School for Sidekicks (11 page)

I looked at the ground between my feet. There was something else I wanted to ask but it was going to be even harder. I took several deep breaths and then rushed it out. “Is the Captain really like that? I mean would he really have them make me look like such a giant dork just to preserve his reputation?”

Mike's expression turned hard. “The Captain's reputation matters more to him than your life does. Don't ever doubt it.” I think he saw the hesitation and confusion in my eyes because he added, “I can burn a copy of the video for you as a reminder, if you'd like.”

“No thanks. Once was enough.” Then something else hit me. “Wait, is this the story my parents have seen?”

“More or less, yes.”

Well, that explained some of their flip out. “May I tell them the real story?”

“If you want to try, you're welcome to. You can even do it right now.” He slid his office phone across the desk. “Here, you won't be able to use your cell until it's been added to our booster system.”

I reached for it, then stopped. “I'm missing something, aren't I?”

“Maybe. It will depend on your parents. This is the official story and it's been repeated a lot. I can't say whether your parents will believe your version, but I
can
tell you that you will get no corroboration on it from anyone anywhere.”

“Not even from you?” I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.

He looked deeply unhappy. “If I want to hang on to my job and keep taking care of my students, no. This is the OSIRIS-approved version of what happened that day. Any deviation from that line will be treated very harshly by the governmental face of the Mask community. If, on the other hand, I want to hang on to my integrity…” He sighed, then nodded. “But I'm not your parents' favorite person. Do you really think they'll believe me where they wouldn't believe you?”

“They're
not
going to believe me, are they?”

He shrugged, but I pushed the phone back to him. “I don't think I want to do this right now, or talk to my parents.” They were going to believe that terror-stricken idiot was me, no matter what I had to say, and I didn't want to talk to them with that in their head. Not right now anyway, it made me too angry. “This Mask stuff is a lot harder than it looks in the comics, isn't it?”

“Life is harder than it looks in the comics, or in books or movies for that matter. I'm sorry you're getting that lesson so early. Life is the hardest thing there is.” And then he smiled his gentle smile again. “But that doesn't mean it's not worth it. I wouldn't trade it for anything.”

I didn't know what to say to that, so I started to stand up, then paused.

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Evan?”

I thought of all the things I wanted to know and all the things I needed to do, but I didn't have energy for any of it. “I don't know, I feel so overwhelmed. I guess what I really need is time.”

“Take tomorrow off. Unpack, read the school handbook, go over your schedule, put together a list of questions. Do whatever you need to do. School can wait for a day.”

I nodded. Earlier—after my disastrous conversation with my parents—Mike had given me a big folder full of all kinds of stuff, including a two-inch-thick AMO handbook to help get me oriented. He'd also shown me the dorms, and where the container with all my stuff in it was waiting to be unpacked. OSIRIS had sent a collection team to my house to get my clothes and those things they or my parents thought I might need. I hadn't opened it yet and, given the way my mom and dad had insisted I wasn't staying, I suspected it would be missing a lot of things I might want.

When I got back to the dorm room I was going to be sharing with Jeda and two other boys, I found it empty. I'd never been so glad not to see anyone in my whole life. It meant I could skin out of my jeans, brush my teeth in the attached bathroom, crawl into bed, and pretend to sleep. It wasn't until I was finally drifting off for real several hours later that I realized I still didn't know where the AMO was.

Somehow, it no longer seemed to matter.

 

10

Out of This World

Combat with Dinnerware.

That's what finally got me out of my dorm room again, two days after my arrival at the AMO. I'd taken one day more than Mike had initially offered me, because I simply felt too angry to deal with it all. The school doctor said I could take an entire extra week if I needed it. But how do you skip a class entitled Combat with Dinnerware?

