Chum

I plop down, feeling the sting of exertion on my skin. We’ve been at this for hours now, and while it’s fun in its own twisted way, I can’t ignore the underlying tension, the constant reminder of what we’re really doing here, planning on lying en masse. I feel like a child, about to be admonished for taking a cookie from the cookie jar.

“Drink up. You gotta stay hydrated, especially if we’re going to be doing more of this,” Jordan advises, handing me an extra water bottle. I take it gratefully, the cool liquid providing a refreshing contrast to the sweat trickling down my back. I feel it sliding down my gullet and settling somewhere in my core, sucking in air after I finish chugging down the entire bottle in seconds. It takes me another couple of seconds to notice Jordan staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m impressed by your ability to chug shit. You’ll be fine in high school, kid,” they reply.

“I’m not a kid, I’m only like two years younger than you,” I shout back, scowling.

“That’s like 1/8th of my life!” Jordan shouts back, not taking it nearly as seriously as I am.

For a moment, we lapse into silence, the quiet hum of the wind playing its symphony through the cracks of the building. It’s here, away from the madness of our rehearsal, that the reality of our situation begins to settle in, and I feel a creeping sense of unease. Butterflies and birds sing up from my stomach into my sternum (that’s the part of my ribs that sits underneath my upper chest), and I feel the bile and nausea rising in my throat as I look out one of the broken windows at the orange-and-pink sky.

Out of the blue, Jordan says, “Why are you doing this, Sam?” Their voice is unusually gentle, their gaze steady on a position well past my face, somewhere in the darkness of the abandoned music hall. “Why do you want to be a superhero?”

I flinch at the question, taken aback. I’m not prepared to bare my heart to Jordan, to share the complexities of my dreams and aspirations. But their eyes are sincere, lacking their usual mischievous glint.

“I… I don’t know,” I respond truthfully, “It’s the right thing to do, I guess. ‘The reward for being good is being good, and the punishment for being evil is being evil.’, that’s what my Pop-Pop said.”

I feel like I’m second guessing myself, like all of a sudden all the reasons that made sense to me in my head suddenly don’t when they’re voiced out loud. Is this what Jordan was trying to do by calling me a cop – filling me with doubt? Because it’s definitely working.

Jordan nods, their expression contemplative. “You’re frustrated, aren’t you? Feel like you’re not living up to your potential? That there’s something more you could be doing with your life?”

I get defensive, folding my arms over my aching stomach and curling my knees up. “That’s not it.”

“I don’t care what your Pop-Pop told you, or what your priest told you, or what your teachers told you–” they start, before I interrupt them.

“Rabbi, not a priest. We don’t do priests.”

“I don’t care what your rabbi told you, either,” they continue without missing a beat. “Why do you want to be a superhero? You don’t have to be. You can become just a normal really good paramedic with that nose of yours and still contribute to society. You don’t need to dress up in tights and go fighting criminals. If you want an out, here’s your permission. Get up. Go. Return to your normal life if you aren’t sure this is for you. I’m sure nobody will begrudge a fourteen year old for dropping out of the game early.”

I stare at them, blinking tears out of my eyes that I’m not sure where they came from. I look down at my knees, and the air is consumed with silence for another good five minutes while I try to control my breathing, mostly unsuccessfully.

“I get it,” they say softly. “You’re not alone in this. I’m not your enemy, Sam.”

I open my mouth and close it a couple times, like a fish trying to gasp for air. None of my thoughts in the past five minutes have made any coherent sense, not enough to be notated. It’s just a blur of feelings, emotions, ideas, and fear. I feel something snapping, like a strut going wrong, something that held up something important in my head. Yet, despite the shock, I find myself comforted by their words. Is it weird to admit that I feel less alone with them by my side? Less like I’m going mad in this whirlwind of uncertainty? I shake off the feeling, the idea of us sharing a moment of bonding amidst our plotting feels absurd, especially with the only person who could be charitably called my nemesis. “Why do you want to be a villain?” I ask, in some meek attempt to glean understanding from the void.

“What, you want my life’s story?” Jordan asks derisively, leaning back in their chair. I blink at them a couple of times and wipe my face, sniffling over nothing. I feel embarrassed. I don’t even know why I’m crying, or what I’m crying over, and the fact that I couldn’t give them a good answer bites at me – it gnaws and nibbles and burrows like an earwig. “I live with my mom, and she doesn’t like me or pay attention to me, so I have psychological damage that requires me to get attention from other sources. I feel like if nobody’s paying attention to me, I’m going to kill myself – don’t worry! I’m not going to,” they begin, putting their hands up reassuringly when the mention of their imminent suicide makes me start welling up in tears again. “I’m being dramatic, Jesus.”

“Sorry,” I sniffle.

