Thirty Three
Everyone has fears. Whether it’s four fears or forty, when it comes to facing your nightmares, there’s one guarantee: it only gets easier.
I wake in a strange place, but am not immediately alarmed. Something in me says I can handle whatever’s about to happen.
My surroundings sharpen. I lie in a bright blue room, in an enormous bed that has little dogs drawn on it.
Long windows fill each wall, as well as several photographs of different colors of tulips.
I sit up, adjusting to the environment. My head throbs like someone had been using it as a soccer ball, and my back aches like it was the playing field.
Bracing myself, I stand. I wear a tie-dye t-shirt and long pajama pants that I’ve never seen before.
I stumble to the closest window and take in the sun setting over an immaculate lawn. It has already been cleaned up from our epic Super battle—a true landscaping masterpiece on Arielle’s behalf. I must be in one of her three million guest rooms.
Holding onto the wall for support, I hobble out the door and find myself on the first floor of the mansion, which is a good thing, since I definitely can’t do the stairs.
I stumble into the nearest bathroom and reach for the sink.
Cool water stings my cheeks when I splash it on my face, but fortifies me. I risk a glance in the mirror.
My skin is ashen and a long scratch runs down my jaw. I lean in to get a better look, wincing against the counter. Three black threads run across the scrape.
When did I get stitches?
I notice a pile of towels above the toilet, and I grab one for a mini sponge bath, not feeling strong enough to risk a shower. It helps bring some color back to my cheeks, but I still limp from Arielle’s bathroom to the dining room, where the floor is a complete disaster.
“That’s wild,” Fox’s exclamation comes from the kitchen. “I can’t believe he wasn’t a Super. He was so fast.”
“We don’t know he wasn’t a Super,” replies Damian’s melodic voice. “Just that—”
I enter and Damian cuts himself off. “Madeline!”
“S’up?” I say. Around Arielle’s long kitchen table are Damian, Fox, and Kristen. Damian sits next to a bag of chips and some juice, while Fox and Kristen have a giant bowl of popcorn. Arielle has her hands on her fancy jeans, stiffly leaning against her marble countertop.
In two long strides Kristen helps me into a wooden chair.
“Mads, oh my gosh. We didn’t think you would be up yet,” she explains, passing me the popcorn and a pitcher of water. I gather Arielle has told her everything. Seeing them all, alive and together, brings a lump to my throat.
“How are you feeling?” Arielle asks.
“Why do powers hurt?” I stutter.
Damian, who sits across the table from me, has a blue sling around his neck, and his cheeks are scraped more than mine. Memories of him unconscious in the mud flash in my mind. We’re lucky he’s alive.
“It’s just the first few times. Then you get better at using them.” Damian adjusts the sling on his arm and adds, “Usually.”
It’s shocking to see Damian and realize that we’re actually friends now. That, and I can talk to him without breaking into hives.
It’s when I look at the tall, sandy-haired boy leaning against the table that the butterflies begin.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“You just missed him.” My sister places another water glass in front of me and resumes her spot by the counter.
“He’s resting upstairs. He pulled his back trying to escape from the library, and we’ve had to keep him on an IV for hydration.
His doctor said he should have his perfect health again tomorrow. Jamie’s with him now.”
“Tomorrow?” It has to have been more than a day for my dad to recover from his injuries.
Damian looks at his chips and Arielle picks at her nails, both clearly thinking of the best, diplomatic answer.
“It’s been four days since,” Fox answers.
“Today was the first day you could make it out of bed, no matter how many IVs we gave you. After the authorities came, I didn’t want to risk having our identities discovered by going to the hospital.
We collected Damian’s and your masks, put you in regular clothes, and called a private doctor. ”
“You’ll meet Dr. Karen tomorrow,” says Arielle.
“Are you sure she doesn’t think we’re Supers?”
“Yep.” Damian taps his head. Right.
“Where’s Brynn?” I ask.
“Grocery store,” says Arielle. “I offered to let everyone stay here for a while, so we can be together while things settle down.”
Fox places a stack of newspapers beside my water. “This is everything that’s happened.” His fingers linger on the papers, his other hand rests on my shoulder.
“Phil?” I ask. The news regarding his end must be good, if we’re living in his heirloom house relatively unscathed.
Arielle purses her lips. “He vanished.”
“None of us was fast enough to catch him,” says Fox. “With his force-fields, he got too much of a head start.”
I slump at the table, noticing everyone else has the same hunch in their shoulders. While we’d brought the case against Phil, he won’t serve any time for it unless he’s found. At the very least, people know about his misdeeds, and Capital City’s leaders will convene to decide how to move forward.
I didn’t kill them, Phil had said, claiming no responsibility for my mother’s death, but what would he say if captured?
Looking back at the newspaper, I scan the headlines. The front page includes a photo of Dark Static, his suit soaked from rain. He’s pulling Golden Ace up from the mud.
“Rivals No More” the article starts, explaining how Dark Static and Golden Ace each helped to fight Phil Bridges.
When did photographers show up? Possibly as soon as the authorities came. Journalists find scoops like this miraculously fast.
There are no actual quotes from either D.S. or Golden Ace, but Flare and Materio have paragraphs of input.
“It makes you think about what you see on TV,” said Flare.
“If it weren’t for Static and Gold,” commented Materio, “our city wouldn’t be here today.”
“Our city wouldn’t be here today,” I repeat.
“They want their names in the clear,” Damian replies. “They can’t have the city knowing they helped Phil.”
“Morons,” Fox mutters.
I read on. At the words “D.S.” and “Hero,” my heart swells. When I read about how grateful the city was toward D.S. for returning the food to everyone, he’s a hero to me too.
Then I read the next story.
“Her Super Surprise” written by Molly Woods. She couldn’t have known it was me, but that’s the catch to being Super. People think they know you, even if it’s only the parts you want them to see.
