So I edited this story, once again. This story is never perfect, to the point where I hate it. I might as well just take it down, but I worked so hard on it, and this story ties into soooo many other stories to come along. Tons of ideas in this ol' brain of mine. I changed a few stuff, but if I missed something, it's because I just flew past it. I'm a bird, a lazy bird.

The name I chose was Brick because I tripped over one when I finally came of age. It’s also cool because when people grab their head and bitch, “Shit, I just got hit over the head with a brick,” they’ll sound stupid because they think bricks are flying around hitting people on the head.

When people say that phrase, stay away from them. They’re bad people. Not only because they’re partially crazy because they think bricks fly around—but because they’re bad people. So bad, they’ve gotten hit by bricks. You’d think God would be punishing them saying, “I shall smite you with horrible, solid, red, rectangular shapes!” or maybe the Devil would do that, because doesn’t God use lightning bolts or something? Or that’s Zeus.

Anyway, it’s the brick-head’s punishment for being so bad.

There’s this superhero out there. He’s lives in New Jersey. How do I know this? Because most of the superhero’s saving-the-day triumphs happen in New Jersey, by East Brunswick or something. It’s really, really weird. Occasionally, the superhero will go out to New York or LA or Sarajevo, Bosnia-Herzegovina, whatever. But those places are being taken care of by Spider-Man, the Avengers, X-Men, Runaways, Iron Man—who I’m still pissed at for taking the Superhero Registration Act—, and all them, so the superhero decides to settle for East Brunswick area.

He doesn’t save the world a lot, unless he really, really wants, has, to needs to. It’s really an ‘am I available?’ kinda thing. No, it’s not that he doesn’t care about the world. It’s just that if he leaves abruptly upon finding out that Lisbon is under attack by nuclear bombs while he, himself, is doing a test during class. What would he do? Apply chicken pox all over his skin and scream out loud, “Oh my God, I’ve got chicken pox! Somebody help!” There’s only so many times he can use that excuse without people thinking he’s a disease magnet.

Oh yeah, and that guy is me.

I look like your generic teenage boy with bright green eyes, black hair. I’m a half. I’m part Asian, part . . . I actually don’t know. I live with my dad, the Asian part of the family, so I’m pretty confused as to what I am. The other half of me, the Asian side, I’m so in touch with. My dad, Andrew Kwan, always reminds me of my Asian heritage. He’s like ‘Take off your shoes when you go into someone’s house! That’s what Asian families do!’ and I obey because that’s what Asian kids do.

Okay, if you’re not Asian, I guess you may or may not do that. I don’t go to many people’s houses. That’s what you get when you’re a superhero. You don’t have many friends. I mean, look at Spider-Man. My dad used to go to school with him—Peter Parker, and he says that Peter was always a loner with minimal friends—friends who were girls. I mean, Gwen Stacy, Mary Jane Watson? He was like a pimp. Sure he had Harry Osborn, but that guy turned out to be a psycho. So, you see, Peter Parker is great. Peter Parker was a loner, and now he’s Spider-Man, one of the most badass superheroes you’ll ever see.

Okay, maybe Spiderman had more guy friends, but my dad rarely encountered Peter. He’s like the kid next to the kid next to Spiderman who was really, really smart but cool. So yeah, he’s not your stereotypical, geeky, nerdy Asian.

So I’m in math—Honors Geometry—class, mulling over my test where I have a 75, and it sucks ass because I knew the material but I failed to put it out. I’m leaning back in my chair, sort of talking but not really talking to the guy next to me, mumbling about ‘How can the circumference equal that?’ and ‘God, I’m a failure at life.’

Then sirens start wailing, and I realize that the sirens are going towards the middle school which is right next to use, and I see that the building’s on fire, and I’m freaking out—albeit, really, really silently—because I feel like I should be doing something about the fire—even though my power is fire and super-strength, but how can you stop fire with fire and super-strength?

So I pout to myself as I see the fire department come and whisk the fire away with water hoses and their magnificent supplies. The guy next to me, Isaiah Wells, is staring at me, eyebrow raised, and I’m in my right mind to question whether or not he knows my secret identity, and I’m practically melting at his stare, and I’m wondering if he’s a mutant too—a mutant with heat vision, like Cyclops—but that’s just totally over the top because I mean, Isaiah Wells? Popular student? Preppy, sport jock? I mean, c’mon.

Only the losers are superheros.

So I’m randomly throwing bricks from the top of the Rite Aid building. I’m trying to hit the fuckers who terrorize kids from school. I’m not aiming for their face—just an arm or a leg. I usually don’t hit them. I’ve got bad aim. It’s good though, because if I were to hit their face, I’d probably be taken in by Iron Man or some person like that. I just almost hit them so that they’re freaked out. Then the next day, I almost hit them again, which makes them question what the hell’s happening. Then I almost hit them again, to which they question what they’re doing wrong to anger God. Then I almost hit them again several times till they realize they should stop picking on their innocent peers.

