No Capes

NO CAPES SAMPLE - Chapter Three

Every so often, a debate pops up about which superpower is the coolest. Kristen says it's the classic—and awesome—power to fly. My dad disagrees; he'd want mind-reading. He jokes that's a way to finally know what his daughters are thinking. I'd choose super speed or teleportation, so I could stop needing Kristen for rides. Then there's invisibility. People want invisibility so they can trespass and shoplift. I don't trust anyone who would pick invisibility. Besides, it's easy to be invisible. Welcome to the dead middle of the high school food chain.

The best part of my afternoon is between 2:25 and 2:30 P.M., right after the last bell of the day rings, signaling the end of my educational imprisonment, and right before Damian Scott Jr. finishes filling his plaid book bag.

The senior class has four hundred students, and Damian Scott Jr. has the locker diagonally across the hallway from mine. Out of all the possible lockers, did I choose mine because of this and beg Kristen to be next to me instead of by her first class, where she'd be less likely to get detention for being late? Possibly. 2:30 P.M. is approximately when Damian strolls by to catch his bus. Bus 3, in fact, which drops him off near League of Comics, the bookstore where he works every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday. (Never underestimate the research skills of a girl with a crush.)

Shouts echo down the senior hallway as stir-crazy teenagers sprint to escape the gloom of existence known as Capital City High: boring teachers, classes that are basically naptime, and the grimy substance the administration calls food, which is barely edible on a good day.

"Get ready. Here he comes." Kristen steps on my foot as she's jostled by the stampede of students. I almost miss the half-second window when Damian can still see me. Today, he has on a red sweater and blue jeans, and the only natural light in the school shines behind him, catching his chestnut hair so it glows. I swear he walks right through a sunbeam.

"Hi." I smile when he passes.

"Have a good one." Damian nods. His hazelnut eyes flicker with faint recognition, and giddy warmth floods my chest as he strolls away.

Kristen whacks my arm.

"Ow."

"Oh my god. Again, it's 'Hi, Damian.' That way he's forced to wrack his gorgeous brain for your name too, which—"

"—Establishes a foundation for the rest of our relationship," I finish. Yeah, yeah. I turn back to my locker and stuff the textbooks I'll need for tonight into my backpack, which is still damp from last night's adventure in the rain. "Except he knows my name. We've had eleven classes together since freshman year. Plus, he has a girlfriend."

"It seriously sucks that she's nice. It would be easier to hate her if she were awful."

Kristen wipes dust off her denim jacket and pulls a tube of lip gloss from her pocket. Underneath the jacket, she has on a sequin Be QUEERious shirt that she designed herself, and streaks of lavender blend into her dark hair. My personal uniform is leggings and a t-shirt. Today's shirt is navy.

"Be nice to other girls, Kris," I say. "First rule of feminism."

Kristen scoffs. "Even Arielle?"

"Hey. I'm nice to Arielle."

"Uh-huh." Kristen prattles on about what she would do if Molly Woods, our class president, the editor of Capital High Daily, and Damian's bubbly girlfriend of two years, ever hurt me.

Kristen and I became best friends in sixth grade, when we were the only kids in Capital City whose parents wouldn't buy them gingham sneakers. I begged my parents for a pair, but they'd already bought me sneakers for the year. So then I begged Arielle, but she said, "I'll buy them after every other pattern on earth has been destroyed by the apparent uprising of people with no taste," and thus my family doomed me to be forever uncool. Around that time, Kristen sat next to me in pre-algebra, wearing white shoes that she'd drawn on with permanent marker. Stars and cats. She'd offered to draw on mine, and I forgot all about gingham whatever.