School was its usual mix of stimulating and mind-numbing. Math continued to be a chore, a puzzle where I had to assemble numbers instead of fun colors and shapes. English class featured a discussion on ‘The Catcher in the Rye,’ and the teacher asked if anyone felt like Holden Caulfield sometimes–like they’re on the outside looking in. A few students raised their hands, and I considered doing the same but didn’t. Last time I raised my hand in class, someone cracked a joke about me, and the teacher didn’t even say anything about it.
Not to say that anyone bullies me, because, like… That’s just not a thing anymore. At least, not where I live, there’s nobody getting stuffed in lockers or shoved to the floor like in the 80s movies. Nowadays, what you’re most at risk of is someone finding your friend group’s forum or IRC and starting a nasty gossip chain.
Lunch was the highlight of the day. The cafeteria buzzed with conversations, laughter, and the occasional shout. I sat with Jordan and their crew of ‘weeaboos’, they called themselves. I guess freshmen and juniors don’t typically mingle, judging from the makeup of most of the other tables, but we’re not typical people. We both had these lives outside of school that I was still trying to reconcile with the teenage wasteland we navigated every weekday.
They were surprisingly chill about it, stirring their ramen noodles with a kind of intense concentration that probably would’ve been better suited for diffusing a bomb. I remember them snapping a pair of chopsticks apart with a definitive crack, looking up and grinning at me as if sharing a secret. Honestly, it was the first time all day I felt like I could breathe. I didn’t even know we had a microwave in the cafeteria until Jordan pointed it out to me.
I guess I’m sort of under their wing now? It feels weird that the first supervillain that was a meaningful threat to me was also now my protector, and the nerdy gaggle they surrounded themselves with, my new, growing friend group. That is to say, outside of Alex, I don’t think I’ve committed any of their names to memory, but I’m sure at some point these people will be the new musketeers, just like the friends I abandoned behind me in the summer and middle school.
No, that’s not nice to yourself, Sam. You still hang out with them. You did a couple days ago! But it still doesn’t feel great.
The bell that signaled the end of the day brought relief. School was out, and it was time for ‘extracurriculars.’
“And she like, tried to choke you with her strings or something? That’s wack.”
A part of my brain grimaces at how quickly Jordan and I have become friends, given that they were technically my first villainous adversary. But another part, the one that has so often felt alien and disconnected, revels in the strange, imperfect camaraderie we share. Our footsteps – my sneakers, their boots – make soft footfalls against the busted sidewalks of Tacony, a detour along the way to Mayfair. I take a quick picture, a tiny, imperceptible selfie, and send it to my parents as proof that I’m not out “troublemaking” – one of their stipulations for hanging out after school hours.
I’m not, like, a hundred percent grounded. But I am a little bit grounded. Maybe a lot grounded. One of these days, my parents insisted, they’d have to meet Jordan, totally oblivious that they’re sort of the reason why I got shot at in the first place. Hopefully, they will never find out.
“Not exactly. She just sort of wrapped it around my arms so I couldn’t leave. I don’t think she’d choke me even if she got really mad, I don’t think she has, like, the bloodlust in her for that. She’s not that kind of crazy,” I reply, remembering the look in her eyes. Terrifying in the moment, but, upon reflection, more a look of desperation than one of fury. Desperation to know the truth. I was scared pissless, but at no point in the encounter did I think my life was in danger.
“Interesting. So she’s the control-freak dictator kind of crazy who has to know everything,” Jordan quips, the tails of their long, black duster flapping in the chilly wind as we head toward the abandoned Tacony Music Hall–our makeshift ‘base of operations’.
“Well, she’s severely overworked. I mean, I’ve had days when I had to juggle five different assignments for school, help Jenna with one of her school projects – across Skype, mind you – and then go on patrol for two hours. I was a wreck by the end of it,” I offer, my feet crunching over scattered gravel and bits of glass that litter the pathway. “She’s juggling college, I assume, and patrolling basically the entirety of Center City by herself in the wee hours of the morning. And some of Drexel, too. I couldn’t do that.”
