First Appearance
Alex Segura
Carlos Avila knew he’d seen it. He must have, he told himself.
No way had he imagined it.
You didn’t just will those things into existence.
More on that in a second, though.
He’d walked into Frank’s Comics and Cards a few times a week. The shop was teeny-tiny—maybe the size of Carlos’s tiny bedroom inside his mom’s cramped three-bedroom house on 28th Street in the Westchester neighborhood of Miami. Frank’s was a dump, too. Dusty, loaded with junk, a back room of stacked longboxes stuffed to the gills with old comic books in no realistic order. It was heaven for someone like Carlos. A fan. A real fan.
It was a place where he could lose himself—wander the tiny, precariously stacked aisles, his fingers dancing over the bagged-and-boarded single issues crammed in bloated boxes, looking for a deal or anything that might be of interest. The possibilities were endless. Some days he’d find an issue that could complete his run of Justice League International, or an errant installment of Web of Spider-Man. The thrill of the hunt was part of the high, Carlos knew. The roll of the dice that could go big or small, but either way, he’d win.
If he had more than two tens burning a hole in his pocket, he might splurge on a box of DC Cosmic Cards or the Impel Marvel ones, the ones that had gotten him hooked on comics to begin with.
Carlos remembered his first moment with the trading cards. He was at his dad’s girlfriend’s house—well, girlfriend at the time. Marissa? Maribel? She smelled of old flowers and her skin was soft, like a clean pillow sheet. She’d place her hand on the back of his neck and just leave it there, the warmth of her palm warming him. No, he didn’t remember her name. But he remembered the cards. Black costume Spider-Man. X-Factor. Beta Ray Bill. The New Mutants. Every little piece of paper told a story, loaded with information on the opposite side—stats, like a baseball player. First appearance. Strength, agility, dexterity, and other attributes. A brief origin. A few cards in and Carlos was hooked. An obsession was launched. He’d been only a few days older than ten then.
Now it was August 1996 and Carlos had just finished up his sophomore year at Columbus High, an all-boys private school across 87th Avenue from his house. He hated it there. He didn’t fit in, or feel part-of. Carlos wasn’t deluded. He knew his faults. He had braces at an age when most kids were getting them off, had some serious acne, and seemed more inclined to spend time jerking off or reading his comics and Star Trek novels than playing football or (trying to) mack to girls. Carlos was fine with his lot in life, he really was. He loved cracking open the new issue of X-Men or Batman, or spending the afternoon reading about some lost story of the Enterprise. It was the other kids who didn’t seem to get it. They just wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone.
One kid in particular had cemented his role as Carlos’s main nemesis—Edwin Delacruz. His pre-college CV was already loaded with a litany of Great Things: QB on the junior varsity team, cross-country champ, point guard on the basketball team, and so on. When he wasn’t scoring points on the field, he had his hands up the head cheerleader’s skirt. He had it made. No problems. His dad was a local city commissioner and his mom, well, suffice to say Carlos really enjoyed when Edwin’s parents were around. It was one of the few positives Carlos could assign to Edwin Delacruz.
So why wouldn’t he leave Carlos alone? Carlos, lonely Carlos, who just wanted to get through his school day with the bare minimum of anguish so he could get home, rip open another bag of Chewy Chips Ahoy! cookies and lock himself up in his room—reading a stack of Flash comics or finding out if Mr. Spock really had a son born in an alternate dimension.
Edwin’s torment of Carlos ran the entire spectrum. From the typical shoving-into-lockers to the much more cruel: like a charley-horse before chemistry class, or, the one thing that broke Carlos. The one that he kept thinking back to and couldn’t seem to shake. Not because it was particularly original, mind you, but because it hurt. Because for a brief second, Carlos thought he’d suffered through so much shit at Edwin’s hands, that the bully had finally deemed Carlos worthy of friendship—or at the very least of some kind of grudging respect.
It’d been toward the end of the day and Carlos was heading out the back door toward the intersection of 87th Avenue and 30th Street. He saw Edwin step in front of him and felt his entire being sag. This wasn’t new. It’d become a ritual of sorts, Carlos knew. If Edwin was in a sour mood, he’d take it out on Carlos at the end of the day. It might be a passing, cutting insult—“Where you going, shithead?” or “Do those pimples burn your face, Carlos?” No artistry, of course. Just a bludgeon of meanness. It might be a punch in the stomach. It might be a full-on beating. It varied. Most days, Carlos could ride it out and get home fast. If he just accepted it was coming and steeled himself, he’d be fine. Or so he’d come to accept. But this time it’d been different, remember?
