Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect Read Free Page B

says, giving nothing away.
    From the back of the room,
Matt looks a question at me. I raise my eyebrows and shake my head in response: Don’t ask me, I just got here .
    The last time I spoke to Mrs.
Z, she made me feel like I was doomed to a life in the food service industry
because I hadn’t yet laid out a detailed course for myself post-high school. I
promised her, and myself, to give it some serious thought, but a lot of things
popped up afterwards (please refer to my previous comment about the crazy
demon-god).
    It’s precisely that sort of
out-of-left-field insanity that makes me question whether I’m fit for normal
employment. I mean, what would I do if a crisis arose while I was at my day
job? I couldn’t up and leave with no explanation. Bosses frown at that sort of
thing. Me, I frown at innocent people getting hurt or killed because I’m too
busy flipping burgers or whatever.
    Okay, I’m getting way ahead of myself. I once told Sara her powers shouldn’t derail her dreams of
becoming a star of stage and screen, and I should take my own advice. There’s
no reason I can’t be a normal girl and a super-hero. I need to get
creative is all.
    Or give up on ever being a
normal girl again.
    Or give up being a super-hero.
    It’s too early in the day to
be so depressed.
    Mrs. Z hovers by her office
door, lying in wait for me. “Good morning, Carrie, and welcome back,” she says
cheerfully, then she hustles me into her office. “How was vacation?”
    “Uneventful,” I say. “What’s
up?”
    Mrs. Z sits, folds her hand,
and smiles at me, which is somehow not as comforting as it should be. “I wanted
to speak to you right away. We’ve been given a very exciting
opportunity, and I think you would make an excellent candidate.”
    “Candidate?”
    “Are you familiar with Bose
Industries?”
    Talk about a trick question.
I know very little about the company and what it does, but I know the company’s
public face — or helmet, as it were — very well, but I can’t exactly brag to
Mrs. Z that I’ve raced Concorde (and won, thank you very much).
    “Uh, a little. I know the
company made that suit that what’s-his-name, Concorde, wears,” I say.
    “Bose Industries is a very
diverse company. They research and develop alternative energy sources, they’re
working to perfect bullet train technology, they have an entire division
dedicated to developing non-lethal weaponry for the military and police use...”
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Z, I don’t
see how any of this is of interest to me. I don’t know anything about the
technology industry.”
    “Well, there are many, many
facets to the technology field, Carrie, and you are only a sophomore, so it’s
certainly not too late to find something that might appeal to you,” she says,
slipping into what sounds like one of her well-rehearsed sales pitches. “That’s
why I wanted to talk to you. Bose Industries has offered to let a limited
number of Kingsport High students tour the facility, and I’d like to add you to
the list. You’d get a chance to see exactly what they do, meet with department
heads, learn about possible career opportunities, perhaps even take part in an
after-school internship.”
    I’d heard the state was
pushing schools to get more girls interested in science and technology, and
lucky me, Mrs. Zylinski wants me to be part of this initiative. Whether I’m
actually interested in it? Pft . Details, details.
    Then again, it’s not as if I
have anything else on the career horizon.
    “Can I think about it?” I
say.
    Mrs. Z gives me a pinched
expression. “Oh, I’m sorry, the tour is Wednesday, and I need to send a list of
students over by the end of the day.”
    Uh- huh . Why do I get
the feeling she intentionally waited until the last minute to drop this on me?
I’m tempted to say no out of spite; I don’t like being played like this.
    But, like I said, it’s not
like I have any better options.
    Dammit, brain, whose side
are you on?
    Mrs.