Heroine Complex (5 page)

As I felt the crisp tang on my tongue and the burn in my belly, I realized the me of three years ago would've so disapproved of this casual bit of afternoon alcohol consumption. Then again, the me of three years ago was
always stressed out beyond belief: wrapped up in the halls of academia, never subverting the dominant paradigm, exactly, but talking about it a whole lot. Studying her ass off, working toward a PhD, hoping to become a universally lauded professor of popular culture studies. Never really thinking about where all that stress might lead.

If she had been thinking, like,
at all
—

Well. It was best not to dwell on that. After all, the me of today had managed to organize her life into a series of compartments, all with manageable stress levels.

She knew how to handle every step of an Aveda Jupiter Tantrum.

She knew how to kick a demon cupcake across the room without losing her cool.

She knew how to adhere to a humdrum routine: keeping her to-do list bulletin board up to date, eating the same bowl of Lucky Charms for every meal, and wearing the same outfit every day.

And,
I thought firmly,
she could certainly handle one little party.

“So what's Annie making you do tonight?” Scott asked. “Extra patrols? Extra boot-polishing? Extra telling her she's extra beautiful while she gazes at herself extra long in the mirror?”

I realized the fingers of my right hand were drumming a manic beat on the countertop and curled them into a fist.

“You know plain old ‘Annie' hasn't existed for years,” I said.

He shrugged, blue eyes sparkling impishly. “She'll always be little Annie Chang to me. The only sixth-grader in history who managed to get elected seventh-grade class president.”

He took a long pull on his beer and leaned back farther, propping himself up with one elbow. He was sprawled all over the countertop, yet managed to look perfectly comfortable.

Then again, in our fourteen years of friendship, I'd never seen Scott look anything
but
perfectly comfortable. Back in sixth grade he'd been absorbed into the inseparable duo that was me and Annie-Aveda after cracking us up with inappropriate comments during the sex ed section of biology class. He was our mascot, our surfer dude sidekick, our goofy big brother who reveled in running a destructive hand through our gelled-into-submission hair-don'ts.

“I actually need another favor,” I said, remembering the other reason I'd asked him over.

“Oh . . . ?” He waggled his eyebrows at me and leaned back farther, his frayed T-shirt riding up to reveal a swath of tan ab muscles.

“Not that,” I said, rolling my eyes extra hard at him. “The one time was enough.”

“I maintain that prom night shouldn't count. We were both virgins, drunk on the heady cocktail of spiked punch and formalwear. And the backseat of my mom's dog-scented Volvo isn't exactly the most romantic locale.”

“And I maintain that panting your way to not-quite-orgasm amid a pile of golden retriever hair is enough to render the person you're panting with hopelessly unsexy forever.”

He grinned, but I knew he agreed with me. One night of teenage pseudo-passion had done nothing to change the warm, sibling-like vibe between us. I could acknowledge he had matured into an objectively gorgeous man—all lean, golden muscle and sandy hair that was just long enough to fall over his forehead—but I appreciated his abs in the distant way one might admire fine art in a museum. They inspired no visceral reaction that might prompt me to take a closer look.

Though if I was being honest, I sometimes wondered if I had trained those responses out of myself entirely. Wild sex didn't go with my well-ordered approach to
life, so I had simply cut it out. Lucy often suggested I was wired with a Dead-Inside-O-Tron, which controlled my lack of lustfulness.

Anxiety stabbed at my insides again, sending a wave of nausea spiraling through me. I gripped the edge of the countertop. I
had
to make this stop.

“I need a glamour,” I blurted out.

Scott's expression shifted, concern passing through his eyes. He sat up straight, regarding me keenly.

“You never answered my question. What is Annie making you do?”

I took a swig of my beer and manufactured a quick smile. “It's this party thing she wants me to go to. Not a big deal, but she's freaking out extra hard today.”

“A party,” he said, sounding out each syllable. “Is that really the best idea? For you?”

I toyed with the discarded cap of my beer bottle.

“I can handle it. Whatever she wants, I always handle it.”

But even as the words spilled out of my mouth, a sliver of doubt niggled at me. Could I handle
this
?

“You know,” I said. “I might be able to handle it better if you'd just try that spell already.”

I tried to make my tone light. But he saw right through me.

He slid off the countertop and rested his hands on my shoulders, the concern overtaking his expression entirely.