“No wonder she calls herself ‘Puppeteer’,” Jordan scoffs. “Do you know how she activated? Maybe it’d give a little insight as to those control-freak tendencies of her.”
“Something gymnastics related, I think. But I never asked. We’re like… not on a friend relationship yet, just coworkers. Or I guess boss and peon,” I reply, looking around at the crumbling buildings around me. “You know what a peon is, right?”
Jordan rolls their eyes. “Yes, I know what a peon is. And whatever her problem is doesn’t excuse her acting like a dick to you. She should take it up with Liberty Belle.”
“Thats what I thought, but, I mean, I guess she can’t, can she? I don’t mind if she needs to vent her frustrations on–” I start, looking away from Jordan, only to be spun towards them at high speeds by strong hands.
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, you dumb little martyr. If she’s having problems, that’s what we have therapists for. You are fourteen. She is, what, eighteen, nineteen, twenty? It’s not your responsibility to be her punching bag, dumbass,” Jordan lectures me, taking on the most serious tone I’ve ever heard from them in our entire couple of weeks of knowing each other.
“I have a lot of responsibilities! That’s what being a superhero is all about, it’s being responsible,” I say, wiggling out of Jordan’s grasp easily. It helps that, unlike Puppeteer, Jordan isn’t really trying to hold me anywhere, and I guess just wanted me to look them in the eye.
Jordan rolls their eyes again. “Let me guess, with great power comes great–“
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes but unable to suppress a smile. “I’ve heard it enough from my Pop-Pop.”
“Your what?” Jordan asks.
“My… dad’s dad,” I answer.
“Your grandpa, is what normal people call it, Sam,” Jordan says in between chuckles.
“My Pop-Pop. His name is Moe and he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met,” I reply, putting my hands on my hips and puffing my cheeks out dramatically.
“Whatever, daddy’s girl. Anyway, you can’t expect to run a group of hormone-fueled teenagers with varying degrees of trauma and not lose your marbles,” they retort, a smug grin finding its way onto their lips.
“I guess so,” I pause, “but don’t you think she deserves some slack? Especially when she’s running on fumes? I mean, the girl’s cracking under the weight, and we’re the bricks. And how come you’re so sure we’re all traumatized? Rampart and Gossamer all seem perfectly well-adjusted. Most of the time.”
“Slack is for sweaters and gym ropes, not for leaders.” Jordan hums thoughtfully, an annoying habit they’ve picked up whenever they want to appear contemplative. “Also, everyone gets their superpowers by nearly dying. It’s, like, the only way to get them. Show me a superhero who doesn’t have some sort of trauma and I’ll show you a liar.”
As we turn the final corner, the dilapidated facade of abandoned music hall looms ahead. What was once a grand edifice now stood as a crumbling monument to better times. Jordan and I had made it our den of mischief–well, their den initially. I was the recent, and somewhat unwilling, addition.
“Fine, but if you’re so dismissive of her, what’s your great solution? Got a miracle fix for our fraying leader?” I press, my curiosity getting the better of me.
The smirk on Jordan’s face widens, a mischievous glint lighting up their eyes as they pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, tapping one out and placing it between their lips. “Like I said – therapy. Maybe some antipsychotics and some Camden weed.”
“Don’t light that thing up; you know how I feel about smoking,” I grumble, but the annoyance is superficial. I mostly just don’t want them smoking around me.
“Aww, you care,” Jordan mocks, tucking the unlit cigarette back into the pack and re-pocketing it. “By the way, little upgrade that just got done in between our misadventures – there’s a lock now. Here’s your key.”
They toss me a small key stamped out of whimsical, dog-patterned material. “How’d you get a lock put in? You… You don’t own this building, Jordan,” I ask, exasperated.
“I know a guy,” Jordan replies, taking out their own key, twisting it in the front door, and kneeing it open. “Come on, what did you expect? A straight answer?”
“Lead the way,” Jordan gestures toward the grand staircase, its worn-out steps covered in what appears to be a new, somewhat less dusty carpet runner. As I ascend, I note the cracked chandeliers overhead. They’re not working, of course, but there’s a string of battery-powered LED lights taped up along the railing. “Classy,” I murmur. “Wow, I can actually breathe,” I say, taking in the clearer air as we step onto the second floor. It’s still a derelict dump, but now it’s a derelict dump with cleaner air.
Jordan grins, waving a hand toward another flock of humming dehumidifiers. “I aim to please, or at least to not asphyxiate my guests.”
“But still aiming to infuriate them?” I point out, spotting the series of motivational posters plastered haphazardly across the peeling wallpaper. “Seriously, ‘Hang in There’? Did you steal that from a guidance counselor’s office?”
“They’re vintage,” Jordan insists, almost convincingly.
We step into the main hall, and it’s as if Jordan has transformed the place into an actual, somewhat habitable lair. I survey the main space. It’s… homier, if you squint. More couches, all mismatched but none overtly disgusting, have joined the seating arrangement. The carpet has been beaten into submission, or maybe even washed. Fold-out tables bear new trinkets: a stack of comic books, a mismatched set of dishes, even a potted plant wilting in the half-light.
“Did that plant just move?” I ask, eyes narrowing.
Jordan shrugs. “Either it’s possessed or just suffering from lack of photosynthesis. Your pick.”
“Great, a demon plant. What’s next, ghost rats?”
“Don’t joke, I’m still trying to banish them. Call for help! I need Ghostbusters!”
I look around again, thinking how this place is a true testament to the teen aesthetic: ‘If it’s functional and I didn’t pay for it, it’s fine.’ Still, the effort’s apparent, and oddly comforting. “What, no big screen TV for watching Saturday morning cartoons?” I quip, inspecting a foldable table with what appears to be a selection of snacks–chips, some soda cans, and even a plastic container of homemade cookies. I assume they are from someone else, because I guess Jordan doesn’t seem like the type to bake.
“Working on it,” Jordan says, shooting me a look as if I’ve just issued a challenge. “I’ll have you know, I’ve got top-tier connections for all your entertainment needs.”
“Do those top-tier connections also tell you where to acquire a collection of aromatic candles?” I point to a cluster of lit candles sitting atop an old fireplace mantle, their soft glow complementing the shafts of sunlight. The air possesses a mystifying array of scents, none of which complementing the other, all forming together into a vaguely floral, tea-shaped mass in my nostrils.
“Ambience is everything.” Jordan’s eyes meet mine, daring me to question further.
I decide not to, instead setting my newly acquired key on one of the tables. Then, I second guess myself and shove it into my pocket. “So, why are we here? Just to admire your domestic skills?”
Jordan snorts, flopping onto one of the less-suspicious couches and gesturing for me to join them. “As fun as it is to bask in your awe and admiration, we’ve got something that needs doing. A local nuisance called the Coyotes. Ever heard of them?”
“Coyotes? Like, the animal?” I ask, bemused as I choose the sturdiest looking armchair across from Jordan. “I didn’t realize we were animal control, now.”
“No, you dunce. They’re a local gang. Little more than kids running around causing mayhem. Graffiti, vandalism, theft–you know, the usual. They stole my weed. Twice. It’s about time someone taught them a lesson.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And you think teaching them a lesson will make our lives easier how, exactly?”
“Puppeteer’s stressed because she’s running all over Philadelphia putting out fires with no help. If we take some of the smaller problems off her plate, maybe she’ll have more time for group therapy or a suppository, whatever she needs to pull her head out of her ass,” Jordan explains, while I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to resist the allure of what they’re proposing.
“So, we’re becoming the neighborhood watch now? Is that it?” I ask. “Because that’s what they have cops for.”
Jordan scowls at me. “Hey, Sam, fun fact slash wake up call time – cops are useless and do not care about this shit. Much less this neighborhood. Why do you think there’s even a ‘youth gang’ to talk about? North, Northeast Philly, we’ve been abandoned by the cops, and the only thing we’ve got are local capes. Think of it less as neighborhood watch and more as neighborhood intervention.”
“Yeah, well, neighborhood intervention doesn’t usually involve beating people up,” I retort, trying to sound casual, but a part of me — the part that loves a good chase, that thrills at the thought of sinking my teeth into danger — flares up with interest. Uncomfortable interest. “People don’t just start doing crime for no reason. Maybe we can, I don’t know, get them an outlet?”
“Sam, you’re a superhero. Isn’t that what superheroes do? Keep the peace, protect the innocent, beat up bad guys? Sure, the Coyotes might not be on the same level as bio-terrorists, but they’re not innocent. And what sort of outlet, you offering to be their punching bag, too, you masochist?” Jordan lectures, folding their arms over their chest, kicking their feet up onto their couch.
“But what makes us qualified to be their judge and jury? We’re kids too, Jordan. They’re kids. They need, I don’t know, a social worker. CPS!” I reply, exasperated.
“You’re so naive, Sam, it’s insane. Do you know what CPS does to kids in broken homes?” Jordan asks, folding their arms up tighter. “They just put them in worse, even more broken homes. Or the Child Services person comes to investigate, and the mommy puts on a good face for a day and says to the kid, if you say anything, I’ll lock you in the basement and beat you, and nothing gets done. I love that you see the world as it ought to be, but we have to handle the world as it is. We have something that CPS and the Coyotes don’t–“
“–Power?” I cut them off, my voice rising. “That’s not a good enough reason to go knocking heads.”
Jordan leans forward, resting their elbows on their knees. “Look, I’m not saying we go in there like it’s some video game rampage. We can start your way, go in with the talk-no-jutsu, convince them to give up their graffiti-spraying, smash-and-grabbing ways. Best-case scenario, we scare them into behaving because you have giant fuckoff shark teeth and I’m tall and intimidating.”
“Scare tactics,” I snort. “Great.”
“And if that doesn’t work, I can make their hideout so small, they’ll have to hold their meetings in a shoebox.”
I look at Jordan, contemplating the risks. The Coyotes are just kids, not some bloodthirsty criminals–yet. And there’s a possibility we might get in trouble, not just with the law but with our own people. Diane wouldn’t be thrilled, and my parents? Best not to go there. Plus, there’s always the possibility that we just make things worse. But really, I’m just looking for reasons – fishing for good reasons to not get in a fight with someone, struggling with everything I’ve been taught as a child and the reality of what appears to be an increasingly growing sense of bloodlust.
I really don’t like it.
“Okay, let’s say we decide to do this,” I start, my voice tinged with a combination of dread and curiosity. “What’s the plan? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
Jordan leans back on the couch, steepling their fingers as if savoring the moment. “Simple. We find them — already done that part a couple of days ago — and then we have two routes. We either talk them into backing off, or we… encourage them to rethink their priorities.”
“‘Encourage them’? That sounds dangerously close to intimidation,” I roll, leaning back against the couch’s armrest. “You mean beat them up, right?”
“Isn’t that the whole point of wearing a costume and taking on a moniker? People find ‘Safeguard’ and ‘Bloodhound’ a lot scarier than ‘Jordan’ and ‘Sam’. Hopefully we won’t need to beat them up. Like I said, your big fuckoff teeth are a great motivator. Just say some stupid confident shit like you did before when you lied to that dude’s face about wearing a wire.” Jordan replies, shrugging their shoulders. “Look, Sam, sometimes fear is the best motivator. We’re ideally not going to hurt them, just show them that their actions have… bigger consequences than they might’ve thought.”
“And what happens when those consequences come back to bite us in the ass? What if one of them also has ‘the potential’ and their powers manifest right then and there?” I reply, trying to think out the consequences myself, trying to give myself reasons.
