The Trials of Renegade X (13 page)

Gordon lets out a slow breath. “Maybe not. But it still sounds like you have some choices to make.”

“Here it comes. You’re going to tell me to ditch Kat.”

He sounds shocked. “Damien, I can’t tell you what to do with your life.”

“Try telling Helen that.”

“Helen?”

“Yeah, you know, Helen? Your wife? The mother of
most
of your children?”

He scowls at me. “I
know
who she is.”

“Well, she made it pretty clear that she thinks Kat and I shouldn’t be together.” Or breed.

“She knew her grandfather. She doesn’t know Kat.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Neither do you.” Though he might if she was ever actually allowed in the house.

“No, but I know
you
. I trust you to make the right choices about the people in your life. Just like I trust you to choose the school you want to go to. So, if you were having second thoughts about attending Heroesworth, you know I’d—”

“I
don’t
want to quit.” Where else would I go? Plus, they’re not chasing me off after only a week. What kind of self-respecting supervillain would I be if I let that happen? Er, ex-supervillain. Whatever.

“Okay.” He holds up both hands, surrendering. “But I’d understand if you did.”

But he’d also be disappointed. He doesn’t say that part, but I know he would be. Going to Heroesworth might not be something he expects of me, but maybe it’s something I
want
him to expect of me, like he would of his other kids. “I’ve made my decision. I’m going to Heroesworth. I’m getting my
H
. End of story.”

“As long as that’s what
you
want.”

“Yeah. It is.” It has to be. “So can we just go home now?”

Chapter 9

“CAN I ASK YOU something?” Kat says on the phone Sunday morning.

I sit up in my bed, trying to adjust my pillow so I can lean back without hitting my head on the slanting wall jutting over me. Nothing seems to work, and I can’t get comfortable. It also doesn’t help that I have to go to the bathroom, but everyone’s back from church, and Helen’s bitchy sister and her stupid, loud-mouth husband and her stupid, bratty kids are over, and there’s no way I’m going down the stairs in front of them and humiliating myself. Which I guess is what I get for sleeping in. Of course, I didn’t exactly fall right to sleep last night after everything that happened. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could think about was that electric feeling in my hand. Which was better than feeling like I was falling from a building, but still. Not exactly pleasant.

“Let me guess,” I tell Kat. “You’re dying to know how I managed to look so amazingly hot in that photo I sent you, right?” It was the one of me holding Xavier. I didn’t end up deleting it after all and sent it to Kat, but only because she said if I didn’t, she’d just get it from my mom. And I’m not exactly thrilled by the idea of her and my mom communicating, because Mom might ask her about me and think she’s part of my life again, which she’s not. Or, worse, she might not ask about me at all.

Kat laughs. “I’m printing it out and putting it on our bulletin board right now.”

“What? Kat, I was joking. I look horrible in that one.”

“It’s adorable. You look so confused.”

There’s a loud burst of laughter downstairs. Helen’s sister, Leah, squawk-laughs like some demented bird. And her husband lets out these really cliché guffaws, like he’s auditioning for a laugh track. I hate them both, which I know for a fact is mutual, since Leah referred to me as “that tragic mistake” once while she knew I was in hearing distance. But at least their nasty children aren’t allowed in the attic—probably the only good thing about living up here. Except last time they were here, I
know
their five-year-old daughter pulled Jess’s hair, made her cry, and then lied about it. And if I’m up here, then who’s going to watch out for her? And who’s going to make sure little five-year-old Belinda “accidentally” sits in some chocolate in her Sunday best and has to go home in shame?

Even Amelia doesn’t want to hang out with any of them, since I can hear her overly happy pop music blasting in her room. That’s how awful they are.

“And anyway,” Kat says, “that’s not what I wanted to ask you.”

I sigh. “Yes, Kat, I
will
pose for an all-nude calendar. And I’ll even give you a discount.”

She laughs. “It better be a
good
discount this time. Because, Damien, there are cheaper models out there. You don’t own the market.”

I tug on the bedspread, trying to pull it out from under me without actually getting up, so I can use it as more back support. I succeed in pulling it out, but not without a loud crackle of static. A wave of visible sparks races across the surface of the blanket. There’s a biting feeling in my fingertips, and I jerk my hand away.

My heart races. A prickle of dread creeps down my spine.

“Damien, are you okay?” Kat asks. “You’re breathing kind of hard.”

“Just thinking of you.”

“Ha. Sounds more like when you accidentally look down from the top of the stairs.”

She knows me so well. “You were going to ask me something?”

“Okay. Well, Homecoming is coming up in a few weeks.”

“At Vilmore?” I get up from the bed, not liking the way the floor creaks beneath me, but still a little freaked out from the crazy static and wanting to distance myself from the source. Except I think I know the source wasn’t the blanket. I’m pretty sure it was
me
. Except, of course, for the fact that it couldn’t have been. All of this stuff that’s been happening lately, making it seem like I might have some kind of electricity power ... it’s just coincidence. It doesn’t mean anything.

Probably.

“Yeah,” Kat says, “at Vilmore. And, I mean, if you don’t want to go, I totally—”

“Of course I want to go.” She just mentioned it, and already I’m forming plans to put our Homecoming pictures on the wall in the living room. Right in view of the front door, so Helen has to look at them every time she comes in the house.

“I just thought maybe you wouldn’t, because of ... you know.”

“Not getting in?” Which was a horrible mistake on their part that I don’t forgive them for—or, well, that I don’t forgive
Taylor
for, I guess—but who am I to hold a grudge? Especially when in this case holding a grudge means not going to this dance with Kat, and not having fancy pictures taken that will annoy the hell out of my stepmom, and, most importantly, not holing up in Kat’s dorm room with her in a blissfully interruption-free zone. After we’ve at least made an appearance at the dance and had our photos taken, of course.