“I've told you over and over again: it's too dangerous,” he said. “Everything I do magic-wise is basic, simple—enough for people to pay me a few bucks for a fun party trick, but hardly earth-shattering. That spell is outside of the realm of anything I've ever tried before. You could end up hurt. Maimed. Or worse.”

I shrugged out of his grasp. “I was kidding.”

I wasn't. Someday I'd convince him to try that spell.

Someday I'd be normal.

“You can say no to Annie,” he said. “You know that, right? You don't have to go along with every single thing she says and put up with every single demand she piles on top of you just because she's . . . her. If she wants you to do something that's going to put you in danger . . .”

“No.” I shook my head a little too vehemently. “It's nothing like that.”

“I don't understand why you stick with her,” he continued. “Why can't you find another job, one that's not so—”

“I like this one just fine,” I said firmly. “I'm good at it. And you know I need stability.”

“‘Stability' equals a crazy boss who orders you around in an increasingly crazy manner?”

“Stability equals dealing with a brand of crazy I
know
.”

He blew out a long, frustrated breath. I knew he didn't understand. Though Scott could still reminisce about pre-fame Annie Chang with affection, the two of them had experienced some sort of falling out when Aveda started making a name for herself. These days they could barely stand to be in each other's company. I'd never pressed either of them for details, but I knew it had to be bad: mentioning Aveda's more outlandish behavior was the only thing that shocked Scott out of his relaxed state.

There was no way I could explain to him that, in a weird way, I found it comforting that I could always depend on Aveda to be so . . . Aveda-like. We'd known each other so long, we were practically part of each other's DNA. And with Mom and Dad gone and Bea well into her unpredictable teens, she was the closest thing to stable family I had.

So yeah, maybe her latest request was sending me into an Anxiety Ball–inducing tizzy. But no one else would've gone to bat for me with that greedy-ass funeral director. No one else would have eaten all those spam musubi. I knew that in my bones.

“Scott,” I said, trying to get us back on track, “this is
really no big deal. It's a small party. In a large space. And very well-ventilated, I'm sure.”

“And you need the glamour for . . . ?”

I shrugged, schooling my features into as passive an expression as possible. “She wants me to look nicer than usual. That's all.”

He studied me for a long moment, then finally nodded and reached into his pocket. “This one will work.” He held out a wooden token about the size of a nickel. His features had relaxed, which meant he'd bought my lie. Anxiety Ball pressed against my internal organs again, as if to scold me for deceiving one of my oldest friends.

“When you're ready to use it, hold it in your palm and visualize what you want to look like,” he said. “But remember, it only lasts for three hours. And keep it safe: it's for you and only you to use.”

“Of course.” I nodded, trying not to make my sigh of relief too obvious. Scott tended to keep a tight rein on the glamour tokens so people wouldn't use them for nefarious purposes. Like, say, disguising themselves as someone else and robbing a bank or something. The fact that he trusted me with one made me feel even guiltier. “Thank you.” I accepted the token and slipped it into my pocket. “And you know, Aveda's always saying she'd love to have someone with your talents on staff. Maybe the two of you could talk about—”

“No.” His normally carefree smile was tight. “Not in a million years. And for the record, I think you look fine the way you are.”

I ran a self-conscious hand through my curls and smiled back, an awkward silence descending between us.

“You are a fool for not hitting that, darling,” Lucy always said whenever Scott joined us for a beer at The Gutter. Once again she was way invested in my non-sex life. “You know I feel the same way about cocks as I do about cauliflower: weird shape, kind of gross. But this one is right in front of you and it can be quite relaxing to—”

Wait! Relaxing . . .

I met his clear blue eyes.

Sex!
chirped Soothing Inner Voice.
Sex relieves stress!

Okay, so there was that comfortable sibling vibe to consider, but maybe if I focused hard enough, I could produce a sexy response to Scott's theoretically sexy abs. We were two sexy twenty-something adults now, and if I could get myself to feel that special, sexy way, maybe we could have a dog-hair-free quickie on this sexy countertop, thereby dissipating my unsexy Anxiety Ball and sending me on my way to this stupid party and—

Oh my God. What was wrong with me? One unexpected task from Aveda and I was ready to re-create awkward prom night sex, potentially trash a longstanding friendship, and scar my baby sister for life should she hear any of our tepid cries of pleasure.

