Heroine Complex (13 page)

So I forced my hands to unclench and did the only sensible thing I could think of: I backed out of the room and pointed myself toward the Yamato.

I THOUGHT I
was done running for the day.

Given how wrong I'd been about everything this Being Aveda Jupiter gig entailed, I needed to cut it out with the dumbass predictions.

Thud . . . thud . . .
thud
.

My feet, encased in thigh-high platform boots that seemed to weigh ten pounds each, plodded against the Yamato Theater's threadbare carpet. Aveda insisted her Galactic Warrior Princess costume was best for this situation, so I was clad in a tight silver minidress, a flappy cape that kept getting tangled around my arms, and the monstrous boots. Every single element of this getup seemed designed to prevent me from achieving my ultimate goal, which was forward motion.

As I thudded laboriously down the aisle, I was hyper-aware of the scrutinizing gazes from the packed house of moviegoers. They'd been shocked into silence by . . . well. Something so evil, no one could properly convey it on Twitter, apparently. Only the occasional rustle of someone nervously twisting a candy wrapper punctuated the air. I didn't see the telltale portal glow drifting above our heads, though, so Aveda was probably right: it was nothing more than hyperactive imaginations at work. All I had to do was give them their desired dose of Jupiter and I'd be done.

I hadn't set foot in the Yamato in years, but it looked exactly the same as it had on that fateful day when Aveda and I first witnessed
The Heroic Trio
. It was untouched by the renovations that had turned other theaters into Death Stars of high-tech movie-going—no IMAX, no 3D. It was locked in a time capsule of lo-fi mustiness, a dated haven for anyone who didn't want to fork over half their paycheck to see the latest blockbuster reboot based on a line of shitty toys. The only modern-type thing I spotted on my thudding journey was a faded cardboard standee of Tommy Lemon at the theater entrance, urging you to see his new movie with a cheesy grin and an exaggerated thumbs-up.

I landed in front of the screen and swiveled around to face the crowd, my legs wobbling atop the platform boots.

“She's in place.” Lucy's voice crackled in my ear. “Now what? I see no evidence of . . . well, anything.”

My freak-ass ensemble was topped by a rhinestone-encrusted plastic tiara, which Bea had rigged with an earbud and camera. The possibility that she secretly possessed high-tech talents and could use them for her own nefarious purposes scared the living crap out of me. Not to be outdone, Nate had asked her to add a couple of other elements to my outfit: a heart rate monitor, body temperature sensor, and a few other things I didn't even want to know about, all designed to give him metrics on my every move.

The tiara's camera ensured that Aveda and Nate could see and hear everything I was about to do from HQ, while Lucy observed from the back of the theater, her own earbud connecting her to our communication system.

My eyes swept the crowd, a mixed bag of school-skippers, stoners, and slackers. Their eyes were fastened on me, wide and expectant.

“Make an introduction.” Aveda's voice crackled
through the tiara. “Aveda Jupiter knows how to put on a show.”

I raised my voice. “People of Earth!”

“Ugh, that's terrible,” said Aveda. I heard Lucy smother a staticky giggle.

“People of Earth,” I said more firmly. “I'm here to save you from . . . from . . .” I glanced at the movie screen, a swath of white nothingness, silent and benign.

“What exactly am I saving you from?” I said, turning back to the crowd.

“That's barely a speech!” squealed Aveda. “Milk the drama! And then get to my talking points!”

“Stop distracting her,” growled Nate.

“Miss Jupiter?” A girl in the front row raised her hand, her face obscured behind Coke-bottle glasses and a raggy mop of dirt-brown hair. She looked about fourteen.

“Yes?” As I raised my arm to point at her, I got tangled in my cape again. I twisted free and settled for giving her an officious nod. “Er, citizen?”

“We were watching the latest Tommy Lemon movie,” the girl said. “The one where he disguises himself as a giant baby? And all of a sudden the movie stopped.”

“I told you: false alarm,” Aveda's voice hissed in my ear.

“Citizen,” I said to the girl. “That doesn't exactly sound like an, ah . . . Aveda Jupiter–level emergency. Why didn't you all just get a refund?”

“Don't tell them to leave!” Aveda squealed. “Stop wasting time and talk about my insane metabolism!”