That was the name of one of the workshop classes in the Topics in Heroing sequence for incoming students—Fridays 10:00 a.m. for course weeks three through nine. Topics in Heroing didn't work like the classes I'd had at my regular school. Instead of the whole semester you might spend on something like American history, it was a blocked-out hour each day where different instructors came in and did a workshop on something Masks needed to know. Some of the classes were a one-time deal only, like Capes—Flashy but Fatal. Others might go for two or three sessions. Those mostly ran on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

The more intensive ones, like Combat with Dinnerware, ran weekly for a month or two, usually Monday/Wednesday/Friday. I'd already missed the first sessions of Bantering Basics and Costume Maintenance—the other two weeks-three-through-nine extended sessions, but I could catch up next week. Whenever I could manage to forget about that awful Captain Commanding video and my other problems, I found myself really looking forward to my time at the school.

I took advantage of the doctor's permission to skip my 9:00 a.m. math class, and there were no 8:00 a.m. classes.
How awesome was that?
Professor Matheny told me it was because OSIRIS research showed that making teen Masks get up too early degraded their performance on standardized tests and power control. The latter could lead to things like major fires or the destruction of expensive government equipment. So, it was official school policy to let sleeping teenagers lie.

When I finally crawled out of bed around nine thirty, I put on jeans and a dark green Captain Commanding tee—turned inside out, so you couldn't see the Captain's face and logo. It made me furious to have to wear his brand at all, but I didn't have much choice. Whoever packed for me hadn't included many unmarked shirts, and almost all of my tees featured the Captain one way or another.

Since I didn't want any connection to him after seeing that altered video feed, I had a major wardrobe problem. Eventually, I was going to have to figure out a better solution than wearing all my shirts inside out. But for today—given how awful I felt—I figured simply getting to classes would provide challenge enough.

As I pulled my socks on, I couldn't help notice the pile of bright yellow message slips on my desk. Each marked a call from my parents, calls I had simply refused to take. I still didn't want to talk to them. Not after the way the last time had gone, and especially not after seeing that video and knowing what they must believe about me now.

My cell phone was sitting there as well, turned off now that it was tuned to use the school's booster antenna. Which reminded me that I really ought to make an effort to find out where I was at some point, for my own curiosity if not for my parents. I glared at the yellow slips for several long beats, then quietly pushed them off the back of the desk. They fell into the dead space between it and the wall. I would call my parents later, after I'd settled in a bit.

When I got to class, I found that my plan to quietly slip into the back row of seats was a nonstarter. There were no seats. The room was set up like my grandmother's dance studio. There was a hardwood floor and mirrors on three walls. The fourth had big sliding doors—open now to reveal stacked gym mats. Jeda was working with two girls and my second roommate—a fifteen-year-old named Eric Anwyn—was pulling the mats out and setting them up.

There were a bunch of other kids, too, but Eric and Jeda were the only ones I knew by name. I backed into the corner and tried not to make eye contact while I waited. Even with my eyes down, I could see the class was made up of a wider-than-usual assortment of ages, everything from me and my roommates on up to a couple of girls who I would have guessed were close to twenty. Most of the other students were wearing costumes of one variety or another, which made me feel even
more
out of place. But about two minutes after I slipped in, Jeda came over to collect me.

“Hey, it's great to see you up and among the living. Come on, Mike had to run to the office for something. Let me introduce you to some of your fellow minions-in-training while we wait.”

“I don't know,” I began, but Jeda was already dragging me over to where he had left the two girls with Eric.

“Hey, Alissa, meet my new roommate, Evan.” He pointed me at the taller of the pair, a pretty, muscular girl with deep black skin and short curly hair somewhere between an Afro and a crew cut. She was wearing a black-and-gold uniform in one of the combat-grade sports blends like Invulycra with Armex reinforcements. She looked to be a year or two older than the rest of us.

“Handle's Emberdown when I'm in uniform; I heat things up.” She turned an exasperated eye on Jeda. “Speaking of handles, that's how you
should
have introduced me.”

Jeda shrugged. “It's silly.”