Besides, I was getting nothing. No sexy feelings at all, no matter how hard I stared at his abs. Dead-Inside-O-Tron was cranked up to eleven.

“You could use the glamour to mess with her.” Scott smiled, dissipating the momentary awkwardness between us. “Make yourself look like someone even more famous. Maybe Angelina Jolie could be at this party, steal Aveda Jupiter's thunder.”

I let out a laugh that was supposed to sound tossed off but came out strangled.

“No,” I said, as Anxiety Ball delivered one last kick to my gut. “My game plan is to be as un-thunder-worthy as possible.”

“I'M AFRAID MR.
SPARKY
was unsalvageable.”

“Darling, that is tragic. Isn't it tragic, Evie—er, Aveda?”

“What?” I snapped to attention. “I thought the porcelain unicorn's name was Mr.
Sparkly
? With an L?”

Letta Wilcox turned to me, auburn topknot shifting mournfully back and forth as she shook her head. The combination of her sylph-like limbs, porcelain skin, and sad demeanor always reminded me of Galadriel posing as a goth kid. Mopey Elf.

“Both Mr. Sparky and Mr. Sparkly lost their lives in today's battle.” Letta heaved a sigh. “They were brothers. I picked up all the pieces, but gluing them back together is gonna be impossible.”

Lucy scooted closer to Letta. “Such a shame,” she said. “I want to let you know, that I—er,
we
are here for you.”

Lucy, Letta, and I were in the roped-off celebrity VIP section of Whistles, Union Square's latest terrible tourist trap of a restaurant, waiting for the fan meet-and-greet to start. The big key to the city ceremony would take place after I'd successfully interacted with each and every fan.

I was hoping for something resembling “successfully,” anyway.

The fans themselves had already formed a meandering line in the non-VIP section, a seething mass of
humanity that threatened to overwhelm the not terribly spacious space. And I'd been wrong about the well-ventilated part. The thick scent of fried mozzarella sticks and sweat hung in the air like a greasy cloud. I'd seen Maisy flitting around earlier and vowed to avoid her at all costs. The last thing I needed was a bungled “exclusive Aveda Jupiter quote” showing up on her blog.

Letta was there to deliver desserts, but as soon as she tried to leave, Lucy attached herself like a piece of double-stick tape. “I didn't find one of those stones for you guys,” Letta said. “I thought the demon cupcakes might've left it in my best vat of chocolate, but there was just . . . nothing.” She heaved another sigh.

“Look at you, being so helpful during your time of crisis,” Lucy purred.

I suppressed a very un-Aveda-like eye-roll and allowed myself to zone out from their conversation so I could focus on the matter at hand.

Which was breathing.

Aveda had a specific ensemble in mind for her big night. And said ensemble involved a corset that could charitably be described as “ribcage-pulverizing.”

I'd argued against the corset's necessity. Predictably, I'd lost.

“It's steampunk,” Aveda trilled as I was being prepped, pinched, and squeezed into my party outfit. Shoehorning Aveda into her ensembles was usually a task that fell to me. But since I was the one being shoehorned, Lucy did the honors, lacing me into the blue satin corset. This outfit centerpiece was offset by a white blouse, knee-high boots with whimsical buttons shaped like clockwork, and a pair of very tight leather pants. Aveda wanted me to strap goggles on top of my head to enhance the overall steampunkiness, but even I had my limits.

“I let the fans vote on my new costume and Sexy Steampunk trounced Goth Lolita two to one,” Aveda continued. “They will be expecting it.”

Her gaze swept over me and I could practically see the gears whirring in her brain, cataloging every bit of my body that was rejecting the corset. We could usually wear the same size clothes, but they hung a little differently on me. And the corset didn't so much hang as crush.

“So suck it in,” she ordered.

“I am,” I gasped. “But, you know, the me version of you likes to eat the occasional carb. And the glamour will smooth out any wrinkles.”

Though Scott's glamour token couldn't conjure, say, an entire outfit, it would make the corset ensemble appear to fit me the way it fit Aveda. But it didn't change the way the clothes
felt
against my struggling-for-breath body.

