The Posterchildren: Origins Read online

  Jenny Chambers, one of the girls in the row ahead of them, raised her hand.

  “So, like, acting is like using our powers in nicey-nice ways or something?”

  “No. It’s about learning to exercise control and patience. It’s about prizing craft and skill over all else. It is about being your most effective self. I am the most remarkable when I am unremarkable. A light touch leaves the fewest marks.”

  Madame Ghostlight fanned her face with one hand. Her cheeks were flushed again, but it seemed like it was from overexertion. Her makeup was starting to look sweat-smudgy.

  “I must rest myself for a moment, so let’s partner off. I’d like you to introduce yourselves to each other, then discuss what having a light touch means to you.”

  “I can pretend not to know you,” Maks informed him, cheerful in spite of his puffy red eyes. “What do you say, stranger?”

  “I say that it’s nice to meet you, stranger.” Ernest said, shaking his hand. It made things loads easier on him when he didn’t have to spend half of his time contradicting what someone thought they knew about his life.

  “Jeez, that was a trip,” Maks said with a breezy sigh.

  “I’ve never been put under before, but I didn’t know it was such an, uh...” Ernest had been geared up to say an emotional event, but that sounded callous, somehow. That, or patronizing. Fortunately, Maks saved him from agonizing over his options.

  “Didn’t think that the nice kind of mind control would end in waterworks, eh?” He said, tapping the end of his pencil against the cover of his textbook. It was a nervous beat. “Me neither.”

  “What happened? If— if, uh, you don’t mind saying.”

  He regretted asking it just as soon as the words stumbled haltingly out of his mouth. Maks’ loose shoulders went rigid, the weird bio-whatever light in him dimming down. He looked like a city bracing for an air strike.

  “When Ghostie sent me to my warm happy place, I went back home. And Mom was there.” Maks fiddled with his pencil, twisting it around a hank of his already-curly hair. The pencil got knotted, but he took his sweet time getting it out. Then he sat it down on the desk and looked at it blankly. “And it’s been about a year since she had the heart attack, so it was...what can I say? It choked me up a little, seeing her. I’m a mama’s boy through and through.”

  Sympathy made his mouth feel all cottony and dry.

  “I’m sorry,” Ernest quietly offered, when he couldn’t think of anything better to say. “My mom’s gone, too.”

  “Huh.” Maks turned in his seat, giving him an uncomfortable amount of his attention. “I’d always wondered why we don’t hear about a Mrs. Commander. How’d yours go?”

  What a good question. Ernest scrubbed his fingers over his knuckles, looking down.

  “She’s not dead,” he said, more defensively than he meant to. “She just gave me up after I was born.”

  “Eeesh. I’m sorry, man,” Maks murmured. He really did sound sorry. “She didn’t want you?”

  “No,” Ernest said, carefully. “She couldn’t keep me.”

  He didn’t offer any further explanations. For a few seconds, it looked like Maks was trying to figure out the best way to weave what he wanted to ask into words. He ended up just shaking his head and moving on. It wasn’t the same thing, but he didn’t expect Maks to understand the nuances of his situation. Ernest mentally thanked him for not prying.

  “So how would you answer the question?” Maks asked instead. It was an abrupt change in topic, but Ernest took the offer and ran with it. He wanted to get as much distance in their conversation as possible between them and the partially-buried question that Maks hadn’t been able to voice. “About using a ‘light touch’?”

  “Well...I think it’s kind of literal.” Tucking his fingers between the silicone and his skin, he rolled his identification band around his wrist. “I’m strong. If I didn’t know how to use a light touch, I’d pulp oranges whenever I tried to peel ‘em.”

  He’d do a lot worse than pulping, on things much more delicate than oranges, but pulped oranges were a decent enough example. It didn’t turn his stomach the way the alternatives would.

  “Ha! Well played.”

  “What about you?” Ernest asked. He couldn’t help his curiosity.

  “I dunno. What’s a light touch mean, really? ‘Be careful?’”

  “No, I think it’s more like ‘don’t overdo it’.”

  “Curses! Overdoing it is kind of my thing. I signed up for the spandex and showboating. Surely, there will be some spandex and showboating.” Maks folded up his handkerchief, tucking it into his back pocket. “If not, everything I know about public heroes is a dirty rotten lie.”

