Deplorability 2.4

"I'll be there. Yes-" I saw a light in the living room window and put my hand over the lower half of my cell phone while I briefly investigated. Shit, my dad was home. I put the phone to my ear,

"I'm sorry, I've got to run. No. No. Look-"

As I heard the front door open, I snapped the phone shut and jammed it into my pocket. I'd apologize for hanging up later. I definitely didn't want my dad to see the phone. I didn't think he would stop me from owning one, but ever since my mom's death, cell phones had carried strong negative connotations. That, and I'd have to explain where I got it and how I'd paid for it.

Dennis had given me three identical cell phones – all disposable – first thing in the morning, and I'd decided to go with him to the Bar rather than head to school. The way I figured it, I didn't have much of a chance of focusing on classes with Thursday's bank robbery occupying my attention on top of the stress of just being there and waiting for the other shoe to drop as far as my skipped classes. Besides, I rationalized, it didn't make a lot of sense to go if I knew I would be skipping again to go rob the bank. I'd promised myself I would go the day after tomorrow. Face the music.

I'd spent the day with the group. So it had just been me, Frank, Dee, Dennis, and Mac. We'd hammered out the fine details of the robbery and I had decided what weapons I wanted Frank to ask the boss for. I had elected for both a combat knife and a telescoping police baton. The knife would serve for emergencies and those people who were just too tough to hurt with the baton. The baton, twenty one inches long when fully extended, was for more general use, offering more clout than I'd otherwise get with my fists. Frank had promised I would have them for tomorrow.

After that, we kind of avoided the subject of the robbery, by some unspoken agreement. It wouldn't do to overthink it or risk getting too nervous. Either way, I had felt a need to burn some nervous energy, so I ran a little. Before I did, they all asked what I was doing. When I told them I just wanted to work off nervous energy and build my stamina. Mac supported it, saying staying in physical shape was important to being a cape. Dennis disagreed, saying your power was all you needed. They got into an argument about it, and Dee told me that I could just leave, because they always argue.

How did they get anything done if all they do is argue with each other? And they did criminal shit even in their regular identities. How they weren't in jail yet is astounding.

Having tired ourselves out, we'd all collapsed on the couches and watched some of Dennis's movies from Earth-Aleph, the alternate Earth that our Earth had been communicating with since

Professor Haywire tore a hole between realities. Media was one of the few things that could be traded back and forth through the hole. Long story short, you could get books, movies and DVDs of TV shows from the other world, if you were willing to accept the price tag. The benefit? I got to spend the afternoon seeing how the other universe had handled episodes one and two of the Star Wars films.

Fact: they were still pretty disappointing.

By the time my dad got in, I had pork chops defrosted, dusted with lemon and pepper and sitting in a frying pan, with vegetables in the microwave. Cooking was sort of something you started doing when you had only one parent, unless you really, really liked takeout.

"Heya," my dad greeted me, "Smells good."

"I started dinner a bit early because I have somewhere I want to be, tonight, If that's cool?"

He tried to hide it, but I could see a bit of disappointment. "Of course," he said, "Your new friends?"

I nodded.

"Let me get changed and then I'll ask you all about them," he promised as he headed upstairs.

Great. I didn't have to answer these questions last night because my dad had been working late. My mind started racing to anticipate questions and come up with plausible details. Should I use their real names? Or at least, the names they had given me? I wasn't sure if that would be a breach of trust. I decided to use their real names for much the same reason I'd decided to use my own with them. It just prevented disasters if my dad ever happened to meet them, which was a terrifying thought, or if they called for me.

I didn't need to worry about my dad hearing about four people being arrested, all of whom had the same name as my 'friends', since I was under the impression that the courts didn't always unmask capes when they arrested them. I wasn't entirely sure what was up with that. It seemed like something to ask Frank about.

By the time my dad had come back downstairs, I'd resolved to try and keep my lies as close to the truth as possible. It would be easiest to keep everything straight that way. That, and I hated lying to my dad.

My dad had changed out of his dress shirt and khakis, into a t-shirt and jeans. He mussed up my hair and then took over the last bit of the cooking. I sat down at the table so I could talk to him.

"So what's going on?" he asked.