Edwin pulled his black JanSport backpack around, so it was draped over his chest instead of his back. He unzipped the main compartment and pulled out a book. Carlos looked at the cover. A book? Edwin wasn’t a reader, Carlos knew. What the fuck was this?
Edwin raised a hand as Carlos approached.
“What’s the rush, asshole?” Edwin said. Carlos stopped short. He was sure he looked confused, because he was. Was Edwin going to hit him with the book? Make him eat it?
Carlos mumbled something in response, but Edwin was already on to the next thing, shoving the paperback into Carlos’s chest. The thick book fell into his hands. Carlos held the cover up to his face as Edwin rambled on.
“Thought you might like this book, you know,” he said. “Since you read all the time and shit.”
“Read all the time and shit.” Carlos knew what this was in reference to. Another low point in a series of low points. They’d all been seated in Social Studies class, listening as Ms. Delgado prattled on about the pocket veto or how the War of 1812 started, when the school librarian walked in. Carlos actually loved social studies. He loved presidential history. Loved biographies and learning about how the world worked. But at school, he tried to keep a low profile. Tried to just power through it and get home. Not that day.
The librarian whispered something to Ms. Delgado then turned to leave—but before she did, she caught sight of Carlos, seated in the front row, trying desperately to hide his face somehow. She almost squealed when she saw him. She grabbed Ms. Delgado’s arm and pointed at Carlos.
“You have Carlos in your class?” she asked the teacher, who seemed confused and proud all at once. “What an honor. He comes into my library every day after school. Every day he checks out three or four books, then brings them back the next day. It’s amazing. He just loves to read.”
Carlos could hear the hissing laughs and insults bubbling behind him before the librarian, a wispy old woman named Lin, finished her story. Carlos hated her now, hated how she’d thrust his private world—his private love of reading and books—and shoved it into the spotlight for all to see. To laugh at. But how could he hate Mrs. Lin? That day had been a full-on beating day from Edwin. For once, Carlos felt he deserved it.
The memory flashed before Carlos as he looked at the paperback—the author’s name, Christopher Pike, emblazoned over the cover in a jagged, pink font. The cover featured a realistic painting of a girl—probably a year or two older than him—splayed out on the floor, clearly dead. Under her was the title: Remember Me.
“This is for me?” Carlos asked. He’d never read Pike before. He wasn’t big into teen supernatural dramas, but Carlos was also at an age where he’d read anything. New books were in short supply, and he could read and reread comics fast. So a novel? That was a treasure, no matter what it was about.
“Yeah, yeah, hope you enjoy it, bro,” Edwin said, a strange, flickering smile on his face—like he was trying hard to stop from breaking out laughing. The thought had been fleeting then, Carlos recalled, but would be proven right in a few days time. Then he turned away and left. No insults. No punches. No pain.
Carlos had rushed home, his hand coating the book’s cover in sweat as he navigated the humid Miami afternoon and made a beeline for his room. He didn’t remember much else about that night except the book.
In terms of story, it wasn’t anything great—a teen girl goes home and wonders why her parents and brother don’t talk or react to her, only to realize she’s actually dead—a presumed suicide. She’s a ghost. Then she has to take it upon herself to become an astral detective of sorts, solving her own murder. It was at about the middle of the novel when Carlos discovered it.
The novel itself, from the moment Carlos really looked at it, felt off. Beat up, bent, not well kept. Certainly not the way Carlos treated his books. But he ignored it, too caught up in the potential of not only the novel, but of the bigger narrative—the fact that Edwin had made a gesture of friendship. That if Carlos read this book, perhaps the two sides could put down their arms and become, if not friends, then at least respectful allies in the trench warfare that was high school. It’d been a foolish thought. He learned why a few pages later.
He was sitting in the school cafeteria, the next day, reading the book. Lunch was ending and Edwin and his two stooges, David and Nestor, were flanking him, trays in hand. Edwin turned to catch a glimpse of Carlos, immersed in the novel. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
“Hey Carlos,” Edwin said, that sneer now fully formed on his face. “You like that book, buddy?”
