Octogirl: the Story of a Two-Tentacled Sidekick

by rememberyourcosmicroots

I've always wanted to be a superhero. Superheroes did things that us normal blokes could only dream about, and it felt for a long time that I could only ever hope to be one. I mean, how was I supposed to get powers, anyway? I was just your everyday human. But there's a time and place for everything, and my time came when I least expected it, from the most unlikely source.

2. Chapter 2

But first, a note.

A little slightly unnecessary explanation for this chapter. I, in the charmed life I live, have never been admitted to a hospital of any sort. (Whaaaaaat?) Yes. I'm deathly afraid of needles, so it's been great. Now that I need the experience, though, it's a nuisance. (Try Googling 'what it's like to be in a hospital'. What comes up is not what I'm looking for, that's for sure.)

So, guess what this means? I'm skipping parts so I don't have too many errors, and the parts I don't skip will be referenced from my grandpa, who's a surgeon. (If you're going to blame anyone, blame him.) Anyway, Maeve will review her experience, as well as explain a few things—but it's going to jump right into her at-home recovery . . . and not-at-home recovery, which is very short.

All errors are mine. (Let me know what you spot! It's like playing I Spy, I promise.)

And with that, we're off.

~oOo~

I bounced on restlessly on the balls of my feet, sometimes both at once, sometimes back and forth, sometimes left to right. It feels as if I've been doing this forever. My ratty old Converse keep squeaking, but I'm enjoying the noise. It's better than those damn slippers the hospital has been making me wear, even though those were ridiculously comfy. But actual shoes mean walking, and walking means leaving, and leaving means I can walk right out of this hellhole and back home, as soon as Spencer's done signing my release papers.

Sorry if you like hospitals, I guess, though I don't see how you could. It smells weird, the food's bad, and nurses shush you when your brother sneaks your Bluetooth speaker in because you haven't listened to good music in four days, and if you go one more day without good music you might actually just explode—

Whew. It's been an emotional roller coaster of epic proportions. I apologize.

I woke up in St. June's—here—about two weeks ago, the next morning after that oh-so-fateful day I met Spider-Man. (That's how I like to look at it. Not the day I almost died, not the day I got almost-mugged, not the day I got my throat cut . . . you always gotta look on the bright side, I guess.) The doctors, according to my brother, were all like "Whoa, you're awake?! Holy shit!" and immediately started running tests, calling it 'inconceivable!' 'impressive!' and a bunch of other words that start with i. Also according to Spence, I was the 'test subject' of a new drug with some long name I couldn't pronounce if I tried. That's why they were so shocked. It was from Oscorp Industries, some super-secret super-high-tech building that produces modern medicine and shit. Hell if I know. But it worked, and dare I say everyone almost seemed surprised at my recovery.

Actually, I wasn't even supposed to be in the hospital that long, but the doctors wanted to run test after test after test. They said I could've been released last week, but whatever. What's another week of my life?

"It was just a test run," Spencer had explained then. "Dr. Sheridan said it was totally safe, and that there was a ninety-nine percent chance of making a—"

"You let them play Operation on me," I argued back. "In ways that weren't necessary!"

Spencer hung his head in shame then, and I felt a little twist of guilt. He really was beating himself up about this whole Beefcake thing—and still is—even though he shouldn't. "Oscorp is paying for everything," he said, and glanced up at me with puppy-dog-eyes.

I blinked. Then blinked again. "Oscorp? Is . . . ? All the bills?" I managed to stutter out. I was under the impression that we were going to be in debt until I was an old lady in a rocking chair.

"Everything," he repeats. "Down to the coffee I buy from the cafeteria."

So, I let him off the hook right then and there. He was mad at himself enough for the both of us and then two more people. He didn't need any more fuel to the flame. I even tried to explain how much it wasn't his fault, but he wouldn't hear a thing I said.

"It was my fault," he insisted. "I know how dangerous it is to go walking by yourself at night, and I let you go so I could study. I picked school over you. I'll never forgive myself for that, Mae."

"I can take care of myself," I lied. Not that it was necessarily a lie; but if past experiences were anything to go by, I was certainly not capable of that.

At the time, Spencer had just sighed and gone to get another coffee—as he now often did to keep himself awake, like he didn't want to miss a moment with me. Which is understandable, I suppose. Even though it's beginning to grate on my oh-so-fine nerves.

"Ready to go?" Spencer asked, coming back from signing my papers, Peggy, my nurse, trailed in behind him.