You may be wondering how I get all these bricks. The only person who knows my identity is Cooper, my classmate’s crazy cousin. He buys the bricks every few weeks, claiming he has some super duper side project he’s working on in his backyard. Then he loads them in his car, brings them to me, and I let him play with my dog. Apparently, his boyfriend’s dog died, so he mooches off my dog. I usually let them go off some place like the park, because weirdly, my dad and Cooper work together, and Cooper claims that my dad likes him. It’s weird, so I just tune it out.

HOLY O’LUMINUMAN! Fuck, is it hot outside or what? It’s like 1054354645476463423 degrees out here. Stupid global warming. Fuck, this isn’t natural.

I fan my t-shirt—because I think uniforms are overrated—and look around to see other people’s reactions to the heat, but surprise, surprise, no one is acting hot. There’s even a guy outside of Rite Aid who’s putting on a thick, wool sweater. What is wrong with me? I mean, is it because I’m elevated that I’m feeling hotter? Did I burn something? I’m not mad, I know that. I can only burn when I’m mad, so what the hell is making me hot?

I look around, my sunglasses (Yes, I wear sunglasses because if some random stranger sees me throwing bricks, they’re gonna call the cops. It’s also a disguise, you know, the way a lot of superheroes just wear an mask that covers their eyes and then they’re all incognito.), searching for something, until they land on some random guy on the street, but I can’t see the guy because the heat’s way too intense that I feel like I’m burning a hole into Rite Aid. The light keeps burning me, and I’m thinking that maybe I should throw a brick or a wave of fire toward the menace, but I’m feeling sofuckinghotandtired, but . . . oh my God, is it really true? Has the day finally come? Have I finally . . .

Have I finally made my first enemy?

Even though I’m giddy with excitement that I’ve finally made an enemy, I still go to school. I probably still would’ve gone to school even if I didn’t make an enemy.

I’ve got band last period. If I were to successfully categorize the band, I could. First there are the flutes, the most effeminate instrument you can think of. If you’re a guy who plays flute, then your sexuality is questioned. Thank fucking God I’m not one of them.

Then there’re the clarinets. They’re the second most effeminate instrument, but occasionally you find a pinch of guys that play clarinet. The guys are either geeky or jocks.

Then there’re saxophones. They’re composed of the athletes, girls and guys who play sports. It’s probably the best instrument you can get if you play sports. But if you play any other saxophone but an alto sax, then you’re probably considered as a geek.

Then there are the trombones, tubas, baritones, and horns. I’m sorry to say, the low brass is probably the geekiest instrument you can probably think of. It’s really, really geeky.

Then there are the trumpets, who are the most charismatic people you will ever meet. They’re funny and friendly. It almost makes you wanna be a trumpet.

Then there’s the percussion. They’re laid-back and probably look like they’re stoned. They’re either really cool or so punk that they’re cool. Percussion mainly consists of guys, and those guys are part of a band or hope to be part of the band in the near future.

Then there’s the instrument that’s an odd one out. I guess you could count bass guitar as a string instrument, but other than the guitar, that’s all we have. Usually the bass guitar is a really cool skater guy.

Then there is that guy or girl, who plays an instrument but doesn’t fall into that categorization system. First there’s Matty Choi and Dave Young, who play trumpet. In fact, up until Matty and Dave became the subject of every lunch table of every lunch period, I didn’t even notice Matty was in band, even though we walked to class together every so often, including band, and he once said that his trumpet key was stuck one day. I guess I thought it was some innuendo. I think I avoided him a few days after that.

Dave, however, is extremely scary. He’s extremely tough, and no one wants to offend him. In fact, people only beat Matty up when Dave isn’t around to stop them. Dave can kill people.

And there’s Elijah Lee, who plays the flute, but he’s also a jock—a really, really cool jock, so cool that he associates with the likes of Isaiah Wells. He’s also the straightest, straight-laced, straight-A, straightstraightstraight heterosexual I’ve come to see. Despite being able to snag any girl he wants—well, it’s not like he actually has a group of girls following and bidding to every request, but I bet he could have a girl if he just asked—he wants his best friend Jane, the most blonde prep ever. It’s all good and it doesn’t do much to his reputation because they’re both equally popular in social status. Not to mention, they would make the ‘darnedest, cutest couple in all the land.’

There’s me. I’m an alto saxophone who does no sports at all. I’m not scrawny ‘cause months of physical work really builds you up. Lugging a backpack full of textbooks, notebooks, and bricks can really take a toll on your back. I don’t carry it on my back though—no, that’ll break your back. I carry it my arms, cradling it. I don’t want people searching through my backpack. They’ll probably ask, “Why’re you carrying tens bricks?”

And I’ll answer something stupid like, “M-my dad wants to do a project o-on our front lawn.”

I usually get sent to the principal’s office before the school calls Cooper and explains to him what happened. I doubt my dad would understand my powers, so I put Cooper as my father in the insurance forms. It’s easier to deal with.

“Guess what, everybody! The middle school was saved again!” Miss Okata, the band teacher, cheers unenthusiastically. “Wow. It seems everyone hates middle school.”

