Monstress (12 page)

W
e have not seen The Gas for almost two weeks since the battle. At lunch Luc and I split up, eavesdropping on conversations, trying to piece together the fate of our nemesis.

After school we regroup on the library roof. “I heard Suzy Cheerleader talking to one of the vice principals,” Luc says. “Brandon's in the hospital.”

“The Gas will be fine,” I tell him, staring out onto the campus quad. We stay low, speaking in whispers.

“Did you hear me? He's in the hospital. His arm needs some sort of operation. Skin grafts or something. What did you put in that thing anyway?”

Skin grafts. Then the body of my enemy is mutating as well. Fascinating. “Mercury fulminate, chloride of azode, some other chemicals. The usual.” I keep an eye out until I finally spot Tenzil, blanketing the school with his propaganda. I blame Tenzil, an ally of The Gas, for our corrupt student government. As vice president, he's the person who rejected my proposal for a school trip to next year's Comic Book Convention, and gave my money to varsity track instead.

I pull the yo-yo from my bag. “What the hell is that?” Luc asks.

“Quiet.” This moment requires silence and the utmost precision.

Tenzil comes closer as I loop the string round and round my finger until I've cut off circulation. I raise my hand over the edge. But suddenly Luc grabs my wrist. “Don't,” he says, trying to bring me back.

I take a quick foot to his stomach, freeing myself from his clutches. “If we don't get him, he'll get us.”

“What are you talking about?” Luc asks, as if he doesn't already know. He reaches for my wrist again, but he's too slow: I snap my hand forward, letting go of the yo-yo for its spectacular debut.

The double disk drops straight to the ground, deadly with the force and weight of marble. But Tenzil is gone, and the yo-yo dangles at the string's end, lifeless, refusing to wind its way back up to me. “Where is he?” I say. “Where the fuck did he go?” I crane my neck over the edge, scanning the quad, the locker bay, anywhere someone might hide from me. But Tenzil is nowhere to be found. “Traitor!” I accuse Luc. But when I turn, he too is gone.

I take a quick inventory of my surroundings.

No traces.

I
keep no school ID, have no driver's permit. I tossed my Social Security card once I had committed the number to memory. Anonymity keeps me safe.

I stop by Ollie's Market on the way home. Ollie stands behind the counter, a sixty-something grump in a sweat-stained undershirt, venting his frustrations to anyone who'll listen. At his side is Sasha the Amputee, Ollie's half retriever, half something else. Sasha's right hind leg was the only casualty of the last holdup, which Ollie swears, despite the ski masks, was done by Filipino gangsters. “Filipinos!” he curses to the air. “Stealing this and stealing that!”

He makes this so easy.

My mutant biology hides that part of me he would fear. Ollie continues complaining and accusing, unaware that a shape-shifter stands before him. I tell him I know exactly how he feels, that they really can't be trusted, that they're a dangerous and deadly breed, as my hand fingers its way to the mini-rack of candy bars at my side.

But Sasha sees. The mutt snarls, her snout pointed at me, accusing me.
Go ahead,
I dare her.
Hobble after me and you'll lose another, you damaged bitch.
Mission accomplished, I tell Ollie goodbye, and press my heel onto Sasha's front paw as I walk out the door. She lets out a pathetic yelp. “Sorry.” I smile at Ollie, petting the dog's head.

I exit the store and make a sharp right into an alleyway. I cross a four-way intersection diagonally, dodging cars and buses. I make a left, a right, and another right. I round corner after corner until the geometry of the city swallows me whole and it's safe for me to eat.

T
he shades are drawn when I enter our apartment. I hear movement from the bedroom. “Mom?”

I open her door. “Mom.” She's on the floor, lying on her side. Laid out beside her is my father's uniform, still wrapped in plastic on a wire hanger. She reaches out to it, moving her thumb back and forth over a shiny gold button.

I give her a shot of Johnnie Walker. I pour her another and then another, and she goes on about how Lex doesn't love her, that the evil in men will always kill her, more and more slowly each time. “All the time. All the time this happens. Tell your father to stop it, please.” She weeps into my chest, clinging to my shirt. Streaks of blood stain her hands. She's been cutting herself again.

An orphaned boy sees a bat flying through a window. The last son of Krypton dreams of the afterglow of his dead home world. All heroes have their omens; this blood will be mine.

“I will,” I tell her. “I swear it.” But she cannot hear my oath.

In conclusion, he is no longer the Green Lantern. With a final surge of power, Hal Jordan transforms himself into Parallax, a master of space and dimension. His only agenda: to destroy time, to interrupt for good the linearity of history. With one hand he will knock past, present, and future out of order; he will be the judge of who may live, who will die, and who will never have existed at all. Time will move forward, time will move back, until it collides with itself, until what is left is the Zero Hour, and all that has gone wrong can finally be set right.