"I've been ready to go since I got here," I reply.

Spencer cringes. "I'm sorry, Mae—"

I held up a hand. "Apologize again, and I'll be mad at you for real."

From the corner where Peggy's checking my chart, she snorts. Peggy has been the best person in the entire hospital, even over Spencer, who's just been acting like a kicked dog, which was not helping my recovery at all. She's super young, which means she's the only one to not treat my like a five-year-old, and bonus points, she thinks I'm her most hilarious patient since she had a guy who could quote Whose Line is it Anyway? on command, and let's be real, there was no way I could ever top that.

"We good?" I ask her.

She laughs. (See?) "Yes, Maeve, you're good."

"Okay." I give her a hug to say good-bye.

"Keep in touch," she reminds.

"I'll friend you on FaceBook," I tell her, and we leave, Peggy's laughter ringing in my ears and following me down the hallway.

Spencer's friend picks us up, and we head home, the bandage on my throat suddenly making me self-conscious. (And itchy, but it's like a cast, except more fragile. In this case, there's no sticking pencils in the space between my throat and the gauze.)

"Home sweet home!" I declare, swinging the door to our apartment open wide, letting it smack the wall.

Spencer follows in behind me, smiling. "This place is dusty," he comments.

I agree, and head to my room to settle in.

"Mae?"

I turn back. Uh-oh. "Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say, one more time—"

"No, Spence," I sigh. "Let's just go back to normal, okay? I can't do that if you're still apologizing." I pause. "And, also, you should let me go back to school tomorrow."

Spencer's response is immediate, as I knew it would be. "Um, no? The doctor said you need another week off."

"Oh, come on!" I whine. "I spent that week in the hospital. I don't need to stay home, bored out of my mind. And what if I spend that week off, and I have to repeat freshman year? I've missed two weeks—I don't think I can afford any more time."

My brother frowns. He's a sucker for schoolwork, and a sucker for me. It was a foolproof argument.

"I don't know, Mae . . ."

Or so I thought.

"Please, Spence? Please? I'm so, so, bored. And you know me. I hate school. I'd only want to go back if I was really, really, desperate. Please," I beg. I can't remember the last time I've wanted to go to school this much. I don't think I ever have.

"You know what? Fine. Fine!" Spencer tosses his hands in the air. "Go to school. God, Maeve, just . . . you're lucky I love you, you know that? Be grateful."

I nod. "I'm grateful," I reply. I don't get too excited, though, because he'll just snort and say 'never mind', if I do.

But once I get into my room, I dance around a bit. Just a little bit, though. School's not that exciting.

~oOo~

I have a little dilemma.

Albeit it's a small one, but it's a dilemma, all right.

My heart is racing way too fast. Too-too fast. And it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. Was that normal? Because it certainly didn't feel normal.

Who knew standing in the doorframe of my apartment building could cause someone extreme anxiety?

Okay, well, I know the standing part isn't giving me the worry-warts, it's what comes after that's giving me the trouble. Because I just can't seem to get myself to take the next step.

I adjust the straps of my backpack. The normally peaceful walk to school sounds like swimming with sharks.

C'mon, Mae, you've got this . . . no one's going to attack you . . . you're a woman of logic! The chances of it happening twice in the span of a month are incredibly low odds . . .

I'm being ridiculous, I know, and my brain knows it too, but still—even though my whole body is itching to not be late on my first day back, my foot won't move off the last step.

It doesn't help that one of the paramedics attempting to save my life stepped on my phone, breaking it beyond repair, leaving me without a way to call anyone—not like it helped me much last time, but still. It also increased Spencer's worry—when he'd left for work this morning, he'd hugged me just a second too long, and told me that if I really wanted to, I could stay home. He would be okay if I did, and understand why, he'd said.

Hopefully, I'd be able to prove him wrong.

Maybe I could call MJ for a ride? Oh, wait . . . no phone.

Damn it.

Okay. It's like jumping into a cold pool, right? You know it's going to be freezing, but once the initial shock is over, you're left wondering why it took you so long to jump in the first place.

Okay. I need to go to school, need to get an education, need to stop watching the same reruns of My Strange Addiction when I'm bored . . .

I take the first step. There's no celebratory trumpets, but there aren't any alarm bells, either. Pretty underwhelming, I suppose, but considering I've been hyping myself up for the past few minutes, perhaps that's the best thing that could've happened.