It’s true. The middle school was set on fire twice, mobbed three times, broken into once, evacuated twice, but amazingly, the school keeps on going because they have school spirit and terrible, lowly amount of intelligence, which obviously says that there’s something going on with the middle school. I mean, the elementary and the high school haven’t had anything done to them. In fact, every day something bad happens to the middle school, we find a rose taped to every classroom door in both schools. It’s enough to get us weirded out, but people are stupid, and they assume it is Valentine’s Day in September. Only two people have died in all of those events.

“Yeah, so, in honor of the middle school, we shall dedicate this next rehearsal to them.” Laughs erupt from the saxophone--not me--and trumpet section. “So play your best,” Miss Okata laughs.

We play our crappy rendition of Sleigh Ride, which turns up to shit. We’re playing four-four, instead of cut time, so we, the freshmen, can get into the hang of things. Even playing four-four is killing us. The music is way too complicated to just sight-read. Being a warm September because of global warming—there are a few mutants trying to fix that problem—I’m feel so fucking hot. My back is prickling from the intensity of heat.

But I ignore it off-handedly, playing anyway, even though I notice that no one else is cracking under the intense heat. It could just be some mutant malfunction. I could be stressed and frustrated over my lack of skill for sight-reading.

“Please excuse this announcement. Newark Airport is under attack by what seems to be a Skrull. We will get out for early dismissal. Thank you, and have a good day.”

As you can see, my school is very, very crazy.

I sigh and roll my eyes ‘cause Newark Airport has been getting under attack since it’s so close to New York. It’s almost an hour from where I live. Almost never do villains, Skrulls, aliens, robots, or any of those other superheroes/villains go to Adamsville. They may attack St. Anthony’s, the bigger better town, but do they ever attack little Adamsville?

No.

Unless you count the middle school.

So, now, heaving my heavy backpack onto my back—okay, not really heaving because I’m almost certain I’ve mutated to super-strength also ‘cause carrying all these bricks and textbooks have gotten easier on me—I walk casually towards the door, my saxophone packed.

Some kids are farting around, shoving each other, so one kid accidentally hits my backpack, crying out in pain, clutching their head in obvious pain—but you can never tell with these sort of kids. They fuck around, pretending that their lawyers are going to contact us in the near future, but I’m a freshman, so I’m about to smash apologies together to show my sincerity—

“Hey, Parker! What d’you have in that backpack? Bricks?” a kid—a sophomore—laughs as his friend is back on his feet, unscathed from his recent injury. Heh, could have a healing factor.

“Hah, he’s trying to be Brick!” the mutant kid—probably a junior—laughs mockingly.

I’ve learned to back off of that Brick-is-a-stupid-asshole-who-just-tries-to-gain-attention-what-a-stupid-wannabe-Avenger, but I usually remember that there are some mutant-phobes in our school, so I forget about it. But for a mutant to be making fun of another mutant? That’s just fucking sick.

“You wanna be a mutie, Parker? Or some sad excuse for a superhero with no powers? You’re too much of a loser to have powers. What a shithead,” the kid laughs.

What a shithead. Only losers get powers.

I smack the back of my neck to relieve the stinging sensation that someone’s watching me and the stupid fucking heat.

GODDAMMIT! WILL SOMEONE TURN DOWN THE STUPID HEAT?

“Hey, Parker!” some kid behind me shouts. I ignore it. Some kid heard the fuckers in band laughing at me the other day, so now everyone calls me Peter Parker or Spider-Man. I’m good at ignoring it. In my brain somewhere, I pretend that maybemaybemaybe Spider-Man will hear and punish those assholes. He wouldn’t do it for my namesake because I’m just a lowly second-rate superhero compared to the likes of the X-Men, Spider-Man, and the Avengers.

“Parker! Wait up!” For some reason, my feet slow down, everything slowing down. It may be because I’m tired or some weird mutant thing. It’s not my mutant thing. It could be someone else’s.

Shit. Why do people keep using their powers at school? First that fucker in band, and now this?

“Park! I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” a voice startles me. I smell a strong scent of chocolate and pumpkin, mixed in with Febreze.

I hate Febreze.

I look up from their chest—because for some reason, that’s the place my eyes end up—and see Isaiah Wells, walking up next to me. I smack the back of my neck to stop the heat. I’ve been so goddamn hot these past few days that even though it’s starting to get chillier, I’ve been wearing muscle shirts and shorts every single day. I’d wear shades and sunglasses if I could be away with it.

Weirdly people have been staring at me, smiling at me, pointing and talking to me. All I’ve done is change to muscle shirts and shorts. I think they’re mocking me. I think they think it’s funny that I’m wearing muscle shirts and shorts. Maybe I’m hideous. I’m so damn ugly that they’re poking fun at me by asking me to Homecoming. Three people have asked, and I turned them done. I hate when people make fun of me because of my looks.

“Yeah?” I snap, “If you’re gonna tell me some girl wants to ask me to prom, just fuck off, okay? I get it. I’m ugly—”

As we take a turn toward the sophomore hallway, Isaiah snorts, “Uh, dude, that’s pretty much the opposite of what people are saying—”

“You know, this isn’t funny anymore. I’m sick and tired of all the popular guys making fun of us, geeks, with compliments. I’m not laughing. No one’s laughing—”

“Really, Parker, no one’s saying that,” Isaiah laughs. I’m so glad my arrogance gets him off.