Villains and heroes don't ask for the power they're given: Destiny, Fate, and Luck drop it on us like a star, and we have no choice but to use it.

Tonight I must enter the fray.

I
paint black around my eyes, like a domino mask, erasing the traces of who I am.

Mother's future slips into Mother's past as I don my father's uniform jacket. It fits perfectly; I never knew our bodies were the same. Gold buttons sparkle on my chest, badges adorn my arms. To the collar I attach a cape, a long piece of cloth light enough that it does not impede my speed, dark enough that it keeps me wrapped in night shadows. All superassassins rely on the darkness.

I place my ammunition—segments of aluminum pipe filled with impact-sensitive explosives—in a leather pouch attached to my belt. I secure the slingshot in my front belt loop; the yo-yo I keep in an oversized pocket on my pant leg.

Midnight strikes. I climb out the window, descend the fire escape, and run through the city, staying in back alleys and on unlit streets. I keep an eye out for any and all enemies who dare to venture into the night. Though they are many and I am one, I will fight this battle alone. I have no need for Luc anymore. Sidekicks are extraneous; they give up the fight too easily. Robin was killed off for a reason after all.

I make my way to the abandoned projects. I enter through the back, and blast open the door to the stairwell. I fly up seven, eight, nine flights. I need to go higher.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen flights. I must go higher.

I reach the roof. I walk along its perimeter. Night wind howls all around, blowing my cape behind me like a black ghost in tow.

I peer over the edge; the city itself has become a grid. Black streets and white sidewalks crisscross, framing city blocks like tiny pictures, a page of panels with too many scenes. But somewhere in all of this I know my enemy lurks, waiting for me to strike, daring me to cross the white borders and enter the battle. I will wait for him every night if I have to.

I take out the slingshot. I load the ammunition and pull back the sling. I aim, ready at any moment to let go.

Help

I
n our battle against the Beatles, it was my Uncle Willie who threw the first punch, and for that, he said, he should have been knighted. I didn't argue.

We fought them in 1966, the year they played Araneta Coliseum in Manila. They were scheduled to leave two days later, and as executive director of VIP Travel at Manila International Airport, it was Uncle Willie's job to make sure the Beatles' travel went smoothly, that no press or paparazzi detain them. But the morning after their concert, Imelda Marcos demanded one more show: a Royal Command Performance for the First Lady. When reporters asked the Beatles for their reply, they said, supposedly, “If the First Lady wants to see us, why doesn't she come up to our room for a special exhibition?” Then they walked away, all the newspapers wrote, laughing.

Uncle Willie took it hard.

He called me that night. “It's an emergency,” he said, “come quick!” He hung up before I could speak, so I snuck two San Miguel beers from the refrigerator and headed out. “I'm leaving,” I told my father, who was on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, staring at an episode of
Bonanza
dubbed in Tagalog. He nodded and gave me an A-OK with his fingers. There was a bag of pork rinds on his lap and empty soda cans at his feet, and the whole room was littered with dirty plates and unwashed laundry. I even caught a glimpse of a bright pink bra that belonged to some woman he'd brought home earlier that week. We had lived like this ever since my mother left for what she called her “Vacation USA,” which was going on its fourth year, despite occasional postcards promising her return. Uncle Willie was the one who watched over me, but I was sixteen now, too old to be cared for. Still, if he needed me, I was there.

I met up with my cousins, JohnJohn and Googi—they'd been summoned too—and together we headed to Uncle Willie's apartment. When we arrived, we found him at the kitchen table, fists clenched like he was ready for a fight, and he only grew angrier as he recounted the story. “Those Beatles insulted the essence of Filipina womanhood,” he said. “
Special exhibition
. Scoundrels!” I told him to calm down, that the Beatles were just making a joke, but Uncle Willie said nothing was funny about Imelda Marcos. He pointed to a framed black-and-white photograph of her on top of the TV, then brought it over and made us look. “She is the face of our country. Can you see?” In the picture, Imelda Marcos was seated in a high-backed wicker chair frilled with ribbons and flowers, staring out into the distance, her queenly face shaded beneath a parasol held by an anonymous hand. The photo was a famous publicity shot—you'd see it at the mall or in schools, even some churches—but I always imagined that it was Uncle Willie holding that parasol, protecting her from a scorching sun while he did his best to endure it. He wasn't alone in his admiration for Imelda Marcos—the country still loved her back then—but Uncle Willie didn't have much else. His last girlfriend left before I was born, and the demands of his work, he said, allowed no time for another. Coordinating flights with Imelda Marcos's schedule was the closest thing he had to romance, and instead of treating his devotion with admiration and respect, our family laughed it off as a joke.

