My alarm beeps at me, insistent that I get out of bed and do something productive. I fumble around with the darn thing until the beeping dies. I want to go back to sleep; my first day of school isn't even until tomorrow. I look at the pile of boxes stacked haphazardly around my room and groan, knowing that I will beat myself up later if I laze around on a Monday. Besides, I have a prescribed exercise routine that my trainer expects me to complete regardless of my jetlag. I drag myself down the hallway and to the kitchen, where a fresh pot of coffee awaits me. I pull a mug out of one of the boxes by the fridge and pour a cup, as I am digging around for sugar, Charlene calls from the front door, "It's unpacked and in the second cupboard to your left."
Sure enough, it is. I pour an obscene amount into the steaming mug and turn to the fridge to pull out the gallon of skim milk. I wish it were whole, but the trainers at the agency are strict on some things. If Arden knew how much sugar I just dumped in my mug, she would add on 30 more minutes of cardio to the regimen. I mentally note that I should at least do 15 more minutes to reach slight amends with her, despite the fact that she has no more control over my minute caloric intake than she does the workouts I complete in her absence. My main fear is the Thursday combat sessions, where she will kick my butt if I fall out of shape.
I'm vaguely aware of Charlene coming back into the kitchen, but looking up at her heavily made-up face still startles me. She doesn't seem to notice as she grabs her thermos and idly prattles, "I'm sorry, Logan, but your car won't make it here until noon. It's kinda hard moving everything so quickly. I hope you settle in great!"
I hate her fake smile. I hate her fake lashes and blonde hair. I hate her manicured nails that tap on the counter. I hate that she has to monitor me. Agent Charlene is a 48-year-old ex-gymnast with the ability to read the future in a meditative state, and the agency decided she'd be perfect for the role of 'suburban mom'. Really, she's portrayed herself to be as real as a 'Real Housewife' and her 'job' is manning the Dior perfume counter at a Dillard's. She's not a bad person, genuinely, but I can't stand that she's here to make sure my cover while investigating Zandor isn't blown, especially when she's already forgotten the first detail of the assignment - to use my alias.
"Again, call me Johnathan. Logan is my name at the agency, that nobody else should know." I pull a bagel out of a sleeve resting on the counter and pop it in the toaster.
"Right, sorry Logan- I mean, Johnathan!" Her blond hair bobs as she scuttles out the door. I have two seconds of silence and solitude when fake dad takes that as his cue to come down the stairs. I don't loathe him quite as much as Charlene, but he's not that much better when it comes to pretending to be a father in a suburb. Derek stumbles in his tie askew, and before a word can be said, he finds the pot of coffee. His head swivels around the kitchen and I wordlessly grab a mug from the box and hand it to him. He gratefully fills the cup and sits at the counter ready to debrief his day mission.
Not that any of it actually interests me, but I'd rather know what these two are getting up to and what to expect so that I am not caught off guard if somehow they disrupt my mission. My bagel pops up out of the toaster and Derek eyes it; he's obviously hungry and quite possibly running late... I grab a plate and toss the toasted bagel onto it, sliding it his way.
I put a new bagel into the toaster and he takes a big bite out of the bagel. Despite how full his mouth is, he still attempts to talk around the lump of food, "So, Logan, to get closer to the trouble, I've got an interview with the manager of Claire Confections," big bite, "I think the activity might be related." He gulps his coffee and has a coughing fit."I'll be back at 2. See ya!" He grabs what's left of the bagel and his stuff. The man pats my head and dashes out the door.
I sigh. "Hey! You're supposed to call me - aw what the heck... Not like I'm going to be talking to them in public." I grumble to myself. I turn back to the toaster and the bagel comes out thoroughly burnt. I don't want to waste food, so I take a butter knife and try to scrape as much of the charred stuff into the sink as I can, then slop plain Greek yogurt on each half. The apples purchased yesterday seem to be ripe, so I grab one from the bowl and settle into scrolling on my phone.
I am looking through the photo album at the staged pictures of my family on vacation when a notification pings and catches my attention. 'Zandor' is in the title of the article and I tap the notification eagerly. I am unfortunately not greeted with an article that tells anything important about this individual. It is a cheap clickbait article that is analyzing surveillance footage and glorifying his "beauty" - by which the author is actually referring to his ability, superstrength. To make things more uncomfortable, the author took a frame from the footage and tried to replicate what it would look like without his shirt on. I immediately exit out of the article, appetite thoroughly gone.
Sipping on the coffee, I make my way back to my room. I really should unpack my boxes and establish it as mine... But I can't help the urge to keep looking at articles about Zandor, the only thing stopping me is the fact that I have read almost everything published already and I don't want to find another one of 'those' articles. I just want to finish this mission and move on; I've already completed high school once and the fact that I have to go back to have a good cover for this mission is exhausting. Since I can't seem to abandon the device, I set up my "new" social media account and look at some of the models who are posed on the beach in some revealing bikinis. A guy can dream, that's for sure.
All the girls I dated before had horrible personalities. They're all so superficial. Some because it was part of the job, but the few times my agency partners showed genuine interest in me, it was never seemingly for the right reason. I want something real, but I can't let them get too close. Not like last time... The dark thoughts start to invade my mind; instead of letting myself dwell on it, I resign myself to unpacking the first three moving boxes I touch.
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The decorative posters fit well with the deep blue walls of the room and, overall, it reflects "me". My bed is comfortable and, at the moment, the carpet floor is visible. All my clothes are clean and neatly packed in the closet and dresser drawers. I know it won't last, but for the most part, the room looks good. I am breaking down the cardboard boxes and placing them in the hallway.
