Chum

As I walk into Tacony Academy Charter High School, the fluorescent lights above are almost too bright, too clean. It's Monday, and it's like I've walked into another universe altogether. I’ve been busy being Bloodhound for a while now, and I’m used to the dark and the grime. This place is almost surgical by comparison. It's a weird kind of nostalgia, a homecoming of the most unwelcome sort, because a school should never feel like another planet.

I’m wearing Lily’s clothes. We’re not the same size, and it shows. The button-down shirt bunches up around my arms, loose around the chest, and everywhere else, and the dark blue skirt hangs lower on my waist than it should. The uniform isn't exact — kind of a Frankenstein mash-up of what Lily had that looked like the real thing. I tug awkwardly at the hem of my skirt, trying to adjust it without drawing attention to myself. There's a weight around my arms, or maybe an anti-weight, where the musculature reminds me of my sudden lack of backpack.

My body’s changed, but only in ways that people would notice if they were looking real hard. There are these tiny scars on my face, little lines and curves that someone'd miss if they blinked. Most people'd think regenerative powers would clean all that up, but it doesn’t work that way. Each one is a lesson, carved into my skin. And I’m more muscular now, not like bodybuilder ripped or anything, but there’s a tightness, a solidity to my limbs that wasn’t there before. I feel like a coiled spring, ready to snap, and it's both good and bad. Good because it reminds me I’m not helpless, bad because what kind of teenage girl wants to look like she could bench-press her classmates?

I feel ill at-ease inside my body now. Like it's ready for combat 24/7. Like I'm always looking over my shoulder, expecting to see a new suit-wearing menace sent to check in on me.

The hallways are loud, the noise of students talking, laughing, pushing each other around in that casual way teenagers do when they think they’re immortal. I make a beeline for my locker, trying to navigate the hallway without getting tangled in any conversations. I don't need that right now. I shove my emergency backpack in, slam the locker shut, and let out a quiet sigh. That’s one hurdle done.

Mrs. Foster greets me in the homeroom with that look, the one that says she’s sorry I have to be here. It’s a sentiment I can get behind. The clock ticks and her mouth moves and I jot down whatever she’s saying into my notebook because sometimes writing stuff helps me focus, even if it's just random notes. I'll find the important bits later. Maybe. Then it’s off to Math and her sympathetic smile follows me like a rain cloud, but I’m not in the mood to get wet.

She pulls me aside for a moment after class. Singles me out, and tells me that she's happy to see me back in school and safe. She hands me a small stack of assignments as well as some notes photocopied from my classmates. And a get-well soon card. I don't know what I like less - people knowing that I was vulnerable, or me knowing that people knew.

I step into Mr. Strickland's English class and there's this pause, like the air gets vacuum-sucked out of the room for a second, and then it refills with chatter and the scraping of chairs. Nobody says anything to me directly at first, but I can feel their eyes on me, probably more curious than judgmental, but who knows? School's weird like that.

Mr. Strickland, up at the front, gives me a smile that's more professional than personal. "Samantha, welcome back. Please take your seat." That's my cue and I sink into my usual spot by the window. The sun's at this angle where it just barely catches the dust motes, making them light up like tiny stars. I wonder if they've been there the whole time or if they just showed up for my triumphant — or awkward — return.

A girl who sits two rows in front of me turns around and flashes a too-bright smile. "Hey, Samantha, good to see you back. We were all worried, you know?" Melissa. I remember her, kinda, but not like we ever had sleepovers or borrowed notes or anything. We... existed in the same space. Did she really worry about me, or is this some sort of social dance that I've forgotten the steps to? It takes all my effort just to remember what her first name is. Had we interacted?

"Thanks. Good to be back," I answer, unsure if her name is actually Melissa or if I'm hallucinating, and there's no way for her to know that I'm still parsing what 'back' even means right now. My fingers fiddle with the corner of my notebook, flipping the pages up and down. It's easier to focus on that than the weight of her concern, which might be real or might be as substantial as the dust in the air.

The guy next to her, what's-his-name, also turns to me, and I'm hit with déjà vu. "Glad you're safe, Sam." Safe? That word hangs in the air longer than it should, given that we're in English class and not a therapy session. My thumb folds under my palm. Then it unfolds. I can't decide if it wants to be folded or unfolded or if it wants to be anything at all.

"Thanks," I reply, trying not to address him by name in the case that my guess ("Tim") is wrong, my voice unintentionally flat because I'm trying to juggle a dozen things in my mind, like why are people I barely interacted with suddenly treating me like we're in the same club of knowing what the heck is going on. I don't get it, but I'm not about to ask and reveal that I don't get it. I've never been out of school for a week. I don't even have a cast to sign. How much do they know? Do they know I'm homeless? I feel everyone's eyes looking straight through my skin like it's translucent.

