Does she even have to ask? “Of course not. I pretended it worked.”
“Good,” she says, sagging with relief. “That’s good.”
“What am I supposed to tell the SHPD?” I ask.
I managed to avoid talking to the officers when they arrived on the scene, insisting that I had to speak with my mom first. They gave in because I might have hinted that there was top secret intel at stake. And in a way, there is. Even if I never cross paths with the villain trio again, if it gets out that I spilled information that Draven supposedly erased, my secret immunity will be blown. Mom would totally flip.
“I don’t want you talking to the SHPD at all, if we can avoid it,” she says. “But I need you to tell me everything that happened so I know what Rex Malone needs to hear.”
Mom worries constantly that I’ll slip up, though I assure her I won’t. I’ve spent more than half my life keeping this secret.
I give her the rundown, everything from when I ran into Draven at the vending machine to when he tied me to the faucet and walked out the door. Well, almost everything. I don’t tell her what they said about a hidden level in the lab. That’s too crazy to repeat if I want her to take me seriously.
Mom nods. “Okay, good. Follow my lead, and don’t offer anything more than—”
“I don’t care if he is in Tokyo,” a male voice booms before Mr. Malone—my best friend’s dad and president of the League—steps into the lab. “You tell him to get his ass back to Boulder before I send Dash to bring him back.”
He ends the call abruptly and snaps the phone back into the holster on his belt. Even if he weren’t a superhero, Mr. Malone would still command attention. He’s big and tall, with short, dark, perfectly-in-place hair and piercing blue eyes. Almost like a real-life Superman. Rebel doesn’t think so, but then she’s his daughter. It’s kind of her job to give him grief.
Tonight—or I should say this morning—he looks a little less-than-perfect in a wrinkled shirt and faded jeans.
Half a step behind him, as always, is Rebel’s brother, Riley. He’s only two years older than her, but blond hair and blue eyes are pretty much the only things the siblings have in common. Riley is tall, like their dad, and impeccably groomed. Plus he has the stiffest, straightest posture of anyone I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine anyone more likely to remind the teacher when she forgets to assign homework. Or, as Rebel says, to act like a bigger douche nozzle.
She would disown him if she could.
Riley trails Mr. Malone with his smartphone in hand, flash-typing everything his father says. No surprise there. The boy eats, sleeps, and breathes to be a superhero, and today he’s wearing a coat that, honestly, looks a little bit like a cape. I’m sure, in his opinion, it’s just truth in advertising.
Mom confronts Mr. Malone at the blown-out door.
“What the hell happened?” she demands. “This facility is supposed to be secure, Rex. How did villains get in and tie up my daughter?”
He turns his attention to me. “Kenna, sweetheart, are you okay?”
“Yes, Mr. Malone,” I answer obediently. “I’m fine.”
Riley pauses typing for a split second to look up at me. I can’t tell if that’s his way of saying hello or if he’s evaluating me for his report. I swear, if he tries to take a picture of me for the files, I’ll go Rebel on him with her signature karate chop. I’ve taken enough crap from the male of the species today. I’m so totally over all of them.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Mr. Malone asks, like I’m a child.
I got used to his patronizing tone a long time ago. As an ordinary and a teenager, I get a double dose of let-the-grown-up-superheroes-take-care-of-everything. I stopped letting it make me gag when I was twelve, but it’s still frustrating.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Mom says before I can answer. “She went to get a candy bar, and next thing she knows, she’s tied to a lab table with the sirens blaring. It took the SHPD almost an hour to get here.”
“Unacceptable.” Mr. Malone nods to Riley, who—if possible—types even faster. “Can you describe them?”
“I—”
“She doesn’t remember.” Mom steps closer to my side. “Has no memory of anything after the vending machine.”
“Damn it!” Mr. Malone rests his fists on his hips in a perfect superhero stance. “One of them must have had a psy power. I hate those mental freaks.”
“Freaks,” Riley agrees.
“And one of them must have been Nitro,” Mom suggests.
Mr. Malone surveys the room. “You’re right. No one else has this kind of explosive power.”
I’m doing my best to keep my mouth shut. Mom’s rules. Never answer when I don’t have to. It reduces the odds that I’ll say something that would betray my immunity.
Wouldn’t want that.