Sidekick: The Misadventures of the New Scarlet Knight (4 page)

She left, and I leaned back. I wasn’t just the Squire anymore. I was the Scarlet Knight.

***

Uncle Jack’s funeral was on a Thursday. My promotion, or whatever you want to call it, came on Friday. I spent the rest of the weekend organizing things at the mansion and setting up my room in HQ. I didn’t plan on living there; the mansion was my home, and I intended to stay there for as long as I could. I only wanted to make my room at HQ comfortable enough to be worth staying at when I needed to.

With my personal life in as much order as I could get it and my new professional life ready to get underway, I had one last life decision to think about.

I’d planned on going to college right after high school. Now, I had to think about my future as a hero. Besides, I’d never have to worry about a paycheck if Uncle Jack’s will went the way everyone expected it to. I didn’t have to go to college now that I’d had a career handed to me.

The question was: Did I want to go down that road?

Back when summer had started, I’d talked with Uncle Jack about these same issues. I’d told him how much I appreciated everything he’d done for me, that he’d saved my life both metaphorically and literally, and how much I loved being a sidekick. I’d just always felt it was necessary for me to build my own life. I wanted to discover what the world held for Bobby Baines, not just for the “youthful ward” (as the tabloids liked to call me) of industrialist Jack Horner.

We had scaled back my sidekick duties, giving me more time to concentrate on school and the college application process. School started, and I’d all but hung up my costume. By October, after we’d taken down the Halloween Gang for the fourth year in a row (would they
ever
learn?), the Scarlet Knight was keeping order in Harbor City all by his lonesome, just like he’d done until the fateful day at the warehouse when our paths had first crossed.

Now, Uncle Jack was dead, and the Scarlet Knight had to live on. I was facing all those issues I’d thought were long behind me all over again.

I thought about calling Aunt Phoebe, or chatting with Rick or Tommy to get their opinions, but in the end, this was going to have to be a decision I made for myself.

I’d kept my grades up when I’d patrolled with Uncle Jack every night (maybe not as high as I would have liked, but high enough to keep myself out of trouble) and could probably scale back some of the job to give myself extra time to study. I’d have to get creative with my time management.

I packed another bag, took it downstairs, and programmed the teleporter. I was heading for my room at HQ, which seemed well suited for the task at hand: quiet, secluded, and conducive to concentration. After all, I had homework to catch up on, a Sunday night to get it all done, and I was going to need to focus.

The next morning, I was going back to school.

Clothes Maketh the Man

When and if I get married, I will never complain about how long my wife takes to get ready. That’s because I can truly sympathize.

Early on in my “career” in heroics, Uncle Hank had given me a few solid lessons on maintaining my secret identity. Like I mentioned, Paragon is a big, hulking guy with more muscles than a gym on Fire Island, yet no one has managed to figure out who he is when he’s not in uniform. He’d told me the secret to keeping my identities separate was to essentially become invisible in “civilian mode,” and doing that takes a certain skill.

If you told the average person to become invisible, they’d do their best to blend in and be like everyone else. That technique could work, but not as well as Uncle Hank’s method. If you really want to walk through the world incognito, it’s better to go the opposite direction, and make yourself as different from the average Joe as possible. When you stand out, some people will avoid you, some will ignore you, and the others will have such a strong image of you burned in their brains that they’ll never be able to tie that image to the heroic persona you’re trying to keep under wraps. Paragon does that by wearing ill-fitting suits, stooping, and affecting a nasal twang. He also likes to play the klutz. That way, no one suspects that mild-mannered schlub, Hank Hancock, is the mightiest man in the universe.

That was the tactic I’d chosen to protect my identity. All the news coverage about the Scarlet Knight over the years, along with the other heroes operating in other cities, had attracted a lot of attention, especially from teens. When kids like Zipper, Shadow, and I had joined the fray, heroes were seen as freaking cool. Unfortunately, I’d sort of created an archetype for what cool kids (or at least kids who liked to think they were cool) thought a sidekick looked like. I was athletic and a wisecracker. Pop’s constant moving had taught me how to make friends easily and had developed my social graces. None of that would do after I’d become a hero’s sidekick, not if I wanted to deflect attention from myself. So Bobby Baines became the complete opposite of the Squire’s cool, public image.

