Sidekicks Page 2
“Fine,” I say, and reach to turn the TV off.
“Naw,” he says. “Leave it on.”
“Why? You want to see if it distracts me?”
He smiles. “Naw. You’re Bright Boy … big time super hero. You can’t be distracted by something as little as a TV, right?”
I don’t answer him. Instead, I leap, do a somersault in the air, and land in the ring. I give him my most confident, determined look, to show him that I mean business. Louis isn’t looking at me. He’s too busy adjusting his pads.
Louis is a norm, so he’s covered in special padding that replicates the physiology of a plus/plus. I don’t have to hold back; I can go at him full-force and not worry that I’m going to hurt him. Me going full-force is the only way for him to get an accurate gauge of how I’m fighting.
“You ready?” he asks, looking up at me.
A loud spike of laughter comes from the TV. I look over.
“Come on, kid. Focus.”
I take a deep breath. Focusing right now is not going to be easy. But this is my time with Louis, and I look forward to it all week.
Plus, there’s the possibility that I’ll finally beat him.
I take another deep breath, shake my head, and get into my stance. Louis always says that even if you’re not feeling confident, pretend like you are; your opponent won’t know you’re faking it. “OK, now I’m ready,” I say. “The question is, are you? Because today’s the day I beat you. I can feel it.”
He laughs. “Big talk. You know, you’ve kissed this mat so many times, you should start introducing it as your girlfriend.”
“Ha, ha,” I say.
The rules are simple … the first person to subdue the other for three seconds wins, and anything in the ring—insults, dirty fighting—is fair game. We’ve been having these before-school sparring sessions twice a week since I was seven, and even though Louis isn’t a plus/plus, I still haven’t beaten him. Not once.
We circle each other. His stance is a hybrid of wrestling and Brazilian jujitsu, while I move around the ring more like a boxer, staying light on the balls of my feet. I have a speed and strength advantage, while Louis … well … Louis is Louis.
“You gonna throw that left jab,” he asks, “or you just going to keep twitchin’ it at me?”
I grimace, and readjust. No sense trying to throw it now. I’ve tried my best to remove any little signals before I throw a punch, but I still have a small one. And it doesn’t matter how small it is: If it’s there, Louis will see it.
He takes a lunge step toward me, so I roundhouse kick with my right foot, but he sees that coming, too. When my foot comes down, he’s already on the other side of the ring, smirking.
“You’re getting better,” he taunts. “You only telegraphed that kick by half a mile instead of your usual mile.”
He’s trying to annoy me … distract me … He plays this game really well, but I’m not going to let him today.
I rush him, hit him with a couple of quick shots to the chest, but the padding absorbs them. While my body is still moving forward on the last punch, he spins to my right and gets along side me.
“Ear,” he says, and pinches my right ear.
“Ow! Quit it!” I try to slap his hand away, but he’s already gone. I have super-speed, and somehow he makes me seem slow. I can feel all the anger and frustration from last night start to bubble up. So much for focusing …
“Stop,” he says.
“What?” I practically yell back.
“Get control.”
“I have control!”
“Yeah. Obviously,” he says, sarcastically. “Come on stop. Take a deep breath.”
“Oh, and a deep breath is supposed to make it all better?” I yell. “I’m a nationwide joke right now! Do you know what that feels like?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“I embarrassed myself on national television!”
“Yeah. You did.”
“Oh, well great. Thanks a lot.”
“What do you want me to say?” he asks. “You want me to lie to you?”
“Maybe you could at least muster a ‘Hey, it’s not that bad.’”
“Would that change anything?”
“It might,” I say, even though I know it wouldn’t.
“Oh, so that would stop those people on TV from laughing at your picture right now?”
His eyes shift to the TV for half a second, but I refuse to look over. I can’t tell if this is a sincere discussion, or if Louis is just trying to distract me. If he is, it’s a pretty cheap shot. Then again, we are in the ring … and in the ring, there’s no such thing as a cheap shot.
And now not looking at the TV is as distracting as looking at it, because either way, it’s all I’m thinking about.
I turn my head and look at the TV.
That was a mistake.
“Ear,” he says, and tweaks my ear again.
“Ow! Why are you being such a jerk?”
“Because we’re in the middle of a fight, and all you’re concerned about is what those idiots on TV think of you. You’re lucky I’m not a villain, kid. If this was a street fight, you’d be dead right now … twice. In the ring, you’re supposed to have one thing on your mind, and one thing only: me.”
“Fine,” I bark. “You’re on my mind, OK? Is the lecture over now?”
Louis pauses, looking at me with contempt. “Forget it. You wanna have that kinda attitude, find someone else to train you. I’m through.” Louis turns his back to me and walks over to the corner of the ring.
At first, I don’t know what to do. Does he mean he’s through for the day, or through for good? Then I realize I don’t care. He’s still being a jerk, I’m still angry, and we’re still in the ring … and when we’re in the ring, there’s no such thing as fighting dirty. I rush him.