I huff, walking toward the junior hallway, “You’re taking this too far, y’know. Who’re you trying to impress? No one’s listening.”

“Uh, I’m trying to impress you I guess, asshole.” Isaiah grins as we venture into the senior hallway to English class. Isaiah is still looking at me funny.

Fuck! I get it! I’m UGLY!

We walk in step towards our Honors English 9 class, and every step we make, I take a step to my left to get away from him, which he takes a step to his left to get closer. What is this? Some cruel attempt to make fun of the ugly kid?

When we come to a halt at the classroom, “Hey, I didn’t mean to call you an asshole. Look, I was just gonna as if you wanna go to this Halloween party—” Isaiah starts as the loudspeaker goes on, blaring some faculty member’s words,

“Saint Peter’s Hospital is under attack. We will have an early dismissal. Thank you. Have a nice day. Don’t get killed while walking home!”

Well, that’s very polite.

Isaiah starts fidgeting awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other like he really needs to do something. His face contorted in a grimace but not really, like he’s trying not to show discomfort, but there really is. Now he’s looking down, but not down to the floor because—Hey! When’d we get this close? Stupid asshole magician mutant wannabe poser jerk popular jock grr. Grr.

I shift backwards, and surprisingly, he shifts back as well. His excuse being, “Shit. Uh, Park, I-I gotta go . . . to th-the bathroom. Yeah, sorry. You probably didn’t need to hear that. It might take some time, so you probably should go in the classroom without me. Shit. You probably didn’t need to hear that either. Goddamn it. I-I gotta go. . . .”

I blink and then he’s gone.

Well, fuck, if he can leave for the bathroom, I can leave to save a hospital. It’s like ‘Save the Cheerleader. Save the World,’ only I’m saving people who are second-rate to the Cheerleader. They’re not powerful like Heroes, but they deserve more recognition. They were there way before mutants. I mean, fuck, all healers can do is heal because that’s what their DNA tells them to do, but doctors—they have to learn. So it’s like, ‘Save the Doctor. Save the World.’

I’m not sure if there’s a need for capitals, but it sure looks a lot cooler.

So, as it turns out, Ido have an enemy—not the same one as the guy trying to melt me on top of Rite Aid. Well, the enemy isn’t really my enemy. He’s more like a tick you can’t get rid of. He’s an annoyance. I guess it would suck if you have a tick stick to you. It would be worse than annoying. It’d be painful to look at—something sinking their teeth deep into your skin, probably secreting acid or whatever ticks do.

The tick alwaysalwaysalways reminds his ‘enemies’—which is in quotes because he’s such a horrible villain to begin with. It’s just really fun messing around with him. I’d rather fight him than go to English anyway—that he received his robotic arms when a spider bit him on the heel, which in fact is his weakest point of his body. He carries a huge hammer, calling himself the God of Spiders. He eats spinach a lot.

He is, in fact, is called Roboto.

I say he stole his name from the song—Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto—and that he stole his stories from Spider-Man, Achilles, Thor, and Pop-Eye, which is pathetic, because why would you steal a story fromPop-Eye?

So I land on top of the hospital, stones jutting out, an accident waiting to happen—yes, I land. I weld whatever metal I have in hand to make a base, and then I use burst of fire to fly. The first thing I see is Roboto . . . and Cyclops? I dunno. There’re rays of heat shooting out of this guy’s eyes, attacking Roboto with more means than necessary—

But OH! What is this? Has Roboto actually sailed of the Land of Pathetic and actually moved on to the Continent of People Who Actually Matter? Roboto has mastered the art of techno-pathology—if that’s a word. Someone, go, look it up. I order you to.

Roboto has actually made a shield—a damn-good shield. It’s heat resistant, in fact, it’s absorbing the heat, converting it into energy, sucking it up. And when Roboto feels the burst of heat, emitting from the center of my palms, which rips my hands apart to the point where I probably will have to wear gloves the next day. The blast of fire sucks in Roboto’s leg, causing him to stumble a bit, causing the Cyclops-like guy to shoot his heat rays directly at Roboto’s abdomen, and in a moment of paint, Roboto stares at me, hate etched onto his face, and the only thing does is turn his giant fist into a giant hammer and crush my skull.

For some reason unknown to me, it takes a lot more than a blast to my skull to make me fall down. Sure, I’m weak as hell. But if Cyclops, right there—who obviously is much more powerful than me ‘cause his heat rays has Roboto on his knees, clutching his stomach—is still up, I can still be up. Hey, I was here first. I’m the guy who always teases and defeats Roboto. Just because the guy has a couple of new toys doesn’t mean he’s open for everything else.

And now I take my better hand, hold it up, creating a fireball, and gosh, is it beautiful. The oranges and reds, blending together, but not really, like continuous stripes, like Jupiter, only bolder and brighter, till it’s like a red dwarf—practically eating my hand now—and then I launch it, throwing it at Roboto’s face, as he struggles to stand up.

