CLAIRE

I just lay on my bed after I finished my homework, turning the device over and over again in my hands. I knew it had to be the superweapon Dark Titan had threatened the city with, back in 2007– twenty-one years ago.

The weapon had been hidden by Psyche— my mom— instead of being given to the authorities.

Why?

None of this made any sense. I groaned and sat up, hiding it in one of my desk drawers under the report cards of school-years past. Maybe it was a bad idea to take it from its hiding spot. Maybe I could still figure out how to go on pretending that I never found out any of this.

But I couldn't— not that last one, at least. These were life-changing, world-stopping things. I couldn't just ignore them, as much as I wanted to. There was still the question, though, of where to go from here.

Before I could contemplate that one more dramatically, there was a knock on the trap door.

I headed down to see the source of the noise— Julien was standing there.

"Hey, apparently Mom says there's a guest for you," Julien said. "Just thought you should know."

He then retreated into his own room to hide away.

I immediately dropped the ladder and scurried down to see exactly what was going on.

God, I hope it's not Renegade, because that's the last thing we need around here.

I skidded, sock-footed across the hardwood hallway to the top of the stairs, and took care not to fall or slip on my way down. Not that it stopped the air from being knocked out of my lungs.

Because standing in the doorway was none other than Tristan Turner, standing in the doorway and talking to Holly. Dad then wandered into the entryway as I stood frozen in shock four steps up from the floor.

"Is that Tristan Turner?" Dad adjusted his glasses. "I haven't seen you in years— I didn't know that you knew we'd moved, to be honest."

"Claire told me, when we had to do the history project together." Tristan nodded up at me.

I frowned, still. I didn't remember telling him— but it could have slipped my mind.

"How's your mom and Tracey doing?" Dad asked.

"Great— Mom actually remarried, nice guy, I have three younger siblings now," Tristan said, smiling as widely as he did around me. "I remember seeing that you had remarried, Mr. Browning. I guess now would be late for a congratulations—"

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Dad laughed, showing the wrinkle lines around his eyes— the same ones I got.

"Well, it's great to see you around, kid," Dad said. "Do you need anything? We just finished dinner— Holly makes a great vegan casserole—"

"I'll pass, but thanks." Tristan turned a little pink. "I caught something on my way here."

"Are you sure? You're looking a little thin, honey," Holly said, immediately sympathetic.

I coughed loudly just as the pink intensified in his face. He smiled, relieved at my own intervention.

"You don't mind if we work in the attic?" I asked, looking to Dad.

"Sure," he said with a shrug. "Make good choices, alright?"

"Of course," I said, offended that he'd think I'd really fool around with anyone.

That, after all, requires an active love life— although maybe things will change there. . .

I shook my head. I was not going there when there was work to be done.

"Well, we'd better get to work, it's not getting any earlier," I said quickly. "Come on, it's late."

"Okay." His smile faded.

I led us up to the attic, and let him go first into my room. That was kind of weird, since except for the occasional call to dinner and the whole think with Renegade last Friday, no one had really been in my room besides me since I'd moved in.

It was strange, to tell the truth— especially because it felt so weird.

I mean, Tristan had been my friend for most of elementary school and middle school— most of my childhood, really.

How had our friendship faded so much that he felt like a stranger and an intruder in this space?

He must not have felt the same way, though, because he took off his books once he ascended the stairs and set his backpack down like he owned the place— which he most certainly did not!

I frowned, crossing my arms over my chest as I plopped onto my bed. He sauntered across the room and took the rolling chair.

"It's unbelievably shitty, what she's doing," he said quietly. "You shouldn't have to do some sick PowerPoint on the villain that killed your mom."

I looked down at my socks with dancing llamas on them and sighed heavily. "You and I both know Mrs. Jennings wouldn't care."

"We could take it to the principal, then." His dark green eyes blazed. "It's such a stupid and cruel assignment— we've all had to face the consequences of these heroes and villains— why the hell should we be forced to relive our traumas just for the sake of a stupid grade system that's inflated anyway—"

"Look, to be fair, most people don't have trauma, but are upset by it," I reminded him. "There are some people like us, but most people don't have our luck."

"I guess that's true." He then leaned back. "Did I upset you, earlier? You seemed kind of mad."

"You showed up without any warning," I shot back. "Of course that's irritating."

I then stopped myself. "I'm sorry— I guess part of it is, it's been a weird couple of days, that's all."

"I can tell." He sounded only amused that I was irritated. "Care to talk about it?"

I shook my head. "I can't really tell anyone about it."

"Are you sure?" He sat up a little straighter. "I won't tell anyone— I can keep a secret."

"I know." I smiled at the fond memories that brought up, of childhood crushes and broken plates and other, simpler times. I quickly sobered, however. "But this stuff. . . I've gotta work it out for myself. Y'know?"

"Yeah, I do." It surprised me, the way he said it— like he knew somehow still exactly what I was talking about. But I'd forgotten that was why I'd liked him so much. He just got me like no one else ever had. "That's growing up, I guess. You've got to figure some things out and no one can help you."

"You can help, it's by getting to work on the project," I informed him. "Since you came all this way. . ."

"I'd drive a thousand miles for you," he offered.

I laughed. "I wouldn't ask you to."

"But I would still do it."

I tried to ignore how dead-serious he was as he said that. I ducked my head down and looked at my phone.

"So I looked at Mrs. Jennings' rubric, and I was thinking we could do a PowerPoint. . . "