TENSION HUNG OVER CHAPMAN MIDDLE like a black cloud. None of the teachers talked about the alien’s rampage in downtown, but it was obviously on everyone’s mind. In history class, Mrs. Antebellum kept glancing out the window, like she was expecting an attack to level the school at any moment. After having a parking garage nearly come down on top of his head, Miles understood how she felt.
Mrs. Antebellum stayed skittish all throughout her lecture on William Tecumseh Sherman’s march to the sea, but Miles didn’t pay much attention. Who cared if Sherman had led his Union soldiers right past where Chapman Middle now stood? If the general were still alive, even he’d have to admit that his feats paled in comparison to what Miles could do with the Gilded cape on his shoulders.
Miles had considered leaving the cape at home, but, come to find out, when he folded it neatly instead of crumpling it into a ball, it fit inside his backpack without any fuss. Score one for the neat and tidy. Folding somehow made the cape weigh less, too, so each time Miles laid the mystery fabric over on itself, it became lighter. Folded all the way down, it wasn’t much bigger or heavier than a spiral notebook—still too large to carry in his pocket, but it left plenty of space in his backpack for his textbooks. Or at least it would’ve, if he hadn’t ditched his books at the construction site.
The cape was only a reach away, waiting for Miles to put it on and do . . . What exactly could he do with it, anyway? Fly? Check. (Land? Not so check.) The cape definitely made him stronger—he’d snatched up Mr. Collins as if he were stuffed with straw. Miles figured the cape probably let him run fast, too, but how fast? Was he set-a-world-record-in-the-one-hundred-meter-dash fast, or dash-around-the-world-in-under-a-minute fast? Miles tried to think of all the amazing things he’d heard about Gilded doing over the years. If the old Gilded could do it, then it stood to reason Miles could now, too.
Thoughts of the cape swirled in Miles’s brain, making it hard for him to concentrate on much of anything. Even scheduled stops at his locker, usually as quick and efficient as a tire change at Talladega, were slowed by a constant feeling that he needed to look over his shoulder to make sure no prying eyes were trying to sneak a peek inside his backpack.
Of course, he could always hide the cape in his locker for safekeeping.
Yeah, right.
Chapman wasn’t without its criminal element, and theft was way too common for Miles to entrust the security of the cape to his locker’s combination code and flimsy metal hinges. Any thief worth his swag would have a tougher time breaking into a can of Campbell’s soup. No. The safest place to keep the cape was with him, in his backpack and on his shoulders at all times.
Which posed a problem when sixth-period PE came around. Miles knew there was no way he’d be allowed to wear his backpack during spud, or muckle, or whatever other tortuous game Coach Lineman planned to inflict on his students for the fifty minutes he was allotted. So Miles did what every other right-thinking adolescent does when they really want to get out of school-mandated exercise: He faked a stomachache.
A few winces and a prolonged groan were all it took to convince Coach Lineman to sideline him. Coach enjoyed pushing kids almost to the point of puking, but actual puking was something he didn’t want any part of. Not when the gymnasium floor had recently been rewaxed. He sent Miles to the bleachers with Trisha Brevard, who claimed to be suffering from an “illness” of her own. It didn’t seem to slow her texting ability one bit.
“Must be something going around,” Miles said with a knowing grin. Trisha rolled her eyes and went right back to texting.
At least the day passed without incident. Miles’s teachers never noticed he had come to school without his books. He didn’t even have any after-school detention to work off. Maybe the cape also came with good-luck powers.
When the final bell sounded, Miles was the first one out the classroom door. He fast-walked through the halls, bypassing his locker and heading straight for the bus corral. His heart raced with anticipation. How in the world had he managed to sit through an entire school day? But it was over now, and the weekend awaited him. And what an incredible weekend it was going to be.
“How’s your tummy, wimp?”
Miles stopped short. He didn’t need to look to know who was waiting for him.
The Jammer.
Under normal circumstances, Miles wouldn’t have stopped at all. He would’ve continued through the exit and out to the buses, pretending he didn’t hear Craig’s booming taunt. The bus corral, patrolled by drivers and teachers herding kids into their proper transports, was a bully-free zone. Much safer than the chaotic free-for-all indoors.
These weren’t normal circumstances, though, and the Jammer was about to find out why.
Miles spun around. Sure enough, there stood Craig with some of his teammates flanking him. Craig held a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. He grinned, his lips parting to reveal peanut-butter-smeared teeth. “You gonna puke, wimp?”
Anger boiled inside Miles like a baking-soda volcano. He clenched his fists and stepped forward, locking eyes with the pride of Chapman Raiders football.
“I look at your face long enough, and I just might.”
