Sidekicked (26 page)

Some of them are older, though. One shows the Fox holding two burglars by the scruffs of their necks.
JUSTICIA
'
S NEWEST SUPER SAVES DAY
. Another shows her shaking hands with the mayor.

And then there's one of the Titan, looking young and fit, but lost somehow, standing in front of a microphone. The other members of the Legion of Justice stand behind him. Kid Caliber. Mantis. Corefire. Venus. The headline reads
TITAN STEPS DOWN: FUTURE OF LEGION UNCERTAIN
.

And one more, tacked in the bottom corner, showing the Legion of Justice standing in front of the smoking remains of the Suits' secret headquarters. I've seen this one before. I've got a commemorative copy of it stashed away at home somewhere. I know what the headline says before I even read it.

DEALER DEFEATED
!

It's dated six years ago.

I touch the picture lightly, forgetting for a moment where I'm at and that I shouldn't be touching anything. Then I turn and look at Mr. Masters's desk.

I sit down slowly, careful not to move anything. The desk is covered with file folders, all with names of superheroes on them, both old and new. Corefire. Kid Caliber. Cryos. Hotshot. Mantis. Miss Mindminer. The Rocket.

The Titan. Sitting right here at the top of the pile.

I take the folder and open it carefully, using my sleeve as a glove. The folder is stuffed. Bio sheets and copies of old mission reports. Photos of the Titan battling half a dozen different villains. Taking on a convoy of tanks. Leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Stealing away into the night. I flip through the pages, not sure what I'm looking for. Some mention of the name Red. Some clue as to what Mr. Masters is hiding from me. But I don't find anything. Only a copy of a letter stashed at the very back, dated well over a year ago. It's to Nathan Masters from Parker Kent at the Department of Homeland Security.

It's a request. For Mr. Masters to find the Titan and do whatever he needs to do to bring him back into the picture. To get him involved in the H.E.R.O. project perhaps.

To give him a sidekick.

I hear a noise, closer than the rest—the sound of someone opening the door to the teachers' lounge—and I shut the folder and hold my breath, forgetting that no one but me could possibly hear me breathing from that far away. I concentrate, listening to the sound of coffee being poured. Someone—Mrs. Rattishburger—moans, “Is it four o'clock yet?” And then I hear the door close again.

I remember to breathe and then quickly shuffle through the remaining folders, looking for the name Red, but there's nothing, no mention of him anywhere. My eye catches the clock behind me. Time stands still still, it seems. But I know I don't have long. Once the last period is over, Mr. Masters might come back down here. I need to be gone. Then I remember the phone call.

I know you're lying to me
.

I look at the phone. It's an untraceable line, I'm sure. The green display shows no record of past incoming calls.

But there
is
a redial button. It's a shot in the dark, but I've already come this far.

I scoot to the edge of Mr. Masters's chair and pull my sleeve back down around my hand before picking up the phone, then press redial using the tip of a pen from my pocket. It rings four times before voice mail picks up.

“Hey there. You've reached Jim Rediford. Unless this is an emergency, I don't want to talk to you. If it is an emergency, hang up and dial 911.”

Jim Rediford.

Red.

I hang up, but I don't dial 911. This isn't that kind of emergency.

I look at the display, at the phone number that's listed there. Then quickly use my pen to write it on the back of my hand. My palm is way too sweaty, and it smears a little.

So Mr. Masters did lie to me. But why? To protect me? Or to protect someone else? Maybe to protect himself.

I bend down to check the desk drawers when I hear a familiar voice. It's Ms. Canfield, my history teacher from last year. It's coming from right outside the teachers' lounge. “Aren't you supposed to be teaching this period?” she asks. I hear the door open. Then I hear another voice.

I freeze.

“Eighth grade has that convocation, remember?” Mr. Masters says. “Thought I'd hit the coffeepot early.”

You've
got
to be kidding me.

