Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect Page 7

  “As long as both of you are okay,” Joe says, moving past me to scoop Farley up in his hands. The boy never stirs. “Why don’t you settle up with Carrie, hon, I’ll get Farley to bed.”

  “I think bedtime is in order all around,” Dr. Quentin says. Taking the hint, Kilroy and Meg wish me goodnight and shuffle off to bed.

  “G’night, Carrie,” Joe says on his way out. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Yes, thank you, Carrie, we appreciate your time — as do the police, I’m sure,” Dr. Quentin says. “Would a check be all right? Or do you use PayPal?”

  “Uh, check’s fine,” I say. Dr. Quentin fishes her checkbook out of her purse. I know I’m tempting fate by asking, but, “You’re not upset about what happened tonight?”

  “Why would I be upset? It was hardly your fault some imbecile nearly destroyed the ice cream shop with his experimental battlesuit,” she says with a complete lack of interest, as though such things were normal, everyday occurrences...which, in our world, I suppose it is. “If I’m to reprimand anyone, it will be Farley. You told him to go home, he disobeyed you...”

  “Don’t be too hard on him. He did save my butt, after all.”

  “Nevertheless, he will be spoken to. Children need to know that rules cannot be broken without consequences, regardless of whatever noble intentions drove their decision.” She rips off a check and hands it to me. “Again, thank you for caring for Farley this evening. I hope I can call on you again in the future.”

  “Absolutely. Farley was a total delight. Maybe next time we can get through the rest of The Hobbit.”

  “Oh, he had you read The Hobbit with him? He does like you,” Dr. Quentin says. “Normally he makes his babysitters read The Silmarillion.”

  She has to be messing with me.

  Dr. Quentin escorts me out to the landing pad. I lift off, and for the return trip, I decide to break the sound barrier a few times over in the name of getting home quickly. The evening’s catching up to me and I want nothing more than to crawl into bed.

  Mom is still up when I get home, reading on the couch — no surprises there, but it takes a second for it to hit me: She’s home, and alone. Hmm.

  “Hi, honey, how did the babysitting go?” she says.

  “Fine. Nothing exciting to report,” I say, the lie coming easily. You know what the funny part is? I really have had worse babysitting jobs. “Didn’t expect to see you home tonight.”

  She rolls a shoulder, a lazy shrug. “Dad was worried Ben and I have been moving too fast,” she says casually. “He suggested we slow things down a little, so we’re taking a break this weekend.”

  I can’t stop the smirk from spreading across my lips. “Are you saying Granddad grounded you?”

  “He did not ground me,” Mom says, looking up from her book. “I’m a grown woman. I do not get grounded.”

  Uh-huh. Sure you don’t. Why would you get grounded? After all, all you did was sneak a boy into the house late at night for —

  Okay, stopping there.

  I linger a moment, half-expecting Mom to say something about the other night, perhaps offer an awkward apology, but no, it looks like we’re going to let that particular issue go without further comment. Just as well, I suppose.

  I trudge up to my room, the last of my energy draining out of me, and I fish my check out of my pocket. Maybe I’ll treat myself to something — you know, a just reward for surviving the night. There’s that Bruce Springsteen import box set I’ve had my eye on for a while...

  I finally look at the check. Holy crap.

  Screw the box set. I’m hiring Bruce to play at my birthday party.

  EIGHT

  Right, I have a birthday coming up in two weeks, the big one-six — on the sixteenth, coincidentally, right in-between the Ides of March and St. Patrick’s Day. Interpret that as you will.

  I wake up wondering what I might want to do for my big day. Sixteen is a landmark birthday for girls, or so popular culture has led me to believe. According to MTV, my parents should be doling out insane amounts of money for a party so obscenely indulgent, Jay Gatsby would be like, Whoa, kid, turn it down a notch.

  Passing through the living room, I notice Mom’s photo album sitting on the coffee table. I make some coffee, then sit down and thumb through it. The first page sucker-punches me: it holds only one picture, an eight-by-ten of Mom and Dad holding a newborn Caroline Dakota Hauser. I have a serious case of Bambi eyes going on, and a huge, toothless smile fills my pudgy little face. I looked so happy. We all did.

