CLAIRE

I thought about what I had discovered when I got up in the morning, and when I grabbed a random shirt and jeans because I couldn't think about anything else. I thought about on the monorail commute, immune to the siren songs of 70s rock ballads. I thought about it between classes, and during the monorail commute back home. I didn't really talk during lunch because all I could think about was the choice in front of me.

And the more I thought about it, it wasn't really a choice at all.

Even without the extenuating circumstances, of Mom and Psyche and Dark Titan's superweapon, there only ever had been one choice. I was too nosy for my own good— and I knew all too well what kind of person my parents raised me to be.

I couldn't let them down just because it was easy. I had to act— and I would have to become a superhero to protect myself and my family from the problems that came with being one of the Mutated.

There was no other way around it, and I felt embarrassed for deliberating on it for so long. But now was the time to act and by the time I got home, I was determined to not waste any more time.

I waited until I was sure Dad and Holly had gone to sleep. Then I crept out of the attic and into Dad's office. I remembered where he'd kept Mom's suit.

Just like the night Menlo came, the door to the office and the drawer at the desk were unlocked.

You really need to get a better security system or something.

I took the suit and the mask and got out, just as quickly as I entered. I wasn't sloppy or clumsy about it, though, I knew better than that. I made sure there were no traces that I was there.

After all, I was trying to avoid awkward questions from Dad.

Once I was safe in my room, I locked my door. Not that anybody really ever went up there, but it was a good idea to make sure no one saw what I was up to. I turned the blinds and locked the windows.

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Then I tried on Mom's superhero costume.

I was surprised at how well it fit. It was loose in a few places, tight in others, but never so much as to be completely unwearable. I guess I must've been pretty close to Mom's build around when she was in college.

After all, that was when she must've been a hero.

And Dad, I thought, now remembering what Julien had said.

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror, looking myself up and down.

I had not idea what shoes Mom wore, when she pretended to be Psyche. But I figured my usual MOs of Doc Martens and combat boots would suit superhero is just fine.

The pink leggings were made out of a comfy, stretchy material, with extra padding at the knees. At the elbows and shoulders of the matching undershirt, there were also little hidden padding that was likely stitched in the lining. Over the pink undershirt and leggings came a white silk top that crossed over, with snaps fastening them and a long white cape sewn into the shoulders.

I pulled on the white gloves that went up to my mid-forearm, with lace on the edge, and they felt at home there, like I'd been born with them on. The white little butterfly-edge mask seemed as if it was perfectly formed to my face.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw a ghost.

Except for the blue highlights and the nose ring, I looked just like the photos of Psyche on Anya Weiss's website. I could recognize Mom's lines in my face, her build as mine.

I knew why Dad got so sad, looking at me.

I tilted my head, surprised when my reflection did the same. This girl didn't feel like me.

But at the same time, she was familiar, like a cousin I'd met once or twice at a family reunion, now encountered in the wild.

Could I take up the mantle of Psyche and do it the justice my mother deserved?

Only time would tell.

I took the costume off and stowed it away in my messenger bag. I didn't really even know how you would start becoming a superhero, like how would you know stuff happened?

But I figured if I really wanted to be a teenage superhero and take a stand, I might as well keep it on my person at all times.

I considered asking Renegade how he knew. But then again, I knew that Renegade wanted me to stay out of things, for whatever reason.

I flopped onto my bed, thinking about how this could no longer be denied.

Would Tristan understand, if Renegade wouldn't?

I couldn't explain why he popped into mind, except that he seemed to keep coming back into my life lately—not that I minded.

As I tossed and turned, I pictured the Winter Festival and the upcoming date with Tristan. But not as like, the platonic version I was sure he was talking about, based on the text.

Like, if we went out the way Malcolm wanted to with me.

My heart beat faster—but it didn't scare me, that idea. It felt right. Right in a way that very little had in some time. Right in the way that we always felt right together.

What if he did mean it that way? I resisted the urge to check my phone, to analyze the texts character by character for some secret context.

Maybe Dad was onto more than I thought.