Hero Worship (3 page)

FOUR

When I finish putting away the dishes and stocking the refrigerator, the restaurant is empty. All the cooks and waitresses are gone for the night. Even Gus skedaddled. Three weeks ago he gave me a key to the place, saying I'd earned his trust to close up at night. He taught me how to enter the code for the security system and arm it when I leave. When I told Yvonne and Kent about having a key, they'd begged me to go back and let them raid the refrigerator and beer cooler. I told them not a snowball's chance in hell. It means a lot that Gus has faith in me, and I'm not about to do anything that would destroy that trust.

Making the rounds through the restaurant, I turn off all the lights, unplug the neon signs, and make sure all the exits are locked. As I pass the counter, I spot a small stack of cash resting on top of two Styrofoam to-go containers with my name written on them. I pick up the cash and count it. After my first week on the job, Gus handed me a check. I'm sure my blank expression prompted my new boss to ask whether or not I had a bank account, and I admitted I didn't. He took the check and counted out the amount in cash. Ever since then, he always gives me cash, no questions asked.

Pocketing the money, I open the Styrofoam containers and am pleasantly surprised to find they contain leftover baby back ribs, one of Midtown Café's specialties. Gus usually squirrels away food for me that was just going to be tossed out at the end of the night. Yvonne and Kent love this job perk.

Juggling the to-go containers, I arm the security system, wait for the chirp, and hurry out the front door. On the street, the bus at the stop closes its doors. I sprint through the parking lot as it pulls away. “Wait!” I yell, waving my free hand. But the vehicle coughs a cloud of black exhaust as it ambles off. I stand on the sidewalk and watch as its tail lights fade into the city's artificial glare.

Tucking the containers under my arm, I hoof it down the street. It's not a long walk home—no more than five or six miles—certainly not long enough to kill me. But it's not the walk through a jungle that will kill you. It's the predators.

The street is deserted, not a car in sight. It reminds me of a post-apocalyptic landscape in the movies. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if tumbleweed rolled down the road, driven by a lonely wind. A street sweeper slowly drives by me on Elm Street. Thousands of bristles spin against the pavement, but it does little to remove the stains. Some stains just can't be brushed away.

As I turn down Red Hill Avenue, I spot a shiny SUV on the side of the street. There's a family of three—a father, mother, and a young boy, probably eight or nine years old—huddled around the back of the vehicle. The father pumps the jack up and down, up and down, slowly raising the backside of the SUV off the ground. The culprit is a flat tire. Despite this late-night inconvenience, the family laughs and appears to be in good spirits. The father nudges the young boy with his hip, which makes the boy howl with glee. The mother cups a hand over her mouth as she laughs.

I can't help but smile.

But almost immediately I'm gripped by a sense of loss, which is strange because I've never had this type of relationship with my father. Can you lose something that you've never had?

I'm nearly a block away from the family when I see four teenagers appear like specters out of the shadows. The smile on the father's face disappears as he sees the teens approach like jackals closing in on a wounded animal. He fumbles with the jack, frantically pumping it.

One of the hoodlums points and laughs. The young boy turns to look, but his mother whispers to him to not stare. He looks at his parents, confusion on his face as he senses their agitation. Fear swirls around them like a bad odor.

The teenagers surround the terrified trio. The ringleader has a pockmarked and twitchy face, like he has a tic, which conjures the image of a nervous rodent. His hands are stuffed deep inside his sweatshirt pocket. He leans forward and angles to get a look at the flat tire. “Car troubles, huh?” he asks, flashing a yellow smile.

The mother wraps a protective arm around her son. The father glances at the ringleader and fumbles with the jack. “Yeah … yes, a flat tire,” he says.

“That sucks.”

“We'll manage.”

The ringleader whistles as he takes in the shiny SUV, then says, “This is a pimp ride you got.”

“Thanks,” the father says.

“This SUV ain't no joke. This must've set you back,” the ringleader says.

The street sweeper turns onto Red Hill Ave and heads toward the SUV. The father jumps up and waves his arms. The city vehicle slows down and comes to a stop, and the driver leans out the window. “Car problems?” he asks.

The hoodlum nearest to the mother pulls a machete from under his jacket. He uses the blade to motion for the driver to move on. “Ain't nothin' to see here, old man.”

“You snot-nosed little punk!” the driver barks.

Smiling, the ringleader pulls a small revolver out of his sweatshirt pocket and levels it at the driver. “You best be bouncin' outta here.”