The next step comes easier than the first, then the one after that, and soon, I'm strutting down the sidewalk, one hand clinging to my backpack strap, the other tightly gripping the pepper spray in my coat pocket, but still, I'm practically strutting.

So, I manage all the way to school, pausing as I approach. It's scary how much happens in two weeks, and how life-changing everything can be. It's also scary how little can happen in that same amount of time. It was nice to go back to the normal, sluggish pace. At least for a little while, and then I was right back on track to becoming Spider-Man's sidekick.

With the determination of my brother working his way through Godel's incompleteness theorem, I head up the gum-stained steps into Midtown High.

As I head to my locker, subconsciously, I finger the floral scarf Peggy had given me as a parting-ways gift—at least, that's what she had called it. I didn't even know there was such a thing—and said that there was not only going to be a raised scar, but some bruising, even after the bandage wasn't necessary—which it still was. So, I guess, scarves are my new thing. Unfortunately, it hadn't covered all the white of the bandage, so I'd decided to go commando and leave the glorified—or was it the other way around?—Band-Aid at home. It was easier to cover that way.

But as I pass the gymnasium, a sound catches my attention and drags me away from my angsty self-esteem problems—the sound of cheering. Immediately, I think it's a pep rally I'm missing—but I quickly realize it's not good, happy, 'go, team!' cheering, it's jeering. Leering jeering, I call it. Not good at all.

I glance around, but no one else is really paying attention to the noise, even though there are several teachers and students milling around, all here slightly early for whatever reason. (I'm here to pick up my work, actually, at Spencer's insistence. While I missed quite a bit of time with my little panic trip, I'm still early compared to the buses.)

So I slip into the gym to see what the fuss is about.

It's Flash Thompson, I see him first, surrounded by a bunch of his cronies-for-hire. If you don't know Flash—his real name's Eugene, which I find hilarious—he's the school's star football player. He's the epitome of one of those high-school movie cliches. It makes sense why he's here. Early practice, and why the rest of the team's with him, but—

But the next person I see lights a little fire in my gut.

It's Peter, nice, quiet, all-too-nice, duck-behind-his-books Parker, blushes-for-no-reason Peter, with the contents of his backpack spilled across the floor, and said backpack tossed a few feet to Flash's right. It makes sense why he's here early too, because he's just that kind of guy. Probably on his way to talking to one of the engineering teachers—MJ had told me she'd caught him dumpster-diving once for metal once—and had gotten interrupted, simply for existing. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught by the wrong people.

Just like I had.

The door behind me falls shut on its own, causing everyone to look my way as the slam echoes.

Peter's eyes wide in surprise. The cronies look kinda scared—oh, no, a tattling girl!—while Flash looks slightly bemused.

I don't say a word. I'll let him make the first move.

"What?" Flash snaps as I just look at him expectantly, my hands still curled into fists around their respective objects. (I won't actually use the pepper spray, but the comfort's there.)

Peter mouths the words get out to me, not looking the least bit scared, just surprised. Shocked, even. Well, good for him, but if he's not going to stand up for himself, then someone has to, and Ned's not here. Not that Ned could stand up for him if he was.

"You here to watch the show?" Flash says sarcastically, gesturing to the empty seats of the bleachers. "Next up: waiting to see if Puny Parker isn't a total pussy." The last words are spat in Peter's direction.

God, I hate bullies. Now more than ever. They come in all shapes and sizes, whether it be XXL or just jock-strap athletic.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I demand. My swearing surprises me, and Peter, too.

Flash just thinks it's funny.

"Who are you, anyway?" he asks, and his friends laugh. I recognize most of them as other players on the team, but there's a healthy mix of some from the basketball and baseball teams, too.

I sigh, and approach the group, stepping in the space between Flash and Peter, who both make slight noises of protest. "Doesn't matter," I sigh. "Just walk away, Eugene. Seriously. You haven't done anything worth suspension yet."

Flash rolls his eyes. "I think that's what I'm supposed to say to you. Get out of here."

"Oh, yeah? And what's going to happen if I don't?" I reply. Actually, no, correction. I challenge. What's one more bruise? It's not going to be another surgery, another creepy test drug from an even creepier company; it's going to be an ice pack and some extra concealer for the next few days. No skin off my back.

Flash pauses, but he doesn't back down. "Back off." He really towers over me.

And oddly enough, I'm not the slightest bit scared.

"Do it. Punch me. I'd love to see you benched for the entire season," I say, my voice low in a tone that surprises even me. When did I get Hulk-type aggressive?

