Hero Worship (6 page)

TEN

The next afternoon, Yvonne, Kent, and I sit at a table in a fancy sidewalk café. I hate this place. The portions are small, the prices are high, and the servers are rude. But Yvonne loves this restaurant, and I can't figure out why. She's sitting back in her chair, hands behind her head, basking in the afternoon sun. “I love this place,” she says. “Give me one good reason why we don't come here more often.”

Picking at my goat-cheese-and-beet salad, I look around at the other restaurant patrons. I'm fielding a few judgmental glances tossed my way, and I suspect that the men in suits and women in designer clothing are wondering why three teenagers in dirty jeans and faded T-shirts are polluting their favorite eatery.

“It ain't no Eat-A-Rama,” Kent mutters.

“Amen,” I reply.

“Shut up,” Yvonne says. “I'm not going to let the two of you ruin this for me, because this is probably the last time I'll have enough money to eat here.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I've got to find a real job. I'm done getting junkies high.”

I don't have to ask why the sudden change of heart about using her power to make money. The junkie's daughter, Harry, really threw Yvonne for a loop.

Kent grumbles. “Not you too. Now I live with two boy scouts.”

“Don't listen to him,” I say. “I'm glad you decided to get a real job.”

“Well, I hope you guys aren't waiting for me to go soft,” Kent says.

Yvonne reaches over and pokes her finger deep into Kent's spongy flesh. “You're already soft.”

He pushes her hand away. “You know what I mean. We've got abilities, and I don't think it's wrong to use them to support ourselves. Is it wrong for a bird to fly, or a fish to swim? I think not.”

“I'm not telling you what to do,” Yvonne says. “I'm just done doing what I've been doing. It's my decision. You can make yours.”

Kent runs his fingers over his face like he's reading Braille. “How's my face holding up?”

I don't recognize this facial mold. It must be new. The face has a strong jaw line and a dimple in the chin. “How'd you get that scruf
f
?” I ask.

“You don't want to know. How does it look?”

“Not bad,” I say. “Who is it?”

“I made him from scratch. My own creation.”

“Looks like Ambrose McCoy,” Yvonne says.

“The actor?” Kent asks.

“Yep. Spitting image,” she says.

Kent picks up the stainless steel saltshaker and looks at his reflection. “No it doesn't.”

“Sorry, dude,” Yvonne says, closing her eyes. “Totally does.”

“What about the dimple?”

“Ambrose has one.”

“He does?”

“Yep.”

Kent slams the saltshaker down on the table. “That sucks. I was going for something new.”

Our waiter, a guy in a vest and bow tie, saunters up to the table clutching the leather check folder against his chest like it's a prized possession. “Can I get you children anything else?”

“How about a bottle of milk and a blankie?” Kent snaps.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Ambrose McCoy?” the waiter says, raising an eyebrow. “Like his homeless younger brother or something.”

Kent snatches the check folder out of the waiter's hands. “Don't expect a tip, dickwad.”

“Believe me, one look at you guys and I already knew I could kiss off any form of gratuity,” the waiter says, disappearing back inside the restaurant.

“Yvonne, we're never coming here again,” Kent says, inspecting the bill. His face falls. “Are you kidding me with this check? We're for sure never coming here again.” He pulls a couple bills from his pocket, stuffs them into the folder, and hands it to me.

I take one look at the check and say, “That much for a salad? What a rip-off.”

“Why do I even try?” Yvonne says, straightening up. “I go out of my way to expose the two of you to different things, and all I get is a bunch of whining. You'd think—”

An ear-piercing explosion down the street shatters the quiet afternoon. The entire face of a storefront is blown away. It rains brick and glass onto the street. The force of the shockwave overturns tables, shattering plates and glasses all over the sidewalk. A cloud of debris billows out of the newly created hole and moves toward us. Screaming people run for cover.

My friends and I huddle behind our overturned table, using it as a shield from the river of dust and debris that flows over us. “What was that?!” Yvonne yells.

Poking my head around the table, I survey the damage and see a gaping hole in the front of the adjacent building. A man in a ski mask stands on the rubble in front of the blown-out storefront. He surveys the sky before quickly disappearing inside the jagged hole.

“Who was that?” Kent asks.

“Let's go find out,” I say, jumping out from behind the table.

Yvonne grabs my arm. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“I just want to see what's going on.” The soles of my shoes crunch on the shattered glass and fragments of concrete as I hurry down the sidewalk. The cloud of dust is so thick I have to swat at it, like with bugs on a summer night.

“This is gnarly,” Kent says, behind me. We scurry out into the street to get a better look. Dark smoke slithers like a snake from the smoldering hole. “What is that place?”