Jordan pauses, contemplating my question. “Do you think we’re gonna beat one of them up so bad they’re close to death? You don’t, like, have to bite people. Haven’t you learned how to throw a punch yet? Besides, if we do nothing, the status quo remains, and is that really better?”
“I’m not saying we do nothing, but you know, there’s a difference between proactive and reckless,” I shoot back.
“And there’s a difference between caution and paralysis. You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs, Sam. You want to be a superhero? Here’s your chance – beat up some baddies.”
“That’s what people say to justify all sorts of messed-up stuff, Jordan. I can’t decide what’s… good and evil. That’s not for me.”
Jordan scoffs. “Spare me the moral relativism, Nietzsche. These guys steal, they cause trouble, they smash up the windows of local stores and rob them at night for drug money. Everyone in the neighborhood hates them. They group up on young ladies and harass them. If we can’t pick a target this obviously bad then what are you even here for? Picking up dog shit and throwing away litter?”
I look away, conflicted. On one hand, Jordan’s plan could seriously backfire, pull us into deeper trouble, or compromise our already shaky standing as heroes–or villains, depending on who you ask. On the other hand, they’re right; I could really use a win, a straightforward problem to solve, a purpose that cuts through the incessant noise in my head.
“Look, I get it. These guys are a problem,” I finally say, forcing the words out, trying to pick each sentence carefully, every word, every sound. “But, G-d, Jordan, what if we go down a path we can’t return from? What if we become what we fight against?”
Jordan leans forward, locking eyes with me. “Then we’ll have each other to pull us back from the brink. That’s why we’re in this together, right? To keep each other in check.”
I look into Jordan’s eyes, seeing not just the excitement but also a certain kind of desperation. It’s the same feeling that often keeps me up at night — an insatiable need to do something, anything, to break the monotony, to feel like we’re more than just the sum of our questionable decisions and unrealized potential.
I think about my family, about the kind of hero I want to be, the person I want to become. I weigh these monumental aspirations against the immediate reality: a group of punks who think they own the neighborhood, who have never faced real consequences. My entire body feels tense, like a coil about to snap. I’m sure if you caught these Coyotes on a good day they’d be just some other kid. Maybe I wouldn’t have to dress up in a costume and try to scare them straight. But I don’t have any street smarts, woefully isolated from real life myself, someone who’s never known pain and consequence until one horrific day last spring.
“Alright,” I exhale, as if letting go of a burden I didn’t even know I was carrying. “I’m in. But if this goes south, we pull out immediately. No escalation, no grandstanding. We go in, deliver the message, and get out.”
Jordan’s grin broadens, an electric kind of triumph lighting up their face. “You won’t regret it, Sam. I’ll be careful, promise.”
“Yeah, well, your version of ‘careful’ usually warrants a trip to the ER,” I roll my eyes, throwing my backpack around and beginning to extricate (that means ‘take out’) my costume from it. “Don’t watch me get changed.”
“And your version of ‘careful’ usually involves brooding over every decision like it’s a life-or-death game of chess. We balance each other out,” Jordan replies, turning around and away from me. “Let’s go teach some Coyotes to howl a different tune.”
As the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of twilight, Jordan and I make our way towards the Tacony-Palmyra bridge. We navigate through the labyrinthine streets, the tension mounting with each step we take. We’re dressed in our respective costumes, masks securely in place, identities hidden yet laid bare by the intentions we carry. My jawpiece clacks when I take a particularly firm step, while the shadows wrap around Jordan like an old friend, hiding their figure in the gloom.
We reach the abandoned road that once connected Route 73 to the bridge, a relic of urban neglect, its only occupants now the delinquent Coyotes. The atmosphere is thick with the stench of gasoline and the polluted Delaware River, a testament to the decline this area has seen over the years. The underpass looms ahead like a dark cavern, its mouth spray-painted with a kaleidoscope of graffiti–tags, crude drawings, and coded messages that serve as territorial markers. Messages, symbols, and abstract shapes dominate the space, each layer a testament to a subculture that has declared its existence here, in this urban blind spot.