I guess since a Hulk-type got aggressive towards me.

"Maeve . . ." Peter warns from behind me, seconds before I hear another door slam.

"What's going on in here?" the familiar voice of Mr. Porter echoes throughout the big room.

Flash pulls away, and faster than any slippery snake I've ever seen, easily slaps an easy-going smile on his face. "Nothing, sir. Just . . . chatting."

"Didn't look that way to me," Mr. Porter snaps.

I turn away from Eugene. "Oh, hi, sir. I was looking for you, actually. I'm assuming you got my brother's email? About my absence?"

Mr. Porter quickly pales. "Murdock. Yes, of course. Um . . . well, I hope you're doing all right. Let me, um, just see these boys to their coach, and then perhaps you can meet me in my office to discuss your classes?"

I stick on a I'm-kissing-your-ass smile. It's different from Flash's, but similar in concept. "Sounds delightful, sir."

"Sounds delightful, sir," someone mocks in a high-pitched voice from behind me.

Mr. Porter fumes, his face reddening. "Schmidt, I'll have you benched! Come on, all of you!"

Slowly, the boys file out, Flash last. He flips the pair of us off as he leaves.

I laugh as the door shuts, and turn back to Peter. "Oh, man, I actually thought that dude might sock—"

Peter's arms are suddenly wrapped around my shoulders in what I can only explain as the most awkward, yet well-meaning hug I've ever gotten in my life.

"Are you okay?" I ask him in concern.

Peter laughs and pulls away, holding me at arm's length. "I don't think I've ever heard you talk so much."

"Yeah, yeah." I brush him off with a wave. "You know me. Quiet and angry."

I bend down and start collecting his papers, and Peter follows. "So, um—where've you been? MJ's been kinda freaking out, saying you're dead, so we looked it up because usually that sorta thing makes even some headlines, but still, you weren't answering your phone . . ." he paused. "I mean, obviously I knew you weren't, you know—but, um—she's really worried. We all were."

I winced. "Yeah, um. That's . . . that's . . . it's an issue. I'll explain at lunch, how 'bout? Don't want to tell the story a million times, if that's okay with you."

Peter nods. "Don't worry about me."

I went back to scooping up A+ papers, cringing slightly. Like any good Millennial—actually, did I qualify as a Millennial? I'd have to look it up—I don't remember phone numbers, and I never had much social media to start with. So short of writing her a letter, there was no true way of contacting MJ besides going to her house. Which, of course, I couldn't do because I was strapped to a hospital bed by Peggy, Spencer, and Darryl the security guard, who doubled as Peggy's boyfriend. (He, per Peggy's request, kept a watchful eye from the cameras on the hallway outside my room. Just to be safe.)

But as much as I longed to have someone to talk to besides a bubbly nurse and a sad brother back then, telling MJ now was a reluctant mark on my to-do list.

"So, um . . ." I hold up a stack of papers for Peter to stuff into the remains of his expandable. "This happen often? Flash and his . . . gang? Posse? Entourage?"

Peter cringes now. I guess we're both prodding at subjects that neither of us want to talk about. "It's not a big deal. He doesn't, like, beat me up. It's just crap like this." He holds up his textbook in one hand, and then the cover of that same textbook in the other. "But it's not a big deal. I know he has stuff to deal with, too, so . . ."

I nod, though I don't really understand. In this case, or in any case, telling people helped. Or getting proof helped. Or having your would-be killer's face burned into the back of your eyelids, so that every time you closed your eyes, or even tried to get some sleep, he'd be right there with his sausage fingers and black clothes—

I suppose the upside is that I gave 'the most descriptive description of a suspect I've ever heard'—a quote from the sketch artist that drew up Beefcake's face for me, though they still haven't caught him yet.

"You shouldn't have done that," Peter says quietly, interrupting the noise of shuffling papers and snapping me out of my thoughts.

I pull back. While I didn't expect a reward and a round of congratulatory applause, I didn't expect that, either. "Done what?" I ask, though I know exactly what. There's nothing else he could be talking about.

Peter blushes. "Done that," he reiterates. "I can handle myself."

Funny. That's the bullshit I gave Spencer no more than a week ago, and guess who couldn't walk outside their front door this morning?

I stand up and hand him the last of his papers. "Yeah, well . . . doesn't really matter if you can, but if you will. And you weren't going to, I could tell."

"And you would've fought him? For me?" he asks, accepting the pile.

