Page 12 of No Capes
“I thought you were obsessed with that new kid.” In the last two days, Kristen has found more reasons to stop by my lane than she has in the past four years: she needs help tightening her goggles, can she have my water bottle, can I teach her how to swim…
“Will you be my back-up? Please?”
“I must respectfully decline,” I say. It would be kind of me to attend the party of the year with my best friend, but for me, going would be worse than not going at all. Hallowfest is an annual gala hosted by none other than Mrs. Arielle Bridges, who never invites me or my dad. Shedoesinvite Capital City’s deepest pockets, e.g., Kristen’s mom.
Besides, Lily’s dad will be at Hallowfest, which means babysitting duty for me.And if I babysit,I get to keep the candy Lily doesn’t like—anything mint or coconut. I’ll be sad when she finally realizes those are the best ones.
Before Kristen can wear me down, the bell rings and our history teacher, Mr. Meyers, glides into the classroom. “Phone away, Levine,” he tells Fox, and in his next two strides to the blackboard, every single kid who’d been mesmerized by whatever was happening on Fox’s phone sits stick-straight at their desk, ready to take notes.
Mr. Meyers runs his hand through his gelled salt-and-pepper hair, scanning the room and taking mental attendance. Supposedly, before he joined the academic domain, Mr. Meyers ran top-secret missions with the government. Kristen has a theory that Mr. Meyers used only a can of beans and some aviator sunglasses to single-handedly end child hunger in fourteen countries.
“Looks like we’re all here.” He tosses a piece of chalk in the air and catches it behind his back. “Now, does anyone—”
The classroom door opens, interrupting him.
Aaron enters, carrying a pink slip. It’s the pink slip that Ms. Bedelia, Capital City High’s beloved secretary, writes hall passes on. She’s written a good amount of them for me: whenever the swim team trains for a big meet, or when Arielle lets us go with whatshethinks is enough time to make it to first period before the bell rings, and we prove her incorrect.
“Is this World History?” Aaron asks in the same aloof manner he’d used yesterday, and at swim practice this morning, and pretty much always.
“Holy Aces,” Kristen whispers. “He got moved into our section!”
“It is.” Mr. Meyers looks the pass over before placing it onto a precisely straightened desk. “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Ryans. In the future, you won’t want to come late to this class. Not because of the penalties the school requires me to dish out for repeated tardiness, although those are a pain, but because it means missing the simple joys of my teaching. Have a seat behind Miss Bemis.”
Mr. Meyers indicates the vacant seat in the column next to mine, two rows in front of me. Aaron files over and places his royal blue backpack on the floor. Just before he sinks into his standard-issue, plastic school chair, he glances back at me. His stare pierces my entire body, and in the split second we make eye contact, I get the sense he wants to tell me something.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Meyers continues. “Does anyone have news they would like to discuss before we begin?” One of the best things about this history class is that Mr. Meyers always starts class by covering something from the news. Last week, we spent twenty minutes on a celebrity’s pregnancy and how it compares to a queen’s reign in the ancient world. Mr. Meyers examined the issue thoroughly, asking,is making these comparisons misogynistic or is history repeating itself? Arecelebrity babies part of a slow news cycle or part of a larger agenda?
Mr. Meyers’ favorite argument is that if journalists cover one story, one group of people, or one event in time, it doesn’t mean that story is the only thing that’s happening in the world; it means the journalists are covering that topic and not covering a different event. He always stresses that there’s power in deciding what society pays attention to, versus what flies under the radar. My mother covered the news with that same philosophy.
Fox stretches his arm backwards until his hand waves in the air. “I have a question about a video from this morning.”
“You must be more specific, Mr. Levine. There were lots of videos on the news this morning, and I doubt you have an interest in the piece on cockroach feces.”
“No, the local channel aired it. The video about Dark Static.”
Wait.Dark Static… D.S.?
“I saw that too,” exclaims Molly Woods, who’s seated beside Damian like the perfect couple they are. “The Supers are out of control.”
Molly’sonlyfault is that she’s anti-Supers.EspeciallyGolden Ace. There’s no official club for anti-Supers, since few people will admit to hating someone who saves lives, but those who will admit it do so loudly.
Mr. Meyers points to Fox. “Let’s see what we have to discuss. Mr. Levine?”
“On it,” says Fox. An unfortunate aspect of my class schedule is that it heavily overlaps with Fox’s. Damian Scott Jr. is only inoneof my classes—this one. Fox pulls up a video on Mr. Meyers’ computer, which is hooked up to a projector in the front of the room. Mr. Meyers’ rolling chair creaks as Fox relaxes into it. He clicks the mouse so slowly, I get the sense he’s deliberately stirring suspense and staying the center of attention for as long as possible.
Finally, the video clip opens to a newsman interviewing a woman in front of a sprawling mansion. Spindling flames and blankets of smoke devour the building, reducing its pillars and balconies to ashes. The woman is Dr. Dottie Milligan III, Capital City’s former mayor, who held the office right before Phil Bridges.
“Ma’am, can you please describe what happened?” The newsman tilts the microphone toward Milligan.
“I-I-I woke up in the night to the smell of smoke,” Milligan begins, fumbling with something in her hands, “And the next thing I know, there are firefighters and c-c-c-c-cameras, and I’m standing out here in the yard holding this.”
Everyone in my class freezes, except for Damian, who sucks in a breath so sharply he hiccups.
“What is that?” The newsman presses, “Does it have any significance to you, Dr. Milligan?”
Dr. Milligan, who is well into the latter half of her life, is known as a composed politician. Now, sweat beads on her hairline as she shakily holds the mysterious object up to the camera. When what she’s holding comes into focus, I’m too shocked to reach for the water bottle sitting on the edge of my desk, the only thing that might have prevented my sudden dizziness.
The camera zooms in on a familiar scrap of blue construction paper. Dr. Milligan reads what’s written on hers:
