Sidekicks Page 5

  I look over at Jake. He’s desperately trying to give me a threatening look, and I burst out laughing. It’s a reaction that no one expects, least of all me.

  “Mr. Hutchinson?” Dr. White asks, a new note of concern in her voice, as if I had just gone crazy right before her eyes. Jake and his friends have an odd look on their faces. It takes me a minute to realize it’s fear.

  “I’m fine, Dr. White. It’s just like they said. I’m a bit clumsy, and I fell. These guys were nice enough to help me up.”

  Jake’s relief is clear on his face. For such a “bad boy,” he has a real hang-up about getting in trouble. What a joke.

  Dr. White knows we’re lying, and we know Dr. White knows we’re lying. I see a look on her face that I’ve seen on the faces of hundreds of criminals … a face that says, “How far do I really want to push this?”

  “Get out of here,” she says to Jake and his friends, even though she’s clearly not happy about it.

  “Yes, Dr. White,” Jake says in a sacchariney voice. “See you around, Scott. Try to be more careful next time.” The innocent grin never leaves his face.

  “Come on, Mr. Hutchinson. I’ll walk you to your class,” she says when Jake and his friends are gone.

  “That’s not really necessary.”

  “That’s not for you to determine.”

  “Oh.”

  She walks next to me the whole way. I try to act casual by looking at the paintings of old white men that line the walls, but it’s not working. I’m very conscious of my movements. I feel awkward, knowing that she’s watching me. She’s an attractive woman, in a severe, intimidating way. Everything about her is precise. Her black suit almost looks like a military uniform; her hair is slicked down close to her skull and pulled into a tight bun. She’s very sharp. I have to be careful. I don’t want to give anything away.

  “You shouldn’t let them push you around like that,” she says. “There are a lot of bullies in this world. You don’t want to go through life doing whatever someone bigger says.”

  I burst out laughing again. I can’t help it. There are times when the gap between my identities is so huge, it’s ridiculous.

  “Is something funny?” she asks.

  “I laugh when I’m nervous,” I say.

  She stops walking and looks at me. I try to keep going, but it’s just too weird, so I stop too. She stands there, staring at me. I start to get antsy. “What?” I ask.

  She stares at me for a couple of more beats. “Nothing,” she says, even though it was something. It was definitely something. “We’re here.”

  I look up. It’s the door to the class I was supposed to be in ten minutes ago. I open the door. “Mr. Hutchinson. Off doing a little independent study?” Mr. Privet, my social studies teacher, says.

  I turn toward Dr. White, but she’s already gone. Odd.

  “Mr. Hutchinson?” Mr. Privet says. I turn back to him. The rest of the class giggles and whispers.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. I start fidgeting, playing with the big gold school crest on my sweater.

  “Excellent! I expect a full report on your findings by the end of the day. Now, would you please take your seat?”

  I bite my lip and take my seat without a word. I pass a kid with a picture of Bright Boy, cut out from the newspaper, on his desk. He’s in the middle of drawing various parts of the male anatomy on it. I clench my hands into fists to prevent myself from grabbing the picture and making the kid eat it.

  I plop myself down in my seat and try to concentrate on the lesson, but I can’t. I feel so restless and wound up and frustrated; I feel like my molecules are going to fly apart at any moment. I just want to leap out the window and flip from building to building until I run out of buildings. Then I want to turn around and do it again.

  Instead, I sit and watch my classmates as they take what they consider to be “risks.” One girl passes the girl next to her a note. They both look at a kid (who I think is the captain of the baseball team) and start to giggle. The kid never notices them. A couple of other guys use some complex hand signals to communicate with each other from across the room. Another kid (I think his name is Sam) shows his friend (Max, maybe?) his raunchy picture of Bright Boy. They both snicker as quietly as they can, but Mr. Privet hears them and turns around.

  “Let’s keep the disruption to a minimum,” he says in a tone that’s stern, but not yet annoyed.