I took the picture frame from his hands and set it facedown on the table. “Yeah,” I said, “I can see.”

“Okay,” he said, “good. Then the Beatles will pay for their insolence.” He dimmed the lights and drew the curtains as though someone might be watching from afar, then sat down to reveal his plan: the next day, just before the Beatles boarded their plane, Uncle Willie would divert the Beatles' security guards and send the group to their gate, where we would be waiting, disguised as airport personnel, ready to attack. “I don't wish to maim them seriously,” he said, “but we must teach them a lesson.” He mapped out the scene on the table with his finger, drawing invisible
X
's and arrows, showing who would stand where and who would do what when it was time to strike. But where he saw battle plans I saw fingerprints streaked over a glass tabletop.

“And that,” he said, “is how we will defeat the Beatles.”

I looked at my cousins. They looked at me. We all looked at Uncle Willie.

“So what you're saying”—Googi leaned forward, like he was trying to make sure he heard correctly—“is that we get to meet the Beatles.”

“To defeat them, yes,” Uncle Willie answered.

“But again,” JohnJohn said, his face suddenly serious, “we get to meet the Beatles.”

Uncle Willie nodded slowly, as if they were the ones who didn't understand what was really being said.

My cousins looked at each other, then at me. “I'm in,” Googi said with a clap of his hands. “I'll help you.”

“Me too,” JohnJohn said. “Let's beat the Beatles.”

Uncle Willie turned to me. Even in the weak light, I could see the strands of his thinning gray hair, hard and slick with pomade, and the deepening folds of wrinkled skin around his eyes. He was in his late fifties then, but he looked older than he ever had before, as if I'd been away for years and was suddenly back. “You're my uncle,” I said, “of course I'll help you.” My cousins rolled their eyes, like I was trying to kiss up, to be a better nephew than they were.

Uncle Willie looked at each of us, took a deep and slow breath, as if this was a history-making moment to remember forever. “My men,” he said, smiling proudly.

U
ncle Willie cooked us a late dinner of Spam and egg fried rice, which we washed down with a case of San Miguel (he kept a supply on hand, should any of us drop by). Then he went into his bedroom and came out with a stack of pillows and sheets. We'd need a good night's rest, he said, if we were to defeat the Beatles the next day.

But only Uncle Willie went to bed; my cousins and I stayed up, gambling away what little pocket money we had in our own version of poker. “I'm going to ask Paul for an autograph,” Googi said, shuffling the deck, “and I want it to say,
To Guggenheim, citizen of the world.
With deepest admiration, Paul McCartney
.” My cousin changed his name from Mervin to Guggenheim when he turned thirteen, believing that if you were named after someone great, you might become someone great, too. But our grandparents couldn't pronounce it, so he got stuck with Googi instead, and he used Guggenheim only for special occasions like graduation or confirmation, any moment he believed would change his life.

“So you're going to punch Paul McCartney, then ask him for an autograph,” I said.

Googi gave me a look like I was the slow one. “We want to
meet
them, not
beat
them,” he whispered.

“This is the Beatles we're talking about,” JohnJohn said. “Don't act like you're on Uncle Willie's side.”

Googi nodded. “Do you think John would sing ‘It's Only Love' to me if I asked?” he asked.

JohnJohn socked him in the arm. “Don't be a queer.”

“You can't ask for autographs, you can't ask for songs,” I told them. “That isn't why we're doing this. We have a job to do, right?”

“For who?” JohnJohn said. “Imelda Marcos?” He lit the last cigarette from his pack, then took a long, deep drag like he was trying to breathe in and contain his anger. He was a copy editor at his school newspaper; the week before he'd worked on an article about the workers who died from heatstroke while building a Mount Rushmore–sized monument of the President, which the First Lady demanded be finished despite the record heat. He showed me another article about a peasant village she had bulldozed in order to clear space for a nightclub that was never built, and when they protested, two villagers were shot. “Signs of things to come,” he'd said.

He turned the framed picture of Imelda Marcos over, then mashed his cigarette against it, leaving glowing ashes on the glass. They looked like fireflies dancing around her, which made her look like some sort of fairy-tale queen, friend to all creatures great and small. I flicked them off with my finger.

“Filipina womanhood, my ass,” he said, shuffling the cards.

“Just one song, that's all,” Googi whispered to himself, still rubbing his arm where JohnJohn had hit him.

A light was still on in Uncle Willie's room. “Just deal,” I said.

