The Last Superhero Read online

  Then he took off. Miss Holmes didn't even get on his case for running.

  Peewee and Garth arrived at the exit at exactly the same time—about two seconds after Wren had run out the door.

  FIVE

  During the next couple of weeks, I spent lunch hours researching my project. That meant standing in the hall with the library regulars every day, waiting for Miss Holmes to show up with her keys. How she could be late all the time was a mystery to me. But she was, and she always had an excuse. I don't think anybody really cared why she was late or even listened to her excuses. It was just part of the routine—like the way Wren appeared out of nowhere. She never waited in the hall with the rest of us, but as soon as the library door opened, there she was.

  Since it was always the same kids hanging out in the library, I figured they must be friends. If they were, they sure never showed it. Aside from an occasional “Excuse me,” or “Sorry,” if they accidentally bumped into one another or reached for the same book, none of the library regulars sat together or even spoke to each other. They all just stayed in their own private worlds. So when Wren plunked herself down at my table one day, I was really surprised.

  As usual, her get-up was like nothing I'd ever seen before. On this day, she had a gypsy look happening, and I squinted against the jumble of colour bombarding my eyes. Her sweater was actually fairly normal—just a red turtleneck. But over that, circling her shoulders, was a bright orange scarf with a long shimmery fringe. She'd Knotted it in front to keep it from sliding off. Another orange scarf was tied around her head so that her hair puffed out from under it like brown fur trim. But it was Wren's skirt that was the real eye popper. It looked like a multi-coloured parachute with a big ruffle on the bottom. It ended somewhere between her knees and ankles, and that's where the army boots took over.

  Wren flopped into the chair beside me as casually, as if it was something she did every day. Then, without even looking at me, she pulled some of my papers toward her and started reading them.

  For a few seconds, I just sat there with my mouth hanging open. What the heck did she think she was doing?

  “Excuse me!” I huffed when I found my voice.

  Wren looked up. “Why? What did you do?”

  “Very funny,” I muttered as I swept the papers away from her. “Do you mind?”

  Wren shrugged and clasped her hands on top of her head. “Should I?”

  “Of course not,” I fumed. “But I should. And I do!”

  She eyed me quizzically. “Why?”

  “What do you mean—why? This is my stuff. It's none of your business.”

  Wren rolled her eyes. “Get a grip. We're not talking about a big government secret here. This is an art project.”

  My mouth fell open again. “How do you know that?”

  She plunked her elbows on the table, plopped her chin into her hands, and stared fiercely at me. “I know lots of things.”

  I'm not sure if it was the tone of her voice or the look in her eyes—it might just have been the gypsy costume—but I had this uncomfortable feeling Wren was practicing voodoo on me. Even though I don't believe in that stuff, I turned away.

  She started to chuckle. “You're scared, aren't ya?”

  “Don't be dumb,” I sneered. “Why would I be scared of a…a…”

  “A girl?”

  I'd been thinking more like freak or weirdo, but remembering how Wren could flip out, I decided not to say so. I just nodded. “Sure.”

  She let out a huge sigh. “Lots of guys are.”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “Why would anyone be afraid of you?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because,” she paused, and her eyes sparkled dangerously. “Because—” Then she sprang out of her chair, leaped onto the table, threw her arms wide, and exclaimed, “I have the power!”

  Considering all the crazy things I'd seen Wren do, this shouldn't even have made me blink. But it did. Several times. The girl simply did not live on the same planet as the rest of us.

  Miss Holmes looked up from her post at the checkout station and scowled. “Miss Nott! Need I remind you this is a library?”

  Wren clapped a hand over her mouth. Then lowering herself back to the floor, she whispered, “Oops. Sorry, Miss Holmes. I forgot. Well, not that this is a library. I didn't forget that. I just sort of forgot that's where I was. You know how it is. You get caught up in the moment, and the next thing you know you—”

  “Miss Nott!”

