Dull Boy (14 page)

Nicholas laughs. “I know, right? Darla keeps telling me that great minds can triumph over anything—the great mind is Darla, if she hasn’t made that abundantly clear yet—but it’s not that simple. She thinks I can train my power and learn to control it, but the only way to train it is to purposely use it . . . and there’s too much room for error. It’s like testing a nuclear bomb to find out what it does. Yeah, you’d end up with answers, but maybe you’re better off not knowing. At least this way it’s still speculation, that I destroy things because some part of me wants to. If I ever really tap into that, and find out that deep down I’m a monster . . .”

He repositions the flaps of his trench coat, folds his arms over his chest. “Would you want to know that about yourself?”

“I feel like I’m still figuring that out.” My voice comes out weak and I clear my throat. “I’ve done some things that make me wonder that, too. It was never because I wanted to hurt anyone—I just couldn’t control it. It’s like I have to relearn everything. And when I’m worked up—scared, or even feeling competitive or whatever—I don’t think. Stuff just happens and then you’re left with a bunch of broken pieces, and there are no rules to tell you how to handle it.”

“Exactly,” Nicholas says. “That’s the thing Darla doesn’t get. There
are
no rules. She wants to help us make them. But I feel like I might be opening Pandora’s box if I try to tame my power. I’d rather just suffocate it.”

We’re quiet awhile, watching the water boil, dumping in the dried macaroni, and stirring it around. I wonder what he means by “suffocate it.” How do you stop your power without stopping yourself?

I hear music coming from the other room—not sun-shiny, girly pop but hard, raucous metal. The lead singer’s voice sounds like it’s being filtered through a lawn mower. Not quite Sophie’s style.

“Sounds like they migrated,” Nicholas says. “Darla’s probably blowing off steam. Come on—before she head-bangs herself to death.”

I turn off the burner and we head out to the living room, where Darla is standing on the couch, hands poised for air guitar, thrashing like mad.

“Careful.” Nicholas grabs her shoulders to steady her. She already looks woozy. “You could hurt someone with that giant brain of yours.”

“Good,” she mutters, sinking down into the couch cushions. “I hope it gives Jacques a concussion. I would’ve zapped him but I knew Sophie would never talk to me again if I did.”

Nicholas pats Darla’s head, casually petting her hard-rocking hair into place and soothing her at the same time. She’s fidgety, but I think she’s calming down. Well, as much as is possible for Darla.

“Where’d they go?” I ask.

“Basement,” Darla says. “Sophie has a sewing room down there. She wanted to show Jacques the costume she made for him.”

“He . . . uh, he wears a costume?”

“I don’t know if he’ll actually
wear
it,” Nicholas says. “Sophie made one for all of us. I think she did some sketches for yours. She wanted to get your okay first.”

“I don’t trust him!” Darla sputters, springing away from Nicholas’s hand. She folds her arms behind her back and starts pacing. “His mom is an evil megalomaniac pod person with no soul who thinks she knows
everything
—”

Nicholas raises his eyebrows at me mid-rant. “Sound familiar?”

“FYI, Nicholas, I am not an evil pod person with no soul.”

“Um, about this evil thing . . . does anyone want to explain that to me? Or is this just part of crazy-exaggeration happy hour?”

“He knows about Cherchette,” Nicholas tells Darla.

“She offered you the same deal?” Darla asks, shocked for a sec before I nod and she shouts, “I knew it! Didn’t I predict this? I knew, I freaking
knew
she would come for you! And you have to ask me why she’s evil??”

“Uh, apparently,” I say, running through a whole list of dastardly villains in my head. “Unless she eats babies and wears a skeleton mask and I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Darla takes a deep breath and sits down, all stern like she’s prepared to school me. “Avery, seriously—what kind of person shows up out of nowhere and tries to lure kids away from their parents? Murderers, pedophiles, and psychopaths. Normal people do not do that. Just because she didn’t offer you candy and tell you your mom was in the hospital, then ask you to get in her car so she could drive you there, doesn’t mean she has good intentions.”

“Yeah, but she has powers,” I say. “She’s proven that. And she’s a little weird, but so are we. I doubt she wants to carve us up in her basement. She’s probably just trying to help, like she says.”

