Hero Worship (12 page)

Eliza waves over the SWAT team, saying, “You can come out now.”

They hurry over and attend to their wounded team member. All of them shoot me looks, but no one says a word.

Nudging Eliza, I say, “Let's go.”

“Are you crazy? The reporters will be here soon,” she says. “We've got to do our interviews.”

“No way. Not me.”

“That's the best part of our job,” she says. “If you don't get it on camera, it might as well not have happened.”

Leaning in close to her ear, I whisper, “I'm going to crash.”

“Remind me to snag some of Dr. Klaus's go-go juice. I can't always worry about you passing out on me.”

I take one last look at the corpse. Steam is rising off the charred flesh.

Itching to get as far away from there as possible, I speed off down the street, passing a swarm of television reporters breaking down their cameras from where they were positioned, apparently documenting the whole event. As I race home, passing vehicles in a blur, I hope nobody will be able to identify me tonight—and by nobody, I mean Yvonne.

NINETEEN

I remove my costume and stuff it into a discarded plastic grocery bag before stepping into the concrete cave. Yvonne's curled up on the sofa, a blanket draped over her. There's an empty to-go container from Midtown Café and the gnawed-on remains of BBQ ribs. A late-night sketch comedy show runs on the television. She looks so peaceful and content while she sleeps. I pull the blanket up around her shoulders, tucking the corners around her. Picking up the remote, I turn off the television. I want to wake Yvonne up and tell her about what happened tonight. I want to tell her about Eliza. I want to tell her everything.

But I don't. Instead, I walk away.

Passing Kent's room on the way to mine, I see he's slouched over his desk, working on a new plaster mold. He's using a tiny brush to sweep away imperfections.

“Knock knock,” I say.

“Where've you been?”

“Out.”

“Dude, you don't look so good,” Kent says.

I don't have much more left in my tanks. I imagine that I probably look as bad as I feel. “Yeah.”

His nostrils flare and he sniffs the air. “Do you smell that?” he asks.

“What?”

“It smells like burnt meat.”

A shiver runs through my body, and I don't know if it's because of the image of the charred corpse or how Eliza went from zero to kill in the blink of an eye.

“Kent, what's the worst thing you've ever witnessed?”

He looks up from his work and gives me a look. “Is this about that girl at the sandwich shop?”

“Huh?”

“What's on your mind?” he asks.

“Oh, it's nothing,” I say. “I'm going to bed.”

“Marvin, is this about Roisin?” His face doesn't register anger, mistrust, or judgment. It registers concern. Concern for a friend.

“Forget it,” I say, heading to my room. “Good night.”

The next morning, I wake up from my coma-like sleep and step out of my room with nothing on my mind except eating. On the way to the kitchen, I glance into the living room and don't see my friends. I might be able to convince them I was just sleepy and that's why I slept so long. But if they catch me shoveling food into my mouth, they'll know I used my powers and there'll be endless questions.

I find a bag of chocolate cookies, cram them into my mouth, and head outside. On the way to the Gas 'n' Sip, I think about last night and, again, how Eliza acted. Perhaps that's what's required of members of the Core—just act, don't think. I know that I overanalyze everything. I spend so much time thinking about how I should act, I tend to not do anything. In life-and-death situations, heroes must act. You never hear stories about soldiers who freeze and do nothing. Soldiers who spring into action are the ones we celebrate and award medals to. Eliza is a soldier who acts.

Not many customers use baskets in a convenience store, but not everybody is starving after a night of corralling bank robbers with a member of the Core. Grabbing the one and only basket, I walk up and down the aisles, loading up on whatever looks good and some things that don't. A little bit of this, a couple more of those, and a whole lot of that.

As I'm piling discounted canned food into the basket, I notice the magazine rack. The morning papers feature out-of-focus photos of me decked out in the tunic and helmet. I pick up the
Loganstin Journal
and look at the photo. The headline reads,
The Core's Newest Recruit?
I skim the article and see that Roisin was quoted answering a question about me, remarking,
“He's a friend.”

“Is he clean?”

“Of course he's clean.”

That's news to me.

As I scan the paper, something else becomes apparent—there's no photo or mention of the dead assailant. The focus of this story seems to be the guy I knocked unconscious. There are even photos of him being led away in handcuffs.

All those reporters, photographers, and camera crews were right there. On the spot. They
must
have documented Eliza taking the guy out. I get the decision to not publish photos of the crispy critter, but burying the fact that there were two culprits boggles my mind. How can they keep that quiet and under wraps? There were too many witnesses.

The cashier rings up my items. As I dig into my pocket for money, he bags my purchases, pausing to look at the blurry photo on the cover of one of the newspapers. “Man, I wish I had the original papers that first ran stories about Lieutenant Mercury,” he says. “Do you know how much they go for now?”

“No.”

“The first edition of the
Loganstin Journal
issue is worth ten thousand dollars.”

