10

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I know that I’m sure some people would love to read a story about every day of school that I go to for the rest of my life – the trials and tribulations of being a teenager in the year 2023. I hate to disappoint those people, but the day glazes by me without strenuous effort, at least, not yet. I assume maybe after the first week of my freshman year of high school I’ll have something a little more interesting to report, but for now, this is the lowdown:

I have a homeroom teacher named Mrs. Foster. She’s also my math teacher, which is the period directly afterward. She’s got this vibe like she’s seen it all and is just waiting out the clock until retirement. The kind of teacher who gives you a sympathetic smile when you don’t know the answer, then moves on without waiting for you to find it. She wears frumply, big clothes that are extremely unflattering and I’m not sure she’s a mathematical expert, instead of just whoever they could grab at the time.

English is taught by Mr. Strickland, who’s got a serious case of resting bitch face. He’s so straight-laced I’m convinced he irons his khakis. But he seems to actually like books and enjoys going on tangents about symbolism that have half the class nodding off. I don’t have a good grasp on his intentions yet as a teacher, but given the huge stack of books at the back of the classroom with names I only half-recognize from my mom – Catcher in the Rye, Huckleberry Finn, The Illustrated Man – I am fully prepared to burn through my reading circuits by the time the year is through.

There’s Mrs. Bollinger for science, who’s like a walking contradiction. She’s got this neat bob haircut and the roundest glasses you’ve ever seen, but she’s also got a sleeve tattoo peeking out from under her blouse and neon pink nail polish. This year we’re doing Earth Sciences, and, according to the curriculum, unless you get to jump ahead in the AP classes or something, we do Biology, then Chemistry, then Physics at senior year. That means this year we’re going to learn about the climate and geology and stuff like that, and next year I get to dissect frogs, which I feel a little unnaturally excited for.

I’ve also got Coach Simmons for PE, who is exactly as enthusiastic about the virtues of physical education as you’d expect any high school coach to be. That is to say, he’s trying to encourage us, but we are all teenagers and there is only so much effort he can put in at a time. I think he gave up three days in. We only have PE every other day, with each other day replacing it with an elective. I chose Home Economics, which will teach us how to sew and cook, because I can’t do either of those things for shit and I think being able to repair my own costume and make my own food will marginally increase my survival chances out in this great big scary world of ours.

My Home Economics teacher is also Coach Simmons.

If there was a Karate class I’d take it. But there isn’t, so Home Ec. And Track doesn’t start for at least another month or two.

The school itself is slick, sleek, modern, multicultural, all the things you could expect from a school in Philadelphia that only serves 400 students a year. Apparently, it used to be a real not great school when it was founded, with below-average scores in everything, but the non-profit that runs it went under new management a couple years ago and according to my dad they really got the place kicked into shape. It’s now probably one of the better public schools you could go to in Northeast Philadelphia, which is probably why my parents decided to apply me there. The school is all right angles and cubes, which I was told by my dad when we were touring is “modernist”. Their lion mascot stares at me from every surface, and I can’t say that I’m a fan. Blue and yellow is not a color combination I find myself enjoying.

This first week, I haven’t glommed onto any cliques, especially not of any people in higher grades than me. Than I? Whatever. There’s nerds, there’s popular kids, there’s weirdoes, there’s more nerds, choir kids, theater kids, and people that could be sort of construed as “jocks” but they’re more dispersed throughout the existing groups like a fine mist. And, of course, you have the gaggle of about 100 incoming freshmen looking around like chickens with their heads cut off. The lunchroom is small and tidy, the library and computer rooms are well-stocked and adequate, something my mother was extremely enthusiastic about, and the hallways are laid out in a way that doesn’t make me get confused every time I try to go to class – always a plus. There’s just one little sour spot…

I have to wear a uniform.

I mean, I knew this beforehand, I went uniform shopping with my mom, after all. But the reality of it doesn’t really hit you until you’re actually there, in a white button down and a plaid skirt. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but I don’t like plaid. It’s not a color, texture, really, that appeals to me. I don’t like wearing a sports jacket, or a tie, or a bow tie. I wish I could wear a t-shirt and soccer shorts like I was a week ago. I have a duplicate of my costume shoved into my backpack for easy access as necessary, but, you know, obviously, I can’t wear that either during the school day. It’s madness inducing.

Anyway. That’s high school, now. Let’s zero back in on the present.

Lunch. The critical social hour of every high schooler’s day. You’re allowed to sit wherever, within reason, conglomerating with your friends outside of class. People who knew each other from middle school form small whorls and spirals as they jockey for the best tables in the lunchroom, while well-established seniors and juniors muscle in on the action, making sure that they get prime seating, occasionally opening up to accept groups of 1, 2, or 3.

It’s here where I first spot them. It’s the boots that catch my eye – platform goth boots, the kind you’d probably find in a store downtown, or maybe order from some obscure online shop that specializes in alternative fashion. Big, inch-thick, maybe two-inch thick platforms with belts, buckles, and a shiny black exterior. Huge boots that look like they take hours to put on in the morning, the kind you couldn’t catch me dead wearing. Huge, distinctive boots. The kind that Safeguard wore when they stepped on me.

The person wearing them is sitting with a group of older students at a table that’s removed from the rest of the cafeteria, but not too far that it becomes noticeable. They’re a collection of 15, 16, 17-year-olds – all hoodie jackets and unkempt hair and deep conversation that’s just a bit too loud to be inconspicuous. They’re talking about anime, the latest episode of some show, arguing about character arcs and plot devices with a fervor I only usually see at Young Defenders’ mission debriefings, or when my dad argued with someone while he thought I wasn’t watching on bring-your-daughter-to-work-day. There’s an air of rebellion about them, a flagrant flaunting of the school’s dress code that says more about the school administrators’ lost battles than anything else. These are people who have been told a thousand times and threatened with a thousand suspensions to dress neatly, and defiantly said “no” – at least, in the lunchroom, where anarchy reigns supreme.

The possible-Safeguard in question is leaning back in their chair, one leg bouncing up and down under the table, their platform boot tapping an erratic rhythm against the floor. They have a mop of messy black hair that obscures their face from this angle, and their hands are expressive, drawing in the air as they talk, capturing the attention of their peers, their figure concealed by their outfit. They don’t have a skirt on, so that’s points in the boy column, but they aren’t wearing a boy’s top either, their figure curved around and collar pinned with a bowtie.

Plus, all I hear from my position a couple of tables over is them yelling about anime. And Safeguard was, if Marcus is to be believed, an anime nerd. Or a manga nerd, I’m not sure if there’s a meaningful difference.

Is it them? Or is it just wishful thinking, my brain latching onto any bit of similarity and running with it because it’s eager for answers? After all, anyone can wear boots. Heck, there are probably a dozen other students in this school with a similar pair. But my gut tells me it’s something more, a hunch, an instinct. And in my line of work, instincts can mean the difference between winning and losing, survival and defeat.

So I sit there, across the cafeteria, watching. I’m probably being too obvious about it, but the cacophony of lunchtime chatter and the general indifference of teenagers to anything outside their immediate sphere of interest works in my favor. I’m trying to puzzle them out from afar, studying their mannerisms, the way they interact with their group, the tone of their voice as it carries across the room. Isolating a single person from the din is nearly impossible, especially with, uh, all the students that are having their time of the month to provide a constant sensory distraction for me. It’s more than a little maddening.

They have an aura of… I’m not sure. There’s something about them that feels familiar. Not in a ‘we’ve met before’ way, but in a ‘I’ve seen you in action’ way. A certain confidence, a certain spark, a certain way they carry themselves that reminds me of Safeguard. And I can’t shake off the feeling that the clues are there, waiting to be put together, the puzzle pieces fitting into a coherent image. But is it the right image? I could just be chasing the ghosts of my wounded pride through high school, looking for something that would make it more interesting than the slog it’s become. Anything is better than classes, which seem pedestrian and uninteresting now.

As I watch them, my mind races through dozens of different scenarios. Maybe this is a coincidence. Maybe I’m just seeing things. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve stumbled onto something huge.

