The Posterchildren: Origins Page 9

  “Psst. June. D’you like muffins?”

  “Depends,” June whispered back, eyeing him warily. “Do these hypothetical muffins have strings attached?”

  He had turned his sweet, simple guy act into an award-winning performance. June almost believed it. If years of experience hadn’t hardened her heart against the agenda of the average Nice Guy, she would have been won over.

  “But they’re not hypothetical muffins,” Ernest argued, his eyebrows bunched together in confusion. “They’re lemon poppyseed. I brought extra with me, just in case you wanted some.”

  Oh, he was good. Cleverer than he looked, too. She wasn’t sure if the offer was a backhanded slight or not. If Wright thought that the road to her good side was paved with baked goods...he wasn’t necessarily wrong. But his motivation behind the muffin-gifting was what was key. June didn’t like that she couldn’t pass judgment on the gesture, so she approached it with caution.

  “We can eat during class?”

  “Sure can. If they made everyone stick to three squares a day, kids would be passing out left and right. Enhanced metabolisms are too dang common.” Ernest unzipped his backpack, pulling out a gallon bag full of partially-squashed muffins. They were fresh and golden and way too ugly to be store-bought.

  “Dangerous, but I can dig it,” June said, holding out her hand, palm up. He passed her one of the muffins. She gave it a sniff and a bite. It’d smelled good enough, but she hadn’t been prepared for the sweet, buttery citrus flavor that burst in her mouth when she bit down. She took another bite, saying, “Wow. These are good. Like, get-rid-of-the-witnesses-and-steal-the-recipe-good.”

  “Thanks!”

  June shot him a look of disbelief. His automatic enthusiasm implied things that she couldn’t believe he was implying. “You made these?”

  Ernest sort of shrugged evasively, his ears turning an interesting shade of pink.

  “Eyes and ears up front, guys!”

  Mr. Carter put two fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle, cutting the baked goods inquisition short. The muffin talk was shelved, but not forgotten.

  “Hi, all. Glad that got your attention. I’m Mr. Carter, and you’re in Posthuman History 301. We’re running late as it is, so let’s get the ball rolling, shall we?”

  There was a little bit of residual grumbling, conversations between students wrapping up and petering out. He waited until it was quiet, then began reading off of a notecard.

  “Whether you believe that it was the influence of chance mutation or the fingerprints of a higher power, what you have been given is a gift. A tool. I believe that each and every one of you is capable of taking your tools and applying them to the betterment of mankind. You can do things. You will do great things.” Mr. Carter placed the notecard face-down among his notes, clearing his throat. “That’s a quote. Anyone recognize it?”

  “Isn’t it Professor Maillardet?” One of the girls asked. She was a pink-band, seated next to the scarecrow in suspenders from the campus tour.

  “Got it in one. That’s part of Professor Vincent Maillardet’s commencement speech for the Academy’s first graduating class. What do you guys know about Professor Maillardet? Go ahead and toss some facts up to me.”

  “He founded the school,” said a bored-sounding blonde girl from the front of the room. June resisted congratulating her on suggesting the most obvious answer. She was trying to make friends, she reminded herself.

  “Yes, he did,” Mr. Carter said. She gave him points for patience. “Anyone know why?”

  “He studied posters?” One of the gold-band boys said, piping up to represent the back couple of rows of the room.

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Maillardet wanted to teach posterkids to use their powers for good?” The pink-band Latina sitting next to Jack-from-the-tour offered.

  “Getting warmer...” The instructor said, nodding. “Anyone else?”

  No one offered further historical tidbits, so he warmed up his powerpoint presentation. It opened with a slide of the school as it had looked in the early 1940s. June counted exactly two figures wearing dresses in the photograph. She rolled her eyes.