  All the kids who were “breaking the rules” blush, but smile, as if they’re both ashamed and exhilarated by almost getting caught. It’s funny, because I never really break the classroom rules, not because I’m a “good guy,” but because I don’t have anyone to break them with.

  Basically, I have no life (social or otherwise) as Scott, and now my hero identity isn’t comfortable anymore either. I mean, becoming Bright Boy has always been my escape. Have a bad day as Scott? No problem! Just slap on the uni, go out, bust some skulls, and become a hero to millions. But now, that’s completely changed. My stupid costume has made me joke. And I feel stuck …

  I put my elbows on the desk and rest my head in my hands. I’m exhausted by it all.

  “Are you OK?”

  I lift my head up. Apparently, class ended. I must have fallen asleep. Everyone else in the room is gone, except for me … and Olivia Duchamp, who is standing in front of me with a concerned look on her face. It takes me a moment to realize that her concern is for me.

  “Sorry?” I ask.

  “Are you OK? You look like you’re not feeling well.”

  “I’m fine. I just … I’m just a little tired.”

  She’s easily the prettiest girl I’ve ever talked to who wasn’t falling off a building. Her friends Charlene and Allison are standing behind her. They look like they’re not sure why Olivia is talking to me. I hope they don’t look to me for an answer, because I don’t have a clue.

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “Am I sure what?”

  “Are you sure it’s just being tired?” She starts to put her hand on my shoulder, but then stops, as if it might be a little too much to touch me the very first time we talk to each other.

  “I think so,” I say.

  “Olivia,” Allison says, stepping forward, “stop with the third degree. If he says he’s tired, he must be tired. Come on.”

  “OK,” Olivia says. “Sorry.”

  I shoot Allison a dirty look, even though I don’t really mean to. To tell you the truth, I’m actually a little relieved. I don’t have any idea how to talk to a girl like Olivia. But just because I’m relieved doesn’t mean I wanted it to end.

  “Don’t apologize,” I say. “It was nice of you to ask.”

  Olivia gives me a warm smile that I can’t help but return. “If you ever need anyone to talk to, Steve, just ask, OK?”

  Steve. She thinks my name is Steve. And she’s looking at me so warmly, I just don’t have the heart to correct her. “You bet,” I say. “Thanks.”

  She smiles and nods, then lets her friends drag her out of the room.

  Steve?! Frickin’ Steve?!

  Suddenly, I want to hit someone … just punch someone dead in the face. And there’s nothing I can do about it right now. I can’t fight anyone in school, even Jake Berkshire; I’d kill them. Who can I hit?!

  Monkeywrench. That’s who. It takes very little effort on my part to make that little weasel the face of the misery my life has become, with his jokes about my outfit, and his stupid, squeaky laugh.

  Monkeywrench.

  My fingers start tingling at the thought of hitting him, hard and often. He’s a plus/plus. He can take it. I’ve got a lot of anger and frustration. It’ll feel good to work some of it out on his face.

  is leaping from rooftop to rooftop a few paces in front of me. I hoped that becoming Bright Boy would help me feel a little less awkward after the day I had, but it’s not really working. The only thing that’s keeping me going is the fact that we’re responding to an alarm, and Phantom is pretty sure that
Dr. Chaotic tripped it … and wherever Chaotic is, Monkeywrench is, too. Apparently, they’re at some warehouse stealing something. I don’t know what; at the moment, I don’t even care. The only thing I care about is whaling on Monkeywrench as soon as poss—

  I run face-first into Phantom Justice’s chest. Apparently, he had stopped in front of me and turned around without me seeing. “Is something wrong?” he whispers intensely.

  “No … I—”

  “You’re not embracing the night.”

  “Uhh … what?”

  “You seem a little preoccupied.”

  “Oh. Right … well, maybe a little.”

  “We’ve talked about this,” he says. “You can’t be out here if your head’s not clear. The night will consume you.”

  “Right … no, I know … it’s just … I have a lot going on right now.”

  “Like?”