The city worker hesitates for only a moment before driving away. He disappears around the corner without so much as a backward glance.

The ringleader levels the gun at the father. “Now hand over your wallet and your lovely wife's purse,” he hisses.

One of the hoodlums nudges the ringleader and motions toward me. “Check shorty.”

All eyes turn to me, where I've been standing on the sidewalk watching the events unfold. “Hey, Slim, time for you to bounce,” the ringleader shouts. “We's conducting business.”

It would be so easy to walk away. Just keep walking and don't look back. I could forget this little incident ever happened.

I look at all the faces staring at me. The one that draws my attention is the young boy. Tears run down his face, and his eyes are full of fear. He mouths the word
help
. It's a silent prayer, and, unfortunately for me, I'm the only one around to hear it.

I set the Styrofoam containers down on the ground and head toward the hoodlums. “What's your name, kid?” I ask.

The ringleader snarls, then snaps, “Ain't none of your business what my name is!”

“I was talking to the boy.”

“Jack … Jackson,” the boy stammers. “Jackson James.”

“Jackson, it's okay you're afraid … because I'm afraid, too.” My heart beats faster and my palms are sweaty.

The hoodlums don't know what to make of me as I stroll toward them. The scumbag with the machete jumps toward me, tossing the machete from hand to hand. A forced smile cracks across his face. “You don't want none of this,” he says.

The ringleader taps the barrel of the revolver against the back of the father's head. “Slim, you's playing a dangerous game right now,” he says. “You best be thinking twice 'bout what you's planning.”

Holding Jackson's stare, I say, “I'm just going to need a little taste.”

A puzzled look falls across the young boy's face. “Huh?” he croaks.

Closing my eyes, I tilt back my head as pressure builds at the center of my being, intensifying until it feels like it's going to overwhelm me. It's as if all my cells are in a choir and singing in perfect unison. I open my eyes with a start and say, “It's time to spread some of this fear around.”

Having heard enough, the hoodlum clutching the ma-chete brings the blade down at my head like a tomahawk. My hand shoots up and catches the sharp blade in my palm. The shocked teenager's eyes blink repeatedly, as if he can't believe that the blade didn't slice through my hand. In one seamless motion, I rip the machete out of his grasp and send it flying across the street. It punctures the side of the building, lodging there like Excalibur in the stone.

The hoodlum glances at the machete, then turns to me and says, “He's got powers.”

Grabbing a handful of his shirt, I lift him off the ground and fling him. He flies through the air, screaming, until he slams against the building with a dull thud. His unconscious body drops to the ground.

I hear the explosion of the ringleader's revolver behind me. Moving faster than human eyes can detect, I spin around just in time to see the bullet hurtling toward my head. While I'm not indestructible, I can move super fast, which allows me to dodge a bullet like it's a fastball. The ringleader squeezes off four more rounds. I dodge the next three bullets but don't move fast enough to avoid the last one, which hits me in the shoulder. “Sonavabitch!” I yell, touching the bleeding wound with my hand. A plume of gunpowder hangs in the air.

The hoodlum grabs Jackson and points the barrel of the revolver flush against the side of his head. The young boy cries as the hot metal burns his skin. “Don't freakin' move!” the ringleader yells.

Having seen enough, the two unarmed hoodlums trip over themselves as they stumble away, fleeing into the night.

The ringleader keeps the gun against the boy's head as he backs away. “This is how it's gonna work,” he shouts. “I'm gettin' outta here with the boy. Got it?!”

“You're not leaving with the boy,” I say, trying to remember how many bullets were shot. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Only five. There's one more bullet.

“Oh yes I am!” the gun-wielding thug hollers. “You better believe that!”

Jackson's parents watch helplessly as their son is ripped away from them. “Please don't,” the father says. “I'll give you whatever you want, just let my son go.”

“Don't take my baby,” the mother sobs.

The ringleader shouts, “Shut up! Shut up. I'm leaving or the boy sucks on a bullet. Got it?!” He pulls Jackson close as he backs into an alley.

In a blur, I speed toward them. I reach out and grab hold of Jackson, pulling him out of the thug's grasp. Clutching the boy to my chest, I run him to safety behind the SUV. The ringleader hasn't even had time to process that he no longer has a grip on the young boy as I connect my clenched fist to the side of his head. He flies through the air twenty feet and then slams into a lamppost. I hear bones breaking as he drops to the ground, the revolver clanking out of his hand into the gutter.