“Yeah!” I cheer myself on. I usually feel stupid doing that. I mean, there’s no one around me, so I succumb to making myself my own audience, but I digress. Beat that, Cyclops. Let’s see how you take down Roboto—!

Holy fucking shit, as my open palms, my open, bleeding palms, stinging to the like thousands of needles drawing blood. It’s like bees devouring my palms, biting each and every bit of flesh on my hands, and SHIT! SHITSHITSHIT! The fucking pain is crushing my head, squeezing it into a tiny, miniature box. It hurts sofuckingmuch. So unbearable. Mashing my brain, pinching and biting my hands, and finally, I have the temerity to snap my eyes open.

“ARGH! Fuckfuckfuckfuck! What the hell?”My mouth sputters to holler as my eyes take in the burning sight of my hands deteriorating, and I hear laughing. I hear LAUGHING! From the stupid idiot, Roboto! The idiot who’s destroying my hands! MY GODDAMN HANDS! Burning and obliterating them in an acid!

SHIT!

“Brick! B-Brick! PARKER! DAMMIT, PARKER!”

DAMMIT!

“You stupid robot! You’re not a villain! You’re a PATHETIC EXCUSE!”

I wanna die. . . .

“He didn’t do anything!”

Goddamn it. . . .

“YOU FUCKING ROBOT!”

Please.

“I HATE YOU!”

I’m drifting in and out of consciousness, and my eyelids flicker open, blurry and painfully.

CRACK!

“Ugh. . . .” is some robotic wheezing. I’d claim that’s Roboto, but . . . I can’t care enough to confirm it.

My head stills throbs.

Someone’s hitting who I perceive to be as Roboto. One person is a blur of red. I can’t see who the other person is. All I can hear are cracks and fizzing. . . .

“So what d’you need?”

It’s some rough, mocking—but not really—voice far off. I’ve heard it before. I’d open my eyes, but it hurts so goddamn bad. It’s a struggle to even listen to words. Then there’s a familiarity in the next speaker’s sharp voice—not sharp as in harsh, but sharp as in music—that cracks into tune in random spots. It’s so rough that I’m craving it like painkillers—and hell, do I need painkillers!

A second voice goes, “I need some help.”

I hear a hiss. The guy probably saw my face—my ugly face. Combined with blood—and probably brains, though if that were true, I probably wouldn’t be thinking—is a hideous sight. I can picture it—my eye practically falling out of the socket, my head cracked so that you see a bit of brain, blood spilling out profusely. And my hands? They must resemble like stumps right now. I must look like an after-effect of drunken vomiting.

“Y’know that shithead of a villain, Roboto?” says the sharp second voice.

“Roboto? He did that? Roboto’s a crackpot robot. He can’t do anything like that—” the first voice starts, and in a moment of exclamation, gasps, “FUCKING HELL! It’s him! It’s that kid—in band! He’s a saxophone! Roboto did that to Peter Parker?”

“No. He did it to Brick—” the second voice grunts like he’s under extreme pressure. Then I hear thuds crash onto the ground—my bricks! My fucking bricks!

“Brick? Parker is Brick? The friggin’ superhero? Dude, the kid’s . . . he’s . . . he’s Parker, man. . . .”

“Just do it.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” I hear the first voice say as I feel cold emanating from above me, “but just tell me this—Why do you care—?”

“Shut up, Colin. Just heal him, okay?”

“But really, ‘Saiah, I mean, Parker—?”

“Shut up, Col, or I fucking swear, I’ll melt you—”

I hear crackling like steam as Colin—a.k.a. the first voice—plead, “Fuck, fuck, ‘Saiah. I’ll do it. Just close your eyes or something. You’re gonna kill me before I can heal this guy!”

And then I’m thinking—FUCK! Shitshitshit, that feels so fucking good. God, it’s like I’m high or something. My body feels so cold right now. It’s so comforting, sososo comforting. It’s like ice cream right now. I can feel the chills slithering through my bloodstream. It’s like an orgasm of cold pleasure—a really, really long orgasm. And it’s not like I’m jerking myself off! It’s like sex but not really. It’s like asexual reproduction—

Colin's voice huffs, “Fuck, he’s really . . . busted up. It took a . . . lotta my energy . . . just to fix him. . . .”

I blank out.

I’m at school—Honors Geometry—leaning back in my chair as Mr. Thomas explains Theorem 2.2, something about angles and Transitive and Reflexive and Definition of Congruent Angles, and seriously, I’m freaking out because I don’t know this stuff.

I stretch my hands because for some reason, they feel so stiff. That only happens right after I use my powers. I haven’t used my powers since . . . since I tried to hit Nate Gilmore with a brick, who’s gotten better over the past few days. Even then, I didn’t really use my powers, except to maybe power the bricks to go far, but really.

My head’s also been getting some wild headaches, like it hurts for three minutes, then goes away completely, only to come thirty minutes later. I’d tried to take ibuprofen, but the headache keeps coming back. And my hands, I’ve tried to use lotion, but it won’t work.

