The next morning, I phoned Avie and told her not to come out to Ann Arbor to pick me up. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You don’t have any incompletes or anything, do you?”

     “No, of course not,” I said.

     “They don’t need you at the Drowned Mug, do they?” she asked.

     “No,” I said. I didn’t mention I got fired.

     “You met some guy!” she said.

     “No, I did not meet some guy,” I replied. During the entire Thanksgiving weekend at home in Detroit, I had never mentioned once that Yarn Man had shown up and was being held a virtual prisoner—for his own good—in our Ann Street basement. Nor had I mentioned he was still there. “I just like the snow better in Ann Arbor.”

     “It is some guy—I knew it,” said Avie. “Sissy’s got a boyfriend—Sissy’s got a boyfriend.”

     “Cut it out,” I snapped.

     “Do you need any pot?” Avie asked. “I can get you some good weed.”

     “Avie!” I said. “I don’t need you to get me any pot. I can get my own—”

     I could get my own pot, I realized. And a bong would go good with that lava lamp. And marijuana isn’t addictive, is it?

     I’m not proud of what happened over the weeks that followed.

     Not only did I frequently slip under the cat door for conjugal visits—it was just too kinky—and spend longer and longer stretches of time with Yarn Man, but I became a classic enabler. Bing had dried out from all the booze and drugs that had led to his predicament, but now he demanded more and more from me. Not only from my body—which my body enjoyed—but also in terms of other substances. He wanted sandwiches from Fingerman’s deli, for instance—which I only too happily supplied.

     And I honestly I didn’t think a little marijuana would do any harm—it went with the lava lamp and the black posters; THC had skipped Bing’s World War II generation, for the most part—except for jazz musicians. And with the holiday break from school—and getting fired from the Drowned Mug Café—I didn’t have the regularity of a schedule for several weeks, and lost all track of time.

     Maybe Preston could have prevented this, but he didn’t come back to Ann Arbor until almost New Year’s, and by then, it was too late—not that I’m blaming him for any of my behavior.

     “Oh, my God,” said Preston Percy, when he returned to Ann Street to unlock the rec room door. A dense cloud of stale pot smoke hit him in the face. There I was on the mattress in Bing’s arms, trash and dirty laundry and half-smoked roaches all over the floor. “Clarissa, I thought you were studious,” Preston said. “Always on the Dean’s List.” He turned to Trent and Stella, who stood directly behind him.

     “Don’t look at me,” said Trent. “I sure as heck wasn’t going to crawl through that cat door.”

     Even though Bing was now technically free to go, he was in no hurry to leave the basement. Why should he? He had it too good. The safe room of his imprisonment had become his hippie crash-pad of wanton desire. And even though I was supposed to be starting back to school, I had lost all motivation as well. My attendance had been spotty at best when classes resumed in January, and went steadily downhill. Instead of rejoining life among the surface-dwellers, I continued to live in the rec room—Yarn Man’s hippie crash-pad—if you could call that living.

     One day, I had the severe munchies and wanted to sneak up to the kitchen and raid the fridge. But when I stepped out of the rec room—I could walk the through the human door now—and approached the foot of the stairs, I heard voices; Trent and Preston were conversing up in the kitchen.

     “Clarissa’s having a delayed freshman crisis in her junior year,” said Preston. I could imagine him sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette angrily. “We’ve got to get them out of there—both of them; it’s a rat’s nest down there.”

     “I agree,” said Trent. “But exactly how are we supposed to accomplish that? We barely got Yarn Man down there in the first place. He didn’t put up a fight only because he was unconscious. He’s a Megahero, let’s not forget. Despite being all soft and cuddly, he’s strong. If he doesn’t want to budge, we’re not going to budge him.”

     “You’re Megaton Man,” said Preston Percy. “Everyone knows Megaton Man is stronger than Yarn Man.”

     “I’m not Megaton Man,” said Trent. “Not anymore. I’m a civilian now, remember? He’d break me in two. And frankly, Clarissa looks a little wild-eyed; I’d be afraid she’d scratch my eyes out.”

     “I know what,” said Preston, snapping his fingers. “We have those booster shots upstairs, up in the medicine chest, remember? It would only be temporary…”

     “I told you, I’m not becoming Megaton Man again,” said Trent. “Not even on a temporary basis.”

     “More’s the pity,” said Preston. I could imagine him mashing out his cigarette in an ashtray.

     “Besides, the booster shots are missing,” said Trent.

     “What!?” shouted Preston.

     “Bing must have come upstairs one night,” Trent explained, “looking for any kind of drug he could consume—cough syrup, cold cream, laxatives. I’m not sure how, because the syringe didn’t appear used, but I’m pretty sure he ingested the Mega-Soldier Syrup, because the little bottles were empty.”

     This implications of this only barely registered on my addled brain at that moment.

