After the best morning of his life, Wylder Wallace faced a big decision.
French fries or onion rings?
The good news was that he liked them both.
But which did he want right now?
The tall girl ahead of him in line at the food court was having trouble too. From the expression on her face, nothing looked good enough for her.
“Not that one,” she said. “That doesn’t look fresh. The one beside it, please.” She pointed at a container of salad.
Of course, thought Wylder. A lettuce lover.
An announcement came over the loudspeaker. The Vampire King would be signing autographs at booth 1282 in five minutes. There was a lost child in the lobby. Would the owner of a car with license plate number AYYB-663 please move from the loading dock?
Wylder imagined biting into an onion ring. The sweet, sharp flavor breaking through the batter, coating his mouth in amazingness. Oh, yeah. But french fries were pretty good too. Little wedges of energy, so familiar, so satisfying. Eating a french fry was like coming home.
The tall girl took her container of lettuce and grated carrots and moved toward the cash register. Wylder’s turn now. But before he could open his mouth, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Superman was standing behind him.
“Mind if I butt in here, sonny? I’m in a hurry.”
The square jaw, the dark curl over the forehead, the muscles, the blue tights—he was perfect. His hand rested for a second on Wylder’s shoulder. A man in line took a photo with his cell phone. Wylder tried to act casual.
“Sure, sure. Uh, go ahead. Is someone in trouble? Is it that lost child they were talking about over the loudspeaker? Is that what you’re doing here?”
The Man of Steel smiled.
“Nah, I’m late, that’s all. I have to be in Hall B in ten minutes so people can get their pictures taken with me. Tuna sandwich,” he said to the lunch lady. “Put it on DC’s tab.”
“You got it, Clark.” She tossed the sandwich over the counter.
“Shhh!” He shook his finger at her. “Don’t give away my secret.”
“Hey, Superman!” said Wylder. “Which should I order—french fries or onion rings?”
He turned in a swirl of scarlet cape. There was the smile again.
“Onion rings.” The answer was definite. “You can get fries anywhere.”
“Thanks, Superman!”
But he was already gone, dashing through the crowd.
What a guy.
There was only one empty chair in the whole food court. Wylder didn’t notice who was sitting at the table until he was almost there.
“Oh, hi,” he said. “Someone sitting here? Did you see Superman just now? He told me to try the onion rings. Pretty cool, eh? Like we were buddies, me and Superman. I think I’ll get his autograph later. He had a tuna sandwich, by the way. I’ll have to start eating more tuna myself. Want an onion ring?” he asked. “Good enough for the Man of Steel. What do you say?”
The girl shook her head without looking up from her comic.
Wylder shrugged out of his backpack. He wasn’t going to have this wonderful day ruined by a girl with a mouthful of carrot.
The International Comic Book Festival—ComicFest—came to Toronto every other June. It was a huge show, taking up the entire downtown convention center and spilling over into the domed stadium where the Blue Jays play baseball. Thousands and thousands of people came. Two years ago, Wylder had come with his mom, his aunt Mary Lee and his cousin George. He’d had a pretty good time. The Fist poster—signed by both Bill Avery, who drew the comic, and the villainous Underhand himself—was one of Wylder’s prized possessions and hung over his bed. But two years ago, Wylder had been ten years old. Now he was almost twelve. Old enough to go to ComicFest on his own, he’d told his mom, who had agreed—reluctantly. And what a time he was having! Already he’d picked up five brand-new comic books, a signed photo of Wolverine and a free video game introducing Phlegm—A Hero for Tomorrow!
He ate two onion rings in quick succession. They were brilliant. Superman was right, of course. Wylder’s feet didn’t quite reach the floor. He kicked happily against the plastic legs of his chair.
Wylder’s cell phone vibrated. He sighed. Mom checking up on him again. The text read: u ok?
He wanted to text back: i am fine. the same way i was fine a half hour ago. leave me alone. He texted back: yes
She worried about him all the time. Breakfast to bedtime, school day or holiday, she had to know he was there. She’d knock on his door or call up from the kitchen.
“Yes?” he’d say.
“Just checking, honey.”