I shrug. "I think I would've done it if the roles were reversed, too, if that helps, just maybe not so mean." I laugh at my own joke. "It's just . . . I'm . . . I'm sick of this shit, to be honest, of people doing mean things for bad reasons to . . . to then just go about their lives like they didn't do a mean thing for a bad reason . . . and they get away with it, so they think they can do it again, maybe meaner, maybe for worse reasons . . ." my voice is rising high, maybe an octave or so, and I feel the pressure of tears in my eyes, so I stop. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Peter says. "I'll see you in Social Studies, okay?"

I nod, and wait until he's left the gym before heading to Mr. Porter's office.

~oOo~

"Well, it's up to the teachers to decide whether or not to exempt you from tests and units that you missed, but overall, I'd say you can expect to keep your grades up at your usual level," Mr. Porter explains. "We're just all glad to have you back safe, Maeve, and if there's anything we can do to help, perhaps sign you up for an appointment with a counselor or a social worker about—"

I cut him off. "No, that's okay, Mr. Porter. Me and my brother are taking care of it. I'd just like to put the whole thing behind me."

Mr. Porter nods, and stands. "Okay. Well, better get to class. I'll write you a pass, but if you hurry, you'll make it to homeroom no problem." He scribbles off a signature on a Post-It and hands it over. "Oh, and Maeve?"

I glance up from the pass.

"If there was anything going on between those boys, you let me know, okay? It doesn't matter that they're in important sports. I'll let it slide this time because I did not see very much, but the school doesn't tolerate that, just so you know." His eyebrows are drawn together in concern.

"Sure thing, sir." I pause. "Um. Does this school still have a no-tolerance policy?"

Mr. Porter frowned. "No. We never adopted it in the first place after a neighboring school had a very precarious situation become of it. Why?"

I shake my head. "I was just wondering. Thank you, Mr. Porter."

"Any time, Murdock."

~oOo~

The time leading up to lunch passes by dreadfully quick. The classes were relatively easy, and once I explained my brother's email all the teachers were super sympathetic and nice. In fact, I had it easy.

I figured I would see MJ in Science or Math, but she was absent for a rehearsal since her drama club was going to be performing at a nearby old folk's home. So it eased a little tension off my chest, like that elephant from before had laid off the peanuts for a week.

But when I got into the lunchroom clutching my tray—no spaghetti, just a fruit parfait, since I was supposed to be taking it easy, or as I like to call it, boring—it was like my presence was the Black Death to voices. Everyone at my table instantly quieted. MJ, of course, was facing away and continued talking avidly about her rehearsals, barely even realizing that everyone else had just clammed up.

Ned was the first to break the silence. He laughed nervously. "Oh, um, hi, Maeve."

MJ paused. "What?" she asked.

Kate pointed at me.

She turned around, and, in true drama queen fashion, burst into tears on the spot. She stood and threw her arms around my shoulders, which knocked my lunch to the floor, but I didn't care and neither did she.

"I thought you were dead!" she accused, pushing me onto the bench and sitting down next to me. Kate silently handed me a napkin, and I dabbed at the tear stains left on my shirt. Not that I cared, but, it was a nice distraction from all their pointed stares. All except Peter's, I noticed dully. He stared down at his meal.

"I'm not," I offered back weakly.

"Yeah, well, you have a lot of explaining to do," Gwen said, taking sip of milk.

I nodded, accepting my fate, and relaxed enough to tell my story.

~oOo~

The Black Death struck once again when I was done.

And Ned, once again, wasn't going to stand for it.

"Well, on the plus side, you met Spider-Man," he offered, his eyes slightly lower than they would normally be. Staring at my scarf, or perhaps, staring at what he couldn't see underneath it.

I smiled. "That's what I've been telling myself, too."

Peter excused himself to go the bathroom then, and Ned followed not thirty seconds later, looking sour.

Kate gave a wry smile. "I thought that was just a girl thing."

~oOo~

When I got home, I was in for a second surprise that day.

Spencer was sitting at our card table we used as a kitchen table, his computer propped up on top. As soon as I walked in, he got up and handed me two Tylenol and a glass of water.

"Peggy emailed me. She's stopping by after her shift," he said, before asking me how my day was. I told him, not-so-honestly, a very glossy day filled with no bullying quarterbacks or crying actresses. He didn't need more stress.

"Mr. Porter says I can definitely keep up my B average," I said, fiddling the sleeve of my jacket.

Spencer smiled. "Thank God. We're going to make it out alive."