Yvonne points at our feet where a sign reads,
Kane Fine Jewelry
.

An armored truck rumbles down the street. It careens through the damaged vehicles like a plow through snowdrifts. Then it gets stuck at a pile of rubble. The gears grind as the driver shifts into a lower gear, and the engine revs as the truck climbs over the rubble and up to the hole in the jewelry store. I watch as the back doors of the vehicle open and two men—red bandanas over their faces and clutching duffle bags—jump out and join the guy in the ski mask.

“It's a heist,” Kent says.

“We've got to stop them,” I say, stepping toward the smoldering wound in the side of the building.

Yvonne grabs my hand and says, “Don't!”

“Why?” I ask. “This is our chance.”

“Our chance for what?”

“To do some good.”

“We're not sticking out our necks and exposing ourselves,” she says.

The robbers toss full bags into the back of the truck, where they land with a thud. Then the trio quickly disappears back inside the store.

“Come on. We can do this. The three of us.”

My friends exchange looks. Kent shrugs and says, “Whatever.”

Yvonne stomps her foot on the ground. “Have the two of you lost your minds? No. No. No. This isn't our fight.”

“But it can be,” I say. “Come on. Let's do it.”

Shaking her head, she says, “Absolutely not. We can't take the chance.”

The robbers hurry out with more bags in hand, tossing them in the back of the armored truck.

“Suit yourselves. I'll do it myself.” As I head toward the jewelry store, a red blur appears out of nowhere. Streak stops at the back of the armored truck.

“Oh, crap, hide,” Kent says. “It's Streak. He might recognize us.”

We take cover behind a mound of rubble, then climb over jagged concrete and bricks to the top, where we position ourselves for a better view.

“You don't think he'll remember us from the park, do you?” Yvonne asks.

“I think he's a little distracted right now,” I say.

Streak zips around the three robbers. And while we don't see him hitting them, the physical effects are evident. The one wearing the ski mask is smacked off his feet and flies back, landing just inside the jewelry store. The other two robbers fly in opposite directions. One slams into the side of a parked car, while the other one crashes through the only unbroken pane of glass on the whole block.

“I think we should get out of here,” Yvonne says.

“Are you nuts?” Kent says. “It's just getting good.”

The red blur comes to a stop and Streak looks at the unconscious robbers. An upper section of the jewelry store dislodges and plunges to the ground just behind the crimson-clad hero. Startled, Streak jumps, and then he darts left in a blur. Arms flailing, he trips over a large piece of concrete, falls to the ground, and skids along the rubble. He comes to an abrupt stop near the three of us.

Groaning, Streak pushes himself off the ground. The entire front of his costume is shredded, revealing exposed skin that's scraped and bleeding. His arms give out and he collapses.

The sound of sirens blares in the distance, getting louder as the emergency vehicles draw near. “Let's get out of here before the police show up,” Yvonne says, making her way through the rubble.

“Do you think we should just leave him?” I ask.

Kent follows after Yvonne, saying, “Dude, he'll be fine. Come on.”

The sirens get louder.

“He doesn't look too good,” I say.

“Come on, Marvin,” Yvonne yells.

I hesitate before chasing after my friends. As the three of us head away from the approaching sirens, I wonder whether it'll ever get any easier doing what's right.

ELEVEN

The next evening, after the dinner crowd at Midtown Caf
é
has thinned, I spot Gus behind the counter, setting a drink in front of a girl sitting on a stool. Most of the tables are empty now, and Gus sees me and waves me over. He motions to the girl. “I just hired someone.”

That's when I realize the girl is Yvonne. She flashes me a smile.

“Yvonne?” I say.

“Hey,” she says.

“You hired her?” I ask.

“Weirdest thing,” Yvonne says. “I came in looking for you, and he just up and offered me a job.”

Gus says, “She's your replacement.”

“What?”

“I'm going to be a busser and dishwasher,” she says.

“If she's doing that, what am I supposed to do?”

“Marvin, I need to talk to you,” Gus says, stepping away from the counter. “I'd appreciate your support on this.”

“But I—”

Gus raises his hand to silence me. “You and I both know that Yvonne needs this. She's trying to make a change. And she's in a delicate spot. For someone like her, if there's a little hiccup, she'll just go back to doing what she was doing before, and we don't want that, do we?”

“Did she tell you … ?”

He waits for me to finish my thought, but I hold my tongue. “Tell me what?” he asks.

“Never mind,” I say. “But what about me? She's taking my job.”

“You're going to wait tables. You're my new waiter,” Gus says. “Well, once you've trained Yvonne.”

