Page 3 of No Capes
On the run to my dad’s apartment, I am hauling a huge headache, ten pounds of crushed dog food, and a million questions.
My top three are:
Who the heck was that Super?
What “little black books” did he mean?
He’d greeted mebeforehe recovered my ID. How the heck did he know my name?
~
As I arrive home, I leave the disintegrated dog food bag outside my landlady’s door. It should be enough to hold thosedobermans over until I get more. I drag myself into my dad’s attached townhouse, trudge up the stairs to my room, quickly change into whatever looks clean, and collapse on my comforter. Even my bones feel waterlogged.
Blue swimming ribbons line each wall in my bedroom, while trophies collect dust on plastic shelves. A hamper with my wet clothes is by the door, and a few crumpled sweatshirts and jeans accessorize the carpet. Organized.
Whatever space isn’t full of my swimming treasures is dedicated to Golden Ace. A printed certificate hangs over my bed, authenticating that I’m an official member of his fan club, the Goldies. News headlines, glossy magazine pictures, and quotes from his fan-run social media fill a collage that takes up my entire ceiling. My favorite quote is one that he gave my mom after he defeated Ghost Lord. He’d said, “Not all Ghosts want to destroy, some just wish to be seen. The problem is when they destroy to be seen.”
Golden Ace is deep, right?
To complete the décor, nineteen palm-sized, plastic Golden Ace figurines cover my dresser, each featuring a unique, heroic pose. It cost about $400 in cereal boxes to collect them all. Yesterday, I’d say that $400 was a great investment. Now, I wonder how much a girl has to spend on cereal to guarantee she won’t be in the 0.6% of crimes that Golden Ace doesn’t stop.
Tap. Drip. Tap. Rain sprays against my sole window. Mist blows inside from where the window is slightly cracked, and I can’t remember if I left it that way.
Tap. Drip. Tap. My mom used to take me to a field near our old house when it rained. We had the full getup: rain jackets, boots, umbrellas, and goggles. Bathing suits, if it was over 75 degrees. We’d compete to slide the farthest in the mud, and she never let me win. Once, she’d pulled me out of school for it.
School.
The clock on my bedside table reads 1:12 A.M. Swim practice starts at 5:00 A.M. Then there’s my calculus test.Why can’t it be on cookies instead of derivatives?Rather than let me study, Lily had reenacted her favorite episodes ofKids Baking Challenge, burned cookies included. I need to tell my dad about Raincoat Guy-slash-Gary, but he has to be at his auto mechanic job at 6:00 A.M. and could get hurt without enough rest. I’m safe enough for now… telling my dad can wait.
I don’t bother showering, brushing my teeth, or packing up my backpack. I just bury my face in my pillow and hug it as hard as I can. The familiarity lulls the night to an end, until my elbow grazes something damp.Shoot, did I seriously get water in my bed?Besides my sheets, something else doesn’t feel quite right. Carefully, I lift the pillow, then swallow a gasp. Underneath, someone stashed a note scribbled on blue construction paper and two soggy $100 bills.
Roberts —
Regarding how you may pay me back for saving your life…
I’ll soon be in touch.
—D.S.
P.S. Don’t spend it all in one place.
Two
I get three hours of sleep before morning swim practice, then it’s time to freeze in my swimsuit in the dimly lit pool building beside Capital City High.
“I still can’t believe you almostdied,” exclaims Kristen Smithson, my best friend, as she snaps on a pink swim cap. We stand on the pool deck, where the smell of too much chlorine overpowers the smell of seventy teenagers’ body odor. I told Kristen about my night as she drove me to practice this morning, and she’s been talking about it since.