“It's protocol,” she answered stubbornly.

“I haven't got a handle yet,” I said, offering her my hand to take the heat off Jeda. “I … don't really know what all of my powers are. They're kind of erratic.”

She smiled. “Don't worry about that. They mostly are when you're first getting started. I'm sure they'll settle in after a while.”

Jeda turned to the second girl. She was skinnier than Alissa, and shorter. But that hardly registered. What really stood out was the eight-inch mohawk and all the piercings. She wore a studded leather jacket with the sleeves hiked up to expose intricate tattoos on her forearms—a wolf on the left, a dragon on the right. I wondered how she'd gotten her parents to agree to them.

Jeda nodded at her. “Mel, Evan. Evan, Mel. It's short for Melody.”

“But don't ever call me that,” she said, her voice surprisingly deep. “I freaking hate it. I'm not all that fond of Mel either.” She glared at Jeda before turning a stern eye on me. “Handle's NightHowl, 'cause I'm a werewolf. 'Howl's what I prefer. In class or in costume, folks mostly go by handles and I
always
do.”

“Nice to meet you, 'Howl. Your tattoos are
awesome
.”

For the first time she actually smiled, it made her look a lot younger—my age maybe—and a little less scary, but only a little. “You'll do.”

“You know Blindmark already,” Jeda indicated Eric, who had changed out of his regular jeans and tee in favor of a stylized martial arts outfit. “Now, who else…”

But as we were talking, another student had drifted over, cutting in now, “You're that kid who wrapped a piece of rebar around Spartanicus's head the other day, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said over my shoulder.

Apparently, despite whatever was being said out in the normal world, here at the AMO the real story was getting around. That was a relief. Maybe my peers wouldn't think I was quite as much of a giant dork as the rest of the world did. With a smile, I turned to face the new … guy … girl … other? I wasn't sure how to place the person I was talking to. Their features were androgynous, as was their body shape under the loose fitting cargo pants and sweat shirt.

The effect was greatly enhanced by a slow but constant series of changes to skin color, hair length and curl, cheekbones, nose. Everything about them was continually shifting, so that what had been a slender boyish blonde when I first caught sight of them was already turning into a more feminine brunette with café-au-lait skin.

“Name's Blurshift,” they said in a musical voice that walked the line between genders. “Shapechanger. No handle, no other name. All that stuff is bull.”

“Blur has dibs on the fourth bunk in our room,” said Eric, injecting himself into the conversation for the first time. “If they ever decide to be a boy, that is.” His tone was more bemused than anything.

“Ours, too, if they go the other way,” added NightHowl, and she actually laughed. “Blur's the perfect roommate. Never there to hog the closets.”

“Love you, too,” Alissa said, sarcastically.

'Howl rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“So you're not…” I trailed off as I realized I was about to ask Blurshift something that could well come off as rude. “Uh, sorry. That was impolite. I'm not used to…”

“This?” Blur touched a finger to their chin and arched an eyebrow that shifted from brown to black. “No one is.” Blur laughed. “Not at first anyway. Don't worry about it. 'Howl's right. You'll do.”

Where the conversation would have gone next, I don't know, because Professor Matheny—Mike—arrived at that very moment and told us to line up on the mats.

He was wearing his old Minute Man uniform, instead of the jeans and button-down he usually sported. The outfit was a bit scuffed up here and there, and perhaps a touch tight across his middle, but otherwise he looked good. Every inch the classic Mask, from the tips of his red boots to the double
M
s of his crest—the first huge, the second tiny and connected to the first by cartoon lines that somehow conveyed shrinkage. The one difference from the old pictures I'd seen of him in his heroing days was that he'd doffed his cowl.

He was carrying a clear plastic bin filled with a weird assortment of junk. It held everything from scratched-up old silverware, to an ancient issue of
Mask Monthly
, and a couple of cans of sardines. He set the bucket down, flipped the lid off, reached in, and pulled out a tin fork.