Dull Boy (24 page)

There’s a plastic water bowl next to him—like the kind you would use for a dog.

What the hell’s going on here?

Catherine’s staying back, hands on her hips, working herself up to something—I can see it in her face. But . . . what?

I wish she’d told me about this; I wish I knew what this was about. For now all I can do is watch and wait. Try to get a feel for the situation.

The boy folds the wrapping paper carefully, sets it beside him like it’s a present in itself. He grins big as he lifts a huge LEGO castle out of the box. “Cool,” he says.

“I have so many more gifts for you at home. I would bring them here but I don’t think your parents would like that,” Cherchette says with a pout.

“No . . .”

“There’s a girl who lives with me who is just like you. She also had to hide away from the world. Her teeth are like a piranha’s. And her skin is like a shark’s. But where I live, she is free to show herself and make friends. She is not a monster, she is special. How does that sound?” Cherchette’s voice is warm with reassurance. The boy is nodding along.

“It sounds nice.”

Catherine breaks the silence then; she grips her hips with two tight fists. “We’re not interested. And stop talking to him like he’s five.”

“I’m sorry—did I offend you?”

“He’s small; he’s not retarded,” Catherine says. “You can’t just buy him presents and expect him to fall for your lies.”

“Always so hostile.” Cherchette tsks. “I am only concerned for your welfare, and Charlie’s. You should want your twin brother to be happy, not to remain here when a better life awaits.”

Wait—
what??

This little kid is Catherine’s twin?

“He’ll have a better life,” Catherine says, stalking forward. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Oh—your pitiful coffee-shop job?” Cherchette purses her lips. “You think you can support two people with that pittance? Where will you live—outdoors? How will you ensure that he is not discovered?”

“As long as he’s away from you, he’ll be fine.”

“I am offering you both a lifeline,” Cherchette says, “and you are foolish not to take it. You insist on having things your own way, and in the meantime your brother leads an animal’s life. I have been patient with you, I have tried to make you understand—but the time is up, Catherine. We both know where you belong.”

“Get out!” Catherine shouts.

Cherchette smoothes her narrow skirt as she stands up. “Charlie, darling, how would you like to sleep in a warm, clean bed tonight, in a beautiful house, with good things to eat, and friends and games to play with, and a swimming pool to swim in and a trampoline? Doesn’t that sound heavenly? Wouldn’t you like your sister to be there with you?”

Charlie nods, his eyes glittering, entranced by Cherchette and her promises.

Catherine’s face is flushed with anger. Tears spring to her eyes. “It’s too good to be true and we both know it. Charlie isn’t going to fall for that any more than I would.”

“Charlie and I are leaving,” Cherchette says. “With or without you, Catherine. But I suggest you join us. Or else he will miss you very much.” Cherchette takes the boy’s tiny hand and something in Catherine snaps.

Claws splayed, she leaps at Cherchette.

Ten claws slam into an unyielding ice wall—a shield that built itself in fast-forward: from fog to rock-hard in a split second. Catherine crumples, gasping like she got the wind knocked out of her, cradling her left hand. One of her claws is broken off. Blood trickles from her injured finger.

“You little minx,” Cherchette says. “That was very stupid.”

Cherchette is icy cool and the air around her is getting colder. I’m frozen in place except for the uncontrollable shaking, holding tight to the wall, trying to keep my knees from banging into the garage.

“Must you fear me in order to respect me? Is that why you’ve never raised a hand against your parents?” Cherchette tugs Charlie’s shirt up, revealing a skinny torso studded with bruises. “Explain to me—you are a coward then, so you have to be a hero now?”

“Shut up!” Catherine struggles to one knee. “Get the hell away from him!”

“You’re in no position to give orders, dear. It’s time you learned that.”

Spikes of ice rain down from the ceiling. Catherine raises her hands to protect herself and an icy wind hits her like a massive slap, knocking her into a pile of broken furniture. Nail-ridden chairs and table legs topple with the impact, pinning her to the ground.

“It appears you were a bit too sure of yourself,” Cherchette says as Catherine makes a feeble attempt to claw her way out of the wreckage. “Are you ready to behave? You’re upsetting your brother, you know.”

Catherine strikes back with probably the most offensive string of curse words I’ve ever heard. She spits them and they turn to ice on her lips. Charlie huddles against one wall, hugging himself.

“I won’t tolerate such disrespect,” Cherchette says. A miniature blizzard swirls above her palm, ice crystals snapping in the frigid air. Her eyes are as blank and white as frosted glass. “I’ve come to help you, to save you from this wretched life, but you will
not
speak to me that way. You stupid little fool—this is going to hurt terribly and it’s all your fault.”

Something’s changing in Cherchette; Catherine’s prone and helpless, but Cherchette is not backing off. The cold above her palm is gathering into a spiny, shimmering orb, spiked with icicles like the head of a frozen mace. She curls her lips back and raises her arm as if to hurl the orb at Catherine.

The sight jolts me into action, reminds me that I can move. My feet barely touch the ground as I launch myself from my hiding spot, tackling Cherchette and slamming us both into a pile of cardboard boxes. The orb explodes on contact, spiny icicles biting into my skin like blades. Frost blasts my face, blinding me. The boxes tumble around us and Cherchette cries out in pain.

I pry my frozen eyelids apart with trembling fingers.

Cherchette is guarding her ribs, fingers pressed delicately to her side. Her eyes are iced over to the point where it’s like she doesn’t recognize me. Nostrils flaring rhythmically.
Revenge
.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know what else to—”

My words are wasted on her. Cherchette grasps my throat and squeezes, cold shooting through her fingertips and into my jaw, my brain. I’m shuddering with pain, some kind of massive internal shutdown: throat closing up, my lungs close to frozen. And I can’t think. Can’t—everything is—so—slow.

