Page 15 of All Superheroes Need PR
I step out onto the low porch, a surprisingly warm breeze rolling in from the driveway where Mr. Singkham stands in front of a parked black SUV. He steps away from it when he sees me and, to his credit, masks his momentary shock at my presentation with a bright smile and a small wave. I pretend not to notice the way he completes a quick scan of my outfit before returning his gaze to my face, his expression one of utmost professionalism.
I don’t bother with my favorite nervous gesture: trying to smooth down my clothing. If I do, it’ll just make Minnie’s ears flop around at best and, at worst, draw more attention to the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. Instead, I actually manage to use the few parts of my brain that weren’t obliterated by day red the day before to focus on my breathing techniques. Five counts in, five-count hold, five-count release. I manage two cycles before Mr. Singkham and I come close enough to shake hands, though we don’t.
“Mr. Singkham, I wasn’t expecting you,” I say stupidly, my voice a little hoarse. Of course I wasn’t expecting him. I’m in my Minnie pajamas!
Mr. Singkham glances over my shoulder, and I know he’s looking at the kitchen window where my brothers are eavesdropping. David claimshe can read lips—he can’t—but I don’t doubt they’ll all be clustered there trying their best. My lips twitch. I don’t mind them watching, really. I’m braver with them there.
My trust in them wasn’t instantaneous. When I moved into the house, I was terrified. My caseworker hadn’t cared that I was a thirteen-year-old girl alone in a house with four boys, two of whom were older than me. It took me almost six weeks before I realized that they might not be interested in hurting me—they mostly ignored me—and three months after that to be sure of it.
Charlie was already in high school, Mani was just four, and Luca hadn’t been born yet, but Vinny, David, and I were at the same middle school. I didn’t have any friends, but a group of nice girls started inviting me to lunch. They didn’t make me talk or ask me personal questions. They didn’t make fun of my hair or the fact that I was a foster kid. They just ... let me be and included me.
I felt really stupid for not realizing that Vinny was dating one of the girls’ older sisters and had set the whole thing up. And a few weeks after that, I realized that they weren’t just uninterested in harming me; they actually maybe even wanted to help me.
A group of basketball players took turns asking me to the winter dance as a joke, and Vinny and David beat the crap out of them, and Charlie beat up one of the guys’ older brothers. They all got suspended for three days. And then I knew that they weren’t just interested in helping me as a pity case, but maybe evenlikedme, when Elena and William didn’t punish them for getting suspended. Instead, they pulled me out of school on their suspension days and took the whole family on a trip to Florida to celebrate.
And finally, I realized they might evenloveme when, two months later, Elena quietly sat me down and offered me adoption paperwork. She gave me every assurance in the world that they’d do their best to do right by me but that she wouldn’t dare try to pressure me into it, that I could remain a foster and they would try to find me a family I liked better, if it came to that.
That was the same moment that I realized I might have even loved them back.
Staring at Mr. Singkham now, I let the overwhelming presence of my family hold me up like a buttress and cross my arms tightly over my chest. I inhale and exhale with slow, measured breaths.
“Ms. Theriot, I offer my deepest apologies for bothering you on a Saturday.”
I wait, unsure if this is the type of sentence that requires a response. When he doesn’t say more but watches me expectantly, I stutter, “I, um ... yes?”
He exhales roughly, the wind tousling his perfect hair. It looks less gelled today than it did yesterday, and even though he’s wearing a tie, it’s a little off, the tail sticking out longer than the front bit. Is Mr. Singkham ... disheveled? “Thank you for coming outside to speak with me. What I’m about to share with you is in the utmost confidence. In that vein, I must request that any camera system your family might have here be disengaged.”
I jerk my thumb back toward the house. “My dad—he, uh, has a shotgun.”
The dusting of Mr. Singkham’s eyebrows rise, causing creases in his otherwise flawless forehead. “Pardon me?”
“Sorry, I meant that he has a shotgun instead of a security system. He doesn’t use cameras.”
“Oh. Well then.” Mr. Singkham glances back at my house again. “That’s excellent,” he says, but very unconvincingly, closing the distance between us another half step. The air is sticky with summer’s approaching warmth. I focus on that feeling, on the strange reminder it brings of the Pyro—of Mr. Casteel—and the way he’d felt just like this approaching me in the boardroom and then at the bar, like the promise of summer ... before dropping winter’s axe over my head.
I know my body language isn’t inviting when he glances down at my crossed arms, my slippered feet angled away from him, and stops his advance. He swallows.Swallows.Like he’s ... nervous. Oh no.
“Wh-what happened?” I gasp.
“Happened? Oh, you misunderstand, Ms. Theriot. I don’t come here today to rehash any of the unpleasantness from Friday—yesterday,” he blurts, as if having lost track of time. “Frankly, I come on a much ... friendlier mission than that.”
Friendly? I don’t dare say the word aloud. I just keep my head cocked and my face twisted up as I try desperately to understand what the fuck is going on. My brain is still sluggish, using fingernails and sheer grit to claw its way up a mountain of coherency. Is he ... speaking English right now?
Mr. Singkham licks his lips, checks his tie, and when he looks at me next, his shoulders sag ... he just looks defeated. “Ms. Theriot, the nature of my request is, frankly, an embarrassing one, and no matter its outcome, I must ask that nothing I say to you here be shared outside of my confidence.” It’s a bold ask. The day red has long since drained from my system, which means I’m not nearly drunk enough to ignore the profoundly inappropriate nature of his request. Anything that we previously discussed was protected by the NDAs in our previous—now voided—contract, but he and I have no more contracts left between us. My team and I left his offices yesterday with hands empty and tails tucked.
“If this is a contractual question,” I say, swallowing hard, “I’m going to have to ask us to move this meeting to my offices where Jem—where my legal team can review ...”
He takes a step toward me and places a hand over the lapel of his royal-blue suit. I counter by taking a step back and don’t miss the way his front teeth bite together. Nerves sweep my body. The tension is unbearable. “This is extremely uncomfortable, Ms. Theriot, but the concerns I have with ... I don’t mean to put you in an uncomfortable position, but I came to speak not with The Riot Creative but withyou.Personally.”
I frown.Me?I point at my chest.
Mr. Singkham nods. “Mr. Casteel has come to me with an unusual proposal.”
I feel my facial muscles perform cartwheels and backflips, a circus all unto their own. “He’s ... reconsidering working with the COE?”
“Do I have your word, Ms. Theriot? That you will not broadcast what I say next?” He glances shiftily to the side.
I really hate to agree, but I also recognize that thereisn’ta contract between us. He can ask me not to say anything, but he can’t bind me to it, which means right now he’s not actually asking for my confidence. He’s asking for my trust. Nerves and a profound sense of curiosity combine to form my next sentence. Just a word: “Yes.”