Class starts proper after that, Mr. Strickland diving into themes of identity and conflict in literature, and I can't help but wonder if the curriculum was changed just to mess with me. I jot down some notes, not really processing them, still wrapped up in the undercurrents of the room. Like, it's weird, I thought I was flying under the radar all this time, but these blips of concern make me second-guess that. Maybe people knew more than I thought, or maybe they're just reacting to me being gone and coming back like it's a big deal, even if they don't know the half of it.

By the end of the class, I've got a page full of scribbled notes that look more like abstract doodles and a head full of stray thoughts that won't form a complete picture. Mr. Strickland assigns some reading, the bell rings, and people start to shuffle out. English class with Mr. Strickland feels like a test I didn't study for. He has this stack of books in the back of the room that my mom would love, but I just see a pile of kindling for burning through my last good neurons.

He pulls me aside for a moment after class. Singles me out, and tells me that he's happy to see me back in school and safe. I hand him the single requisite completed essay, with zero passion, constructed over meaningless afternoons in a home that's not my own. He tells me to keep a chin up.

Finally, lunch. It's like I've been holding my breath and someone told me it’s okay to breathe. I find Jordan sitting at our usual spot, their face buried in some manga with a cover that's way too colorful. As I sit down, a nervous excitement bubbles up inside me. I’m about to unload weeks of superhero life, real top-secret stuff, to someone who lives it just like I do. It's kinda relieving. Like the feeling you get when you walk into a room you've not been in for a while and see everything still in its place. So, when I set my tray down and squeeze myself into a spot next to them, it's with a bit more bounce in my step than I thought I'd manage today.

"Hey, stranger," Jordan grins, nudging me with their elbow. "Miss me?"

"I'll need to correct my aim next time," I shoot back, but the sincerity is there, more than I'd like to admit. Across from us, Alex snorts into his spaghetti.

"Hey, can we, like, not talk about you-know-what during lunch? I don't want another anxiety attack," Alex says, pre-emptively cutting off any hero chatter, which is both disappointing and relieving. I'm not sure I want to talk about it either. "Plus, you know," he says, shifting his glance wayward towards the other people talking about the latest chapter of Murder Cereal, which strikes me as a completely incomprehensible title. Friends of Jordan and Alex, I guess — but not mine, since I don't even know their names. I mean, I'm sure they've told me, but it hasn't really stuck. It's not really sticking right now. My focus narrows to just Jordan and Alex, because they're familiar, and I could use familiar right now.

And they're totally in the dark about the hero stuff. Alex, too, other than "it is happening where he can't see". Jordan and I never talk about it anyway, so Alex bringing it up strikes me as slightly bizarre, but I don't question it.

"So," Jordan leans back, chewing on some fries, "I gotta say, living full time in my new place is amazing." They say 'my new place' like it's a freaking condo and not an abandoned building stuffed with junk and barely-fit-for-purpose amenities. "It's been lovely not having my parental unit on my back. How are you holding up at Lily's?"

"Ugh, don't even get me started," I roll my eyes and throw my hands up like I'm being super dramatic, because maybe if I act like it, I'll feel it too. "I think all the Chinese food leftovers are gonna make me fat. I swear, I'm developing an addiction to duck meat."

"You know, I hear there's a bounty on gooses. Like, you bring in a couple of dead gooses to the local government office and they'll pay you money. Just in case you were interested," Jordan says, leaning in like they've got the low-down on yet another new opportunity.

Alex's eyes gleam. "Really?"

"No," Jordan shoots them down. "But it would've been funny to see Sam try it."

"I would've believed you if you didn't shoot yourself in the foot!" I protest.

"Oh, speaking of bounties," Jordan cuts in, handing my laptop back to me, wrapped in a firm carrying case. Jordan being Jordan, I assume that this hot pink case is also stuffed with as many dollar bills as it can handle. "Okay, back to the conversation."

Alex snickers. "I can already see the headlines: Local Teen Transforms from Shark to Goose Hunter. What's next, Sam? Tackling the pigeon menace?"

"Pigeons are cool, okay? Don't diss the pigeons. They have, like, this radar in their brains. Bet you didn't know that," I counter.

Jordan looks at me as if trying to figure out if I'm joking. "You're pulling that out of nowhere. Pigeons are rats with wings."

"I'll have you know, rats are very intelligent creatures," I say, munching on some fries. "I read this study where they taught rats to drive tiny cars to get food. You can teach a rat many things."

"You sound like an old Buddhist master. 'You can teach a rat many things, young grasshopper'," Alex retorts in between sips of soda.

"I think rats eat those," Jordan muses. "I don't believe you, bee-tee-dubs."

"It's true! You can NetSphere it," I assure him. NetSphere knows all, including things about rat-driving studies and pigeon radars.

"NetSphere knows all," I repeat, like it's some kind of incantation. "It's like the all-seeing eye but without the Illuminati."

"Ah, the Illuminati. That's the good stuff," Alex says, rubbing his hands together. "They're behind it all, you know? Anime, K-pop, the economy."

Jordan shakes their head. "You've been hanging out on conspiracy boards again, haven't you?"