We pause at the edge of this forgotten space, hidden in the gathering darkness. This is the point of no return; stepping forward means we’re committing, for better or worse. We step into the underpass, each footfall echoing as we descend into the Coyotes’ den, ready to teach them that some territories aren’t theirs to claim. Our footsteps crunch against the gravel and debris scattered on the ground, blending with the ambient sounds of distant traffic and the lapping of the Delaware River’s murky waters against its banks. It’s a symphony of urban decay, the broken asphalt and concrete creating a harsh backdrop to the natural river that once nourished this land.
As we inch closer, I notice a circle of light emanating from beneath the underpass. We spot them — five figures clustered around a cheap plastic poker table, like moths to a flickering flame. The table is awash with cards, some face up, some face down, and a scattering of crumpled bills and loose coins and plastic bags. Each of them is absorbed in their own world — some engrossed in the poker game, others flicking through their phones with detached interest.
The one who catches my eye most vividly is a man who seems like he’s straddling multiple worlds at once. His skin is a pale canvas covered in ink; tattoos wind their way up his arms and neck, disappearing into the cornrows that sit atop his head, incongruous against his light skin. His chest, displayed prominently through an open track jacket, features a tapestry of more tattoos, with names and imagery intermixed at seemingly random. Plus, I’m too far away to really read them right now. The getup is completed by soccer shorts and glaringly orange sneakers. As he leans back in his chair, the wind chime earrings that adorn his earlobes catch what little light there is, creating a small glimmer, a spark of light like a fire.
The four others around the table are a mix of varying skin tones and features. One has curly hair and an oily, visibly greasy skin tone alight with olive and tan, lazily flipping a pocketknife in one hand. Another, with lighter skin and freckles, seems engrossed in a mobile game, his thumbs dancing across the screen. The third is bronze-skinned with striking cheekbones, scrolling endlessly through social media, while the last, darker-skinned with a sharp nose and tight cornrows, seems to be the dealer, distributing cards with a bored expertise. Their attire mirrors each other loosely – black top, black bottom, and bright, orange (the fruit) orange (the color) shoes, garish and violent and flame-like.
All five are united in their oblivion, eyes glued to their poker game or phones, unaware that the boundaries of their reclaimed kingdom are about to be contested.
“That’s Aaron,” Jordan whispers, gesturing towards the one with the wind-chime earrings. “He’s what passes for a leader for these sad sacks.”
I nod silently.
“Ready?” Jordan asks.
I nod again.
We halt at the fringe of their territory, hidden by the encroaching night. A silent exchange of glances with Jordan affirms our mutual resolution. We are intruders here, certainly, but perhaps also catalysts, ushering in a change that this stagnant corner of the city might just need. With a final, measured breath, we step fully into the underpass, letting our footfalls announce our entry into the Coyotes’ den. And so begins our gambit, an interplay of fear, respect, and the audacious hope that we can redefine the rules of this forsaken place.
Our footsteps are loud, announced, unhidden now. I’m not sure if the gravel they set out was an intentional choice or not, but it certainly makes for an effective anti-stealth coating – I can’t fathom a way anyone who’s groundbound could approach this place without being noticed. I puff my chest up a little, flattened under my armor padding. I tighten my fists. I steel my resolve.
Jordan stands closely behind me, clicking their white helmet into place, the rest of their figure totally hidden underneath their cloak. How they manage to maneuver so elegantly in what must be two inch platform boots is a mystery to me, because the one time I tried wearing their shoes I fell over near instantly.
I shake my head to myself, trying to clear the distractions from my head. Shoes stacking on, Jordan is at least a head and a half taller than me, but I’m still my 5’6″ self, even in cleats. Not exactly the picture of intimidation, especially with my visible femininity.
I’m not stupid. I know what I look like.
“Cards down, boys, it looks like we have visitors,” I can hear Aaron say, his voice a little nasal, a little rough. He picks up a lit cigarette from an ashtray and leans back in a plastic lawn chair, straining the legs while we let the light cast its way over us. I watch Jordan looking around.
