I know my mom says I shouldn’t do anything that might attract any attention to me, but walking all the way to the store is just such a drag. But I can’t say I’m also not used to it. There’s this motorbike I really want to get for my next birthday, but as soon as I showed my mom videos of it, she said she’d rather drive me in the minivan anywhere I wanted to go for the rest of my life before I even sat on the thing. Which is weird, because, well, I doubt a little skid along the road could really put me in hospital. If anything, it would be my ego that would be hurt the most.
She says it’s because she wants me safe. That people in this city don’t drive with their eyes on the road but on their phones instead. I tried telling her that if I ever got hit in traffic, I’d probably have a hard time explaining why it’s their car that’s in bits and pieces along the road and not me. She did not, in fact, find that funny. But this borough is so safe, so polite and clean, that even if I did get hit by a car, the driver would probably take me to the hospital as the bystanders put his car back together. It would probably be brand new by the time he even got back.
The only really good thing about the borough we live in—Saints, by the way—is that people never have the time or the sense of mind to look up anymore. When you’ve got superheroes like Guardian popping up on your tv screen, telling your kids not to take candy from strangers every other half-time show, then you get used to seeing people in spandex skimming through the air. Lots of skyscrapers, high end malls, one hell of a stadium and dozens of palm trees to go around in this city, and that just means I’ve got the freedom to be on my phone whilst flying.
Ironic, I know, when I’ve got to pass by dozens of billboards put up in place for this exact air traffic violation. Don’t text and fly, kids! But I haven’t crashed into a building on my flights yet, so I’ll probably be fine.
Besides, walking all the way to the store would take me ages, and I kinda blew my allowance on a new electric guitar, so the bus isn’t an option either. I’m banking on the fact that mom is too tipsy to notice how long I’ll be gone, and come on, give me an inch, and I’ll take the sky. You expect me to walk everywhere when I can do this every single day of my life? Ha! It also beats being amongst the foot traffic and the tides of influencers down there.
So at least I won’t get stopped on my way to the store because some guy wants to ask me a weird question and shove a phone into my face. I guess that’s what people come to San Angeles for; the shine of something new.
And trust me, from all the way up here, the soft purple glow of the city’s nightlife makes it sparkle. A blotch of shimmering light and noise that makes the ocean to the North look like the city’s fluttering black cape.
Back to the safe and boring streets, though, and it only takes me about five minutes to get ten blocks down the road to Phil’s Easy Mart. It’s a tiny corner store, the kind you stay in when the sun gets too hot during summer and where you come with your friends (if I really had any) to play on the arcade machines outside. Even now, as I not so subtly fall through the air and land amongst a pile of lumpy garbage bags, I can hear the machines rattling and chirping and turning the pale darkness outside the store into a litany of neon colors. I dust myself off and wipe my hands on my jeans, getting the grease and the sticky garbage off my hands. Flying is still kind of hard for me, but dad said he never got it down until his first full tour of Europe back in his day, and my grandma never even had the chance to figure it out before she smashed into someone’s apartment building. Don’t worry, kids. She didn’t die.
She just kind of got arrested for a felony for flying without a permit, a little intoxicated, and kind of distracted as she did her lipstick heading over to grandpa's place—a chip off the old block, is what I am. Proudly.
I should probably call her one of these days and check if the old bat is still swinging like she used to. Last we spoke, she was cheering me on from the Bahamas, hoping that this time, I’ll pass the entrance exam to Alderman.
I haven’t called her back since, maybe out of embarrassment. Problems for another time. Hotdogs first.
When I walk out of the alleyway, the two kids glued to the arcade machines nearly jump out of their skin. I give them a warning before their character gets smashed into the dirt and dies, but they must be confused on why some chick just walked out of a dark and gloomy alleyway out of nowhere. I do them a favor and hand them a coin.
The coin I was going to use to play for myself, but the kid catches it, stares at it, and looks at me with such a big grin that I can’t help but let the slight annoyance whittle away. “Focus on not dying,” I say. “It hurts a lot.”
I walk inside the store, pushing open the old glass door and making the bell jingle as I do. The place is a lot more full than I would have thought it would be for a Sunday night. Maybe about ten, twenty people milling around, either looking for something they can’t find, or just trying to haul as many six packs of beer into a cart as they can before college football starts back up again next week. I grab myself several packs of instant noodles, the Raging Red that Jade likes so much, and a packet of gum for myself. By the time I dump them all on the counter, Phil is shaking his head at me and looking up from the floppy old newspaper he’s got folded in his thick hands.
“Let me guess,” he says, smiling a smile that shows off his gold tooth. “Bits of coal for dinner again?”
“What else would it be in the Wilde house?” I mutter, leaning against the counter. “Mind adding in six hot dogs as well? Extra mayo, mustard, ketchup, and onions on all of them, except two, which are gonna be plain.”