I chew on my lunch by myself, in the corner, not yet ready to strike out into the great, big, wide world of high school Friday lunches. I spent the first couple of days trying to make nice with the other people and found most of them to be annoying or boring, despite how much they plainly enjoyed my presence – does that make me sound conceited? Turning it over in my head, I concede that it does. That might be something worth doing something about. You know, in the future, when I’m done taking care of this particular issue.

My mom packs me the same lunch every day, not out of her decision but my own. I’m used to the familiarity. Grapes, little melba toasts or bagel rounds or whatever we have, and little pinwheels of ham and cheese and/or turkey and cheese that go onto the melba toasts. One time, she did not give me a matching amount of pinwheels and crackers and that was an issue that rattled me to the end of the day. I also bring a granola bar and Gatorade, and when it comes time to do athletics, maybe I double up on my lunch, but, outside of that, I like the routine.

Safeguard, or at least the person I’m assuming they are, on the other hand, is eating a can of Chef Boyardee with a plastic spoon. I see no indication that they have heated up the can in any way, nor that anyone around them finds this to be out of the ordinary.

Looking at the clock on the wall, I calculate that we have about ten minutes left for lunch. I could continue sitting here, watching from afar like a stalker, or I could actually do something. In my line of work, hesitating can lead to disaster, or even worse, missed opportunities. So, I choose the latter.

Before I can change my mind, I grab my half-empty Gatorade and whatever remains of my lunch, stand up from my isolated corner, and start walking towards the table where Safeguard, or whoever they might be, is holding court. My heart is pounding a million beats per minute. I feel like every pair of eyes in the cafeteria is on me, even though I know they’re not. Teenagers are great at not caring about things that don’t directly affect them.

As I get closer, their voice becomes clearer. They’re arguing about the pacing of the latest anime series, using terms I don’t understand but that sound serious. Each word, each syllable, is punctuated with expressive hand gestures and the occasional emphatic stomp of a boot. The entire table is hanging on to their every word, punctuating their proclamations with enthusiastic nods and the occasional counterpoint. I’m almost impressed.

I reach the table, and for a moment, I hesitate, my self-doubt rearing its ugly head. Then, taking a deep breath, I try to shove down my nervousness. I’m Bloodhound, dammit. I’ve fought supervillains – at least two of them. I’ve trained with the best of the best, of my age group. I can handle a bunch of goth teens arguing about pirates.

Without giving myself another second to overthink, I pull out the chair next to them and sit down. It’s like dropping a stone into a still pond. The table goes quiet. A few surprised faces turn my way, but no one says anything. The conversation halts. It’s the person I’m interested in that I keep my eyes on. When they finally turn towards me, I get a proper look at their face for the first time.

They have striking features: a round jawline, expressive eyes with an unusual shade of green, a hint of freckles dusted across the bridge of their nose. Their hair is obviously dyed black, their skin pale and lightly makeup’d, something that draws only more of my subconscious disdain. Getting closer hasn’t made them any less ambiguous. If anything, it’s only made it worse.

For a second, our eyes lock. There’s a flash of recognition, a split second where their eyes widen just a fraction before their face settles back into a careful, neutral expression. Is it recognition, or am I hallucinating something into a completely mundane sense of surprise? I keep my own face equally neutral, giving nothing away. This is a poker game now, and I’m not about to fold my hand first.

“Hi, I’m Sam,” I say, extending my hand. They look at it, then at me, and then reach out to shake my hand. Their nails are shiny black. “You guys mind if I join you?” I ask, looking around the table. There are a few shrugs, a couple of disinterested nods. No one seems particularly bothered, so I take that as a green light.

“Knock yourself out. Jordan,” the person who I suspect is Safeguard says – Jordan – going back to their argument about the anime series. I try to follow along, try to at least internalize what they are talking about, something about devil fruits and “Joy Boy”, but it all squeaks past my ears like a mouse evading traps. All the while, my brain is working in overdrive, trying to find concrete evidence, trying to confirm my suspicions, or deconfirm them. Even ten minutes into the future, I have nothing to show for it except an empty bottle of Gatorade and a feeling that I just struck out with people who are already social rejects.