Carlos didn’t, really. I mean, it was fine, but he did like that Edwin was asking him about it—creeping doubt be damned.
“Yeah, definitely,” Carlos said, nodding eagerly. “It’s great. Thanks again.”
The trio walked off, Edwin looking back for one last parting word.
“I hear it gets really good soon,” he said. He turned to his friends and shared a long chuckle. Carlos’s stomach turned.
This was no olive branch, he realized. But he wasn’t sure what it was. Not yet.
He returned his attention to the book.
As the story careened toward the second act, and Shari Cooper began to get acquainted with being dead, Carlos discovered he was having trouble turning the pages. Some were stuck together. It sent a chill through him. He knew the joke before he got to it, like a poorly choreographed blooper. Which, in retrospect, this was. By the time he flipped forward and reached the greenish, dried out hunk of spit that decorated the middle section of the book, Carlos knew what was coming. He didn’t stare at it long. Tried not to breathe or memorize the disgusting present Edwin had left for him. In the years that would follow, Carlos would take pride in how he reacted. The calm that overtook him as he gently closed the book, stood up, and walked toward Edwin’s table.
The three jocks saw him and giggled with anticipation, as if waiting for Carlos to break down in tears or run out of the school into traffic. Carlos did neither and did nothing in between. He merely walked by them, reached a nearby waste basket, and tossed the book in. As he walked back to his own seat he turned to Edwin, a genuine, placid look in his eyes.
“Thanks again for the book,” Carlos said.
He’d never forget the angry confusion smeared across his face.
But it’d taken everything Carlos had to keep it together. To stop from falling to his knees and falling down. To think he’d even thought Edwin wanted to be his friend? Or that this sign of peace might signal a few days of peace and tranquility? A reprieve from the insults and beatings and hate that seemed to populate every minute he spent at this shithole school? It was enough to break you, he thought. Life was a collection of realizations like this, Carlos would soon learn. Moments when your innocence was taken and shattered one more time, a reminder that there were few good, pure things, and not everyone in the world cared for you or even thought of you the way you might think of them.
The door chime at Frank’s Comics and Cards jarred Carlos from the memory.
Anyway, yeah. Carlos was sure he saw it. That was when the plan formed in his brain.
He knew it was wrong, of course. Carlos had been raised right. Sure, his parents were divorced—but his mom worked hard and they never wanted for anything. His abuelo and abuela lived with them and he never felt alone, ignored, or unloved. He knew even thinking about this would be wrong. But God, it felt so damn good.
The comic was in a hard plastic case, atop the shop’s main counter. The Legendary Lynx #11. It’d been published by Spectrum Comics, one of those tiny publishers that populated the sixties and seventies, when there was more than just Marvel or DC. Spectrum had published a bunch of great comics, like the vigilante noir The Black Ghost to the all-star super-team The Freedom Alliance to the chilling horror anthology Blood Oath. But no one talked about Spectrum anymore. The company had folded a few short years after it was founded, and many of the characters and ideas faded into anonymity. Except one.
Carlos didn’t know much about the Lynx, the street vigilante heroine that starred in the series. The comics were rare and most collectors knew what they had when they found them, so they weren’t in wide circulation. But Carlos knew about the series—knew that the first dozen or so issues were some of the most influential superhero crime comics of the era. He also knew that this issue, in particular, was worth more than what his mom made in a year at her nursing job. Maybe two.
The cover called out to him. The dark-clad hero leaping toward the reader, a grim, focused expression on her face. Carlos looked around the small shop. Frank was at the other end of the counter, talking to a customer complaining about the store not having the new Dungeons & Dragons Dungeon Master’s Guide.
“We’re a comic shop, Mike,” Frank said. “Not a gaming store, all right? Quit it with this shit, kid.”
“It’s just, it, like, doesn’t make any sense,” the kid whined. “Gaming and comics go so well together.”
“Go home, Richie,” Frank said, pointing to the door.
Richie gathered his box of 20-sided dice and the stack of comics he just bought and left.
Frank turned his attention to the television screen on the counter. It was plugged into the local news. Carlos heard something about a teacher in Seattle being arrested for hooking up with her student. He didn’t look at the television. His eyes were locked on the comic.
