Chum

I pull up to Lilly's new residence just past eight, the last day of September, and I'm immediately struck by the stark contrast between this home and the familiar landscape of my own upbringing. I spent my childhood navigating the compact rowhouses of Mayfair; this place, nestled in the eastern part of Oxford Circle, is practically a slice of suburban nirvana.

Instead of being squeezed between two identical buildings, this house stands apart, with a driveway that could comfortably fit two cars side by side, and an actual garage. The lawn, too, is an expanse of meticulously manicured green, at least ten or eleven people shoulder to shoulder, as opposed to the approximately three or four that my rowhouse occupies. Lilly had mentioned relocating at the dawn of September, but I had no idea she'd transitioned into a setting so ritzy (that's a word that means, like, lavish, bougie).

"Lilly definitely moved up in the world," I find myself mumbling under my breath, my thumb pressing down on the doorbell's smooth, cold surface.

The passage of a few heartbeats feels drawn out in the quiet evening air. Finally, the front door swings open with a well-oiled ease. Revealed in the doorway is Lilly's older sister, Emily, dressed in a rather flashy, if not somewhat risqué, witch costume, draped off of her like a fallen curtain. Towering over me — just as her parents do, and as we've all predicted Lilly will in a few years' time — Emily possesses an imposing figure that makes me flush with some implacable emotion. Faced with the awkward predicament of her chest looming practically at my eye-level, I quickly avert my gaze, shifting it to the right as a temporary sanctuary.

“Sam! Wow, you’ve grown!” Emily's voice rings out in a cheerful crescendo, pulling me into a hug that squeezes the breath out of my lungs. She's a ball of exuberance, and right now, that energy is like sandpaper on my skin. I don't like it. No, let's be honest: I can't stand it. For a number of reasons.

“I, uh, could say the same,” I reply, shifting from foot to foot. Awkwardness clings to me like a second skin. I'm in a simple Halloween costume, not something ripped out of the pages of a cosplay imageboard. It's a long red cloak with the hood drawn up, shrouding most of my face. I've got this dinky little straw basket hanging off my arm, just in case anyone asks. I can say I'm Little Red Riding Hood. It’s perfect for anonymity, and can be quickly abandoned if Bloodhound needs to make a sudden, dramatic entrance. Marcus, Lilly, Jenna, Kate, Tasha—they all know I've got a hero gig, but Marcus is the only one who knows the full scope. That I'm the Big Bad Wolf.

Emily steps back, her arms sweeping open in a grand gesture as if she's unveiling a masterpiece. “Come on, everyone’s in the living room. Lilly’s gonna lose her mind when she sees you.”

I step through the threshold and find myself plunging into immediate sensory overload. The living room is a buzzing hive of teenaged activity. People I don't recognize — students from Lilly & Emily's new school, no doubt — mingle like they've known each other for years. Conversations overlap in a cacophonous blend of laughter and chatter. The scent of some fruity cocktail permeates the air, which I spot in... a plastic tub? An entire plastic tub, sitting on a table, filled with an unidentifiable mixture of fruits, juices, fruit juices, and alcohol. A guy dressed as a pirate, awkward as they come, is trying to balance a plastic cup on his hooked hand.

Tasha is off to the side, snickering at his failed attempts, while Marcus seems to be deep in a conversation about something with Kate, who visibly couldn't care less. Jenna is nowhere to be seen, but I imagine she's off somewhere. Lilly, our host and the soul of the party, dances between groups, her curly brown hair bouncing with each step. Her eyes are alight with the thrill of social interaction, her face radiant. This room, it's vibrant, loud, full of life — a life that I haven't been a part of for what feels like forever.

Just like Emily predicted, Lilly spots me. And the reaction is instant. “SAM! OH MY GOD!”

Before I can brace for impact, she's airborne, launching herself across the room like a human missile. She crashes into me, nearly sending both of us tumbling backward. But I catch myself just in time, all the weeks of training giving me a grip like no other, and I hold tight on the floor. I'm surprised, yes, but it's a welcome surprise. Something real in a room full of uncertainties.

“It's been too long!” she exclaims, pulling away from our hug. But her hands stay on my shoulders, gripping them like she's afraid I might vanish. Her eyes roam my face, taking in every detail. “You look—”

“Tired?” I suggest. The joke falls flat, even to my own ears, but she doesn't seem worried about it, although I don't know if that's her happy-go-luckiness or the slight smell of sugar and booze on her breath. Her birthday came early - she's already 15, the eldest of our group by far.

