d fly away), her hair disheveled, her dress torn at the skirt, interviewed him. “It’s my duty to uphold the law, Miss Bailey,” Magnifiman declared in a clear, low voice. “Crime doesn’t pay, and it will never pay. While I have breath in me, the people in this great city can be assured that their safety is guaranteed.” “And we thank you and Calais, sir, for everything,” Miss Bailey said between coughs, flapping her hand in front of her face to fan away dust and dirt. “Your presence is greatly appreciated, and Vintage City is all the better for it.” “It’s not to say, though, that the good residents should depend on us all the time.” “Oh, no, of course not!” “We’re here to serve you, but a city can’t be safe without its people’s cooperation. We all need to be vigilant. We need to respect the law. It’s truth, peace, and justice we need to hold dear…” And he went on and on and on. Nearby, Liz sighed dreamily, and Mom called out an approving word or two. Dad merely shook his evening paper, which he preferred to read while the news was on. I blinked and squinted and sighed as my eyesight adjusted to my old prescription. My other glasses never found their way back to my face. Peter and Trent kept them, and they’d been studying their technology with Althea’s help. All of the information they pulled out was once again classified, which meant that I was doomed never to know. Once they were done, they handed my glasses over to the police


department for processing and whatever else Sgt. Vitus Bone had in mind for them. No one found anything planted in our house, but Peter reassured us that we were under Magnifiman’s protection. “Mostly yours, I’m sure,” I chided him as we sat on the rooftop one warm, clear evening, chilling out. He was again taking a fifteen-minute break from crime-fighting, and, no, my family had yet to be told that my boyfriend was a superhero. “The whole city’s under my protection—and whoever else crawls out of the woodwork, flexes his superpowers, and identifies himself as a good guy, I guess.” “My house gets special attention from you still.” Peter laughed as he pushed me down on my back and stretched himself out beside me. “Okay, you got me. My bad, my bad.” I reached out for him, held his face between my hands, and kissed him hard. He was five minutes late back from his break that night. I had a really freaky dream a week after my ordeal. In it I was simply floating in space, unable to move any part of my body. In the inky nothingness, the Trill’s voice could be heard—laughing in that creepy, manic way of his.

You didn’t really think that I could do something so absurdly simple and elementary, did you? Your glasses, the computer-radio I fixed onto them, my orders for you to find Magnifiman’s headquarters? Good lord, you all took the bait, looked only for what was so obvious, not knowing that things are a good deal more complicated than you think. Why should I bother going through all that trouble, spiriting you away just to “fix” a pair of glasses? Poor moonstruck Romeo got it wrong—all of you did. And how easy it was to prove your gullibility with such a ridiculous “errand.” My dear sir, if I wanted Magnifitwit, I’d have used far more sophisticated methods, not send an unarmed boy like that. I told you the truth one time about the music in your room, yet you refused to listen. Tsk, tsk. Does it bother me to be detained like this? Why, not at all. I used myself as a pawn, gambled away my freedom, but still emerged victorious. This is going just as I’d hoped, and I can afford to wait and watch my young protégé from a distance. It’s all a matter of time, you see, before the bud unfurls its petals. I’m in a drab little cell now, but not for long. Believe me, when the time’s ripe, you’ll feel it, and you WILL come to your maestro. Until that day arrives, rest, young Mr. Plath. Rest. All good things, as they say, come to those who wait. I awoke in a panic, my shirt drenched in sweat, my breath coming in rapid gasps. “It’s


only a dream,” I whispered again and again, but I could still feel his voice no longer in my head, but all over me. Like airy fingers, his fading words touched, traced, and mocked. I told my family the next morning. Dad insisted that I needed more x-rays, so I was once again fed into the CT scanner. Nothing was found wrong with my head just like before, and the doctors waved me off with a clean bill of health. I didn’t want to ask my parents how badly those scans set them back financially, but they didn’t seem to care. “Just stay healthy, Eric,” Mom said and left it at that. Neither the nightmare nor the headaches returned, and little by little, my vigilance eased. Peter and Althea claimed that it was nothing more than an after-effect of my trauma. “Sometimes I just don’t know what to believe anymore,” I said. “No one’s ever screwed with my head the way he did.” “Even if he does get out, he’s crippled. His hideaway’s gutted, his thugs—whoever’s left—are scattered. He’s got nothing, Eric. He can’t touch you like this, all homeless and abandoned. There’s no way,” Peter replied, and I took comfort in his confidence. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Althea patted my hand. “Time to move on, sweet cheeks. We’ve got more crime fighting to do.” The new bad guy on the block made his presence known a couple more times, but nothing happened. He was merely spotted here and there, his two tiny minions following him around. They were always cloaked in shadows, but I figured that it wouldn’t be long. It was going to be his turn next, with the Trill’s operations halted indefinitely. “We’re keeping an eye on him,” Peter said as we both people-watched from our comfy spot on the grass. The sun was out, the weather was fairly warm, and everyone was taking advantage of the respite from the rain. We spent as much time as we could lounging around the park, some snacks packed in a canvas bag nearby. “What about the carnival?” I asked as I leaned back on my elbows. “One thing at a time, Eric,” he laughed, giving me a gentle nudge. “Althea still can’t find anything on them.” “Maybe we’ll never know what we want to know.” I turned to grin at him. “That’s pretty pessimistic for a superhero.” “Is it? I always considered it realism.” I sighed, turning my attention back to children frolicking on the grass, their families