  “It’s not without a grain of truth, I promise. Was spandex and showboating your, uh.” Ernest fumbled with the right wording. He didn’t want to offend Maks. He knew a handful of terms that were bad to use around circus people, but he didn’t know what alternatives existed. “Your ‘thing’? In the circus?”

  “I did a little of this, a little of that. Acrobatics, contortionism, trapeze— I dabbled. With my powers, I put on a pretty great show no matter what, if I do say so myself.” Maks waved both hands, fluttering his fingers. Pale blue light shifted beneath the thin skin of his wrists. “So I guess that for me, having a light touch is literal, too. There’s a fine line between being the center of the show and being a showstopper.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bio in bioelectricalmagnetism means that I only get juice from living things.” The light in his eyes intensified, eerily bright in the semi-gloom of the theater. “As it turns out, living things have a limited juicibility. If you drain too much juice too quickly, living things quit being living things.” Maks’ eyes faded until only the faintest flicker of blue was left in them. “So. Light touch.”

  “Oh.” The word felt stuck in Ernest’s throat.

  “It’s why I don’t, uh. I don’t try to get into fights, if I can help it. Shock you once, shame on me...shock you twice...” He finished the thought with a jerky shrug. Nothing good could come after a second shocking.

  Ernest’s stomach settled a little lower. “...oh.”

  “Your attention, please!” Madame Ghostlight said, clapping until the volume of the student conversations lowered to a simmer. “I’d like each of you to come forward and share the story your partner told you. Do we have a pair of brave souls willing to volunteer to go first?”

  Before Ernest could stop him, Maks raised his hand. Nuts.

  “Ah! Ernest and Maksim. Please, start us off.”

  He hated starting things off. Well, no, hate was a strong word. Ernest simply disliked it, since not having an example to work off of got his nerves all fouled up. He liked knowing what the right way to do something looked like before he tried his hand at it. But the instructor was looking at him expectantly, so there was no getting out of it.

  Ernest could feel sweat beading along his upper lip. He swallowed hard.

  “This is, uh— ”

  “Prrrroject, darling!” Ghostlight trilled, expertly rolling her rs.

  Ernest coughed into his hand. His throat had gone squeaky-dry.

  “This is Maksim Mikhailovich Petrov, aka Sideshow,” he began, pointing to him. After he’d butchered his name on his first try, he’d made it a point to commit the whole mouthful to memory. “We heard most of his origin earlier, I guess, so I don’t need to go over all that again. His power deals with generating bioelectricity. And soaking it up, too. From other things with bioelectricity in ‘em. Living things, I mean.” He picked at his cuticles. “For Maks, having a light touch means being mindful of how much he drains from people. It’s important to use that light touch, ‘cause if he isn’t careful, he could hurt someone.”

  “Very good,” Ghostlight said, clapping. A weak trickle of students followed her lead, but not many. He didn’t blame them. It wasn’t all that clap-worthy. “The floor is yours now, Maksim.”

  Out of
the corner of his eye, Ernest watched Maks’ body language change. He generally seemed like a confident guy, but this was like someone had switched out the 40-watt bulb in him for one ten times more luminous. Ernest had been rooted to his spot on the stage, legs locked, but Maks roamed comfortably. He cleared his throat, sauntering downstage to address the audience directly.

  “This tall glass of water to my left is Ernest Wright,” Maks said, his voice carrying easily to the back row. He talked quickly and loudly— not as fast or as loud as June, but nobody talked like her— but when he was standing in an imaginary spotlight, he practically boomed. “Now, lemme tell you a thing or two about Ernest Wright.”

  Contrary to the instructions they’d been given, Maks wasn’t repeating the handful of facts he’d shared with him. Maks was standing on a stage, so he was putting on a show. He was an entertainer. Like he’d said, showboating was kind of his thing. Unfortunately, the theme of the show was Ernest Wright. And Ernest Wright wasn’t so sure he was comfortable with that. His guts scrunched into a knot.