“No, you look...” Lilly's voice stalls in mid-air, a soft hesitation that seems almost out of place coming from her. It's like I'm watching the gears in her mind whirl into action behind her expressive eyes. Underneath the festive glow of orange and purple lights hanging from the ceiling, I catch the sight of my own dark circles reflecting back at me, almost camouflaging seamlessly into the Halloween decor. “You look strong. Like you’ve changed. You feel strong, too. Damn girl, have you been working out?” She says this last part as her hands find my arms, gripping the muscle there with a mixture of awe and curiosity.

In the grand tapestry of my day-to-day life, each morning is familiar and routine. To me, the person who exists and lives in my body, I can sense no difference from one waking-up to the next, but there's undoubtedly a difference to everyone else. My bones denser, my muscles more defined, my senses sharper. When I flex my arms for Lilly's benefit, the awe manifests in her eyes like emoji-vision, sharp stars spinning around in her pupils metaphorically, or maybe pink hearts. “A little bit,” I manage to utter, shrugging nonchalantly, as if my burgeoning strength was just a byproduct of casual gym visits.

Just then, my eyes catch a glimmer of recognition, pulling me momentarily out of this intimate orbit.

It’s Crossroads.

Leaning against the far corner wall, attired incongruously in a Superman costume. Our eyes lock for the briefest of seconds, a muted conversation, before his gaze redirects itself, almost awkwardly. I'm still processing the oddity of his presence when Marcus materializes at my elbow, his voice full of relieved enthusiasm. “Hey, you made it.”

“Yeah,” I answer, the word tinged with an indefinable weight. I can feel the room swelling around me—the laughter, the conversations, the youthfulness—it’s like an echo chamber of all the mundane aspects of life I've had to sideline. “Yeah, I did.”

For one liberating moment, the mantle of Bloodhound lifts off my shoulders. The looming threats of the Kingdom, the grime and danger of Philadelphia’s underbelly, everything just fades away. It’s just me, Sam, trying to rediscover the way to wade through a room teeming with nothing but the chaos of adolescence. It's terrifying, but in a different way, like I'm standing on the precipice of normality, looking in. Lilly has already vanished into the crowd, mostly people I don't recognize, and I catch Kate out of the corner of my eye, dressed as some action movie badass I don't know, stealing a beer from the fridge.

Drawing in a lungful of air, which carries with it the faint aroma of popcorn and body spray, I steel myself for the inevitable - having to talk to other people. Marcus gives me an encouraging slap on the back, his hand landing with a familial thud. "I'm going to go continue attempting to socialize, aiight?"

"Go for it," I say, my posture remaining rigid, like a statue.

There's this persistent gnawing undercurrent. It's like an itch at the back of my skull, an intuition that flat-out refuses to be ignored. Risking a sidelong glance through the animated crowd of party-goers, my eyes lock with Crossroads'. His gaze is attentive, but it doesn’t have that creepy, invasive vibe. Instead, it's more like a vigilant kind of scrutiny, the kind of look you'd give when you're safeguarding a treasure. Or a person. A face I'm familiar with: assessing threats.

Emily sidles up beside me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. The sharp scent of alcohol wafts up from her, making the air between us feel like it's soaked in wine. I squint, trying to look past people's heads, beyond the laughing faces and flirtatious conversations, toward the glistening glass windows — or wait, no, they're actually sliding glass doors — that lead to the backyard. A backyard? With a porch, and a fire pit? The concept seems alien to my cramped rowhome life.

"Max?" I mumble, my gaze momentarily meeting Crossroads’ - no, Max's - again.

"Max. He's my cousin. My parents always rope him into babysitting us whenever they want to act like they're in their 20s again," Emily blabbers, clarifying nothing at all. Crossroads is related to Lilly? When did that happen?

"First cousin?" I feign confusion, drawing it out like I'm totally ignorant in an effort to fish for more information. Man, I sure wish I had been told so I wasn't blindsided like this!

Emily breaks into laughter, her whole body swaying as if she's a tree in a gusty wind. "Nah, he's my... um, my cousin's... like, my mom’s cousin’s... son, so I think that’s..." She pauses, counting family branches using her black-painted fingernails. "Second cousin, yeah." She leans in, her voice hushed, borderline conspiratorial. "He's a little bit of a buzzkill. Knows his first aid and CPR. And lifeguarding... and how to drive. So he's good to have around."

Her voice has this odd, wobbly quality, almost like her words are floating on the ocean. It's impossible to decipher whether she's hinting at his abilities or if she's just really drunk. Before I can untangle the nuances of her phrasing, and whether or not the Rodriguez family knows about Max's powers, Max — no, Crossroads — is right there, up in my personal space.

"Maxwell Martinez. It's a pleasure," he greets, extending a hand. Our palms meet, and I'm struck by the familiarity. It's a grip I've felt before, sparring and training with him. Even if he was wearing a full mask, I'd recognize it.