watching and laughing nearby. A couple of dogs capered, chasing a Frisbee. “I guess you’re right.” No one knew much about Althea as a superhero, but word was now getting out about some mysterious being who haunted cyberspace—pretty close, yes, but not quite. Althea might be a bit disappointed at being relegated the role of the invisible superhero, but she was good at what she did, and like Trent, she loved being the good guy. When Bambi Bailey christened her Spirit Wire, she laughed herself sick but didn’t argue. The name stuck, and she carried it around, unspoken, proud as hell. “I won’t be surprised if some supervillain comes around to be my archenemy,” she declared with a smug grin over her raspberry mocha. The Jumping Bean had turned into our own private “conference room” outside Renaissance High’s library. “I’ll kick his cyber ass.” “I’m sure you will.” Peter laughed. For Peter and Trent, Vintage City remained their playground. There were lowlifes that needed to be swept off the streets. Every now and then, they’d manage to pick up a stray hoodlum or two from The Devil’s Trill’s pack. And here and there, they’d keep an eye out for signs of their new nemesis, who remained elusive. Trent remained just as elusive to the ladies—and Bambi Bailey—as the new guy. The online RPG communities weren’t pleased, but they had plenty of alternate universe story ideas, and they went wild. Last time I checked, Magnifiman and Bambi Bailey were married and were spawning a brood of halfsuperheroes, with a couple of them turning into villains. Calais had a string of girlfriends. I decided not to join in as a gay character to complicate things. Althea continued to work diligently on her powers, with Mrs. Horace helping her whenever she could. Peter and I were Althea’s support group and mentors. For me, regular Joe Blow, humdrum life returned. I had chores, homework, errands. I got scolded, grounded, whatever. I finally decided on an art college—the Hallworth Academy of Arts and Letters in the city of Barron—for my final academic destination, much to my parents’ dismay. A Ph.D. in Literature wasn’t quite what they had in mind for me, I guess. Maybe they thought it was just a phase I went through. “You’re not turning into another one of those gloomy, pot-smoking bohemians, are you?” Dad asked. “What kind of work do you expect to end up with, with a degree from that place?” “Well, I don’t know,” Mom said, placing a reassuring hand on Dad’s. “It could be


worse. He could be a Liberal Arts major.” “Honey, I was a Liberal Arts major.” “You know what I mean, dear.” Apparently Dad did because he narrowed his eyes at Mom and growled before hiding behind his newspaper again. Mrs. Zhang continued to harangue me over my weight, and we kept getting free potstickers from her kitchen, bless her. “When you come back, I don’t want to see bones poking out of your skin,” she said, gesticulating with a ladle. She often followed that with a muttered line or two in Chinese. I preferred not to find out what threat it might be. I’d been attempting push-ups in my bedroom for some time now. It was partly because I enjoyed a number of very steamy dreams involving Peter, and I always woke up feeling not only hot and bothered, but also self-conscious about my appearance. The last time I’d looked at the mirror, I knew I needed to take the incentive. I had another haircut, which pleased Mom, but I maintained the uneven blue-and-black dye job. I flattered myself into thinking that I looked like a blue-streaked Alec Scudder (without the curls). I did, however, give up my blue food coloring fetish. Going around coloring one’s milk or eggs to make one’s sister sick over breakfast wasn’t really cool—especially when one happened to be going steady with a superhero. I did what I could to ensure that Peter’s—Calais’s— heroic image would be held up by a mature, stronger, more capable me (even if most people would never know about us). To further that end, I also decided that I needed a Bowflex Ultimate 2 and told my parents just that over spongy meat loaf one evening. Mom rolled her eyes. Dad told me to go to a real college.

End of Book One


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