I can't help but smile. “Really?”

“I'm giving this to you because you've worked hard and paid your dues,” he says. “There are no shortcuts in life, Marvin, so don't believe anyone who tells you differently. There aren't any golden tickets. The only things worth having are those that take blood, sweat, and tears.” He wraps his arms around my shoulder and gives me a friendly squeeze. “Show Yvonne the ropes.”

Rejoining Yvonne, I ask, “Did you tell Gus about getting junkies high?”

Evidently not hearing me, she slides a newspaper across the counter. “Did you see the paper?”

“No,” I say, picking up the broadsheet and opening it. She points to the photo on the front page. It's the jewelry store. The street is in shambles. And in the forefront, Streak is shown sprawled on the ground, lying exactly where he landed after tripping. “Yeah?”

“Look at the headline.”

Splashed across the paper in big bold letters, it says
Gang of Dirties Attacks Streak!

“There wasn't a gang of dirties there,” I say.

Yvonne sips her soda. “It says that Streak was injured after battling with them. Can you believe it? What a joke.”

“But it isn't true,” I say.

Gus sticks his head around the corner and says, “Marvin, what am I paying you for?”

I jump up and motion for Yvonne to follow me. “Let's get you clocked in.”

After I get her a timecard, we go over to the mountain of greasy pots and pans waiting to be cleaned. Filling the sink with hot water, I toss Yvonne a clean rag. I scrub the dishes and she dries them. “If you can survive doing this, then so can I, right?” she asks.

“You're going to do great.” I nudge her with my hip. She nudges me back.

Once we put all the dishes away, I take her into the walk-in refrigerator and show her how to maintain the inventory and how to order items that we need. She takes one look at all the food and whistles. “Dang,” she mumbles. “This would keep us fed for a year. Well, until you used your power and ate it all in one sitting.”

I make sure nobody is within earshot. “You're a civilian now,” I say. “You've got to act like it and be careful what you say.”

Yvonne shadows me the rest of the shift, watching my every move. We wipe down the counters, stock the coolers, and clean the tables.

Everyone has left for the night with the exception of Gus, who finally emerges from his office with three Styrofoam containers. He sets them on the counter and says, “Yvonne, here are some leftovers for you. I made sure to get you some of our world-famous ribs. It's up to you whether or not you want to share them with Marvin.”

She flips open the lid and the ribs are still hot, releasing sweet-smelling steam. “Um, Marvin, you can gnaw on the bones after I'm done.”

“Whatever happened to seniority?”

“Seniority gets trumped by her being better-looking than you,” Gus says.

“Damn straight,” Yvonne says.

“Show her how to set the alarm when you leave.” And with that, Gus is gone.

“He seems pretty cool,” she says.

“Yeah, he's a good guy.”

Motioning to the leftovers, she asks, “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“Grab some napkins and let's eat.”

Sliding on my belly over the counter, I get the napkins and push myself up, plopping my butt on the barstool. We eat the ribs, enjoying every greasy and saucy bite.

I glance at the clock and realize I'm going to be late. We finish eating and clean up, tossing away fistfuls of greasy napkins. “Let's arm the security system,” I say.

As we step outside and shut the door behind us, I reach into my pocket and retrieve my key. “Hold up,” Yvonne says, producing an identical key. “Gus gave me one.”

“He did?”

She slides her key into the lock. “Yeah.”

“Great. That's great.”

Yvonne plops down on the bench at the bus stop, but I walk by, heading down the sidewalk. “Are we not going to take the bus?” she asks.

“You go ahead,” I say. “I'll meet you at home.”

She gets up. “I'll come with you.”

“Um … I've got something to do.”

“I'll come with.”

“That's okay. You don't have to.”

“I know I don't have to. I want to.”

Backing away, I say, “Well, I better do this myself.”

“What're you talking about?”

“Just go home. I'll see you later.”

“Marvin, tell me what's going on,” she says.

“Yvonne, it's nothing—”

“Is this about Gus giving me a key?”

“No, it's not about the key,” I say.

“If you're upset that Gus gave me a job, I'll quit. I can find another job.”

“I don't freaking care about the job or the key!” I snap.

Yvonne looks like I just slapped her. Her face falls and her jaw muscles tighten. “Okay,” she says, sitting down on the bus bench. “I'll just see you later.”

“Yvonne—”

“It's fine, Marvin,” she says. “Don't worry about it.”

My face flushes with shame. I walk down the street, turning to glance back at her. She sits there with her hands in her lap, waiting for the bus. I watch her for a moment, wondering if she'll look my way, but she doesn't.