"Oh, I’m just Sam. Uh, Samantha Small, but you can call me Sam," I manage, angling my body as Emily detaches herself and floats off into the crowd like a leaf on the wind. "What are you doing here?" The words barely escape my lips, a harsh whisper that’s almost drowned out by an overzealous hypersoul remix of Monster Mash thumping through unseen speakers.

"Keeping an eye out for dumb mistakes and bad decisions," he returns in a hushed tone, probably the longest string of words I've ever heard him string together. "What are you doing here?"

"Partying. Gonna snitch if I sip a beer?" I retort, my face probably screaming ‘guilty’ in neon letters as I fail to make eye contact and instead stare down at his feet.

A laugh rumbles out of him, a sound I’ve never heard in person but have been told about many times in the group chat. "Given what Pup is dealing with, I think a beer or two won’t hurt. Just don't do anything stupid, Sam."

I throw him a playful salute. "Aye-aye, captain."

The front door opens again with a small ringing chime from the doorbell, and in walks my plus one - Jordan, as ambiguous as ever. I have no idea what they're dressed up as, if anything, but they seem to have put so much more effort into it than anyone else that it's almost disquieting. Their black hair is slicked downwards in a mop of spikes and their face is extra-super pale, wearing a full body of all-black military attire that's just absolutely covered in pockets, straps, and buckles. In one hand they carry what looks like some sort of futuristic imitation of a gun, a blocky, boxy thing glowing with red LEDs.

I wave politely at Jordan, and they step inside, immediately power-walking to my side and ignoring the introductions of Emily, who scowls at the back of their head. "Hey, Sam. Nice party. Nice costume," Jordan says, looking nervous as could be.

"Thanks. What are, uh... What are you dressed as?" I ask, trying to place Jordan's attire literally anywhere.

"Um, it's, it's 'Killy', from Blam. That's B-L-A-M-E, with an exclamation point, but it's pronounced Blam like a gunshot. It's... my favorite manga," Jordan says, glancing around uncomfortably.

Maxwell's eyes narrow. "That's the one by Tsutomu Nihei, right? I read it just a couple weeks ago. Very striking."

Huh? I didn't know Crossroads was into mangAH SHIT. Ah fuck. I rack my brain as fast as possible - have I ever mentioned the origins of the name 'Safeguard' to the Young Defenders? I can't remember. Fuck me running, I can't remember.

Jordan just seems happy to be recognized, completely oblivious to the bear trap they just stepped into. "I'm glad someone recognizes me. Jordan,"

Maxwell reaches out to shake their hand. "Maxwell," He says, squeezing their hand hard enough to draw a wince.

"I'm going to go, uh, steal some food, yeah?" Jordan says, glancing between Maxwell and I.

"Go for it," I say, as if giving them permission. Jordan, not wearing platforms for once, vanishes into the crowd.

Maxwell looks at me and his face scrunches up. "Your friend has something they should tell you," he says, and I know we've been caught. "But later. Ask them about it later. Enjoy the party, Bee."

I'm sorry if there's any telepaths listening in on my thoughts that are going to be disappointed in me, but I'm going to drink tonight. Sorry!

I step out onto Lilly's porch and soak in the sight of it. Her parents really outdid themselves with the new house. There's enough space on this porch alone to set up two beer pong tables with room to spare. Late September air dances around me, and the nip in the wind is a perfect counterpoint to the warmth spilling out of the house behind me. Low chatter and the thud of ping-pong balls against red Solo cups fill the atmosphere.

Jenna and Tasha are slightly off to one side of the yard, locked in a heated debate over the virtues of some obscure indie band that I've never heard of. They're immersed in a world of musical jargon and band lore, completely detached from the party's happenings. Meanwhile, it's Kate who catches sight of me first and flags me down.

"Sam, really?" She coats her words with a layer of feigned annoyance, thick as acrylic paint. "You're trying to ditch the party already? Please, take a seat. Be our guest." She punctuates her sentence by flourishing her arm toward an empty chair by the beer pong table, a bit of a swagger to her movement. The chair is across from a face I don't recognize. In her hand, Kate clutches an open beer can, and she's already swaying—just a little—as she holds it.

"How many of those have you downed?" I ask, the question laced with a subtle undercurrent of concern, a tinge of responsible adult creeping into my tone.

Her lips curve into a mischievous grin. "Just two."

"Promise? Because we don't want this to turn into 'that' kind of high school party where we have to call 911," I say, letting my hand land on her shoulder, grounding her for a moment.

She executes a flawless eye roll. "Promise, mom."

I shrug, grinning as I ease into the offered chair. "Just looking out for you, Kate," I reply. My eyes skim across the yard until they lock onto Lilly. She's a few steps from the house, deftly playing the role of the gracious Little Sister of the Host as she chatters with a group of teenagers, some of whom are boldly lighting up cigarettes. Seeing me, her eyes brighten, and she throws me an enthusiastic thumbs-up, as if to say, "You're doing great!" I find myself smiling back involuntarily, grateful for her encouragement.