It’d be easy enough for Carlos to slip the book into his backpack. There was no alarm at Frank’s. No security cameras. This despite the fact that the store boasted a fairly impressive collection of high-end comics: from The Amazing Spider-Man #32 to Giant-Size X-Men #1 and a handful of notable Superman issues, Frank’s was well-stocked. But those comics were, smartly, behind protective glass. If you wanted to steal them, you’d have to break some shit.
But why not this issue? Carlos wondered.
The sound of a toilet flushing. That was the answer. Albert, Frank’s sole employee and someone who would never be classified as sharp and organized, was on the can. Even Carlos knew Albert’s bathroom journeys were epic—hours spent reading some of the new comics before Frank or he would even shelve them. It added a touch of grit and nausea to any shopping experience. So, Albert had been shelving the high-end stuff. He’d left this copy of The Legendary Lynx on the counter, like the dumb shit he was. It was destiny, Carlos thought. If stuff like that existed.
The story unfurled. He’d take the comic and make his way back home, sliding the thick plastic case under his bed. He’d wait until Monday, Ms. Wooten’s home room period. Then he’d wait until Edwin—who was seated in front of him—would inevitably get up to shoot the shit with Nestor and David across the classroom. Then he’d slide his hands under his desk, reaching his fingers out until they grasped the zipper of Edwin’s backpack and opened it just enough to weave the comic inside. He’d cover his tracks, zipping the bag up as he finished.
Then Carlos would lean back and wait. For the bell to ring. For Edwin to get up, watching carefully to see if he’d notice the additional weight. But of course he wouldn’t. He was a big, strong dude. Plus, he didn’t think about what was in his backpack. Books were for losers.
Then Carlos would wander down to the lobby and step outside, to the bank of payphones stationed near the school entrance. He’d pull out the change he’d saved just for this, and he’d ring Frank.
“Frank’s Comics and Cards, Frank speaking.”
“Hey, uh, Frank?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“I’m a, well, I’m a—uh, a concerned customer.”
Silence.
“I think I know who took your Lynx comic.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Well,” Carlos would stammer. He hadn’t expected this to be so complicated. “I saw it there, then I didn’t see it there.”
“Someone coulda bought it,” Frank would snap back. Frank wasn’t a nice guy. Hell, he was an asshole. Carlos wasn’t even sure he liked comics, to be honest. “Did you take the book, kid? ’Cause it sure sounds like you did.”
“Ask Edwin Delacruz,” Carlos would spit. “He’s got it. He had someone steal it for him. He’s about to sell it. Better come get it. He goes to Columbus.”
Then Carlos would hang up. It wouldn’t feel as good as he’d hoped but it’d feel pretty good.
He’d watch as their third period class, Mr. Tuohy’s English, would be interrupted by one of the school administrators—a ramrod military-style assistant principal, Mr. Morris. Morris would talk to Tuohy, then turn and point to Edwin, who would stand up, not a care in the world. He was often taken out of class, you see—to get in an early practice, to go to a team event, that sort of shit. He was blessed. Not this time.
He’d catch a glimpse of the cop car pulled up in front of the school. The officer gently handcuffing Edwin and leading him out of Columbus and toward the waiting vehicle, Edwin’s classmates and teachers lining up and watching, heads shaking, stern frowns. Carlos would laugh. The sound would cut through the buzz of noise, and Edwin would look back—catching Carlos’s eyes. Then he’d know. But he’d also know there was nothing he could do about it. His pristine little life was over, you see. He was a thief. A thug. Derailed by someone who just wanted to be left alone.
“You all right?”
Frank’s question felt like a slap in the face. Carlos blinked and spun around.
“Huh?”
“You all right, kid?” Frank said again. “You looked like you were in a fucking trance, dude. You gonna buy anything or just stare into space? You looking for something in particular? Origin story? First appearance? What? We got it all.”
Carlos shook his head. No. He wasn’t going to buy anything. The fantasy faded from his brain, like a particularly vivid dream.
“No, no,” Carlos said, hastily stepping toward the exit. “You don’t have what I’m looking for. Not anymore.”
The door chimed as Carlos walked out, feeling the bright Miami sun eradicate the fleeting darkness that almost threatened to consume him.