SIDEKICK

Chapter Six: The Art of Lying

CHAPTER SIX

The Art of Lying

“Think fast!”

Peter dodges the crowbar that I throw at him. It bounces and skids across the concrete, making a loud clang.

He whips his head to me and glares, “What the hell, John?! You nearly took my head off!”

There’s a brick in my right hand and I play with it. I throw it in the air mildly and catch it.

“You gotta practise to block, right?” I say coyly. I pull back my arm and throw the brick. “Block!”

Peter dodges it again, rolls on the ground away from the projectile flying at his face. He remains on the ground as I yell at him.

“Jesus Peter, you’re such a cowardly faggot,” I taunt him. If I’m right about his powers, I need to get him angry.

We’re in an abandoned warehouse in the Bronx. It’s the most ideal place I had in mind regarding the fact there is a gang that show up here every two days at eleven to exchange drugs, but it’s definitely worth it.

It’s dusty, and since the Bronx gets a lot of suspicious noises, I think we’re fine with amount of noise we make.

I look down at my left arm. The hooded jacket’s sleeve is all the way down.

Good.

When I meet Peter earlier, I tell him I need to share something important.

“What is it?” he asks.

I open my mouth to tell him about the encounter with Claudette ‘the Cat’, and the painful tattoo she decided to give me and the threat to pass along, but I stop myself.

If he got angry now and he went nuts, no one would be able to stop him.

I change tactic and tell him about the location. I won’t tell him.

Not yet.

“Jeez,” I sigh. “No wonder Mystery Girl won’t see you. You’re nothing but a no good, spoiled rotten, English pansy, pretty boy.”

Peter’s face turns red.

Looks like I’ve hit a nerve.

Beside my wheelchair are a variety of different objects. I bend over and pick up a wrench.

“C’mon, pretty boy!” I taunt. “Show me what you can do!”

This time, I throw the wrench harder than before. Peter scrambles to his feet quickly and holds his hand out.

The wrench stops in the air just before the open palm of his hand. I break out into a grin.

“Holy shit dude! You did it!” I shout.

Peter’s lips pull into a grin as well. “I did it,” he mutters. Then repeats it louder. “I did it!”

He drops his hand and the wrench falls to the ground. I wheel forward and he runs towards me. We end up colliding in a manly hug. He lifts me out of the wheelchair, and he jumps up and down for both of us, both of us yell in excitement.

He drops me back down in the chair and pushes the hair off his forehead.

“Oh man,” I say. “You gotta do that again!”

He punches me on the arm.

“Ow! What the hell, man?!”

He points his finger at me. “That,” he pants. “Was for being an asshole.”