I shrugged. I hated feeling this tense around my dad. He'd never bugged me about the bullying, so I'd always been able to come home and sort of let my guard drop. I couldn't do that now, because I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop as far as my skipped classes, and my new 'friends' brought a whole mess of secrets and lies into the mix as well. I felt like I was on the verge of a terminal breach of trust. One mistake or a single concerned phone call from the school, and my dad would probably flip, and things wouldn't be the same between us for a long time.

"Are you going to tell me their names?" he asked. He set the food on plates and brought it to the table.

"Frank, Dee, Dennis, Mac, and Charlie" I confessed, "They're alright." I lied through my teeth.

"Where did you meet them? School?"

I shook my head, "I wanted to get away from school for a bit, so I caught a bus downtown to

catch a bit of a break. I ran into them at the library." Partial truths. You couldn't really catch a bus downtown and back during the lunch break – I'd tried, when I was avoiding the trio – but I doubted my dad would research that. I did sort of cross paths with the Undersiders at the library, though.

"They go to the library at lunch? What are they like?"

This stumped me. How was I supposed to describe them? Incredibly cold and uncaring? Highly shitty and immoral? The most horrible people alive?

"They're alright." I decided to say what I did before.

My dad stayed silent for a while. "Taylor, what's wrong with them?"

My anxiety increased. "What? What're you talking about?"

"You don't seem to like talking about them. Almost like they're mistreating you."

"No no, trust me. they're not bad!"

There was a pause. "Taylor…"

Changing the subject, I said, "I like Frank…he's nice…Really smart, though I haven't talked to him all that much. I haven't seen him do anything…like..."

My dad quirked his eyebrows. "Anything…like…what?"

I struggled to find an answer. "Anything…like the people bullying me. So he's fine with me."

My dad nodded. "And the others?"

"I get along with Dennis. He asked for my help with something. And we worked together."

"Like a school project?"

"Yeah, like that."

"Was it fun?"

"Yeah…as first…."

"It got boring?"

I looked up from my food. "It brought me infinite displeasure."

My dad smiled. "Ok, calm down there. I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

That stung. Even though he didn't know just how bad it was, it really hurt hearing him say that. Him not knowing might've made it hurt even more because he was unaware of just how awful I was to that guy. I decided to suppress it and say, "it was just…tedious. We kept messing up and having to do it all over again."

"Ok, What about the others?"

"There's Dee, she's the one that's the most similar to me."

My dad nodded. "Bookish? Smart?"

I shook my head. "She's getting bullied too."

"Well that's great!"

I raised my eyebrows.

"Oh, I mean, not for her. But it's great for you to have someone to relate to."

I simply nodded my head. Couldn't tell him that she was kinda a terrible person so I couldn't relate to her even on my worst day.

So I decided to talk about someone else. "There's Mac. he's not as trusting of me as the others. Cause I'm young."

"Why would that matter?"

I froze. "Sometimes they do things like throw rocks at windows of abandoned building, or some crazy stunt as a part of some youtube video, or something equally stupid."

"I take it you don't approve?" I could hear the hopefulness in his voice.

I nodded. "He's always thinking I'll tattle on them or something."

"Ok."

Twice. That was twice I backed MYSELF into a corner. If I wasn't more careful, I could easily say something I couldn't get out of.

"And the last one? Cody? Charlie?"

"Yeah, Charlie. He seems aggressive. Angry. Like something always going wrong when it's not."

My dad nodded. "Maybe he's mentally unstable."

I looked at him.

"Y'know, like he's neurodivergent."

"Ummmm, he didn't seem like it."

"How do you know? You met someone neurodivergent. Are you basing it off of stereotypes?"

I tried to think about it and I said, "I guess he doesn't seem…that stupid?" I suddenly realized that wasn't true. I saw Charlie trying to put out a fire with a banner but no reason to tell dad about that. I didn't think that would make him neurodivergent though. Just…not very smart.

"Just because he's not stupid doesn't mean he's not neurodivergent. All being neurodivergent means that you're different, being angry is a common symptom, but I won't press the issue. Do you like him?"

I decided to tell the truth. "No. he reminds me of the girls at school."

My dad nodded, but didn't say anything. It was a good lead-in for him to question me about what was going on at school, but he didn't take it. He stayed quiet.

I felt immensely grateful, right then. My dad was respecting the boundaries I'd set, not pushing, not digging for more. It made this conversation so much easier that it might otherwise have been, and I knew it couldn't be that easy for him.

