The Vigilante's Handbook (Misfits #1)

One: Superhero 101

When you shove a bunch of teenage superheroes into one classroom, a few dumb questions are bound to come up. There will be plenty of "Can I go to the bathroom?" and a few "Do we have to do homework?" But the most common question in the halls of Paramount Lake Academy for Troubled Youth was, "How is this going to help us in the real world?"

My teachers were really good at answering without really answering. Half of the time, they would give a heavy sigh and some generic non-answer like, "Learning basic science, combat, and tactical planning establishes a balanced foundation for the future." See? Nothing concrete.

The other half of the time, my teachers weren't even willing to answer the question, especially when I sprung it on them with two minutes left of class. After a heavy sigh--there was always a heavy, tired sigh--they said something like, "Anna, you can't ask that question whenever you want to distract me from assigning homework."

Today I raised my hand just as Miss Freyson was getting ready to announce our weekend essay. With her, the question was a guaranteed teacher distracter. Freyson was one of the least concise people I knew, and her scripted answer took us almost to the bell. It grew an authentic groan of frustration from my fellow classmates.

The question may have started as a joke, but there were only three weeks left until graduation. After that we would be facing the real world. It made the lack of an answer feel like our school system was failing us.

To fill the spare minute before the bell rang, I put on my best take-me-serious voice. I was determined to leave Tactical Planning 400 with an answer, without homework, and feeling like a superhero. "But, Miss Freyson, we know how to get out of a stranglehold and most of us can struggle our way through algebra, but what happens when we need to trade intelligence with the local police or bust a drug ring? Am I going to be able to photosynthesize my way out of that?"

A few of the younger, duller students chuckled, but the rest of the graduating class murmured their agreement. That was a first. It prompted me to continue, "I have been at the Academy for years, and I still don't know how to be a superhero."

And, like it was never there to begin with, I lost any support I had earned.

Miss Freyson's shoulders relaxed when she noticed my blunder, and my class collectively laughed at me. As if I needed another way to stand out, I had gone and said the worst word possible in these fake granite halls.

A mistake like that was impossible to overcome, but I tried. "I mean, we don't know how to be vigilantes. Fight crime. Save the world. It doesn't matter how you put it, we don't know how to do it. And there's no college of crime fighting to teach us."

It was a lost cause. I slumped further into my hard plastic chair, probably ruining my future spine, but I didn't care. I only wanted to disappear, wrecked spine and all.

Anything to escape my classmates and the dead eyes of the posters that littered the classroom walls. The face of the greats bore down on me like they knew I did something wrong. Nightwave, Stan Lee, Albert Einstein, Lady Galaxy. A single slip of the tongue and their combined disappointment threatened to crush me. And there went my chance at distracting Miss Freyson before she could finish giving out today's homework.

Speaking of.

"I expect a comprehensive essay on my desk Monday morning detailing the downfall of a historical leader. That means it needs to be complete with contingency plans that should have been set in place to prevent removal from power." She surveyed the rest of us like we were the brightest minds of our generation--and half of us were. "Try to be creative and plausible. If I have to read one more Harry Potter fan theory about Voldemort's secret horcruxes, I will fail you all." A pointed look at me.