Free Action Figures - Issue One: Secret Origins by Michael Bailey Page A

shall,” Stuart says with a small bow.
    “I swear,” I say after Mom returns to the kitchen, “if either of you says anything rude about my mom I will punch you into next week.”
    “You wound me. I would never do that!”
    “In front of you,” Matt clarifies.
    “Well, yeah.”
    We head upstairs to my room, to remove the temptation to ogle my mother if nothing else. I’ve finished unpacking but I’m still organizing, so it’s a bit of a shambles. Clothes are in the closet but not separated by season (back off, I was doing that long before my uber-girly phase), my books are in their case but not alphabetized, but my CDs are tidy and in their appropriate categories, so they’re ready for Matt’s declared “Music inspection!”
    Matt and Stuart peruse the rack like detectives at a crime scene, nodding and mm-hm ing. “Please note, my esteemed colleague, the place of honor for what appears to be the entire Bruce Springsteen catalog,” Stuart says, sweeping his hand along the top of the rack where sits, yes, every CD Bruce has ever put out, arranged in chronological order.
    “Hm. Yes. Fascinating.”
    “You best not speak ill of my man Bruce,” I say.
    “No no, just saying. You’re old-school. I can dig it.” Matt turns back to the CDs. “See? Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, Pat Benatar, the Pretenders...”
    “Joan Jett, Grace Slick with and without Jefferson Airplane, Liz Phair, to continue the women who rock theme,” Stuart says. “Here we go! Back in Black !”
    “Oh, come on, everyone owns Back in Black . It’s, like, mandatory in this country. Everyone has to own Back in Black , Nevermind , the fourth Zeppelin album...”
    “I don’t own Zeppelin’s fourth,” I say.
    Stuart eyes me suspiciously. “Why not?”
    “It’s overrated.”
    “Best Zeppelin album?”
    “ Physical Graffiti . Duh.”
    “I love you.”
    The girls, meanwhile, are checking out my books, a mix of classic literature, a few contemporary titles, and lot of mystery novels, the latter taste I inherited from my dad. I will be forever grateful to Mom for ignoring me when I asked her to trash my books, one of the more idiotic decisions I made during my Dark Period, when I decided I was too cool for lame stuff like reading. I almost get sick to my stomach when I think how close I came to losing my great-grandfather’s copy of The Hobbit (1951 second printing, the first version with Tolkien’s revised text for Riddles in the Dark . Very rare, but in poor condition from being read so many times).
    “You keep your copy of Twilight out in the open?” Sara asks. I fidget in embarrassment. “I hidemine.”
    “Me too,” Missy says in a small voice.
    The boys are giving us a dirty look, but Mom saves me from further humiliation by announcing that dinner is ready. They barrel down the stairs like they were shot from a cannon. Their table manners are nearly impeccable: respectful tones, pleases and thank yous all around—perfect little gentlemen...who eat like pigs at a trough.
    I’m no better.
    Stuart is on his third plate (his third!) when he comes up for air long enough to compliment the chef. “This is the most awesome pasta sauce I have ever had in my life.”
    “I could tell you liked it,” Mom says oh so diplomatically.
    “I love it. Love it! I love you ! Damn society! Damn the law!” Stuart turns to face Granddad. “Sir, I respectfully request your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
    He gives Stuart the hairy eyeball, then says, very matter-of-factly, “I don’t know. What sort of prospects do you have?”
    “Well, Greg, I’m currently considering several career options,” Stuart says with great gravity, tenting his fingers, “but I believe my best bet is to take advantage of my obvious physical qualities and become a Hollywood stuntman.”
    Granddad scowls disapprovingly. “I don’t know. That’s a dangerous job. How’s my girl supposed to live if you can’t provide?”
    “Dad!” Mom says, her face