     “Yarn Man—on a booster shot of Mega-Soldier Syrup?” said Preston. “This is even more dire than I thought.”

     “Three doses,” said Trent. “I told you not to leave that stuff lying around the house; but no—you’re the secret agent.”

     I couldn’t contain my munchies any longer; I decided to trod up the stairs, all nonchalant.<

     “Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’m just grabbing this bottle of pop. And this leftover pizza. And this Chinese food.” I filled my arms with the contents of the refrigerator.

     “You know you’re only wearing underwear,” said Trent.

     “I know that,” I said. Although I had no idea. “I’m not hung up about my body.”

     “You’re not hung up about anything these days,” said Preston.

     I slinked back down the stairs.

     “Maybe we can starve them out,” I heard Preston say. “Or maybe slip something into the food to knock them out…”

     “We can’t do that,” said Trent. “Not to Clarissa. Her sister already doesn’t like me very much.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

     “No, maybe not,” said Preston.

     Then I heard the secret agent snap his fingers again.

     “But you’ve just given me an idea of how we might solve our problem.”

Bing and I were asleep—I don’t know how many hours or even days had passed—when we were rudely awoken by a loud pounding on the rec-room door.

     “Open up this minute!” It was Mama, yelling at the top of her lungs.

     I opened the door. She pushed me aside. I’m not sure exactly what happened next, but I think Bing—Yarn Man—rose from the bed, wobbling slightly. “You must be Clarissa’s mom,” he said, and with the dawning light of recognition, “Alice? Is that y—ooff!”

     Mama kicked Yarn Man in the balls so hard I thought the tassels on his nose and knit cap were going to pop off. He crumpled to the floor like a wet blanket; he didn’t even try to get back up.

     Next thing I know, Mama had me by the hair and was dragging me upstairs—through the kitchen, down the hallway, up the next stairs, and into the upstairs bathroom—me screaming all the way. She tossed me into the shower and turned it on—ice cold, February water.

     By the time I was dressed and came downstairs, I realized my family was waiting in the living room. Daddy was crying; Avie was ashen and sitting quietly; and Mama was pacing the floor. Trent, Stella, baby Simon, and Pammy were nowhere to be seen.

     “Where’s Bing?” I asked.

     “Kozmik Kat and some sloshy guy came for Yarn Man on the Time Turntable,” said Avie. “I guess they’re back in New York by now.”

     “Do you know what day it is?” Mama said. “You have mid-terms in less than two weeks; you haven’t been to any one of your classes more than three times.”

     “I’m sorry,” I said.

     “You’re—” Mama was almost apoplectic. Daddy sat her down on the sofa and made me sit down in Pammy’s desk chair.

     “I’m sorry I ever did anything to fix up this house,” he said.

     “Don’t say that, Daddy,” I said.

     “I mean it,” he said. “You’re coming back to Detroit and going to Warren Woodward, where we can keep an eye on you.”

     “No! Daddy,” I said. But as my head cleared, I began to realize: At least half my classes were beyond salvaging, and the ones that remained would be impossible to bring above a C. The Dean’s List and possibly my scholarship were now completely blown.

     “I don’t want you back in Detroit,” said Mama. “Not if you’re going to behave like this. If you’re grandmother Seedy had lived to see this, it would have killed her.”

     I began crying. “This will never happen again,” I said. “I swear.”

I was able to withdraw from two classes with no penalty, but I was so far behind the eight ball in the remaining three classes it wasn’t even funny. I got a C and two C-minuses on my mid-terms, and had all but forfeited my full scholarship for the next school year.

     Preston had been right—what I had gone through had been some kind of inexplicable delayed freshman crisis. I’d been so studious, so straight-and-narrow, for the first two-and-a-half years at Arbor State, that in one fell swoop—one avalanche—everything I had worked so hard to achieve had been swept away. What had begun as an intervention for Yarn Man had ended with an intervention for me, by my loving family, and with their support I was determined to dig myself out of the hole I had created for myself.

     Everything around the Ann Street house changed. Simon started to crawl, Stella started to work on her senior thesis, and even Trent began riding an exercise bike. He was convinced he could build up his body the natural way, without Mega-Solder Syrup booster shots. And, thanks to his two Huron River Community College course, he had a load of homework too, so we made the dining room table our nightly study hall. Pammy, spending most of her time in Dearborn, seldom came back to Ann Street, and then, only for clothes or books she had left here.

     Before the semester was over, things were looking up for me academically. It looked as though I might even pull off a miracle—two B-plusses and an A-Minus—not Dean’s List material, to be sure, but under the circumstances better than a total washout. I was informed I would not qualify for a full-scholarship next year, but a partial scholarship wasn’t out of the question. And there was a good chance I could make up for the expected shortfall with other sources of financial aid.