  As I flip through the pages, I realize the album is a record of my childhood: I’m in every picture. The album hits all the expected milestones (birthdays, special family outings, school events), but a lot of the photographs are candid shots of me engaged in normal kid stuff: playing, coloring, getting ready for Halloween. Around age eight, my tomboy side manifests, big-time. My hair goes into pigtails, my smile takes on an impish edge, and I look mussed all the time. Three pages go by, and not one picture has me in clean clothes.

  I flip the page. It’s another full-page picture, overflowing with memories I’d forgotten I had (if that makes sense). Dad and I are at the Garden (or whatever they’re calling it now) for a hockey game, right behind the Plexiglas surrounding the rink. We’re wearing matching Boston Bruins jerseys, and Dad has one of those ridiculous foam bear heads emblazoned with the Bruins logo (the team’s alternative to the classic foam finger). Judging by our expressions, we were having an absolute blast.

  I know we were: that was our first time going to a Bruins game for my birthday.

  Dad watched hockey religiously. When I was a little kid, I didn’t understand why he got so excited over the games but I knew he loved them, so I wanted to love them too — which was my habit back then: Dad liked something, therefore I had to like it too. My love of Bruce Springsteen, James Bond movies, Sherlock Holmes, The Hobbit, ice hockey — all his fault (which, for the record, is not a complaint). When Dad offered to take me to a game, I of course jumped at the chance. Mom went with us, but she wasn’t into it like we were, so it became a father-daughter birthday tradition. We went every year.

  ...Until I turned into a stuck-up little twit who couldn’t be bothered with such stupid things as hockey and spending quality time with her father. I swear, if I was flexible enough to kick myself in the ass...

  Ah.

  I know what I want to do for my birthday.

  “You want to catch a Bruins game with me?” Dad says, and I wish we were on Skype instead of the phone because I’d love to see his face right now. If he looks as happy as he sounds...

  “Yeah,” I say. “Mom was doing some unpacking, I guess, and she found an old photo album, and I was flipping through it, and I saw an old picture of us at a game, and it reminded me how much I loved going to games with you...long story short —”

  “Too late.”

  “Quiet, you. Anyway, that’s what I’d like for my birthday. You know, if you didn’t have something else planned already.”

  “No, I’m glad you said something. I was lost for gift ideas, what with you being such a stranger to me.”

  He’s joking, but that one stings; we haven’t seen each other since Christmas, which is entirely on me. I tell myself I’ve been busy between school and saving the world (you know: normal life stuff), but that, ladies and gentlemen, is known in proper society as a lame excuse. I don’t want this to become part of my new normal.

  “You still there, honey?”

  “Yeah, sorry, spaced out a little. I had a babysitting job last night, it kept me out a little late.”

  “Ah. Well, you can call it an early night tonight.”

  “No can do. I have a date tonight.”

  “Oh? Is it that Malcolm boy you told me about?” Dad says, trying not to sound too inquisitive.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Hm. Second date, huh? Things are going well between you two, then?”

  “So far, yeah.”

  “Wha
t are you two doing tonight?”

  “No idea, which is a problem considering I asked him out, so it’s all on me to come up with something suitably awesome.”

  Dad chuckles. “You’ll come up with something good, I’m sure,” he says, “but don’t take him to any hockey games. That’s our thing.”

  “I won’t, promise,” I say.

  The phone beeps in my ear. I peek at the screen to see who’s trying to butt in on my quality time, and oh, how not surprised am I?

  “Dad, I have another call coming in, it might be important.”

  “Okay, hon. I’ll give you a shout when I get the tickets.”

  “Cool. Talk to you later. Love you,” I say. My smile vanishes when I jump over to my other call. “Concorde.”

  “I heard what happened at the Quantum Compound last night,” he says, a sense of urgency in his voice.

  “That was fast. What, did Dr. Quentin tell you?”

  “I got a call first thing this morning from the Sturbridge PD.”

