School for Sidekicks (2 page)

There wasn't much to do after that except eat and take everyone home. We didn't really have a lot to talk about outside of the game. I mentioned that none of them were what you'd call real friends, right? Maybe I'd better explain.

I'm smart enough to do well in my classes without busting my butt, but I'm not that into academics, and I don't hang around with the brains and the grinds. The athletes tolerate me because I do bust my butt there, but they're not my natural crowd either. The geeks are probably closest to being my people, because a lot of them are pretty Mask crazy, too. But my—by their standards—wholly unnatural association with the jocks makes me a little too suspect.

It's weird, really. All the books and vids about school paint everyone as being
in
or
out
. Either you're popular and everyone loves you even if you're mostly a jerk. Or, you're not popular and you get shoved into lockers. Nobody tells stories about kids like me who slide through school with no real connections and no real enemies. Kids who are just
there
.

Sometimes it makes me feel like I don't exist, like I'm a ghost. That's how my teachers treat me, too, like furniture. Mom says it's because I don't cause enough trouble for them to worry about me, and I don't brain it up enough to be a pet. Whatever the reason, I'm not really close to any of the other kids, and I'm okay with that.

Really.

 

2

Camp Commanding

My alarm went off at nine, like it does every day in summer—my mom doesn't want me to get too out of touch with getting up in the morning. I stared at the little beeping devil and willed it to turn off like I did every day ever. Nothing. So I willed it to blow up, catch fire, fly out my window, and turn into a frog, each in turn.

It just kept beeping.

So, no mental powers. Also, I felt like I'd been run over by a bus. I decided to blame it on drinking most of a case of MaskerAde the day before. I smacked my alarm to make it shut up, and moved on to the next big test—rolling out of bed … and not catching myself.

It's tougher than you might think.

I hit the floor hard and banged my nose. It hurt.

So, no flight and no invulnerability.

Grabbing the leg of my bed, I lifted. No superstrength either. Also, no laser eyes, no power jewels sliding around under my skin, no hurricane breath, and no stretching my arms and legs like taffy.

All around, a disappointing morning. Oh, and did I mention that I felt like burned toast? Because I really, really did. Still, I had things I was supposed to do, so I dragged myself off to the bathroom for a shower and all the other stupid morning things that people without powers had to do. Maybe my mom would let me go back to bed afterward if I fell asleep in my oatmeal.

Whatever happened next, I was going to have another superboring entry in my hero's log. Superboring appears to be my only real power.

*   *   *

“Evan Quick, Hero's log, May the 25th, and … no. I just can't do this. I'm not twelve anymore, and I am
never
going to be a Mask. Get over yourself, Evan.”

With a sigh I flicked off the camera on my phone and reached for the button to trash the video. It was always kind of a stupid dream, and my thirteenth birthday was as good a reason to admit that as any. No one knew what gave people superpowers. Not these days, and there was never going to be another Hero Bomb. I was out of luck.

When my phone offered me the option to “select all” of the videos in my hero's log folder, I stabbed the button with my thumb. It really was time to give up. Past time.

“Delete?”

No real Mask could possibly feel as wrecked as I did right then. If a sugar crash could take me out like this, what hope did I really have? I clicked yes and there was a dream dead. Thirteen for twenty-four whole hours and a complete failure already. Nothing to look forward to except high school, a boring degree in college, and years of drudgery afterward. I might as well plan on majoring in accounting like my dad and get it over with.

I fell back on the bed and stared at the poster of Captain Commanding on the wall above. It was life-size. The big man wore a red, white, and blue uniform and had one arm out like it was resting on your shoulders. I'd always done my hero's log sitting in front of it so it would look like we were friends or something. Kind of pathetic, no?

“Evan, honey, are you ready?” My mother called up the stairs. “We need to leave for Camp Commanding soon.”

“I'll be down in a minute, Mom.”