The hoodlum's shallow breath is raspy. I exhale a sigh of relief that I didn't kill him. He might walk with a limp, but he'll live.

The parents run to their son. The family embraces, hugging and kissing each other, relieved they all survived the ordeal.

Checking my gunshot wound, I know I'm lucky. It just grazed me.

“Thank you, mister,” Jackson says. The whole family holds one another and smiles at me. “What's your name?”

Without thinking, I say, “Marvin.”

“What kinda hero name is that?”

“Who said I'm a hero?”

The boy looks confused. “But … that's what you are.”

Jackson doesn't know me. He doesn't know that I'm dirty, or that my powers are fed by fear. That's not heroic and certainly not clean. But as I stare at the starry-eyed boy, I don't have the energy or the desire to explain this to him. I speed off in a blur to get home before I black out.

FIVE

I know I'm asleep. It's one of those dreams where you know you're dreaming and you're trying to wake up but you can't. I'm paralyzed, rooted in place, unable to shake away my slumber. I become aware of something big approaching in the distance. I feel it in the ground beneath me. The roar builds with the vibration that rattles my teeth. My whole body shakes as the ground hums.

This is when I start to panic.

I try to open my eyes, but my lids open just a crack, enough to see blinding light. My vision is blurry and distorted and the brightness desperately hurts my eyes, like I'm staring up at the sun. A giant wave of air whooshes over me. Tiny particles of dust and debris pelt my face. In my dream, I scream like a banshee, thrashing my head around, hoping my body gets the wake-up call.

I sit up with a start right as an 18-wheeler barrels past me. I'm sitting in a ditch on the side of the freeway. My mouth is dusty and dry, and I try to spit but it's a desert. Dirt and grime crunch between my teeth. I remember racing toward home and nothing else. I'd tried to get back home before I crashed, but obviously that didn't work out.

Groaning, I slowly get to my feet. I dust myself off, then cover my eyes with a hand and look around. In the distance, I see the Edinger Avenue overpass. I nearly made it. As I walk along the shoulder, I wonder how many people saw me lying there. I would've been in plain sight. I don't know whether or not I'm grateful that nobody stopped to investigate. I pat my front pocket and feel the wad of cash from Gus. Nobody rolled me while I was out, so at least that's something.

I look toward the sky and figure it's early afternoon. I was probably out for twelve hours or so, but this is normal. After I use my powers, I crash like a drug addict after a binge.

A stabbing pain in my stomach causes me to double over. It feels like my stomach is turning in on itself. I wait until the pain passes and hurry toward home. I curse under my breath that I forgot the Styrofoam boxes of leftovers. That food would hit the spot right about now. I'm ravenous. Whenever I wake up after using my power, I eat like a herd of starving elephants. I once added up the calories during one of these binges, and it was more than a normal person eats in a week. I need to eat, and I need to eat now.

The continuous hum of vehicles vibrates through the overpass as I make my way down the corridor to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and grumble that it's empty. There's a cereal box on the counter. I pick it up and dump the Corn Flakes into my mouth. I chew loudly and swallow. Dry cereal never tasted so good. But this half-empty box of cereal won't be enough. Not by a long shot.

I push past the raggedy blanket I use as a door for my room. Yvonne is curled up on my bed, asleep. The bedside lamp casts her in a warm light. Her jeans and sweatshirt are two sizes too big. Her hair is held back in a ponytail, secured by a rubber band. But despite this, she's cute. I get a twinge of something that resembles longing, but quickly shake away the notion as being completely inappropriate, like thinking a cousin is attractive. Gross.

I dump the rest of the cereal into my mouth and chew loudly, which causes Yvonne to stir. As I retrieve a clean shirt, she sits up. “Marvin, what the hell?!” She jumps off the bed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, removing my shirt and putting on a clean one.

“We were really worried about you. What happened last night?” Her eyes look like they belong to an adult. She's seen way too much for someone her age.

“I've got to eat something. I'm dying. Wanna go? My treat.”

“But what—”

I step out into the corridor. “Let's get Kent.”

Kent's sitting at the desk in his room, using a tiny chisel to clear away slight imperfections in the plaster of a new mask. He lifts up his sagging face and says, “It's been a long day and I don't think I can hold it together much longer.”

“Do you want anything?” I ask.