Aveda's gaze cut through me in a way that made me feel even more out of breath. Despite her opposition to being an invalid, she took to the role reasonably well once she was set up in the downstairs bedroom. She was icing her ankle, which was now bandaged in a compression wrap and elevated on a pillow. With her perfect posture and impeccable black satin pajamas, she projected a heightened version of her trademark air of queenliness. She might be injured, but she was prepared to make up for it by reigning over us with twice the usual amount of gusto.

“I don't like this,” Nate interjected, pacing the room like an oversize tiger trapped in a cage. “The half-baked plan you two have hatched is reckless.”

“Your faith in me is way too encouraging,” I retorted.

“That is not what I meant,” he snapped. “I was merely suggesting—”

“And no one asked for your suggestions. This isn't a science-y thing. This is an
operations
thing,” I said, resisting the urge to punctuate my sentence with “so, nyah.”

Aveda and Nate still couldn't seem to agree on how long she'd be incapacitated. She insisted she'd be ready
to go after a good night's rest. Nate was sticking with his four to six weeks mantra.

I was tuning both of them out and trying to come up with a plan wherein I sneaked a call to Mercedes and Aveda was somehow okay with it.

I tried to keep myself focused and breathing as Lucy finished lacing me up, as I used Scott's glamour token to morph me into Aveda, as I was finally hustled out the door and over to Whistles.

Despite the restaurant's name, there didn't seem to be an actual whistle theme to speak of. No collection dotting the walls, no wacky whistle-themed food items, no “Mr. Whistle” managing the place.

Instead every available surface of Whistles was covered with pictures of cats. Cats batting at yarn, cats in costumes, cats reenacting key scenes from
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. No space was allowed between these artistic masterpieces. They were pasted edge to edge, wallpapering the place in adorableness. The one non-feline decoration was a life-size statue of Aveda situated in the middle of the restaurant, a garish hunk of plastic—bright red costume, jet-black hair, painted-on grin. I knew she had campaigned extra hard for that statue—the newest in a line of high-end collectibles—to make an appearance at this event.

I shuddered. I had managed to all but stamp out my claustrophobia over the past three years, but this cave of yowling kitty mouths was testing me, particularly when combined with the buzz of the crowd and the cheese-sweat smell. I tried to think about yoga and other calming things, but all I could see were the walls of cats, ready to close in on me while the corset rearranged my internal organs.

“At least I got her number,” Lucy said, snapping me out of my thoughts. She nodded at Letta's retreating back. “But the girl blows hot and cold. Which would be fine if the blowing weren't so metaphorical.” She winked
at me, gunning for a laugh. I was focused on calming my nerves and didn't have the strength to give it to her.

“Does that . . . can you use that saying?” I sputtered. “How would it work?”

“I'm not here to give you Gay Lady 101,” Lucy sniffed. “Anyway. You have to help me choose a crowd-pleaser for my next big karaoke jam at The Gutter. Once Letta witnesses me doing my thing, she'll be putty in my hands.”

That was probably true. Lucy was a superstar down at The Gutter. She had an impressive voice and an even more impressive sense of showmanship, sprinkling her performances with seductive nods to the crowd, soulful hands to the heart, and a thing I called “the stare-fuck.” When deploying the stare-fuck, she singled out an attractive lady in the crowd, locked eyes with her, and sang like there was no tomorrow. She usually ended up going home with that person.

“What should I sing?” she pressed.

“I don't know,” I said, tugging at the fluttery cuffs of my blouse. “Why don't you ask Stu?”

I jerked my head toward the far left corner of the room, where Stu Singh, the grizzled old piano player from The Gutter, was serenading the crowd with tinkly instrumental versions of show tunes.

“Try ‘Walkin' After Midnight,'” a smooth voice piped up. “Patsy Cline always equals classic crowd-pleaser.”

“Rose!” I smiled, pleased to see a familiar face. Instead of her uniform, she wore a suit that complimented her broad frame and a crisp white dress shirt that contrasted nicely with her dark brown skin. “So great to see you!”

“Aveda,” she said, regarding me coolly.

Oh, right. I was Aveda. Who probably wouldn't be so effusive to the head of a team she often referred to as “redundant.”

“So,” I said, racking my brain for what Aveda would say. “Are you here for the fan meet-and-greet?”

“No,” Rose said. “The mayor requested my attendance. To show that we're all in the supernatural crime-fighting business together.”

I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm, but with Rose, I couldn't be sure. Her deadpan was deader than most.

