Heroine Complex (4 page)

“I can walk,” she insisted. “I'll show him!”

I managed to drag us into a standing position. We were a two-headed monster, me quaking uncertainly as I battled to keep us upright.

“To the door!” she rasped, her arm tightening around my shoulders.

I attempted to sway forward, but it was no use. Our two-headed monster configuration could barely stand, much less move. I made it half a step then felt my legs give way as my foot slid through the sweat-and-sand mess coating the floor.

“Gaaaaaaaah!”

I wasn't sure who cried out, her or me, but suddenly we were both on our asses and her face was twisting in pain. She disentangled herself from me and tried to push herself up again.

It didn't work.

“Dammit!” she shrieked, pounding her fist against the floor. She leaned back against the wall, biting her lip. Her eyes locked on mine, frustration swirling in their coal-black depths.

“Okay,” she said. “So I can't stand up. Apparently.”

“Right,” I said, as if she had come to this very smart conclusion on her own. “We should wait for Nate to come back. Then we can figure out a game plan.” I hesitated, not sure how to bring up the next bit. “And we'll need to call Mercedes.”

“What? That is the last thing—”

“Aveda! You just admitted you can't even stand. And if you're incapacitated in any way, we're supposed to call her so she can temporarily take over demon-fighting duties. Otherwise the city—”

“The city needs Aveda Jupiter,” she sniffed. “Not some half-assed imitation.”

“Are you afraid your fans will suddenly convert to Team Mercedes? Because that's crazy—”

“Yes.” She interrupted me a little too quickly. “It
is
crazy. It is also of utmost importance that my fans feel safe, and me being my usual invincible self is what makes them feel that way. I've never taken so much as a sick day. And I'm not about to start.”

She frowned. And slowly the frustration in her eyes morphed into something else: a shrewd glint, a spark of something that was very likely an idea.

Oh, God. Not an idea.

“Evie,” she said, “remember the summer between third and fourth grade? When we got obsessed with that one movie?”

Now she was in a reminiscing mood? “
The Parent Trap
? Mills, not Lohan?”

“Yes. We borrowed each other's clothes, got the same haircut . . .”

“Serenaded everyone in our general vicinity with an off-key version of ‘Let's Get Together'? I remember.”

Seriously, why was she on this tangent? I wondered if she'd also hit her head.

“What does that . . .”

Her lips curved further. She cocked her head to the side, waiting for me to figure it out.

Wait.
Panic flared in my chest. I swallowed hard, shooing it away. Panic was not in my wheelhouse.

But surely she wasn't suggesting . . .

“Evelyn Tanaka,” she breathed. “You can be
me
.”

Okay, so yes. She was
totally
suggesting that.

“Um.” My voice was calm and controlled, even as my hands fisted at my sides. “Let's discuss the many reasons why this is a bad idea. Number one: we look nothing alike.”

Though we're both twenty-six years old, my dark brown tangle of curls was the antithesis of Aveda's smooth sheet of raven hair, my freckled nose the blotchy version of her clear skin. Her eyes were a startling black,
mine a half-assed hazel. Her features were angular and elegant, mine rounded off and occasionally cute. We did have similar builds—short and slender—but hers was one straight, athletic line and mine curved here and there, punctuated by decent-size breasts and hips.

“We're both Asian,” she said dismissively. “That's enough for some people.”

I rolled my eyes. She was Chinese, I was half-Japanese. Even our Asian-ness didn't match.

“And doesn't Scott have something that will help? Some kind of glamour token thing?” she added.

“What about after the party? I can't fight. I can barely run without keeling over. And I don't exactly have your charisma.”

“I know, but—”

“The point is, I definitely can't be you for four to six weeks.”

She waved a hand. “I'm sure Nathaniel's exaggerating the seriousness of my injury; I should be back on my feet by tomorrow. This'll just be for tonight. So I keep my promise to the fans.” She smiled brightly, a bit of that trademark imperiousness creeping back into her eyes. “Aveda Jupiter
always
keeps her promises.”

I took a deep breath, forcing my hands to unclench. My palms had gotten sweaty again. I had to pull out the last weapon in my arsenal: the biggest reason this absolutely, positively was not going to work.

“Can we please remember I can't be the center of attention? That kind of thing puts way too much pressure on me,” I said, making my voice extra calm, extra soothing. “Everything else, whatever you need—someone to clean costumes, someone to clean toilets, someone to hold the wind machine so your hair blows out behind you in the most becoming fashion—I'm here. I'm always here. But we've talked about why I need to stay out of the spotlight. Especially at something like a party. With all those people. We've
talked
about that.”