“Wow,” I say, handing over my money and motioning to the newspapers. “Well, they're running stories about a new guy. Maybe you should pick up a couple of copies.”

The cashier puts the money in the register. “Ain't no way someone looking that stupid is gonna command top dollar,” he says.

I've consumed nearly half a bag of goodies by the time I get home. As I walk toward the living room, I see the television casting a flickering light on the outside wall. I step into the room and plop down in a chair. Yvonne and Kent are sitting on the sofa. I open another bag of snacks and say, “Do you guys want something?”

“You got any donuts in there?” Kent asks. Retrieving a package of donuts, I toss them to him. “Thanks, homie,” he says.

“Yvonne?”

“The only thing I want is an explanation,” she says, turning up the volume on the television. It's a special report, and the footage shows the robbery last night. More specifically, me pummeling the gunman.

Yvonne's eyes remain fixed on the television. Her jaw muscles are clenched. Kent shoves a small donut into his gaping maw and glances at her, then at me. His eyes continue to dart back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match, waiting to see who's going to go first.

“Do you have anything to say?” Yvonne asks.

“About what?”

She motions to the television. “About that.” A close-up of me wearing that ridiculous helmet is superimposed on the screen.

“Why do you think that's me?” I say.

Yvonne reaches behind the sofa and retrieves the helmet. She tosses it across the room at me. It hits my chest and clanks to the floor.

“You rummaged around my room?”

“Marvin, don't. Just don't,” she says.

“Roisin tracked him down at Midtown after he saved the family,” Kent says.

Yvonne turns her glare on Kent. “You knew about this?”

Kent grimaces, recognizing that he just stumbled into a trap. “Um … yeah. I guess.”

“Why'd she want to track you down?” Yvonne asks, turning her icy stare to me.

“To talk,” I say.

“To talk?”

“Yeah.”

“About what?”

“Stuff,” I say. “You know.”

“So, the two of you talk, and then you're fighting crime. Is that about right?” Yvonne asks.

“Yeah, I guess.”

She laughs, a humorless laugh. “Fighting crime. The Core fighting crime. That's rich.”

“Yvonne, what's your deal?” I ask. “What's your problem with the Core?”

“What's my problem? The Core is worse than any of the criminals they've ever put behind bars,” she snaps.

I say, “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Yvonne rustles in the sofa, but her eyes never shift away from the television. “Lieutenant Mercury killed my parents.”

The only sound I hear comes from the television, and it suddenly sounds like it's blaring. Kent picks up the remote and turns it off. But Yvonne's eyes remain fixed on the blank screen. “I was getting ready for school. My mom laid out clothes for me to wear. My dad had just gotten home from working a graveyard shift, but he took time to make me breakfast. My parents spent the last few moments of their lives taking care of me. Before I even made it to the sidewalk, something fell out of the sky and crashed into our home.”

Yvonne tells how she ran back inside. Her parents were buried under rubble. They were dead. But Mercury got to his feet and staggered out the door like he was drunk and leaving a party. Yvonne watched, tears running down her face, as the leader of the Core leaped into the sky and flew away, disappearing into the clouds.

“A handful of black SUVs skidded to a stop on the street,” she says. “Men in suits and sunglasses got out. They told me that it was a horrible tragedy. They told me to go with them and they'd figure it out. But they already had it figured out. I got a hundred dollars and was dropped off at child services. A hundred dollars? Like that would cover the cost of my pain.”

“Oh my god,” Kent says. “What happened?”

“I'll tell you exactly what happened,” she says. “The bastards went to work and ruined the reputations of my mom and dad. They claimed my parents were violent suspects with a long history of criminal activities. This version of events was dutifully repeated again and again by the local media.” She turns to me, and I swear I can feel the anger radiating off her body. “Do you know why my parents were killed? There was no reason for it. None. Mercury fucked up, and his fuck-up killed my parents.”

“Yvonne,” I say, “are you—”

“You know what the real pisser is? Them trying to cover up the mistake by making my mom and dad out to be monsters. They weren't monsters. They were just parents trying to protect their daughter—but they couldn't protect me from the Core. Nobody is protected from them.”

“That's messed up,” Kent says.

“I hate the Core. I hate everything they represent,” Yvonne says. “If I could, I'd burn them all to the ground.”

“But it's not like that,” I say. “I mean—”

Yvonne gets up. She opens her mouth to say something but stops herself. Then she says, “You need to move out.”

“What?”

“I think it's for the best.”

“Yvonne, come on,” Kent says.

She hurries out of the room.

Kent and I are both stunned. Neither one of us says anything, because at this point there's nothing really to say. The silence just seems to stretch on.

Finally, Kent motions to the cookies. “Can I have one?”

I hold out the bag and he takes one, tossing it into his mouth whole. I look at him, shrug, and say, “I guess I'll go pack my things.”

“Give her some time,” he says. “She'll get over it.”