Craig’s grin froze. Miles could almost hear the lummox’s meager brain cells working overtime, straining to determine whether or not they should feel insulted.
One of Craig’s teammates shook his head sadly, as though he truly felt sorry about what he knew was going to happen next. “Duuude,” the kid breathed heavily.
Miles recognized the kid from yesterday’s incident with the soda cup. Apparently, “dude” was the only word in his vocabulary.
Craig’s brain cells finally determined that, yes, they should feel insulted. Deciding this was going to be a two-fisted job, Craig stuffed what was left of the peanut butter sandwich into his mouth and swallowed it down in a single gulp.
“I’ll give you something to puke about,” Craig grunted. He drew back one fist slowly, like he was cocking a catapult.
Miles stood his ground, hands on his hips and chest puffed out. Craig, Dude the Teammate, and everyone else around must’ve thought he was insane. Nobody voluntarily took a hit from the Jammer, not even if they were wearing full pads and a helmet. Why was the new kid not running away, or at the very least making an effort to protect himself? And why did he have that stupid smile on his face?
None of them knew what Miles knew. Hey, Jammer, he thought, as Craig’s right fist closed in. You’re about to gut punch a superhero. Good luck not breaking your hand.
The blow landed with such force, it was as though Craig were trying to swipe the wallet from Miles’s back pocket by way of pushing through his body. Miles dropped to his knees, his breath leaving him in a rush. For a moment he was worried he’d never be able to inhale again, but then he rocked back and sucked in a long, squonking breath that sounded like a donkey coming up for air from the bottom of the sea.
Miles recorded a mental note: Next time, put the cape on before you pick a fight.
Craig wasn’t finished yet. Not wanting his left fist to feel left out, he raised it and took aim at Miles’s head. Through squinted eyes, Miles saw what was about to happen. Using every ounce of strength left in him, he lifted his shaking arms and stacked his hands in a T.
“T-t-time out,” he stuttered.
It worked. Craig wasn’t one to argue with time out. Hitting someone after the referee called time out got you flagged for fifteen yards. He pulled back his punch just before it pounded a divot in Miles’s face. Then he stood there, like he was waiting for someone to blow a whistle and let play resume.
Somehow, Miles convinced his legs to stand him up. Clutching his knotted stomach, he looked around and found a bathroom behind him. “Wait here,” he said, wincing.
Confused, Craig turned to Dude the Teammate for advice. Dude the Teammate shrugged.
“You got it,” Craig said, offering Miles a nod. “Sixty seconds.”
Bent over with his stomach still balling, Miles stumbled through the bathroom door. He kneaded the knots from his stomach and straightened himself upright, frowning at himself in the mirror. How could he be so dumb? Toting the cape in his backpack didn’t make him Gilded. Wearing it did.
The bathroom was empty. Miles dropped his backpack on the floor and reached inside. He felt the soft hum of the cape’s fabric, and the sting of Craig’s punch melted away.
Sure, Miles had made a life-threatening error by confronting the Jammer without the cape, but now he was downright giddy, relishing the revenge to come. He started making a mental list of all the different things he was going to do to Craig. Starting off with a punch to the gut was a no-brainer, just to even the score. After that, maybe Miles would drag Craig to the nearest football field and spike him in the end zone a dozen or so times. The possibilities were endless. And the best part? Miles wouldn’t even get in trouble for any of it because Gilded would be the one doing it all. What was Mr. Harangue going to do—send a superhero to detention?
Enough relishing. It was time to get down to business. Miles tossed the cape over his shoulders and threw open the bathroom door with a—
WHAM!
Miles stood in the doorway, basking in the amazement of his fellow students. He scanned the crowd, searching for the one person he wanted more than anyone to see him. There, with her friends gaping and gawking around her, he found Josie.
She was stunned. Incredulous. She truly had no idea what she was seeing. The sight of Gilded emerging from the boys’ room had understandably made quite an impression. Maybe after he made short work of Craig, Miles would fly her home. No more cramped bus rides for Josie. She was Gilded’s girl now.
“Surprised?” Miles announced cockily. “Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”
Miles leveled a steely gaze at Craig, who was as stunned as everyone else. At least for once there was a reason for him to have a stupid expression.
“Get ready, Jammer! You’re about to get . . . jammed!”
Okay, as far as superhero catchphrases went, it needed work, but that wasn’t important right now. The important thing was Craig was finally going to get what was coming to him. And then some.
Miles marched toward Craig, his foot stomps echoing in the hushed hallway. He tilted his head back and glared straight up into Craig’s . . .
Wait.
