Page 36 of The Dysasters

“Practicing?” Foster’s brow wrinkled with the question.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I know it sounds crazy.” He shifted uncomfortably and blew out a short burst of air. “Look, everything that’s happened,is happening… it fucking sucks. And even though I have to force myself every second not to jump in that truck and speed back home, I don’t know what I’d do if I had to live in a house full of stuff that reminded me of my parents and the fact that they’re never coming back.” His swallow was audible. “But, uh, whenever my mom was upset, my dad and I would find little ways to cheer her up. And I thought that if I showed you that I figured out how to channel my powers, that maybe it would cheer you up.”

“Oh,” Foster fought the urge to back away from the very sweet, and, now that he was dressed in real clothes, possibly very cute boy. (Well, minus the cowboy boots.) In Foster’s experience, strangers weren’t nice for no reason, and Tate was still a stranger.

Wasn’t he?

“So you’re practicing yourpowers?”

He nodded again. “I’ve decided that we’re not freaks.”

“Oh, yeah?” Foster took another bite.

“Yeah. We’re superheroes.”

If she wasn’t mid-chew, Foster’s mouth would’ve flopped open.

“Think about it,” Tate continued. “Cora’s letter said that there’s a huge possibility that we were genetically engineered, like Captain America. Well, except that he was given a shot and we were, well, you know, changed when we were like embryos or something.” Tate scratched the top of his head, making Foster wonder whether or not he knew anything at all about how babies were made.

Public school for the win,Foster thought before tuning back into Tate’s explanation.

“And this,” he proudly motioned toward the house. “Is our Fortress of Sauvietude.”

Foster had no words. No words at all.

“Superman has his Fortress of Solitude, and we have our Fortress of Sauvietude.”

Foster coughed around a mouthful of granola, trying hard not to gag.

“Can you stop making fun of me for a few minutes? Just long enough to try it?”

“What? No. You look stupid.”

“So what? Who’s going to see us?” Tate’s gesture took in the huge hedgerow of evergreens that framed the entire rectangular-shaped farm. “I’m surprised. I thought you didn’t get embarrassed.”

Foster swallowed the last bit of chocolaty granola and stuffed the wrapper into her pocket. “I don’t.”

“Then give it your best shot. Plus, you’re the one with the superhero alliteration name now, not me. That gives you an edge.”

Heavy, earth-trembling clomps echoed behind her and Foster froze.

“Oh, hey there, Calliope. No, I don’t have any more carrots for you. There was just that one I got from Finn.”

A husky snort swirled against the top of Foster’s head, and she whirled around with a sharp squeal, reminding herself of the terribly annoying, screaming blond girl from the originalJurassic Park. And Foster wasn’t far off. The enormous Percheron dinosaur bristled, snorted, and lunged backward as she shrieked again.

“Get away!” Foster flapped her arms at the giant beast, barely recognizing the terrified scream that tore out of her throat.

Ears pinned, Calliope snorted as if she was confused as to why Foster was freaking, then turned, swished her braided tail, and trotted heavily away.

“Guess we found your Achilles,” Tate groaned, climbing out of the hedgerow and picking green sticky needles from his clothes.

“Oh my god, she got you.” She helped him from the bushes, her hands still shaking from the close encounter.

“No,” he rubbed his chest. “You shot me,” he said with a cough. “You spun around and shot me with your hands. Your air cannon hands.”

“What?” Foster looked down at her hands. “Wait a second.” She held them, palms out. “Horses are monster trucks with brains!” she shouted, invoking the same terrified feeling she’d had only moments before.

Tate stumbled backward, a burst of air blowing his shirt tight against his chest.