"You're taking this remarkably well."
Mr. Doe (John, now that I've actually paid his fees) looks up from his Caesar salad with his mouth full and an eyebrow raised.
"The last time you took me here, it was to explain how I was screwing myself over." I say as I take a bite of steak. "I figured that this was going to start with a lecture."
He shrugs and swallows. "I'm not in the habit of attacking people for things outside their control. You did have control over whether or not you went out to play hero," — I twitch under my armor at the contempt in his tone — "and you did not have control over whether or not a criminal would stop by your shop and place you in a catch twenty-two. My clients getting themselves into trouble irritates me. Other people getting my clients into trouble," he shrugs, "That's how I earn a living."
I nod. Defend people from others, not themselves. It's a weird sort of code, but I really shouldn't be throwing stones. "I still threatened someone with dismemberment in public."
"You were bluffing." He looks me in the eye and I can tell he knows I wasn't. "That's your story and you're sticking to it. You were trying to stall for the Protectorate and started babbling to try and convince a murderous neo-Nazi not to kill someone. None of the videos circulating online contradict that, and over-the-top threats aren't exactly new to the cape scene."
I go back to my steak and he goes back to his salad. When we come up for air he starts talking again.
"You need to make a public appearance of some sort as a way to bounce back from this before it can get too much momentum. Something unambiguously good. You said that you worked with Isidis, right?" I nod.
"I think we get along." Insofar as a pair of people with complementary powers and no real reason to hate each other get along. That, and we have a similar sense of humor. I smile as the memory of sitting on an operating table getting my eye regrown comes back to me. John nods back.
"Do some volunteer work. The store will open again on Saturday. Be there." I think back through my schedule and wince.
"I won't be able to make Saturday." That's when I'm taking the GED. I found a place that offers the test once a month, and I don't want to put it off any longer. John shrugs.
"Then we'll re-open on Sunday." He doesn't press for the reason why and for that I'm thankful. I don't want to lie to him, but I'm pretty sure telling someone that you're taking a federally-registered test on a certain date is a good way to reveal your civilian ID.
A heart wrenching sob from a suddenly-childless mother comes to mind and I shut down that thought process. Dad's going to be safe. I'll be careful. No one will hurt him.
The rest of the meal passes in amiable silence. We split the bill this time (using my brand-new debit card, which was set up by someone in John's office) and part with a handshake. I promise to look into getting a better phone and he promises to look into finding more painters for me to work with. As poorly as yesterday ended, watching the spheres transform from dead tissue into works of art was a lot of fun and extremely profitable. Commissions wouldn't be too hard to do on my end, and there's a lot of potential room for growth.
When I head to the hospital, it's with a light heart and looser muscles.
When I leave the hospital, it's with an empty stomach and a mind craving stimulation. I saw nothing new today. I know it sounds insensitive, but fixing any sort of clean break is boring now, and the compound fractures aren't much more difficult. It's good that I'm bored and that exotic injures aren't happening regularly, but that doesn't make the volunteer work any less of a drag.
"Welp, I've got no plans for the rest of the day." Amy stretches her arms over her head as we walk out of the hospital. I can hear vertebrae pop as she works out the kinks in her back, and she sighs in relief as her arms drop down to her sides. She glances to me. "Want to grab a bite? I found a pretty nice sandwich shop." I nod, then pause.
"You're not going to eat with your family?" Her expression changes, slight enough that I could've missed it if I wasn't looking at her. I wince internally. "Did I bring up a bad topic?" She shakes her hand and waves at me.
"Nothing bad. Just some odd coincidences. Carol's working late, Vicky's on a "special date" with Dean," she adds air quotes and gratuitous amounts of eyebrow wiggling, "and Dad went out to a poker night. I'd be eating at home alone and I don't really feel like trying to get through a whole pizza by myself." There's a note of melancholy in her tone and I remember all the quiet nights when Dad stayed late at the office trying to keep the union afloat. I place a hand on her shoulder and give it a sympathetic squeeze.
"I'd love to have dinner with you." I'll leave a message for Dad. I can't imagine him complaining about how I'm hanging out with a friend instead of eating at home, and I feel like Amy might need someone to take her mind off of things tonight. That, and after we move past the awkward phase our meals tend to be a fair bit of fun.