“Well, Miss Jupiter,” the girl continued, her voice taking on the cadence of a straight-A student gunning for extra credit, “we looked for someone to restart the movie. But we couldn't find anyone. And then we were trapped.”

“Trapped?”

“We couldn't get up. From our seats. We still can't.”
She demonstrated, wriggling around, trying to detach herself from her movie theater chair. It held her in place, as if the rear of her pants was covered in glue. “And
then
 . . .” Her eyes shifted back and forth behind her thick glasses. “ . . . right after that, all our phone signals were blocked. So we couldn't even tweet about it, Miss Jupiter!”

I looked out at the crowd of people anxiously clutching rumpled popcorn bags. Messy-haired girl's eyes bored into me. I wanted to say something that would instantly reassure her, make her feel safe. I scoured my brain for the right words, but it was too busy trying to puzzle out what all of this meant.

No portal, no demons. Just a bunch of trapped moviegoers with malfunctioning smartphones.

“Aveda,” I whispered in the direction of my tiara, “this is bizarre—”

BOOM
.

A thunderclap reverberated through the theater, inciting scattered gasps in the audience. I whipped around, nearly toppling over in my giant boots, looking for the source of the sound.

Suddenly the lower corner of the movie screen popped forward like a 3D effect—like someone was trapped behind the screen, trying to break free. I jumped back, my heart rate ratcheting upward.

What the hell?

Screams rippled through the crowd. Just a few at first, but they built to a fever pitch as a giant fisted hand burst through the screen. The hand opened and expanded, each fingertip sporting a deadly looking claw.

“The movie's starting again! You can finally get to my talking points!” yelped Aveda. “And wow! What an incredible special effect.”

“Not a special effect,” I snapped, lunging backward.

A different shape popped through the screen, an oversize head with protruding fangs. As the thing scanned
the crowd, a malevolent glare etched itself across its face. I forced myself to focus on the details of the shape, willing my heart rate to settle down. And that's when I noticed this terrifying visage sported a trace of the familiar: the protuberant ears and buggy eyes marked it as the usually friendly face of Tommy Lemon. The face I'd seen two nights earlier at Whistles.

Well, not the exact face. There were the fangs, for one thing. And his skin was sort of gray and pockmarked and flaky, like he was in really desperate need of moisturizer.

“HOW. DARE. YOU.” His voice boomed, but it didn't quite match up with his mouth: the effect was distorted, eerie. I noticed a black smudge on his index finger and tried to home in on it, to get a better look. His taloned fingers swiped forward, his aim wild and uneven. I jumped back, the screams of the crowd echoing in my ears.

“Evie, get them to listen to you!” barked Aveda. “Tell them it's just a movie!”

“Pardon me, love,” Lucy chimed in. “But this doesn't look like ‘just' anything.”

“It's a supernatural presence,” Nate said. “It has to be.”

“It looks exactly like Tommy,” Aveda retorted.

“You can't ignore what's right in front of you,” Nate countered. “I'm telling you—”

“You don't tell me anything,” Aveda said. “Anyway, we need to get Evie to follow instructions—”

“Shut up!” I snapped. “All of you.”

“MY MINIONS,” wailed the grotesque version of Tommy. “NOT MINION ENOUGH.”

I tilted my head at the screen. “What's that, Mr. Lemon?”

The Tommy thing responded with another wail, then extended his claws even farther. His movements were labored, lurchy. One of his claws swiped dangerously close to me, snagging my cape.

“RAWWWWWWR!” he bellowed triumphantly.

“Oh yeah, that's real,” I gasped, trying to twist away. “Definitely fucking real.”

He yanked on the cape, dragging me back. I planted the soles of my boots on the carpet, trying to pitch myself forward.

“Dive, Evie! Low to the ground!” yelled Aveda, apparently accepting that I was in actual danger.

“Lucy! Help her!” Nate barked.

“I'm sorry, but I can't seem to move,” Lucy said, her voice frustrated. “Evie, try transferring your weight—”

“Stop . . . talking . . .” I gasped. My arms pinwheeled as I attempted to gain traction, tangling further in the folds of the cape.

My feet slipped from under me, skidding along the carpet,
thunkthunkthunk
. I pitched one foot forward, trying like mad to plant again, and wrenched my left arm free from the cape's folds. The Tommy Thing yanked harder and the cape pulled tight at my neck, strangling me. I smacked my hand against my neck, my fingertips grappling at the cape's collar. My breath got shorter and a sudden, idiotic thought popped into my head.

