Sidekicked Read Free

be one—look appropriately doe-eyed, with hands clasped over their doughnut-shaped mouths, waiting. You’d think they would be running. Ducking for cover. Crawling under cars. And many have. But the ones I’m looking at now are the believers. The devotees. The sky watchers. The ones who still possess an all-abiding faith in their heroes to show up and save the day.
    Of course they aren’t the ones on the hook.
    I hear explosions from somewhere behind me, but I can’t make out too much over the thumping of my own heartbeat. I try not to think about the words acid, dissolve, flesh-eating , or sloppy joe . We lower another inch. My feet are less than five yards away from doom now. I can hear buzzing all around me. I look down.
    I can’t believe I left my utility belt at school. Again. Not that I could reach anything on it. It’s just a comfort thing. Like forgetting your watch or not putting on underwear. Without my utility belt, I am basically harmless. With it, I am at least somewhat potentially threatening.
    I twist around. Still no sign of him.
    Jenna is still talking, still not the least bit concerned, it seems. She has moved off health class and is now complaining about the cost of shoes. Jenna’s always short on cash. Most of the time I spring for the french fries after school. I feel for her, but now doesn’t seem to be the best time to worry about new shoes when the ones we are wearing are about to be liquefied with our feet still in them.
    I crane my neck and scan the clouds for some glimpse of the man responsible for our impending demise, the one controlling the drones, the demented scientist with his own pair of mechanical wings and a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher who orchestrated our capture. He calls himself the Killer Bee. No joke. I have no idea what his deal is—though anyone who dresses up like a bumblebee and carries around a missile launcher is obviously several eggs short of a carton. Mr. Masters says that more often than not, today’s super-villain is just some kid who was beat up too many times in middle school and decides the best form of therapy is world annihilation—and the freak in the bee suit seems to fit the bill.
    Of course here I am, in my second year of middle school, nearly straight As, still wearing tighty-whities, incrementally descending to my death. I’m thirteen, I have a zit on my left eyebrow that hurts every time I blink, I’ve been beaten up four times (not in costume), and I haven’t kissed a girl yet. Unless you count Suzie Walsh, which I don’t, because it was three years ago, the bottle clearly got kicked, and the whole thing lasted, maybe, a nanosecond. Still, it does make you wonder how I’m going to turn out.
    The Killer Bee is nowhere to be found, no doubt waiting to pick on someone his own size. Three drones buzz past us, harpoons in hand, and I’m guessing I won’t be around to watch anyways.
    Then, in the distance, I see her—long before anyone else can. Energy beams dancing in her eyes, samurai sword in hand, her wavy red perm holding up remarkably well in the humidity. Her white body suit looks glued to her. She runs toward us, nimbly hurdling the obstacle course of parked cars clogging the street, launching herself at the first wing of drones that spots her.
    My jaw drops just watching her. The Fox. By far the hottest, coolest Super to grace the cover of the Justicia Daily Trumpet —which is saying something when you think about how Venus looked back in the glory days. But the Fox ups the cool factor by hundreds. Only a year into her career and already considered the best there is at what she does. The kind of Super eight-year-old girls dream of being and twelve-year old boys just dream of.
    Our hero.
    Or at least Jenna’s hero. I’m not her sidekick, so I’m not technically her responsibility, though I am keeping my fingers crossed. Or I would if I could feel them