WHAT WOULD LYSSA’S life look like if she joined the Super Squad? Plenty of attention, that’s for sure. She’d love it. And hey, maybe having a Super on my side would be helpful, if I dig any deeper into this Project Zero thing?
No. Powers or otherwise, I won’t put all that weight onto my kid sister. And I happen to know a Super already.
I message Sherman to meet me at the Crow Building—not too far from the clinic, it turns out. She’s waiting by the time I arrive, straddling her bike with her visor flipped to show off that silver-studded, movie-star face.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey. Uh.” Don’t think about being pinned to walls; don’t think about being pinned to walls. “How’d the meeting go?”
“Good. Got another big one lined up tomorrow, if you’re game.” Sherman stretches, real blasé, rolling her muscular shoulders. My gaze slides down the taut line of her arms. I force it to keep moving, over her lean body and the bright blue bike, until it hits asphalt.
Don’t think about being pinned to walls don’t think about being pinned to walls don’t think—
“Game,” I manage. “Very game. Yes.” I told Sherman I had her back. I can’t duck out again.
“Great. So, uh. Any reason you’re calling me rather than celebrating with your sister?”
There we are: right back where I don’t want to be. I rub my bare arms, adjusting the straps of my tank top. “She’s thirteen.”
Sherman nods like she gets it, though I don’t see how. “Hope that turns out okay,” she says, which could mean anything, really. Then, with a kick to her bulging saddlebags: “Wanna help? Got a bunch of posters that won’t stick themselves up.”
“And here I joined the revolution for the glamour.”
Another snort-laugh. It’s baking on the street, heat radiating off every surface, so Sherman tugs off her helmet, shaking out her curly Mohawk. I have to look away before my stare gets stuck.
I’m tempted to ride along with her and leave the rest of today behind me. But I can’t let Amelia’s death mean nothing. Not when Blair Homes might lose patience any day now and pay the VC to evict us by force.
“Your face is doing a whole lot of strange,” Sherman informs me.
Fuck it. She trusted me with her loopy, likely-to-get-us-all-dead strike plan. It’s only fair that I tell her my life-threatening theories about Project Zero in exchange. We’ve hit, like, level five friendship.
“You remember that scientist from the observatory?” I ask. “Amelia Lopez. She spoke to me, before … y’know.”
My explanation takes time, during which Sherman’s expression becomes increasingly incredulous. Still, she lets me reach the end of my story before shaking her head.
“Hold up. Amelia Lopez told you the Flamer was behind some big evil secret called Project Zero. Your friend Jav thinks villains are destroying property so they can gentrify our side of the river. The river that is, according to Lopez’s research, grossly polluted. You think the two theories are linked?”
“You got it.”
“… You realize that’s, like, tinfoil-hat levels of conspiracy, right?”
“That’s what I told Jav! But…” The cordoned-off gaps in our district where houses used to be. The roof of the bowling alley, slowly caving in. Blair Homes. “I’m starting to think she had a point.”
“Uh-huh,” says Sherman, in that slow, leading way that means she’s not really uh-huh-ing at all. “I used to be a sidekick, Jones. If the VC pulled this many strings, the Super Squad would know.”
It’s a relief to hear her say so. Still, I can’t fully relax. “Whatever Project Zero is, it’s real. Amelia was killed by the Flamer, which means the VC is in on it. I gotta work this out, Sherman.” For Amelia. For myself. “Please.”
Skyscrapers poke bright holes in the night on the far side of Clearwater River. Downtown: a mile and a world away. Jav sees those towers as ladders to climb, but to me they’ve always been giant, shining middle fingers, elevated at all of us who keep our feet on the ground.
I pluck the stretched-tight fabric of my leggings. Focus, Jones. Quit wondering which villain the VC might send after me.
“Okay,” says Sherman, soft. “If you’re sure about this, I’m with you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Sherman drums her fingers on the jut of her hipbone, visible above her low-slung pants. Then her eyes widen. Must be a eureka moment; the streetlight over her head flares bright as the sun. “And if you need more intel, I know who we should talk to.”