"No, I just like saying it. It makes every conversation sound more exciting. I mean, come on," Alex elaborates. "Who doesn't want to believe that a secret society is controlling our lives? It adds some… intrigue."

"Adds a level of distance between you and personal responsibility, more like," I mutter.

Alex raises an eyebrow. "Sam, you're talking like you're part of the Illuminati. Is that your secret identity?"

"Me? Part of the Illuminati? Nah, I can barely keep track of my own homework, let alone control the world," I admit, finally cracking the lid off my water bottle and taking a sip. I don't want to get into any other implications that me controlling the world might bring, but I doubt Alex thought very hard of those, so I let it slide.

Jordan looks at me and then at the water. "I still don't get why you drink that. Water's so… bland."

"That's the point. Keeps me grounded," I say. "Besides, someone at this table has to make healthy choices."

Jordan snorts. "Excuse you, my body runs entirely on caffeine and spite, and it's doing just fine."

"Sure, that'll look great on your medical chart," I say, shrugging. "Reason for admittance: Overdose on bitterness."

"Hey, bitterness is a lifestyle," Jordan retorts, grabbing a handful of fries and stuffing them into their mouth.

"And one I'm glad I don't share," I respond, finishing off my water. "At least, not to that extent."

"Uh, hey Sam, right?" I look up from my water bottle. It's Melissa, the one from this morning. Or at least, I assume Melissa - I still haven't asked, and I'm not going to. She's standing at the edge of the lunch table, eyes darting from me to Jordan and Alex, flanked by several of her friends, none of whom I recognize either. I'm already on edge. "You wanna sit with us at lunch tomorrow? Or maybe in science class? After lunch?"

I blink. Like, several times. The gears in my head grind to a halt before reluctantly chugging back to life. "Wait, what?" is all I manage to say.

Melissa's eyes flick to Jordan and Alex, then back to me. "Yeah, you know, we thought you might want to hang out. If you're up for it."

"Uh," I say, which eloquently captures the whole range of my thoughts right now. "Why?"

Jordan and Alex are dead silent, eyes on me, but their silence is different. Jordan's is analytical, calculating, while Alex looks like he's watching a reality TV show and he's here for the drama.

"Why?" Melissa repeats. "Why not? We just… you seem cool, and we thought it'd be nice."

"Cool? I'm as cool as a hot pocket straight out of the microwave — lukewarm in most places and dangerously hot in pockets you don't expect," I reply, trying to sound witty. Melissa blinks at me a couple of times. "I don't know what that meant either, sorry. But seriously, why are you asking me? What's going on?"

Melissa glances at her friends before looking back at me. "Look, no teachers would say why you were gone for a week, okay? But it's not like it's a secret that someone's house got, like, trashed by a friggin dinosaur last week, over in Mayfair. Everyone kinda put two and two together, so, like, you're the school badass now. Look, we all wear plaid, you think this school has people that get into fights? And you're, like…"

She looks me up and down. "Totally fine? What's the word, unscathed?"

My mouth opens, but I don't speak. I can't. My mind races from thought to thought like it's trying to win an Olympic sprint. They think I'm badass? Because they think I survived a supervillain attack? Not because I'm Bloodhound, not because of anything I actually did, but because they think I'm some sort of… survivor? When I speak, I always have to tuck my lips over my teeth to prevent my teeth from showing too much and it always makes me sound kind of goofy. I use F's instead of TH's, and now I'm the school badass?

But not, like, for any of the actual badass things I've done?

Jordan breaks the silence with a soft chuckle. "Well, isn't this interesting?"

"An autograph, ma'am?" Alex jokes, elbowing me in the back.

The absurdity of it finally processes, in little chunk-sized bits that my brain can manage. I'm not sure if I should be relieved or horrified. "I'm not giving autographs," I tell Alex, rolling my eyes. "And I'm not a celebrity, Jeez."

"But you're not saying 'no' to the badass part," Jordan points out, a smirk dancing on their lips.

I look at Melissa and her friends, then back at my own. The weight of their expectations, misunderstandings, and assumptions feels like an ill-fitting costume I never asked to wear. "You really think a girl with a lisp is the school badass?"

Someone behind Melissa leans over to speak instead of her. She's got black hair and tan skin. Pretty. She looks sort of like Gale. "You survived a supervillain attack, dude."

I blink at them a couple of times. Did I? I guess, in the most literal sense, sure. "I'll think about it and get back to you," I end up saying after a couple of uncomfortable seconds.

Melissa shrugs. "Good 'nuff. Uh, we sit over on the other wall, don't be a stranger, Sammy!"

I shudder as they turn away and begin heading towards the garbage cans lining the cafeteria to dispose of their lunch. I swing around on my chair to face the table full of dunderheads that I count as a 'friend clique'. "What?" I ask, at their omnipresent grins.

"School badass," Jordan jokes. "Sounds like you're about to get recruited for another team of wayward youngsters. Maybe they have a problem for you to solve."

"Oh, G-d," I mumble, hitting my head on the table. Anything but more problems.