  “Sorry” Wren apologized again. “I think I'll stop talking now.”

  “What a novel idea,” Miss Holmes muttered as she went back to whatever it was she'd been doing before Wren had launched into her evangelist impersonation. Wren sat down and flashed me a smile.

  I shook my head.

  “What?” she asked innocently.

  “I just don't believe you,” I murmured. “You have to be the strangest person in this school, in this city—heck, maybe in the entire world.”

  For some reason, that seemed to surprise her. “Why do you say that?”

  “Are you kidding?” I exclaimed. “For starters, look at you!”

  “Shhhhh!” Miss Holmes hissed.

  “Look at you,” I repeated more quietly. “Look at your clothes. You have the weirdest wardrobe I have ever seen.”

  Wren smoothed her skirt and adjusted her shawl. “It isn't weird at all,” she sniffed. “I just sense the direction fashion is going and get there ahead of the crowd. In a few months, everyone will be dressing like this. You wait and see.”

  “You think so?”

  She bobbed her head. “Absolutely.”

  I had my doubts. Wren was one of a kind, and even though her crazy outfits seemed to suit her—maybe I was just getting brainwashed from constant exposure—I couldn't imagine the other girls in school dressing the same way. “Whatever you say,” I conceded with a shrug. “But what about all the goofy things you do—like just now when you jumped onto the table? Do you call that normal?”

  She stuck her chin out defensively. “I was simply expressing myself. I'm a passionate person. I have a joie de vivre”

  “You've got something,” I muttered. “I just hope it's not contagious.”

  “Well, I hope it is.” She glanced meaningfully at the other kids in the room. “There are a lot of people in this world who could use a little joie de vivre”

  I had to admit she had a point. The library regulars weren't exactly what you'd call lively. From what I'd seen of them so far, breathing was about all the excitement they could handle. Even so, they weren't the topic of discussion at the moment, and I wasn't going to let Wren sidetrack me.

  “Who are you anyway?” I said. “Until a couple of weeks ago, I didn't even know you existed.”

  “Its a big school. We're not in any of the same classes.”

  “Okay, fine. So explain how come I suddenly see you all the time.”

  “Because you've started coming into the library, and that's where I hang out.”

  “Every day?” “Pretty much.”

  “Are you a bookworm or something?” She shook her head. “Not really. I just like the peace and quiet in here.”

  I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing, which instantly earned me a glare from Miss Holmes.

  Wren looked offended. “What's so funny?”

  “Are you serious?” I sat forward in my chair and stared at her. “There's no peace and quiet anywhere when you're around. You could bring a cemetery to life!”

  She beamed. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It figures. That just proves how…” her eyes narrowed dangerously, “…unique you are,” I finished diplomatically.

  Her face relaxed again.

  “And since we're on the topic of uniqueness,” I continued, “let's talk about your name. Wren—now that's a pretty unique name. Your parents didn't actually call you that when you were born, did they?”


  “Did your parents actually call you Jas?” she shot back.

  “Or is that short for Jasper?”

  I made a face. “Jasper? Gimme a break. No. Jas is short for James.”

  “I thought Jim was short for James.”

  “It is, but that's my dad's name. Two Jims in one house would be confusing, so my parents called me Jas. What about you?”

  “I sort of named myself,” she said.

  “Why doesn't that surprise me?”

  It was Wren's turn to make a face. “Do you want to hear about this or not?”

  “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “My real name is Willa Rae Ellen Nott.” She sent a stony stare my way, as if daring me to make fun of her again.

  “That's a lot of names,” I said, squashing the urge to smile.

  She nodded. “Willa is my grandmother. That's who I live with. Rae is my mother. She's a jet setter. I hardly ever see her, but she sends postcards. I think that's her idea of mothering. As for Ellen, that was my mother's best friend in high school, which is when my mother got pregnant with me. And Nott was my mother's name before she married Marcus Bigham and moved into the world of the filthy rich.

