Sidekicked (20 page)

“You don't have to worry about your parents, Drew. The Jacks are nasty, but they have purpose. They won't attack unless they have something to gain.”

Something to gain?

“You mean the Titan?”

But Mr. Masters doesn't say anything. Just makes a familiar turn. I watch him carefully.

“How did
you
know I was in trouble?” I ask.

He takes a moment to answer. “Jenna,” he says. “She said she got your message and was worried. I happened to be nearby and said I would check on you. I rushed over, saw the front door open, heard stuff breaking upstairs, and decided we needed a minute together.”

I turn and look out the window, watching the buildings zip past. Finally the streets come back to life, and we fall back into line with the unfrozen cars.

Jenna was worried about me. Outside, the procession of houses, stores, and restaurants grows more and more familiar.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to school. I need to check on the others.”

“Others?”

“Yes, Drew. You aren't the only one the Suits hit today.”

I have more questions, a lot more, but Mr. Masters says to just wait. We are almost there. He also says I will have to call home. My mother will be worried. I'll have to make some excuse. He will think of something.

I gingerly rub the bump on my forehead from the coffee table.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“Could be worse,” I say.

He takes a look at the lump swelling under my bangs. “It might be soon,” he says, then pulls into the staff parking lot with a screech of tires. He hands me my backpack and puts a finger to his lips. “Come on, and don't say a word to anyone.”

Highview is mostly deserted, though there are still a few straggling students. Most of the clubs and practices have been canceled, and I can't help but wonder if the Suits have something to do with it. I try to focus on walking, one foot and then the other, try not to think about the man standing in my very own bedroom about to brain me with the business end of his baton, or my mother opening the front door to find a trail of kitchen knives down the hall. We make our way up the stairs and to the teachers' lounge, Mr. Masters keeping a hand on my elbow so I don't fall over. I lean against the wall, and he tells me to wait.

Even without my powers, I can hear the conversation he has with Mrs. Unser, the art teacher.

“Oh,” he says. “If you're in here, then I guess they caught the mouse.”

“Mouse? What mouse?”

“They found it in one of the cabinets. Big one. White with red eyes. I told them that it sounds more like a rat and that I'd come look for it—maybe I could use it in science class—but I guess they've already taken care of it.”

Ten seconds later I wave to Mrs. Unser, who walks briskly down the hall, eyes wild, whispering something about needing a new job.

“Come on.”

Mr. Masters pulls me inside and fishes in his pockets. He counts out what he has and turns to me. “You have a nickel?”

I reach in my pocket and pull out my change. “This one's on me,” I say. A bag of pork rinds is the least you can give someone who saves your life. Mr. Masters smiles as I press the button for B-1.

I walk downstairs and realize the magnitude of what has happened.

They are all there, the members of H.E.R.O., or most of them, anyways. Mr. Masters had broken protocol, leaving them alone in the basement without him for who knows how long—long enough to come rescue me, at least. He would never do that unless it were a matter of life and death.

“It's the only place I was sure they would be safe,” Mr. Masters says, reading my thoughts. Safe from what? I think, and then I see what's happened. Nikki is slumped over in a chair, and Mike is bent over with his cast propped on his knee. He looks at me and smiles wanly, but I can't help but look at the other two. Eric has one cheek the size and color of a plum and deep scratches on the other. There is blood on his jeans—his blood, somebody else's, impossible to tell. His right hand is swollen and he has several fingers taped together. He holds an ice pack up to one eye.

Gavin's hair isn't perfect for once, but that's just the first thing I notice. He also has one hand pressed to his side. There is a hole in his shirt ringed in scarlet. Every breath he takes is hitched.

That's it. Just the four of them. My stomach twists. “Where's Jenna?”

“She's safe. She's with the Fox,” Mr. Masters says from behind me.

“That doesn't mean she's safe,” Nikki snaps.

Gavin snorts, then winces and presses his hand harder against his side. I turn to Mr. Masters. “What's going on?”

