Action Figures - Issue One: Secret Origins (33 page)

A little life comes back into Stuart’s face. He’s about to say something when the sound of a body getting slammed into a locker catches our attention.

“Watch where you’re walking, killer,” Angus says. He and Gerry press in on Ronny Vick like the walls of a trash compactor.

“Yeah, watch your step, killer,” Gerry says. “You bump into me again? I might have to act in selfdefense, get it?”

“Leave him alone.”

Four jaws drop, mine among them.

“Say what?” Angus says, sounding as completely shocked as Ronny looks.

“Did I stutter?” Stuart says.

“Leave him—? Are you kidding me?” Gerry says. “Stuart, this is the kid—”

“I know who he is, Gerry,” Stuarts says slowly, each word its own tiny sentence, “and I’m telling you, leave him alone.”

Angus waves his arms, a precursor to a rant, but Gerry silences him with a backhand slap to the chest and a shake of his head. He throws a small nod at Stuart, a gesture of respect, if you can believe it, and leads Angus away.

“What are you waiting for? Get out of here,” Stuart says. Ronny turns to leave, glances back for final approval, or maybe to make sure Stuart’s not going to nail him with a sucker-punch, and vanishes down a
side corridor.

Stuart falls back against his locker, his body shuddering with great racking breaths, sobs without any accompanying tears.

“Stuart?” I touch his shoulder. His muscles vibrate under my fingers like he’s in the throes of a seizure.

“He’s not a killer,” Stuart says. “All weekend I’ve been thinking about the day Ronny was convicted. The judge, right before sentencing, he gave Ronny a chance to say something to me, my parents. All he could do was cry and say he was sorry. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to. I wanted him to be a monster, but he wasn’t—isn’t. He’s nothing like...”

And then it clicks: he’s nothing like Minotaur, a man who would start a fight in the middle of a crowded city street and hurl a car filled with people and not give a damn about who got hurt or killed in the process. Stuart wanted someone easy to hate, a coldblooded murderer, but what he got was a terrified boy who would have done anything to take back the worst thing he’d ever done.

“Ronny’s not...Ronny’s nothing but a stupid kid who made a stupid mistake,” Stuart says, a strange look passing over Stuart’s face. Acceptance, maybe?

“I think I just witnessed an epiphany,” I say, and Stuart gives me a wonky smile.

“Dunno. Never had one before.”

And with that, he tosses his backpack over his shoulder and takes off for homeroom like it’s another ordinary day. I guess this is a week for profound personal breakthroughs, although I can’t help but feel Stuart’s only halfway through his particular dark tunnel.

Maybe I can guide him the rest of the way.

Thanksgiving begins early in the Hauser household. Mom gets up with the sunrise to begin the prep work for the big meal, and I know that sounds a little nuts when you consider she’s only cooking for three people, but Mom much prefers doing everything herself to getting a helping hand from anyone, including me. Ask her
Is there anything I can do to help?
and she’ll tell you with a sweet smile
Yes. Get out of my kitchen.

Fine by me because, thanks to the miracle of Skype, I’m able to indulge in my favorite Thanksgiving tradition. A few minutes before nine I fire up my laptop, set it on the coffee table, and together Dad and I watch the Macy’s parade. My Internet simulcast, while brilliant, is a weak substitute for the real deal, but like Mom said, we have to adjust to life as it is, not try to force it back to what it was.

As if to drive that point home, Mom wanders into the living room to let me know there’s a fresh pot of coffee available, and she and Dad see each other for the first time since we moved. There’s a long, awkward silence broken only by the sound of the
Today
show hosts nattering on about the SpongeBob SquarePants balloon.

“Hello, Brian,” Mom says.

“Hey Christina,” Dad says.

There’s nothing behind the exchange, no tension or animosity, but no warmth either. Whatever connection they once shared, it’s gone.

Mom tips her head, a wordless reminder to me about the coffee, then slips back into the kitchen. Dad watches her leave and lets out a sigh (of relief or of res
ignation, I can’t guess), then admirably, if clumsily, guides the morning back onto a happier track by wondering aloud “Why do so many of these marching bands have giant feather-dusters on their hats? What happened to the classy marching band hats they had when I was a kid?”

“What, you mean the ones that look like they were stolen off a Buckingham Palace guard?”