I do feel a little pang of some sort of pain in my chest. Back in middle school, I was quite a social butterfly. People enjoyed me, people liked me, or at the very least they tolerated me. I had a friend group I could rely on for lunchtime support, and here I’m just another freshman. And there might be a supervillain here.

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. As everyone starts to pack up, I take one last look at Jordan. I’ve got more questions than answers now. But that’s okay. This is just the start. I’ve got an entire school year to figure them out. And I will.

---

Outside of lunch, the school day speeds by in a messy blur. Math, science, history – they all pass by in a whirl of jumbled equations, half-hearted explanations, and hastily jotted notes that I can barely make heads or tails of. I have one thought in my mind and it revolves around the same axis – Jordan, Jordan, Jordan. Could they be Safeguard? Did I just hit the jackpot on my first try? Or is this some kind of cosmic prank, a cruel jester spinning a tale to keep my wandering mind entertained?

The school bell rings, a sharp sound that brings me out of my reverie. Students around me rise, stretching their legs, grabbing their bags, pushing chairs in or out, chatting away about their plans for the weekend. The bustling of young energy and clatter of movement is a stark contrast to the introspective echo chamber that my mind has become. Everyone is ready to head home, to escape the brick and mortar confines of Tacony Academy Charter High School. So am I, but for a different reason.

I catch sight of Jordan in the hallways – they’re unmistakable, their towering boots and general air of disregard making them stick out among the sea of students. Taking a deep breath, I push past the remnants of my fear, my doubt, my reason. I make my way to them, navigating the ebbing tide of teenagers eager to enjoy their well-earned freedom between these well-traveled halls. The crowd crushes past us, hundreds of students trying to make their way onto the nearest bus to take them home, or to grab their bikes or to just walk. Quickly, we are pulled, regardless of intended direction, towards the front of the school and out.

“Hey, Jordan,” I call out, raising my voice just enough to be heard over the din. They turn around, a hint of surprise in their green eyes, their eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

Before I can even get a word out, they interrupt me – or is it an interruption if it’s preemptive? “Yes, I am,” they say, breaking through the open doors and onto the sidewalk surrounding the school. It’s not just the words, but the way they say them, an almost nonchalant acceptance, like they aren’t even surprised by what I’m about to ask. Like they’re reading my mind.

My heart skips a beat. I swallow, keeping my surprise from showing on my face. I was prepared for this to take longer.

Jordan gestures towards the dispersing crowd of students, in a general north-easterly direction. “I’m headed towards Tacony proper. Why don’t we walk and talk? Less people to overhear,” they pitch, and, sort of agog (a kind of surprise), I follow along.

We start walking, the loud chatter and rush of students becoming a backdrop to our simmering silence, before the chatter begins to fade away with distance. I want to say something, anything. But words seem to be failing me. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because there’s too much to say.

“You don’t exactly make for a subtle detective, do you?” Jordan breaks the silence, their voice as sharp as a blade, their tone teetering on the edge of mockery. I can’t tell if they’re joking or serious.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I retort, trying to keep my voice steady, but there’s an undercurrent of challenge in my words. A subtle reminder that if they’re Safeguard, then I’m Bloodhound. We’re not exactly in the playground anymore.

“You came up to me at lunch after staring a hole in my head for twenty minutes. You also have the exact same hair and, you know, height and body structure as your alter ego. You couldn’t look more suspicious about it if you tried,” Jordan answers, and I feel quiet rage bottling itself up in my neck somewhere. “Hey, it’s okay, we were all stupid fourteen year olds once.”

“I’m not stupid,” is the only thing I can say back.

“You’re certainly not very wise. It would’ve been better if you tried to get my trust somehow, maybe got a haircut, and maybe worked your way into my friend group from the outside instead of going for broke. But that’s okay, we all make mistakes.”

I don’t like being taunted like this, and the urge to punch Jordan only rises with every word. “I could get you arrested,” I bark back, keeping my voice at a hushed, angry whisper.