He motions for me to sit, which I do, afraid I might fall down otherwise. “It was a coordinated attack,” he says, crouching next to Gavin to inspect the bandage beneath the hole in the shirt. “Keep your hand there,” he tells Gavin, then turns back to me. “Eric found a Jack of Spades in his gym bag and was ambushed on his way to karate. Gavin found the Jack of Diamonds in his back pocket and was attacked while walking home from school.”

“They weren't after us,” Gavin mutters. “We were just bait.”

“We aren't sure about that,” Mr. Masters says, raising an eyebrow, but it falls just as swiftly. “Though it does appear to be the case,” he adds with resignation.

I think about what Mr. Masters said in the car. That the Jack of Clubs wasn't even after me. Then my thoughts jump to Gavin's and Eric's Supers. Mr. Masters takes the empty seat next to me. “Cryos and Hotshot are missing,” he confirms. “Off the grid, though we shouldn't assume they are dead. The Jacks waited for Stonewall and Shizuka Shi to send out their distress signal; then they attacked. The Jack of Spades was carrying some kind of machine that disrupted Cryos's cybernetic link, making him all but powerless—no doubt one of the Dealer's devices. And it turns out that the Jack of Diamonds is naturally resistant to fire. Hotshot didn't stand a chance.”

“And diamond can cut right through rock, as it turns out,” Gavin groans. “Or at least a laser can.” Nikki scoots her chair closer and puts her arm around him, and I suddenly feel guilty for suspecting him earlier.

“They knew you would notify your Supers once you found the cards, drawing them in,” Mr. Masters continues. “What isn't clear is how they knew who you were, where to find you, how they planted their cards on you in the first place.” Mr. Masters stares into the distance, talking as if he's thinking out loud. “Or why they wanted to capture the Supers to begin with.”

“What about you?” Gavin asks, nodding at me. “Did they get the Titan?”

Usually I'd assume this to be another of Gavin's digs, but the pained look in his eyes convinces me that he's actually concerned this time. I'm about to say something when Mr. Masters answers for me.

“The Sensationalist has no way of contacting the Titan. Nobody does.” He gives me a long sideways look that makes me glance down at my shoes. “That doesn't mean that the Titan is in any less danger. Or any of us, for that matter.”

“What about Jenna?” Mike asks. “Doesn't that mean they know about her, too? Won't they use her to get to the Fox?”

We are all staring at Mr. Masters. Waiting. He reaches into his pocket and pops open his watch, running his thumb across the glass face, then snaps it closed again.

“Yes,” he says finally. “The Jacks are clearing out the opposition. The Fox is now most certainly Justicia's best chance of stopping the Dealer. We will have to keep a close eye on Jenna.” He looks at me when he says this. As if protecting Jenna is suddenly my job.

I turn to Gavin and give him a look that for once is not nasty or condescending. It's more of an unspoken agreement. That if Jenna's ever in trouble and I'm not around—who am I kidding, even if I am around—he's more than welcome to save her. He nods. It's a totally macho, action-movie thing to do, but at least I know he understands.

Mr. Masters puts his Lurch-size hands on his knees and pushes himself to his feet. “I will do everything I can to find out what has happened to your Supers,” he says, “but until then, I think it's best if you try not to draw any attention to yourselves. You don't have Supers who you can count on anymore,” he adds. “You have to look out for one another.”

W
hen Mr. Masters drops me off two hours later, there is still a police car in my driveway. I mostly believe him when he says my parents aren't in any real danger for now, but seeing the patrol car here, parked in
my
driveway, makes me sick all over again.

“Remember what we talked about,” he says. “Everyone will be fine. Just stick to the script.”

I nod.

“Are you all right?”

I nod again. The nod is the easiest lie there is.

Before I even open the door, I can hear my mother on the phone. Probably talking to my aunt Claire. Or maybe to my grandmother.