  “Ernest Wright is six feet even, but the betting pool trends indicate that most people think he’ll grow at least three more inches before graduation. See me after class if you’re looking to get in on the betting pool,” Maks said with a conspiratory waggle of his eyebrows. “Anyway. As I was saying, Ernest’s been putting the big in big hunk ever since the li’l was dropped from Li’l Champ. Just now, he said to me ‘Maks, I’m pretty sure the light touch is literal with me’, and I tend to agree. That is one of the levels of light touch-itude that Ernest Wright’s conduct satisfies. But that’s not the end of the story. No, captivated audience, that’s not the end of my spiel. Allow me to drop a personal anecdote on your ears.”

  Oh, no. Ernest had a feeling that he knew where Maks was going with that personal anecdote of his. They hadn’t talked much in the whirlwind following the first day, but Ernest had assumed that the confrontation he’d broken up was as much in the past as Maks’ fading bruises. Neither of them had gone to the teachers about Kenneth. It hadn’t been a big deal.

  “The first time I met this guy, he taught me a valuable lesson in treating everyone with a light touch. And I seriously mean everyone. Allow me to set the scene. It’s my first day of school. The sun is bright, the birds are singing, and I’m getting my butt served to me on a platter. It wasn’t pretty, folks. I didn’t even to make it to class before I crossed paths with a bully.”

  Maks spread his arms beseechingly.

  “Classmates. Friends. Who among you hasn’t wanted to punch a bully in the face? If you’re thinking to yourself ‘screw you, Maks, you don’t know me. I’ve never wanted to bust my knuckles against my bully’s impossibly hard cheekbones’, congratulations on your sainthood. Nine out of ten of us would take any reason to pop a bully in the mouth if we knew we’d win. And this guy? He’s the Champ. Winning is his thing. He had every reason to give a bully the knuckle sandwich sampler platter, but he didn’t. He broke up the fight with his words, then stuck around to make sure I was okay. He didn’t know me, but he stuck up for me. Gushing compassion? Classic light touch. Choosing negotiation over face-punching? Masterful light touching. Ernest Wright, ladies and gentlemen.”

  At the conclusion of his speech, Maks bowed deeply. Nobody waited for Ghostlight to start the applause— they clapped, though Ernest wasn’t sure if it was because of the story, or how well Maks had told it. Ernest’s face was so flushed, he could barely hear the applause over the drum of his heartbeat in his ears.

  “Yes, yes, I agree. I’ve had the pleasure of having Ernest in my class before, and he certainly understands the essence of the light touch. Wonderfully done. Take a seat, gentlemen.”

  Ernest couldn’t get back fast enough. Squishing himself into the seat was an unexpected relief. Once he realized that he was holding his breath, he exhaled raggedly. Breathing got easier from there.

  “Did I kill it, or did I kill it?” Maks whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  “You nearly killed me,” Ernest groaned, burying his face in his hands.

  “C’monnnn,” he said, poking his arm with his index finger. “I was slinging truths up there.”

  “You don’t have to say something just ‘cause it’s true!”

  The whisper-hissed outburst sounded ridiculous, even to Ernest’s tingling ears.

  “Okay, okay. I get it. This whole public speaking and...public everything thing...it’s...” Maks hesitated. “It’s not really your thing, is it?”

  “I get nervous,” Ernest admitted, mostly in the direction of his shoes. “I’m trying to get better at it, though. It’s hard, knowing what to say.”

  Maks poked Ernest’s arm again. His finger was surprisingly pointy.

  “So hey, listen,” he said, leaning in closer. “I’ve been a loudmouth from the opening scene of the Life of Me. I can help you out, maybe. Since you helped me out, too. If you need to learn how to be okay with making a fool of yourself in front of a large crowd, I’m your man.”

  Well, he couldn’t exactly disagree with him on the whole loudmouth business. Maks Petrov was definitely a loudmouth, but being a loudmouth wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Heaven knew that Ernest needed to work on having a slightly louder mouth. Maks managed to do it without being aggressive or mean, so he was a good guy to learn from.

  “I’d appreciate that. I mean, don’t feel like you’ve gotta, ‘cause you don’t.”

  “I think it’ll be fun.”