What if I’m turning into a reptile? Like, with dry skin. Headaches must be a side effect. But I don’t wanna be a friggin’ reptile. I’m fine being Brick—

“Are you okay?” Isaiah, next to me, asks. He’s looking real stern, like this really affects him. It’s not like the, ‘Oh, are you okay?’ concerned, good Samaritan stern. It’s just stern.

“Uh, yeah,” I answer, looking at Isaiah oddly.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I am,” which is almost like a snap, which gets Isaiah to look at me oddly, and then he snaps his fingers, nodding as if he understands, which is an improvement because I don’t.

“I know your secret,” he says reassuringly.

What secret? Why should be reassuring?

Isaiah continues, reassuringly and enigmatic, “I was there when Roboto hit you. I was the guy with the heat rays. After you go hit you, I got one of my friends—he’s a healer—to fix you up. . . . I brought you to your house right after. I didn’t want you to ask questions. But you look a little sick so . . .”

“Uh, what’re you talking about?” I smile, almost on the verge of laughing, just in case this is a joke. It’s not really humorous when you think about it. Whenever I seem like I’m laughing, I’m not really at all. It’s more like a forceful laugh, but my laugh now must look like a cringe of disgust because my head’s aching and I’m so goddamn hot in an ugly way.

“You don’t know?” Isaiah looks at me incredulously.

“No, I don’t.” I seriously don’t know. Did something really happen to me? Is that why my head hurts and my hands feel stiff? But I would know. I know I would know.

No. Nothing happened to me. I’m not hurt. Isaiah must be crazy or high . . . or he might just be playing a joke on me, ‘Ha, ha, the ugly guy fell for the joke. Does he think he’s Brick? What a loser.’ Shit, how could I think that Isaiah’s a good guy, that he’s not your stereotypical jock? I’m such an idiot. I’m such a loser. Of course Isaiah’s playing a joke on me. Everyone thinks that I want to be a mutant, that I’m not a mutant, that I’m a wannabe poser, that I’m trying to be Batman—a hero who has no powers. I’m NOT Batman. I’m BRICK! And I’m not a fucking wannabe poser. I’m a real, live mutant.

Before I realize it, the bell rings, so I hoist my backpack into my arms and push past Isaiah towards the door. He tries to stop me, but I ignore him.

“Hey, Brick.”

I accidentally lodge part of my reed down my throat, so my throat feels like it’s being slashed in half, and that’s why I’m choking while I feel a freezing hand pat my shoulder. I swear it’s so cold that I can feel my shirt stick to the hand.

I fake a ludicrous face and snort, laughing, “Who? Me?”

And then the cold hand plops down next to me, and I immediately feel freezing. Thank fucking God, I’ve been sweltering hot these past couple of days. But that praise is short-lived when I see that junior healer mutant, who dubbed me ‘Peter Parker’ or ‘Spider-Man’. What the fuck does he want?

“You know, I’m gonna invite you to a Halloween party that’s happening tomorrow. You up for it?”

I stare at him, and he stares back, and I stare even more, my eyes widening, and I stick my reed to the side of my mouth and say, “I don’t even know you.”

The mutant kid looks at me like I should be kidding. What is with people, that they keep looking at me like that? “You really don’t know me? I’m Colin—Isaiah’s friend. I’m sure you know Isaiah, right?”

I nod and take my reed out of my mouth, applying it to my sax’s mouth piece, look at Colin, and nod grimly, saying, “Yeah.”

“Don’t get mad at ‘Saiah. He’s not farting around with you. He wants to know you’re safe. He’s like that. I broke my collarbone last week, skateboarding. He didn’t know I was a mutie, so he was freakin’ out, whipping him phone out, about to call the police, till I got up and shut his phone off.”

“I’m not mad at him—”

“Uh, yeah, you are.”

“No, I’m not. When I say I’m not, I’m not.”

Colin smirks and crosses his arms, leaning back in chair, which means he’s prepared to stay here for the whole period if it means that I’ll not stay mad at Isaiah, and then he says, “You know, Julie? The girl who plays the timpani? Yeah, well, she’s a telepath. She knows you’re lying.”

What is this—Mutant Coming Out Day? First Isaiah comes out to me, then Colin, and now Julie the Timpani Girl? Why me? Why is everyone obsessed with telling me they’re a mutant? And why do people care if I’m mad at Isaiah? I mean, we’re not even in the same social circle or even near each other! I hang out with the band kids and the obnoxious annoying kids—kids who think they’re so unique when they say, ‘Who cares what people think?’ (I hate people that like. It’s not unique to not care what people think because deepdeepdeep down they do care. They’re just ignorant. They just want to make themselves better than us.)

Isaiah, on the other hand, hangs out with the popular, laid-back kids. Those kids are the smart, popular kids, so I don’t get why everyone wants us to be so great together, like best, best friends. Sure, I’ll be friends with the guy, but if I’m not, what’s everyone’s problem? It’s not like I’m vital to his health, or that he’s gonna go crazy without my friendship.

Not to mention, who wants to look like an ugly guy?