There’s a new girl in town, the article begins , and she’s making a splash.
I laugh.
Her Super debut fell on the night of Phil Bridges’ escape.
Wearing a sparkling blue suit, our new Super fought with Dark Static, Golden Ace, and other Supers to bring justice to our city.
According to Materio and Flare, her powers include water manipulation and invisibility.
Sources also show that she has yet to release her own Super name.
We owe her our gratitude. A classy, crime-fighting female is what Capital City needed.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“When you put it that way, I suppose I’m pretty awesome.”
“And you looked great,” says Kristen. “If I say so myself.”
There aren’t any pictures of me included with the article, but Molly included a sketch, which features the costume Kristen designed. Reading about something that I did—to help people—makes it seem more real.
The next page reveals what happened to Phil.
“Bridges Burned”
“Impeached, Indicted, Irrelevant”
“Supers Stop Mayor from Super Takeover”
When he is captured, Phil will be convicted of corruption and tried for the murder of my mom, but the prosecution doubts they will have enough evidence.
“Who’s mayor now?” I ask.
“The City Council is searching for someone,” Arielle answers.
“Everyone in Phil’s office can be connected to his crimes, so the list of potential replacements is essentially nonexistent.
Even Claudia Jane, the woman who ran against Phil, was apparently on his payroll.
Why be mayor of a major city when you can have a third vacation home? ”
“The mayor was more of a figurehead,” Damian comments.
“True,” says Kristen. Golden Ace has been who the city turned to in times of trouble since he was twelve. Now it’s almost official.
“Alright,” says Fox. Other than a few minor scratches, Fox has come out unscathed from the battle against Phil. That makes one of us. Fox presses down on the table. “You gotta turn to page nine.”
Damian claps and Kristen groans.
“Stupid,” she says.
“What?” I flip through the pages.
Fox points to the headline when I get to page nine. “There it is.” He reminds me of eight-year-old Fox after we had started a super-soaker fight with Arielle, beaming like the greatest prank in the history of pranks had just been pulled off.
“Olympic Fraud—Former Olympian Joins High School Swim Team.” Right below the headline is a picture of Aaron Ryans.
Our Aaron Ryans.
“Behold, our third member of Lane Awesome.” Fox applauds.
My mouth falls open. “What?” I hold the newspaper up to my face to make sure I’ve read it correctly.
“Apparently he joined our team with a fake name.” Kristen laughs.
Amidst the herd of talented high school athletes swims a wolf in sheep’s clothing: Patrick Adams.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing? Seriously? Where do they find these journalists? Patrick Adams… That name sounds familiar.
“You may recognize him from being one of the youngest swimmers to qualify for the Olympics,” Arielle says to jog my memory.
“Patrick Adams…” I muse. Then I place him in my memories.
“You’re right. That’s where I recognized him from.
” Patrick had been booted out of the Olympics for using steroids before he ever got to swim there.
I’d read all the coverage of him before and after, and had been mystified that someone my age could swim so fast.
“I knew he looked familiar.” I turn to Fox. “And you thought he was a Super.”
“Hey,” Fox teases. “He was faster than both of us, wasn’t he?”
“Faster than you.” I return to the article. Kristen makes an “ooooh” noise, but I keep reading.
For another shot at an Olympic race, Patrick went back to high school. Winning high school swim meets would give him the recognition and prestige he needed to get back in the game.
Apparently, all the attention backfired, because then his actual identity was discovered.
That’s why he was with Zane , I realize. Aaron—Patrick—had never given up on steroids and was still buying them. I don’t dare glance at Damian. Damian must have known that. Is that what was happening at the comic store? Damian had tried to get Zane to stop selling drugs?
But then why were they together at Hallowfest?
I shake away my confusion and make a note to ask Damian later, privately.
“That’s hilarious,” I say, trying not to hurt my ribs from laughing.
I sift through the papers again, looking back at the article about me, and D.S.
, and Golden Ace. Finally, I read the list of people being arrested for being accomplices to Phil’s crime.
The list mainly comprises Phil’s office.
Former Mayor Dr. Dottie Milligan, whose house Fox had blown up for a news broadcast, is found to be almost as guilty as Phil is.
“So many assholes,” says Fox.
“Um, language.” Arielle raises her perfect eyebrows.
I skim the names. “Did they figure out who warned Phil about us that night? Remember? He somehow knew you were coming to the press building? He met you there instead of meeting me here, with Dad?”
Arielle shakes her head. “No. When I got there that night, I tried to convince the reporters of what he’d planned, but he and Milligan were in the back room the whole time.
He’d already convinced them I’d come in hysterics with unhinged conspiracy theories.
By the end, Milligan was screaming at me that she knew I’d arrived with a voicemail about Dad, and she demanded I give her my phone so she could destroy it.
It was weird, because it wasn’t on my phone, it was on Madeline’s, but Milligan was convinced she needed mine .
She kept trying to call me so she could find it.
“Honestly though, it all worked out, since it bought us at least some time. Phil was distracted with the reporters, and he thought Milligan was dealing with me. Our entire plan hinged on surprising Phil and buying time, and if Milligan hadn’t been convinced the voicemail was on my phone, we wouldn’t have gotten any.
Eventually Phil came over and said he had my phone, from Hallowfest. No one could find the voicemail. ”
“You said that at the dinner too,” I add. “When you were going over our plan, you said that it was on your phone. I thought it was funny that you made a mistake.”
I laugh to myself. The mix-up didn’t seem big enough to cause so much confusion, but somehow, it had.
I catch Arielle’s eye. She cups her hands around her delicate cheeks, which have gone white. A sickening ache rises in my chest.
We both knew where the voicemail really was.
But Brynn didn’t.