Why was Miles still looking up at Craig? Shouldn’t he be looking down? Craig was big, but nowhere near as tall as Gilded. And why wasn’t Craig scared? When Mr. Collins had come face-to-face with Gilded, he’d been terrified. Craig wasn’t even stunned anymore. If anything, he was smug.
Miles looked down at himself, and to his horror he discovered that he wasn’t Gilded at all. No superhero costume. No muscles or strong hands, and probably no steely gaze, either. He was regular old Miles Taylor, with a goofy golden cape thrown in to boot. He reached up for the clasp and felt its two halves hanging loosely. In his hurry to pummel Craig, Miles hadn’t noticed that the clasp hadn’t connected properly. No wonder everyone was staring. The cape slid off Miles’s shoulders and fell silently to the floor.
There was a snicker. Then the crowd erupted. “The new kid thinks he’s Gilded!” someone squawked.
“Du-u-u-de,” Dude the Teammate guffawed.
Miles wouldn’t have blamed Josie if she were laughing, too. Instead she nudged one of her giggling friends with an elbow. “Don’t be mean,” she said.
Humiliated, Miles scooped up the cape and dashed back into the bathroom. The last thing he heard was Craig’s roaring laughter. “Catch you later, superzero!”
Alone in the bathroom, Miles threw the cape onto his shoulders again. He tried pushing the clasp together, but it was no use. It wouldn’t fuse into one piece the way it had that morning.
Was it possible it hadn’t recharged yet? How could that be? Even if the battle against the alien had used up a lot of juice, hadn’t Gilded spent an entire day building sandbag dams and helping stranded drivers when a rainstorm had flooded downtown last April? All Miles was asking for was a few seconds to mop up a bully.
floosh
The latch on one of the stalls slid back. Miles held his breath, wondering who was inside. The way his luck had turned, it was probably some new bully he hadn’t met yet. Just what he needed.
The flusher stepped out of the stall, and Miles whispered a silent prayer of thanks. It was only the kid from detention—the one with the overlarge glasses and too-short pants. Clearly, he wasn’t a threat to anyone. In fact, he was looking at Miles with complete awe. Honest-to-goodness awe, like he really was impressed by what he saw.
“Wow.” The kid gaped, adjusting the strap on his shoulder bag. “Awesome cape.”
Miles checked his reflection in the mirror, wondering if the cape had started working. Nope. He waited for the kid to yell “Gotcha!” and bust out laughing, but he kept looking Miles over appreciatively.
Miles couldn’t take the awkward silence any longer. “You really think so?” he asked.
“Totally,” the kid gushed. “Best replica Gilded cape I’ve ever seen.” He washed his hands at the sink and then turned to Miles. “Where’d you buy it?”
“I—”
“Right,” the kid interrupted, as though he already knew the answer to his question. “There aren’t any capes this nice on the market. I’ve looked. So you made it yourself? I’ve made my own tons of times. You know what the hardest part is?”
“I—”
“Of course you know. Duh. It’s the stitching. Everybody forgets Gilded’s costume doesn’t have any stitching. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been that close to him or anything—I’ve never even seen him in person—but I’ve studied enough photos and TV footage to know. I have a theory that it’s made from some crazy material that doesn’t need stitches. Can I touch it?”
“I—”
The kid snatched up the corner of the cape and rubbed it between his fingers, raising it to his glasses for closer inspection. “Is this satin? No. It isn’t satin. Silk? What’d it cost you per foot?”
Miles had never seen anyone so excited. It was like the kid was experiencing Christmas, his birthday, and the last day of school all at the same time. Miles had not the foggiest clue how to answer any of the questions, so he steered the conversation in another direction. “Detention. You were the kid with the comic book.”
The kid let go of the cape and grinned. “Gilded Age number 452. Mr. Constant caught me reading it during class. What’s the big deal? I’d already taught myself the day’s lesson.” The kid shrugged. “Oh, well. Coach Lineman runs a quiet ship. Great reading environment. What’s your name anyway?”
“Miles.”
The kid jutted out a hand. “Henry Matte. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miles.”
Pleased to make your acquaintance? Did he think he was applying for a job?
Miles shook the kid’s hand. “Right. Same here.” Miles tried to muster some enthusiasm of his own, but it wasn’t easy, given the fact he was hiding in a bathroom and wearing a cape on the fritz. “So . . . I guess you’re a pretty big Gilded fan,” he offered.
“Try the biggest. I know everything there is to know about the Golden Great. Ask me something. Go on. Anything. I’ll know the answer.”
Come to think of it, maybe Miles had a job opening after all. “Henry?” he said, smiling.
Henry narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together, preparing himself for Miles’s toughest bit of Gilded trivia. “Shoot,” he dared.
“What are you doing this afternoon?”