Hero-Type Part 12

I call her back. Rita answers the phone.

"We were so happy to see you on TV!" she burbles. Rita is endlessly enthusiastic. She's like a cheerleader with her gears stuck in overdrive or something. "Jesse kept saying, 'That's my big brother.'"

"Is my mom there?" I ask. It's one in the afternoon in California, but Mom telecommutes.

"Just a second."

And then she's on. She's less burbly, but she also can't stop talking about me on TV-though she mentions I should have been sitting up straight and that she has a new face cream "that will take care of those blemishes for you."

"They're not blemishes, Mom. They're zits. Let's be honest."

"There's no need to be crude, Kevin."

"Sure."

"Kevin, I want you to come visit us again this summer."

Last year's knock-down, drag-out fight over who would pay for the plane ticket flashes through my mind. But this year ... hey, I'm rich, right?

"That sounds ... that sounds good, Mom."

"Wait, honey, I'm not done yet. I mean for the whole summer."

My brain sort of fizzles out for a second. I must have heard her wrong.

"The whole summer?" A lot can happen in a summer. My imagination takes charge for a brief moment, imagining my return to Brookdale in the fall, a new me, as different from the current me as Jesse is from the kid who left the East Coast. It's a nice fantasy.

"And if that works out and you like it here," she goes on, "Rita and I want to have you move in with us. For good."

Chapter 20.

I go on TV (Again)

Moving to California. For good.

Hours later, I'm still trying to absorb the conversation with Mom, but I'm doing a lousy job of it. Going to California would totally change my life. I wouldn't have to worry about Dad's past. Or the stupid hero c.r.a.p. Or the even stupider villain c.r.a.p. I could start over.

Those videotapes that I shouldn't have wouldn't matter anymore. Maybe I could even get past Leah-out of sight, out of mind.

Moving. It's the kind of thing I used to talk to Father McKane about. On my own, it's too big to imagine. It's like my brain's got a quart of s.p.a.ce open and I'm trying to pour in a gallon of stuff. And all the stuff that won't fit in is just splashing all over me and confusing me.

Fortunately, Flip calls and I get distracted. "Hail, Fool. It's only just begun," he says.

"What's just begun?" I'm not sure I like the giddy, ominous tone of his voice.

"Don't you worry about a thing. Just keep doing what you're doing. We'll handle the rest. Sunday night-slash-Monday morning. For maximum impact." He giggles. That's either a really good or a really bad sign.

I get an image of the Council of Fools spreading out across Brookdale in black ninja gear, h.e.l.l-bent on wreaking our particularly ridiculous brand of havoc.

"Please don't do anything too crazy," I tell him. "You're gonna, y'know, obscure my point and stuff."

Which is the wrong thing to say, really, because Flip lives to obscure people's points. That's sort of why there is a Council in the first place.

I shove it all aside to work on my speech. I'm not stupid or anything, but I don't try really hard in school, so this is sort of like doing a triathlon after not working out for a long time. I'm using all these brain muscles I haven't used in, like, a thousand years.

It takes the whole weekend and a bunch of trips to the library for research. Dad asks what I'm up to and I tell him it's a project for school, which isn't a total lie.

By the time I'm done, it's late Sunday. I rehea.r.s.e, say my speech out loud over and over again-whispering to keep from waking up Dad-so I can be sure it's under three minutes.

It's pretty good.

I think it's pretty good.

Will Leah think it's pretty good? Because not only would it be cool to have her take one step closer to me, but it would also be cool to have someone on my side in all of this. Someone who agrees with me, I mean. It's nice that the Council has my back, but they don't really care about any of this.

I call Flip on his cell so that I can read the speech to him, but he doesn't answer, which means he's probably in the back seat of his car with Fam. I close my eyes real tight and try to banish the image of their pasty, skinny bodies locked together.

So I call Jedi. I can hear his PS3 in the background the whole time I'm reading the speech to him.

"Sounds good to me," he says.

"Dude, were you even listening?"

"Uh-huh. Whoa! d.a.m.n! Almost died!"

"Jedi, help me out here. Does it suck or not?"

