Five #2
After Golden Ace arrived in Capital City, many of our Supers moved to other cities, where they could be more useful.
However, some stayed, like Flare, who instead of fighting major crimes, fights for just a few more seconds in the spotlight.
She occasionally helps the police with a case (when they deign to take one), but she also travels to international conferences and sells the movie rights to everything she’s ever done.
Capital City still loves Flare, of course.
She’s saved hundreds of people. It’s just that Golden Ace hates the spotlight, and Golden Ace defines what is cool for Supers all over the world.
“Thank you, Daniel,” Flare says, looking straight at the camera. “Dark Static’s heinous crime will not go unpunished. We must stand up to him and protect innocent lives at all costs.”
“We couldn’t have stated it better,” says the news anchor, Daniel. “Please stay tuned for Mayor Bridges’ emergency address during our 8:00 newscast.”
The clip ends there.
“Mr. Levine?” Our teacher pivots to Fox. “You had a question?”
“Yeah.” Fox rests his elbows on Mr. Meyers’ steel desk. “Why the hell did that lunatic burn down Dr. Milligan’s house?” His voice cracks, far from Fox’s usual sneer. He’s more afraid of this Super than he’d like us to see, and I almost feel sorry for him.
“That’s just it,” says Molly, “He’s a lunatic. He probably didn’t have a reason. He’s only driven by flames and explosions.”
Mr. Meyers leans against his blackboard, at ease, unlike his students. Molly’s legs bounce under her desk, Damian taps his foot impatiently, and Aaron spins his pen.
I hold very still. A treacherous punch digs into my gut.
I saw Dark Static last night, right before all of this, and I felt safe.
Are you late for your League of Evil meeting? I’d asked.
Something like that.
Something like this.
“Class,” says Mr. Meyers. “Dark Static did not hurt anyone. It could be the case that this man is not in his right mind, but his fire had a purpose. Can anyone tell me what that was?”
“To get us all to leave the city,” Fox grumbles. “That nut job couldn’t even—”
“You’ve made your opinion clear, Mr. Levine,” says Mr. Meyers. “Anyone else?”
Aaron shifts in his chair and opens his mouth to respond, but someone else beats him to the answer.
“He wanted to send a message,” says Damian. “He knew the fire and the media would get it to us.”
“Correct.” Mr. Meyers nods. “Now, at the risk of getting angry calls from your parents, can anyone identify what his message was?”
“We’re all going to die,” Fox mutters.
“It means the Supers are playing politics.” Kristen shudders as she speaks. “Dark Static seems to think that things have gotten so bad, he needs to fix them himself. For better or worse.”
“I vote worse,” Molly says in an I told you so tone. We are seeing exactly why she hates Supers.
Fox continues his grumbling, “ Why? We don’t know anything about Supers. Who are they really, how do they get powers? Why are they acting up now?”
“That’s the problem,” says Molly, “No one knows.”
Aaron, at last, contributes, “Someone knows.”
Kristen spins in her seat. “ Dun, dun, dun,” she mouths.
Mr. Meyers jumps in. “Thank you for starting our discussion for today, Mr. Levine. Before we get too far into theoretical history, not actual history, let’s turn to today’s episode of the port cities and trade during the Age of Exploration…”
We pass our homework forward, but the class stays quiet.
When Golden Ace fights a villain, and when Flare used to, destruction is minimal.
Golden Ace usually brings his fights to areas of the city that are coming down anyway, like the downtown district Raincoat Guy found me in.
Most of us, including me, have never watched a Super purposefully set an entire building on fire.
As much as I want to learn about what happened a thousand years ago, the present moment feels more pressing.
D.S. is planning something. And he wants my help.
And another thought I can’t shake: D.S. doesn’t seem much older than myself. He could be anyone. In fact, it’s not too far-fetched that he could be sitting right there in my first period history class.
~
The somberness of this morning’s tragedy casts over everything for the rest of the day.
When school ends, no one whoops or swears down the hall, and students rush to the buses like they’re the only way to escape from talking about Dr. Milligan.