“Oh, they're here now. They say it's probably just vandalism. No, nothing was stolen. Yes. The TV. There are holes in the kitchen cabinets, too. Knives scattered across the floor. It looks like they broke down Andrew's door. No, of course not. He stayed after school for his environmental club meeting, thank god! Oh, I know, I can't imagine what would have happened if he had been home. No. The cops say whoever it was probably would have turned and run. Rowdy teenagers. Of course they are going to check for prints. No, I don't think there are any DNA samples. You watch way too much TV.”

It's Grandma.

“No, we are
not
moving. This is the first thing like this that has happened in our neighborhood. No, I really doubt that. Why would a gang of supervillains break into my house, Mom? You can't believe everything you see on the news. Yes, I know there is a house available just down the street from you. No, Mom. No . . . Mother.
No
. . . Mother. We'll be fine. No, I don't think Andrew wants to come live with you by the lake. Besides, how would he get to school?”

I open the door.

“Hang on, Andrew's home. I'll call you back.”

I stand there for a moment.

The place is a wreck. Shattered television bits are stuck in the carpet. Tables knocked over. Holes in the walls. One cop is taking what seems like twenty pictures of everything. I'm paralyzed for a moment by the repeated flash of the camera. Seeing it here, this way, with my parents, makes it different somehow.

My father, who is sitting at the kitchen table with another cop, comes toward me, but my mother squeezes ahead of him with the interception. I am instantly suffocated in her arms.

“I'm so glad you're safe,” she says.

You aren't the only one, I want to say, but I don't. Instead I ask her what happened, trying to sound confused and a little appalled. Mr. Masters said to let everyone else talk as much as they wanted and to say as little as possible. Mom says it was a break-in. Dad says probably just teenagers looking for cash . . .
not
a plotted attempt on the part of an escaped convict and a member of a supervillain gang to ambush a hung-over superhero by attacking his unsuspecting, nearly powerless sidekick. They hug me some more; then one of the officers needs to ask me some questions. My parents flank me on either side of the kitchen table like bodyguards. If I had to guess, I'd say they will probably both camp outside my room tonight with baseball bats in their hands. Either that or just sleep in my bed with me like they did when I was two and there was a thunderstorm.

“So you were at school all afternoon?” the officer asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“An environmental club meeting?”

“We keep trash off the streets,” I say, reciting the motto, wondering how many people Mr. Masters will be an alibi for today.

“Andrew, can you think of anyone, maybe somebody at school, or somebody from your neighborhood, anyone who maybe has something against you?”

You mean the mustachioed psychopath with the boomerang club specifically? Or any of his psychopath friends?

“No, sir.”

“No one you've been arguing with or had a disagreement with of some kind?”

You could call it a disagreement. You might also call it attempted murder.

“Not that I can think of.”

“Is there anybody at school you don't particularly like or who doesn't like you?”

Sure. His name is Gavin. And he secretes lava rock or something and has real, honest-to-god biceps. Though I feel kind of bad for him right now because
his
Super actually bothered to show up and got kidnapped for it, while he got zapped by some goon's beam-blasting eyeball, so now he has a hole in his chest and his hair's messed up. I wonder which one bothers him more.

“I'd say most people don't care about me one way or the other,” I answer.

“Right. Looks like not much has changed since I was in middle school.” The officer smiles at my parents, who smile weakly back, then turns to me again. “And you can't possibly think of any reason somebody you know would break in here and do this?”

Now that you mention it . . . there is this one guy, you might have heard of him, the Titan? Six-five, about two-eighty, can bench press a whale. Yeah, well, he ticked off this one guy a while back by supposedly killing him, and now that dead guy and his friends are using me as bait to even the score.

“Nope. Sorry,” I say.

“No problem. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Bean. This is normally a quiet neighborhood. One of you is an accountant and the other is a”—he looks down at his clipboard—“teachers' aide for kindergartners. Can you think of any of
them
who would want to break into your house and smash your TV?”

My mother laughs nervously. I'm not sure it's that funny, though. I've met some of her students.

My father shakes his head. “This is the first time anything like this has happened to any of us.” He wraps a reassuring arm around me.