“My mom never remembers to buy food for me, so I have to shoplift shit because she gets bitchy when I eat ‘her food’. The free school lunches are cool though, I’m glad that’s policy now. That’s my excuse, Doctor Freud. Nobody wants a superhero that steals granola bars from a Walmart, and villains have the cooler outfits. Happy?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Do you want my life story now?”

“Will it make you stop crying like a little bitch?” Jordan asks. I don’t feel any malice, or really even any teasing from it. I really am just crying like a bitch for reasons I don’t understand. I shrug my shoulders again. “Whatever, go for it, so we’re even.”

“My parents love me and want what’s best for me, but my dad is really kind of cold sometimes and my mom only cares about me getting into a good college. And all my friends are gone because my parents put me in this shitty fucking high school. Sorry,” I start, unfolding my legs a little bit. I burrow my head in my arms, wiping my face in the inside corner of my elbow.

“I don’t care. Say ‘fuck’ all you want. Fuck, fuckity, fuck-fuck-fuck,” Jordan encourages me. It feels freeing, to have someone not moderating my basest impulses. I feel another support strut somewhere in my head snap, quietly, like a twig being stepped on.

“Stupid school doesn’t even have a soccer team. I mean, I didn’t think I was going to be, like, a famous soccer player or whatever, but I could’ve at least kept it up until college. I don’t care about track & field. I met Liberty Belle and she found out about my power and recruited me for the Young Defenders, but they’re all really uptight and nothing ever happens, it’s just rescuing cats and cleaning up graffiti. My first patrol where I fought you was really the only eventful one,” I blurt out, holding my shark tooth necklace to my neck like a cross. “I don’t know, I don’t feel like I need attention like you do, but, like… it would be nice to have someone care about my ideas for a change. My preferences. What I want.”

Jordan pulls a lever on the side of the recliner and takes a swig of water. The bottom shoots out like a spring-loaded rocket, carrying their feet with it. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know. I don’t need the adoration or the money or the action figure deals. I just want… to not feel the way I’ve been feeling ever since I started puberty. To not feel like there’s rats gnawing inside me,” I answer, spilling my guts. I start to wonder if Jordan has some sort of psychic power they haven’t told me about, or if I’m really just so pent up and alienated that it takes only a little therapeutic prodding to get me to start vomiting up all my deepest insecurities to the first person who seems like they give a shit on some level. “When I punch someone or do something that gets my heart pounding like soccer, something that makes me have to really exert myself, it goes away. But then I calm down and the feeling comes back.”

“Deep. You need medication. Go ask your loving parents to take you to a psychiatrist and get some SSRIs,” Jordan suggests, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “Take advantage of what I’ll never be able to have.”

“You are so cynical,” I can’t help but chuckle, wiping what feels like the last of the tears out of my face.

“Yeah,” Jordan replies. I finish my water, having sort of unconsciously drank down two additional bottles while crying like a little bitch. Unceremoniously, Jordan stands up and declares, “That’s enough being weepy. Back to the stage. Our audience awaits!” Their tone shifts back to the showy, theatrical voice I’m becoming familiar with, their brief moment of genuine concern tucked away.

We jump back into the rehearsal, our bodies flowing through the movements with newfound synergy. Yet, a pit of doubt grows in my stomach. It’s not about the plan itself or whether I could pull off the performance. It’s about the principle of it all, the ethics.

I slow down my movements, thoughts swirling. The sun continues to set outside, painting the room in hues of golden orange and deep purple before night starts to fall entirely. We’re alone in this abandoned music hall, far from anyone that might offer a voice of reason. I can’t help but feel a swell of apprehension at the thought of what we’re planning.

The rehearsal wraps up, our bodies draped in shadow as the last of the sunlight fades into night. Jordan is a silhouette, their body language relaxed and confident, like they were born for this sort of subterfuge. Meanwhile, I’m hunched over, my mind a whirlwind of doubt and confusion, the adrenaline feeling like what I imagine weed feels like, a gentle buzzing in my face and my jaw and my bones. I hate that it feels good, to throw Jordan around onto cushions and pretend to punch them in the chest and the jaw, to elbow them, perform lariats. And to get thrown around in turn, being able to impress myself with my ability to fall near-painlessly. I’m left breathless and sweaty by the time we’re done our rehearsal, brain and body spinning.

There’s a certain thrill that comes with the idea of making a name for myself, of stepping out of the shadow of insignificance and into the spotlight. Of doing something that matters. But then, a sinking feeling gnaws at my insides. The ethical implications of our plan, of putting on a show to dupe an entire city, starts to feel heavy in my gut. I think about all the things I’ve been told, about lying and the misery that it can cause. It’s not just that I’m afraid of the consequences; I’m afraid of who I’ll become if I follow through with this, becoming the sort of person that’s okay with what we’re planning on doing. My eyes feel tired and bloodshot and itchy.