“If she really wanted to help, she’d arrange to be a liaison with your parents, and give
them
the info they need to help you. Not take matters into her own hands and make you, like, lie to your mom and dad and disappear from their lives forever.
That
is evil. It’s exerting waaay too much control over you guys, when what you really need is practice—not some creepy, ice-sculpted villainess running your lives for you.”

“That does sound kind of evil,” I admit. “But I still think you’re totally wrong.”

Nicholas presses his palm to Darla’s head to calm her before her eyes can pop out. I’m getting the impression that
wrong
is like the dirtiest word you can use when it comes to Darla.

“What kind of liaison is she supposed to be? Look at the X-Men and Professor Xavier. He invites superpowered people to live with him at his school because he’s trying to help them learn about their powers. He can’t exactly pop into the X-Jet and make house calls whenever a new crisis erupts, so he brings them to where he is.”

“Yeah, but in that case, the parents still know where their kids are,” Darla points out. “Everything about Cherchette is shrouded in secrecy.”

“My freaking power is a secret!” I say. “Are you saying I should tell my parents about it?”

“No! That would be a horrible idea! You’re missing the whole point! Do you know what I’ve been able to find out about Cherchette, other than what I’ve learned from Nicholas? Next to nothing! Her life is so tightly guarded that it’s like she doesn’t exist. Meanwhile, she seems to know
everything
about you guys. Doesn’t that scare you?”

“Darla also hates that Cherchette even knows about us in the first place,” Nicholas says. “She doesn’t like anyone having the same secret intel she has.”

“Speaking of that,” I say. “Darla, how
do
you have all this information? I mean, Sophie and Nicholas I get, but as for me, and, um . . .”

“Catherine?” Darla fills in. “Catherine was easy. Once I knew that people with powers existed, all it took was a combination of my excellent observation skills, and an awareness of the trouble she was getting into. I used to hang out at Roast way before I started ‘stalking’ her.” She adds finger quotes that I’m sure are for my benefit. “It’s a good place to study. And Catherine plus a freshly mopped floor is an amazing sight. Her balance is
un
real. Plus, have you ever noticed that she punctures stuff with her nails, without meaning to? Like, cuts her skin or scratches the tables with just a casual touch? I could go on, but I think you’ve seen the rest for yourself.”

I nod, remembering the carnage when Catherine tangled with Big Dawg. “I mean, but do you think it’s obvious? Because I know she doesn’t want to be found out. None of us do. But if
you
could figure it out . . .”

“No way.” Darla shuts that down, sure as sure can be. “I had to know what to look for. And once I knew that powers existed, any and all ‘amazing feats of adrenaline’ had to get a second look. Like a guy your age lifting a car? Nice
Today
show interview, by the way. Very heroic. I’m surprised you didn’t get a girlfriend after that.”

“Uh, thanks,” I say, wondering how I’m supposed to take that, and whether I should be creeped out that she probably has files on my love life.

“The point is, I have a reason for knowing about you guys.
And
I’m not methodically hunting kids down.”

“
Or
enrolling in their schools and adopting different personas to try to befriend them,” Nicholas says. “That would be insane.”

Darla throws a pillow at him. “Remind me why I haven’t replaced you with a robot?”

“No clue.” Nicholas grins. “Because you’re lazy?”

Darla howls and stomps on the couch, hurls the last remaining pillow at Nicholas. I wonder if she’s flirting with him or if she’s just being overly dramatic. Maybe both.

“Is she about to turn into the Hulk?” I ask.

“Yep.” Nicholas grabs Darla and flips her over his shoulder so he can carry her down the stairs. “Let’s check on the dynamic duo. Sophie has an Xbox and a pool table in the basement, so we should be able to find something to do without killing each other. Right, Darla? Can you behave or do you need to live in upside-down world a little longer?”

“The blood is rushing to my brain,” Darla says. “You’re
only
making me stronger!”

“Looks like dizzier,” I point out.