I stuff my handful of T-shirts, socks, underwear, and jeans into a duffel bag. It dawns on me that relationships that were years in the making can be destroyed, and you won't even know it until it's already happened. As I step out into the hall, I see a light glowing from Yvonne's room. I consider trying to talk to her, but then reconsider. I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and head out.

TWENTY

Eliza steers her orange car down a maze of deserted streets in Bixby Gardens, heading toward the rundown building where her safe house is hidden. She drives around back and parks.

“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask. “I didn't know where else to go.”

“Of course,” she says. “I'm hardly ever here anyway.
Mi casa es su casa
.”

Once inside the apartment, she heads into the kitchen and opens the stainless steel refrigerator, pulling out a carton of milk. “You want something to drink?” she asks.

“Nah.”

“Come on. We're celebrating your new life.”

“Um … okay,” I say. “Just one.”

She grabs two glasses from the cabinet and pours them half full of milk, then sets the carton down and produces a brown bottle of liquor from underneath the counter. She pours the booze into both glasses, filling them to the brim, and slides a glass to me. I pick it up and look at the cloudy cocktail.

“What? You don't like Kahlua and milk?” she asks. “This is a girlie drink, so you'll probably like it.”

I take a sip, trying to be gracious. It doesn't taste half bad, kind of like chocolate milk with a kick. I pretend to take another drink and set the glass down. Eliza tilts her head back and drains the entire glass. She wipes the milk mustache from her upper lip and pours herself another one. “Why aren't you drinking?”

“I've got a shift tonight at Midtown Café,” I say.

“You haven't quit yet?”

“No. I just called in sick yesterday.”

“You've got to quit. You can't have a job while trying out for the Core.” She hands me the phone.

“But I have a shift tonight.”

“What did I just say?”

“But what am I going to do about money?” I ask.

“Once you're a member of the Core, you'll have everything you need.”

“But I can't just—”

She slams her glass down hard on the counter and glares at me. Her eyes are already glassy and slightly unfocused. “You want a moment?”

The phone feels heavy in my hands. I nod my head yes.

Eliza carries her drink and wobbles out of the kitchen. I dial the number. The phone on the other end is picked up and I hear a woman's voice say, “Midtown Café. How may I help you?”

“Phyllis?” I say.

“Yeah. Who's this?”

“Marvin.”

“What's up?”

“Is Gus there?”

“Hold on,” Phyllis says.

The line is muted as the call is transferred. Before I can even rehearse what I'm going to say, I hear Gus's voice. “Marvin, please tell me you're not calling in sick again. It's busy, and we're swamped.”

“Um, Gus …
”

There's a pause as Gus waits for me to continue, but when I don't, he asks, “Is everything okay?”

“I'm not going to be able to come in tonight.”

“Marvin, what's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Tell me what's going on.”

I don't know if it's my guilt or Gus sounding so concerned, but I snap, “Gus, I'm quitting! Got it? I can't work for you anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I've got other things going on right now,” I say.

“What kinda things?”

“Things.”

Gus clears his throat and says, “Marvin, I'm disappointed in you. I thought we were friends, but friends don't treat each other like this.”

“Gus—”

“Bring your key back,” he says.

“Come on, Gus,” I say. “It's not like—”

The line goes dead as Gus hangs up the phone.

That phone conversation went as badly as I'd initially feared. Worse, actually. Sometimes my worst fears are realized, which is an occurrence that seems to be happening with more frequency lately.

“Marvin, c'mere!” Eliza calls from the bedroom, her voice heavy and lazy from the effects of the alcohol.

As I step into the room, she grabs me and kisses me forcefully on the mouth. I taste the sourness of the alcohol. She pushes me onto the bed, climbs on top of me, and begins to take off my clothing.

“No,” I say. She pulls my T-shirt over my head. “Eliza, stop it.”

She slaps me hard across the face. “Nobody tells me what to do,” she yells.

“Get of
f
!”

She shoves me hard, back onto the mattress. Her eyes begin to glow and she fixes her deadly stare right at my head. “Tell me what to do again. I dare you.”

I don't move a muscle. I don't even breathe. The heat from her radiating eyes washes over me. Slowly and meticulously, she unbuttons her blouse. She continues to undress, never taking her eyes off me. She leans down and kisses my neck. The energy from her eyes scalds my skin. On my back, I stare up at the ceiling, taking great pains not to look at her as she takes control.

Out of breath and heaving, Eliza collapses on top of me. She lies there for a moment, and when she pushes herself up, her eyes are no longer glowing. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she puts her clothes on. Without even so much as a backward glance, she staggers out of the room, leaving me on the bed. The keys rattle as she grabs them, followed by the slamming of the front door.

By the time I get up and look out the window, she's driving away, disappearing into the night. Catching her scent, I wince in disgust. I don't even find the light fragrance of roses pleasant anymore.

Entering the bathroom, I turn on the shower and let the water heat up. The steam fogs the mirror, which is good, because it prevents me from seeing my reflection. I'm sure I wouldn't like what I'd see in there.