I nod again, absorbing it all. It’s not that shocking really, like Liesel said, people love to put people in boxes. I’m sure if I’d been more honest and trusting in my life I’d have ended up in a mental institution too. I’m sure ‘I’m a superhero’ doesn’t go over well with doctors. Hell, it’s a big part of why I left Clark. That he’d think I’m insane, that he thought there was something wrong with me, that he thought there was something that had to be ‘fixed.’
But I’m not worried about it with Bryce, maybe I should be, but I just can’t. There’s something special about her, I can feel it in my bones, and I feel good with her, I feel right. And I need it, I realize, need her. I think I’ve been needing her for a long time actually.
By four in the morning we’ve chased off a would-be rapist, stopped six muggings, and returned a lost dog. We both surge with pleasure at our tiny miracles. Bryce and I are perfectly synchronized almost as if we can read each other’s minds and it makes me deliriously happy. Trudging back to the apartment, exhausted from our evening of superheroing, we come across something much more dangerous. I stop in the middle of the street, the burning fills my chest powerfully. Bryce looks around cautiously, reading my signals as if we share a primal link.
“Where?” she breathes. I point to a small corner store, warm yellow light pouring into the dark of the city. We walk without speaking into the store and immediately separate.
I’m looking at about nine different kinds of Doritos when a guy bursts into the bodega and pulls a gun. Bryce is on the other side feigning a great interest in batteries and when the gun comes out she starts the waterworks immediately.
“Hands in the air!” the gunman screams at the clerk. Two men not far from Bryce stare at him as if they’ve stepped into some strange nightmare. The clerk’s hands are up, the color, long-drained from his face, and the gunman spins wildly on the rest of us, although I don’t think he can see me. The two bystanders hit the ground in unison, nearly knocking themselves out with the speed. And this is when Bryce makes her move. Eyes full of tears and clutching at herself hysterically she moves toward him.
“Oh my god!” she wails. “Please…please don’t hurt me.” The gunman swings frantically back in her direction; nearly smacking her in the face with his gun she’s so close. But one look at her, all distraught and beautiful and he softens. It’s a visible effect, the gun lowering and then pulling away completely as he bends his arm and leaves it resting lightly on his shoulder, the gun by his ear, his body language mostly relaxed. I’m behind him now but I can imagine his expression, I’ve seen it before when men get an eyeful of Bryce. The beginnings of a smile, one that eventually breaks widely across the face into something less innocent the longer it lingers.
“Honey, it’s gonna be fine, just get on the floor, real slow…” As he talks, Bryce carefully begins to crouch down as if to obey. I sidle up behind him and in a flash of movement, snatch the gun from his hand, breaking his wrist. He cries out, but before he can turn to face me, Bryce springs to her feet and throws a perfect right cross that sends him flying into a display of hostess treats. Bryce has a beautiful right cross – much prettier than mine. It’s happened so fast that neither of the bystanders have even looked up and the clerk’s mouth has only dropped open wider. I set the gun on the counter and Bryce and I smile at the clerk like idiot children expecting a cookie. He relaxes instantly. And instead of saying anything (or giving us a cookie) he hands Bryce a wad of small bills for our trouble. We nod our thanks, smiles still plastered on our faces, and leave without a word. As we near the end of the block I can hear him chattering on the phone to the police while he yells obscenities at the unconscious gunman on the floor of his store. Bryce and I buy gelato at an all night deli in the tiny bit of Little Italy at the edge of Chinatown and lick our spoons as we walk home, content with our place in the world.
“Next time, do you want to be the decoy?” Bryce asks between bites. I glance sideways at her.
“I don’t think I’ve got the um…necessary assets,” I say.
Bryce laughs genially. “Sure you do. It’s all about the performance anyway.”
“I don’t really think I’d be good at that part either,” I say.
“Suit yourself,” she shrugs. “You know, I heard these two guys in the park today talking about something going down tomorrow night. I think we should check it out,” she says.
“Okay,” I say.