Sidekicks Page 8

  “It’s an easy page to be on. “

  “This is the first of seven,” Trent says, tapping the top of the briefcase. “IGO thought smaller chunks would be easier to hide.”

  “Makes sense.” Edward looks at the money in the briefcase.

  “Man, it’s good to be making some real money again! The amateurs were really putting a ding in the numbers,” Trent says. “I’ll tell you, Edward, if you said no to this, I think I would’ve had to turn them down. No way any of the other clowns had enough juice to pull off the kind of numbers IGO’s talking about.”

  “Well, I guess you’re lucky that private school is so expensive.”

  Trent looks at the weapon Edward is working on. “That for our next gig?” he asks.

  “If I can get the damn trigger right.”

  Edward hands Trent the gun. Trent aims at the same crates that Edward knocked over before and pulls the trigger. They go flying across the room.

  “Battering force,” Edward tells him. “Same concept as the Pulverizer, but with none of that nasty laser burn. It may sting a little, but nothing too bad.”

  “Trigger felt fine to me,” Trent says, handing the gun back to Edward. “Oh, and feel free to bring back the Pulverizer and use it on Bright Boy, if you want. That little pest could use some laser burn.”

  “Problems at home?”

  “Ugh! What a little crybaby!” Trent groans, then runs his fingers through his hair. “‘Oh, my pants are too tight! Oh, people are making fun of me! Boo-hoo-hoo,’” Trent says in a whiny voice.

  “To be fair, his costume is a bit embarrassing.”

  “The hell it is! It’s an icon!”

  “All right … calm down.”

  “Maybe the problem is that he’s just too old to wear it. Might be time to bring in someone younger, which would help boost the numbers in the youth demographic.” Trent laughs, but it has a tight, cold sound to it. “Nothing like a sidekick death to boost the ol’ numbers, right?”

  “I didn’t realize you hated him that much.”

  “Yeah, well, some days he can really push my buttons. You must feel the same way about …” Trent pauses.

  “Allison.”

  “Yeah … Allison.”

  “Not really. She does her thing; I do mine. We try to stay out of each other’s hair,” Edward says without taking his eyes off his work.

  Trent watches Edward intently for a moment, then looks around the room. He picks up some papers, looks at them without really seeing them, then puts them back down.

  “Something else is on your mind,” Edward says without looking up.

  “Maybe.”

  “It wasn’t a question. There is something else on your mind, and you’re trying to decide whether to tell me or not. It feels like this”—Edward taps the top of his head with one finger—“so … please … save me the headache.”

  “Fine. The kids know about each other.”

  Edward stops working. He puts his screwdriver down. “What do they know?”

  “Each other’s secret identities.”

  “Hm. So that’s what she was hiding from me this morning,” Edward says. “Is that it?”

  “As far as I know, yeah.”

  “What do you want to do about it?”

  “Well, I’d love to leave Bright Boy bleeding in an alley somewhere,” Trent says, a malicious grin on his face, “but I suppose I can wait.”

  “Hm. Wearing your hostility for him a little close to the surface these days, don’t you think?”

  “He’s insufferable. Sometimes, he just makes me want to … gahhh!!” Trent yells as he punches one of the nearby crates. His fist goes right through.

  Edward sighs. “As stable as ever, I see. How did you find out about them?”

  “Scott told me everything. Last night, he and Allison were fighting, and they ended up falling through a warehouse roof,” Trent says. “She lost her mask in the fall, then ripped Scott’s mask off after he saw who she was.”

  “Yes, well, it was bound to happen.”

  Trent shrugs. “I’ll tell you, though, it’s a good thing your daughter’s as mature as she is. I thought Scott was going to wet himself.”

  “Why? What did she do?”

  “She told him flat out that if he tells on her, she’ll tell on him. So … now they have this agreement based on mutual distrust.” Trent laughs. “You know what Scott wanted to do?”