  “Nothing … it’s …”

  “OK, then let’s just—”

  “Everything sucks right now, OK?” I blurt out. “The only time I feel halfway normal is when I’m in this costume. And look at it. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I don’t—”

  “It is. It’s ridiculous! Kids at school call me a pervert. Not me … like Scott me … Bright Boy me. They think I’m a pervert!”

  “The evil in this city festers like an open sore, and you’re worried about some petty insults. Just ignore them.”

  “I try! But they’re everywhere! The whole school is laughing at me! Even the kindergartners!”

  “Those kids make fun of you because they’re jealous. Most of them would trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

  “That’s nice, but it doesn’t make things any easier.”

  “So, is that why you do this? To be admired and loved?” he asks.

  “No … But I don’t do it to be constantly ridiculed, either.”

  He turns away from me. I can see his jaw tightening under his mask. “I need you to focus on the task at hand,” he says, going back to his scary whisper. “Otherwise, you’ll have to go home.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll focus.”

  He looks at me and squints in his trademark “Don’t lie to me because I can see the evil in your soul!” way, but I’ve seen it way too many times for it to be effective. Plus, if he could REALLY see the “evil in my soul,” like what I was planning to do to Monkeywrench’s face, he wouldn’t have let me out of the house in the first place.

  “Let’s go,” he snarls. And with a dramatic turn of his cape, he continues forward, toward the warehouse.

  I roll my eyes and follow.

  Three minutes later, we arrive at the industrial park full of warehouses where we traced the alarm. Everything is quiet.

  “Where are the police?” I ask.

  “They’re probably on their way. Do you want to wait for them,” he asks with a mischievous grin, “or are you up for a little action?”

  “You have to ask?” I respond. I only hope it’s Dr. Chaotic and Monkeywrench. The thought of beating on someone other than them would be a total letdown.

  We go through two warehouses; on the third, we hit pay dirt.

  Dr. Chaotic and Monkeywrench are standing in front of a huge pile of crates, each one labeled with an IGO logo. We play the shadows and try to sneak up on them. Apparently, we’re not as good at it as we think we are.

  “You boys are late,” Dr. Chaotic says as he turns to us. “We almost left without you. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  “You’re going back to prison, Chaotic,” Phantom growls. “It’s up to you whether you go in one piece … or several.”

  “Ooooh! Such tough talk! Is that to compensate for the fact that you run around with an adolescent boy in tights? Hm?”

  My scalp starts to tingle, and I feel my face get hot. “You see?” I whisper to Phantom. He makes a “take it easy” motion with his hand. No, he doesn’t see.

  “What are you up to, Chaotic?” Phantom asks.

  “What, you think I’m just going to tell you? Huh? What fun would that be?”

  “This is all a big game to you, isn’t it?”

  The two of them continue, back and forth, as if there’s a big cliché contest and they’re both determined to win. I’ve stopped listening. I can’t stop staring at Monkeywrench. The voices of Dr. Chaotic and Phantom Justice become distant drones. The only things that exist in the world right now are Monkeywrench and my hatred for him … and he hasn’t even noticed yet. He’s watching the exchange between Chaotic and Phantom, because that’s what we sidekicks usually do: We stand around and wait for the main event to start, and then we fight. I mean, that’s why we’re called sidekicks; if we were supposed to start the fighting, we’d probably be called frontkicks or something.

  He seems fidgety … restless. He shoots me a couple of quick glances, but he doesn’t really “see” me. He couldn’t have … because if he did, he’d see the way I’m looking at him. He’d see the anger written all over my face.

  He glances over at me again, but this time, something about me catches his eye. And so this time, he takes a really long look … and he sees that I’m staring at him … more like glaring at him … trying to break his legs by sheer force of will. And he sees this. He sees how angry I am at him … and he smiles. The little jerk smiles! My teeth grind together. He smiles wider, and then he blows me a kiss!

  The next thing I hear is my own yell as I start sprinting for Monkeywrench.

  His eyes go wide. He wasn’t expecting this. To be fair, neither was I.