“Don't be such a drama queen,” she said. “It's just the fans. They're perfectly normal. Regular schmoes!”

“Aveda—”

“And you'll have Lucy with you. She'll keep back the worst of the lot.”

“Aveda—”

“Please.” Her hands clamped on my shoulders. “Please, Evie. I've always been there for you, haven't I? Now I need you to be there for me.”

Her gaze bored into me, single-minded and intense.

I felt my resolve start to crumble. The truth was, she
had
always been there for me. After the spam musubi incident, she'd declared herself my playground protector. Any would-be bully who so much as looked at my crayons was greeted with a blood-chilling glare and an “Oh, I
wouldn't
.” She'd held fast to that role through the years, fiercely guarding my lunch money once we graduated to first grade, making sure my hair didn't look totally stupid at our first high school dance, and insisting on having “a nice little chat” with the funeral home when they'd tried to charge me up the ass for Mom's burial. (I was pretty sure the “chat” had been neither nice nor little—after that, the funeral home director cowered whenever Aveda so much as looked at him.)

And of course, she'd been there for that night three years ago, when
I
was the one tantruming and she was the one doing the comforting.

She'd saved me yet again.

“Are you listening?” She shook me a little. “You're the only person I can trust with this. Evie, please . . .” She hesitated. I looked up, meeting her gaze. The intensity had faded and her eyes were pleading, almost teary. “Remember,” she said, “we're like
The Heroic Trio
 . . . except there's only two of us. You remember that, right?” Her voice quavered a little.

I sighed, covered one of her hands with mine, and squeezed. “Of course.”

Seeing that shred of naked vulnerability flaring in her eyes . . . well, it was disconcerting. And it reminded me, suddenly and viscerally, of our days as totally mundane preteens, stealing booze from her parents and watching
The Heroic Trio
on a loop. It reminded me of that flash of hurt I'd seen earlier, when she'd asked if anyone had mentioned her spinning backhand.

It reminded me that I was probably the only person who knew that piece of her—the piece that was
capable
of being hurt—existed.

“All right.” I gently extricated my shoulders from her claw-like hands. “I'll do it. But this has to be the only time. Okay?”

Her head bobbed up and down, her eyes flooding with relief. “Yes, yes, of course. Like I said, Aveda Jupiter always keeps her promises.”

“And as far as
The Heroic Trio
goes: this means I'm the Michelle Yeoh,” I added. “This settles it once and for all.”

She let out a surprised, croaky laugh. “Fine,” she said, a trace of amusement creeping into her voice. “You're Michelle. And I love you for it.”

I gave her a half-smile and slumped against the wall. My jeans felt gritty with the sand from the destroyed boxing bags.

It's just another task
, I thought.
Just another thing for Aveda. Add it to my to-do list.

I had a sudden flashback to that reporter telling me I had the world's worst job.

But dammit
, I thought, squaring my shoulders,
I'm still the best at it.

From the official website of Demon City Tours:

Demon City Tours

For the Bold Traveler in Search of Something Different!

Are you looking for a vacation that puts the “super” in supernatural? Do you like your wildlife extra “wild”? Would you enjoy witnessing the true “power” of superpowers?

Come visit beautiful San Francisco, the only spot in the world where adventurous tourists can encounter real, live demons!*

Take one of our tours of former Otherworld portal locations and thrill in the carnage wrought by demon attacks!** Learn about the city's first big portal from our knowledgeable guides! Visit the HQ of famed San Francisco superheroine Aveda Jupiter and catch her in ass-kicking action!***

Our tours will give you a sense of one of the most unique cities on the planet: its supernatural history, its demon infestations, and the heroine who keeps its residents safe!

No need to make reservations in advance: we accommodate walk-ins and same-day requests!

*Demon sightings not guaranteed. Attacks are unpredictable in terms of both time and place . . . which just makes them more exciting, in our opinion! In case of attack, it is recommended guests take out travel insurance.

**Extra surcharges may apply for certain locations. Guaranteed stops at Blue Bird Vintage, Holistic Tea House, and Greg's Crazy Toys, all of which have roped-off areas with meticulously preserved, 100 percent authentic wreckage from their respective demon attacks.

