Blog of a Teenage Superhero

Chapter Eleven: Schemin' and Dreamin'

I don't know what I expected. A hidden room, a case of Red's extra capes, a freezer filled with Ice's fractal sculptures. Whatever it was, the half-open briefcase on the dinner table is both a relief and a disappointment. 

Every sound, from the creak of vinyl siding to the hum of the fridge to even my own whistling sends Max glancing wildly over his shoulder. He flips through the accordion of folders and pages with unsteady hands. It's his expression that makes my stomach twist up. The way he glances back down at the floor, the way he chews his lip, both eyebrows raised just slightly so. 

He lifts the thin booklet, nails dug into the scaly binding, picking at the laces threaded through the spine. "Onyx," he says, "I get that you're a superhero and all, but do you really have to—"

I cut him off by stretching a single beckoning hand toward him. All has become silent. I can't even hear the thump of my pulse in my wrists, fingers, or ears. 

"Alright then." He shifts his weight on his hip, the creeeeak of the hardwood making him flinch. He flashes a smile to hide his twitching. "This is all I know, Onyx. Take care of it."

"Got it." I pull the booklet out of his hands, tired of standing with my arm extended like I'm trying to force him into a handshake he very clearly doesn't want. "Thank you." I tuck the book into my back pocket. I know my time is limited. I know I have to go.

"There are notes in there, I think. I saw Dad scribbling in there, but he always hides it when he thinks I'm looking too closely." His words run together in a gush.  "I don't know if it's all about Red, I mean, and I'm not sure if you know more than I do and this is all redundant and it frustrates you, 'cause I'd hate to frustrate you—"

"I won't bother you again," I promise him, my voice lowered just enough it won't carry downstairs. My eyes travel to the sweep of brown hair over his forehead, the way he twists it in his fingers. I take a slow step back, footing still unsure, the prime directive still 'Don't Scare Him.'

"No!" A tint returns to his cheeks. He laughs, and the sound is awkward and hoarse. He lifts his eyes to mine, such a beautiful, deep brown. "I mean, I don't mind being bothered by you."

Let me pause: I broke into this boy's house. Yes, I did the poster-board thing, but I could've just as easily shattered his window, blocked off his door, and held him hostage. He knows this. I'm a neighbor asking for a cup of sugar with a bazooka pointed at his head. What other choice does he have?

But there's some part of me that hopes he's flirting, that he likes me. And that piece is thrumming when he says that, with his low, sweet voice, with his head tipped the teeniest bit to the side, the softest touch of a blush on his face.

My heart pangs. To him, I'm just a masked brute, and so I continue creeping further and further away. Destination: kitchen window. "That's good," I say, the only words that'll come, as lame as they are. I scramble, my forehead slick with stress-sweat. "You're probably the only one who thinks that. My crusade for justice can seem a little annoying, I guess."

He runs a steadied hand through his hair. "Can I see you again?" He's back to playing with the hem of his shirt, stretching Spider-man's face flat over his chest. For a second, I can't breathe. A little stammer catches in the back of my throat. His voice never rises above a whisper. "You seem familiar."

Of course, I do. I'm a tall person who knows extensively about his private meetings. Either I'm Chip, Monet, or a secret admirer, and I can only hope he thinks the latter. There's little guesswork to be done about who's who with the first two.

"Well, I don't know about that." I laugh. It sounds like a wheeze I'm speaking so deeply. "But we can meet again if you want."

"Really?" He beams. I'm backed against the kitchen window. The frame is squeaky now and I'm assuming I broke it.