As if reading my mind, Jordan turns to me, their features softened by the dim lighting. “You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?” they ask, their voice tinged with a hint of concern and a slightly larger hint of mockery. “I told you, you can leave any time you want. You don’t have to participate in this. You can go back to your training in your headquarters and become the best supercop there is. You can even ditch those guys too, and just go to school, and be a normal girl with weird teeth. Nothing is forcing you here except yourself.”

I look at the ground, mouth hanging open to pant for air. My heart feels like a bass drum in my chest. “I just don’t feel so good about the lying. I think I’m freaking myself out about that.”

Jordan’s gaze flickers in the dim lighting, a wistful smile playing on their lips. “Welcome to the world of heroes and villains, Sam. It’s never as black and white as it seems. Lying to people is already part of it, otherwise you’d go out with your face bare. You’ll get used to it.”

With that, Jordan breaks away from our moment of sincerity and steps up to the dilapidated stage. They outline the final details of our plan, painting a picture of our impending ‘showdown’. They speak of time, place, and choreographed moves like they’re narrating a script for a blockbuster movie. Each word only adds to the whirl of anticipation, dread, and a strange sense of camaraderie that stirs within me, and when they’re done, I feel like I’ve bought in irrevocably – that means irreversibly. I am too far in to stop myself even if I wanted to, and I don’t think that I do.

And now, an hour after that, Jordan is sleeping on one of their couches. Like they said, I can leave at any time, so I don’t linger. The stairs and the rickety, rotten floorboards creak and groan underneath me as I make my way out, but they don’t stir an ounce, tended to by their small army of fans blowing their short hair around. I wonder to myself how bad their home life must be if it’s worth sleeping in an abandoned building with nails all over the floors instead of just going home and sleeping in your bed. I begin to feel a pang of guilt – should I invite them over for a sleepover? And did they shoplift the waterbottles that I drank? I stare through the murky darkness, through the slots in the stair’s railings, taking one last look at them before I descend back into the streets.

As I leave the music hall, the weight of our plan hangs heavily on my shoulders. The abandoned building stands tall against the backdrop of the night, a silent testament to our evening of shared vulnerabilities and conspiracies. I’m not worried about getting home late – my parents trust me to stay out but get back before ten, and I’ve been sending them updates, pretending that Jordan is just a friend from school. They sounded really happy that I have another friend, or, well, they sound as happy as you can sound over text message. I’m sure they think that this whole time I was over Jordan’s house or apartment or something. I don’t think they’d approve of me hanging out in abandoned buildings, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

I wonder if that’s a pound in the British sense or a pound in the weight sense, and promise myself to look it up on my computer when I get home.

Walking home under the starlit sky, I can’t help but recall the raw honesty in Jordan’s voice. It’s comforting, in a strange way, to know that they understand my hesitations. It’s also unsettling, to realize how easily I found companionship in the one person I should consider an enemy. I can’t help but wonder if this is what I’ve been looking for all along – the thrill of danger, the validation, the camaraderie. The wandering doesn’t have to continue, but I’m angry that this is what led to it, the settling of the rats inside of me. I fidget with my clothes as I try not to look shady or suspicious on my way back home, although I’m sure nobody would look twice at an innocent fourteen year old girl in Philadelphia at night. From the outside, with my mouth shut, there’s nothing interesting about me.

I say hello to my parents as I fumble with the keypad and the fingerprint lock on our front door, shouting through the dense wood and probably bothering the neighbors. They say hello back once I step inside, I eat dinner, I go through the motions, trying not to vomit. I think this is called “cognitive dissonance”. I’ll have to look that one up too.

As I step into the familiar confines of my room, my mind races, stuck on an endless loop of “what ifs” and “maybes”. I feel on the brink of something – something big, life-altering, maybe even monumental. Underneath the mounting anxiety and the pulsing thrill, I can’t shake off a burgeoning sense of excitement. Here’s to the unknown, to the crazy path I’ve decided to embark on. I lie in my bed, my heart pounding with an echo of our faux fight, and let my thoughts drift into the uncertainty of the future. I close my eyes, a weird calm washing over me.

The evening continues to flow by me like a river, or the muddy shores of the beach, pulsing through me with each heartbeat I deliver. In my backpack, slung against the floor, is a cheap, compressed, less-padded copy of my superhero outfit, and I consider how life might’ve been if I took the route Jordan took. Is Bloodhound a hero’s name, or a villain’s name? What if I could bite things without consequence – but what if I could save people without worrying? My eyes don’t want to stay shut, peeking back open at the computer-lit ceiling while my clock-radio plays music to drown out the orchestra of screaming piranhas that I call a thoughtscape.

Eventually, midnight passes. My eyes grow tired and heavy. I can no longer sustain myself on anxiety alone, and with that, I welcome sleep, the oblivion and the dreams it may bring.