  “Turn her in and throw his identity away in the name of justice.”

  “Yeah, do you believe it?”

  “Yes. I’ve met the boy, remember? His constant barrage of ‘heroic’ thoughts feels like someone’s giving me a noogie. You weren’t planning on telling him about us, were you?”

  “God, no! Can you imagine? He’d turn us in.”

  “He’s a true hero, Trent. You should be proud.” Edward keeps a straight face for a minute but then breaks out laughing.

  Trent laughs with him. “Oh, I am. Wait ’til you hear the speech I wrote for his funeral.”

  Edward goes back to tinkering with the trigger on his weapon.

  “So,” Trent says, eyes fixed on Edward, “did you tell Allison … you know … about this?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Edward stops what he’s doing and looks at Trent. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “That, Edward, is supposed to mean that I need to know exactly what’s going on with us at all times. I have to be more cautious than you, considering I have a hell of a lot more to lose in this. You get caught, you just take another vacation. I get caught, and my whole life is in the toilet. So this may ruffle your feathers a bit, but I don’t care. Now, do you think Allison knows?”

  “No.”

  “Because if she finds out, she may get angry enough to tell Scott … and then we have a real problem.”

  “Would we?”

  Trent smiles. “Well, I wouldn’t have a problem. Scott would have a problem. And you.”

  “Me?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m not so sure anymore that if push comes to shove, you’ll do what’s necessary.”

  “And what makes you ‘not so sure’?”

  “Just an old-fashioned gut feeling. Not exactly plus intelligence, but it’s always worked for me.”

  “Then maybe you should let me go. Cut your losses. Find someone else to take my place. Didn’t you work with Rogue Warrior last week? Why don’t you see if he’s available?” Edward says. They stare at each other.

  Trent’s face relaxes a little. “Now, let’s not get crazy. I’m just saying that Allison seems like a keeper, a lot better than my lousy sidekick. If I were you, I’d have a hard time parting with her. Just the thought of training someone else when you’ve already got a good one … ugh! What a headache!”

  Edward doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s just, well, I know that plus intelligences get smarter as they get older,” Trent says, “but I’ve also heard that they get colder … more analytical … less emotional.”

  Edward gives a small nod.

  “Well, if Allison isn’t just another carbon life-form to you already, then she pretty soon will be. So you may have to decide which one of us makes more sense to have in your life after the love is gone, as they say. Her or me.”

  “Fine. Is that all?”

  “I still haven’t heard your answer.”

  Edward’s jaw stiffens. “You know it’s you.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. And if you didn’t, you do now.”

  They stare at each other for a few more seconds before Trent smiles. “Thank you, Edward. I mean … let’s not get too intense! We’re nowhere near that point … yet. But it’s nice to know that I can still rely on you.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Trent picks up the weapon that Edward’s been working on. He pulls the trigger, sending the crates from before crashing into the far wall of the lab. They splinter into a million pieces. “You’re right,
as usual. The trigger is much more precise now. So … are we doing this tonight?”

  “No, we’re not ready yet,” Edward says. “I need to work on our plans. Our escapes have been getting a little sloppy lately.”

  “I don’t think anyone notices but you.”

  “Yes, well, let’s keep it that way. The last thing we need is an investigation.”

  Trent starts laughing. “Come on, Edward. Who’s going to investigate us?”

  again?” I ask. We’re sitting on the ledge of a building, forty stories above street level, and I’m trying to shove an entire pita-meat-sauce thing in my mouth. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted.

  “It’s a gyro,” Allison says, looking at me with a mixture of amusement and horror. “I can’t believe you’ve never had one. I mean, this city has so many amazing things in it. Don’t you just walk around sometimes? Check stuff out?”

  “No,” I say, but since my mouth is stuffed with gyro, it comes out like “fffo.”

  “Ugh,” she says laughing. “Swallow before you talk, you frickin’ barbarian. Jeez …”

  “I am not a barbarian!” I say, spraying food all over the place.