Well, if kicked-puppy Spence could be sarcastic about the whole ordeal, then we were certainly going to get through it.

And hour or so later, Peggy appeared at my doorstep, buzzing up through the intercom.

The surprise was how nervous she looked when I opened the door. She was ringing her hands like there was no tomorrow, and she didn't have any makeup on, which was a rarity for her.

"Peg," I said in way of greeting. "What's up?"

"Hi," she said meekly. "Can I come in?"

I let her in. Spencer had left not ten minutes ago to pick up smoothies (dinner), and milkshakes (dessert), so we had the house to ourselves.

"What's up?" I asked again.

Peggy sighed, and plopped down on our single couch. "Look. I came here first, because I figured you deserved to know—"

"Wait." I held up a hand. "Know what? I feel like I just turned on a movie and missed, like, half the plot."

Peggy only gave a wry smile. "Sorry. Okay. So, I knew there was something wrong with this new Oscorp drug. The one they injected you with. It was too perfect, and it worked too well. All the results were completely normal, and all Oscorp said it was just a mix of and 'careful calculation'—" she used air quotes for emphasis, "—of other existing medicines, only stronger or whatever. But I knew that wasn't right. It couldn't be—it didn't make sense. Call it intuition, call it me being paranoid . . . whatever. I had to do some digging."

I swallow. What was I supposed to say? "What did you find? Where did you even dig?"

"Darryl works night shift at Oscorp," Peggy explained.

"Would've been nice to know. I thought he was watching me twenty-four seven."

Peggy snorted. "Yeah, well, I went to visit him last night, and when he went the bathroom . . . well, I grabbed a pass, ran to the secretary's office, and downloaded everything I could onto a flashdrive."

"You did what?" I exclaimed. "I never knew you were such a rebel, Peg!"

Peggy has the humility to look sheepish. "I know. It was stupid. I could've got Darryl fired—"

"Not to mention sued to your last cent!" I protest.

She nods. "But you'll never believe what I found."

I'm not sure I want to know, but Peggy doesn't wait.

"The drug. It had octopus DNA. That's how you healed so quickly. It regenerated the cells in your body, like, three times the normal speed. Of course, it'll still take a while to heal, but you could potentially regrow limbs—"

"Wait." I stop her again. "Peg, that's crazy. Oscorp—"

"Oscorp has files of having done it before," Peggy insists. "They're working on a case with lizards currently, I believe, and all sorts of animals. The octopus one dates back to, like, 2005, and I even saw something about spiders and eels. Look, Maeve—we have to take this to the police."

I pause, and take this in. There's octopus . . . in me? Oddly enough, I don't feel violated, nor do I feel the need to scrub myself until it's all gone. It's just like having calamari, I suppose.

But then another thought pops into my head. One that might be a little selfish.

"So . . . I can regrow limbs? That makes me basically indestructible, right?"

"Potentially," Peggy replies nervously. "Perhaps some other things, too, if I read the file rig—"

"Like what?"

"Strength, for one," Peggy says. "Octopi are incredibly strong. And flexible, too . . ."

"Let's test it out," I say, setting my arm on the coffee table. "Arm wrestle me. Now."

Peggy frowns, but doesn't disagree. She places her hand in mine, and sets her elbow on the table. "On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three!"

What happens next, it happens so fast, I don't even think about it. I think about pushing, obviously, and the possibility that I might have super-strength, (you see where I'm going with this?) but not much else.

Then Peggy's hand goes right through the glass, shattering it into a million pieces, my hand pushing it all the way through, like a hammer with a nail.

"Oh my God."

That was me. Peggy is staring blankly, lifting her hand out of the glass slowly while picking a relatively big piece out with her hand, her eyes wide.

"Oh my God, Peg, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Touch your toes," she demands, her wide gaze glancing up at me.

"What?"

"Touch your toes."

"Um." I do. It feels a lot easier than usual.

"Okay. Now, do it the other way. Grab your heels."

I glance at Peggy, who just gives me this look like, You just slammed my hand through a table and now I'll probably need stitches so are you really going to say no to me right now? Even after I nursed you back to health?

So I do it. I lean back, and . . .

And it's as easy as touching my toes.

"What the hell?" we say at the same time, after I'm vertical again.

I glance at the table. Then at my hands that just grabbed my heels with the ease of picking something off the floor. The same hands who couldn't even have done a pull-up last week.

And probably the best idea I've ever had pops into my head.

"Peggy. Do you know anybody that's any good at sewing? Preferably with Spandex?"