Sidekicked Read Free Page B

rocket launcher perched on his shoulder. Before I even have time to take a breath, he fires a stinger missile at the only Super who bothered to show up today.
    I see Jenna twist around sharply in her cuffs and start swinging. The Fox leaps, sword in hand, those little electric bolts still crackling around her eyes. Thanks to Jenna’s motions, now I’m rocking back and forth. My stomach lurches. I can smell the smoke of the missile as it zips by me, and I suddenly see the next second of my life play out before me before it even happens, just in time to do absolutely nothing about it.
    Jenna gives one last giant swing of her legs. I see a blur of white, the glinty gleam of a razor-sharp sword coming toward me. I hear a snap. The cable breaks, and I am plummeting to certain death.
    Except I’m not really plummeting . I’m actually kind of somersaulting , with Jenna’s arms and legs wrapped around me like a papoose, clearing the edge of the pool . . . in fact, clearing the entire fence around the pool, and landing in the grass by the parking lot.
    I hit and skid. The grass is soft, at least, though I can’t say the same for the dirt underneath it. I watch the world spin for a moment. If this were a Sunday morning comic, there would be bluebirds circling my head. Jenna untangles her limbs from mine and immediately springs to her feet, combat ready, but it takes me a moment to clear my senses, acute as they are, and realize what has happened. The smoke in the sky tells me the missile missed its mark, harmlessly exploding in the air above us.
    And standing on top of the crane, a hundred feet up, the Fox has the Killer Bee by his antennae, both of his mechanical wings severed by two more swift strikes of her sword. I see her whisper something to him, but even with my powers I can’t make it out in all the commotion. All around us, the crowd is hooting and hollering. Chanting her name. “Fox. Fox. Fox. Fox.” As if she’s the only one who matters.
    And here I am, still flat on my back, staring up at the sky, still handcuffed and a little bruised, but unmistakably alive. Having been saved by the wrong hero.
    Andrew Macon Bean.
    The Sensationalist.
    A sidekick without a Super.

2
SPLIT PERSONALITY
    I am home less than an hour later. All part of the act.
    Though I am irritated, and exhausted from my afternoon at the pool, I haven’t sustained any real bodily harm save for a few bruises and the bright red circles around my wrists. Besides, it’s more important that I be home at a decent hour so that I can put on a good face for my parents. The longer you have to be somebody else, the harder it is to convince everyone you are you.
    My house is the last one on the block—the one with the peeling brown trim, the stunted evergreens, and the seldom-used swing set. It’s dinnertime on Stanley Street. I can smell the garlic and basil before I even open the door. I can actually smell it from halfway down the block. That’s how I know it’s lasagna night at Casa de la Bean. If I concentrate, I can tell you what everyone’s having for dinner. The Hungs ordered pizza. The Randals are grilling out—barbecue chicken and roast vegetables. The Shaumbergs are celebrating something. I can smell the smoke from burned-out candles and the buttercream frosting on the cake. The Powell kid is having strawberry Pop-Tarts for dinner. Again.
    Oh, and Mrs. Polanski hasn’t scooped the litter box in a while and Li’l Mittens is just finishing some business, so I stop concentrating and hold my nose.
    When I walk through the door, my dad’s nailed to the TV set, fixated on the story of a wacko in a bee getup who kidnapped and nearly killed two supposed sidekicks and his thrilling defeat by the city’s most celebrated star. There’s footage of the two sidekicks dangling from the crane. Even with my extraordinary eyesight I can’t make out the features of my own face