“For what?” Jordan laughs out, not taking me seriously in the slightest as we round a corner. “Being hot? As much as you know and I know, you’ll never hear that magic sentence come out my mouth, and you have no proof of jack shit,” they reply. I glance down at their feet, but before I can even say anything, Jordan just laughs harder. “Demonica is the most popular brand of alt clothes in the world. There’s maybe like twenty thousand people in Philly with this exact pair of boots in this exact size alone. They don’t prove shit. You just got extremely lucky on a hunch.”

I simmer quietly to myself while Jordan stares forward, not looking at me. Occasionally, I glance sidelong at their face – a ring pierced through their nose, the occasional flash of silver in their tongue, and even a stud through their eyebrow, the one hidden under their bangs. This person is definitely not getting interred in a Jewish cemetery, if the things my mom tells me about piercings are correct. “I could beat you up,” is all I can impotently manage after four minutes of silence.

“Watch out, everyone, baby freshman Samantha is coming in hot with her first school suspension by beating up on a random junior,” Jordan mocks, raising their hands in front of their face and waving them around sarcastically. “Besides, I haven’t done anything nasty since the CVS. I don’t think I’m really feeling the whole ‘supervillain’ thing, if you ask me.”

“Why should I care about this? You still assaulted me in public.”

Jordan looks like they’re about to elbow me for a moment, and then clearly reconsiders. “Look, Sam, can I call you Sam? It’s not that we’re friends yet, it’s just a lot of syllables.”

“Whatever.”

“Great. Sam. I’m sixteen. You’re, what, fourteen, fifteen? I wanted to see if robbing a store would be my thing. It’s not. I don’t really care for it, it doesn’t interest me,” Jordan says, my head already starting to ache from their very presence. “I mean, not that I’m going to go around saving lives, either, but, like, it’s a lot more complicated than I’m sure your fashy little friends are trying to drill into your head.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” I growl, restraining myself from whispering.

Jordan chuckles a little bit. “All I’m saying is, if it’s cops versus robbers, I’m on neither side. I’m here for the excitement, not the heat, and I’m definitely not interested in working for the state. Maybe I’ll keep my neighborhood clean. Maybe I won’t. But you don’t make a big deal out of this whole thing, and I won’t make a big deal out of your whole thing. Can we call it trucies for now?”

I hike up my backpack and squeeze my face up like I just kissed a lemon. “You’re really annoying.”

“Big talk from someone who’s been sitting by herself at lunch all week,” Jordan shoots back, and I immediately feel a pulse of nausea run through me. “Your opinion sure means a lot to me. Maybe if you bothered to try being my friend first, calling me annoying would’ve hurt my feelings, but now I can successfully dismiss you as a petulant little child.”

“You’re really, really annoying.”

“You got me.”

We walk a couple more blocks in silence. I don’t know where Jordan lives, but I know the general outline of the neighborhood in my head, and I know how to get from wherever I am right now to Mayfair without much of an issue – maybe another twenty minutes of walking. If that. Jordan stops at a corner and looks around, before putting their hand out in front of me to stop me. “Alright, Sam, let’s talk. For real.”

I fold my arms over my chest and try to puff myself out a bit. “What is there to talk about? You’re a bad guy, I’m a good guy. I don’t want to associate with you any more than necessary,” I say, and Jordan just stares at me in response, blinking. “Associate means–“

“I know what associate means, you tism-y little gnat,” Jordan replies, which I’m sure is supposed to be an insult but it just sounds like a made up word to me. “You’re not listening to me. I don’t care about being “bad”. I don’t want to make a living off petty theft or killing people or whatever. And I don’t want to save anyone’s life. In terms of Magic alignment, I’m as black as it gets. The only thing I care about here is myself – that’s not good or evil, that’s just survival.”

My face goes gawky as I reach out to grab both of Jordan’s shoulders and squeeze. “You are quite possibly the whitest person I have ever met in my life and I have met people with albinism.”

“What?” Jordan asks, clearly confused. “Oh. No, I. No, you, I don’t mean black like African-American, I mean black like Magic the Gathering. You know, the card game?”

