Free Sidekicked by John David Anderson Page A

little out of proportion from how I pictured it. He still wore his sunglasses, though.
    The Titan held out a hand that could crush my head like an olive, though it only held a crumpled piece of paper.
    â€œI got this,” he said.
    He handed the paper to me, and I tried to smooth it out. It was printed on official H.E.R.O. stationery. It was addressed to the Titan and signed by Nathan R. Masters.
    I already knew what it said.
    It said that my life was about to change. That I would no longer spend my weekends playing video games. Instead I would be patrolling the streets, sniffing out danger with my hyperkeen senses, fighting crime alongside one of my childhood heroes, a man who could chew glass and punch through the hull of a submarine with his bare fist.
    It said that I, Andrew Macon Bean, aka the Sensationalist, had been officially assigned as apprentice to the Titan, to serve him in the name of all things good and just, and to uphold the sacred codes of Super and sidekick alike.
    I knew what it said because I had a nearly identical letter folded in my back pocket. It had been there for days. I had it memorized. The afternoon after Mr. Masters handed it to me, I ran straight home and pulled out my copy of Portraits of Justice and memorized every detail of the Titan’s career. Right up until the moment he disappeared.
    I couldn’t begin to imagine what had happened since then.
    But even in the state he was in, leaning against the wall of the bowling alley, reeking, his clothes stained, I didn’t care. He was my mentor.
    The Titan shook his head.
    â€œListen, kid. I can’t . . .” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence.
    I just stared at him. Holding his crumpled copy of the letter in one hand, my other arm limp by my side. I could hear the purr of cars on the interstate two miles away. I could smell the four-day-old scrim of sweat under the Titan’s shirt.
    â€œYou don’t want to be my sidekick,” he said finally.
    I felt in my back pocket for my own letter, wondering now if they were the same, wondering if I had missed something. Some fine print.
    â€œNo. That’s not true,” I said. “I do. I mean, I don’t really know what I can do, yet, but I’ll try . . .”
    The Titan held up a finger, and I shut up. “I understand what you all are trying to do, and I appreciate the thought, but you should tell Nathan Masters that he needs to find somebody else. I’m sorry. I just can’t right now. If something . . .”
    He stumbled again, chewing over the words, eyes glazed, as if he were trying hard to remember something. Or maybe the opposite. He didn’t finish the thought.
    â€œWait. Hang on a minute. Is it me? I know Mr. Masters says that I really don’t have enough combat training, but I thought that with my powers and your powers, you know . . .”
    The Titan took hold of my hand and pulled his coat free. His hand felt huge and cold wrapped around mine, and I was suddenly scared that he was going to break my arm.
    Instead he just gave it a squeeze. Just hard enough that I winced.
    â€œYou’ll thank me someday,” he said.
    I looked down at my hand, still wrapped in his, and held my breath. And then he let go and disappeared around the corner.
    I shook my fingers out, then clenched them into a hard little fist. I had been imagining this moment for days. In some ways, I had probably been imagining it for years.
    I slumped against the wall, letting myself drop, hands over my ears, closing off.
    It wasn’t him, I told myself. Not really. That was somebody else. The Titan would come around. There was the letter. And the code. He would come around. He had to. He was my hero.
    Behind me I heard a car pull up to the bowling alley entrance. I recognized the rattle of the engine. My mother honked the horn, and I put my real mask back on.

8
TESTED
    I t’s Thursday.
    I wake up in a haze. My normally