     Preston Percy reappeared just as we completed finals—not in a golden space suit, but in his regular tie, dress shirt, and slacks. Yarn Man was with him—not only sober but enormously bulked up from the Mega-Soldier Syrup booster shots he had ingested before—I had been in such a fog in the rec room I hadn’t even noticed whether they had taken immediate effect or not. Kozmik Kat had come along, too, sans his full-body suit; he was going commando with just his goggles, cape, and buttons on his furry body.

     Some emergency had arisen in New York, and Megaton Man was needed—Trent didn’t resist this time. He was feeling fit from all the exercise, and he donned his old Megaton Man uniform. We had to stuff him with every pillow we had to fill him out; he looked ridiculous. But Trent’s attitude was: Any trouble in New York should be dealt with in New York, before it found its way to our doorstep in Ann Arbor.

     As Stella packed a change of clothes for Trent upstairs, Bing and I had a chance to chat.

     “Hi, Clarissa,” Bing said to me, sheepishly.

     “Hi,” I said. “You’re looking good.”

     “I’m staying clean and sober,” he said.

     “Me too,” I said.

     “Well, you stay in school,” said Yarn Man. “I mean it this time.”

     “I will.”

     As everyone was about to leave, an even more remarkable thing happened. From upstairs, Stella appeared—not only with a packed bag for Trent but one for herself—and she was wearing her See-Thru Girl uniform, too. Stella had decided to go back to New York to battle whatever world-threatening emergency awaited.

     “Can you watch Simon for us, Clarissa?” she asked.

     “You—trust me?” I replied. “With your normal, civilian baby? After my delayed freshman crisis and everything else?”

     “Clarissa, you’re just about the only normal person I know,” said Stella. “And I’d trust you implicitly. Also, your mom and I had a talk.”

Outside on the patio, Stella left baby Simon in my arms—that made me feel good. Yarn Man, Koz, and I watched as she backed the Q-Wagon out of the garage. Trent and Preston climbed in.

     “Aren’t you going with them?” I asked Koz.

     “I’m sticking around Ann Arbor in case you need back-up,” said Koz. “Except for diapers; I don’t do diapers.”

     Bing opened the back door of the Q-Wagon and prepared to hop in, but paused. “I meant to tell you, Clarissa,” he said. “You remember how I said you reminded me of a girl I used to know?”

     “You said that?” I had no recollection.

     “Sure, back when I first met you—that rainy night.”

     “C’mon, Bing,” Preston called from inside the Q-Wagon. “We’ve got to get going.”

     “And then how I recognized your mother, Alice,” he continued, “just before she kicked me in the balls? Well, you’re never going to believe where I know her from—I finally figured it out…”

     “Where?”

     “C’mon, Bing!” Stella called out. “We’re leaving!”

     “I better get going,” said Bing. He ran to Q-Wagon. “Old war stories will have to wait for another time!”

     Yarn Man hopped into the back seat, and Stella backed the station wagon down the driveway.

     “Where?” I called out. But with baby Simon in my arms, all I could do was watch them back out onto Ann Street and drive off to New York.

     I looked down at Koz. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”

     “I never know what Yarn Man is talking about,” said Kozmik Kat. “Sometimes I think the ‘yarn’ part of his name has more to do the crazy stories he spins than with the fibrous kind.” He opened the screen door for me and Simon and motioned me with a paw to enter. “How about you getting me and the baby some milk?”

It’s about a ten-hour road trip from Ann Arbor to Megatropolis, give or take rest stops and whatnot. When the Q-Wagon rolled back into the driveway late the next day, we learned the expedition had turned out to be a complete bust. The adventure in Megatropolis involved the return of Mars, God of War to the earthly realm, which occasioned the “Collision of All Conceivable Universes at Once Wars.” However earth-shaking that may sound, Trent and Stella reported it as a tempest in a teapot, and in any case it was all but over by the time the Ann Arbor contingent had arrived on the scene. One casualty was Uncle Farley, the Original Golden Age Megaton Man, who disappeared through some gaping inter-dimensional rift—although it was assumed he would turn up in this universe again sooner or later. Also, Bing decided to stay in New York to head a new team that arose out of the ashes of the Youthful Mutants—the Y+Thems. Preston remained there, too, at least for a few weeks, to keep an eye on things.

     The adventure also turned out to be something of the last hurrah for Megaton Man and the See-Thru Girl, who drove back to Ann Arbor by themselves, as civilians. I told you Trent and Stella had packed a change of clothes, and I guess the meandering trip allowed them to spend some quality time together and really give their post-Megahero lives some thought. I gather they mostly talked about their hopes and dreams for Simon—daycare and nursery school and whatnot. In any case, they seemed happy and relaxed—and more comfortable with one another than ever before—now that they were home.

     Kozmik Kat decided he liked Ann Arbor just fine—I think he had become acquainted with a few female felines in the neighborhood—and decided to stick around rather than rejoin Mega-Yarn Man in New York.

     Little did I know the next full-blown Megahero to visit Ann Street would be me.