I felt like I owed him something for that. Sighing, I admitted, "Like, at school. The, uh, the people who're giving me a hard time? They sort of ganged up on me on Monday. Just, you know, taking turns insulting me. It's why I needed to get away and went downtown." I felt embarrassed, saying it, because it was humiliating enough to live through without having to recap it, and because it felt so disconnected from the rest of the conversation. But if I didn't say it right then, I don't think I would've been able to.

My dad sort of went still. I could see him compose himself and choose his words before he asked, "Not to diminish how much it sucks to get put down like that, but they didn't do anything else?"

I raised my eyebrows in question as I chewed. They had, kind of, but I couldn't really say 'They used Mom's death to fuck with my head' without having to explain the Emma thing.

"Anything like what happened in January?" he asked.

I lowered my eyes to my plate, then shook my head. After a few moments I said, "No. January was a one time thing. They've pulled smaller 'pranks' since then, hassled me, but no repeat performances on that front." I made air quotes with my fingers as I said 'pranks'.

"Okay," my dad said, quietly, "That's a relief to know."

I didn't feel like sharing any more. You'd think I would feel better, after opening up, but I didn't. I felt frustrated, angry, awkward. It was a reminder that I couldn't have a real conversation with my dad like I used to be able to. More than anything, I felt guilty. Part of the guilt was because I'd apparently let my dad think that every time I was bullied, it was like it had been that day, nearly four months ago, when things had been at their worst. I stabbed at a bit of fat with my fork.

"When were you going out?" My dad asked. I glanced at the digital clock on the stove and noted the time.

I was glad for the excuse to escape, "Now? Is that okay? I won't be long."

"Meeting your friends?" he asked.

"Just going to meet Frank for coffee and conversation, away from the rest of the group," I told him as I stood up and moved my plate to the sink. The lie was heavier on my conscience after the open disclosure I'd just had with him.

"Here, wait," he said. He stood up and fished in his pocket for his wallet. He handed me a ten,

"For the coffee. Sorry I don't have more. Have fun?"

I hugged him, feeling painfully guilty, then headed to the back door to pull my shoes on. I was just opening the door when I barely heard him say, "Thank you."

"Love you, Dad."

"I love you too. Be safe."

I shut the door, grabbed the gym bag I'd stashed under the back steps and headed around the house at a light jog. I held the gym bag low so my dad wouldn't see me carrying it.

I took the same general route I took on my morning runs, heading east, towards the aBy. This time, though, instead of turning up towards the Boardwalk, I headed south.

I approached the station and found a disused restroom to change into my costume.

The building and the ferry itself were well kept, at least on the outside, which was one of the reasons my dad felt it would take so little effort to get things going again. Still, that wasn't the city's issue. They didn't want to provide the addicts and the gangbangers easy access to to the rest of the city, all the while paying to provide the service, for mere hopes of maybe getting improvements for the future. So the city kept the station and the ferry looking pretty for any tourists that wandered far enough south from the Boardwalk and maintained eternal 'temporarily out of service' and 'coming soon' signs up around the building and in the brochures. Aside from the regular replacements to keep them looking new, the signs hadn't been taken down in nearly a decade.

I ignored the doors to the station's interior, and instead headed up the stairs to the outdoor patio that overlooked the bay. There were some large panes of glass to break the wind, and stone tables and benches for those wanting to sit to eat. It was one of the best vantage points for seeing the PHQ in all its splendor. The headquarters was a series of arches and spires mounted on a retrofitted oil rig. Even the platform it was built on was beautiful, though, with hard edges and sweeping lines. The entire thing was lit up by tinted spotlights and set against a faint corona of shifting colors, like the aurora borealis trapped in the shape of a soap bubble. A forcefield, forever on, shielding the people who watched over Brockton Bay.

Wasn't sure if you would show up," a male voice broke the silence.

I turned to face Armsmaster, "I'm sorry. I had to hang up on your receptionist. Real life called."

He looked somehow different than the first time I'd met him. His lips were set in a hard line, his feet set further apart. His arms were folded across his chest with his Halberd in one hand, the pole resting against his shoulder. It conveyed such a different attitude that I momentarily wondered if he was the same person under the suit.

"I need to call in a favor."