“I don’t do nerd stuff like that, sorry,” I reply, letting go of them.

“Maybe you should, it might make you a more well-rounded person. Anyway,” Jordan starts, thumping their chest twice to get some phlegm out. “Look. Tell me right now what major accomplishments you have achieved in your month of being a superhero or whatever. Two months? I don’t know.”

“I saved someone’s life by calling 911 when they were bleeding out,” I mark off on my finger. “And I stopped a supervillain robbery. That’s two things.”

Jordan golf claps sarcastically. “Very impressive. And what have you been filling all that time in between with? Patrolling around the bougie parts of Philly, rescuing cats and dazzling tourists?”

“I’ve been training, too!” I object.

Jordan rolls their eyes. “Right, training in some upscale private gym for superheroes in between rescuing cats and dazzling tourists. Don’t you get tired, Sam?”

I take a step back and fold my arms tighter. “Tired of what? Like, in general? Yes, working hard is exhausting, but it’s good for me.”

Jordan pinches the bridge of their nose. “Don’t you get tired of waiting for things to just happen to you, Sam? I know exactly what you’re like and I’ve known you for maybe all of an hour tops. You’ve been drifting through life, just sort of doing what other people tell you to and having things happen to you. Even when you got superpowers, I bet it just happened to you. And I’m sure you’re content to just continue on this way, training yourself to be a good, efficient little soldier for the machine and just solving any problems that happen to you along the way. Your entire life will be spent reactively responding to things other people do to you, as it has been for the first like fifteen years or whatever. Am I right?”

I don’t give them the satisfaction of an answer. I half-turn away. “I’m not answering that.”

“Don’t you want to be the problem for once, Sam?” Jordan suggests. I whip around and slap them across the face with the back of my hand, and they go reeling a couple of steps.

“Don’t you dare suggest I stoop to your level, lowlife,” I spit back.

Jordan rubs their cheek and laughs a little bit. I smell the nosebleed forming before it happens. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll let you get that one for free. My bad. I phrased it wrong. Let’s try this again,” Jordan responds, taking a deep breath and stepping one step closer to me. “Aren’t you tired of having things happen to you? Don’t you want to be the thing happening to other people? Criminals, villains, whatever? You don’t need to wait for people to tell you what to do all the time. You could do what I do and go out and be the… happening. Go find some criminals to apprehend, they like to hang out in warehouses a lot.”

“You’re insane,” I respond, trying not to seriously consider their offer.

“I’m pragmatic. There’s a difference.”

I stare at Jordan for an uncomfortable additional minute, and then look away when the sight of their bloody nose starts getting too much to handle. They find some tissues in their backpack. While they clean up, I ask. “I don’t know how to be polite about this, but, like, are you a guy, or a girl? You said before that you weren’t a guy, but I don’t know if that was just a villain thing or not.”

Jordan laughs, stuffing a wadded up tissue up their nose. “What do you think?”

“Do you think I’d be asking if I could tell?” I reply, rolling my eyes.

“You really are fourteen,” Jordan mumbles just loud enough for me to hear, coughing a little bit. “Let me answer your question with a question. What’s my first name?”

I raise an eyebrow and turn to look at them. “Jordan. Right?”

“Well, there you go,” they reply.

“That’s a unisex name. That doesn’t answer anything.” I retort.

“Well, there you go,” they say again, grinning stupidly.

They sit down on the curb. Another minute passes, and I sit down next to them. “My house was like three blocks back, I just wanted to finish this conversation. Just so you know that I’m taking it seriously, and not just trying to bother you because it’s funny since you kind of act like a gerbil.”

“Is that a joke about my teeth?” I ask, scowling.

“Sure, if you want it to be,” they answer without committing. We don’t look at each other.

Finally, I take in a big inhale. I turn to Jordan. “You said that I could go out and be the problem. How would I even do that? I’d need to be in the right place at the right time, I’d still just be… having things happen around me that I stumble into. I can’t tell who’s been robbing banks just from how they bleed in their homes. There’s not a good way to stop this stuff before it happens.”