I
n less than an hour JohnJohn and Googi were giggling drunks, and they had all my money. I was tired of letting them cheat, so I finished my beer and got up from the table, a little more than tipsy, and went to check on my uncle.

He always called it the second floor, but his bedroom was just three steps up from the back of the kitchen. Despite his good pay, he lived modestly—he never bought a house, and he'd rented that small one-bedroom apartment for as long as I'd been alive. “I like my things to be close together,” he once said. I stood at the bottom step, watching him through the hanging strands of beads in the doorway as he ironed his work clothes for the next day. Behind him, Imelda Marcos was everywhere—pictures and articles tacked and taped on the wall, headlines that read
IMELDA TAKES PARIS BY STORM
and
IMELDA LOVES
AMERICA, AMERICA
LOVES IMELDA.
It was like a page from a giant scrapbook, full of airbrushed eight-by-tens and photos carefully torn from glossy magazines. But the wall was only half-covered, as though the other half was a reserved plot for the rest of Imelda's life. I imagined the empty space covered over with articles about Uncle Willie's victory against the Beatles, and an accompanying photo of him, arm in a sling and face bruised black and blue. A soldier smiling after the battle, despite the hurt.

“Still awake?” I said, to let him know I was there.

“You should be in bed.”

“So should you.”

“I'm old. I don't need sleep. But you're still growing.” He warned me about staying up too late, that nighttime drinking and gambling weren't the habits of an admirable man. “My sister would not approve,” he said, and I suddenly pictured my mother on her Vacation USA, lying on a chaise lounge with cucumbers over her eyes and a towel turbaned on her head. I wondered what she pictured when she thought of me back here, if the image made her long for me, or simply feel relieved that she was gone.

“I'm not a kid,” I said. “I don't need her approval.”

Uncle Willie shook his head and sighed, then told me to come in.

I sat at the foot of his bed. Uncle Willie unplugged the iron, then slipped the shirt into an armor-gray blazer hanging on the closet door. Instead of the black tie he normally wore for work, he pulled from the top drawer a handful of ties I never knew he owned, and one by one he held them to the collar of his shirt, waiting for the right match. “Tomorrow is a special day,” he said, “we must look our best.” I'd never seen Uncle Willie fuss over his appearance like this, and he'd been a bachelor all his life. But as I watched him testing tie after tie, when I saw a newly opened bottle of cologne on top of his dresser, I wondered if he was trying to end that. I could smell Uncle Willie, the change in his scent. It was on his clothes, his skin, the air around us. I was only sixteen, but I thought that this might be love, that if something could change you so much, then maybe, in the end, it was worth fighting for, even if you weren't going to be loved back.

He reached for another tie but set it down, laughed at himself like he was being silly. “Simple is best,” he decided. He looped the black tie around the collar.

“No. This one works better.” I got up and took it away, replaced it with a turquoise tie patterned with silver paisley. “It goes with the gray.”

Uncle Willie took a step back, sat on the edge of his bed and bent over, wiping away a bit of dust from his shoe. He stayed that way for a moment, then sat up and looked straight at me. “Do you think I'm crazy?” he asked.

It was the kind of question you ask only to see if the answer you get is the one you're hoping for. But Uncle Willie's face was blank; I really don't think he knew what the answer was at all, and whatever I said he would take as the truth.

“I think you're dutiful” was what I finally told him. He didn't know what the word meant. “Dutiful,” I repeated. “It's like the knight who enters a battle without asking why.” This was the best definition I could give. The answer seemed to please him.

“I'm honored to enter the battle,” he said, “after all she has done for our country.” Because of Imelda Marcos, he said, the world looked at us differently. “She dazzles and inspires. Who of us is able to do that?” He said that no matter how famous Imelda Marcos became, no matter how many times she flew off into the world, she always returned, always grateful to touch native ground. “She belongs to us.” His voice was breaking; I could hear it. “It is our duty as men to protect her good name.”

I looked past him, at an autographed photo of Imelda beside his bed.
For Willy,
she misspelled,
Love and Beauty, Imelda
. “It's getting late,” I said. I told him good night and left through the hanging beads. At the bottom step I turned around, and I saw him kiss his finger, then press it against her picture; not on the lips or on the cheek—that wouldn't be appropriate for someone of his station—but on a spot near her shoulder, just above her heart. That part of her was sore, Uncle Willie once read, from all the corsages that had been pinned there during her travels abroad. “You see what she does for us?” he'd said. “It aches her to leave us, even for just a short while.”

Then from behind me a clumsy two-part harmony started up.
“You're gonna lose that girl,”
my drunk cousins crooned to Uncle Willie,
“yes, yes, you're gonna loooose that giiiirrl.”

“Leave him alone,” I said, pushing them back into the living room. “He's fine.”