Just. Blue. In front of my eyes. Blacking out. And.

Cherchette gasps. She cries out in a language I don’t understand, tears herself away from me. My vision floods back, just in time to see the horrified look on her face. She stumbles out of the garage, steps as unsteady as my heartbeat. Slams herself into her car, frantic. The Aston Martin reverses quickly, kicking up stones as the heat rushes back to my brain, and I can move again.

She lost control. I could see it. I thought she was superior to us, perfectly in control of her powers and emotions at all times. Witnessing Cherchette lose it is almost as much of a shock as seeing her true self. Her anger. The violence she’s ready to unleash when she doesn’t get what she wants.

Catherine kicks the last piece of furniture away from her and grabs my face, turns it this way and that—scared, I think. “That bad?” I manage.

“It’s like she burned you. Damn it! Damn her! She’s like, she’s freaking worse than—” Catherine’s eyes flick around until they land on Charlie. He’s busy hiding inside his Incredible Hulk shirt, tugging the front over his bent knees. “I’ll get something to clean it. Alcohol or—”

“Don’t worry about me,” I say, struggling not to bite through my tongue the first time I stretch my neck. Agggh. It kills. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She sucks on her injured fingertip, sourly. “But—” She turns on her brother then. “What the hell, Charlie?” she shouts. “What did I tell you about her? We’re going away on our own! You can’t trust her! Why don’t you listen to me?”

“Leave him alone,” I say. “She just scared the crap out of him; she almost killed his sister. I know you’re pissed but you’re picking the wrong target.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Catherine says. “How are we going to get out of this?”

She curls up and jams her head against her knees, and then she’s crying, so I wrap my arms around her and squeeze—the kind of hug that could crack someone’s ribs, if I wasn’t careful. But I can control it. I can control it enough not to hurt my friend.

“Is this my fault?” she asks. “What they’re doing to him? Because I won’t—because I can’t stop it yet?”

“No,” I say. “Your parents are supposed to be there for you. They’re supposed to help when you have a problem, not punish you for it. It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t have to choose between the lesser of two evils.”

“Three evils,” she sniffs. “I’m the third one. I can’t offer him a good life either, can I? I’m trying, but . . . it’s totally unrealistic, like she said.”

“She can’t tell you how it’ll turn out. No one knows that yet.”

Catherine wipes her eyes on her pajama top. Skin still red and raw, a bruise forming on her cheek. “I guess. Look, if you tell anyone about this . . .”

Not that again. I bump her with my head, squeeze a little harder. “Catherine, shut up. Seriously. Just trust me for five seconds.”

I sit with her until she calms down, my mind racing—that argument with my parents seems so far away. I watch Charlie, wonder how his mom and dad could do this to him—even though I know stuff like this happens all the time, to kids who don’t even have anything supposedly “wrong” with them. He’s in the corner, playing quietly, folding and unfolding the silver wrapping paper. Occasionally he looks at us—territorial or lonely or confused, I’m not sure.

Charlie’s a secret. The police can’t be called, social workers can’t come to his rescue. If he were discovered, who knows what would happen to him? So what good is all that
professional
hero training? What good is patrolling my neighborhood every day if I can’t save the one kid who has no one else to help him?

I promise Catherine I’ll call her later. Right now I have to concentrate on what I
can
do: which is warn the team.

I need to tell Darla she was right about Cherchette.

 

I RUN THE WHOLE WAY
to Darla’s house: chest heaving, lungs and throat raw. It’s too bright to fly. It’s a beautiful, horrible day.

I check the shed—home of the family lawn mower and the site of Darla’s workshop—first, hoping I can bypass meeting her family, doing the whole hello-how-are-you-by-the-way-I’m-Avery thing, but it’s padlocked. I’m about to turn around and head for the house when I notice a folded piece of paper wedged under the door. It’s most of the way inside, but with a little careful maneuvering I manage to pry it out.

It’s a letter.

From Nicholas.

H
uh, whass—” Darla flips over in bed, blinking feebly like a mole who’s suddenly been exposed to sunlight. Her Hello Kitty sheets are tangled around her legs, her camouflage fleece blanket is in a lump on the floor. She fumbles for her glasses and sits up, straightening her too-tight Transformers pajamas. They look like they were sized for a ten-year-old boy.

“Frigging hell, how late do you sleep?” I don’t mean to yell at her but I can’t help it. “It’s three in the afternoon! You were supposed to talk to Nicholas, remember?”

“I was up till like six. Jeez. Why, did something happen?” She lifts up her glasses and rubs the sleep out of her eyes. Squints at my neck. “Um, did you burn yourself with a curling iron? Like twenty times?”

“No,” I say. “Cherchette tried to choke the life out of me. But then she changed her mind, which is the only reason I’m still alive to tell you that Nicholas left with her. Presumably before she tried to kill me.”

Darla’s mouth opens. I can see her trying to figure out the appropriate response, like: is he joking? I pull Nick’s note out of my pocket and toss it on her bed. It takes her about ten seconds to read it.

“He what?!” Darla explodes. I try to quiet her with a fierce shushing motion. I already went through one round of interrogation with Darla’s nana when I got here; I’m not really eager for round two.

“He lives right down the street and I didn’t even—damn it! Why didn’t I know he was really considering this?” Darla punches one of the doe-eyed Japanese stuffed animals off her bed. Punching it must not be satisfying enough, because she gets up and punts it across the room. “I was supposed to protect him! That was the whole point!”