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12
The ride home was, in a word, excruciating.
Dad didn’t talk. Nick didn’t either. He wanted to, but he didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come out in fierce accusations that he’d later regret. Regardless of what some people thought, Nickdidhave the presence of mind to know that some things said aloud—even if he didn’t mean them—could never be taken back. He couldn’t sit still. His leg jumped. He tapped his fingers against his thigh. He looked at his phone and set it down, only to pick it up again a few seconds later. He glanced out the window, watching the city pass them by, careful to only look at his father out of the corner of his eye. A headache was coming on, but that only made him more furious. Was it because he was stressed? Or because he hadn’t taken his pill? Or was it his telekinesis, struggling to break free?
Nick opened his mouth more than once but closed it before he could speak. He wasn’t going to go first. He’d done nothing wrong. It was Dad who needed to explain himself. And it’d better be good, or Nick was going to make him wish he’d never been born.
I’m a drama queen, he texted to Seth.
I know <3 Need help?
Thanks, boo, but I’ve got this.
Jfc Nicky. Don’t call me that.
Nah. You told me u luuuuv me so it’s official.
I did. And I do.
When they got home Dad went in the kitchen. He never looked back, expecting Nick to follow. The Christmas decorations were gone. Dad must have packed them away. He and Jazz had left a mess when they’d fled the house, but most everything looked back in order. He wondered if the tapes were still in the attic.
A rectangular box sat on the kitchen table. Nick eyed it warily as Dad leaned against the counter, chin against his chest as he breathed in, held it, breathed out, held it. Just like he’d told Nick to do time and time again when things got bad. It struck Nick, then, that he might not be the only one on the verge of panic. He didn’t know why he’d never seen it before. Did Dad have panic attacks too? What if he’d gotten that from his father, like he’d gotten his abilities from his mother?
Nick stood in the entryway to the kitchen, unsure of what to do. He waited. He wouldn’t be the first to break. Stubborn, both of them, through and through.
Dad spoke first. Without looking at Nick, he said, “Open the box.”
Nick stiffened, overwarm and uncomfortable. “What is it?”
“Do it, kid. Please.”
Nick approached the table slowly. His mind whirred, the knot in his head writhing. Each step felt as if he were walking underwater, movements slow and lethargic, even as he thought he would buzz right out of his skin. The box was big, white, and made of cardboard. He settled his hands on the lid but didn’t pull it off. “Dad, I—”
Dad shook his head. “Box first, then we’ll talk. I swear. I’ll tell you everything, but you need to see what’s inside.”
“I’ve never seen this before,” Nick said, stalling for time, trying to figure out what the box could contain.
Dad laughed hollowly. “That’s because I kept it in a storage facility. Same with most of the tapes you found. I brought them home because I was—” He sounded like he was breaking into pieces. “Because I was missing her. I needed to hear her voice, and I—you weren’t supposed to find them. I forgot they were there when I—” He shook his head, blinking rapidly. “Open the box, Nicky.”
He did as he was asked. He pulled the lid off. And froze.
There, resting in the box, was a cerulean-blue Extraordinary costume, complete with a mask with white lenses. He recognized it almost immediately, even if he’d only seen glimpses of it caught in grainy photographs.
Guardian. It was the costume that had belonged to Guardian. To hismother.
“She wore that,” Dad said, words coming out forcefully, as if they pained him, “when she went out. Said it always made her feel safer, because hiding her identity meant keeping those she loved safe while still being able to help those who needed it. It made her feel … powerful. I told her that it was her powers that made her feel that way, but she said I didn’t understand. That it wasn’t about what she could do, but what she could dowithit. And that costume was a symbol of it. She said that, in a way, it was like the uniform I wore when I was a street cop. It meant something.” He looked away. “Or at least, I thought it did. I’m not so sure anymore.”
Nick touched the helmet. It was harder than he expected it to be, the material dense. He grappled with the thought that this was something Mom had touched, something she’d held in her hands, something she’dworn, and he had to stop himself from tearing through, trying to find out if it still smelled like her, like sunshine on a warm day, like wildflowers and something so distinctly Jenny Bell that Nick couldn’t find the words to explain it.
He didn’t. “You kept this,” he said in a hushed, reverent voice.
Dad looked up, eyes swollen. “I did.”
“Why?” A slow wave of anger rose in his chest, and he didn’t try to stop it. “You got rid of everything else she wore, so why keep this?”
Dad scrubbed a hand over his face. “Because she—Icouldn’t bear to part with it. I hated it, Nick. I hated everything it stood for because it terrified the hell out of me. Every time she put it on, I wondered if that would be the last time I saw her—that one day, late at night, I’d get a phone call saying she’d been killed trying to protect the city. I didn’t want her doing what she did. We fought over it constantly. She said I wasn’t being fair, that she had a giftand that meant she needed to do what she could with it.” He made a pained noise, low and harsh. “Stubborn. So stubborn, like you. She was right, of course. She didn’t know—at least, at first—that the only reason I became a cop was to try to help her as best I could. I told myself that putting on the uniform meant I was doing the same thing she was.”
“That makes you a hypocrite,” Nick said.
