Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape) (Volume 3) (14 page)

I had other motives, too. I’d invited Julie, Annabeth and Megan out of desperation — I hadn’t seen them in weeks outside of the classes I’d managed to scramble to (my professors were beginning to think I was a rumor) — and with all us girls, including Shelly, Dad really needed more testosterone at the dinner table. Toby had a
date
(I seriously questioned the intelligence of anyone willing to put up with Toby, but the IQ curve meant there had to be someone who’d date my troll of a brother), and Dane was in New Jersey having one of the most impressive rookie years in professional soccer.

Being in a fight meant we were all completely off the watch roster for twenty-four hours, so I threw on a Bees-coordinated skirt outfit — Friday nights were
not
casual, even when it was just family — and drove Shelly and me home. Seven followed in his sporty Maserati, but nobody would notice him if he didn’t want them to.

The trees of Oak Park had started to turn, lining Chicago Avenue with oranges and yellows. There’d be weekends raking the front and back yards soon, with sandwiches and lemonade and pie; Mom wasn’t big on homemaking (we had a cleaning service), but she made us celebrate certain calendar events in a way that would make Norman Rockwell proud. As I pulled up to the curb, Shelly made a weird strangling sound and all my instincts went into overdrive.

“What?” I whispered, parking but not turning off the engine, scanning the shadows between the trees and houses for threats as Seven pulled in behind us — he hadn’t missed a single traffic light on our tail. The Bees weren’t here yet. Earbug out but not yet on, I reached for my cell. Home had
security
, darn it,. It was invisible and courtesy of the Sentinels and probably as good as anyone’s who wasn’t the leader of a country, so what could be wrong? Shelly grabbed my wrist before I could hit “0” — our personal 911 if not canceled once punched.

She pointed to the faded green Volkswagen Beetle in the driveway. Okay... With my eyes, I could see the light pattern of old curb rash on its left bumper, but I didn’t see — A blue and white bumper sticker clung to its back bumper, seriously faded but I could read it, and it said
My daughter is an Oak Park honor student.
I spun in my seat, nearly destroying the steering wheel. Shelly wasn’t moving, and her eyes had gone huge.

It was
Mrs. Boyar’s
car. I hadn’t seen her in four years, since a little after the funeral. She’d moved away where everything wouldn’t remind her of Shelly.

Breathe,
Hope. You can breathe, and WHAT IS SHE DOING IN OUR HOME?
Parked behind us, Seven didn’t get out of his car but my cell started singing
Luck, Be A Lady
. The Frank Sinatra rendition, of course.

Shell let me go so I could answer it.

“
Is everything okay?
”

I twisted to look back at his car. “Yeah. Just unexpected company.”

“
Should I go?
” His Lucky Cloak of Anonymity would never last through a whole dinner.

“I don’t — could you wait — ” I tried to think. Shelly desperately shaking her head decided me. “Could Shell wait in your car? I need to go in.” Mom hadn’t called. She hadn’t called after I’d texted her to get late approval for Seven, so she didn’t want us
not
coming home. Whatever was happening, I could be sure of at least that.

Shelly finally moved enough to do more than nod, and then she was scrambling out her door and around to Seven’s car. Ducking in, she slumped down below the level of his dash. Okay.

For a moment, I considered putting my earbug on so she could listen in, dropped it as a
bad
idea. During my required therapy sessions, I’d talked to Doctor Mendel about the idea of bringing Shelly and her mom together; she’d categorically dismissed it — any move before Shell was ready to do it herself was a huge risk, and she obviously wasn’t ready now. Letting her listen in, when I didn’t know the sitch or what I’d be hearing, seemed to fit the same category.

I turned off the engine, checked my hair, swore off procrastinating, got out and resisted the urge to
sneak
up to the front door and eavesdrop with my super-duper hearing. “
Once more into the breach, dear friends..
.”
Pull on your big-girl panties, Hope.

Flying blind into the Daley Center had been easier.

“I’m home!” I called, closing the door behind me. “Hi, Mrs. B. Saw your car, you’re still driving it?”
Ack. Dumb — no, stupid, she
pushed
it here because that’s what people can do in your world.
Mrs. Boyar sat beside Mom on the living room couch, on its edge like she’d almost jumped off of it when I opened the door.

Mrs. Boyar had never been comfortable in our house.
Mr.
Boyar had only ever been Shelly’s dad in the sense that he’d donated chromosomes, but by the time Shelly and I had met in grade school, her mom had worked her way up to practice manager for Larkin & Carosi, corporate attorneys — or as she’d affectionately called them, inveterate shysters — while raising Shelly on her own. I’d never understood why she hadn’t liked to come over; Shelly had practically lived here with her blessing. Like my family, hers had deep roots in Oak Park even if she’d grown up on the poorer side, and she’d liked me; a kid can tell when parentals are faking, just being polite to offspring’s friends, and she hadn’t been. Now...

Now, I had serious dry mouth. I knew what she saw; I’d grown
maybe
two inches since she’d last seen me, but the tomboy was gone. The evil, evil Bees had turned me into a fashionista, and if I couldn’t be beautiful, I could manage stylish. Tonight, I wore a sleeveless silk blouse with a loose cravat collar, calf-high leather boots, and a belted and triple-layered seriously mini skirt saved from immodesty only by the opaque white tights I wore under them.

Mrs. B smiled, but didn’t look surprised. It helped, but she was still wound tighter than a cello. If she was the A-string, I was the D.

