The Rise of Renegade X (8 page)

The Crimson Flash—“Gordon”—rubs the side of his face. His determined expression falters. “It’s the right thing to do,” he says, looking like he’s about to cry, like he’d rather do anything in the world than take me home with him, and I know he’s not going to get his way. You have to have a stronger attitude than that if you want to win a fight with my mom. “He’s going to need someone to train him.”

“He’s got me,” Mom says, jerking her thumb to her chest. Her thumb with a
V
on it. “He’s a villain, and I’m doing fine training him on my own, thank you very much.”

“He’s got a choice, Marianna.” The Crimson Flash shakes his head and bites his lip, like Mom is making a grave mistake in wanting to keep her only son instead of giving him away to a stranger. “He needs to see that. And the way he runs around doing whatever he wants, it’s clear he needs a father.”

“Whoa.” I sit up in the chair, the bag of chips spilling onto the floor. “You want to say that to my face, Mr. Subway Bathroom?”

“DAMIEN!”
Mom stomps over—sometimes I think she wears heavy platformed boots so she can stomp extra loud—and grabs me by the ear. She fakes a smile and growls through clenched teeth. “Can I have a word with you, sweetums?
Alone?”

She drags me into the bathroom and locks the door. It’s a cramped space: just me and Mom and her lasers.

“Maybe I should let him take you, after all the crap you’ve pulled today! It’d serve you right!”

“I didn’t think he was going to come over here,” I mutter. “I only wanted to mess with him.”

“That’s sweet, dear, but now you know why I was right. Why I didn’t want you getting involved.”

No, I’m pretty sure that was because she was ashamed of her little subway plunge into the enemy’s pants. “Hey, Mom, how much do you trust this guy? Because he’s out there, unattended, in our house. Our house chockfull of supervillainy.”

Mom shoves me out of the way and presses her ear to the door.

“He might find some kind of damning evidence against you, something that’ll make the courts think you’re unfit to be my guardian. Maybe you shouldn’t be so careless with my future.”

“Damien, shut up.” She waits a minute at the door, then, satisfied, glares at me again. “I hope you’re happy. Things were just fine, and now look what you’ve done!”

“I’m pretty sure he can hear you when you shout. This place isn’t soundproof, you know.” I thunk down on the edge of the bathtub.

“You read my diary, you little—”

“Do you want to read mine?” I perk up. I’ve been waiting for a good opportunity to leave it lying around for Mom to find. “I can assure you, it’s full of lots of incriminating anecdotes about my exploits.”

Mom sighs. “Is any of it
real?”

“I think you’ll have to be the judge of that.”

“So, in other words, no?”

I let my foot swing hard into the side of the tub and rest my chin in my hands, pouting. I came off too eager. I was saving that fake diary for a special occasion. There was even a tiny camera in it so I could watch her read it. Now it’s all ruined. “Mom, I don’t want to live with that guy.”

“I know, sweetie.” She puts her arm around me.

“I bet he flosses his teeth twice a day. I bet he lives in a tidy little bachelor pad on Borington Lane and wears an apron while he cooks Top Ramen for dinner every night.”

“On second thought, Damien, where
is
this diary of yours? Maybe I’ll show it to him.”

“Maybe you’d better not. It might make him think I need saving even more.” I tap one of my temples. “Those superhero types, they can’t stand not saving people.”

The look Mom gives me turns my stomach. She tilts her head, her lips twitching into a half smile. Of
pity
. I partly expect her to ask,
Do you know that firsthand, Damien? Is everything all right? Have you been having superhero…
urges?

Mom pats me on the back. “Don’t worry. The last thing I’m going to do is let him take my little boy away from me.” She grins and rubs her hands together. “And the Mistress of Mayhem has a few tricks up her sleeve for people who refuse to cooperate.”

More like a few tricks up her skirt. “Thanks, Mom.”

She kisses my forehead, then throws the bathroom door open, already screaming in a shrill voice at the top of her lungs, “That boy is mine and you shouldn’t even be here!”