I hear Mr. Masters's feet shuffle across the floor above me. I don't know his step as well as Jenna's, but I can still pick it out of a crowd. I think about the vending machine and my blood runs cold. It's short one bag of pork rinds. And if anyone would notice that, it's Mr. Masters.

I've got to get out of here, or at least hide. Maybe I can somehow sneak past him once he gets downstairs. If he finds me, he'll think I'm spying on him, which is technically true, I guess—but he'll also think that I'm up to something no good, which is only partly technically true.

As I'm backing up, I bump something from the corner of the desk. Another folder, one I somehow missed before. It spills out all over the floor, and I hiss something my mother begged me not to and bend down to gather the contents.

Something catches my eye. A blueprint for a hideout of some kind, several rooms, including a garage, a hanger, a boat dock. There are symbols scrawled in the margins indicating entryways and secret passages. Arrows mark the presence of video cameras and infrared beams. There are notes scribbled at the top about possible ways to bypass security. For a moment I think I must be looking at the Dealer's secret lair. It's the only thing that makes sense.

I turn over the folder and look at the label.

THE FOX.

“What the heck?”

My mind races. Why would Mr. Masters have a layout of the Fox's den? Was this some other trap that the Fox was setting, and she needed Mr. Masters's help? Or was there something else going on? And why are all the security measures circled?

A half hour ago I was sitting in math class, thinking that I was in it up to my neck. Now I realize I'm in way over my head.

There is another sound. Mr. Masters taking a few more steps. I imagine him up there. Staring at the vending machine. Staring at the floor. Fingering the watch in his pocket. Wondering if he should take a minute. If he used the watch, I wouldn't know it until he was already down here, staring into my face. I'd be caught, crouching on the floor of his office with the Fox's folder in my lap.

I try to calm down. I'm overreacting. This is Mr. Masters. He might be hiding things from us, but that's the nature of the job. It doesn't mean he isn't on our side.

Does it?

I hear a coin drop, clink-clanking through the inner maze of the vending machine. Then another. And another. I have to move, to get out of here, but I can't seem to make my legs work.

Then I hear the springs working, and something heavy falls to the bottom of the machine. The rusted hinge of the door swinging open.

The vending machine door. Not the secret entrance to the basement.

The footsteps come again, moving away. Another door opens and then clicks closed.

He's gone.

I close my eyes and concentrate. Sifting through the noise, filtering through the voices in the hall, everything, trying to make sure the lounge is really empty. I think about all those hours Mr. Masters made me sit in my room and listen through the ceiling, up through the floors, targeting people and rooms and conversations, weeding through one after another. “What's Mrs. Cavendish saying?” “Who's in the boys' bathroom?” “What are the lunch ladies talking about today?” I always thought it was kind of a waste of time. Who knew I would one day use it to hide from him? After another minute, I decide it's safe. Now's my chance.

I put the folder back together, then make sure everything is still just the same as when I found it before slipping back through the office door and up the stairs. The room is empty. So is the coffeepot.

There are still two bags of pork rinds left.

I look at the clock in the hall. This one, at least, is working. The last period is almost over. I head down the hall to the boys' bathroom, staring at the phone number written on my hand, committing it to memory. I scrub it off in the sink, then I check all the stalls to make sure they are empty.

Most Supers have top-secret lairs that they operate out of, complete with forensics labs and sophisticated computer systems and weapons testing facilities.

I've got the second stall from the right. I'm sitting on the john with my cell phone in my hand, trying to figure out what to say. This Jim Rediford, whoever he is, was clearly not interested in talking to anyone, not even Mr. Masters. Why would he possibly want to talk to me? Even if he knows where the Titan is, what can I say that will possibly convince him to tell me?

Then again, what do I have to lose?

It rings four times again. “Hey there. You've reached Jim Rediford. Unless this is an emergency, I don't want to talk to you. If it is an emergency, hang up and dial 911.”

