Page 13 of The Penalty

That’s an easy one. “Business. You?”

“You are such an amazing conversationalist. I see I’m going to have my work cut out for me with you. I’ll be digging for days just to find out if you had any pets when you were a kid.”

Somewhere on the trip through the winding paths of the massive convention space, she picked up my hand, but I pull it away, running it along the top of my close-cropped hair.

“What? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. Sometimes I don’t feel like sharing either. How about we make a deal? No last names, nothing too personal, and we keep it fun and easy for the weekend. I have to prepare myself for the end of summer. I’m moving to a new school, and I’ve got to get serious about it. Business is not my vibe, but that’s what I’m taking too.”

I relax a little with the attention off my life. Plus, I’m curious to learn more about her. “What do you want to be taking?”

“Animation, graphic design. I love drawing and writing stories. What I want most in the world is to become one of these people.” She spins around, sweeping her arms at the room.

“A nerd?” I ask, keeping a straight face.

“He can joke! Nice. Well, I’m already one of those. No, that’s not it. I want to create my own comic books and graphic novels.”

Interesting. I don’t have any drawing skills of my own, but there are so many amazing artists I admire. Being able to create something beautiful with your hands is such a gift. But I’m thebrawn, not the artist. My hands were made for more destructive things.

“What kind? Do you have any finished work?”

“I haven’t published anything, but I’ve been drawing and telling stories since I was a little kid. I made my first comic book when I was eight. It was about a sentient rock who made friends with a bunny rabbit and a little girl. They got soaked in a puddle of radioactive sludge and gained superpowers.”

I laugh. “I’d read that.”

“That’s a hard no. It was terrible. No need to humor me. I was eight, but my skills have grown considerably since then. Now I’m working on a graphic novel, and I want to make comics for people like me.”

“Beautiful nerds?” I ask, loving the hint of pink creeping up her neck.

“No, but thank you. Plus-sized girls. There has never been enough diverse female representation in comic books. Even the ones with over-the-top powers are hyper sexualized. Objects for the admiration of men. All thin and gorgeous, with perfect hair flowing in a smooth waterfall over their shoulders in every panel. It doesn’t matter what raging battle they’re in the middle of.” Her hands are flying almost as fast as her words. “I’ve never seen myself in those books and that’s what I want. A gorgeous, powerful woman with curves kicking ass and taking names. Not afraid to get a little messy.”

“Sounds good. I’m in.”

“You’re in?”

“Yes, I want to read it. Sign me up.”

“Okay. It’s not ready yet...” She’s curling in on herself, confident excitement waning.

“That’s fine. Let me know when it is. And I’d love to see some of your art. If you’re into sharing.” I think I’ve talked to her more than anyone else over the summer and I work in a comic book store part time. At least some of the time, I’m obligated to talk to the customers. Although a lot of them are taciturn nerds like me, so it’s not too bad.

“I’ll think about it. See how the weekend goes. If you turn out to not be a creep, I’ll consider it.”

I’ve got nothing except a slight shake of her head. She basically claimed me on sight and now she’s wondering whether I’m a creep. It worries me that her creep radar is so quiet. I’m not one, but all kinds of men out there would take advantage of her openness.

“Not a creep.”

“Whatever you say, Castle. The Punisher is a pretty dark costume for a non creep.” The little smirk is back.

“Okay, Black Widow.” The Punisher is a complicated character. But he became the man he was because he loved his family so much it destroyed him when they were murdered. I envy him that love. That kind of utter selfless devotion can’t exist in real life. Not mine, at least.

We didn’t need to split up for the rest of the afternoon. She told me I could go off and do my own thing if I wanted. Ifthere were any panels or booths or anything I wanted to see that she wasn’t into. But there wasn’t. Our agendas matched. We wanted to go to all the same panels. We were excited about the same speakers. It was comfortable. Familiar. A strange experience that’s left me a little off balance. I’m wary of new people, guarded even around some of my teammates.

So, as we’re leaving Hall A after the philosophy session, her warm hand slips into mine, and she leans in close, resting her red-wigged head on my shoulder.

“I can’t wait to get this thing off,” she says, reaching up to scratch at her scalp.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she wants help, but that won’t work. I can’t bring her back to the hostel where I’m sharing a room with seven strangers. That’s the equivalent of bringing someone you met on a dating app back to your room in your parents’ house.

“Any chance you could help me?”

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