Fierce

Chapter 4-1

Chapter 4

I sped away before the authorities pulled up. Something told me that, despite my saving the woman’s life, the cops wouldn’t have been happy that I did their job—a teenager, that is, a teenager in a onesie, however fetching said onesie might’ve been. Plus, how would I explain my strength, my even being there so quickly. It was a double-edged sword, really. I wanted to be a superhero, but I couldn’t be out about it.

So, I exited, stage right, running into Craig halfway back. “Well?” he shouted at me.

I shushed him and pulled him behind a rather large shrub. After all, it wasn’t Halloween, and this was Billings, not the East Village. Heck, the freaks didn’t even come out at night around Billings. Coyotes, sure. Freaks, not so much. Oh, and coyotes don’t taste like chicken; they’re a bit gamier—chicken with seasoning, we’ll call it.

“I saved a woman’s life,” I whispered, once we were well-hidden, the smile on my face as wide as the sky.

His smile mirrored my own. “No way.”

“Way.” Articulate, no, but it’d do the trick. “I pried her from the very jaws of death.” Yep, that was better. Guess I just needed some practice. “Two more seconds, and…” I snapped my fingers. “Kapow!”

His eyes nearly popped free from his mask. I grinned at the site of him. In truth, we looked more like an ad for Party City than superheroes. Still, you couldn’t deny what I’d done. “See,” he said. “You were meant to do this, Fierce.”

It was the first time he’d called me that in conversation. The name filled me, washed over me. Tingles ran like wildfire down my back. “Us,” I corrected him. “We were meant to do this.”

“You really think so?”

His heart pumped out a series of somersaults that all scored perfect tens while he waited for my answer. With the hearing aids embedded in my mask, his chest sounded like a symphony, like the Philharmonic.

I paused. Did I really think so? I mean, sure, I’d just rescued someone, but I hadn’t even taken calculus yet. I’d barely been driving for six months. I couldn’t drink, couldn’t even see an R-rated movie—my parent’s rules, not the theater’s—so what made me think I could be a hero?

I stared at him as he stared at me. His face was lit up like the Fourth of July during a Disney parade. And that was when I knew, knew what made me think I could be a hero. It was Craig. Craig made me think that. Craig believed in me, in us, so I did as well.

“Huh,” I said.

“You know, Fierce, you’re going to need a much better catchphrase than that,” he chided. “But, huh what?”

“Huh,” I replied. “I guess I do think so. I mean, I suppose we could give it a try. Part time, though. Maybe just on the weekends, once school starts.” Which meant that, yes, superhero work sounded much like a paper route. Still, it was a start.

* * * *

We went home and f****d after that. Superhero work made me horny. Then again, a good breeze made me horny. A sale down at Macy’s made me horny. Still, this was something different. I felt it down to my bones. And it wasn’t just the spark in Craig’s eyes either—nice as said spark was.

Oh, and of course, the press didn’t hurt either.

I woke up the next morning to it. My mom had the news on. The woman I’d saved was in her hospital bed. I recognized her immediately. She cleaned up well, though she looked battered and bruised, like a banana a week past ripe. Mom went to change the channel.

“Don’t!” I hollered. She jumped and clutched her chest in surprise. “I mean, wait, this looks, you know, interesting.”

She eyed me as if I’d lost a marble or two. “Really? Since when do you like the news?”

Since the news was about me, duh. “Um, I think she might be a friend of mine’s mom.”

She turned her face back to the TV. “Oh, okay then.”

The woman was being interviewed about her ordeal, about her recue, about her rescuer, namely me. Me! “He sounded like a kid,” she said. “And he was wearing the strangest violet-colored outfit.”

“Purple!” I shouted.

Mom jumped again. “Huh?” And yes, the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.

“Never mind,” I said as I pointed to the TV. “Shh, listen.”

She eyed me funny, but acquiesced just the same. The interview lasted another minute. The end was the best part.

“Did you catch your rescuer’s name?” the interviewer asked.

“Fierce,” said the woman, looking straight into the camera. “He said his name was Fierce.”

My heart suddenly galloped through a furlong. She said my name. Wait. SHE SAID MY NAME! ON TV! Yes, the caps and exclamation point were mandatory. The last time they mentioned me on TV, I was the one being rescued, ten years earlier, a seven-year-old wild child. Now the shoe was on the other foot—even though my onesie didn’t come with shoes.

When the interview was finally done, my cell phone started to ring. I picked it up in the kitchen.

“Did you see it?!” Craig shouted into the phone. “Did you?! Did you?! You were just on TV! She said your name! Your hero name! You!”

I moved the receiver a few inches away from my ear. I already had super hearing; I didn’t need the additional bellowing. “I saw,” I replied. “Neat.”

“Is that all you can say? Neat?” He was still shouting. “You’re famous!”

I smiled. I knew better than to think that, but it was cool to hear it just the same. “It was the morning news in Billings, Craig. People probably think she hit her head during the crash and was seeing things.”

“Oh,” he said. “You think so?”

No, not really. But someone had to be the voice of reason, painful as it was for said voice to have been mine. “It’ll be forgotten by tomorrow.”

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

Not once my next rescue occurred, less than twenty-four hours later.