"Hang on. Save point." I listen to some yelling and screaming and bullets in the background and then it all goes quiet. "OK. Vvvvvvvhhhnn. Kross, man, it sounds OK to me, but what do I know?"

"But do you think it will convince people?"

"Convince people of what? Vvvvvvvhhhnn."

Oh. My. G.o.d. If I could jump through the telephone line and choke him to death, I would do it. I swear.

"Dude. I'm trying to get people to think for themselves. You know? To stop doing what everyone else does just because everyone else does it. Or just because everyone has always done it."

"Why the h.e.l.l do you care?"

I don't have an answer for that. I just do. Isn't that enough?

I try Speedo next. "You know what I've been thinking?" he says before I can even start to read my speech. "I think there should be ribbons ... for ribbons."

"What?"

"Yeah. Like ribbons for your car that say 'Ribbon Awareness' or 'Support the Ribbons,' you know? Wouldn't that be funny?"

"Dude, your tightie-whities are so tight they're cutting off the blood supply to your brain."

"I started wearing boxers this weekend," he informs me. "It's very strange that everything can breathe down there."

Ew.

"You need to chill," he says. "Everyone'll forget about all of this over the weekend anyway."

OK, so Speedo's no help.

t.i.t's my last call. He actually lets me read through the whole thing. Then he's quiet for a while before he says, "Kross, you sure you want to do this?"

"Why?"

I can almost hear him picking his words. "I mean, I get that you're doing this to impress Leah with how fearless you are, but-"

"That's not why I'm doing it!"

"Man, you've got a b.o.n.e.r the size of the bridge support for her. And she goes hanging around with Riordon and his pals-"

"Shut up, t.i.t."

"-and you know that you don't stand a chance against any of those guys in a fight or anything, so-"

"Dude, shut up."

"-you figure you'll stomp him into the ground with your mouth instead and then she's all impressed and everything and you guys go off into the sunset together, right?"

I sit there. I stare at Dad's bedroom door because it's one of the only things to stare at in this place.

"Right?" t.i.t says again.

"No," I lie. But he's right. I didn't realize it until he said it, but he's right.

"You really think any of that's gonna happen?"

"I don't know. I'm just trying to make a point. I just want people to get off my back about things. Show them that just because you don't have a ribbon or whatever, it doesn't mean you're a bad guy."

"Good luck with that." He sounds like he really means it.

"Thanks, t.i.t."

Monday morning, before school, Dad's gone and I watch a tape again. I still hate myself for doing this; I'm still powerless not to do it. I should destroy it, is what I should do. I should tear them up-all of them-and smash the cases like my camcorder is smashed and then I could never watch again, but I just can't bring myself to do it.

On the way to school, I listen to the radio: WIIY's Morning Madness with Skip and Skippy. And this is how I learn what Flip was really up to over the weekend, and it didn't involve negotiating the clasp on Fam's size-AA training bra.

"It's gotta be kids," says Skip (or Skippy-I can never keep them straight).

"No, man," says Skippy (or, again, Skip). "Kids can't pull that off."

"Are you crazy? Only kids could pull it off. It's so juvenile..."

"You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."

"True ... If you're just joining us," says Skip, "we're talking about the image that was spammed out to newspapers and TV stations in the area today, including our own Morning Madness anchor desk..."

"Located in the third-floor men's room, in the stinky stall."

"Right. Anyway, it's a fu-"

"Watch it, man! FCC!"

"I was going to say 'funny.'"

"Sure you were."

G.o.d, get to the point!

As if he can hear my thoughts, Skip says, "It looks like someone took a blow-up doll and dressed it up in some red, white, and blue lingerie-"

"Very tasteful," Skippy interjects. "Very patriotic."

"-and has it, uh, her posed with a, uh..."

"A marital aid."

"That's no aid. That's a marital tower." Skippy starts cracking up. "I mean, that's the biggest, uh..."

"Marital aid," Skippy gasps.

"I've ever seen. This thing needs its own zip code."

"And an altimeter."

"Needless to say, she's in a very, uh, compromising position with this thing-"

"Not that it looks like she minds."

Skippy still can't breathe.