  She laughs and covers her face with her hands. “Gah! Stop!”

  “Are you going to finish—?”

  “Here,” she says, handing me the rest of hers. “Aren’t you afraid you’re going to catch some ‘villain-cooties’?”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I say as I take an enormous bite out of the half-eaten gyro. “How could you not finish this?”

  She shrugs. “I have them all the time.” She smiles and cocks one eyebrow at me. “So … seriously … you never just walk around the city and get lost sometimes?”

  I shake my head. “I only come into the city to go to school or go out on patrol.”

  “Well, now you know what you’re missing.”

  I nod enthusiastically. Both gyros are gone, so I start licking the foil. I can’t help myself. When I’m convinced that I’ve gotten every last drop of food and sauce, I ball up the wrappers. “I have to go,” I say, and start to stand up.

  “Why? We just got up here.”

  “I know … I just have to check in with Phantom. Things are kind of crazy right now, and I want to make sure he doesn’t need me for anything.”

  Allison starts laughing.

  “What?” I ask.

  “If I’m here, chances are he doesn’t need you.”

  “Oh … right …” I sit back down. “Well, aren’t you worried that Dr. Chaotic might need you … for whatever you guys might be doing?”

  “Nah. You guys are on call. We just follow a schedule,” she says. She stands up and starts absentmindedly walking along the ledge, pointing her toes out on every step, like a ballerina. I notice, not for the first time, how long her legs are. I’m trying not to stare. “I think we should play a game.”

  “What kind of game?” My body tenses.

  “Relax. Nothing to do with the whole cops and robbers thing … we already play that game enough, thank you very much. No, I think we need to play a game called One Question Each, and You Have to Answer Truthfully, or I’ll Tell the World Your Secret Identity.”

  “Think of that on the spot, did you?”

  She smiles. It’s similar to one of the hundreds of smart-aleck smirks she gave me as Monkeywrench, but this one is softer and doesn’t make me want to punch her in the face.

  “I’ll go first,” she says. “Are you ready?”

  “Fine, as long as it isn’t a question about my costume.”

  “Why do you wear such a horrible costume?” I sigh. My head drops.

  “I mean, it’s horrible,” she continues. “You know that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, thank God for that. I mean, it’s top-to-bottom awful. Forget for a minute the fact that you are a borderline case of indecent exposure—God knows, I’m trying—no offense …”

  “None taken,” I say sarcastically.

  “Seriously though, bright yellow tights and a red cape? Wow. The image of your outfit is literally burned onto my retinas.”

  “Do you have a question or not?”

  “Yeah. Why do you wear it? It looks ridiculous, you clearly don’t like to wear it. So why bother?”

  “Because.”

  She pauses to see if there’s more. There isn’t.

  “Because?” she says. “No, no, no. ‘Because’ is an answer that adults give to five-year-olds when they want them to shut up. Look at me? Do I look five?”

  “No.”

  “No. So … answer my question or lose the game. I swear to God I’ll tell Lord Fauntleroy here your secret identity.” She drapes her arms over the gargoyle and gives him a small kiss on one of his pointy ears.

  “Lord Fauntleroy?”

  “He’s an aristocrat. Now answer!”

  “I wear it because I have to.”

  “Says who? Phantom Justice?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Dead. Killed when I was four.”

  “Oh. Sorry. My mom’s dead, too, if it makes you feel any better.”

  “Why would that make me feel better?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I guess it doesn’t work like that.” She pauses. She looks at the ground for a second, then looks at me. “Do you remember them?”

  “Bits and pieces,” I say, and before I can stop it, an old movie of my parents starts playing in my head. They’re helping me ride my bike in the driveway of a house I barely remember. My mom is helping me balance, even though it’s obvious that I don’t need any help. My dad is sitting in a lawn chair, making funny noises so I’ll laugh until I fall over. My mom is getting annoyed with him, but not really. Mostly, he’s making both of us laugh. It was hard for her to get mad at him. It was hard for anyone to get mad at him.