She whips out her phone, running a search. I sidle in, peering over her shoulder. The Ferocious Flamer’s mug shot glares back at me, along with the headline: B-Class Member of the Villain Council Returned Behind Bars.
I slump, rubbing my brow bone. All this stress better not give me wrinkles. “You ain’t serious.”
“Yes, Jones. This is my joking face.” Her mouth doesn’t so much as twitch.
“Wow. That’s impressive. Your deadpan has, like, rigor mortis.”
She squints like she’s trying to figure out if that’s a compliment, blowing up the picture until I can practically see the Flamer’s nostril hair. “Thanks. Look.” The Flamer looks different under harsh white prison lights. Younger than I first pegged him, no more than twenty. But so what? He might be a college kid; he might have a bright shiny future ahead, moving up the VC’s ranks. Amelia doesn’t have a future at all. “He’s the only person who we know for sure is in on your Project Zero thing. He’s locked up secure as a Super can be. This might be our chance to get answers.”
The thought of seeing the Flamer again ups my blood pressure until I feel it in the back of my neck. The new question that just popped into my head doesn’t help. I spend ten seconds sucking the taste out of it, wondering how Sherman’ll react, before I figure there’s only one way to find out.
“Hey. Did you ever think about working for the VC, after your sidekick gig fell through?”
Sherman’s stare is as flat as it’s inscrutable. “Yeah.”
“But you decided against it, right? Because they’re evil peeled dicks who kill Normies for fun?”
“And they never asked. That’s how it works: The council contacts you, not the other way around. Guess a D-class Shaper-derivate didn’t make the grade.”
Each word neutral, pared of emotion. I rock on the balls of my feet. “Right. Uh … No regrets?”
“No regrets.”
“How sure are you? Like, out of ten?”
Sherman dismisses the app, flicking the Flamer’s face up and away. “Eight.” Then, before I can panic: “Only because Supremia is really hot.”
I’ll accept that. As much as I judged Turner for his crush, the lady’s a walking propaganda poster for the Dark Side. Be still, my gay heart.
“Truth is, when the world screws you over, it gets real tempting to screw it back.” Sherman studies the dimming horizon line, out across the Andoridge peaks. “Took me a while to realize that wouldn’t help anyone, least of all me.”
“That’s so deep.” She glares. “Sorry. I’m bad at receiving life lessons. I get this compulsive urge to ruin the moment. But seriously.” I squeeze her wrist. “I’m glad. Y’know. That you don’t screw back.”
“Well,” says Sherman.
I look at her.
She looks at me.
The San Andreas Fault busts open and a thousand new volcanoes spurt lava across California’s marbled skies. At least, that’s the most plausible explanation for why the temperature just rocketed two hundred degrees.
“Anyway!” I lurch back. “If we’re going to visit a villain in a supermax, we should, like, do it soon? Right?”
Sherman’s ears are several shades darker than normal. She looks at the blobs of chewing gum speckling the sidewalk, a nearby fire hydrant, the stripes on the road—anywhere but me—and nods way too many times. “Mm-hmm. The Flamer won’t stay locked up forever.”
The average sentence for a villain ranges from fifteen years to life, but the VC break their favorites out every month. A- and B-class Supers swat aside armed guards like they’re gnats, which doesn’t exactly boost my confidence. If I’m committed to exposing Project Zero, though, the Flamer’s my only way forward.
“We need to bring Jav.” I don’t want her involved, but she’ll hold a grudge until we get dementia if I chase her story without her. Plus: “She runs the Voices of Bridgebrook podcast. She can say she wants to interview the Flamer or something. They let reporters in.”
“Yeah, but there’s more to it than showing up at the door and saying you’re writing an article.” Sherman hunches, her face icing over. “My—my dad did some time.”
Ah. I don’t know what the right thing to say to that is. I’m not sure there is one. I just give her wrist another squeeze.