First, there was the matter of my build. I’m not ripped like Paragon, or even as well-built as most of the guys on the high school football team, but I’m not a ninety-eight pound weakling either. I would use clothes to hide the shape of my body—wearing XXL t-shirts over XL sweatshirts over tank top undershirts. Then, when that had inexplicably become the fashion, I switched to oversized button-down shirts with half-undone neckties and cargo khakis with rolled-up cuffs: classic nerd chic. If that caught on, I’d spend a few dozen hours watching teen melodrama television shows or swallow my self-esteem, buy an issue of “Teen Hunks” magazine, and pull a one-eighty away from current trends.

Then there’s the hair. It took about twenty minutes to get my hair tousled enough to look like I always had a bad hair day, but not so messy that it looked like I’d done it on purpose and risk being fashionable. The crowning touch was the horn-rimmed glasses—a tribute of sorts to Prism—and
voilá
, a geek so hopelessly out of touch and un-hip that there was no way in Hell he could ever be a hero. Tights wouldn’t be caught dead on someone like me.

No woman is fussier about her hair and clothes than me, even if I do it for an entirely different reason. An hour in front of a mirror and careful selection of the perfect clothes from my wardrobe lets me transform myself from who I really am, into who I want people to think I am.

I finished dressing for school and studied myself in the mirror. With my new hero identity, a lot of this work might be unnecessary. The Knight’s helmet completely covered the face of its wearer, which had saved Uncle Jack from ever needing to take drastic steps. Instead, he’d dressed and acted like a geek because deep down in his heart, he’d been one.

I could go down that road too. Maybe if I added more actual armor, like greaves, vambraces, gauntlets, and a proper breastplate, the costume would hide my physique while I was in hero mode, instead of out of it. Then people would never mistake a school kid for the superhero. Maybe it was time to make some adjustments and reclaim my identity. Hell, I might even be able to make friends who didn’t strap on long underwear to knock around bad guys.

I considered that, but the more I stared at the facade in the mirror, the more it felt right. My “un-cool” persona fit like an old, battered pair of shoes; it looked like hell, but it was too comfortable to let go of. Maybe when I went to college I could reinvent myself, but for now, why argue with perfection?

“Lookin’ fine!” I said to the mirror. And for once, I didn’t mean it in an ironic way.

***

My return to Harbor City High was not completely unnoticed. It was mainly the teachers and administrators who took the time to greet me and make the old “if there’s anything I can do” offer, knowing full well there wasn’t anything they, or anyone else, could do. The kids in homeroom made a bunch of meaningless comments in an attempt to make me feel better, which I appreciated.

The day dragged on, like most school days did. I was grateful I hadn’t missed too much actual work, and it wouldn’t be hard to catch up. I breezed through the day, tolerating all the “well wishing,” and was in such good spirits I almost didn’t hear the announcement summoning me to the guidance office.

Having gone through a butt-load of guidance counselors during Pop’s drifting years, I’d come to the conclusion there had to be a farm somewhere in the Midwest where they bred and raised them like cattle. Either that, or they were the result of some horrible cloning experiment. They looked the same, talked the same, and I’d bet one of my professional colleagues with super-olfactory abilities would confirm they all smelled the same. Therefore, I’d concluded that Mrs. Carr wasn’t a guidance counselor, but either a strange alien or a desperate criminal on the run. Whatever she was, she couldn’t have been a guidance counselor because she, and her advice, were helpful.

“Bobby.” She greeted me with that tilted head people used when pretending to be sincere since a smile would be inappropriate. “I’m so—”

“You’re so sorry for my loss and want me to tell you if there’s anything you can do. Right?”

That brought on the inappropriate smile, which was what I’d wanted all along. “Can’t fool you, huh?”

“I usually start memorizing phrases after hearing them sixty times. By the hundredth time, I can recite them in my sleep. No offense, but you’re obviously not the first person to greet me that way today.”

“
Touché
.” She motioned for me to sit, and I happily obliged her. “You do realize I actually mean it?”