  “You’re right. Professor Maillardet was interested in the posthumans as a group. In fact, he was the first to use the term posthuman to describe otherwise human individuals born with unique abilities. His interest in posters began with his daughter, Beatrice. Though the professor was a baseliner himself, his daughter was a posterchild.” Mr. Carter clicked his powerpoint forward, showing a turn-of-the-century photograph of a young girl. She almost seemed to disappear into the black cloud of her curls. The faded print hadn’t lost the depth in the girl’s large eyes. The picture had some serious creepfactor.

  “By the current categorization system, Beatrice would have been classified as a purple-band Alpha. She was a precog, and her chronal reach and accuracy is still some of the highest recorded today. Professor Maillardet was a man of science, so he did what any scientist would do: he tested his daughter. He explored how it could be possible for her to see into the future. He didn’t believe in visions received through communion with a higher power. And it may be a good thing that he was a man of science, since he went on to pioneer the research and categorization of posthuman individuals. He devoted himself to the subject. Non-believers demanded proof of the authenticity of Beatrice’s powers. Trying to prove the validity of the research he hoped to do, Maillardet included Beatrice in his lectures. As word spread, the frequency and complexity of their demonstrations increased. Her health began to deteriorate. Beatrice believed in her father’s dream, and she recognized that proof of her precognition spelled the difference between receiving funding and being laughed out of the investors’ offices. Shortly before her thirteenth birthday, Beatrice had a seizure in the middle of a demonstration. The prolonged use of her abilities had done damage to the structure of Beatrice’s brain— damage that couldn’t be undone.”

  Mr. Carter’s next set of bulletpoints was prefaced by the headline from a yellowed newspaper: MAILLARDET’S MEDIUM DIES DURING SHOW.

  “Professor Maillardet’s guilt drove him to throw himself into learning more about people with abilities like Beatrice’s. More than that, he wanted to be able to research them in peace, away from the rubberneckers. Though they’d been fascinated by Beatrice, the American public was not interested in funding him. It took almost two decades for Maillardet to drum up the money he needed. As soon as he opened the doors to Maillardet’s Foundation for the Future of Humanity, orphans, runaways, and terrified kids started showing up. Once it’d made it through the grapevine that a scientist up in the Cascades was offering help and sanctuary, volunteers started coming out of the woodwork.”

  The powerpoint queued up pictures of the facility over the years. The photos were in black and white as well as color, showing the progression of the ivy growing up the walls of Warne hall and the bell tower. A chronological stream of the capstone class’ group graduation photos scrolled by in the background, fading in and out.

  “Research became education. Education became training. Maillardet didn’t intend to build a school for superheroes, but his teachings produced a wave of confident, dedicated posthumans. They joined the police force, the firefighters, and the army. Instead of fearing their powers, they’d learned how to use them. After that first generation of heroes went out into the world, how the world saw posthumans began to change. And that’s why, even though there are several other institutions like it, Maillardet’s is considered the foremost educator of posterchildren in the United States. I’m sure it’s the reason a lot of you are here.”

  Mr. Carter paused, giving the class a warm once-over.

  “And I think that’s why history is one of your core categories here. The posthuman population as a community is a relatively new phenomenon. Posthuman history is our history. The quote that I began the class with is from 1938. Many of you will be the heroes of tomorrow’s myths. It’s important to remember our own. T
o support our own. This block, you’re paired with a partner— someone to share your story with. A lot of thought goes into the duos. You’re paired by strengths to weaknesses.”

  June glanced sidelong at her partner. He was happily chowing down on a lemon poppyseed muffin, not a care in the world. Matched strengths to weaknesses, Carter claimed. What did that say about the two of them?

  “So going into this merger of main characters, I want you to think about your histories. In an essay of five hundred words or more, give me your origin story. Who are you? How did you get here? What does being a posthuman mean to you?” Mr. Carter looked up at the clock, humming thoughtfully. “Since it’s the first day of the quarter, I’m going to let you out a few minutes early. I know that sometimes it takes a little extra time to figure out where your next class is. So I’d like everyone to grab a partner and spend the next fifteen minutes brainstorming. It’ll be due two weeks from today, at the beginning of class.”

