Blog of a Teenage Superhero

Chapter Sixteen: Horseman of the Herocalypse

It's not that I hate sewing. At least, I hate it for different reasons than I hate failing Algebra Two or slamming my crappy poetry. I only hate sewing because I used to be good at it. I used to have an eye for detail and a steady hand, now my hands are always shaking and my love for good craftmanship drowned in apathy.

So I'm cursing as I kick the dusty sewing machine back into use, crushing my foot on the ugly gray pedal, glaring at the neat little stitches in the ragged hood and the black satin curtain  I bought from Walmart, the go-to place for superhero equipment. I make a note to pay Ms. Carbonnet back for the cape and mask, something I meant to do but sort of slipped my mind. 

But anyway, it's Septemeber. And that means way early Halloween costumes. So, I bought a Catwoman suit and then had to modify it with stupid stitches from a stupid sewing machine. Because, yes, saucy Halloween costumes more than have their place, but when it comes to crime-fighting, it's nice to know you can move without the chest of your leather catsuit tearing out.

Dad knocks. I push over the sewing machine, jump onto my mattress, and pull the covers over my head. "Come in!" Pipe-cleaner-long limbs swinging, I kick the half-mended cape under the bed just before the door creaks open.

"How are your ribs?" he asks. I peek up through the rumpled sheets. His tie is half-knotted, his collar is flipped up, and his shirt is slick with sweat. Maybe he just got off weight-training and forgot to change. Or, more likely, he was out all day on the town, chasing leads.

"Better," I say. And that's sort of true. I took my pills. "I—I got a headache though. Think I'll just shut off the lights and lock myself in my room for a little bit. You know, take a nap."

"Oh, of course, honey." He smiles, though his brow is wrinkled. Fatherly Concern; when my dad wants to, he oozes it. And it makes my heart hurt, lying to him. But what else am I supposed to do? Tell him a supervillain broke my ribs, knocked my unconsciousness, and almost killed me multiple times. Might as well sign my name on an order for his gravestone. Cause of death: dumb daughter who can't keep her mouth shut. Also, heart attack. "I'm ordering pizza. Come out whenever you feel okay enough to eat. Or I should I bring you a slice?"

My stomach rumbles. Eating pizza on the library floor sounds like the best idea in the history of ideas right now, but I can only cocoon myself tighter in the thick, lacy sheets and squeak out a "thanks" I have to strain for. "Not hungry, but thanks."  

He turns around and shuts the door softly behind him. I wait for his footsteps to fade in the squish of carpet, then I jump up, drag my oak writing desk against the door, and switch into my half-finished costume. Outside, the sky has finally darkened. The moon is high, a sliver of gold that makes a glowing scythe against the cold, black sky. I fling the window up, don my half-face mask, and stuff my phone into my plastic prop compartment belt. The wind is harsher now, the stars a sprinkle of pale, silver freckles shining through the abyss. I shoot up into the sky, my curtain cape whipping out behind me, as heavy as the trail of a poofy wedding gown.

"To the docks," I say to no one in particular, and my hands have begun to quiver. I know I'll find something big tonight, and at least in my cheap fake leather biker gloves, my quaking hands look sort of cool.

And believe it or not, the thought of my pseudo-coolness makes me smile.

***

I land on the docks with a hard thunk. The mystery commenter is right; I recognize the rendezvous spot immediately. It's the only place lit up. The 24/7 laundromat is strung with fairy lights that spill soft light on the beachside. Black waters lap the shore, soft sand clumping to my shoes, burning my eyes, tickling my fingertips. Thick bass thumps from invisible speakers, and I stare at the harsh artificial flickering light that presses through the window panes of the laundromat. Bodies are packed together. Moving.