“Comin’ right up,” he says, but before he sets down his newspaper, he leans on the counter, too, and hides his mouth with the back of his hand. “Between me and you, kid, my little girl Sally’s got a problem she needs dealing wit’. Nothing big, but you know, I kinda promised her that I wouldn’t disappoint her, but I’m kinda flat…”
I tilt my head and also drop my voice. “What’s it this time? Quick Bahamas vacay over the weekend?”
He shakes his head. “Bring-someone-important to school day,” he mutters, shrugging. “I was gonna tell Barney the Clown from down the street to come in, but apparently schools don’t mess with clowns no more after—”
“Yeah,” I say, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. I doubt anyone really messes with clowns after Jester, and especially not a school with a bunch of pre-schoolers in it. “Alright, deal. I’ll come in for five minutes, before my mom blows her top. But you’ve got to do something for me, too. That arcade game outside, the one—”
“Kid, you can have the damned machine if you do me a solid tomorrow,” he says. “Just be there, alright?”
I shake his meaty hand, grinning. “You’ve got a deal, Phil. One superhero coming right up.”
“And I’ll add a side of hot dogs to that, too,” he says, smiling again as he turns around and starts picking out the buns and the dogs still spinning around on their tiny fiery beds. He’s got a picture of his daughter on the wall above the hotdogs, kept clean by the rag he’s always got hanging loosely off his neck. He’s a big guy, with thick forearms and a belly big enough to fill a family, but he’s a big teddy bear at heart. He’s saved my bacon enough times when my mom calls me and I don’t pick up, almost more times than I’ve helped his little girl out.
People don’t usually rob these stores, because there’s no reason trying to. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows Phil, because he’s seen kids go from snotty brats that stick their gum on his machines, to young adults who’ve thrown their grad caps up into the sky. In some ways, he’s kind of like having a second grandpa around. One that might smell of oil and grease and aftershave, but one that’ll sit with you outside his store and teach you algebra if you really need it. He’s so good, in fact, that he’s packed an extra hotdog away for me, too.
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But that’ll be between me and him, one that I can eat on my way back home.
Which I would do right now, if I hadn’t just spotted a chick with a mane of pink hair stuffing a packet of bubblegum into her pocket on her way out. It’s a small slip, a quick flick of her hand blurring over the candy stand to her pocket. A speedster? No, probably not. She would have just ran in here and straight out of the door otherwise. It looked easy, simple. She’d done this before. I’d seen her skulking around the aisles, not really buying anything at all before she decided to head for the rack near the exit. Her flip-flops slap against the tiles, hands in her pockets.
Before she can leave, though, I grab her shoulder and stop her. “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low, because there’s no reason in making a scene, especially because of the whole secret identity thing. “I saw that, you know.”
She spins on me, and God, she’s kinda hot, but in a rough kind of way. Her skin is a little filthy, and her eyes are ringed by sleep. I now know why she’s got sunglasses on her forehead, but the rest of her outfit doesn’t make any sense. Short shorts and a cropped tee, one that shows off very pale tan lines. Flip flops, enough anklets to make it seem like she at least wanted to be heard wherever she walked, and a tiny scar splitting her brow. If her hair was combed out, it would have probably been bigger. But right now, it was still long enough to crest her shorts.
She reeks, too, of vomit, alcohol, salty water, and something that stinks like wet iron.
“What’re you talking about?” she asks, her voice already tense. “I was just leaving.”
“The gum,” I say, jerking my chin at the hand in her pocket. “It’s barely a buck, come on.”
“If it’s barely a buck, then fuck off and let me keep it.” She lowers a little by the hip to meet me eye to eye, and I like her attitude, because someone isn’t having a good day, judging by the grime under her colorful but broken fingernails. “It’s girls like you that piss me off the most. Watch a couple of tv shows and read a few think pieces and suddenly you wanna be a superhero,” she mutters bitterly, snatching her hand out of my grip when her skin starts to feel like I’m touching a very hot frying pan. She turns to leave. “The fat guy won’t even notice.”
And again, I grab her. Once more, she spins on me, smacking away my hand. Now people are noticing, and so does Phil, lowering his newspaper and snuffing his cigarette on the ashtray beside the register, because scuffles aren’t all that common in Saints, and especially not in everyone’s favorite corner store either. It’s a momentary silence as she glares at me, and I figure she’s probably from somewhere along Santa Freya, the borough that lines the ocean and the beaches that are always more than full over there with the kinds of people that let the wind take them anywhere they want, including right into your pockets, too. I’m not saying she’s a criminal. I’m just saying that if she wanted gum so badly, then she could have just asked me to buy it for her instead of grabbing the thing.
“It’s just. A piece. Of gum,” she snarls. “Fuckin’ narc.”
“Yeah,” I say, ignoring the comment. “And it’s something bigger next time.”