Awkward.
Here I was giving up my Mask dream on the same day Mom took me to get a season pass to Camp Commanding—the promised land for Mask nerds. This was the first year I was going to be allowed to go by myself. I should probably have told her to forget it, since all I really wanted to do was go back to sleep, but I didn't want to let her down.

She and my dad had been indulging my Mask fantasies for ages. I'd never exhibited the tiniest sign of any kind of powers, but they were always willing to drive me to see the latest hero movies in megamax 3-D, or buy me tickets to Camp Commanding, or pick up a fresh box of Commanding Grahams for breakfast. Whatever, they were supersupportive—always telling me I could grow up to be anything I wanted, no matter how ridiculous.

Seriously? Both of
them
had supersupportive parents, too, and look where they ended up. Dad's an actuary, kind of the nerd king of accountants. Mom's a professor at a big university where she teaches and does mathematical modeling of adhesives. That's what they wanted to be when they grew up? I don't think so.

Not when my grandparents include Dad's moms, the ballerina-turned-choreographer and her wife, the painter. My other grandmother is a chef, and her husband writes comics. They met when
their
parents' communes had a joint event. With that much cool in the generation before my parents, what happened? Some kind of zombie math ray? Or maybe every generation of my family was less awesome than the last. If so, I was utterly doomed.

“Honey, we need to go now!”

“Be right there!” I sat up, flipped my worn old Captain Commanding bedspread into a rough semblance of a made bed and stumbled down the stairs. I was totally beat. Maybe I could catch a nap on one of the slower rides.

*   *   *

The parking lot had already soaked up a ton of sunlight, and opening the car door felt like opening an oven. Instant sweat monster. I paused before getting out, staring up at the fifty-foot fiberglass statue of the Captain that towered over the entrance to Camp Commanding. Today, he looked like he was judging me for giving up on my Mask dream …

My mom poked me in the arm and said, “That's it, no more MaskerAde for you, kiddo. You crash too hard the next day.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes, but she might have a point. I was tired and I felt weird.

“Honey, are you all right?” My mother was giving me the strangest look, and I realized I still hadn't gotten out of the car.

“Mm-fine.” I started shuffling toward the entrance to the park.

My mother fell in beside me. “Oh my, have we hit the grunting phase of teen communication already? That came on rather suddenly.” She laughed. “I can roll with that. For the next—what, four years or so—grunt once for yes and twice for no, and I'll slide all your meals under the door of your room.” She tilted her head to one side. “Or maybe you could learn to grunt in Morse code. That'd be adorable.”

I stuck my hands deep in my pockets and hunched my shoulders. It really wasn't fair to have parents who were so intent on
understanding
and
supporting
you. I couldn't remember the last time I'd gotten yelled at. Not even when I yelled at them first—
do you know how frustrating that is?

When I was three, they applauded when I had a giant grocery store meltdown, then rated it like an Olympic event. When I was ten, I had a fit about having to give them all my online passwords “for emergencies.” Afterward, they produced a plastic replica of an Academy Award with my name on it. Well, really, it was a Captain Commanding action figure spray painted gold, but how do a couple of math nerds even think of that? Seriously, it drives me crazy sometimes how cool they try to be.

Most of the other kids at school had normal parents—there, but kind of vaguely in the background. Mine kept forcing me to pay attention to them by giving my every word serious thought and
listening
all the time. Sure, they mocked me, but only when I was being ridiculous. Infuriating at the time, if only aggravating in retrospect.

I sighed and rolled my eyes again—this time at myself. One completely unfair side effect of having parents like mine is that it's really hard to sustain a sulk. You get to thinking about what you're doing, and then pretty soon you can't help but laugh. Not that I would ever admit that to Mom.

“Honey?”

“Yeah, Mom.” I glanced up. “What is it?”

“Have a good day.” She leaned in and gave me a quick peck on the cheek—
gross
.

