In tandem, the kid and I turn back to finish the transaction but share a look as we do.What a jerk, it says.
I pay the cashier. She deflates more and more as the kid seems to not notice her pretty smile. Ah, young love. We leave with a thank you and a final dirty look at Camo Shirt.
“She put our stuff in the same bag,” he says rifling through the bag in the front of the store.
“I think she was a little distracted,” I say.
He looks up confused. Something about that half-quirked smile really strikes a familiar chord with me.
“Don’t worry, you can take the bag,” I say “Just—”
The guy from the store brushes past me and bumps me so hard I almost fall off the curb. The action shoots pain down my already aching back. The kid grabs my arms and helps steady me.
“Hey!” I yell at Camo Guy.
“Oops. Sorry,” he says over his shoulder with as much sincerity as he has patience. “Fucking …”
He murmurs something that I’m pretty sure is super-offensive to women. The thing that frustrates the most is that if I hadn’t been feeling like shit, if I had been dressed nice and had my hair done, he is exactly the sort of guy who would look me up and down and leer at me. There’s a balance to being a woman; pretty enough to be liked, but not too pretty to be labeled a whore. And if you aren’t pretty, then you’re offensive. After all, men like him think our job is to look good for them.
“What the hell?!” The kid starts to go after him and I grab his arm, pulling him back with the boost of energy adrenaline has given me. He’s got hidden strength, this kid.
“Not worth it. He’s definitely the type to have a gun,” I whisper.
“Yeah, but what an asshat.” This he says loudly enough to be heard. To me he says, “He can’t just do that.”
“What did you call me?” The man comes back, head tilted, nostrils flared like a bull in the arena.
Something changes in the kid. Fear drains his face of color as the grown manchild comes barreling back toward us. All of a sudden I see how this situation will go down. How this kid gets hurt and we end up on the news. Time really does slow down like it does in the movies. All I can think is I have to stop him. I have to stop this man.
My body steps slightly in front of the kid and my arms go up.
“Stop,” I say as calmly as I can with a shaking voice.
He doesn’t even slow down. “You got something to say?” His eyes are dark with hatred. When I glance to the kid, he’s frozen in fear. His eyes are wide and he’s braced to be hit. As though it’s a given.
Not a fucking chance.
Right before collision—I’m talking right before—my mind goes flat. My vision whites out. I can’t control it any more than a sneeze once it starts.
Get back.Stay back. Do not touch him.
I focus so much on the words, I’m thinking them so hard, that it feels like my hands smack against a brick wall, or like an airbag going off against them. Bright light. A flash of energy.
Camo Shirt falls back, sprawling to the ground to land on his ass. His keys and pack of cigarettes go flying. He stares up at me. The white fades from my hands faster than I have ever experienced. It’s like it never happened. Except now my pain is gone.
He gapes up at me. Then quickly looks around to make sure nobody saw.
“You tripped,” I say.
Camo Shirt looks to me like he’s about to correct me. But what is the truth? He looks to the kid. Decides it’s not worth it and scrambles to pick up his things. He doesn’t look at us again. I watch until his trucks disappears down the road. He’s humiliated that a tiny woman kicked his ass. He will take this story to his grave.
The kid, however, will not.
I turn slowly to my companion, my heart dropping. His wide-eyed gaze flicks from my hands to my face.
“Holy crap,” the kid says by my side. “You’re a superhero.”