There’s this girl in my class. She has thick brown hair up to the crook of her arm. It’s so straggly that no matter what she does with it, it looks like a big mass of pubic hair growing out of her head. Her teeth are even worse than her hair. They’re spaced out like a centimeter apart, small like baby teeth, with brown dots. Every time she opens her mouth, I wanna puke. Her posture always slants forward. If she’s standing, she’s slanting. If she’s sitting, she’s slanting. If she’s asleep, she’s probably slanting. If she shaved her head, closed her mouth, stood still, and never spoke, she’d probably look presentable.

I imagine I look like that, but not as hideous. I imagine people would use that girl, Nicola, as a comparison to me. Say, if some people were to ask the question, “That’s like dating Nicola or Parker. Ew, you freak!”

Miss Okata, the band teacher, raises her baton and hits her stand three times, signaling the start of band, and I can see her eyeing Colin next to me, raising her eyebrows, telling him to go back to his seat as a trumpet.

So Colin looks at me, saying, “I’m just saying. Listen to Isaiah. See, he’s a mutant too. He helped you last night, and he asked me to help you. He likes you—probably too much for my liking, but it’s not my problem. You’re his problem, so you better fix yourself.”

I walk to the lunchroom with Matty Choi ‘cause I’ve started talking to him again. However walking with Matty Choi means I’ll have to be walking with Dave Young, the most irritating, cold guy ever. I don’t understand how Matty can stomach talking to Dave, much less kiss him.

Ugh, terrible image.

So I adjust my backpack, ignore the whispers and grins I pass throughout the halls. (Goddamn it, people, we know I’m like Nicola-standards now!) I glance towards Matty, who I just realize is talking to me avidly about how he heard how Brick was beaten by Roboto, and I’m looking at him, like ‘Is he collaborating with Isaiah and Colin? Is Matty, the kid who’s being ostracized for being gay, is hanging out with Isaiah and Colin?’

We take a left out of the freshman hallway—yes, Matty and Dave, but most likely Matty because Dave is a sourpuss, took the time to go from the sophomore hallway to the freshman hallway to meet me because I matter to them . . . er, him . . . ish—and into the cafeteria, and I groan, which sounds a little like a moan (don’t mind me, I’m terrible at sound effects. I sound like I’m having sex when I’m crapping.), so Dave looks at me and says,

“Are you jerking off or something?” and that gets Matty laughing, and I don’t find it particularly funny, so I just point to our regular lunch table, the lunch table we sit at when I actually talk to Matty, and it turns out to be populated with swarms of girls and guys, and I think, ‘Aashgertdsfs, is the whole school trying to corrupt me?’

When some kid—I think her name is Kelsey Grey—shouts my name, “Parker, over here!”

And I blush and grab a seat next to our resident BIG GUY! Yes, there is a need for caps because the guy is HUGE! He’s like the Blob, but instead of invulnerability, I think his power would be to eat me alive. I think he could fit me all in his mouth if he tried.

Matty shrugs, and Dave, being Dave of course, follows. Dave, I think, lost most of his friends after coming out. His friends were homophobes and/or kids who think it’s cool to be a homophobe, so that’s why Dave complies with Matty’s every request. I used to think it was pathetic, before I realized that if he were to lose Matty, then he’d lose everything, and he might go off and jump off the school—which isn’t really all that high, only a floor, so he’d probably break his neck and his leg and be in so much pain. Imagine what kind of torture that is!

I faintly hear Kelsey Grey screaming, “Fine! Parker! Don’t sit with us! We don’t want you!” Laughter and snort, “Who am I kidding? Yeah, we do!”

I scoff and ignore them, opting to talk to Matty, while I try to disregard how Matty leans into Dave—subtly though so he doesn’t make the atmosphere awkward—and so I ask, “What’d you say about Brick?”

Matty grins, and I remind myself of how much of a huge fan Matty is of Brick. He even once confided in me that he had a crush on him, Brick, and that’s pretty awkward to see that my friend obsessed over my alter ego. Still, I guess it’s pretty awesome to see that along with enemies, I now have fans! I appeal to both sexes!

Not that I would go for either sex.

It’s not that I’m asexual.

It’s just that . . .

You know what, shut up. You don’t know anything. You don’t know me. Shut up, you stupid reader. Don’t look at the paper like that. Shut up.

“So I read this in the Home News Tribune. See, apparently, Roboto had gotten better powers and junk, so some other mutant showed up—a guy with heat rays—and tries to defeat Roboto himself. And this is where it gets wild! Brick shows up in his signature sunglasses, and Roboto knocks him down! So Brick shoots fire from his hands, melting Roboto’s face! Remember I told you that I heard Brick’s hands split open when he creates his fire? Maybe Roboto heard this ‘cause he sends a swarm of mosquitoes and leeches and bees to Brick! Then all of a sudden, the guy with the heat rays goes crazy! He starts punching Roboto over and over and over again! Then finally when Spider-Man and Iron Man come along, Roboto’s on the ground—maybe dead, I dunno, they won’t say! And Brick’s gone! So is the guy with the heat rays!”

Heat rays. I remember someone said something about heat rays. It was this morning in band. And in math! Someone said something about heat rays and a mutant—a mutant with heat rays. Math, math, math. Mr. Thomas was talking, and I was looking at my hands, and Isaiah was talking to me, and—ISAIAH!