I clear my throat. “Hi, hey, there . . . Mr. Rediford. This is . . . um . . . Drew, I mean Andrew . . . um . . . Bean. You probably don't know me, and I really don't know you, but we both know somebody . . . at least I think you know him, and, see, I was wondering . . .”

There is another long beep, and the line cuts off.

I curse under my breath and dial again.

“Hey there. You've reached Jim Rediford. Unless this is an emergency, I don't want to talk to you. If it is an emergency, hang up and dial 911.”

“Right. Drew . . . Andrew, again. Bean. Sorry, the last message got cut off. What I wanted to say was that I think maybe you and I know someone who might be in trouble, and even though you're probably not supposed to know this, I feel like I should tell you that this guy—”

I'm cut off again.

“Hey there. You've reached Jim Rediford. Unless this is an emergency, I don't want to talk to you. If it is an emergency, hang up and dial 911.”

“Right. So, here goes. This is Drew. I need to talk to George. That's the guy. It's really important. If he's there, call me back. If you have no idea who I am or what I'm talking about, then just ignore this message. Um. . . Thanks. I really . . .” Beep.

I sit there on the toilet, elbows on my knees, staring at the phone. This is stupid. This bathroom stinks. There's no way this phone is going to ring. Then I realize I didn't even bother to leave my number. Jim Redford doesn't even know how to contact me. I go to press redial.

And then my finger lights up like E.T.'s.

B
y the time the bell rings I'm already standing by Jenna's locker. I smell her before I see her, the purple passion still a dead giveaway. When she sees me, her face darkens for a moment, almost as if she can sense what I've been up to.

“I think I know where the Titan is,” I whisper as she jerks her locker open. She has a mirror magnetized to the inside, and I look to see I've grown a brand-new zit nestled right above my eyebrow. Marvelous.

Jenna bites her lip and studies me. “The Titan? How? You told me he disappeared. That you didn't know where to find him.”

I point to my fingernail. Then I tell her about the message I got while sitting in the boys' bathroom, projected in green light against the back of the stall door, underneath
MICHELLE M. SUCKS
and
PRINCIPAL BUCHANAN SUCKS MORE
. Jenna knows what it means. Communications go both ways. A click of my fingernail activates the Titan's ring, but he can use that same ring to send messages to me.

This was the first one I'd ever gotten.

It gave me an address and simple directions.

Have something for you, it said. Come alone.

“That's what it said? ‘Come alone'?”

I nod.

“And now you're asking me to join you?”

“I'm not very good at following directions,” I tell her.

“Yeah, I guess not,” she says. She grabs her jacket and slams the door shut.

“So does that mean you're not coming?” I ask her.

“I'm not good at following them either,” she says, then grabs me by the elbow and pulls me down the hall and out the door.

It's a five-minute walk to the nearest city bus stop, and then another five minutes for us to plan the route. The address that I copied onto a slip of paper is about thirty blocks away, right in the middle of one of the oldest parts of town, full of abandoned apartment buildings and boarded-up restaurants that have been out of business for years. It's just the kind of place a criminal might go to lay low.

Or anyone, for that matter.

On the bus ride over, I tell Jenna everything. Or almost everything, at least. About sneaking into Mr. Masters's office. About the news clippings and the letter in the Titan's folder. And the files of all the other Supers. Then I tell her about the plans for the Fox's lair. She frowns and turns to look out the window.

“You don't know of anything going on between Mr. Masters and the Fox, do you?” I whisper. The bus is mostly empty, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious.

Jenna shakes her head. “She doesn't tell me everything, Drew.”

“Did she tell you about last Saturday? Did she tell you it was a trap? Did she know the Jacks were coming?”

“She told me to keep an eye out. Just in case.”

“And she told you to invite us?”

“She told me to bring a guest,” Jenna says. “I brought two, just in case.”

I know she's still holding something back. But the bus stops before I can press her on it.

“But if you could only bring one,” I say, but she's already in the aisle, leaving me behind.

I follow her down the aisle and off the bus and we study the street signs together, walking two blocks to the address in my hand.