“Those are the ones.”

“They make everyone look like a giant Q-tip.”

“I’ll have you know, those were high fashion for marching bands in my day.”

“Meaning the marching band had to be high to wear those butt-ugly things.”

And so goes the riffing, non-stop, growing progressively snarkier, until Santa Claus crosses the finish line on a giant float made to look like a snow-covered roof. In years past this made me stupidly happy because, as far as I was concerned, that marked the official start of Christmas. This year that joy is tempered by the fact it also means my Thanksgiving with Dad is over.

“This was fun,” he says, trying so hard not to let me see he’s getting choked up.

“Yeah. It was. Have a safe drive and say hi to Uncle Tyler for me.”

Dad smiles, says he loves me, and shuts his webcam off without saying goodbye.

A powerful urge to shut myself in my bedroom for the rest of the day hits, but I’m not allowing myself any self-pity today. None. Done with it. It’s hard not having my dad here, but I have no right to be miserable.

At three o’clock on the nose, the doorbell rings.

Stuart is almost unrecognizable. His hair is combed and tied back into a tidy ponytail, his jeans are bright blue and devoid of a single rip and, shock of shocks, his shirt has a collar. And buttons.

“Hey,” he says, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet.

“Hey. Come on in.” He steps into the house and looks around like it’s the first time he’s been here. It’s strange to see him so anxious.

Granddad rises from the couch to greet Stuart with a big manly handshake. “Stuart,” he says.

“Greg m’man,” Stuart says. “How’s it hanging?”

“It’s hanging. That’s all it does at my age.”

Ew. So did not need to hear that.

Stuart, as he tends to do, straightens up when Mom enters, surrounded by an aura of yummy kitchen aromas. If he says my mother smells delicious I’m going to scream.

“Hi, Stuart,” she says.

“Ms. Hauser,” Stuart says.

“Christina,” Mom corrects. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for inviting me. It...” Stuarts fidgets, clears his throat. “It means a lot to me. I, uh, I don’t know if Carrie told you—”

“She explained it to me,” Mom says. “She explained enough.”

She squeezes Stuart’s shoulder and wishes him a happy Thanksgiving. Stuart’s eyes well up. For the first time in a long time, it is a happy Thanksgiving for him.

THIRTY-THREE

There’s something you should know about me: I am absolutely mental for the Christmas.

I mean I do not simply love Christmastime; I mean I
looooooooooooovvvvvee
Christmastime. I love everything about it (okay, almost everything; I can do without the rampant commercialism). From Black Friday on, I am in full-blown jolly holiday mode. Red, white, and green dominate my wardrobe color scheme, Christmas songs take over the number two slot in my mental playlist (after Bruce, of course), and I pull out my favorite adorable elf hat, a long green-and-white striped stocking cap Grandma Hauser made for me years ago. I look like a total dork in it, but who cares? I am the avatar of the Christmas spirit. Nothing can bring me down.

Yes, my cock-eyed holiday optimism manages to gloss over any lingering angst over my fractured family, over the unresolved looming threat of leaving Kingsport, over the gnawing (though diminished) anxiety that one of Minotaur’s buddies might drop in to say hi in violent, vengeful fashion, and over my still-in-effect grounding by Concorde.

“In fact,” I announce to everyone over post-school peppermint mochaccinos (official Christmas beverage of Caroline Dakota Hauser), “I am going to draw from my bottomless well of Christmas cheer to take care of a few things.”

“Such as?” Stuart says.

“For starters, after the New Year I’m going to go see the math tutor after school once or twice a week to try to get my math scores up.”

“Voluntarily exposing yourself to more math,” Sara says. “Brave girl.”

“That’s the easy one,” I say. “I’m also going to talk to Concorde about us.”

Matt perks up. “What do you mean, talk to him about us?”

“I mean I was going to talk to him about reconsidering his ground order on me, but then I thought I could use the opportunity to talk to him about us. I mean, it’s obvious he doesn’t like us, but he’s never said why. I thought if I could get him to open up a little...”

“I think that’s something we should all be in on,” Matt says. “If it affects the whole team, we should all be there.”

“That might come across like we’re ganging up on him,” I say, a partial lie. “I think it’d be better if I play team ambassador and speak for all of us.”