“You’re probably the only person here I would believe meant it. So, what’s up that you called me? Other than the canned platitudes?”

“A few things, actually.” She opened her file on me and leafed through it. “First off, I’m not sure you’re really going to be in the mood for this, but there’s another college junket in two weeks. Johnson County University. I wanted to know if I should schedule you for it.”

I grimaced. I had been at one of those campus-visit sleepover trips when Uncle Jack died. I’d spent a whole two days blaming myself for not being there for him, but honestly, there wasn’t much I could’ve done, anyhow. I wouldn’t have been on patrol with him that night; I would’ve either been fast asleep, reading in the library, out on the town, or with one of the other sidekicks. Then I’d shifted guilt gears and blamed myself for cutting out on the sidekick gig or else I’d have been on patrol with him and had his back. That bit of self-pity had consumed the better part of the third day, but I’d managed to force it aside. I might’ve come up with a few other reasons to blame myself, but the funeral and sudden news from my new colleagues had intervened. Still, I’d have to fight back the urge to sink back into self-blame and depression every time a campus visit junket came up, and Mrs. Carr knew it.

“Not this one. I know JCU was one of the fall-back schools you and I were talking about, and I really should go, but right now I think it’s important for me to stay a little closer to home. Until I get my bearings back. Besides, I’ve got too much to do right now.”

Saturday was monitor duty, and it was my first turn in the rotation. Explaining that to her would be as impossible as explaining that “I should’ve been there” didn’t mean “I could’ve gotten him to the hospital in time,” but actually meant “I could’ve killed whatever villain impaled him, smashing through his allegedly unbreakable armor and stealing his sword.” A “you wouldn’t understand” thing people like Mrs. Carr refused to accept even when it was the truth.

“I understand.” Sure she did. “But I don’t want you sitting them all out. You do have a few places to look at and consider for late applications if things go wrong. Oh, I’ve made sure to send copies of your first semester grades along to the schools on your list that wanted them. I gather you haven’t heard from any of your early acceptance applications?”

“Not yet. Keeping my fingers crossed.”

“One more thing, but this isn’t school business. I remember we talked about medieval chivalry a while back. Didn’t you have an interest in it?”

Well, we had talked about it last year. I didn’t have the heart to tell her my interest only extended into research for “work” and pretended to be a bit more interested than I actually was. It was strange she brought that up now. “Yes.” I confirmed her suspicions. “I did dabble a little bit in it.”

“Great!” She practically leapt out of her chair. “I help organize the annual Renaissance Faire.”

Great. I’d stepped in it this time. I only have a passing interest in things having to do with knights other than ones with high-tech, crime-fighting tools, and now I was dealing with someone who not only used an “e” on the end of the word “faire,” but actually pronounced it slightly, too.

“Wow. That must be a lot of work for you.”

“It is! But it’s a lot of fun too. We’re a little shorthanded at the Faire this year. I remembered your fascination and thought I’d ask you. Chance to pick up some extra cash and really enjoy yourself. What do you say? Want to help?”

I grinned. “I’ll think about it, but the truth is, I don’t know how much time I’ll be able to spare when March rolls around.”

“Oh? What’s up?”

“I started a new part-time job.”

***

As I arrived home with a knapsack overflowing with books, notebooks, and other educational paraphernalia, life finally felt normal for the first time in days. For a few minutes, at least, I was nothing special. Coming home after school was the feel of a breeze through my hair and the warmth of the sun on my back and an apple pie cooling on a windowsill on an autumn afternoon. It was so unremarkable that it was remarkable, and I loved it.

I kicked off my sneakers by the door, dropped my knapsack next to them, and flopped on the living room couch like any other kid exhausted from school, determined to enjoy as much normal as I could while it lasted.

The more my body relaxed, the more my mind raced, reviewing the abrupt changes in my life; I hadn’t realized how much of a routine I’d developed until that routine had been disrupted. The days I’d bunked off of school because of Uncle Jack’s death had taken on a bit of a surreal feeling, and now that they were over, I could truly appreciate how much I’d missed the humdrum routine they’d interrupted.