If it
was
sarcasm, I couldn't really blame her. Rose and her cleanup crew worked hard, but never got a fraction of Aveda's glory and fame. I'd tried to get Aveda to throw them a mention at one of her press conferences, but she liked preserving the illusion that she didn't need any help when it came to keeping the city safe.

I suppose it was true that Aveda didn't need
much
help, though the U.S. government had initially seen things differently. Back when that first portal opened up, the government had gone a little crazy: a special demon task force was formed and installed in San Francisco, a hefty military presence was brought in, and large sums of money were dumped into developing technology to predict, detect, and contain the portals. There was even talk of evacuating and nuking the entire damn city if another big portal opened up.

But then? Nothing happened.

Okay, not
nothing
. The smaller portals kept on keepin' on, the non-humanoid demons threatened to eat the city on a regular basis, and demonology scholars continued to study, dissect, and theorize 'til they turned blue in the face. And as for all that expensive tech? Most of it ended up being next to useless. Rose and her team used a few scanner-type gadgets to make sure the portals were closed and staying that way, but no amount of tech could predict where and when the portals were going to occur in the first place. Some weeks were multiple-portal-type deals and some weeks boasted a grand total of zero.

Still, the threat of invasion seemed to have passed and the smaller portals remained confined to San Francisco, and that was enough for the government to shrug and go, “Welp, guess this is just another thing to add to San
Francisco's already astronomical quirk factor.” The task force still maintained an office in the city and Nate submitted any new findings to them on a monthly basis. And Rose's cleanup crew was always on hand to back Aveda up.

Not that she ever acknowledged that.

“Hey, Rose,” I said impulsively. “Great job at the bakery today.”

Surprise flickered through her eyes. “Thank you.” She straightened her spine and gave me a stiff chin bob. “I need to go check in with the mayor.” She turned to Lucy. “Try the Patsy Cline.”

“What? Oh, sure thing,” Lucy murmured. She cocked an eyebrow at me as Rose left us. “Going a bit off script, aren't you? Aveda Jupiter isn't in the habit of delivering accolades to others.”

“One time won't hurt,” I said. “And maybe don't tell Aveda I did that.”

“Dudettes!” Tommy Lemon stomped up behind us. “They're about to let the fans past our illustrious velvet rope!”

Being an actual movie star (albeit one who usually starred in lowbrow comedies wherein he donned a foam suit and played an alien, animal, or elderly version of himself), Tommy was the only San Franciscan who could match Aveda in celebrity-ness, and Whistles management had thought he'd make a fine addition to tonight's event. I knew Aveda thought differently.

“Time to look alive!” Tommy said, bugging out his already buggy eyes.

I squelched the unease in my gut. My brief interlude with Rose had been calming, but now the oppressive walls of cats were back on my radar and really getting to me.

They're just nice, regular folks
, Soothing Inner Voice reminded me as Lucy and Whistles' lone security guy started letting people past the rope, a few at a time.
Just like Aveda said. Nothing to worry about.

“Ms. Jupiter?”

An awed-looking twelve-year-old girl popped up in front of me. She opened her mouth to speak again, but couldn't form any words beyond “uhhhhhgghhh.” She thrust an Aveda Jupiter trading card at me, her eyes the size of dinner plates.

I smiled and took it from her, trying to look as beatific and serene as Aveda always did at public appearances.

“Why, thank you . . . ?”

“Amy!” she squeaked.

“Amy!” I scrawled my best approximation of Aveda's signature on the card. “Do you have a question for me?”

“Only one question per fan!” Lucy barked, hovering behind Amy. “And no touching!”

“I really want to be a superhero when I grow up.” Amy peered at me gravely. “How do I do that?”

“Uh . . .”

The real answer was, of course, “be involved in a freak supernatural accident and let your psycho obsessive nature do the rest.” Instead I took as deep a breath as my corset would allow and said, “Stay in school.”

She tilted her head to the side, the awe fading.

“That's it?”

“Yup!” I plastered a grin that was more like a grimace across my face. “You can do it!” I handed her the trading card and ended with a double thumbs-up.

“Okay.” She looked at me skeptically. “Well, thanks.”

“‘Stay in school'?” Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth as the now severely disillusioned Amy toddled off. “Why not lead with ‘crack is wack'?”