***Aveda Jupiter sighting not guaranteed. Select photo ops may be available, pending Ms. Jupiter's busy schedule. Tour
vehicle stops in front of HQ, but guests are not permitted inside. In the event that Ms. Jupiter is not available, Demon City Tours will offer guests the opportunity to meet other superpowered residents of San Francisco.

Most Recent Reviews of Demon City Tours:

“As a longtime comic book fan, I thought it'd be awesome to tour the one city where you can see actual demons, instead of just boring animals or scenery or whatever. But this was actually kind of boring, too. There were no demon attacks the week I visited and the ‘former Otherworld portal locations' are museum-like: musty, dusty, not that exciting. And we didn't even get to meet Aveda! They subbed in some ‘superpowered' guy named Dave who can make a room hot or cold on demand. I got the idea after, like, two minutes. Sounds like things were pretty exciting eight years ago, when that first big portal opened up. But now? I gave it five out of five ‘mehs.'”

—Drea L., McMinnville, OR

“Our group got to see the very end of an Aveda Jupiter takedown! I've been following her exploits on the Holding Out for a Heroine website and she was just as tough and kickass as promised. Although . . . I still don't quite get what her power is? Other than being tough and kickass? I guess I can see why her main fame is with SF residents and superhero fanatics. But hey, that just meant more room on the tour bus for me!”

—Steven R., Bangor, ME

I HATE CRYING.
To me, it is a useless action, a sign of weakness, and a total waste of time. Think about it: in those moments you spend allowing salty rivers of angst to stream down your cheeks, you could be fixing whatever caused your tears in the first place.

I first came to this conclusion the summer Aveda and I turned eleven. Neither of us was interested in boys yet, and we were content to spend entire afternoons on dorky activities like making up our own theme songs using the battered Casio keyboard we scored at Goodwill.

It was also the summer we discovered
The Heroic Trio
.

Let me back up a little.

While Aveda appointing herself my playground protector was great for me, it wasn't always so good for her. Mouthing off to bullies got her in trouble with teachers. That, in turn, got her in trouble with her parents, who had very specific ideas about what a good firstborn Chinese-American daughter should be: demure, studious, and on the doctor track by age five. Aveda had a temper. Aveda had a theatrical streak. Aveda insisted on shouting down bitchy little Kelly Graham when she made fun of our “weird eyes” after we kicked her ass in dodgeball during second grade recess. (I was prepared to slink off once the teasing started up. Aveda told Kelly
her “whole face” was weird, so she should probably shut up about other people's eyes.)

I loved her for all of this. And while she basked in my admiration and reveled in protecting me, she desperately wanted adoration from her parents as well.

She couldn't control her outspokenness, and even though she gave it her all, she could only manage Bs in math and science. That kept her off the doctor train, so she was always searching for something else she could be The Absolute Best at. Something that would impress her parents and force them to finally accept her as their perfect daughter.

She put together impeccable outfits, color coordinating her socks with her ponytail holders.

She trained until she was the only kid in our class who could do three whole pull-ups.

She ran for class president every year—and usually won.

I cheered her on through all of it, my outfits and attitude never nearly as fabulous. I couldn't even do one pull-up. But I was always
there
. That was how I defined myself: by being reliable and loyal and present. I patted her on the back, iced her injuries, and picked the occasional bit of lint off her stylish sweaters.

None of Aveda's feats were quite enough to win the approval of the elder Changs, who regarded these non-demure, non-doctorly accomplishments with a stern “Mmm” and a suggestion that she request extra credit homework in math.

It wasn't until that summer—the summer of
The Heroic Trio
—that she finally found a purpose. And in a way, so did I.

We'd been allowed to trek into San Francisco that day and were dragging our preteen limbs through muggy July, our hands sticky with melted ice cream. Aveda spotted a poster displayed outside the Yamato Theater—a grotty establishment that mostly showed old Hong Kong
action movies. The poster featured three Asian women striking badass poses.

“Evie, look,” Aveda breathed, smashing her nose against the display case. “Asian lady superheroes.” She ran her sticky fingers over the title.
“The Heroic Trio.”

“Cool,” I said, my voice thin and weary. We'd had a long day of running around in the sun and I could feel myself sugar crashing from the chocolate double-scoops we'd just crammed into our gaping maws. “Annie, it's getting dark. We should head home.”

She whirled around and planted her hands on her hips. “We need to see this
now
.”

Even then she was bossy.