So he was telling the truth, and that means Colin was telling the truth.

But why can’t I remember? And why do I feel so guilty?

I don’t know how I ended up at this Halloween party. Apparently, I’m a doctor, and apparently, I borrowed my dad’s scrub and lab coat. (Do doctors even call it a lab coat?) Then apparently, I managed to get over here even though I CAN’T drive. I suspect someone from the Underground Mutant Society at my school telepathically controlled my mind so that I was some kind of voodoo doll.

There’s not actually an Underground Mutant Society. It’s just that I didn’t expect there to be so many mutants. There are only about 198 known-powered mutants. I’m one of the few that seem to be hidden. There are just so many depowered mutants that I didn’t expect there to be anyone else but me at my school.

So I’m standing in the corner of the packed room, watching some kid—I think his name is Garrett—make his own dance to Nobody’s Perfect by Hannah Montana. It’s oddly humorous, but I don’t laugh. I’m not a laughing person. I’m a dull boring person. I’m an ugly person.

Ugly people should not laugh.

“Nobody's perfect/ I gotta work it/ Again and again till I get it right. . . !”

I hear my ears crack when a voice tries to sing along to Hannah Montana, and then I realize it’s Isaiah, dressed up as a doctor and Dracula—a Doctor Vampire, and shit, if I haven’t heard this doctor vampire thing before—and my heart cringes and spazzes inside my chest, and I’m screaming to myself, “SAY YOU’RE SORRY!” but I can’t initiate a conversation. I don’t know Isaiah that much. All I know is that he worries about his friends, he’s a mutant, and for some odd reason, he saved me, so I gotta say I’m sorry for fucking with him, and I gotta thank him for saving me, and I gotta . . . gotta . . . gotta—

Why is it always hot? It’s OCTOBER!

“You just gonna stand there and stare at me—?” Isaiah cracks a grin, and I can’t help but wonder how he can be so cheerful at a time like this, when I’m going crazy and my heart won’t stop spazzing from anxiety. STOP BEING SO NERVOUS!

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, and I’m staring at the floor, flustered and embarrassed, and contemplating to become The Todd and cut off the sleeves of my scrubs because it’s so damn hot.

“No, I don’t mind. I like being stared at.” Then Isaiah winks and laughs, and that creeps me a whole ton. I don’t like winks. It means people are laughing at me. It also could mean that people like me, but who wants to like an ugly guy?

Except Nicola.

So I take a step back.

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that, y’know?” Isaiah apologizes so sincere I feel guilty, so I take a step forward.

“Whatever,” I say. “Thank you for saving me back there.”

“No problem. . . . I think the reason you don’t remember any of it is ‘cause—Colin explained this to me—that sometimes when he heals, the victims don’t remember what caused their injuries. I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks. I was wondering that.”

No, I wasn’t. I didn’t even think about it. I thought I just became stupid. After all, I did get a 78 on my geometry test.

Silence passes, and we don’t speak for a while. These two kids, Mary and Kyle, are video-taping this whole event. They’re going around the room, and I don’t really notice them because I’m not really aware of my surroundings—which may or may not make me a bad superhero, I don’t know—until I realize that the lens of the video camera is pointed toward me and Isaiah. It’s sort of but not really subtly hidden between the masses of bodies talking, walking, standing, drinking, smoking, laughing, dancing, and occasionally peeing. But I see the video camera, so I pretend not to see it so that I don’t ruin whatever they’re going for. I don’t want to displease anyone. I’m like a servant to the hierarchy.

“You watch Scrubs?” Isaiah asks randomly.

I grin, trying to hide my over-anxiousness to gush about how J.D. hates Keith, how the Janitor pretended to be a doctor, and how Elliot’s new haircut is much better than her old one, and . . . and . . . WHOA!

Then Isaiah grins, and then he takes a step forward, and then he grins and says, “Ever watch that episode where J.D. starts to fall for Kim, the urologist?”

My throat is dry. “Yeah?”

Isaiah takes a step forward again. We’re almost chest-to-chest. “J.D. bit her neck—”

“—because he was Dr. Acula,” I finish, and I try to take a step back.

“I’m Dr. Acula, now.”

“Oh?” my throat rasps.

“I guess that makes you Kim, the urologist.” Isaiah smiles.

“I’m a girl?” I try to laugh. I just bite my lip from discomfort.

“But I’m not a biter. Biters are creepy,” Isaiah laughs so easily, I wonder if this is still a joke.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Um . . .”

“I’m just joking with you. I’m not a biter. Promise.”

“What am I promising to?”

“You know, I always found you intriguing.”

“But you’re not answering my question.” Stupid shithead, answer my question!

“I don’t think you want what I have in mind.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow, Saturday, at seven PM, at the Mega Movies.”

"Why? Are you asking me out?”

"Would you be offended if I said yes?"

"Yeah.”

“So you’ll go out with me?”

“No. I meant, ‘yes’, I’m offended.”

“Ah, well, that’s too bad. I guess I’m just gonna have to force you to come.”

Isaiah leans in, like he's gonna tell a secret, and pecks my cheek.