It’s a relief to peel off to the pool for the afternoon.
The Capital High Swim Team has “optional” second practices after school, which I join on the days I’m not babysitting.
Optional, meaning not school-sanctioned, but Arielle will threaten even earlier morning practices if you skip without a good reason.
My favorite thing about second practices is that Fox rarely comes.
There’s no way that he has a good reason, but Arielle lets him get away with it.
When we were six, our parents signed us up for swimming lessons, during which Fox cried so loudly that a lifeguard thought Fox’s appendix was going to burst. It took Fox a year to put his head underwater, and he only liked the part at the end of lessons when he could flip off the diving board.
He only swam because I did. But then in middle school, Fox grew tall, coordinated, and used to winning.
That’s why, when he knew I wanted him to quit, he stayed on the team after our parents’ accident.
But now for Fox, swimming isn’t about me. Not anymore. It’s only about winning.
When I step into the locker room, neither the fire, D.S.’s deadly lasers, nor the color of Damian Scott Jr.’s freckles matter—I only care about how quickly I can dive into the water.
I unzip my duffel bag and pull out my shimmery blue bathing suit.
Every Super has a signature suit that’s designed to enhance their abilities and make them look extraordinary.
Golden Ace has his gilded spandex and metallic mask, which Kristen loathes but everyone else reveres.
Flare wears a red skirt and orange spandex that glow like fire when she flies, and Materio, who’s mostly retired, suits up in purple feathers from head to toe.
As I put on my bathing suit, I feel like I’m about to be called into battle.
It’s how the Supers must feel when they tug on their gloves and secure their masks: invincible.
I finish changing and head to the pool deck before most of my teammates are even in the locker rooms. As usual, Arielle waits on the wet tiles with her tight ponytail and polished clipboard, but today, she’s occupied by the rare appearance of Fox in the wild.
Arielle and Fox exchange harsh whispers, and neither notices me when I dig through the pile of kickboards and pull out my favorite.
Fox hasn’t changed yet, and he looks out of place wearing normal clothes at the pool—faded jeans and a crumpled hoodie.
Even when his parents and our mom were around, Fox and Arielle were never close—she’s always held herself above him like she holds herself above me, but she never fully iced him out. Why are they having a secret meeting?
Their conversation stops abruptly when they finally see me.
“Afternoon…” I say, sliding into the pool.
Arielle clamps shut, and Fox jogs to change, so I definitely interrupted something.
Is Arielle giving Fox extra workouts? The thing about exercise is that workouts follow the Law of Negative Returns, which is why elite athletes train longer and harder than beginners: once a swimmer hits a certain skill level, they need more blood, guts, and tears to advance to the next level.
Did Fox think he plateaued? Did I plateau? Neither of them would tell me if I had.
As I adjust my goggles, the unthinkable happens: Arielle approaches me. She squats on the edge of the pool, hovering above my lane.
“I need you to keep an eye on Fox,” she says, her voice low. “Tell me immediately if he acts different than normal.”
I need you to keep an eye on Fox, please . I don’t sass my sister aloud though. I don’t feel like scrubbing the nearly-invisible-to-the-naked-eye mold from the bleachers today.
“Different how?” I ask. “And I’d like to know why.”
“Just different. I can’t get into it.” She stands and surveys the empty deck. “But it’s important.”
Oh, it’s important!? Why didn’t you say that first?
I sigh as Arielle stomps over to the locker rooms. She hollers at the kids inside to hurry up and change.
Obviously, something is going on if Arielle broke her silent-coach-treatment to talk to me about it—And Fox showed up at second practice to have a secret meeting with her, but I sincerely doubt anyone’s life is at stake here.
Be careful who you trust.
Water erupts as Aaron dives in. Unlike the other kids, who are postponing their second swims by dilly dallying as much as possible, Aaron launches right into his laps, drawing long, elegant strokes.
His perfect abs tear away, and I take my time pulling on my swim cap.
Thinking about Aaron beats thinking about Dark Static.
If only Kristen didn’t have another detention, we could watch Aaron together.