  “Oh. Okay.” An idea bubbled up in Ernest’s head. He dove right in and grabbed it, voicing it before he had a chance to mince it over and identify all of the worrisome bits. “Say, are you doing anything tonight? I’m planning on building a bonfire in one of the pits overlooking the lake. A couple friends of mine’ll be there, and we’re gonna make pole pie. There’ll be plenty to go around. You interested?”

  Maks lit up.

  “You bet!” He said excitedly, drumming his palms on his thighs. “I have no clue what a pole pie is, but I’m always open to trying new and exciting things.”

  “I’m not sure if pole pie counts as exciting, but it’s tasty. And that’s what matters most to me,” Ernest said, his grin turning sheepish. “Everyone’s gotta have their priorities.”

  °

  The moment he opens the doors, he knows that something is wrong. He knows, because all of the trees outside of the apartment building are shedding feathers instead of leaves.

  The downiest feathers float and eddy in the air like cottonwood pollen dipped in tar. The smell of rot is thick enough to coat his tongue, so he breathes in shallowly through his nose. He’s afraid that if isn’t careful, he’ll inhale a dense lungful of the greasy-dry feathers. He can practically taste them, so it’s not difficult to imagine himself choking to death on plumage.

  The branches above his head are full of birds— rejected birds, aborted attempts at living things. It’s almost dawn, but they don’t perch, singing to the grayish horizon until the sun rises. Instead, the birds silently hang from the branches by their feet.

  A warm, sluggish gust of wind rolls through the tree-lined street. The branches creak, sloughing off feathers and dropping their misshapen fruit. Each overripe bird hits the thick blanket of feathers on the pavement with a muffled thump.

  At first, he thinks that they’re crows. They’re about the right size. Black. Some of the birds are more plucked than others, but each one bears a naked stretch of skin over the top of its beak. The identical patches of white skin look like eyes, almost.

  Rooks. They’re a European bird, so he hasn’t seen one in a very long time. Maybe never. He’s not positive. They don’t belong in his trees, though— that much, he knows. They’re not his birds.

  Crouching, he looks at the rook carcass that’d fallen from the tree above him. It’s missing one wing and both eyes. As he watches, a maggot lazily works its way into the empty slit of the rook’s nostril.

  “Pay attention.”

  His father’s voic
e sounds like the sips of whiskey he’d stolen from the bottle in the drawer of the desk in his study had tasted. The whiskey had burned, peaty sweetness and smoke; his throat tightened and tingled like that whenever he tried to imitate the dark rumble of the Rook’s voice. There’s no mistaking it, but it’s impossible. The Rook is dead. He watched them close the casket.

  It’s happening again. The Rook’s last move. The Alberta apartment has been compromised, so they’re moving to a new bolt-hole. They won’t make it.

  He knows they won’t make it, because this is a game that they’ve played together before. His brain stages reverse rehearsals of the game almost nightly. He looks for alternatives, trying to apply new tactics to a match he’d lost months ago.

  Because it doesn’t make sense. It’s such a brash, foolish move. His father is in his uniform, and it’s almost daybreak, and he’ll be seen, and he knows better than this. The Rook isn’t wearing his mask and goggles. His face is bare, and it’s his real one.

  “But— ”

  “Listen. You’re too goddamn smart for me to sugarcoat this, so listen up and don’t argue,” his father says, his leather and kevlar uniform creaking as he kneels. “If you want to get through this, you need to pay attention. You’ve got your mother’s brains, so use ‘em.”

  “But I— ”

  The Rook won’t let him get a word in.

  “Don’t have time for it. Not right now.” He wraps his hand around the back of his neck, rubbing soothingly with his thumb. His father’s hand is warm and heavy, working at his stress knots. It should have calmed him down. The first time, it had. But it’s been so many times, now. He has lost him so many times, and he still doesn’t understand why. “S’been a good run, kiddo. I mean it. For me— for us— it’s been good, right?”

  Oh, no. Not again.

  “Yeah. Yeah,” the Rook murmurs, looking up at the darkened windows of their abandoned apartment. “So, here’s the plan.”

  He already knows the plan. He also knows that the plan will fail. He’s convinced that his father had known that it would fail, too. There just hadn’t been a lot of options, and replaying the no-win scenario over and over hasn’t uncovered any options he hadn’t seen during the first run-through.