  “They were killed in a car accident,” I continue. “I was in the backseat. The car was completely mangled. I had a few cuts, but nothing major.” I stop. Louis and Trent are the only people in the world who know the story. I’ve never actually said it out loud to anyone, until now—when I told it to my archenemy. Oh no.

  I look over at Allison. She’s looking at me crossly. “I see what you’re thinking,” she says, and sits down next to me.

  “What?”

  “It’s written all over your face.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” she says softly. “Not with this.” She reaches up to wipe the tear off my cheek that I didn’t even know was there. But then her hand stops, as if she suddenly remembers that, even though we’d known each other for a while, we’d only just met.

  Pull it together.

  “Didn’t you have any relatives?” she asks.

  “No. They put me in an orphanage. Right from the start, none of the other kids wanted anything to do with me. They knew I was different. They wouldn’t talk to me; they wouldn’t play with me. If I tried to join one of their games, everyone else would just quit on the spot. It was obvious they were scared of me. I just remember being lonely and miserable.

  “I was six years old, and pretty sure that I was going to spend the rest of my life in that orphanage, when Phantom found me. He said he had been looking all over for someone like me. And I asked, ‘Well, what took you so long to find me?’”

  She laughs. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” I smile and shrug. “I was six. My attitude was, ‘Why couldn’t you find me? I was right here!’”

  “So he gave you a place to live,” she says. “Clothed you, fed you, trained you, put you in the best school in the city, blah, blah, blah …”

  “Yeah. He gave me a life, gave me purpose … I’m indebted to him.”

  “That’s great, but what does that have to do with your awful costume?”

  “He wants me to wear it. It’s important to him, and it’s hard for me to go against that.”

  She looks at me, studying my face until I get unc
omfortable. I wait for the barbed response. She surprises me. “Obligation. I get that. But you’ve kinda gotta draw the line somewhere, and I would say mortal embarrassment is a pretty good place to draw it.”

  “Great. Thanks for the advice. And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “I think that counts as your question.”

  “Wha—? Hey! That’s no fair! You just asked me a bunch of questions!”

  “Then you should’ve said something,” she says with a smile and a shrug. “Sorry, those are the rules,”

  “Fine. Then give me an answer.”

  “OK … I know it’s hard—trust me—but you’ve gotta do something. Your outfit is historically awful. I mean, I can’t decide which is worse, the front or the back. It’s like you’re smuggling grapefruits back there.”

  “And there’s the insult.”

  “Look, when my dad made me come back—”

  “He made you come back?”

  “Not your turn,” she scolds. “When I came back as Monkeywrench, my dad wanted me to wear the same costume I wore when I was eight. Yeah, like that was going to happen. What was I supposed to do with these?” She points to her chest. My eyes widen, and a single bead of sweat forms on my forehead. And then I realize that …

  “You just asked a question,” I gloat. “That was your turn.”

  “Wha—no!

  “Rules of the game.”

  “Oh MAN! Well played, sir,” she says. “OK, smarty … so what am I supposed to do with these?” She points to her chest again. She knows how uncomfortable she’s making me.

  “You could wear a sports bra … or I’ve heard that some ballerinas tape theirs down.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll tape my boobs down when you tape your balls down.”

  I clear my throat. “Fair enough. No tape, then. Now, I do believe it’s my turn.”

  “Whatever … I think I’m all out of tights jokes at the moment, anyway, so go ahead. Even though I think I already know what’s coming.”

  “Why are you a villain?” As I say it, she mouths the words with me. “OK, so I’m obvious. Just answer the question.”

  “I don’t consider myself a villain,” she says.

  “All right … then why are you a sidekick to a villain?”

  “I don’t think my dad is a villain, either. And I’m not just saying that because he’s my dad. Trust me, I’m pretty ticked off at him right now.”