“Try to get them between the overpass pillars,” Jordan whispers. “My powers only need four contiguous surfaces. The pillars, the ground, the overpass bottom.”
I don’t visually acknowledge their instructions. Instead, I keep my hands by my sides, fingers balled up in tight little sushi rolls. Aaron stares at the end of his cigarette for a moment, puts it between his lips, takes a drag. All the other Coyotes turn their attention towards the two of us, in varying states of disbelief.
Then, the laughter comes. Aaron’s cigarette nearly falls out his mouth, his ear jewelry rattling as he almost falls out of his chair with deep, throaty cackles. The other Coyotes join him near instantaneously, braying like hyenas. I try not to let it get to me. I try not to let it get to me. I try, and fail, not to let it get to me, feeling my cheeks go warm with embarrassment.
“Aren’t you two kids a month and a half early for Halloween? This spot’s taken. Go play in traffic,” The greasy one says, flicking his knife at us and gesturing it towards the nearby bridge. I glance around without moving my face or head, trying to take stock of what’s available to me. Wooden crates, milk crates, all stocked with flammables, and the charred remains of a dozen past fires. Outside the underpass, a single storage container, like the kind they put on ships doing international shipping, and a beaten up looking Ford F150 covered in amateurish hot rod flames clearly spray painted on. The backside looks beaten up, with chains and padlocks dangling off it, and the front isn’t too hot either. I assess the Coyotes for guns, and breathe a sigh of relief when no stance appears to indicate one.
That, of course, does not mean that I’m not about to get shot. It just lowers the likelihood.
That’s okay, though. I can handle getting shot anywhere but the head, I think.
I hope.
“Yeah, I see the storage container too,” Jordan whispers, as if reading my thoughts, their voice distorted into a low buzz by their voice changer now that it’s been switched on.
“What are y’all, deaf? Beat it. This isn’t a place for girls in costumes,” Aaron repeats, gesturing his cigarette towards us. I feel his piercing stare, and my body continues to heat up – I’m already getting uncomfortably sweaty in my costume.
“I mean, at least one girl. Too young for me though. Look, no tits at all on her,” The greasy-skinned one chimes to his buddies, reaching underneath the table. There’s a rustling of metal, and I feel my heart pulse a little harder as I see him withdrawing a pipe from below the table, covered in dark brown stains.
“Tits, tits, tits, that’s all you think about, man. What about the ass? Turn around, mamacita, let’s see what you’re packing!” The dark-skinned one says, lazily shuffling his deck. He removes one hand to make a swirling motion with his fingers, like he’s beckoning me to turn around. I stand still, trying not to let the goading get to me. Just waiting for my opportunity to get a word in edgewise.
“Hey, I don’t think you can say that anymore, man. Like, packing. I’m pretty sure that’s like… a gay thing or something.” The only other white one – I’m guessing – besides Aaron says.
“Man, shut the fuck up,” Aaron cuts in, backhanding him, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to draw a wince. I turn my head to the right, watching as the space between the two pillars Jordan and I are standing near starts to swell and stretch. “Look at her. She’s like, twelve. Y’all wanna go beat up a twelve year old for me?”
“Hell no, dawg. That’s a no from me,” the dealer says, and I take two steps forward. I hear crunching behind me, one step from Jordan. It makes sense for them to hang back a little bit – their power is better at range, and I’m the stronger of the two of us, the one with more fighting acumen and athleticism. We’ve already talked this over. “Not gonna beat up anyone’s ankle biter. Just light her on fire or something.”
“Dude,” Aaron sighs, staring up at the bottom of the overpass, looming overhead. The electric lantern on the table flickers, just a little bit. “Okay, look, you understand that most people will see ‘lighting someone on fire’ as a much worse offense than, like, scaring them a little with a slap or two, right? Like, tell me you understand that. That the fire is worse. You get it, right?”
“Naw, man. Punching’s worse,” the dealer replies, nonchalantly.
