Page 10 of All Superheroes Need PR
Chapter ThreeVanessa
Where am I? There are people shouting. “Jesus Christ, who the fuck are you ...”
“Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m gonna fucking ...”
I must be dreaming because the voices sound familiar. A murmured response is followed immediately by, “Brother? She ... Margerie said I should bring her here. She lives with you?”
Another murmured response is drowned out by a louder voice that shouts, “What the fuck did you do?”
“Jesus Christ ...”
“Hand her over and get the fuck out of here, asshole.” Is that the sound of a shotgun being racked?
“Jesus Christ ...”
“Where’s Elena?”
“Jesus Christ ...”
“Don’t you curse in this house, boy! And don’t you dare fire that gun!”
“Where’s Elena?”
“Jesus Christ ...”
“Stop saying Jesus fucking Christ!”
I’m cold, then I’m hot, then I’m cold again, then I’m nice and dry and toasty warm, and people are bringing me things to drink, and right at the point that I think I might throw up again, consciousness eludes me.
Chapter FourVanessa
My brothers are pissed. Not quite as pissed as the Pyro was when I met him or when I threw up on him yesterday, but pissed enough. Last time I saw them this pissed off collectively was when I told them that I was moving out of our parents’ house to live on my own in the big bad city, despite the fact that I was twenty-one years old and already out of college, and all of them but Luca and Emmanuel, who were still in school at the time, had moved out already. They’ve treated me like I was thirteen from the moment that I moved in with them when I was thirteen, and over the last twenty-one years, I haven’t aged at all in their eyes. Though ... right now ... maybe I can sort of see why.
The CEO spine I sometimes manage to cobble together from all the roughshod bricks of my personality is nowhere to be found. It’s crumbled the fuck apart. I slink down in my seat at the dining table, my back curled into a C shape, my eyes hardly visible over the edge of the table. In the smallest voice I’ve ever even heard, I squeak, “Sorry.”
I hiccup and burp, and Emmanuel shakes his head at me. “Jesus Christ.”
Elena, our mom—their bio mom and my adopted one—slaps him upside the head. “Otros cinco dólares en el tarro.”
“Cinco?Since when is the going rate for cursing five bucks?” Emmanuel grumbles, but he pulls money out of his wallet anyway.
“Inflation,” Elena responds, pointing to the jar on top of the refrigerator marked with a skull and crossbones and stuffed full of dollars.
“I’ve got twenty. Anybody break a twenty?” Nobody pays him any attention. My other four brothers are all still busy glaring at me while my dad prepares breakfast and Elena makes coffee.
“So you, uhh ...allare here?” My stomach pinches uneasily as I choke down another bite of tamale. Elena swears by her tamales as a hangover cure, but right now I’m eyeing my dad standing at the stove, hoping against all hope he’ll finish making blueberry waffles before I have to choke down another mouthful. Elena’s tamales are legendary for their experimental and, more often than not, horrifying flavors.
She might be Mexican, born and raised, but she’s lived in Sundale for the past fifteen years. A former nurse, she’s gotten really into the health-food movement in the last couple years. Her best friend, Tina—my brothers’, my dad’s, andmyarchnemesis—owns a fancy natural food and wellness store and has been encouraging Elena on her journey.Enablingher, may be a more accurate word for it.
This tamale recipe is undoubtedly Tina’s and is among the more outlandish that I’ve had the misfortune of sampling. An unholy union of corn, quinoa, and hempseed with black bean, kale, and pineapple filling.Pineapple.The sweetness of the pineapple does not complement the salt of the black beans, and—did she even cook the kale at all? Big chunks of it float around in my mouth like the stiff pieces of construction paper from some kid’s unfinished art project.
My dad stands at the stove glaring at me. He doesn’t break my gaze as he flips over a single egg with the speed of a man who sees his hungover daughter is suffering and fully intends to make her pay. And pay I do as I take another bite of tamale. I’m paying dearly.
Elena returns to the table and passes me a cup of coffee. Emmanuel gets up and goes to the swear-word jar on top of the fridge that’spermanently stuffed full of cash and starts rummaging through it, trying to find change. Luca, David, and Charles all glare at me with a glare that makes them look eerily similar, even though Luca and Charles take after our dad, who’s Black, and David, like our other brothers, is Elena’s spitting image.
Vincent’s stare is the least harsh, but that’s only because he’s half-distracted by his phone—new girlfriend would be my first guess. Work, my second. He’s a commercial airline pilot but, on his off days, sometimes takes tourists sightseeing by helicopter. Vinny has a stake in the helicopter sightseeing company Vantage Point, and it’s doing really well.