He still has his back to me. I’m about to hit him when, at the last second, he ducks. I miss him by a fraction of an inch. When I turn back to him, he’s smiling.
“All right!” he says sincerely. “That’s what I want to see.”
“Cheap shots?”
“Come on, kid. We’ve been over this. This isn’t a high school football game or a spelling bee. In your line of work, there’s no such thing as a cheap shot.”
I give him a half smile.
“Plus, take away cheap shots and you’d have no shot at winning at all,” he says, then laughs and walks to the other side of the ring.
I speed over to him. I’m still smiling, but I want to make him eat that laugh. Unfortunately, my anxiousness puts me a little off balance. Louis does a simple little sweep kick (actually more of a trip than a kick) and suddenly, I’m tumbling past him. I spring back up quickly and dive at him, but once again, I’m off-balance. Louis uses my momentum to carry me up and over. In half a second, I’m on my back with Louis’s knees on my shoulders and his hands under my chin. My strength and speed mean absolutely nothing in this position. I have no leverage. I’m squirming, but it’s not accomplishing anything; my body is moving around, but he has my head.
“One, two, two-and-a-half, two-and-three-quarters … three.” Louis lets go and stands up. I don’t move. I just lie there on the mat, staring up at the ceiling.
“A couple of more seconds and I could’ve gotten out of that,” I protest feebly.
“Riiiight,” he says. “So, what have we learned here today?”
I sigh. “That speed and strength don’t mean anything without good technique,” I say as if reading a cue card.
“And?”
“Cheap shots are good, but not always effective.”
“And?”
“I can’t always tell when you’re testing me or just being a jerk.”
Louis leans over so that his face is in my line of sight. “Yeah, I know … it sucks. But it’s my job, y’know? I gotta get inside your head, and then pick at the things that bother you. It’s the only way to keep you sharp.”
“Yeah … I know …”<
br />
“There’s jackals all around you, Scott. They’re gonna pick you apart, they’re gonna call you names and laugh at you for every little mistake you make. And you’re human, so of course it’s gonna get to you. And they’ll use that to distract you, to make you emotional. And what happens when you fight while distracted and emotional?”
“I lose.”
“Badly. I don’t enjoy what I gotta do to you, but I know I gotta do it, because I don’t like to think about what might happen to you if I don’t.” Suddenly his eyes get a little glassy, as if he might be tearing up a bit. I look away. I can’t watch Louis get emotional, especially after the night I’ve had. Just the thought of him being upset enough to actually cry is threatening to send me right over the edge. I think he realizes this, because when I sneak a peek back at him, his usual mildly amused expression has returned. “All right … I think that’s enough for today,” he says gruffly.
I pick myself up off the mat and start walking for the ropes.
“Whoa, wait a second,” he says. “Where’s my prize?”
“Oh, come on … seriously? Every time?”
“Every time you lose. And don’t pretend like you wouldn’t do the same to me.”
He’s right. I would do the exact same thing … if I ever actually won, that is.
“Fine,” I say, and roll my eyes.
“Come on. Nice and loud.”
“Louis Sullivan is the best fighter in the whole, wide world,” I say loudly, but with as little enthusiasm as possible.
“And?”
“And he makes the best pancakes ever, in the history of pancakes.”
“Now that part of my job, I enjoy,” he says.
Half an hour later, I’m in the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed in my school uniform (khakis, white shirt, navy blue sweater with an important-looking-but-meaningless crest over my heart). I’m picking half-heartedly at Louis’s famous pancakes while watching the same morning crew from before find new reasons to laugh at my picture.
“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you turn it off?” Louis asks as he bustles around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on my lunch.
“I guess I keep hoping that the next time they’ll stop the tape after I save the woman.”
“Yeah, not likely. Look, kid, sorry to say it, but you saving some random woman isn’t news anymore. You giving a ‘below the belt salute’ is.”
“Don’t you think that’s pretty pathetic?” I ask.
Louis just shrugs. “It is what it is,” he says.
“What does that even mean, ‘It is what it is’?” I snap.
Louis looks at me. “It means that the world is full of people that nobody cares about. That woman you saved? Nobody, outside of her family and friends, knows or cares about her. So why would people care that you saved her? Just another anonymous person they’ll never meet. But you on the other hand … they know you.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yeah, they do. They watched you grow up from some cute little kid taking out bad guys three times his size—”
“—to some teenager wearing tights two sizes too small,” I say.
“Well … yeah. You’re a celebrity, kid. No one wants to hear about all the people you save. They already know that about you. They want to hear about your faults. In other words, it is—”
“—what it is. Got it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Nobody said you did.”
I sigh. “At least admit that I need a new costume.”
Louis pauses. “Yeah,” he finally agrees.
“Trent won’t ever go for it, will he?”
“He might,” he says, without meeting my eyes. “Now come on. You’re gonna be late for school.”