  “Oh. Why would they be calling you?”

  “Because of the two nuclear micro-cells they confiscated from the man you took down yesterday.”

  “Okay, that clarifies nothing.”

  “Micro-cells are my technology,” Concorde says — or maybe it would be more appropriate to say it’s Edison Bose speaking to me. “I could be held liable for any damage he caused. I need to know how he got his hands on them.”

  “Yeah, right, sure,” I say with a sigh. I know where this is going. “Give me a few minutes, I’ll zip over so you can debrief me.”

  “I’m at the company all day. You go ahead and file a report on your own.”

  What the what? “File a report on my —? How do I do that? Do I put it in an e-mail or something?”

  “No, that’s not secure. You have to enter it directly into our system at HQ,” Edison says. “I added you to our security system. Check in at the front entrance and the building will let you in.”

  From there, Edison says, I’m to hit the records room in the basement and enter my report on one of the terminals. If he has any questions, he’ll call me. I tell him I’ll take care of it today. He thanks me and hangs up.

  Security access? Filing my own reports? Thank you?

  I’m not sure, but I think I’ve been promoted.

  “Hold on,” Sara says. “Concorde. Gave you security access. To Protectorate headquarters. So you could file an official report. By yourself.”

  “I know. Total madness, right?” I hold up a gray pencil skirt, dangling it in front of my legs. “This?”

  “That’s a great skirt...for a job interview.” I return the skirt to my closet. “I mean, I know Concorde likes you, but wow.”

  “I sometimes wish he wouldn’t like me so much. I feel, I don’t know, like I’m cheating on the Squad with the Protectorate. How’re these?” I say, holding up a pair of dark jeans.

  “Not bad. Maybe? It’d help if I knew what you were doing tonight.”

  Yes, yes it would. “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

  “You’re not cheating on the team, you’re helping the Protectorate. Completely different things.”

  “I guess.”

  “Look at it this way, then: You’re not cheating on the Squad; you’re our goodwill ambassador.”

  I crack a smile. “Goodwill ambassador, huh?”

  “Sure. As long as you’re on Concorde’s good side, he’ll cut the team as a whole some slack.”

  “Hm. Any chance you can convince Matt to see it your way? I’d rather not deal with one of his hissy-fits again. You know, ply him with your feminine wiles?”

  “Ha! I think you have all the feminine wiles in the group. Missy’s too cute and innocent, and I’m too...well, look at me,” Sara says, holding her arms out in presentation.

  When we’re alone like this, Sara will sometimes take off whatever bag of a top she’s wearing, and I get a rare glimpse of the girl hiding underneath. She’s bulked up a bit since we first met, but she is and will always be rail-thin; she has a naturally willowy build, like a ballerina, with little in the way of curves. Couple that with her pale complexion and her untamable hair and she is, in her own opinion, a hot mess, sans the hot. She is, in my opinion, selling herself criminally short.

  “You stop it. And seriously, you have Matt wrapped around your little finger. Bat your eyes and give him a smile, and that boy would shave his head and paint himself hot pink if you asked him to.”

  Sara fidgets, as she tends to whenever I broach the subject of her and Matt in a romantic context — which I keep doing, even though I know damn well it makes her uncomfortable. She may be in denial of her feelings, but I shouldn’t be pushing her to deal with them.

  Besides, I have my own romance-related issues to address and, how long to figure something out? My alarm clock says it’s T-minus three hours, which is, like, ten minutes in girl-getting-ready-for-a-date time.

  “Gaahhh! Why can’t I think of anything to do? This is stupid! There are a million things to do in the world and I can’t think of one, one that doesn’t totally suck,” I rant. “Malcolm’s going to be here at five and he’ll ask me what we’re doing for our date and I’ll be like, ‘Duuhhhh, I don’t know, because I can’t brain to save my life today!’ What are you laughing at?”

  “You. Look at you,” Sara says. “I’ve seen you punch holes through giant mechs, zap demons, you once grabbed a ticking nuke out of Concorde’s hands, and you’re freaking out over a date.” She shakes her head. “I think the most dangerous little girl on Cape Cod would be embarrassed by you.”