It was like she thought he would disappear if she wasn’t in touch all the time. Or wander away and never come back. Wylder wondered if her anxiety had something to do with his dad moving out. That happened years ago—he couldn’t even remember a time when Dad lived with them. Was Mom afraid Wylder would walk out too?
Another message came through right away: luv u
What were you supposed to say to that? Nothing, that’s what. For a chatty guy, Wylder often had nothing to say to his mom. It was easier with Dad, who only texted to find out where Wylder wanted to go for dinner.
The more Mom tried to hang on to Wylder, the more he wanted to disappear.
The onion rings made him feel better, though. He settled back in his chair and let himself enjoy the hum around him. The air was full of energy, words and ideas crashing into each other like billiard balls. And something else too. The fantasy and mystery and power of comics. All the people who wrote and drew and believed in them … all that magic had somehow drenched the whole convention center.
“Do you mind?” said the tall girl. She smiled in a not-smiling kind of way.
“Huh?”
“You’re kicking the table,” she said. “Please stop.”
She wore a T-shirt featuring a big question mark. Her jeans were tight. Her hair was loose. Her high-tops were undone. She probably wasn’t any older than he was, but she sure acted it. Her smile was, like, thirty years old. She took out her phone and started messing with the screen. Of course it had one of those zippy waterproof skins on it.
Another fuzzy announcement came over the loudspeaker.
“Did you hear that?” Wylder said to the girl. “Was it something about—Hey! Hey!! HEY!!!”
He jumped to his feet and pointed down at the table, his mouth wide open. Her comic book sat faceup. All this time she’d been reading, he hadn’t even noticed.
“That’s the new Flynn Goster comic! The Summer Special! How’d you get that?” Wylder demanded. “I lined up for an hour, and they said all the copies were held up somewhere. But this is it, right?”
He grabbed it with trembling hands.
“The guy who draws the comic—Viminy Crowe—has a booth here. I saw him. He’s a funny-looking guy. Have you seen him? Like an ostrich or a palm tree or something. Or a celery stick, you know? I recognized him from that cemetery clip on YouTube. I’ve seen it a hundred times. I wanted to ask—”
“Please!”
The girl pushed her tray away and stood up, her chair tumbling backward. She held out her hand for the comic.
“Oh! Oh, sorry!” Wylder gave it back. “Gosh, sorry. I didn’t mean to grab it from you like that. I’m a fan, that’s all. I really like that Flynn guy. Thieves are cool. And Flynn can look like anyone. He’s practically a shape-shifter the way he disguises himself. But always with the mustache. I read about this issue online. There’s a big display here—a train engine that looks just like the online ad. Did you see it? Anyway, since you have a copy, I guess that shipment must have come in. I’ll go to the booth right after lunch.”
The girl opened her mouth to say something, shut it and opened it again.
“Don’t bother. There are no comics there.”
“Huh? But—”
“I don’t know your name, but—”
“Wylder. Wylder Wallace. Nice to meet—”
“We’re not meeting. I don’t want to be palsy-walsy with you. I want you to be quiet so I can eat my lunch in peace.” The girl picked up her chair and put the comic back on the table. “Do you mind?”
Wylder was used to people telling him he talked too much.
“I can take a hint,” he said. “You want me to shut up? I’ll shut up. No problem. I do not have to be talking all the time. Not me. No, sirree.”
He ate an onion ring.
And another.
The girl sat down and fiddled with her bag, looking inside.
Wylder stared at the tabletop. “Oh, hey there! Uh, listen. I don’t know your name, but you might want to—”
“No.”
“This isn’t about being palsy-walsy. But I really think you—”
“No!”
He nodded. Drew his hand across his mouth in a zip-up gesture. But he pointed at her side of the table, which was swimming in salad dressing. The container must have spilled when she pushed her tray away.
She jumped back. Too late. Oily stuff was running off the table. There was a stain almost as big as a hockey puck on the leg of her jeans.
“Sorry,” said Wylder.
She gave him a furious look and stormed off, shoulder bag swinging.
He popped another onion ring into his mouth.
The Summer Special was still on the table. “Wait!” Wylder called. “You left your comic!” He could see a flash of her dark hair leaving the food court. “Don’t you want it? Wait!”