  “What are you—ooof!” is all Monkey can get out before I ram into him.

  We break through the outside wall of the warehouse, slamming into the side of a news van parked there. It leaves a large, Monkeywrench-size dent in it. Reporters scatter … some scream. Then they see the hole in the side of the building, and realize that we’re just the sidekicks, and the main event is inside. They forget their fear and rush past us, jockeying for position. I look through the hole I just created, and for a moment, before the hole is filled with press, I can see Phantom Justice and Dr. Chaotic looking back at me. They look confused. I may have jumped the gun a little.

  “What is your problem?” Monkeywrench yells at me. I turn my attention to him.

  “You blew me a kiss. I wanted to return the favor.”

  “Return this,” he says, and shoves his hand into my chin. I lift my right knee and catch him in the stomach, slamming the back of his head into the van again. I fall butt-first onto the ground. Before I have a chance to hit him again, he turns, leaps, flips, and lands on top of the van. Then he sprints off, leaping from van rooftop to van rooftop. He’s heading for the nearest warehouse roof.

  I sprint after him, staying to the ground. There’s a van parked close to the warehouse where Monkey is heading. I leap on top of it, then leap from the van onto the warehouse roof. He’s six feet away from me and sprinting for the next warehouse. “Stop!” I yell.

  “No!” he yells, and keeps sprinting, but maybe he’s a little rusty from his years away, or maybe I’m just faster than he is. I make up the ground between us and grab his arm. He tries to flip me, but I block him, flipping him instead. From the ground, he sweeps my legs out from under me. I fall hard on my back. He comes at me with an elbow, but I block and throw off. I flip up to a fighting position. He does the same. We’re both breathing hard. The roof feels a little squishy under my feet, like all it’s had to deal with are raindrops for the past thirty years … and we’re a little bigger than raindrops.

  “All right, perv … what else—”

  “Shut up,” I say. “Shut your freakin’ mouth. You say one more word, and I swear you’ll be trying to pick up your teeth with broken fingers.”

  “Ha! Next time you try to steal a tough-guy line from a movie, you might want to consider changing your tigh—”

  I tackle him. We land on his back. The roof protests, making a loud, angry groan.

  “Get off of me!”

  “No time,” I
say.

  “What?”

  The roof gives way. I guesstimate that the fall is about thirty-five feet, because it hurts—a lot—but we’re both still alive.

  I roll over slowly, onto my knees and elbows. I take a few deep breaths. They hurt. I spit a couple of times. No blood. I wait to see if I go into shock. Nope. Just shaken up.

  I can hear Monkeywrench wheezing beside me, and I don’t feel so much like pummeling him anymore. Even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I could raise my arms. I get to my feet, slowly … I’m not sure my legs will hold me. “Are you OK?” I ask.

  “No!” he says, and his voice sounds different … less screechy than normal.

  “Don’t try to get up,” I say, and start to walk over to him.

  “Stop!” he yells.

  “I’m not going to hurt—”

  “STOP!”

  But I don’t. I walk over to him. He’s trying to pick himself off the ground as quickly as possible, but he’s too shaken up.

  I grab his arm to help him. “It’s o—”

  And that’s when I notice Monkeywrench’s mask is gone … and that Monkeywrench isn’t a “he.”

  “Allison? Mendes?”

  She screams, as if her real name is the filthiest insult I could ever call her. Suddenly, she’s on me, all hands and elbows and nails. She’s coming at me with a ferocity I’ve never seen. By the time I realize what she’s up to, it’s too late; she’s already ripped my mask off.

  I freeze. I put my hands up against my face, to try to cover it, but it’s too late. She’s already seen me.

  “Uhh … you!” she shouts, then looks away.

  My expression changes from fear to annoyance.

  “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “Yes, I do. You go to my school.”

  “OK, great. So what’s my name?”

  She pauses, scrunches up her face, starts looking around the room, as if she’s hoping that some friendly and helpful psychic might’ve predicted this moment and written my name on one of the walls.

  “You don’t know?! Seriously?” I shout.