Sidekicked (29 page)

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to take this. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It just means that you and I aren't that different.”

“Hardly. Your Super just collared the last two Suits single-handedly,” I say. “Mine is a lump on the edge of the bed in a rundown apartment in the middle of nowhere. You were there. Remember?”

“And here we are, both sitting at home, watching it on television,” she says, her voice sharp.

And I get it. Why she's miffed.

I stare at the television screen, picturing the Silver Lynx in place of the Fox. Seeing Jenna up there instead. It's what she's always wanted.

“One day you're going to be the one everybody's talking about,” I tell her.

“Really?”

“Are you kidding? Kids around the world will worship you. You'll have trading cards and posters and action figures and documentaries and your face on the cover of every magazine. And I'll be able to say that I knew you back when you were just a sidekick, waiting for your shot.”

When she speaks again her voice is softer. Guarded.

“Drew. I have something to tell you.”

I switch the phone to my other ear and sit up. Anytime somebody says they have something to tell you, it's either really good or really bad. It's never “I have something to tell you . . . we are having burritos for dinner.”

“Don't be mad,” she says.

Then they say that, and you know it's the bad thing.

“I told the Fox what you told me . . . about Mr. Masters. About breaking into his office.”

I swallow hard. She's right. This isn't good. Somehow this is going to get back to me, I know it. I shouldn't have said anything.

“And what did she say?”

“She said that she'd look into it, but in the meantime I should maybe keep my distance. And maybe you should too.”

“Keep our distance?” From Mr. Masters? “She doesn't think he's dangerous or anything, does she?”

Jenna doesn't even have to think about it.

“We're all dangerous,” she says.

Then she says it's getting late and she will see me sometime tomorrow. “Everything will be better,” she says, though she doesn't say when, or why, or how. And I don't question it. It's Jenna. I just say, “Okay.”

Then she hangs up.

I sit there for a few minutes, watching the flames turn to ash. Then I sneak up to my room and close the door as far as it will go—it's still not fixed—and pull out my backpack. I take out
Julius Caesar
and toss it in the pile. We are done with it, finally. Cassius is dead, Brutus has kabobed himself, and Caesar is avenged. The forces of goodness and light prevail. As I reach into the bottom of the bag, my hand closes around something soft.

I pull out my mask and just stare at it, thinking about the last time I wore it. Back when this whole mess started. Hanging there next to Jenna, wanting things to be different.

I just hold it, crumpled up in a ball. H.E.R.O.'s suspended. My Super is beyond help. The Jacks are beaten, and the Fox has the Dealer on his heels. Pretty soon it will all be over.

No need for the Sensationalist.

But I can't help myself.

I put it on anyway.

I
t's Tuesday.

Exactly two weeks since I found myself hanging above the Justicia community pool, waiting to be dissolved.

Nearly one week since I found myself huddled in my bedroom, waiting to be bludgeoned.

About six months since I first met my Super outside of Bob's Bowlarama and was told I should find somebody else.

About a year since my best friend bloodied my nose.

I'm beginning to hate Tuesdays.

It's Tuesday. Salad day, because after numerous letters to the school board, Highview is implementing a new dietary policy, which basically involves picking two days a week to feed us like guinea pigs. What they don't anticipate is that most of the kids will just dip their croutons in the ranch dressing and toss anything remotely green in the trash. I have a granola bar and an apple in my backpack, right above my Taser and my sleeping gas grenades. I know I don't need my utility belt anymore, but the Dealer is still out there somewhere, and having a customized X26 electroshock personal defense weapon snuggled underneath my Darth Vader lunch box makes me feel better about myself. The Dealer apparently knows who I am and doesn't care that H.E.R.O. has been canceled or that I'm supposedly “being normal,” whatever that means.

It's Tuesday, and everyone is wired. The whole school is talking about last night. I count at least sixteen Fox T-shirts, white with two burning sapphire eyes. Some of the blondes have dyed their hair orange to match hers. One of the cheerleaders has even come to school dressed in a white bodysuit with a plastic sword strapped to her back. The principal takes the sword away—even plastic, it could still be considered a weapon. I just hope he never looks in my bag.

It's Tuesday, and I haven't seen Jenna yet this morning. She didn't wait for me outside the music room like she usually does after first period, and she wasn't in English class. When Ms. Malloy asked me if I knew where she was, I actually stopped and listened for her—
really
listened, hoping I could catch the sound of her voice anywhere in the school, but there was way too much to sift through, and Ms. M was looking at me strangely, so I just shook my head.

Still, I'm a little worried.

Because it's a Tuesday. And the Dealer
is
still out there. He still has most of Justicia's Supers locked away somewhere and only has one more standing in his way.

After English, I run into Gavin. “Have you seen Jenna?”

“Yeah, saw her this morning before school,” he says. “She was talking to Mr. Masters out in the parking lot.”

Mr. Masters.

Now I'm more than a little worried.

“What do you mean, she was talking to Mr. Masters? What were they talking about?”

“Gosh, Bean, let's see, their favorite episode of
iCarly
—I don't know. Do I look like I have super hearing?”

“Well, did they look upset or anything? Did they go somewhere together?”

Gavin shakes his head at me and starts talking to me slowly, as if I were a toddler. “I . . . don't . . . know. They spoke for a little bit, then they started walking toward the parking lot. I didn't think anything of it. Then a bus passed between us, and next thing I knew, they were gone.”

