Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
My stomach drops. “Is that…?”
She nods. I don’t even have to finish the question. Carefully, she holds the envelope out, her voice soft when she says, “I told her we’d mail it, but since you’re here…”
“Thank you,” I say, staring down at it. It’s addressed to Breezeo. “Does she…?”
“No,” she says, picking up what I can’t bring myself to finish. “She doesn’t know you’re her father. She, uh… she thinks heroes are real, no matter how many times I explain they’re just people, and she looks at you like you’re one of them. She’s too young to see you any other way. Which is why…”
She trails off. I know where it’s going. Which is why it’s so hard for her to give me that chance, because if I turn out to be anything but that hero, it’s going to crush her. And I know she doesn’t mean that in a theatrical sense. Nobody expects me to wear the suit and turn fucking invisible. But I’ve got one hell of a track record when it comes to disappointing people.
“I get it,” I say. “And I know it’s a lot, asking for your trust…”
“But you’re not going away this time.”
“No.”
I figure that might piss her off, me pushing for this, but she lets out a deep breath, her posture relaxing. “Well, I should get to work. I just wanted to drop that off.”
“Oh, yeah, okay.”
After she’s gone, I open the envelope and pull out the piece of paper, looking at it. She drew me a picture. I read her words and can feel my chest tightening, my eyes burning, but goddamn it, I’m grinning like a fool. I can’t help it.
“You look like the cat that caught the canary,” McKleski says, popping up in the foyer, eavesdropping.
“Yeah, she dropped this off,” I say, waving the paper at her. “It’s from Madison.”
“Ah, little Maddie,” she says. “A bit of a handful, that kid, but what do you expect? Look at her parents.”
She gives you the comic books on a Wednesday afternoon.
It’s after school, and you’re standing out front, waiting to be picked up, when she pulls the thick stack of comics from her bag. She’s been carrying them around with her for three days, gathering the nerve to approach you.
You’re different this week. She senses it. You’re quieter, withdrawn—yet, somehow your presence feels larger than ever. There’s anger in your eyes and tension in your jaw. You’ve barely even looked at her. You barely look at anyone.
She shoves the comics at you, and you stare at them, confused. A moment passes before there’s recognition. You mumble, “Thanks.”
That’s it.
You’re gone a minute later.
You don’t come to school the next day.
Friday afternoon, you show up at lunchtime. You walk right through the front door of the school, not bothering to check-in at the office. You stroll through the halls, bypassing the cafeteria, instead heading for the library, where she is. She always spends her lunch hour among the tall stacks of books, never eating or being with other people.
She’s sitting alone at a long wooden table, nose buried in her notebook. You approach her, asking, “What are you writing?”
Right away, she slams the notebook closed, dropping her pen on top of it. She stares at you, not answering that question.
You drop the stack of comic books on the table. Her attention turns to them as she asks, “Did you even read any of them?”
“Read all of them,” you say, pulling the chair out beside her, but you don’t sit down in it. No, instead you slide up onto the table, sitting there with your sneaker-clad feet planted on the chair. You’re not wearing the black shoes that go with your uniform. “They were better than I expected. Kind of pissed I have to wait to see how it ends.”
“Now you know how I feel,” she says, fiddling with the comics, putting them in order. “I’m surprised you read them.”
“I told you I wanted to.”
“I thought you were just humoring me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because that’s what everyone does,” she says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t fit in around here. People aren’t mean, but they aren’t nice, either. They just tolerate my presence.”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you counter, “but I’m not their favorite person, either. Some of them hate me. Most ignore me. Used to be they humored me, but now? Hell, look at me. I could sit here like this all day and nobody would say a word, like I’m invisible.”
“Like Breezeo,” she says. “You’ve disappeared.”
You nod. “That’s how it feels.”
She smiles. “I don’t know if it makes a difference, but I see you.”
Silence falls between the two of you. It isn’t awkward. It almost feels comfortable. She starts tinkering with the pen on top of her notebook. You stare at it for a moment. “Are you not going to tell me what you were writing?”