“What?” We were only about a third of the way to the park's entrance, and here she was half turned around to head back to the car already. Had she figured out I wasn't really interested anymore? That would be a big relief, but … “Wait, aren't you supposed to be buying me a ticket?”
So confused.

She laughed and waved her phone at me. “Already did, online, last night. New feature this year.” She pressed a button on the screen. A half second later my phone binged at me. “Pass is on your phone now, wave it over the reader at the gate and you're in. I only wanted to walk up with you for old time's sake. But you look like you need some alone time, so I'm going to leave you here. Call if you need me to pick you up before the park closes.”

“I … what about dinner?” Or lunch, for that matter?

“Online pass comes with meals. Wave your phone over the reader. It'll bill me.” She looked over the top of her glasses. “But don't think that means you're going to eat garbage. I picked the healthy meals option, and the system won't let you buy anything that doesn't have a green sticker on it. So, no MaskerAde, no chips, no candy. Not on my dime anyway. Love you.” Then she was walking away.

“Mom?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes.”

“Thanks … for giving me some space.”

She snorted. “You're thirteen, you're going to need a lot of it.”

Before I could think of anything sarcastic to say, she started walking again. Okay, they might drive me crazy, but my folks
were
kind of cool. As I got closer to the gates, I saw Glen and Jamal lining up ahead of me and ducked behind a handy adult so they wouldn't see me. They played basketball, too, and were with some of the guys from the team—not my people at all.

They spotted me anyway, and Manny, their semiofficial leader—team captain—called out, “Hey, Quick, where's your Dorkman suit?”

I winced inwardly, but knew better than to let it show. “It's in the Dorkmobile, of course.”

My Dorkman suit was an acid-green spandex running shirt and matching tights my parents had bought me for winter track. Most of the other runners on my track team went in for loose running pants and baggy shirts. The one time I wore spandex to a practice, they'd called me out for wearing a Dorkman suit. It had taken me three months and a couple of fights to get the track guys to stop ribbing me about it. Unfortunately, the basketball team hadn't given up yet.

Manny made a big show of surprise. “What, you're not going to wear it into the park? I'd think this is the perfect place for it.”

I shook my head sadly. “Dude, secret identity, duh!”

He smiled. “Good answer, Quick. You're not so bad. A little weird, but all right. You thinking about trying out for basketball this year?”

“I might.” You couldn't pay me enough, but I wasn't about to say that to the team captain. “But you guys are really good, and the competition's tough.” No harm in buttering him up a bit if it'd get me out of the hot seat.

It seemed to work, because they went back to joking among themselves and left me alone after that. That was all to the good. I'm actually pretty bad at athletics, especially for someone on the track team. I do it anyway because, well … I looked up at the giant sculpture of Captain Commanding—because of that.

Have you ever really wanted something? I mean really, deep down in your bones? So bad you would do practically anything to get it? That's how I felt about being a Mask. I get picked last in any team sport, and I trip over my own feet if I'm not careful. But I'm still on track, and I lift weights with the real jocks every day of the school year.

It's not because I like running or weightlifting. I
hate
running. Every single second that I'm out there putting one foot in front of the other I'm thinking,
I hate this, I want to quit, I hate this, I want to quit, I hate … etc.
Lifting weights is even worse. You've got all the work and none of the changing scenery to keep you from being bored out of your skull. But I still do it. Do you know why? Because the Captain works out every day, and because I have spent every day of the last ten years wanting to become a Mask so I could be just like Captain Commanding.

My dream would be utterly and completely pathetic if he didn't make such a difference. He's the most important Mask in the whole world. Sure, he can come off as a little full of himself, but the dude's earned the right. He's saved tens of thousands of lives. Personally.

That's really what being a Mask is all about, at least for the true heroes—helping people. I
hate
how corny I sound when I think this kind of stuff, but it's true. If I had superpowers, I could be so much more than plain old me. I could do the kinds of things that would make the world a better place. I could make a difference!