The Crimson Flash shouts back at her. “You think everything belongs to you! It’s just like old times!”

I think about Kat and how right now would be a great time to escape to her house. If, you know, I hadn’t told her I was over her and made her cry.

I hide in the bathroom, and when the shouting is finally over, Mom bursts in, grinning. I start to smile, anticipating the good news that she got rid of the Subway Scrambler once and for all.

Instead, she folds her hands together and says, “Get your things together, Damien. You’re going to be spending some time with him.” She doesn’t say “my father,” just him. I’m supposed to know who she’s talking about.

“What?!” I can’t believe this. My blood runs cold and I’m considering whether I heard wrong, or if I can never trust my mother again. Talk about betrayal. “You said you wouldn’t let him take me!”

“I changed my mind,” Mom says. “It’s only for a little while, and I think it’ll be good for both of us. I’ve got a big project I’m working on, and I could use the time alone.”

By “alone,” I think we both know she means “with Taylor.”

“And”—she nods at my gloved hands—“you have to turn that
X
into a V, and think of all the opportunities you’ll have to do that while living with superheroes. Know your enemy. That’s what your grandpa always says.”

Great advice. Too bad Mom took it too literally. The corners of my mouth droop into the opposite of a smile. My shoulders sag and I still can’t believe this. “Gee, Mom, with that much opportunity, I’ll be enrolling at Vilmore in no time.”

“That’s the spirit, honey.” She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now hurry and get packed. Don’t keep your fa—
that man
waiting. I don’t want to have to put up with him any longer than I have to.”

M
om sold me out. She didn’t just promise Gordon Tines, better known as the Crimson Flash, that I’d stay at his house for a while and then come home. No. They made a deal. He’s got six weeks to turn me into a wannabe superhero, proving I take after his side of the family, or else I get to go back and live with Mom. We’re not talking changing my
X
into an
H
or anything—that would take a lot longer than six weeks—just which letter I should be rooting for. Gordon thinks he can prove I have more hero potential than villain, and if I don’t stay true to my supervillain genes and survive all of his “teach me to be a hero” nonsense, I’ll have to live in this suburban hellhole for the rest of my life. Or until I turn eighteen, whichever comes first. Or, dear God, until they send me to hero school. The only thing worse than not starting at Vilmore this fall would be starting up at Heroesworth.

Which is the last thing I’m going to do
ever
. Plus, I’m pretty sure I could get out of it. I’m half villain, and I’ll bet everyone at that school is a big antivillain snob. They wouldn’t want me there any more than I’d want to go. And even better than that? It’s not going to matter, because in order for Gordon to send me there, he’d have to convince me I’m supposed to grow up as a hero first. Mom says this is a great opportunity to know my enemy, but I’ve been making fun of his show for years—I
know
what I’m up against, and it’s ridiculous. The leader of the Safety Kids is going to convince
me
I want to stay with him forever and learn to be a hero? He might be my dad, but at least I didn’t inherit his delusions.

But, for now, I’m staying at his house with him.
With his family
. He’s got the perfect setup—superhero wife and three 100 percent superhero kids. And now me. I wake up in the morning in an eight-year-old boy’s room that smells like cheese, with dirty socks covering my face, and I didn’t even drink any of Mom’s punch. I cringe as I fling the filthy socks away. All I have with me is a backpack full of my clothes and Mr. Wiggles. I can see why he and Kat were such great friends when she was a kid. I’m already appreciating his company immensely, as he’s the only familiar face in the house.

Alex, my eight-year-old half brother, stomps on my arm as he jumps out of bed. His room is so cramped and small and overstuffed with junk that the only way I can fit on the floor is if I keep my legs folded. They ache, and my neck is cramping from only having a thin couch pillow to support it with all night. I guess this is the kind of five-star service a half villain like me can expect in a house full of heroes.

