Dull Boy (20 page)

Leilani gathers her dark, sleek hair into a ponytail and flings it over one shoulder. “Even if it hurts them now, it’s not like their grief will be permanent. This way I can go home when I’m ready. And I will—one day. They’ll have their daughter back, and I’ll be healthy. Prepared to play with the cards life has dealt me. I can’t imagine what any parent would want more—even if it hurts for a little while.”

I think of Nicholas—how he’s afraid he’ll hurt his dad. Kill him, even. How disappearing for a while—working through this stuff—could be beneficial. Scary, maybe, and unusual, but . . . isn’t all of it? Superpowers don’t come with an instruction manual. You can’t get a college degree in taming your deadly vortex.

“Make sense?” She swirls her spoon through her ice cream—mostly melted now.

“Perfect sense.”

Her face lights up like a sunset, warm and gorgeous and perfect—even if parts of her are manipulated, or fake. The way she feels about this is real.

 

LIFE IS GOOD
. The mysterious mugger-capture got its own article in the paper (the glitter was a source of bewilderment for everyone involved), and Catherine and I are acing science. I stuck our latest A-plus lab report on the fridge to show it off, and my parents almost passed out.

“Maybe he
has
been studying at the library,” my mom said, gazing adoringly at the gaudy “Great Job!” sticker. “I thought he was looking at porn.”

I sighed dramatically at her and went back to polishing the gold stars on my Remedial English quiz.

So things are good—but not perfect. And they’re not even
close
to perfect for some of us. Which is why Darla and Sophie and I are meeting secretly at Sophie’s house: to figure out how to help Nicholas. I’ve got a mix of ideas in my head already—one of which I’m afraid to bring up, since I know it’ll spark a firestorm of genius-grade ferocity.

Darla and Sophie are crowded together on an overstuffed white couch, Darla’s sparkly laptop bridged across their knees. They’re staring intently at the screen, leaving me with a view of the bling-encrusted backside, custom decorated with rhinestones mosaic’d into the shape of Hello Kitty’s face.

“Two problems,” Darla says, holding up two fingers. “Not just Nicholas. Catherine, too. She’s as susceptible as anyone.”

“Susceptible to what?” I say.

“To Cherchette’s nefarious promises,” Darla says. “Duh.”

I nod like,
oh yeah, of course;
meanwhile bile’s creeping up my throat. Because Cherchette might be Nicholas’s best option—and I have to make Darla see that.

“Cherchette hasn’t met with Catherine,” I say. “I’d know. Catherine would’ve told me.”

“Maybe not yet,” Darla says. “But she will. And when she does, Catherine has to know that there are people she can count on. I know she acts like she doesn’t need anyone—but nobody’s
that
tough. In a moment of weakness, she could totally go over to the dark side.”

“Ohmygod, it’s
not
the dark side.” Sophie commandeers the track pad and starts scrolling. “And Cherchette doesn’t contact everyone. You should know that.”

“In a way she does. She sent Jacques after you.”

“Cherchette had nothing to do with that,” Sophie mutters. “Trust me, she’s not interested in me. I’m on her reject list.”

My head snaps up. “Reject list? What the hell is that?”

“It’s a list,” Sophie says, raising her voice uncharacteristically, “of all the known powered kids who don’t serve any purpose, who are basically losers, aren’t worth bothering with, et cetera. End of story. Any more questions?”

“She has a list of all the kids?” Darla says. “Why didn’t you tell me that? How many—”

“I don’t know!” Sophie shakes her head fiercely, blond hair flying. Then squeezes her eyes shut and sinks back into the couch. “Sorry. I just think it’s unfair, being judged like that. She doesn’t even know me.”

“Did Jacques tell you about the list?” Darla says. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“Umm, if you want information from him, why don’t you try talking to him, instead of over-the-top yelling at him and accusing him of stuff he’s never done?”

The girls steam for a few minutes, stubbornly web-searching in silence, trading control of the mouse and the keyboard. I zone out staring at Hello Kitty’s rhinestone face, wondering why Cherchette would keep a list of so-called rejects. It doesn’t make sense. Would Cherchette really do something that corrupt and calculating? She says she wants to help us. And when you want to help, you look for people who
need
help, right? You don’t divide them into heroes and zeroes, then turn your back on anyone who doesn’t rank.

“It’s probably not a reject list like you’re thinking,” I tell Sophie. “You’re like the most well-adjusted person I’ve ever met. It seems like Cherchette focuses more on screw-ups, kids whose powers are out of control and who’d be lost without her.”

“No such thing,” Darla says. “Neither you nor Nicholas actually needs her help. You just have to believe in yourself and be willing to work through the hard parts. There are pioneers in every field—it’s not like Cherchette even has the same powers as you guys. Do you think Marie Curie was like, ‘let me wait for someone else to teach me about radiation?’ No—she was hungry for knowledge and she dove in headfirst.”

“Yeah, but Nicholas’s power has serious consequences,” I say.

“So does studying radiation,” Darla says. “Hello, cancer.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but that’s like the worst argument ever.”