Louis doesn’t say much as he drives me to school, which is good, because I’m not much in the mood for conversation. I know today’s going to be a disaster, and I’m trying my best to mentally prepare for it. The bottom line is that I need a new costume. I’m not a kid anymore. I can’t keep running around the city in neon yellow tights. They’re embarrassing. In fact, the whole outfit—tights, red cape, and mask—is embarrassing. But how do I convince Trent? I’ve already tried a million times, and I don’t have a ton of hope for the millionth-and-first time.
I also can’t help thinking about what Louis said earlier, about saving the woman not being a story anymore. He’s right. It’s starting to feel like the public just assumes that Phantom and I are going to save the day. I mean, we still make the news when we take out some jewel thieves, or stop some plus/plus idiot from throwing a bank teller off a building, but the public just doesn’t seem as “in love” with us as they used to be. Maybe Phantom and I are just the victims of our own success. We always win. We’ve become predictable.
Louis pulls up to Harbinger Preparatory School, the most exclusive school in New York City. The brass plaque in front proclaims that the school was built in 1910, but with its ivy-covered stones, the place looks like it’s been here forever and they built the rest of Manhattan around it. A bunch of kids are gathered outside, waiting for the day to start. It’s a sea of plaid and khaki, of laughing, chatty, good-looking faces. Every morning looks like a cover shoot for the school brochure.
Harbinger is the perfect place for me to go to school. My classmates are the sons and daughters of celebrities and dignitaries. It’s the kind of place where, even if everyone knew I was Bright Boy, I might not stand out. As it is now, I’ve turned not standing out into an art form.
“You got anything going on after school today?” Louis asks as he pulls over to the curb. “Maybe a club meeting or something?”
I give him a sarcastic smile. “Do I ever?”
He smiles back. “Nah … but I keep thinking that one of these days you’re gonna get sick of talking to just me.”
“What do you mean ‘one of these days’?”
“All right. That’s it. Get out of my car.”
“Hey, maybe I’ll join the fashion designers club,” I say as I climb out. “Maybe they would make me a new costume.”
Louis pauses. “Do you want me to talk to Trent?” he asks.
“Really?”
“Yeah, but I can’t promise anything. You know how he feels about it … says it makes you an icon.”
“Yeah, I know. Except it’s also making me a joke.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Louis.” I’d hug him, but I don’t want to risk going from “invisible guy” to “parking lot hugger guy.”
“Good-bye, kid,” Louis says, then shoots me a wink and drives off.
I head for the school entrance, feeling a little better than I did before. The welcome chime hasn’t sounded yet, so most kids are still hanging around outside. I haven’t even gone three steps when I hear the laughter.
“Did you see him?”
“Forget him! Did you see it?”
“Oh my God! It was—”
“I know! How can he—”
“I know!” They all laugh.
I put my head down and walk. I try to tell myself that they’re not laughing at me, but I know that’s not true. They are—they’re just not laughing at the me who’s in front of them right now.
Inside the scene is the same. EVERYONE is talking about my “issues” from last night. Harbinger is a K–12 school, so it’s good to know that my ridicule is universal across all age groups. Even the kindergartners, the one group left that still looked up to me, seem sad and confused.
“HA! What a freak!” some girl yells.
“Total perv!” a guy says, then breaks into a series of snorting laughs.
“I know, right?!” comes the response from someone in the crowd.
“So gross!” another kid chimes in.
As I’m walking to my locker, some kid runs past me holding the front page of the newspaper over his head. “Bright Balls!” he yells. The whole hall-way erupts in laughter. I rub my eyes. Gonna be a long day …
I used to get a huge thrill from this, being the main topic of conversation without anyone even knowing I was listening. I used to take in all of this adoration from a distance, not wanting to get close to anyone for fear that they might discover my true identity. Also, I just loved knowing that I had this giant secret. I could listen in on everyone as they shared fantasies about being Bright Boy, or becoming friends with Bright Boy, and having no idea that Bright Boy was right there, standing next to them.
A lot of things were different then. For starters, we weren’t called plus/pluses like we are now; we were called supers, and there were a lot more of us around. For some reason, the name supers made us more lovable to the public. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because supers sounds so heroic, while plus/plus sounds so cold and mathematical.
Then, several years back, a national scientific journal ran a report called “Science of the Supers: Explaining the Extraordinary.” The basic gist of it was that scientists believe we have some slight variations to our DNA that allow us to use more of our body’s potential than regular humans.
The reports said that we can have one of three extra abilities that they labeled pluses: strength, speed/reflexes, and intelligence. Having one plus is most common; in some very rare cases people have two, like me and Phantom Justice. But there has never been a documented case of someone having all three.
The scientists believe that plus speed is at top potential from day one, so I’m not going to get any faster as I get older. Plus strength is different. I’m as strong as about five full-grown men right now. Supposedly, when I turn thirty, I’ll max out at fifteen men. Plus intelligence, which is the least common, works the same way: Older equals smarter. I’m not friends with any plus intelligences to know if that’s true or not. The only one I even know of is a villain, Dr. Chaotic, and it’s not like he and I are meeting up to have long talks over ice cream.