I didn't get home until after dark and was grounded for a week, but the movie was worth it. As we watched those three Asian lady superheroes kick and punch and badass their way across the screen, Aveda's sweaty hand crept over the armrest and clutched mine, her grip tightening until I thought she might break my fingers off. But I didn't mind. My own heart felt too big for my body, beating against my breastbone so hard that I was sure it was mere seconds away from bursting clean out of my chest. We knew we were witnessing something big enough to knock our world off its axis: superheroes who
looked like us
.

Most eleven-year-olds would've taken that as “awesome, there's finally a character I can play while everyone else is Spider-Man and Wonder Woman.” Aveda took it as, “I can
be
that. And I'm going to.” Finally she found a goal to channel all of her considerable energy into, something that combined everything she was good at: charisma and fashion and athletics and protecting the downtrodden.

Even though she didn't get her power until years later, her life mapped itself out from that point, sitting in a dust-mite-infested theater and crushing my hand. From then on we were “
The Heroic Trio
 . . . except there's only two of us.”

While Aveda connected with the kicking ass/taking names/wearing awesome leather bodysuits with matching accessories parts of the movie, I was all about a more intimate bit involving Invisible Girl, the member of the Trio played by Michelle Yeoh, who we later witnessed being amazing in
Supercop
and
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
and tons of other Yamato favorites. In the scene I replayed in my head, Invisible Girl held her cute, bespectacled love interest as he died. A single, beatific tear slid down her cheek . . . and then just like that, she was back to the business of saving the world. One tear was all she needed.

To me, that was more badass than a perfectly executed roundhouse kick—or the stylish boot doing the kicking. Because as happy as I was to have someone like Aveda as a protector, I was still a bona fide wuss. I cowered behind her like nobody's business. I started sniffling whenever bullies so much as looked at us. I cried at the drop of a hat, and it was never that winsome-eyed situation that makes kids look so adorable. No, when I cried, it was an ugly, scrunched-up, snotty red face type of deal. I wanted to be brave like Aveda, but when the chips were down, I could never keep it together. Not even a little bit. I still retained the memory of that deep humiliation welling up inside of me when those kids started in with the “human meat” chant.

So while Aveda decided in that moment to be a superhero, I decided I would never cry again. That was how I could be brave. That was how I could fight back. Of course, Aveda and I had an ongoing argument about which of us was actually Michelle Yeoh, since she was clearly the coolest.

I usually let Aveda win.

But in my heart of hearts, I knew it was me.

From that day on, whenever I felt my face start to scrunch up and go red, I simply thought of Michelle and her badass single tear. And that was that. I even
remained stoic—my eyes barely misting over—during the entirety of my mom's funeral.

That's why, when confronted with something as gut-churning as being forced to impersonate my superheroine boss at a party, I didn't allow myself the possibility of tears. Instead I breathed deeply as I climbed the rickety stairs to my apartment and focused on using my Soothing Inner Voice—the one I superimposed over my thoughts on those rare occasions I allowed myself to get stressed. Soothing Inner Voice was cool and modulated and never wavered from the same disaffected monotone. She sounded like she'd be adept at everything from guiding you through jury duty to delivering GPS instructions.

It's just a party. It's. Just. A. Party. Justaparty.
Yoga. Flowers. Oprah.

Ah, yes. Soothing Inner Voice also liked tossing in references to things that were generically calming.

I unlocked the door and charged toward my bedroom, only to collide with one very angry sixteen-year-old girl.

“Bea!” I exclaimed at my younger sister/roommate. “What are you doing home?”

“Apparently I'm waiting for my babysitter,” she seethed, her eyes narrowing as she towered over me. Bea had gotten all the leggy genes from our Irish mother. “Seems I need to be watched over like a toddler—or a
prisoner
—while you go out and party.”

Her gaze hardened into a glare. The Tanaka Glare. Our mom had had it perfected: narrowed eyes that seemed like they were shooting tiny judgment lasers into your very soul. I never mastered it, never quite internalized my mother's will of steel. But when Bea made that face, she looked so much like Mom that I always stopped breathing for a second.

“It's a work thing,” I said, taking a step back from her. I willed myself not to back away any further. She would pounce on any smidgen of vulnerability like a mountain
lion tearing into a gazelle. But it was tough to stand my ground. When she was really mad, Bea's anger swirled around her in an almost tangible cloud of teenage resentment.

And she was mad a lot lately.

I decided to go on the offensive. “Aren't you supposed to be in school right now?”