"Thanks Rosie," Amy says, patting the hand on her shoulder and smiling up at me. "It means a lot."
"Any time," I answer, smiling back behind my mask. I drop my hand as we move on and think about the relationship between Amy and I.
What I have with Amy is not what Emma and I had. We don't cry around one another, we don't share the real extent of our worries, and for the most part we try to stay away from real topics. Part of that is public versus non-public cape, but more of it is... not wanting to risk things by escalating. I don't know what sort of skeletons she has in her closet (I stifle a chuckle at the pun) and she doesn't know about mine. Well, besides the obvious ones.
Maybe we could go farther, but for now this is nice. Just two co-workers who have a good time with one another, go out for food every few days, have regular physical contact...
A thought occurs. I stop in my tracks and Amy looks back at me, a questioning look in her eyes.
"Are you coming onto me?" I ask. It's blunt, but I really don't want to leave anything ambiguous here.
Amy stares for a moment. Then her shoulders start shaking. And her lips turn upward.
"I didn't want to-"
The rest of my apology is drowned out as peals of laughter spill from Amy's mouth. I see a few smokers down the street stare at us for a moment. I feel my flesh go red under my armor and have to actively resist the urge to hide my face in my hands. Amy is likely the only one who heard my response, and I think I can rely on her to be discrete.
Literally falling to her knees is a tad much though.
Once her fit has passed, she stands back up and brushes her self off, a giggle still occasionally escaping her. She looks up at me.
"You think I've been hitting on you?" She can barely finish the sentence before laughing again. This time she at least has the grace to try and stifle it. I sigh.
"You've invited me to eat with you a number of times. We get along well. You asked me to strip. I think it's a not unreasonable conclusion." I mutter the last bit and stare over her head. One of the advantages of being tall is that you don't have to make eye contact when it's inconvenient.
"Sorry, you're not my type." Amy walks past me, slipping in a slap to my backside and giving me flashbacks to another female member of New Wave. "A little too skinny." After a few steps she turns around, an eyebrow raised and a smirk on her face. "Is the sudden lack of romance the end of our dinner date?"
I catch up in a few steps, then shrink to a more reasonable height to match her stride. We walk for a while in silence, mine embarrassed and hers simply comfortable.
I decide to break it.
"So what is your type?"
I spend Friday reviewing for the GED, have a nice dinner with Dad, then wake up at six in a nervous sweat. After a cold shower followed by a warm hug of bone, I review all the reasons I have not to be worried.
It's just a test. One day and I'm done. I'm not actually competing with anyone. It's an inanimate object that harbors me no ill will, and the creators of it are probably just as passionate. I know the material and the bar is low. I only need to get seventy-five percent of the points, and I got eighty on the practice tests. I'm already out of school, this is just a formality. Even if I fail, I can just try again next month. Or the month after that. There's no pressure to succeed immediately. Heck, I only want it to ward off the truant officers, and they're so jaded by the Brockton Bay educational system that they'd probably be thrilled to hear I'm using my skip days to study.
I still spend an extra ten minutes worrying in the shower, and it takes Dad knocking politely on the door to jolt me out of my daze.
"You okay in there?"
"Yeah!" I say, shutting off the water and wrapping myself up in a towel. "I'll be just a minute!"
Once I'm changed I get to work on breakfast. Bacon, eggs and toast, simple but filling. I make a mental note to grab a lunch on the way there for the break between subjects. Dad comes downstairs as the last of the food finishes cooking and we eat together.
"You're going to do great Taylor."
"I know. Just pretest jitters." I thought I had left them behind in middle school, but maybe no test at Winslow had actually mattered enough to me to trigger them. Dad smiles, and ten years fall off his face.
"You know that Annette used to panic before her lectures?" I almost choke. Mom, the rock, a paragon of mental stability, scared? Dad starts twisting the wedding band on his left hand and gets a far-away look in his eyes.
"One day it got so bad she called me in the middle of a meeting and started babbling, trying to explain how she didn't know enough, how she wasn't sure if she could explain the ideas in her head, how she should've given up earlier and taken the job at the Library of Congress because at least then she wouldn't be out of a job when she screwed up here." I stare at him, breakfast forgotten. He pauses, then shakes his head and looks at me.