“You can tell me why you had to use your powers last night,” he says.

“Oh, it was nothing,” I say. My friends share a knowing smile. “What?”

Yvonne pretends to hold a microphone and speaks into it. “Son, can you tell us what happened?” she asks.

Kent lifts his hands to his face and, in a childlike voice, says, “He single-handedly saved me and my mom and dad from four bad men. He moved faster than Streak and was as strong as Lieutenant Mercury. He was amazing.”

“And who is this hero?”

“He said his name was Marvin.”

“Marvin?”

“Yeah, Marvin.”

“If you could say one thing to Marvin,” Yvonne asks, “what would it be?”

“Marvin, you're my hero,” Kent squeals. Satisfied with their taunting, my friends turn to me, waiting for an explanation.

“Oh, crap, it was on the news?” I say.

“Yep.” Yvonne smiles. “Every channel this morning.”

“What were you thinking?” Kent asks. “Did you think you were clean?”

“I wasn't about to let those thugs jump that family,” I say.

“But why'd you tell them your name? Now everybody knows about this mysterious Marvin kid who saves motorists.” Yvonne groans.

Dismissing her with a wave of my hand, I say, “Nobody knows who I am.”
Kent shoots Yvonne a look.

She glares at him. “Just say it.”

“Lieutenant Mercury does,” Kent shoots back.

Kent and I never say the name Lieutenant Mercury in front of Yvonne. I don't know what the deal is, but it's like fingernails on a chalkboard to her. She really doesn't like the guy, and she's never explained why.

“Hold it … what?” I say. “Lieutenant Mercury knows about it?”

Yvonne grimaces at the mention of his name. “Yeah. They had a sound bite from him on the news.”

“What did he say?”

“While he ‘admires anyone who comes to the aide of others,' he ‘hopes the person isn't dirty,'” Kent tells me.

“And he wants you to pay a visit to the Core Mansion so you two can discuss the matter,” Yvonne adds.

“He said that?”

“I know, right?” Kent laughs. “What a tool.”

“Like you're stupid enough to roll up to the Core Mansion,” Yvonne says. “They'd neuter you.”

“But it would be nice to check the place out,” Kent mutters.

I nod my head, agreeing with him.

“It's that kind of thinking that will get us nabbed,” Yvonne snaps.

She and I find a quiet booth at Eat-A-Rama, an all-you-can-eat buffet, which is just what the doctor ordered to satisfy my hellacious appetite. I clear two plates before Yvonne joins me with her tray, which consists of salad.

“So, the Core, huh? You'd like to be a member?”

“Who wouldn't?” I say.

“Did you know that more members of the Core kill themselves than die in the line of duty?” she asks.

I set my fork down and swallow my food, wiping my mouth with the napkin. “Oh, come on.”

“It's true,” she says. “What does that tell you about their outfit? They have secrets and agendas we don't know about.”

“I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“Marvin, if you put your faith in institutions like the Core, they're going to let you down every single time. How many dirties and cleans are there? Two, three million maybe? Most are dirty, like us, trying to blend in or enrolling in the Power Aversion Program.”

While I was still living at home, I'd desperately tried to blend in and go unnoticed, but that was easier said than done. When my father drank, it was hard to escape his attention, and whenever it became clear that he was coming after me in a drunken rage, my mother would try to distract him and protect me. While I was trying to go unnoticed and blend in, she was sacrificing herself for her child. I could've—should've—acted, but I didn't.

I won't do that again. Ever.

I pick at my food with my fork. “It felt good.”

“What did?”

“Helping that family,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“For that brief time, I forgot about me, my life, and just was.”

“Was what?”

“Was someone better.”

She slides her plate across the table and sets her napkin down. “That sounds like something my father would say.” A sad smile brushes across her face.

This is the first time Yvonne has ever spoken to me about her parents. Kent told me that she once showed him a childhood picture of when she was two or three, with her mom and dad at the shore of a lake. But that's the extent of her discussing her past, particularly anything about her parents. This is fine with me because I don't talk about my parents either.

As we walk home, she asks, “Do you ever think about having DNA-strand modification?”

“Having my powers removed?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“I made a promise that I wouldn't.”

“To who?”

“My mom. Right before she died.”

Yvonne opens her mouth to say something, but then changes her mind. I'm glad, because I don't want to talk about it anymore.

“Isn't it ironic?” she says. “We have powers, but we're powerless.”