“There’s another reason you might not want to go,” Kat says.

“Because of my
X
? I can wear gloves.” I switch my phone to my other ear and hold my right hand out in front of me. If this whole electricity thing is just a coincidence—well, a series of very suspicious coincidences—then I have nothing to worry about. And if it’s real ...

If it’s real, maybe I should just find out and get it over with.

I concentrate on my hand. I picture sparks of electricity shooting from my fingertips.

Nothing happens.

“Homecoming is about honoring alumni. Each year, they pick a famous supervillain who went to Vilmore and base the theme around them. My dad’s sponsoring it this year.”

“So, they’re honoring him? What’s the theme, computer parts?” Her dad’s company makes computers that send out mind-control signals to their users, telling them to buy more Wilson Enterprises products. It’s a pretty lucrative way to do business, though kind of weird for a dance theme. Still, I don’t see why that’s a problem, unless what she’s getting at is that her dad is actually going to
be
at the dance, making sure I don’t put my hands—or any other key parts of myself—on his daughter.

“Not exactly. Hold on a second. I’m getting another call. It’s my mom.”

I try to remember what the electricity felt like just a minute ago. What it felt like last night when there was that charge deep in my bones.

Maybe I feel a spark. A little twitch of power tingling along the back of my hand.
Maybe
.

There’s more commotion downstairs. I hear Jess start crying, and I wonder what that Belinda—a.k.a. “Mommy’s perfect angel”—has done to her this time. Talk about wild and undisciplined. Then I hear Helen’s sister’s voice say, “Well, I’m
not
surprised. Considering his mother.”

And I know—I
know
—they’re talking about me. I don’t even know what they’re really saying, but I can tell from her tone of voice that it’s about me, and that it’s not anything good.

Rage flares up inside me. I want to march downstairs and tell that woman to shut the hell up and to keep her supposed “angel” away from my sister. I want to get in her face and tell her she knows
nothing
about me, or my mom, or about supervillains.

Electricity crackles to life in my hand. And there’s no mistaking it—it’s definitely real this time. Real and possibly freaking me out, just a tiny bit. Or maybe, like, a lot. Because even if I had my suspicions—and even if I’ve seen my grandpa conjure up lightning before—I didn’t expect this to actually
happen
. Not to
me
.

“I’m back,” Kat says on the phone. “That was Mom, calling to tell me how adorable and confused you looked in that picture. See, it’s not just me.”

“If you think confusion is adorable, you should see me now.”
Because I have no idea what’s going on.
I gape at the sparks flying between my fingers and the waves of whitish-blue electricity flowing across my hand. It burns a little, like bathwater that’s too hot, but otherwise it doesn’t really hurt.

“What?”

“Nothing. And I can’t believe you sent that picture to your mom. I told you it was just between us.” Sweat beads on my forehead. I close my eyes and try to take calming breaths. Though with each supposedly calming breath, I just feel more freaked out. “So. Homecoming. You and me and ... what? A party about your dad?” But not
with
her dad, right?

“Not my dad. That’s what I was trying to tell you. Wilson Enterprises is sponsoring it, but it’s not about him. It’s about my grandfather, Bart the Blacksmith.”

“Great, so, 60s theme, then?” I say, purposely ignoring the obvious reason why she thinks I can’t go now. As if I care what Helen thinks. Though, since I’m not actually the horrible bad-influence stepson she thinks I am, I won’t rub the fact that it was a dance themed around her worst enemy in her face or anything. I’ll make sure the annoying pictures I put up don’t reveal that part.

“It was the marketing department’s idea. They thought it would make a good story. For publicity. Look, I understand if you can’t go. Or if you don’t want to now.”

“Of course I still want to go.”

“Okay, but then why do you sound weird?”

I don’t know, maybe because my hand is covered in lightning?

I have a villain power. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not
now
.

And it sure was a great idea to try summoning up electricity when I don’t actually know how to get rid of it. Because, really, now what?

I swallow. “Kat, I think maybe I should—”

There’s a loud
ZAP
and a whoosh of light as the electricity suddenly shoots across the room, knocking me backward. The charge of energy blasts into the wall, the one Gordon built this summer, exploding a jagged, smoldering hole through it. Plank bits fly everywhere, and the air smells like a mixture of sulfur and woodsmoke.

But, hey, at least my hand is no longer covered in electricity. At least there’s that.

“Uh, Damien, what was that?” Kat asks.

I’m too dazed to speak for a moment, just staring at the wall. “I’m going to have to call you back,” I say, and then hang up, dropping my phone to the floor.

Amelia’s head appears on the other side of the hole in the wall, cautiously at first, then full-out gaping at me.

“Oh. My. God,” she says, her expression a mixture of surprise and smugness. “You are
so dead
.”

“Damien?” Gordon’s concerned-but-muffled voice calls from downstairs.

Why does he assume it’s me? Why couldn’t Amelia have blown something up?

“Have you ever seen a picture of a deer in the headlights?” Amelia says, smirking at me. “Because that’s what you look like right now.”

“Shut up.”

“What did you even do?”

I hear more voices downstairs, all talking at once. The awful relatives are still here. I can just picture the ugly, know-it-all look on Leah’s face when she tells Helen, “I told you so.”

I blink at Amelia, realizing she asked me a question, and tell her the first lie that comes to mind. “It was one of Sarah’s gadgets.”

She raises skeptical eyebrows at me, even though I think that sounded like a perfectly reasonable explanation. Just because it doesn’t happen to be the truth
this time
doesn’t mean it’s not believable. “If it was one of her gadgets, then ...” She trails off, glancing down at my hand.