“What the fuck is your problem?” she says, and I smell something else on her breath—cigarettes, but…no, dad trained me to smell more than just that. It’s smoke, the kind from a fireplace. Or something. “Leave me alone.”
“Do you want me to pay for it, or what?” I ask. “‘Cause I can if you want, I’ve got a few bucks in my—”
Her hand goes for my pocket, and mine goes for her wrist, stopping her. Now a lot more people are looking.
So, in a whisper, I say, “Just pay for the gum, or we’ll take this outside, and you don’t want that.”
Her eyes flick from me to Phil to the people I can see in the window’s reflection behind me. They’re looking at her like she’s a problem, a pest—this thing they would much rather see get stepped on under a boot like she’s a roach. My grip on her wrist weakens enough for her to make the decision on her own, because I also don’t want any of them thinking I’m a problem. Well, she is, but I also don’t want the police here for something so petty, but trust people in this borough to get them down to any problem if their peace gets so much as halted for a second.
Besides, at the end of the day, it really is just a packet of gum.
I even slide a dollar over the counter for her when she doesn’t take it from me.
She tenses her jaw as she stares at the note Phil puts in the register. The old man smiles at her and goes back to reading his paper, and myself, along with everyone else, waits for her to ease up. Superhero Lesson #74: never provoke. Always teach and always ease. So I smile at her and grab my things, and everyone else probably gets the hint that there’s no point being so tense about something so small. I guess people in this borough kind of have it the easy way, because getting mugged is so rare it’s like telling the police you found a chunk of God-Eater smoldering in your backyard. But not even before I take two steps, the girl heads on over to Phil, and I stop dead.
I glance over my shoulder just as she begins to speak. “You know what?” she says. “Sorry about that, old timer. I was just having a really fucking terrible day, and I guess, I don’t know, I thought I could get away with it.”
Phil grunts, then says, “Apology accepted, just don’t come in here tryin’ that. If you want the gum so bad you can just ask for it and pay me back some other time, kid. I can give it to you for free, judging by your day, too.”
“Wow,” she says, nodding. “That’s really nice of you, you know?” She turns to everyone else. “And hey, I’m sorry for ruining your night, everyone. Shit sucks and then it sucks some more, but hey, it’s just gum, right? It’s not like you just watched someone get killed, because that would really fuck your night up, wouldn’t it, right?”
She’s breathing hard and fast and I think the stench of smoke in the air is only getting worse. So bad that it burns my throat as I swallow. I step toward her, but she spins around and barges past me, her skin smoldering hot.
Burning and boiling, as if her blood is simmering underneath her flesh. Right underneath it.
Then, as the sound of her flip flops fills the silence, someone mutters, “Fuckin’ Baysiders.”
The girl stops in the half open doorway, her hair buffeting in the wind she’s let in. Then she slowly turns around, and the bell jingles again. I can’t put my things down fast enough before she steps up to the guy and slams her fist so hard into his nose that blood spits down his Yankees t-shirt. He stumbles, then grabs at his face, glaring.
“Sorry, what was that?” she shouts. “How about you spell it out when your teeth hit the floor, smartass?!”
Oh, shit.
I get between her and the several other guys who drop their things and get to barking at her. I’m short, I’ll admit it, but I’m strong enough to make sure that nobody gets in anyone’s faces before they all start punching. I’m lucky enough to catch a stray hook meant for Pink-Hair, catching my nose ring—it stings enough to snap my head around and for Paul to bark at everyone to calm down. I shake my head and start to shove, keeping them off each other as the guy gets rowdier and the girl, goddamn her, just keeps wanting to get in more and more of their faces.
It’s now hot enough to make me sweat inside the store. Any time someone touches her they curse.
But one guy gets one on her, a swing of a fist above my head that smashes into the side of her face.
I stare at her as she stumbles backward. The store goes silent. Paul swears and offers a hand, but she bats it away as we watch blood dribble down her chin and splatter onto the tiles. It smears underneath her flip-flops as she widens her stance, staring down at the scarlet droplets at her feet with the kind of intensity that makes you think she’s about to scream. “Alright, alright,” Phil says, getting in front of her, glancing over his shoulder nervously. “Let’s call off the shitshow and call it a night.” He turns around and puts a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t buck him off. She stares at the blood, then up at him, and I watch her—she watches me, turning her head very slowly. “Hey, kid. Fuck, sorry ‘bout that. Some of these guys don’t know when to keep their mouths shut, you know? Come on. Sit down on the stool and I’ll grab you a cloth and some ice. Nose looks a little busted. Nothing too bad, so—”
She shakes her head, then spits blood onto his t-shirt. Phil glances down, then back at her.
“Hey,” I say. “What the fuck’s your—”
Then I smell smoke. A sudden, intense stench of smoke. The blood on Phil’s shirt is smoldering. He swears and pats himself down, getting her blood on his hands. Before anyone can help or keep cursing her out, he stops.
His chest swells, and then he explodes, showering us in gore.