  “In case you haven't figured it out, I'm illegitimate.” She leaned close and whispered, “The feared and hated bastard.” Then she sat back again. “Feared and hated by my mother, that is. But then, what unmarried seventeen-year-old girl wants a baby? I can't really blame her for that.”

  I felt my eyebrows shoot up. I wouldn't be sharing that kind of information with someone I barely knew. Yet Wren didn't seem the least bit embarrassed. Of course, she might just have been trying to shock me, but somehow I didn't think so.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “when I was born, my mother gave me this humungous name, foisted me off on my grandmother, and then took off.” She shrugged. “But that's okay. It's worked out fine—even the name. Well, sort of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My initials,” she frowned. “Don't you get it? My initials spell Wren.”

  I nodded. “So they do.” Trust Wren to make something out of that. “Can I ask you something else?”

  She shrugged. “It's a free country.”

  “What's going on with you and Peewee?”

  Her expression became puzzled. “Who's Peewee?”

  “You know the guy I mean,” I said. “That little pipsqueak in Grade Eight who sucks up to all the teachers. He and his goon buddy were in here last week. I figure they must have been looking for you, because when you tore out of here, they were right behind.”

  Wren's expression cleared. “Oh, that guy! What's his name?”

  I shook my head. “I don't know. Ross something, I think.”

  She nodded. “Ross. I'll have to remember that.”

  “I'm betting he's the one who shoved you into your locker and took your backpack—right?”

  She thought about that for a minute before answering. “Maybe.”

  I let out a huge sigh. Getting a straight answer out of Wren was like pulling teeth. I tried again. “So how come the guy is on your case?”

  Wren shook her head and plastered an innocent look on her face. “Why don't you ask him?”

  SIX

  The next thing I knew it was Christmas break, and that meant shopping for presents. I pretty much suck at that. Luckily I only had my dad to buy for. As I stuck his gifts under the tree, I decided to check out the packages addressed to me. I had the house to myself, so I could shake and squeeze everything as much as I wanted.

  I picked up a box wrapped in candy cane paper and read the tag. For Jas, Love Grandma Jenny and Grandpa Burt Those are my mom's parents. They live in New Brunswick, so I hardly ever see them. If my mom was still alive, they might visit more often, but she died when I was three, so mostly they just email and telephone. They always send a present at Christmas though.

  I already knew what it was—they give me the same thing every year—but I jiggled the box anyway. The pajamas inside slid back and forth. No clunk or rattle. Just a soft swishing sound. The cheque in the pajama top pocket didn't make any noise at all.

  I grabbed another present. This one was from my dad. It was hard and flat with a spiral edge. There was no mistaking that shape. It was a sketchbook. Since my old one was just about used up and I was ready to start drawing my comic, it couldn't have come at a better time.

  I rummaged around some more and pulled out a big box at the very back of the tree. Whoa! This one was pretty fancy. It was wrapped in gold foil and tied up with red velvet ribbon. The gift card was trimmed in velvet too. To Jim on our first Christmas—D (xxoo)

  Yuck! It was enough to make a guy want to throw up. I made a face and shoved the box to the back of the tree again. That's when I saw the second foil-wrapped gift. Another present from Debra to Dad? That was going overboard, if you asked me. Just the same, I couldn't resist seeing what mushy stuff Debra had written on this tag.

  To Jas—Hope you have a wonderful Christmas—Debra

  Say what! I blinked and read the card again. The gift was for me. How dare she! I dumped the box back under the tree. It landed upside down. I didn't care. I didn't want it. I wouldn't take it. I recognized a bribe when I saw one. If Debra thought she could win me over with a present, she had another thing coming.

  Why did she want to win me over anyway? None of the other ladies my dad had gone out with ever bought me presents. And they didn't try to horn in on Dad's and my camping trips. Of course none of them had hung around for seven months either.