  June raised an eyebrow at Ernest in question. He answered with a big smile. They might as well partner up, she decided. They were stuck with each other for the near future, so why fight it? She turned her chair to the side so that they could talk face-to-face.

  “I guess we don’t have to waste time with lengthy introductions,” she said, opening up her notebook and uncapping her pen. “I’m June Hovick. I’m fifteen years old, I’m a New Yorker, and I’m still processing the whole being-a-poster revelation. I tested positive for it when I was born, but my mom never told my dad. She figured that she’d sit us both down after I started developing powers. When I got past thirteen and wasn’t showing any signs of hereditary weirdness, Marcy— my mom— thought she was out of the woods.”

  “But then?”

  “But then there was a storm, okay? A bigass storm. We lost power in our apartment building, and things were looking wrath-of-God levels of bad. I— ” Panicked. Screamed. “— found myself wishing I had a light handy, and then, boom: I did. I manifested a firefly that was actually made of fire. Once I figured out it’d come out of me, I made a couple of dozen more, just to confirm that flaming fireflies were a thing, not a freaky fluke.”

  “Wow,” Ernest said, his eyebrows arched in surprise. What a good active listener he was. “As far as unexpected manifestations go, that one’s nice. It made things better for you. Usually, they tend to be rocky.”

  “Yeah. So I hear. And that’s the story of me.” She waited a beat, giving him the chance to ask any last questions, then move on. June had years of experience leading shrinks by the nose around the topics she didn’t want to discuss. “What about you? I know what they say about you on your fansite, but give me a candid look into what it means to be the Ernest Wright.”

  “Oh, well,” he began, clearing his throat. “I’m Ernest W. Wright. My mom’s name is Gloria, and my dad’s name is John. I take after my father, mostly. We’re both orange-band Alphas with enhanced strength. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have powers, ‘cause I started developing my strength before I was born.”

  June felt herself blanch at what that implied. Mothers pregnant with regular babies complained about how strong the kicks got toward the end of the third trimester. She tried not to think of the dangers associated with carrying a baby whose kicks left bruises. The development of super strength in utero was a fresh kind of maternal hell.

  “My dad raised me, so I can’t really think of a time when I haven’t known that I was going to be a posthuman representative and a public hero,” Ernest continued, itching behind his ear. “That’s just…always been the path I’ve been on, I guess.”

  “And in closing,” June prompted as she wrote blind faith in roles determined by the patriarchy in her notes. “What does being a posthuman mean to you?”

  “Well...that’s kind of a thorny question. Everyone born with posterpowers is unique. Since no two expressions of power are exactly the same, it’s like we’re all meant for something specific. Something special. Nobody’s just like me, so nobody else can do what I’ll do.”

  He paused, resting his chin in his hand. Ernest had his elbow propped on his desk, his gaze unfocused. He was really thinking about his answer, she realized.

  “But it’s not like my future’s already been written out for me and all I have to do is show up and read my lines, y’know? Stuff’s expected of me, and none of it is small stuff. People have expectations, and to meet those expectations, I’ve gotta fight, and I’ve gotta stick to my morals, and I have to try to act like a person should act, even when that’s the toughest thing in the universe. If I see a time or place where my powers can do some good, I’ve gotta step up and do it. Stepping up to the plate is...it’s not easy, but if I can put together the courage to stand tall and answer the call to action, anyone can. And if anyone can stand up to help others, everyone can. Being posthuman means showing folks what a better tomorrow could look like. That’s what I believe, anyhow.”

  June stared at him. He was exactly what it said on the tin: earnest. It was fascinating to watch him talk. She found herself agreeing with him. More than that, she found herself reflecting on the possible uses of her powers, and wondering if there was more that she could do to be a better hero. It was almost surreal. She rarely used the word hero, since she found it trite. The merciless machine of consumerism had redefined the word hero to mean action figures, guest appearances, and licensing agreements. Listening to Ernest, her cynicism dissipated, broken up and banished by his sunny optimism regarding humanity at large.