She shakes me off, glaring at her feet. “He didn’t deserve it, if you were wondering. Just, y’know. Proof Supers can ruin your life in more ways than just … well, ending it.”
Cooper Hanson, scooping butter-bean paste from his shiny blond hair. Yeah, I know something about that. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s over. It’s past. But yeah. Between me and your friend, we might—might—be able to get in.”
And just like that, we have a plan. A likely-to-get-us-all-incinerated plan, but still.
For now, though … I glance at Sherman from under my lashes. I don’t like seeing her like this: wound wire-tight, jaw clenched so hard it might pop. Project Zero can take a back seat for the rest of the night.
“Thanks for listening,” I say. “And for not, like, having me institutionalized.”
“Still considering that last one.”
“Rude.”
“Part of my charm.”
“Debatable. You’re lucky you’re cute.” I almost say that last word without stuttering.
Sherman’s hand slips; she accidentally rolls her throttle. We both jump when her stationary bike snarls.
“Uh,” she says into the ensuing silence, a whole octave too high. “Um, posters?”
“Posters,” I agree.
Sherman offers her helmet (mine’s at home—don’t tell the Captain) and I clamber on behind her, stomach turning giddy cartwheels. She came prepared, with a fluid ton of homemade wheatpaste spread between several mason jars. We work together to slap the posters on walls, smooth them around lampposts, and stop ourselves from sticking to them or each other (the wheatpaste is of a consistency closer to superglue). It’s hard to worry about Lyssa, Project Zero, any of it, when I’m busy ignoring my urge to tremble like the dainty heroine of a Victorian novel whenever Sherman’s fingers brush—or stick to—mine.
Once we’ve wallpapered a solid portion of Bridgebrook, Sherman takes me home. Lyssa and Hernando should be back. The sun sinks behind the high-rises on the far side of the river. Sloan Street is darker than ever; a Surger threw a tantrum down the block and half the streetlights are busted. If we lived in a better part of town, there’d be an engineer out within the hour. Here, we’ll wait a week. Might have to whip up a sweepstake on which gets fixed first: the lights or the elevator in my building.
Sherman hangs around while I dismount. It’s a longer process than usual, as a smear of wheatpaste has found its way to the seat of my shorts.
“Tell your sister happy birthday for me?” she asks, once I’ve peeled myself free.
“Yeah. Hey, wait.” Call me thirsty or whatever, but I’m not ready to watch Sherman ride away. Anyway, Lyssa will be waiting upstairs with a shiny new leg and, possibly, a shiny new Superpower. I don’t wanna face that alone. “Why not tell her yourself?”
I’m sure Sherman will refuse. Using me as an extra pair of hands is one thing. Hanging out together … She looks more nervous at that prospect than facing off against an A-class villain.
Maybe she’s thinking about her ex? About whatever went down that made her so afraid to reach out again?
I don’t press. Just lean back on the railing of my stoop and wait until she jerks out a nod.
Only problem is, when we reach my apartment, Lyss isn’t there. No one is. If Hernando took her for dinner without me, I’m gonna be pissed. I check my phone. Two missed calls from Hernando. Probably telling me they’ve decided to eat out at Happy Burgers. Or … Or …
Sweat slicks the back of my neck. I redial with fumbling fingers. The call buzzes through.
“Is she with you?” snaps Hernando. No hello.
I don’t need to ask who “she” is. “She’s not with you?”
“Shit.” Hernando’s swearing. Very not good.
Sherman keeps pulling huh faces, wanting to be let in on the action. A moment ago, she was my entire focus. Now that’s skewed, as if whoever’s steering my life just gave the wheel a sharp yank to one side. “What happened? Hernando?”
“She was supposed to go to Jesús’s store for snacks! But—hell, it’s been an hour. She ain’t here, Jesús ain’t seen her, I—” His voice breaks, and it’s the most terrifying sound since Mom slammed on her brakes (too late, too late): the crunch, the scream, the sickening silence. “Mija, I don’t know where she is.”