I've heard too many people use the phrase “next thing I knew” right after the phrase “I was talking with Mr. Masters.”

“Did you notice anything strange? Did you feel funny at all, like maybe you missed something, or that time had passed you by somehow?”

“No. I don't think so. Why? What's going on, Drew? Is Jenna okay? Is there something I should know about?”

I look at Gavin, who's staring at me like I'm insane, but like “you're insane and I'm a little worried about you,” which is better than the “you're insane
and
a total dweeb” look he used to give me.

“No. Nothing,” I lie. “I'll see you at lunch, all right?”

I take off, heading for the office, leaving Gavin with his hands in the air.

On the way to the office I run into Mike and pull him by the cast, jumping at the shock I get.

“What the heck? Dude, that arm is broken, in case you haven't noticed. And how come you never called me back last night?”

“Have you seen Jenna?”

“No, why?”

“Have you seen Mr. Masters?”

“No. Was there some kind of meeting? Is H.E.R.O. back on already?”

“No. I don't know. Something's weird. Come on,” I say, pulling him along with me to the front desk, ignoring all his protests. I catch my breath and very calmly ask the front secretary if she knows where Mr. Masters is this period.

“I'm sorry,” Mrs. Beal tells me. “Mr. Masters is out for the day. He called in this morning. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Did he say he was sick or something?”

“He said he had an urgent appointment, not that it's any of your business. Are you even a student of his? What class are you in?”

“Sorry. Forget about it. Thanks,” I say.

When we are out of the office, I grab Mike somewhat forcefully by the shoulders. The look in his eyes says he is actually a little scared of me. It's the first time I've had that effect on someone.

“Can you hot-wire a car?”

“What?”

“You know.” I bring my fingers together. “Bzzt, bzzt, zappity, zap.” I can practically smell the voltage crackling inside him. The hair on my own neck is standing on end.

Mike shrugs my hands off. “Yeah, I guess so. I once jump-started a lawn mower. Why? What are you thinking?”

I don't answer. Instead I drag him to the end of the hall, to the exit leading out to the staff parking lot. I shush him with one finger and look around. The bell for next period rings, and we are out the door.

“Dude, where are we going?”

“Out,” I say.

I pull Mike along, thinking we'll just take the first car we see, but that turns out to be an Escort that rolled off the factory floor back when Henry Ford himself was still managing it. In fact, the next four cars in the line are all beaters or hatchbacks, most of them rusted and dented. I was hoping for something a little sturdier. After all, I'm only thirteen. I have no idea what I'm about to do.

This school needs to pay its teachers more, I think to myself, passing by two more compact cars before we get to a Suburban. “Finally.” I try the door, but of course it's locked.

“Hand me that rock over there.”

“Are you nuts? What are you doing? Are we going to steal that thing?”

I hope my grabbing the rock myself and smashing in the driver's side window is enough of an answer. The Suburban smells like cappuccino and cigarettes. I'm guessing it's the French teacher's.

“You could have picked that, you know.”

I hadn't thought about that. Too late now. I brush the glass off the seat with the sleeve of my coat and slide in behind the wheel, then motion for Mike to get in on the other side. He obeys, but not without protest.

“You're crazy. You are totally flippin' crazy. All those little voices you hear all the time have finally gotten to you. What the heck is going on?”

“I think Jenna's in danger,” I say. “And I think Mr. Masters is involved.”

Mike gives me the raised eyebrow. “What?”

“I don't know. But when I broke into his office and saw the plans for the Fox's lair, and then yesterday I took Jenna to see the Titan and Kid Caliber—”

“Kid Caliber? Wait a minute—I thought he was dead or something, and what do you mean you broke into Mr. Masters's office? Are you insane?”

I ignore his questions. “And last night, she said to stay away from him, and just this morning the two of them were seen together, and I'm not sure, but I think maybe Mr. Masters kidnapped her.”

Mike shakes his head. “Kidnapped her? What? Why?”

“To get to the last two superheroes who have a snowball's chance in hell of stopping the Dealer. . . . Or something.”

I admit. It sounds even more nutzoid when I say it. I look at Mike. Every hair is raised. Even his eyelashes are rigid.

“Yeah, forget this,” he says, reaching for the door.

I reach out and grab his arm. The broken one.

“All right. Maybe not kidnapped. But I think Jenna needs us. You just have to trust me. Please, just get this thing started and I'll tell you everything on the way.”

Mike shakes his head and mutters, “I can't believe I'm doing this,” but he leans over me, placing his fingers around the ignition anyways.

“I'm not sure this is going to work.”

“Just do it.”

“I haven't tried anything like this since the accident,” he says.

“I believe in you,” I say. I mostly do.

“I'm just saying there is a very small but not statistically insignificant chance that this car could explode.”

“Mike!”

“Fine!”

There is a jolt of electricity that encircles the ignition and then dances its way across the console. Suddenly the overhead light explodes, shattering the plastic covering, and the radio comes on really, really loud. We both shield our heads with our hands, then look at each other to make sure we are intact.

“I need a hero
.

I'm holding out for a hero till the end of the night.”

I reach over and start mashing buttons on the stereo. The windshield wipers suddenly kick on at hyper speed. Mike is trying to cover his ears with his hands, but one hand just won't reach because of the cast.

Finally I find the off button.

“God, I hate that song,” I say, buckling myself in and trying to get my bearings.