Damsel[ed]: No Rescue Required

Chapter 7: Super Screwed

Cliff can't read my mind. He can't.

I try to convince myself of this as I stumble out of the Academy. Students pack the halls wall to wall like human sardines, but it turns out they make way for deranged, linebacker-sized guys. Fresh air, I decide, I need that.

Welcome to the Villain Club. What type of message is that? I dream the words, and poof! Cliff blabs them back at me! It's like the world's playing a game of Let's-Confuse-the-Spit-Out-of-Angelos and I don't like it!

I look back at the Academy. With its red brick, arched windows, and white picket fence, it's like a little pocket of history packed away from Starlight's bustle. I take a deep breath. Buttercups wave in the crisp spring air, the sky a shade of Cheville-blue. I try to focus on the scenery, hoping to achieve zen. Doesn't happen.

I trek into the heart of the city, keeping to the sidewalks to avoid cars. Normally, I'd nab a seat on the bus, but I don't want to see Cliff again.  I don't have time to change before my shift, and frankly, I don't care.

I study the face of everyone I pass, fingers twitching. Mind-readers! Supervillains! Kidnappers! Dreams! Why does everything have to be so complicated? 

Oh. Oh, man. I'm quoting an Avril Lavigne song now. Is this what I've become? An Avril Lavigne song quoter? I don't like this either.

I'm almost late for my "job" at the exhibition. It's volunteer work and each shift lasts two hours. I guide people around, spit boring facts about the pieces, and occasionally stop an egging or two. It's a cool job, when I'm at a party (not that I'm invited to many) I get to tell the chicks I work as "security" (not that they care).

...And not that anyone would steal the sculptures anyway. They aren't worth a trucked over dime, or else the manager would've hired an actual security guard instead of a kid starved for volunteer hours. The pieces though, ones that grotesquely resemble porcupines if you tilt your head the right way, are so weird they're kind of comforting to stare at. And that's the only real value they have.

They're easy to keep an eye on too, and my two hours fly by eventlessly. When five o'clock strikes I head home. Since someone thought it was a grand idea to build all the skyscrapers in Starlight smushed together, I walk. No way I'm plopping in a sub with all those possible supervillains. 

By the time I finish the epic journey my legs burn like rubber. I trudge through the lobby and into the elevator, trapped in the tight little box approximately forever before I arrive at the fifty-fifth floor.

Despite my warnings, Gats left the door unlocked again. I groan. It's like he thinks he lives in the Land of Oz or something where burglary doesn't exist. With a twist of the knob, I lean my weight against the wood, the oddest tingling sensation in my chest. 

"Gats?" No response. I stuff my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking. Sweat creeps down my forehead, and I shove the door open. I've never considered myself an 'intuitive guy', but I'll repeat every Star Wars character by saying, "I have a bad feeling about this."

It's dark and little kid Anakin Skywalker's voice echoes through the apartment. Since Gats would rather volunteer for the Hunger Games than watch a Star Wars prequel, my heart beats that much faster.

"Gats, you okay?" A startled string of 'mmm's rip through the apartment, and my heart drops. What the—Gats? I thump into the living room. And then I see him.

Here's a tip: if you ever find your best friend gagged and tied to a folding chair in the middle of your apartment, don't just stand there gaping like a suffocating tilapia. Else he might get mad.

Gats cranes his neck, glaring at me as Jar Jar Binks starts blab blab blabbing from the T.V. From where I stand I make out a thick, dull strip of duct tape over the lower half of Gats' face. I wipe away my oh-so-flattering "dying goldfish" expression, stumble over, and rip the tape off. He gasps, eyes wide and shining. Well, I guess he won't have to shave for a while. "You, okay?" I ask. "What happened?"