We troop down the stairs and enter a subterranean playground. While the rest of the house is decorated in this deliberately stuffy style (lots of breakables and expensive furniture, paintings of landscapes and flowers), the basement is a bastion of cartoon violence—with some girly, glittery stuff thrown in. Posters of Captain America and Supergirl share wall space with fashionista manga girls. A Ping-Pong table has been reborn as a plastic battleground: toy-size Master Chief leads an army of cutesy Japanese trading figures, Disney princess dolls showing off their right to bear arms (um, since when does the Little Mermaid wield a submachine gun?), and G.I. Joes against a legion of alien grunts—with Godzilla bringing up the rear.

My fingers itch with the desire to pop Cinderella’s head off and stuff it into Godzilla’s open maw so it looks like he’s eating it.

But I resist. I’m competing with a guy who has a driver’s license and wears jewelry—I doubt he does stuff like that.

Nicholas dumps Darla onto a pile of beanbag chairs. “You want to check on them?” he asks me. “The sewing room’s back there. Sophie probably wants to show you her costume sketches anyway.”

Nice. More semi-alone time with Jacques. I bundle up in a blanket toga and matching cape (yeah, there’s a style for you) and lumber over to the sewing room. Fingers crossed that I don’t get turned into a Popsicle.

I hear them before I see them.

“. . . tonight it’s a dinner party. No big surprise there,” Sophie says, with an eye-roll kind of tone. “They’re never here. And I guess it’s convenient sometimes but I wonder if they even remember they
have
a kid, or if they just think they hired an underage housekeeper.”

Jacques laughs awkwardly, sort of stiffly and politely. “I doubt they think you are their housekeeper. But I know what you mean. My mother is frequently away . . . always with something more important to do. People to meet. You know.”

“The worst thing is when they’re actually here and we’re eating some kind of gross macrobiotic takeout and my mom will have the nerve to be like, ‘Oh, remember Snitzi so-and-so? She’s editing her school’s newspaper now!’ And it’s like, oh, I’m sorry—is there some journalism ambition I’m supposed to have that you never told me about? Or do you just like knowing what other kids are doing and not your own?”

“Their priorities are warped,” Jacques says. “They are so busy looking elsewhere, they don’t realize how special you are.”

Sophie giggles. “Thanks, Jacques. That’s sweet. Okay, enough of my whining: arms up? Ooh, it looks awesome! Not that we’ll even have a chance to
wear
costumes. Darla’s being so bossy lately . . . and if she doesn’t want to include you, it’s gonna be like this constant war with her . . .”

“Even so, thank you. I like it very much.”

Jacques is standing with his arms way out at his sides while Sophie makes adjustments to the motocross-looking costume he’s wearing: it’s pearl white with armored plates on the knees, elbows, chest, and back, and a silver snow-flake emblem on the chest—like where Spider-Man has a spider and Batman has a bat. Sophie’s got a row of pins pressed between her lips, but she still manages a grin when she sees me.

“I don’t know if I can compete with
that
costume,” she says.

“I figured I could be blanket-toga man. You like the look?” I do a model spin, confident that while Jacques might be cooler than me (literally), he can’t rock a ratty blanket like I can.

“I’m impressed,” Sophie says. “But if you want to see the sketches I did for you—you know, just so you can see how inferior they are . . .”

“Bring ’em on.”

She sticks a few more pins in Jacques and dismisses him to get changed, then watches over my shoulder while I flip through her sketchbook.

The amazing Avery costumes range from old-school spandex to Jacques’s motocross-inspired look. I have my choice of logos, too: a badass eagle, a clenched fist, a silhouette of a strongman, and a star. Not every design is to my taste, but they’re all really well done. “Wow,” I say. “You do art, you bull-ride, you teach your Barbie dolls guerrilla warfare. You’re like a Renaissance girl.”

She pokes me in the ribs, but she’s totally smiling. “I do not bull-ride. Want to see mine?”

She flicks through a rack of costumes—all skimpy or with cutouts and mesh panels to take advantage of her power. Some are sparkly figure-skater-style numbers, covered with sequins; others are sleeker and more practical. There’s even a spandex jumpsuit for Darla: purple with orange racing stripes. “So she can fit into her mecha better,” Sophie explains.

“Mecha?”

“Umm . . . it’s like this giant robot Darla built to ride around in. Have you ever seen Gundam? Almost like an armored bodysuit but bigger, because it has a cockpit.”

“Wait—for real? As in, she really built this and it works, it’s not just papier-mâché or something?”