  All at once whistles, sirens and bells started going off in my head. I felt like a broken pinball machine. Tilt, tilt tilt! Debra wasn't like all those other women. She wasn't just a lady Dad took to parties so he wouldn't have to dance by himself. He really liked her.

  The thought made me weak, and I flopped backwards onto the rug.

  How had this happened? And when? And how come I hadn't seen it coming? Most important of all, what was I going to do about it?

  It's not that I really had anything against Debra. At least not until Dad invited her to go camping with us. She was just a lady he went out with. She'd been to our house a few times, watched television and played cards with my dad, but except for a couple of times when there was pizza involved, I never hung around.

  But what if Dad really liked her? Bringing her camping might be just the beginning? There was no telling what would happen after that. Heck, they might even end up getting married! I couldn't get my head around that one. It was just too hard to imagine. There'd always been just Dad and me. Having a girl around would change everything.

  On Christmas morning I did open the present from Debra. I didn't really have a choice. I mean, you can't be a grump on Christmas, especially when your dad is sitting there with a goofy look on his face, waiting for you to tear off the wrapping paper. Besides, after seeing what Debra had given Dad, I was kind of curious. Dad's present was really cool—not a boring sweater or shirt like I'd expected, but a really neat fishing vest. How did Debra know he'd like that?

  I shook the present for me. It rattled. Then I banged on it with my knuckles. It clanged like metal. Finally I started removing the paper—carefully, so it didn't rip.

  “Get on with it!” Dad growled, chucking a cushion at me. “At the rate you're going, it'll be next Christmas before you get the darn thing open.”

  I laughed and tore away the last of the wrapping. Then I just sat there and stared at the tin box in my hands. Was this what I thought it was? I broke the seal and lifted the lid. Holy Macaroni! The box was filled with pencil crayons. There had to be a hundred of them—every colour you could think of. I picked one up and turned it over in my hand. Then I put it back and took out another one.

  “So what do you think?”

  I looked up.

  Dad was grinning at me. “Do you like them? They're the really good ones. You can use them like normal pencil crayons, or you can wet them so that they work like watercolours.”

  I nodded.
“I know. They're amazing. They'll be perfect for my action comic. But how did Debra know to get them?” I frowned. “You didn't tell her, did you?”

  Dad shook his head. “No way. I mean—sure, I talk about you and what you're doing, but that's it. I didn't even know she'd bought you a gift until she gave it to me to put under the tree. When she told me what it was, I knew you'd like it.” He held up his fishing vest and admired it some more. “Debra's just good at picking out presents, I guess.”

  Suddenly I felt guilty. “Did we give her anything?” I asked.

  With a hurt look on his face, Dad peered at me over his vest. “Yeah, of course, we did. We gave her a sweater.”

  A couple of days after Christmas, I set my new sketchbook and pencil crayons out on the drawing table in my room and began work on my comic. Things started off great. I had my superhero and supervillain figured out, and I could draw them in just about any pose. But another character—a lady teacher who was being attacked—was causing me major problems. No matter how many times I sketched her, I couldn't get her right. Instead of looking terrified like I wanted, she looked like a robot sucking on a lemon.

  I was getting really frustrated. When a knock on my bedroom door interrupted me, it was actually a relief to put my pencil down.

  “It's open, Dad,” I said, swivelling around in my chair.

  But the head that poked around the door wasn't Dad's.

  “Debra?” I hadn't even realized she was in the house.

  “Hi,” she smiled. Then she saw the clutter of papers on the table. “Oh, dear. You're working, and I'm interrupting.”

  I shrugged. “It's okay.” I needed a break anyway. I stretched. It felt good to move after being hunched over my drawings for so long.

  “So how was Christmas?” Debra asked.

  “Good,” I nodded. “How was yours?”

  She nodded too. “Also good. I haven't been back to Thunder Bay for three years. It was nice to see all my friends and family again.”