“Ha ha!” Alex shouts. “I survived a night with a supervillain!” He does a little dance that involves not noticing he’s stepping on my ankles until I lift my foot up and trip him. He slips and, luckily for him, lands in a three-foot-tall pile of laundry that I believe to be the source of the cheese smell.

“One down,” I mutter, but he just laughs.

I drag myself out of bed—which consists of nothing but a blanket and a hardwood floor—rumpled and still wearing my clothes from last night. I yawn and follow Alex into the kitchen, though not as sprightly as him, bringing Mr. Wiggles with me. Mr. Wiggles and I, we have to stick together.

A slightly pudgy teenage girl with blond eyebrows and dyed black hair sits at the dining table, glaring at us. “You’re late,” she says. This is Amelia. Amelia is fifteen. She has one of those countdown clocks in her room, like the kind they sell for New Year’s, counting down the days until she turns sixteen. She made a point of bringing it down and showing it to me last night. She’s got 236 days left. I told her maybe she shouldn’t be so impatient, because she might turn sixteen and find out she has latent supervillain genes, and then won’t she long for the carefree days of her carefree youth?

“Couldn’t you have gotten dressed first?” Amelia asks in disgust. I can’t tell if she means me, looking like I’ve slept in my clothes all night but being otherwise fully dressed, or Alex, who’s running around in pajamas with his shirt half unbuttoned.

I sit down at the table directly across from Amelia and position Mr. Wiggles next to me.

Amelia makes a face. She’s wearing mauve eye shadow, which I hope isn’t to impress little old
moi
, as I am her half brother, her mortal enemy, and altogether not interested.

“What is that?” she says, scowling at Mr. Wiggles.

“This is Dr. Wiggles, formerly Mr. Wiggles. He recently got his PhD in early-twentieth-century literature.” Even if he didn’t have his degree, I’d still venture to say he’s smarter than Amelia.

“Freak,” Amelia mutters under her breath, as if her saying it like that makes it okay, even though I can obviously hear her. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing with kids’ toys?”

“Dr. Wiggles is a highly sophisticated piece of technology. Plus, ‘kids’ toys’ don’t go on to get their doctorates.” I have her there.

She gapes at me, then says, “Whatever,” and rolls her eyes.

Helen, my father’s wife and the mother of my three half siblings, limps out of the master bedroom with Jessica, my two-year-old half sister, glomped to her leg. Helen’s a superhero, too, but I didn’t catch what her power is.

So far, I like Jessica the best because she talks the least, refers to me only as “boy,” and has started her own garden in the yard. She has a couple of rows of dirt marked with signs she made herself that have scribbles of what the vegetables are supposed to look like on them. I think one of them might have been a tomato, the others some kind of mutant carrot-cauliflower hybrid. There may or may not be any actual seeds planted there.

“Boy!” Jessica says, hiding behind her mother’s legs and pointing a grubby finger at me.

“Yes, Jess,” Helen mutters.
“It’s a boy!”
She says that last part sarcastically, mimicking the balloons and greeting cards people get when they have a baby. Helen has shoulder-length blond hair and owns an antique shop downtown. She always walks with a slight limp, I noticed, even when Jessica isn’t trying to climb her leg.

Jessica takes a risk, leaving the safety of hiding behind Helen, and runs over to the dining table, where she stares at me with wide blue eyes.

“Jess,” Amelia says, patting the seat next to her. “Sit here, Jess.”

Jessica ignores her and continues to stare at me.

Amelia keeps calling her like a cat until Jessica turns around and says, “No,” very sternly. Another reason why I like her.

Amelia makes a noise of frustration that sounds like a train colliding with a herd of mooing cows. “Nobody in this house ever listens to me!”

I rest my chin in my hands, my elbows propped on the table, and stare at her. “I’m listening, Amelia. Tell me your problems.”

That infuriates her even more, though for a second she thought I was serious. When I won’t stop staring at her—not even blinking, I might add—she shouts, “Mom! The mutant freak Dad brought home is
looking
at me!”