At the bottom of the last box, I find the framed photo that freezes in time the last moment I felt genuine joy. My mother stands proud, her chin is lifted and her long blonde hair falls straight, not a single strand daring to move against the gravity of her poise. Just in front of her, my younger sister smiles widely at the photographer, despite the gaping hole where her two front teeth have yet to grow in. At my mother's side, my father stands tall, angled ever-so-slightly in her direction. As if he were a sunflower and my mother the sun. He could have been a millionaire for all you knew; his black hair is slicked back elegantly, and his face is painted with a debonaire smile. And then there's me.
I'm scrawny and awkward, my hair is curled in the only way it ever has. I remember trying to use my father's gel to shape it and feeling miserable that it wouldn't cooperate. My suit drapes from my gangly limbs, yet the arm holding my younger sister appears as strong as iron. I smile at the camera and remain oblivious to the suffering that would shatter my world and the picture I'm part of. I mentally beg the 12-year-old to just stop time. But he couldn't do that back then, and he was too unaware of how truly terrible some people are. No matter how sad I am, anger burns below it all, ready to blow.
I miss them so much... But this, the tragedy, the pain, the violence, I learned, is what happens when the wrong people find out you are an IWAA (individual with abnormal abilities). Mom would be proud of my strength, moving from city to city, as if my whole world hadn't crumbled apart. The thing is, when you have power that others don't, they want to do one of two things: 1) Control you. 2) Eliminate you. They don't know how else to cope. And while not all IWAAs use their powers nefariously, many people, for some reason, are scared of us.
I use my abilities to help others, but mine is easier to hide compared to other IWAAs. Often, they don't get the chance to decide how to use it before they are forced to defend themselves; the general reaction to the discovery of one is fear. Stupid, unfounded fear. And if there is anything I know distinctively to be true, it's that fear is a dangerous emotion both to the frightened and the frightening. I can't let the memories hurt anymore, so I wipe my face of any stray tears and shove the picture between my box spring and mattress. I want to just nap until I evade the terrors of the past, but force myself up. Arden gave me a routine and I'll be in deep if I don't keep up my end of the deal. I start up the treadmill in the at-home gym and turn on Green Day to block out the nagging memories. I run until my lungs burn and my stomach threatens to evict this morning's bagel.
My car arrives, and fake dad comes home early at 1:30, so I treat us to lunch at a local Wendy's while he tells me about the interview and the layout of the facility. After dropping off fake dad back at home, the need to escape supervision draws me into a drive to solidify the mental map I have of the town. There's a movie theater, a multitude of fast-food restaurants, several fro-yo/ice cream parlors, and finally, I see it: a small water park.
It's closed, but it's a water park; they didn't have too many of those in my last state. When they told me I was moving to Florida, I thought, Damn! They have water parks! Stupid, but when I finally get here, putt-putt seems to be a big deal, not water parks, given the five I passed just en route to the local grocery store. I wonder if there's a putt-putt team at my new high school.
The thought warms me and I decide to stop at a little frozen yogurt shop. With the sugary dessert in hand, I find a bench in the pavilion. The breeze is slightly warm and considering it's late October, it unnerves me. I'd normally need a jacket by now, but my briefing explained that it likely won't go below 58°F.
As I think about all-year-round ice cream weather, I could get used to this... The cold cream melts chocolate and I make a mental note to work out for at least another half hour for Arden's sake. Soon the treat is gone and I hop back into my red Mazda Miata refreshed. The ride home is easy, but I stop at the gas station to top off the tank and get a drink. The convenience store is drafty and the white tile floor is soiled. I head to the back of the store to grab a Cola, 15 more minutes for Arden, I add.
A girl, maybe my age, is being cornered by someone slightly older than her. I feel uncomfortable watching and part of me wants to help her out, but I don't want to make things worse: I look like a jerk for interrupting them or my cover gets blown. Or even worse, she does need help and later insists upon hanging out with me more... I'm in no position to do that. So, I turn my head down, grab the soda, and find a newspaper rack at the checkout.
"You know what, I'll take one of these too." I slap the paper on the counter and the guy rings me up.
I sit in my room, scanning the paper for interesting details. I should have watched the morning news; I'm almost certain there was a report on the crime. Apparently, according to this paper, Zandor successfully cut the traffic cam feed for 15 minutes while he stole... soda? Why soda? I don't get it, but as I continue reading, a witness driving by the scene believed there to be an accomplice with him this time. Which may explain why the cameras were out, Zandor's not that smart.
The strangest detail though is that, of the evidence left at the crime scene, was a strand of hair. He is often careful enough not to leave DNA evidence of himself and on top of this, the hair, according to the chief of police, is pink, which adds more credibility to the witness's testimony of there being an accomplice. Just who has joined in on his operations? This just made my mission more complicated, because if it was just Zandor working alone, this could be done in a matter of days, but now one or more individuals are working in tandem with his plans.
Further along in the paper is a report on a car that was stolen from a Kroger's. It was later found crashed into a tree; luckily, the resulting fire only covered a quarter of an acre before firefighters got it extinguished. Upon examination, there were no passengers; the fire was deemed intentional given the circumstances. Could Zandor have been behind that, too? I doubt it, it was in a county over from the truck crime, and later in the afternoon, about two hours after, according to the article. But I can't quite rule it out as a possibility. I wonder how the driver could leave the scene like that. They'd have to be injured pretty bad unless they had an ability...
I lay down to get sleep, but my mind circles back to the girl from the gas station... Is she okay? Maybe I should have done something... I stare out my window, hoping that the girl is doing fine. Fake mom turns out the lights in the rest of the house, and I switch on my alarm clock and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is my first day at the new high school.
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