Free Dull Boy by Sarah Cross

we’re like this?”
    Something more than ferocity flickers in her eyes. Does she want to know? Does she already know? Whatever it is only lasts a second.
    “Don’t ever mention this again.” Catherine stalks away and then toward me, jabs a claw at my face, razor-sharp nail an inch from my eye. “And if you start spreading lies about me, I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.”
    “Why would I tell anyone about you?” I throw my hands up. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I have as much to lose as—”
    She screams. Clenches her fists so tightly I’m afraid her hands will bleed. “You don’t want me to do something I’ll regret? Then get out of here ! Get the hell away from me!”
    I bow my head and bite my tongue. Leave, like she asked me to.
    But I’m not giving up.

8
     
    I SPEND THE whole walk home kicking rocks in the road and cursing. I’m pissed at myself for ruining my first shot at superpowered friendship, for just plunging in without a game plan. First impressions count for a lot; first forced confessions are even trickier. I should have thought of that, should have remembered how freaked out I was when Cherchette approached me.
    By the time I get to my street, I’m worked up to the nth degree, somewhere between angry (because I’m a moron) and ecstatic. Yeah, I screwed up—but I found someone extraordinary today. All I need is another chance.
    Catherine will chill out once she realizes I’m not her enemy, and then . . .
    Um, why is there an Aston Martin in my driveway?
    I circle that beautiful creature like a jackal who just discovered a dying zebra and can’t believe his luck. Did my dad lose his mind and buy an Aston Martin to soothe his midlife-crisis-having heart? Like: “I’ll be damned if my son’s going to bankrupt us, I’ll do it myself”?
    The car’s totally immaculate: no crappy gym bag in the back, no dirt ground into the carpet. Leather interior, ice-blue paint job—this is a car for James Bond, not my dad. I keep looking over my shoulder, like the rich dude who broke down in our driveway will be back any second, and is gonna bitch me out for touching his car.
    I tear into the house, yelling, “Dad! Did you buy an Aston Martin?” I think about warning him that my mom’s going to kill him, but I want him to take me for a ride first.
    The last person I expect to see is Cherchette. She’s on her hands and knees in front of our TV, all tangled up in electrical cords and A/V cables. She’s wearing leather boots and a tight white skirt with a slit up the back. I, um, yeah.
    I think I should be freaked that she broke into my house but I’m a little more confused than that. “What are you doing?”
    “Avery.” She gives me this weird pouty look that totally clashes with the severity of her face. “I wanted to finish before you arrived, but this machine is not working. Now you’ve ruined your surprise.”
    “Surprise?” This definitely still counts as a surprise. I did not expect to see this woman in my living room.
    “I bought you a video-game system. You don’t have this one, do you?”
    I shake my head. “I don’t have one at all. My parents are like cave people.”
    Slight exaggeration, but still: my mom acts like having at-home access to video games will ruin my chances of going to college, turn me into a serial killer, and ensure that I never get a girlfriend because I’ll be too busy propositioning hookers in Grand Theft Auto. Never mind that every other guy I know has one, and they’re fine.
    “Ah. Well. We know that entertainment must evolve, just like everything else.” Cherchette winks at me conspiratorially. “Would you help me to get this working, Avery?”
    I don’t have a game system, but Henry has three of them, and whenever he slept over he’d pack at least one in his backpack and we’d hook it up in my basement. Should be easy.
    I’m untangling the monstrous octopus of cords, amazed at the mess Cherchette made, when she starts apologizing.