Jordan sighs. “Well, if it were up to me I’d suggest you stop being a cop entirely and leave it to the cops, but–“

“I’m not a cop. I’m a superhero,” I interrupt.

“Those are the same things. Can I finish my sentence?… Thank you,” Jordan talks over me, leaning back onto the sidewalk. “Anyway, I had an idea. Well, I’ve had this idea for a little bit, but, y’know, there’s not a lot of superheroes that I know personally for me to pitch it to. Have you ever seen the movie Fight Club?”

“I’m not starting a Fight Club with you,” I reply, not having seen the movie in question but knowing enough through pop culture to figure out what they’re pitching. They wave their hand dismissively.

“No, no, don’t read too much into it. You watch professional wrestling?” Jordan asks.

“No. Get to the point.”

Jordan rubs the back of their head with their hand, laughing, their boots scraping against the asphalt. “Tough crowd. Jeez. Look, here’s the idea. You’re a good guy. You care about your reputation and you need to build yourself up. And I’m sure you enjoyed the adrenaline kick from trying to beat me up even if you’ll never, ever admit it to yourself. Before you went psycho and almost ripped the bathroom stall in half, I was enjoying myself too, it’s okay, it is what it is. But you know me, and I know you, and we know each other out of costume. That means we can plan out of costume.”

They take in a breath of air. “Get to the point, Jordan,” I say while they inhale.

“Give me a god damn second! Jesus. Anyway. You get into costume. I get into costume and, I don’t know, kidnap one of my friends. Or, like, invent a fake death ray or whatever. Nothing illegal enough that I could get into any real trouble. The police try not to get involved in superhero fights because they don’t want to shoot bullets at someone that might be able to turn bullets into nuclear bombs or whatever, so everyone leaves us be to make a spectacle in public. I narrowly get away, or you zip tie me or whatever and I make a clever escape when we’re out of sight. And the more noise we make, the more people start paying attention to us. We get the attention of real supes, like, real deal guys, we get notoriety, we get a reputation. In two to three years, we get an action figure line and royalties… that’s a joke.”

“So, just so we’re on the same page – we pre-plan supe fights in public and then do them to get the public’s attention, so that villains start seeking me out or being afraid of me by name, and so you can… do whatever it is you want to do with your stupid life?” I summarize, trying to wrap my head around the scheme.

“That’s what I’m saying. I’m not saying it’s a foolproof plan, but, well…” Jordan answers, turning to me with an almost psychotic looking smirk across their face. “Honestly, I think the problems with it are the fun part. What if my parents find out? It’ll bring a lot of intrigue and drama to my life, and that’s really what I’m here for.”

I roll my eyes. “If you want your parents to find out you’re a supervillain, just tell them that.”

Jordan laughs and grins wider. “But I haven’t done anything wrong yet. Nobody knows who “Safeguard” is. Where’s the interest in that? It’s boring. I’ve lived sixteen years of a humdrum, happens-to-me life, and I want out, Sam. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel the same way? That you’re perfectly content with everything going great, predictably. Don’t you get bored? Don’t you want to, I don’t know, flip a coin and just see where it goes? Don’t you ever feel like just getting in a car or a bus or whatever and just going? Or has modern life killed your sense of adventure and wonder and fear?”

I stare at them, blinking. My face has become some sort of slack, open, almost glassy expression I don’t know how to explain further. I hate everything about Jordan, and I hate how much my brain is soaking up their words like a sponge. I hate the idea they’re giving me and I hate the idea of doing something stupid and having my parents find out. I hate the idea of causing problems on purpose. I hate the idea of having my life no longer being predictable. I hate everything about this suggestion, so why can’t I look them in the eye and tell them ‘no’? Why does thinking about fighting them make my chest hurt and my heart thump so hard? Why does the idea of people knowing who I am make my hands tingle? Why do I want to say ‘yes’? Why, why, why?

I have to find a middle ground, before I explode, being tugged between two violent halves of my being. I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. Instead, I look Jordan in the eye, and I open my mouth to say; “You’re fucking insane.”

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