  Hello, inspiration.

  Malcolm arrives at my house at precisely five o’clock. I like a punctual man.

  “Hey, you. Come on in, I’ll be ready to go as soon as I throw on my sneakers,” I say. Malcolm enters and takes a deep sniff of the air. Mom (who continues to insist that she is not grounded) is experimenting with a new manicotti recipe, so the house is thick with yummy dinnery smells. I almost hate to subject Malcolm to a common restaurant.

  “Your house smells awesome,” Malcolm says.

  “We could have dinner here if you’d like.” Oh, crap, did I suggest we have dinner with my mother? On our second date? No! Retract! Retract!

  Malcolm, thank God, saves me from my own stupidity. “I don’t want to put your mom out.”

  “Okay.” I call out to Mom, letting her know I’m leaving for the evening, and book it out the door before she can corner us.

  Our dinner, pizza at this out-of-the-way place I discovered, pales in comparison to what we could have had at home, but it’s good food, and it affords us a chance to talk without pesky distractions like receiving an education or bonding with the family. Our waitress, sensing the dateness of our dinner, positively glows at us each time she stops by our table to check in.

  After we leave the restaurant, I suggest a quick swing by Coffee E for a hot beverage to take with us to our final destination. Malcolm raises a curious eyebrow but doesn’t ask me where we’re going; he’d rather be surprised – and oh, is he ever surprised when we roll up to —

  “The town ice rink?” he says.

  “Uh-huh. We’re going skating,” I say.

  “Man, I haven’t been on skates in ages.”

  “If you’re worried about looking bad, don’t, because neither have I.”

  We go inside and rent our skates. Mine are worn and battered, the leather dull and scuffed. The laces are mismatched: white on one skate, brown on the other. I should be dreading whatever foot-eating fungus might be lurking inside these ancient, abused things, but I’m instead hit with a pang of wistfulness. I miss having my own skates.

  Whenever the rink isn’t hosting a game for one of the local recreational leagues or for the regional high school league, it’s open to the public. The public tonight is on the light side; there’s a couple of guys at the far end taking turns slapping a puck into a net, and a group of young girls skating in a circle, legs shaking an
d arms outstretched in anticipation of a fall — girls who have never been on the ice before. Two women clap and shout words of encouragement, even though their legs aren’t any steadier than the girls’.

  “You must think I’m a special kind of crazy to want to spend the night in a cold ice rink,” I say.

  “Maybe,” Malcolm says, “but it’s still warmer in here than outside.”

  “Sadly, that is true.”

  We sit on one of the bleacher benches and slip into our skates. “What gave you this idea?”

  “My Mom was showing her, um...” Say it, Carrie. Get it over with. “My Mom was showing her boyfriend an old photo of me back when I played hockey. It reminded me how much fun I had playing, so...”

  “You played hockey? Huh,” Malcolm says with mild surprise. “Were you any good?”

  “According to my mother, I was a rabid pit bull on skates.”

  He laughs. “Do I have to worry about you checking me into the boards?”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Checking you into the boards. Listen to you, with the lingo.”

  “Speaking of your mother’s new boyfriend, how are things going with him?”

  “From Mom’s perspective, fine,” I say.

  “But from yours, not so much.”

  “No. I mean, I feel bad because Ben seems like an okay guy, and he hasn’t done anything to make me dislike him.” Well, almost anything. God, I can still hear their stupid giggling.

  “And yet...”

  “And yet...”

  “You should give him a fair chance,” Malcolm says, and something tells me it’s not an empty sentiment. He proves me right. “My mom — my birth mother, I mean — died when I was six. Breast cancer. Dad started dating my step-mom a little over a year later. I spent the next year hating her. She didn’t do anything to deserve it, but I couldn’t see past the fact she wasn’t Mom.”

  I take his hand. “What changed?”

  “Nothing, really. She understood what I was feeling, and why, and she let me work through it on my own. She made sure to be there for me when I needed her, but she never pushed me to accept her.” He shrugs. “She’s my mother now.”