  She didn’t know how he’d pulled that trick off. It may have had a thing or two to do with how intense his blue eyes were behind his stupid old man glasses. Frankly, June was unnerved.

  “Oh,” she squeaked. “Good answer.”

  He was still beaming from the compliment when Mr. Carter drew their attention back up to the front of the class with a sharp whistle.

  “Eyes and ears up here for one more minute, please! I’ll be collecting your essays before we start class the Monday after next. Remember: five hundred words, due two weeks from today. Your reading assignments are listed in the class syllabus, so if you weren’t here when I passed them out, grab a copy on your way out. I don’t want to hear anyone tell me tomorrow that they couldn’t do the required reading because they didn’t know what they were supposed to read,” Mr. Carter said, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the students getting ready to leave. “It’d be in your best interest to get your readings done on the day they’re due. I’m not saying that there will be unannounced pop quizzes, but I’m not saying that there won’t be unannounced pop quizzes, either. Have a great rest of your day. I’ll see you all tomorrow— same place, same time!”

  Having already muscled her textbooks into her bag, June was out of her seat and heading for the door before Carter had gotten the last of the veiled threats out of his system. She didn’t turn around when she heard her partner yelp “Wait! Hey, June! Wait a sec!”, forcing him to lope to catch up with her. He cut the distance between them with his unfairly long legs, locating her before she could disappear into the main current of students in the hallway.

  “Hey, uh.” Ernest offered her a muffin with a shy smile, falling into step beside her. “One for the road?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.” She took the muffin, rolling it between her palms. A seemingly random fragment of Carter’s lecture had gotten lodged underneath her skin. She kept brushing over it in her thoughts, the idea as irritating as a partially exposed splinter. It was a small thing, a minor problem that fell far short of being a big deal in the long run, but she couldn’t quit messing with it. “Hey, Ernie. I want you to level with me for like five seconds. Do you think that the board put you with me because I’m a liability?”

  “What?”

  He managed to put such conviction into acting bewildered by her simple question, it was astounding. He was dedicated to the role, bless him.

  “The whole matching strengths to weaknesses thing Carter mentioned,” June elaborated, ge
sturing between them with a turn of her wrist. “You’re a powerhouse, so I’m going to take an educated guess and say that we’re together because they see me as a liability. I’ve perfected the art of getting out of gym classes, so I’m not what you’d call spandex shape. I hold no illusions to the contrary.”

  “Your shape…?” Ernest’s eyes widened. They were the eyes of an action hero/intrepid explorer who’d just realized that he’d stepped on the trigger tile of a deadly ancient trap. Not even his leading man good looks could save him now. “It’s— it’s fine that— that you’re— it’s not that you’re, um— I mean, yeah, but it’s not— ”

  “Yeah, I’m fat. You can say the ‘f’ word. You have my permission. I just feel like I deserve to know if they saddled you with me because you’re the living, breathing definition of fighting fit,” June said, huffing an annoyed breath.

  As much as she was trying to downplay it, she was starting to get flustered. In the few days since her arrival, she’d become uncomfortably aware of what a minority she was. Ordinarily, it didn’t bother June to call herself fat. She didn’t see any point in denying it. But ordinarily, she was surrounded by more body diversity than the figures the Academy’s strictly fun-free diet produced. “Just throwing that idea out there. I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

  Ernest shook his head.

  “That’s not the reason that you and me were paired up. We’re together ‘cause I— I, uh.” He’d started out strong, but he floundered as soon as he hit the rationalization section of his argument. June let him suffer through it, watching him twitch and fret. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, his chin tucked to his chest. “...I’ve never been out of Foundation. Not for more than a day or two at a time, at least. But you’re from New York City. I guess they thought that a guy like me could use a partner who knows more about the real world.”