‘Little Bremy, that was very good fight.’
Mr Pushkin and I sat across from one another on benches in a small concrete change room at the arena slash theatre. I sighed. ‘Yeah, well, I had kind of a rough night.’ I dropped my head, stretching out the muscles in my neck. ‘I needed to work a few things out.’
‘Yes, you work many things out with fists! And feet! And forehead butt.’ I glanced up to see him smile with the memory. ‘Yes, that was very good.’
I rubbed a hand over my face, but that only served to hurt both my hand and my face. Everything that happened since the museum was a bit of a blur, but now that the adrenaline was draining, I was feeling a little more aware of my circumstances … and they sucked.
‘You don’t seem happy, Little Bremy.’
I mustered up some effort and replied, ‘I … I don’t know what I am.’ Wow. Truer words had never been spoken, by me at least. I certainly wasn’t a crime fighter. Definitely not a superhero. I wasn’t even that much help as a regular citizen. Jenny had shown me what it was to be those things. And I was happy for her. At least, part of me was happy for her. Well, at least, I thought part of me was happy for her. I was confused. And tired. And very, very sad. I cleared my throat. ‘So what’s the deal with you and Lana? I saw you both giving each other some pretty moony looks.’ In between my flying fists of fury.
It was Mr Pushkin’s turn to sigh. Of course, the force of his sigh caused a minor windstorm in the room. Alright, maybe not, but I was pretty sure I saw the corner of a towel flutter. ‘She does not like my career choice.’
I nodded. ‘Been there.’
We sat in silence a moment longer, then I asked, ‘So have you ever thought about going straight?’
He chuckled and shook his head. ‘Oh Bremy, I am six foot six foreigner in strange land. English is … difficult,’ he said, looking to the ceiling. ‘Plus I have glass eyeball and six fingers on my right hand.’
I waited to see where he was going with this.
‘You think I should be nurse? Office worker? Perhaps child care professional?’ I nodded, staring down at my feet. Yeah, I got that. Me and Mr Pushkin, well, we were a lot alike. Neither one of us could escape ourselves. The only difference was that he had the good sense not to try.
‘What about you, Little Bremy? You do good job tonight. You want to come back?’ he asked, voice brightening. ‘You could make lots of money as Little Chicken the Terrible … or Horrible Little Chicken … or, well, you could make up name. I could be manager?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, with another long, low sigh. ‘I think I might be moving to Nepal.’ I turned my hand over so I could take a look at the wound on my knuckles. ‘Besides, I have a cut on my hand in the shape of Lee Lee’s tooth, and I’m feeling kind of weird about it.’
He nodded. ‘This makes me sad.’ He paused a moment then pointed at me. ‘But you give notice if you move. Don’t forget. Or I have to—’ He suddenly cut off himself off and dropped his hand to his lap. ‘Ah, never mind.’
I half-smiled and nodded in return. Just then one of Mr Pushkin’s men came in holding his phone saying something quickly in a language I didn’t understand. He also looked at me pointedly several times during the conversation. Mr Pushkin took the phone and waved the man away.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied, not able to meet my eyes.
‘Oh no. It was something. Something about me.’
‘Ah, Little Bremy.’
‘Phone,’ I demanded reaching my hand out.
‘It’s nothing. It’s—’
‘Now!’
Mr Pushkin jumped. ‘Alright, don’t get pansies in a bunch.’
‘It’s not pansies—never mind, phone.’
Mr Pushkin passed me the phone. On the screen was the homepage for Cassie Mack’s tabloid … and a picture … a picture of me—Sidekick me—reaching for Bart in full Crime Mime gear, the headline, What Ever Happened to Sweet Bremy St. James? Then underneath, Superhero or Superjoke?
Cassie Mack. Library Girl. Of course. It had all been a set-up. Our chance meeting. My saving her in the alley. All a set-up.
‘So you’ve been keeping tabs,’ I said, passing back the phone. ‘How long have you known who I was?’
‘Little while.’
I exhaled roughly. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I respect the privacy,’ he said before adding, ‘Your father. He is bad man. I thought maybe this is girl who needs the help.’
And there went my eyes again. I hated that prickly feeling. ‘Thanks,’ I said, trying to keep the quaver from my voice.
Mr Pushkin stood. ‘Come.’
I rolled my eyes up to his.
‘Now, you look like girl who needs the ice-cream.’
I screwed my face up into a Really? expression.
‘You had good fight. You deserve treat.’
I heaved myself up and walked towards the door. ‘Where can we even get ice-cream this time of night?’
‘Ah, Little Bremy, when you are man like Mr Pushkin, everybody gives you ice-cream.’
***
Despite the gratuitous amounts of coconut ice-cream I had eaten the night before at the Thai restaurant Mr Pushkin had taken me to, I woke up miserable—in no small part because I felt broken all over. Sure, I had won the fight last night, but that was because I willing to sacrifice my body to do it. But, of course, it wasn’t the physical pain that was bothering me. It was the big ball of doughy rotten goo in my head that was the memory of the museum. I was trying to ignore it, but it seemed to be growing in size. Soon it would crush the little me up in there, whistling with its hands in its pockets, pretending there wasn’t a big goo memory threatening to flatten everything.
I threw my thin quilt over my face, but then threw it back when I realised how badly it needed to be washed, or maybe I needed to brush my teeth. It was hard to tell.
I let out a huff of frustration.
Fine, I would think about it. But I really hated to think about stuff.
Okay, here goes.
Bart and I humiliated ourselves in front of all the people I used to know. Ow, okay, that hurt, but it was survivable.
The only thing I had succeeded at last night was convincing Pierce that I was a loser … a reckless, dangerous loser, who nearly got him killed. But maybe that doesn’t matter so much anyway because he has been lying to me … about my sister.
Oh yeah, that one stung. My chest clenched a little bit tighter and my eyes were slightly more prickly. But it was out there now. Lance that boil.
Suddenly, the pigeons outside my window let out a startled group burble.
I sat up sharply, glaring at my window with the plastic blind rolled down, and shouted, ‘I told you, Rosita. We are not doing the Mexican maid’s daughter falling for the millionaire’s son storyline! It’s been done!’ I angrily flopped back in my bed.
I had been duped by a paparazzi, and now the world believed I was crazy.
I exhaled sharply. Okay, not too bad. Time for the last one.
My twin sister, the person I loved more than anyone, had not only ditched me, but in the matter of a few short weeks had become everything I had always wanted to be and more. And, AND, if I’m completely honest, I may even be jealous of the person I love more than anything, which means I am a much worse person than I had ever thought possible!
I clutched my chest. Oh God, that didn’t feel good. In fact, getting it all out there felt really bad. Like really, really bad. Ugly amounts of tears swam around in my eyes.
The pigeons erupted with another round of burbles.
I shot up. ‘Guys! Seriously! I have real life issues that I need to— Wah!’
A shadow moved in front of my window. A human shadow!
I clutched my quilt to my chest. Who the hell was outside of my window? I mean, there was a fire escape out there, but it wasn’t stable enough for, you know, actual use.
My muscles twitched. I should probably just get up and run away. I mean, it was totally within the realm of possibility that my father had sent building scaling goons after me, but then again … what if somebody needed my help? Maybe it was a neighbour trying to end it all, or somebody who’d became disoriented while ledge walking? That probably wasn’t likely, but could I take that chance?
I edged out of bed and crept the two steps over to my window. Maybe if I just peeked under the blind, I could see if it was friend or foe. I pinched the worn plastic between my fingers, and—
WHAP!
The material zipped up in a fantastic roll.
I stumbled backwards as my eyes shot up to the window.
Ryder.