She huffed over to our thirdhand couch and collapsed onto it, her cap of purple-streaked black hair swaying back and forth as she shook her head. She'd added the streaks recently, an attempt to piss me off. I actually thought they were kind of cute.

“Toddlers don't have to go to school,” she said. “And neither do prisoners.”

“Actually many prisons do have educational enrichment programs . . . okay, not the point,” I said hastily as she opened her mouth to retort. “But, seriously, tonight is a boring, just-for-work type thing. And I only invited Scott over so you wouldn't have to be by yourself.”

That was at least half a lie. I wanted someone around to keep Bea from breaking the lock on our liquor cabinet, inhaling half the contents, and stumbling down to The Gutter, the hole-in-the-wall piano bar where Lucy and I often indulged in an after-work beer. Last week she'd done that very thing—and then proceeded to serenade the disinterested crowd with a few drunken verses of Adele's “Rolling in the Deep.”

“You guys can play Xbox or something,” I continued, trying to sound cheerful.

“We don't have an Xbox!” She sprang to her feet and stomped toward her room, then stopped in her tracks and turned, Tanaka Glare zeroing in on me.

“God, I love it when you try to parent,” she growled. “I suppose I should be grateful for those few seconds when you unglue your lips from Aveda's ass and pretend to pay attention to me.”

“Yes, I have a job. That's so we can eat. And you don't
have to live in a cardboard box on Telegraph.”
And so you can go to college and have a fighting chance at turning out normal. Unlike me.

“A-ha!” she shrieked. “Now we're on to the Martyr Technique. Totes effective.”

“What's effective?”

I turned to see a familiar figure leaning against the doorframe, lopsided grin bisecting his boyish features.

“Hi, Scott,” I said. “Bea and I are just . . . chatting.”

“Hey, Bug,” he said, inclining his head in Bea's direction. He was the only person who could get away with calling her by her childhood nickname. “Are you ready to kick my ass on Xbox?”

Bea's face turned deep red and for a second, I wondered if she was going to pull the classic “I'm gonna hold my breath 'til I get my way!” trick. All things considered, she really was kind of a toddler.

“We. Don't. Have.
An Xbox
!” she spat out, lobbing each word like a grenade. Then she turned on her heel and stomped off.

“So.” Scott loped into the room. “I shouldn't have texted her about me coming over, maybe? I was trying to position it as not a babysitting situation. Even though that's what it is.”

“It's not you. Ever since she turned sixteen, it's like she's realized she's supposed to resent me for every single thing that's gone wrong in her life.”

Like Mom dying of cancer when she was only twelve. Like Dad leaving two months later.

Really I was the only one left to resent.

He smiled back, but his eyes were laced with concern. “Do you want to—”

“Talk about it? No. I'm just saying: if you like, you can lock her in her room and call it a day. I have other things to worry about right now.”

Peace
, said Soothing Inner Voice.
Pictures of baby animals
.

Ugh. I needed to dissolve the gigantic ball of anxiety that had taken up residence in my stomach, pressing against my insides and forcing my breath out at a pace that was starting to recall hyperventilation. I briefly cursed myself for turning down Aveda's long ago invitation to move into Jupiter HQ. Lucy and Nate lived there, but I wanted to have a “normal” living situation for Bea. But running home and tangling with her and then having to run back to HQ . . .

Well. It was only adding to my Anxiety Ball and increasing the odds of hyperventilation. I could practically hear my boss snitting in my head:
Aveda Jupiter does not hyperventilate!

But how did normal people get rid of stress?

Soothing Inner Voice piped up with an uncharacteristically enthusiastic comment:
Alcohol!

That wasn't a bad thought. Maybe if I took the edge of my mood off, I'd be able to float through the party without incident.

“Come on, Scott,” I said. “Let's have a beer.”

I headed into the kitchen and fiddled with the all-new, supposedly durable lock on our liquor cabinet, liberating a pair of Coronas.

“Why, Evelyn Tanaka.” Scott hoisted himself onto the kitchen counter in one fluid motion. “Are you boozin' it up at . . .” He glanced at his bare wrist, as if a watch might magically appear. “Something like four in the afternoon?”

“I'm relaxing.” I passed him one of the beers.

“Relaxing with warm beer? Not terribly delicious.”

I shrugged, popped the cap off, and took a swig. I wasn't a fan of warm beer either, but locking it in the liquor cabinet kept it from Bea's grabby hands.