Jordan is also in the mix, a bit apart from the others. They're leaning against the railing at the edge of the porch, emanating a certain aloof comfort. A joint is smoldering between their fingers, its light haze swirling in the night air. I feel a twinge of guilt pulling at me. Should I go join them? My internal debate is interrupted as Kate places a Solo cup full of beer on the table in front of me, snapping me back to reality.

"So, are you in or what?" Kate demands, a playful challenge in her eyes.

I glance at the golden liquid in the cup, then back at her. "When in Rome," I murmur, lifting the beer to my nose. The scent is strong and uninviting, reminiscent of stale urine. My tastebuds already object, but I tough it out.

"A new challenger has arrived!" A voice from across the table slices through the air like a comic book sound effect. The boy opposite me, an overeager jock-type in a football jersey, enthusiastically raises his red Solo cup. Beer sloshes out, some of it making a break for freedom down his wrist. He thunks the cup back onto the table, sending a tiny tidal wave of alcohol onto the plastic surface.

I assess him, a swift rundown that takes no more than a moment. He's swaying in his seat, eyes glazed over like day-old doughnuts, and his cheeks are flushed a rosy pink. He's already drunk. Easy pickings.

The atmosphere is electric as the first ping pong ball bounces on the table. The small white ball seems to hang in the air for a moment before diving into one of my opponent's cups. There's a collective "ooo" from the crowd. Jenna is off to the side, capturing the whole thing on her phone. Throwing ping pong balls is not exactly a difficult activity, and I have played softball before.

Jacob, my poor inebriated opponent, takes his turn. He aims, but his hand wavers, and the ball ends up careening off-course, bouncing harmlessly away from my cups. Tasha, leaning against the wall and sipping something non-alcoholic, murmurs a bug fact about the balls of a dung beetle to Marcus. He listens with amusement, entertained but unimpressed by her attempts to spook him. My ears pick up everything else around me, trying to decipher every individual word, almost more overwhelming than the alcohol itself.

I pick up another ping-pong ball, its texture suddenly becoming an object of interest. I focus, the world narrowing to this one moment. I let the ball fly. It soars through the air and lands with a soft splash, hitting dead center in a middle cup. Just like I'd planned. The crowd feels it too, their energy kicking up another level. They smell victory in the air, and they know who's delivering it.

He takes his shot, practically swaying where he stands. The ball barely makes it halfway to the table this time, dropping onto the floor like a stone. He looks up, his face flushed and eyes glazed. "Oh man, this isn't fair," he mutters, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. It's like he's relieved to be losing.

My next shot is almost effortless. The ball leaves my hand, and I know it's going where I want it to go. It drops into a cup toward the back. People are starting to get loud now. Even Marcus, who's just joined the crowd, has a grin stretched across his face. No one can believe this girl is dominating the table like she is. They start chanting my name, and it feels weirdly good.

On the other side of the table, Jacob's struggling. The poor guy’s concentration is faltering; he's got that desperate glint in his eye. He aims and throws. The ball wobbles through the air and veers off course, dropping far away from any cup. A collective "Ooooh" emanates from the crowd, not in awe but in sympathy. It's becoming a slaughter.

For my final shot, I decide to get fancy. I bounce the ball on the table first; it hops gracefully and then lands squarely in the last cup. Game over. Cheers erupt from the crowd, some already declaring me the new beer pong champ. Jacob stands there, looking like he's questioning all his life choices.

Kate's laughing so hard she almost spills her drink. The red Solo cup she's holding quivers in her hands as she claps, the joy on her face infectious. "That was epic, Sam!" she shouts over the roar of the crowd. I can't help but grin.

Six cups in, and I'm convinced this is some kind of cosmic joke. I'm wondering which part of me is making it so this piss-flavored beverage is doing nothing to me - is it the regeneration, or whatever way my organs work that also lets me swallow seawater like it's nothing? The alcohol doesn't stand a chance. Jacob, meanwhile, is slumped over the table, his words melting into an unintelligible stew of slurring. Like, in the speech sense, slurred speech, not like... saying bad stuff. "Uncle, I'm done," He mumbles. "Put a fork in me."

Kate, whose cheeks have taken on the hue of her red Solo cup, is cackling like a hyena on nitrous oxide. She's thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, and I smile sideways at her, happy that her third can of beer is taking some of the edge off that chip on her shoulder. The crowd that's formed around our little game is now placing bets, shouting odds like we're in some kind of underground fight club. If only they knew what I was actually capable of.

"So," I say, laying the sarcasm on thick as I mimic the slurred speech patterns of my less fortunate friends. "Who's next?"