“Why you? If anyone is going to represent the team, I think it should be me.” Matt looks to the others for approval but they’re all staring intently into their respective cups. “What? Why shouldn’t I talk to Concorde?”

“Dude, Concorde hates your guts,” Stuart says.

“Exactly,” Sara says. “You two can’t be in the same room for more than five seconds without getting on each other’s nerves.”

“Because Concorde hates your guts.”

“Carrie can talk to Concorde without cheesing him off. Let her handle it.”

“Maybe we should do it together,” Matt says to me.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.

“Why not?”

Oh, how to put this delicately?

“Because Carrie knows how to be tactful and you don’t,” Sara says. “You’d go in with a chip on your shoulder and it would turn into another stupid shouting match and we’d all end up worse off than we are now. Carrie’s the best person to speak for the team so let her do it and stop acting like you’re our leader.”

Matt’s lips press together, damming back a flood of profanity. “Fine. I don’t care,” he says as he stands and wrestles himself into his jacket. “Let her do it since I’m apparently so incapable—”

“Matt, that’s not—” I say, but he’s halfway across the coffee shop and making a beeline for the door.

“What was that you were saying about tact?” Stuart says.

“He wasn’t taking the hint,” Sara says unapologetically. “As usual.”

“Still,” Missy says. “Harsh.”

“I’ll be right back,” I say and I race after Matt. I call out his name but he ignores me and crosses the street to put some distance between us. “Will you slow down? I’m trying to talk to you!”

“Why? You have it all covered,” he says. “You don’t need me around screwing everything up.”

“Oh my God, will you stop acting like such a child?”

He rounds on me. “Oh, I’m immature too?”

All right. If this is how it’s going to be, then let’s go.

“Yes, Matt, you are, and that’s half your problem.”

“Yeah? What’s the other half?”

“That you have no mental filters whatsoever. You say whatever’s on your mind, and worse, you don’t care if you step on people’s toes—and when it comes to Concorde you go out of your way to act like a tool.” Matt starts in with a comeback. I roll over it. “Remember what Natalie told us? You’re not going to get anywhere with him if you can’t put a lid on the attitude.”

“I wasn’t going to go in with an attitude.”

“Oh, really? Then why does everyone want
me
to talk to him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the team leader,” he says, dripping with resentment.

“I am not the team leader.”

“Well, obviously
I’m
not.”

“And whose fault is that? Don’t blame me because no one thinks you can do the job.”

Now it’s my turn to storm off, but I’m not angry. Really, I’m not, I’m simply withdrawing from an argument I know I can’t win.

So yeah, not angry, but man, is he testing my Christmas spirit.

“Looks like we’ll have to move homework night
to my place,” I say upon my return. My mochaccino has gotten cold and sludgy.

“He is such a big baby,” Sara says. “I bet he’ll be fuming about this all weekend long.”

“Maybe I should talk to him when he’s cooled down a little.”

“No, leave him alone and let him fume. That’s what we always do when he gets in one of his stupid moods.”

There it is again, that impulse to step away from an uncomfortable situation and hope it untangles itself. I’m about to protest but Stuart beats me to it.

“Ignoring the problem won’t make it go away,” he says with a brief glance in my direction. “I’ll talk to him.”

“No,” I say, “I need to be the one to smooth this out. I’m the one he’s mad at.”

“You sure?”

No, but I can’t leave this hanging. Somehow this is my fault and “I have to make things right between us,” I say.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Sara says. “Call me when you’re done; let me know if you’ve succeeded in pulling Captain Crankypants’ head out of his butt.”

“Hey there, Captain Crankypants.”

Matt scowls at me from behind his magazine. “Leave me alone,” he says. “Not in the mood.”

I let myself into his room and shut the door. His room, shockingly, is not a mess, per se; there’re no piles of laundry on the floor or unwashed dishes stacked up on his nightstand, nothing like that. What his bedroom is is cluttered, with a dazzling variety of movie memo
rabilia—posters, replica props, action figures, you name it. Universal movie monsters parade across the back of his desk. Neo, Trinity, and Morpheus stare at me from one wall, Indiana Jones from another. A pair of lightsabers, one red and one blue, lean in a corner. Buzz Lightyear falls with style above Matt’s head, suspended from the ceiling by fishing line. Éowyn’s battle against the Witch-King of Angmar is recreated in miniature atop a tall bureau.