“S’up, Maddragon?” Fox reenters the deck. “Thanks for the homework help last night.”
Water splashes into my eyes as he jumps in, and I taste the chlorine when it drips down my face. I want to ask what he was talking to Arielle about. I want to give him sass for forgetting his homework last night. I want to splash him back.
Fox scans the pool’s surface and his gaze hardens. “That Aaron guy sure can swim. I wonder what his secret is.”
I’ve seen Fox size up his competition before, and it doesn’t seem like he’s doing that with Aaron. In fact, I’d almost say he was looking at Aaron in admiration.
Maybe there is something wrong with Fox.
Aaron executes a splash-less flip turn at the other end of the pool.
Fox continues, “There’s something shady about that guy. Like, where did he come from? How did he get a spot on the most competitive high school swim team in the country? Why doesn’t he ever talk?”
“Jealousy is a disease. I’d say get well soon, but I don’t—”
“—want me to catch it from you?” he interrupts.
“—care.” I won’t let him ruin my insult.
“Sick burn, Maddragon. She’s breathing fire today, everybody.”
Whatever. Fox isn’t worth it. I tighten my goggles and am about to warm up when he catches my elbow.
“Just be careful, okay?” He pauses the air of self-importance that’s usually in his voice.
“Okay?” Fox looks at me through his long lashes, and for half a second, I recognize the guy I used to spend all my time with, the guy from before the day he threw chocolate milk at me.
(For the record, chocolate milk doesn’t always stain, but when it leaves a mark, it will be on your favorite shirt.)
“What are you talking about, Fox?” I sigh, resigning myself to this conversation.
“I saw him with Zane Milligan yesterday. At that chicken restaurant near the movie theatre. They were there when I was picking up my hot chick sando.”
“And you haven’t gotten food poisoning? Lucky you.”
“That’s interesting. Arielle said the same thing.”
Of course she did. But… this is what he was talking to Arielle about? Zane Milligan?
Zane Milligan is the former mayor’s son, whose house Dark Static set on fire last night.
Zane is a few years older than us and dropped out of high school—one day he cut class, decided he had enough, and never came back.
Now, he lives in the city center with some roommates and plays the drums or something.
People only talk to Zane if they need someone to buy them alcohol, or if they can’t reach his mom.
“Could be a coincidence,” I say. Zane and Aaron are both loner types, but even loners need a friend.
Fox leans close to my ear. “You think the stupidly-good-at-swimming new kid randomly befriends Zane Milligan on the same night his mom’s house is set on fire by coincidence? ”
“What did Arielle say?” I ask. Arielle would consider this a bigger waste of time than I do. Unless… is Fox suggesting Aaron set the fire? That Aaron is Dark Static? Fox was freaked out about the video in History class. This could be his way of coping.
Then again, I can’t be the only one who suspects that Aaron might be D.S. There are too many coincidences. Except… I selfishly still want D.S. to be Damian, mainly because it would freak Fox out more. What if Dark Static is Fox’s best friend?
“Madeline, this is serious.” Fox pushes his shoulders back and scowls. Overkill. He’s not being serious at all.
“Phew. If it were a joke, it’s not very funny.”
The corners of his mouth twitch, highlighting the dramatic curve of his cheeks. “Not all jokes are funny. There’s you, for example.”
Fox may have meant it to be teasing, but his line falls flat, and he winces when he hears it. “My bad.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment,” I say. Ahead, Aaron swims a perfect butterfly. His long arms scoop the water like a machine, not like a flabby pigeon , as Arielle loves to instruct. Fox is right. Aaron is very good. Almost too good.
Except that athletes can’t be Supers.
Fox scopes Aaron and shrugs, as if resting his case. “Aaron’s the only guy on the team who doesn’t wear a Speedo. You know that’s blasphemy.”
“Speedos don’t make champions. That’s only their marketing slogan.”
“C’mon.” He answers with a devilish smirk. “Everyone knows Speedos are for winners.”
Water hits my shoulders like a jet stream as Aaron flips off our wall. Fox pulls on his goggles, and I do the same. I make sure to push off before he does.