"So I left work early, broke a few speeding laws, and drove to the college. I got there just in time to enter the lecture hall. I had no idea what was going on." he shakes his head, smile now rueful. "I hadn't taken an English course in at least fifteen years and it was a three-hundred level seminar. I caught a glimpse of some of the notes the student next to me was reviewing and I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I didn't have the book, paper, a pencil, or anything else besides the clothes on my back."
"Then she walked in, nervous as a guy on his first day laying bricks, and scanned the audience until she saw me. Time stopped for a minute there. I don't know if any of the kids noticed it, but I sure as hell did." He puts both his hands on the table and stares at them, lost in his own little world. "She dropped her lecture notes on the podium and started talking. I had no idea if it was connected to her lesson plan or not, if inspiration had struck her out of the blue, if she was just falling with style, or if it was academic at all. All I know is that every single person in that room was transfixed. She was our oracle, and I learned more about the Odyssey in those two hours than I ever did in high school." He snorts. "The kids were so caught up in the moment they stayed after class asking questions for another hour. Eventually, they trickled out until it was just your mother and I." Then he looks up at me, the smile still on his face. "That night, we went out, had a nice dinner, and conceived you."
"Daaad!" I groan, covering my face as I flush. "Too much information." Ugh, now I can't get the image out of my head.
He laughs. "It took your mind off the test, didn't it?" I open my mouth to object, but pause. He's not wrong. The anxiety isn't gone, but it's a lot farther away. He nods his head and checks his watch. "We should probably get going." I nod back and we finish off our now-cold food before putting the plates in the sink. The car ride to the testing center passes in comfortable silence, and Dad stops to pick up donuts and morning beverages. He takes one, but the other three are for lunch.
Once we're there, he gets out of the car to give me an awkward hug. I return it. Then I ask a question.
"That story you told... is it true?" It seems a little convienient. Not impossible, but implausible. Dad shrugs.
"It's the truth, even if it didn't happen." I blink.
"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Dad nods.
"I used to read along with her courses. She'd bounce ideas off of me and I'd pick out the undergrad level issues." His expression droops a little, but he forces a smile back on his face and leans against the truck. "Maybe I'll pick up the habit again. I've certainly got the time," he jokes. We stand together awkwardly for a moment.
I clear my throat. "So... I'll see you at five thirty?" I'm not sure how to end this. Neither does Dad, and he nods uncomfortably before getting back in the truck.
"Good luck." He drives off. I follow the car with my eyes for as long as I can. Then I turn to look at the community center where the test is being hosted. It's in the nice part of town, so the graffiti on the walls is tasteful and the windows are unbroken. I can see a few people milling about in the lobby, all at least a little dressed up.
I close my eyes and take a breath of the slightly-salty, very-polluted Brockton Bay air.
In. Out. Mask on.
Then I open them and walk into the building.
The bar is lower than I thought it was going to be.
The reading and the writing sections are a joke. I've spent enough time getting familiar with the cape scene that I've got the current events part of social studies on lock. History and literature go hand in hand, so I wasn't worried there either.
I was concerned about the math until I started playing with my bones in frustration. Then I realized that I could make a rudimentary calculator under my skin. Make a row of fourteen indents on my shoulder blade, copy twenty seven times, and be aware of the total of three-hundred and seventy-eight indents. Rinse and repeat. By making arbitrary but uniform markings along my radius I could shortcut algebra and geometry inside of a second. I didn't figure out any fancy hack for the sciences, but it's not anything I didn't go over at Winslow.
When I answer the last question, I can almost feel the future opening up in front of me. I passed. I know I have. It's just a matter of waiting for the bureaucratic machine to do its work. I leave the building with a smile on my face, and when Dad picks me up I'm practically skipping. We go out to eat at an old pizza parlor, a long-forgotten haunt that we used to go to with Mom. We spend the night remembering, planning, and laughing.
I'll have to tell him about my powers, and that's not going to go well. On the other hand, being known as one of the most powerful neutrals in Brockton Bay might help soften the blow. I'll have a plan to stay safe, a way to make money, and no outstanding feuds. Hell, the E88 is the last major villain group. Who's going to be left to feud with?
Things are finally looking up, and my sleep is pure peace.
