Sweat pours down her back as her thin, scabby legs pump the Huffy up the curving hill. It’s one of those hellish summer days where the air is so heavy with heat that even breathing is a chore. Len curses her mother for sending her on a lighter and cola run. The woman got into another drunken accident, leaving them without wheels for the foreseeable future.
Out of nowhere, the back of her head explodes in pain. The front tire makes a 90-degree turn and flips her over onto the burning pavement. Tiny bits of gravel make their way into her knees and hands as she tries to break her impact.
In a tear-filled blur, she makes out two figures on either side, looming over. The biggest one is Jackson, the 15-year-old seventh-grader, and his squirrely wingman Ben. She feels her face heat up with lingering embarrassment over last year’s end-of-the-year prank. She can still hear the shouts and jeers of the student body as Jackson forced her to push a quarter from the sixth-grade hall through the seventh-grade with just her tongue. She was halfway by the time the faculty got wind, but the damage was done. I will forever be that girl, she thinks.
Jackson readies another rock. “What are you doin’ on our road, freak?”
“I-I, uh…”
The pair starts cracking up. “N-N-Nice stutter loser,” Jackson mocks back.
“She should pay a toll,” Ben says in his nasally voice.
Jackson grabs the collar of her bright orange shirt. Only the toes of her scuffed Chucks are touching the ground. His rank breath smacks her in the face.
“Yea, pay up.”
“I-I got 20 bucks in my pocket. You can have it.”
Len pulls the sweaty bill out of the jean-short pocket and holds it towards the giant boy. She winces as Jackson swipes it from her scratched hand. With a crooked grin, he crumples the bill into the chain wallet hanging off his baggy jeans. The cheaply designed smiley face with its tongue hanging out swings there, mocking her as she soaks in sweat and misery. Despite getting paid, the two stand there seemingly having a telepathic conversation about what other punishment they can dish out. Jackson raises a fist and Len closes her eyes and grits her teeth, bracing herself for an unholy beating.
Whack!
Jackson yells out in pain. Len falls to the ground in a heap of confusion watching this behemoth get pummeled by a pint-sized kid. There’s a mish-mash of uncoordinated swings and kicks, as Ben tries to retaliate on behalf of his friend. Faster, the newcomer dodges and scrambles to get Len on her bike.
“Go,” the masked kid yells.
——–
A mile or so away, Len steadies her breath as she sits on the corner of the main street gas station. Unable to make her purchases, she strains to keep the tears in.
Mom’s not going to be happy… crap… how am I going to get home? Those jerks are really going to be out for me now; there’s no way I can go back that way…
She falls off the curb into the burnt grass behind her. The blinding sunlight fills her closed lids with a muted red glow. Tears escape down her cheek. She lays there pondering what it would be like to have powers, when a shadow falls over her, causing her to sit up in a panic.
“Hey.” Standing there is the masked kid.
“Uh… hey?”
The kid sits on the grass and hands her the 20.
“Oh, wow. Thanks… How’d you get this?”
“No problem… Oh right, I snagged that stupid ape’s wallet after I hit him in the head,” he says with a triumphant grin. “Dude cried like a girl… uh, no offense.”
“It’s okay. I just… I… I don’t know what to say. This is frickin’ weird.”
A nervous laugh escapes her lips.
“The name’s Bruce, by the way. Bruce Wayne.”
Len looks at him in shock. He bursts into uncontrolled laughter.
“Your face! I couldn’t resist. Sorry. But, seriously, my name’s Eric.” He puts his fist out. They bump.
“I’m Len…Why are you dressed that way?”
She looks him up and down. The kid is dressed in nothing but black: black jeans, T-shirt and a badly homemade black mask. The only parts of him that show are his thin, bare arms and pale blue eyes.
“Aren’t you dying under all that?” Sweat drips down her face, collecting in a circle of muted orange on her sodden back and pits. Oddly, the boy doesn’t seem to be soaked.
He shrugs. “Eh. I’m used to it. A hero must never reveal his identity,” he says imitating an announcer’s voice. The shifting pitches in his voice ruin the effect. Eyebrows raised, she just stares.
“Here, check this out.”
He gets up off the grass and fumbles with a satchel hanging on his parked bike (all black), and pulls out a large, heavy looking book. Like a newborn, he cradles it, gingerly handing it over. “Zero to Hero: A Geek’s Guide to Being a Super Hero,” the title reads with a compilation of brightly colored comic legends.
“It’s informative and handy. I used that to beat down that idiot Jackson.”
Len is speechless.
He grabs the book and flips through a few pages. “I’m still in chapter one, where you need to create an image to hide your true identity.” He reads, “…never reveal your true identity, when in hero mode… always have an air of mystery,” he mumbles on.
“You already told me your name.”
His eyes widen as he mouths crap. “Do you want a drink?”
Random, she thinks. Not wanting to hurt his feelings since he did save her life and all, she nods her head yes.
Together, they get up. People pass by, gawking at the awkward pair. A filthy tomboy with a messy, brown ponytail and a short, Goth-clad boy hero.
——–
Two off-brand sodas and a lighter later, the duo finds themselves in the woods. Unsure of how to ditch, Len reluctantly follows him to what he calls his “hideout.” It’s nothing more than an abandoned, weathered shed, about as sturdy as a house made out of cardboard and duct tape. The inside, furnished with plastic patio furniture and (amazingly) wall-to-wall books.
A twinge of surprise crosses Len’s face at the sight of the enormous home library. Some of her favorites jumped out, while most of them she’s never seen. She traces her fingers along the old and new spines. Not in any particular order, the books are thrown on the beaten shelves. Books are stacked one on top of another, lying on their sides, diagonal, basically every which way. Being a little more orderly, Len can’t resist the urge to straighten the thoughtless mess.
In deep thought, she jumps at the first notice of Eric’s presence. How did I forget about him? On edge, she turns to look at him. She forces a smile.
“I knew you’d be impressed. I see you at the library all the time,” Eric says.
“Um, yeah.” Wait, what? Did he just say what I think he said? “I can’t really afford to buy books, so I go to the library a lot,” she answers with reservation.
Eric’s eyes grow wide. “You know, I just remembered something crucial in that book. I need a sidekick! You owe me a favor anyway, so how ‘bout it?”
Afraid of setting him off, she nods. Thoughts of mom, bullies and a masked weirdo overwhelm her. Can this day get any stranger?
Donna Quinn is a senior English major at Penn State Harrisburg.