“Hello, Hope. You’ve turned out wonderfully.”

“And you look great.” She did, but I was running out of words. I searched Mom’s face for a clue, but she’d gone completely Zen and sat there at one with the universe.
Thanks, Mom
. “Are you staying for dinner?”
Beeeep — wrong question! Easily misinterpreted as a hint to go away.
I longingly contemplated making a cowardly break for my room, or at least the kitchen and a glass of water; I didn’t have enough spit left to sound natural.

Mom
still
didn’t say anything, and Mrs. B wouldn’t stop staring. Dropping my gaze I finally saw the leather executive folder she held neatly on her lap, the kind you might take documents into a boardroom meeting in. Mrs. B started, looked down at the folder like she’d forgotten it was there, and drew a breath.

“I came to see you, Hope.” Her hands stroked the leather. “I needed to ask you something.”

“Okay. Sure.” What else could I say?
Still
no clue from Mom, and we were
so
going to have words later. Mrs. B opened the folder, held it out, and I accepted it automatically.

And almost dropped it. The top page was a character study in colored pencil. A sleek, anime-style figure, blue and white, seams and rivets suggesting a retro automaton. I helplessly flipped the pages. More Robotica sketches. Shell had actually been very good, but a corner of my brain wondered how Mrs. B even
had
these. Shell had kept all her superhero sketches at our place; her mom hadn’t approved and hadn’t let her work on them at home. And I’d
burned
everything — hadn’t I?

“Your mother gave me those,” Mrs. B said, like she was reading my mind. “She brought them to me when I left for the position she found me.”

And I’d explore
that
later, too. Now, I just nodded. She held out her hands and I returned the folder. It went back in her lap, her hands sliding over it until she folded them together. Her eyes were bright.

“Hope, I — I’ve known that you were Astra for some time.” Her face was a tight, controlled mask. “I saw you at the power station ribbon-cutting last year, and nobody who
really knows you can miss it.”

Maybe I could faint; I was pretty sure all the blood had left my head. “You must absolutely hate me,” I managed. Her eyes widened.

“No! No, never.” Her hands tightened over the folder. “It was my daughter’s obsession, always, not — You enjoyed playing in the world she made.”

My cold cheeks were wet. “She didn’t want to go.”

Mrs. B didn’t ask what I meant by that. Instead she gave me a look that was pure Shell in an adult face, and took another deep breath.

“I came tonight to ask if you used her designs. I saw the news today.”

Oh, God.
Shelly, standing sentinel on Daley Plaza, no gear, all sleek chrome lines. “I’d never — ” I blurted, stopped, horrified. What could I possibly ...

Now
Mom nodded. It was over.

“I’d never do that, Mrs. B. But — ”
Deep breath, Hope.
“But Shelly did.”

I couldn’t bring Shelly in — not before I told her mom everything about the Teatime Anarchist and quantum-ghosts, made sure she understood what Shelly was now, that she was our Shelly’s Siamese twin, joined at the brain. Finished, I prayed to every saint, promised a million Hail Marys, while my BFF’s mom wrestled with the mystery that was Shell.

In the end, I’d been afraid for nothing; Mrs. B’s face was a study in wonder.

“Can I see her?”

“She’s hiding in the car.”

Seven was great, giving us space and staying quiet while I tried to talk Shelly out of his ride, but I felt like I was negotiating for hostages (not that I’ve ever done that
myself
).

“She
knows,
Shell.”

“She can’t!”

“She knows
everything
. Well, not
why
the Anarchist backed you up — I told her he thought I needed a sidekick.”

“How can she — ”

“
Please
, Shell. You’ve
wanted
this.”

“I
can’t
!” Seven shrugged, no help there. I closed my eyes, counting, and wondered if Vulcan had thought of the need for off-switches in hysterical robots.

“Shell, please,” I tried again. “I know you’re scared, but your mom — I swear to God that I will drag you inside if I have to.” Then I followed Dad’s ever-valuable negotiating advice and shut up while my BFF worked it through.

“Okay.” I barely heard her. “I’ll come in. But — Stay with me?”

“Always.” If it wasn’t so serious I’d be laughing at the freaky role-reversal.
Shelly
was always the one pushing, daring me. “C’mon.” She took my hand, let me pull her out of the car, and didn’t let go till we were through the front door. At least she had the presence of mind to set her strength parameters to “teenage normal” before Mrs. B pulled her into her arms. Otherwise, her return hug would have crushed her mom’s spine.

More hysteria, but of a nicer kind. “Mom” and “I’m sorry” were the only words in her vocabulary for a while.

Dinner was late, with an extra setting, but Mom always planned for surprises. The Bees arrived after the drama, and though only Julie had known Mrs. B at all — our families had all shared the same parish — they didn’t miss a beat.

With only eyes for Shelly, Mrs. B didn’t blink at the gorgeousness that was Seven, and he seemed to know exactly what
I
wanted to know — drawing her out in the smoothest friendly interrogation I’d ever seen. Shelly sat by her mom and kept touching her, and Mrs. B’s eyes got bright a lot, but the dinner conversation stayed inside social protocol; I found out that Mom had tried to talk Mrs. B into staying in Oak Park after Shelly died, found her the job she took with a lobbying firm in Springfield, even saw her a couple of times a year when she went to the capitol to do her own lobbying for state funds (and now I knew, to my shame, why Mom had never taken me with her on those lobbying trips).