The X-Men meets Stranger Things in this coming-of-age tale.
I, Nadine Jackson, believe in science and opportunities, not stories out of a comic book.
So as part of a school project, my friends Imogen 'Aria' Zhang, Marco Martinez, James Ryder and I...
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Picking up the pace, I turn right on West Avenue and Mariner Blvd. when a treacherous sea of people began to overwhelm me.
I dodged a passing old man in a trench coat, avoided direct contact from a well-to-do Christian family, and even walked past a street vendor who is selling real-life footage of the Avengers.
He is a tall, skinny African-American man, with big sunglasses, a bright yellow t-shirt, neon pink khakis, and light brown sandals.
Next to him is a wooden table covered in an assortment of dark gray VHS tapes.
Waving the videotape in the air, the street vendor boomed, "Come and get it! Fresh and brand-new!"
"It has all the heroes you know and loves: that scary green guy, the Game of Thrones dude with a big ass hammer and- the vendor paused for dramatic effect-there is a sexy Russian redhead chick kicking some ass!"
Rolling my eyes, I wondered why the guy is convinced that those tapes would sell.
Back then, people were skeptical about superpowers; but now we have a bulletproof man, a guy who crawls like a spider, and a devil who punches people.
Even though the world is changing, I don't believe that superheroes are real.
Sure there is Iron Man, Star-Spangled Grandpa, and Katniss Everdeen's Long-Lost Brother, but why believe in something that is in a comic book?
Does this realm of superheroes distort the difference between reality and fiction?
Looking at my phone screen again, I told myself not to worry about it so much as I only have thirty minutes to get to school on time.
Tightening my hands around my backpack straps, I continued making my way to school in a big city.
There, I can smell hot dogs roasting in the fire, and watch markets infested with customers.
Speaking of grocery stores, I smile at Ma offering a basket of free apples to little children.
Behind her is a local store, painted in a light green color; its wide blurry window revealed a black and white tiled room with a cash register, a fridge stocked with drinks, and wooden shelves filled with necessities.
She is a fifty-nine-year-old Hispanic woman with pitch-black sunglasses, reddish-brown hair, a cotton blue dress, and brown leather sandals. Wrinkles smeared on her light olive skin, making Ma look an eighty-year-old.
Believe it or not, my parents and I knew Ma for a very long time.
Every now and then, we would come over to her house with home-cooked meals and warm smiles.
I also helped her out in the store while her husband is overseas.
Walking up to Ma, I plucked a green apple from the basket and was about to take a bite when Ma pulls it away from me.