“You light him on fire then. Her, whatever,” Aaron challenges.
“Naw,” the dealer replies. “Look, they aren’t even going anywhere. They’re just fuckin’ staring at us. You really need to scare off some second graders? Let’s just clean out their lunch money.”
“Yo, ladies! You wanna play some fucking Texas Hold’em?” the greasy one says, gesturing his knife in our general direction.
“How you know that other one’s a lady? It’s just dressed like a fuckin’ funeral, man. Could be a dude,” the dark-skinned one cuts in. I take another two steps forward.
“Or just a fatty,” the greasy one retorts. “Which’d be even better.”
“Weirdo,”
“Or a ladydude,” the other white one says, seeming a little too excited about the concept.
“Man, shut the fuck up,” Aaron repeats, slapping him again, twice this time. “Fucking weirdo. Jesus. You need to stop looking at those fucking porn comics, dude. They’re rotting your head.”
“‘ey, what’s going on?” the bronze-skinned one finally says, looking up from his phone. “Oh, fuck, when did those guys get there?”
Aaron sighs, slumping into the poker table until his forehead makes contact with the plastic. “Yo! Lady one and two! Are you going to fuckin’ say something or just stand there like a bunch’a fuckin spazoids?”
“Go play in traffic, kids,” the greasy one repeats.
I hear Jordan sigh, stepping out in front of me. “Coyotes!” They yell, their voice electronically distorted into a thick rumble. They pronounce it with two syllables – coy yohts – which sounds a little off to me, but I’m certainly not gonna say anything about it. I realize, with a sharp twist of fear in my throat, that I’m about to lose the ability to talk these people down.
If that was even a possibility in the first place, of course.
“Coyotes, dumbass. Kai-yo-tees. Say it right,” Aaron interrupts, pronouncing it the way I’m more familiar with.
“Coyotes,” Jordan repeats. “You’ve been terrorizing this neighborhood for too long with your fuckin’ antics. That stops today. No more graffiti-ing, no more catcalling, no more muggings. No more of your filth in this town’s veins. You can either do the right thing and pack your shit up for some place that wants you more – maybe Camden – or we’ll make you pack it up. Bridge is right there. That piece of shit junker car still works, right?”
I feel my entire body shaking. I can tell that Jordan’s been practicing this speech – for what, days? Weeks? Months? Either way, I feel embarrassed by my freezing up. My having-nothing-to-say. I’m supposed to be the real superhero of the two of us, and Jordan’s here making the cool speeches, not me.
I have totally lost the plan – the idea that we can talk these people down.
I blew it. I froze up.
I don’t like the idea that some part of my body froze up on purpose. So I discard it, clenching myself all the way up, getting ready for a fight.
The Coyotes all turn to us now, unified in purpose, like a pack of starving dogs. All traces of good humor have been wiped from their face, replaced with only the sort of viscous malice that a spurned authority figure could wear. These people aren’t used to anyone not just rolling over for them and showing their bellies. I can just smell it in the air. They’re not used to being talked back to.
“Ay, can someone repeat that for me?” The bronze-skinned one says, standing up and slowly ambling over to their pick-up truck. They shout loud enough to be heard, as they pull chains loose, wrapping them around their fists, letting them dangle. “Because it sounds to me like some pissy little brats think they can roll in and play superhero in our neighborhood. In our turf! Surely that’s not what they’re saying, right?”
Aaron remains seated, flicking his head to the one with a pipe already prepared, the greasy one. He flashes a grin and gets up, thumping his pipe against the table, jostling a bunch of plastic chips around. “No, no, I think we heard them correctly. Why don’t you two go and teach these little ladies a lesson in manners?” Aaron orders, holding his cigarette and lighting it up between his closed palms.
I step out in front of Jordan. I bare my teeth, sharp and bright in the unnatural light, and watch them recoil, a momentary flinch from all involved that gives me the tiniest bit of satisfaction. “I’m the Big Bad Wolf, and this neighborhood is under my protection. Get out before I bite your dicks off.”
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