This is about the dumbest way for a (fake) superhero to bite it: death by cape strangulation.

I redoubled my efforts, leaning as far forward as I could while grasping at my neck, trying to find the cape's snap closure. My fingertips slid helplessly over the slippery material of the collar . . . then finally, blessedly, hit a circular piece of metal. I yanked with all my might and heard the satisfying
clack
of the snap coming loose. The cape slid off my shoulders and I pitched forward, falling to my knees.

“DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” howled the Tommy Thing.

I rolled over, trying to get my breath back, my hands slamming against the soda-stained carpet. The Tommy Thing glared at me, crumpled the cape in his gargantuan paw, and tossed it to the side.

“Nicely done!” Aveda crowed. “That was a Michelle Yeoh–level action heroine move, Evie. Now while you have everyone's attention, let's get to those talking points!”

“Fuck this,” I muttered. I struggled to my feet, my eyes never leaving the Tommy Thing. Then I ripped the tiara-camera off my head, chucked it to the ground, and crushed it under one of my ten-pound boots.

I heard a faint, pissed-sounding “Evvvvvvv . . .” amid the cracking of the plastic.

“Tommy,” I said, my voice ringing loud and clear through the theater. “What do you want?”

“GRAAAAAAWWWRRRR!” he screamed.

“NO.” I stepped forward, trying to inject a little swagger into my stance. The boots helped. I found myself adjusting to them, using them to give me height and power. “Cut it out with the incoherent bellowing. Use your words.”

He cocked his misshapen head at me. I took another step forward.

“You said something about minions?” I coaxed. I realized I was using the same placating tone I usually used on Aveda.

He clasped his taloned mitts together, looking unsure. “MINIONS BAAAAAD.” He extended a claw at the audience. “NO LAUGHING.”

“Laughing?” I turned to survey the crowd, trying to figure out what he meant. I realized they didn't seem all that scared anymore. Most of them avoided my gaze, their eyes shifting from side to side. They looked almost . . . guilty?

“Um, you. Citizen.” I pointed at the messy-haired girl who had helped me out before. “Any idea what he means?”

“Well,” she said, “the movie, Miss Jupiter. It wasn't that funny.”

My face must have looked extra-bewildered, because
her words started coming out in a rush. “I mean. I loved the last Tommy Lemon movie—the one where he pretends to be a Saint Bernard so he can mother an abandoned litter of puppies? That was hilarious. But this one, it just . . . it . . .”

“BABIES FUUUUNNNNNY!” wailed the Tommy Thing.

“Middle-aged men dressed as babies are
creepy
,” the girl insisted. “No one wants to laugh at that.”

“NOOOOOOOOO . . .”

I twirled back around to face the Tommy Thing, who was thrashing around the screen, in the throes of what appeared to be a gigantic tantrum.

“Let me get this straight,” I said, striding forward. Maybe I was imagining it, but my feet seemed to be getting used to the giant boots. “You popped out of the screen and scared all these people and got all clawy and growly because they didn't like your movie?”

“GRAAAAAAAAAWR!” he growled in the affirmative.

“Oh my God.” I gave him my best disdainful look. It wasn't quite The Tanaka Glare, but it was something. “That is the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard. You've made millions of dollars dressing up in various asinine disguises and slopping it on the screen for people to consume. You got everyone here to give you their money. And you're upset because they don't automatically think you're a comedy genius for slapping a bonnet on your head and drooling all over the place?”

He crossed his bulbous arms over his chest, pouting.

“You can't control audience response,” I continued. “I wrote a paper on this in grad school. Once the artist puts the art out into the world—”

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The Tommy Thing's arm shot out of the screen again, pawing savagely in my direction.

“Hey.”
I hopped backward, out of his reach. “If you would just listen . . .”

“MRAAAAWWRRAAAAAA!” His arm extended, claws slashing. His movements were still on the labored side, but he was big and powerful enough that it didn't matter. The audience screamed in terror. I dodged once, twice. Then felt something heavy land on my foot. I wrenched my foot back, hot ribbons of pain shooting up my leg. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the pain, my gaze falling to my left boot, which now sported a gigantic claw mark. And more than a little bit of blood.