Darla shrugs. “I stand by my point. In this world, you’ve got leaders and innovators, and then you’ve got the people who follow them. You have
superpowers,
Avery, and so does Nicholas—shouldn’t it be obvious which category you fit into?”

I want to tell her about Leilani—to explain that sometimes you need a mentor. I mean, come on: Obi-Wan, Gandalf? Shouldn’t this be part of Darla’s frame of reference?

I want to tell her that when you’re a living weapon, it’s irresponsible to go around blowing stuff up until you learn how to stop. But I can’t think of how to say that without sounding brainwashed. Darla’s convinced that Cherchette is evil incarnate.

“Soapbox time is over,” Sophie says, pastel-pink nails tapping the keyboard. “Can we get back to business, please?”

“We need a mission the whole team can take part in,” Darla says. “Something that makes Nicholas feel useful, so he’s not just tagging along. Once he realizes he can help people, not just hurt them, I’m hoping he’ll stop being so hard on himself.”

“He’s relentless,” I say. “I mean, I’ve done some messed-up stuff, too, and I feel bad about it. But Nicholas refuses to forgive himself. He’s dealing with a force beyond his control. How can anything it does be his fault?”

“We’ve tried telling him that,” Darla says. “With zero success. Which is why showing him is the only option we have left.”

Well, not the only option,
I think.

“Nicholas is more than just his vortex,” Darla says. “He’s a good person; he cares about people and animals—just like Sophie is more than her stickiness. She’s loyal, and she has a good heart—that’s what really makes her strong.”

“Aww.” Sophie reaches over and hugs Darla. “Darla’s getting mushy.”

“Anyway,” Darla says, “Nicholas has another power, too. He claims it’s just a coincidence—but normal people get lost. Nicholas never does. If he’s been somewhere before, he can
always
find his way back. Ever since he was little. It’s like he has an internal compass or something. His sense of direction is infallible.”

While Darla’s been talking, Sophie’s been biting her index finger, grinning in anticipation. “You guys, I think I found something.” She turns the laptop toward me so I can read the headline.

LOCAL SCOUT TROOP STILL MISSING AFTER 24 HOURS

 

“Bingo.”

I
’m busy,” Catherine says. “Not after ten you’re not.” I point to tonight’s closing time on Roast’s hours-of-operation sign.

Catherine’s avoiding me, latching onto any excuse to hang around here longer—rinsing out mugs, refilling the cinnamon shaker, scrubbing fingerprints off the glass dessert case. Like there aren’t three other industrious workers just dying to get their hands on those jobs.

“You’re afraid to do something heroic,” I say. “You’re afraid you’ll like it, and it’ll interfere with your I-hate-the-world persona.”

Catherine sprays my shirt with glass cleaner—totally uncalled for. She could just
ask
me to leave. Not that I would, but . . .

“Maybe I just want to get home and sit down. I’ve been on my feet all day; I’m not exactly in the mood to hike through the woods in the dark. Besides—those kids probably fell into a gorge and are dead by now. Let the park rangers sort it out.”

“That settles it,” I say, stealing her spray bottle and tossing it behind the counter. “I’m kidnapping you. You are so unbelievably cold—you need some good, old-fashioned altruism to warm you up.”

Altruism: see Darla’s vocabulary. Also: selflessness.

I drag Catherine out the door and none of her coworkers stops me; one girl even smiles. They probably think it’s cute that scowly Catherine has a “boyfriend.”

“You’re so getting eviscerated.”

“I’m so not,” I say. “You’re gonna send me a thank-you card, handmade with little cats drawn on it, because tonight’s your lucky night.” I haul her down the street to a blacked-out parking lot and lift her into my arms like an oversize baby. “You’re going where no girl has gone before. Without an airplane, that is.”

“Oh, hell no!” Her eyes go wide and she does this scramble-struggle thing that’s totally ineffective, since I’ve got a firm grip on her already—there’s no way I’m letting her fall.

“Calm down; this is totally safe. On three. One, two . . .”

Her claws sink into my arm as we take off and I stifle a gurgle of pain.
It’s just like getting ten rabies shots at once,
I try to tell myself, putting on a brave face for Catherine’s benefit.

The wind picks up and everything below us gets smaller: empty parking lots become black squares, streets curve like snakes, and tiny lights glimmer everywhere. I bully my way through air currents, try to keep the turbulence to a minimum. Catherine’s got her head buried in my shirt, her claws taking up permanent residence in my flesh.

“Don’t you want to look?” I ask. “When are you going to experience this again?”

“Hopefully never!”

“You’re the one who complained about being on your feet all day.”

Her threat to eviscerate me gets carried away by the wind, replaced by a shriek as I dip lower, eyes narrowed to pick out our meeting spot: a deserted picnic area bordering the state park. I told Darla I’d be flying in (that was a hell of a confession), and she signals me with a flashlight so I know where to land.

As soon as my boots touch down, Catherine wriggles loose and curls into a protective crouch. I think she’d kiss the ground if she wasn’t worried about getting a mouthful of muck.