Prologue
December 2007
‘You really think I can do it?’ I shout, my voice a touch skittish; trepidation in my tone, followed by an excited squeal. My fists are clenched, hovering by my ears in nervous anticipation. I bend my knees to give me some bounce as I balance on the tree branch without holding on. My arms are stretched out above my head, ready for take-off.
‘Of course, you can do it, Scar; we’re superheroes and superheroes fly,’ Devon yells up from the safety of the grass. I don’t think that now is the time to inform him that Captain America doesn’t fly, and neither does Black Widow. That conversation probably should have happened earlier, so instead I close my eyes tight, squeeze my fists harder, do three small bounces on the balls of my feet with my knees bent and leap into the air with an almighty roar.
When I open my eyes, I see the ground rapidly approaching. I start flapping my arms manically like a wild bird – totally not like Superman. Within half a second, I hear a loud crunch. I don’t feel any pain, yet the ground is right under my nose and the thin blades of grass are tickling my eyelashes. I exhale all the air in my lungs and that’s when it hits me.
I hear screaming but I can’t quite tell if it’s my voice, Devon’s or both. The pain in my wrists is excruciating. Tears are flooding my face, forming a puddle in the snowy, slushy, muddy earth. I can’t move. I register Devon shouting words at me but can’t make out what he’s saying. If he’s asking me if I’m OK, he’s lost his mind. I can’t feel my hands. I think I’m going to be sick. For the first time in my twelve years of existence I think I’m going to faint, but worse than that – I don’t think I believe in superheroes anymore.
*
My lips are pursed into an “o” shape and I am aware they have been stuck like this since my lunch arrived an hour ago because they are actually starting to hurt, but I’m allowed to pout. My world has drastically flipped upside down; being upset is natural.
‘Open your mouth, Scar,’ Devon says, frustration in his voice. I deepen the crease between my brows, pucker my lips a little more and defiantly shake my head. I will not open my mouth.
‘Your cape got caught on a branch, Scar, that’s all. I saw it. You jumped and it whipped you back, disabling flight mode,’ Devon explains for the tenth time this afternoon. He’s taking my no longer believing in superheroes pretty hard. I am too. I don’t want to eat, and I am mad at both Devon and Superman for making me think I could fly. I wince as both my casted wrists tingle and prickle with pain. Devon tries again to feed me from the bowl of mush, which has grown colder while we’ve argued. He brings the spoon up to my mouth.
My mum is sat at the base of my bed while Devon’s is stood by the window. Both have their lips drawn thin, no doubt individually plotting more ways to keep me and Devon apart, and thinking how they can put a stop to Devon and I watching superhero movies for good. Our parents are not close; each blames the other for our behaviour and antics. This is, after all, our second trip to the hospital this month.
Only two weeks ago we were testing out Super Strength when Devon dropped a log on his foot, breaking two of his toes. But they healed quickly, just like Devon had told me they would, because it doesn’t take Wolverine months to recover so it wouldn’t take Devon long either. They were one and the same, being one of Devon’s favourite superheroes and all; we accumulated our powers from our favourite heroes.
I shake my head again, not wanting to eat the mysterious gloop on the spoon or to talk to Devon. We’d been planning this one for months; studying our Superman DVDs, flicking through our comics and checking the aerodynamics with our action figures. We found the tallest tree and had my mum iron our capes. So what had gone wrong?
‘Scar, you can’t stop talking to me. I’m sorry you got hurt but we’ll try again. I promise it was just the branch that got in the way.’ Devon whispers so our mums don’t overhear our plans to try this stunt again. Devon’s brown eyes are watering. I hate making him sad; this is worse than the time I accidently snuck his Thor figure into the wash because I’d somehow managed to get paint on him. The wash had worked but when my mum hadn’t noticed and put Thor in the dryer I had feared my friendship would melt as quickly as Thor did. However, I got lucky and Devon only cried for two days before he started talking to me again, though only after I gave him my Thor to make up for it.
‘I don’t really think superheroes are fake. That would be stupid. Who would be out there saving people and capturing the baddies?’ I say, catching Devon’s eyes and giving in to stop his tears. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and smiles. All is right with the world again. I could never really stop talking to him, not forever.
‘Best friends forever!’ he says, holding up his spoon-free hand then thinking better of it and resting his hand on my bed. In my current state I am unable to perform our usual handshake, which would – you know – involve the use of both my hands.
‘Best friends forever,’ I agree as Devon takes the opportunity of my opening my mouth to shove the spoon of cold slush in.
‘Superheroes have to eat, Scar,’ he says with a shrug, his tone caring, but with a slight sly smirk on his face. ‘And they don’t really roar like lions when they fly.’ With that he promptly bursts out laughing while I try not to spray mush all over the hospital bed sheets as giggles creep up my throat.
*
December 2011
‘You don’t think this is dangerous?’ I shout to Devon who is standing at the base of the small hut that houses some equipment for the skatepark. I don’t know why I’m even asking him. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that what I’m doing is dumb, not least because it’s December and it’s icy out, yet here I am. But this is what Devon and I do. It’s a Friday night and after a day of being teased and taunted by Ruby and her gaggle of bullies at school we need to blow off some steam and, if I’m totally honest, I might be sixteen, but my childhood dream of being a superhero hasn’t faltered. I can say the same for D too.
‘No, you’ll be fine, Scar – it’s height that you need. Once you leap, tuck your board and you’ll fly for longer,’ D yells up at me. He has a beaming smile on his face, one that I notice – now that we’re in year eleven – makes some of the girls at school go all googly-eyed at him, which is really annoying. I shake my head to focus and take in a few deep breaths. I can do this.
I plant my foot firmly on the board, so I don’t roll before I’m ready, and I close my eyes to envision myself soaring into the sky, a symbol of what life will be like after seven more months of secondary school – but who’s counting? When I open them, I push off with my right foot. The sloping roof allows my board to pick up the speed that I need to accelerate into the air before I land in the bowl.
The edge of the roof is in sight and, just as my board hits the air, I hear someone shout, ‘What are you kids…’ I don’t hear the rest because the next second an all too familiar pain courses through my body, if not worse than the time before, and this time I immediately black out.
*
‘So much for spending the Christmas break drawing,’ I muse as I precariously lift my right arm, which happens to be my drawing arm, and wince as I take in my bright and shiny new cast. This time I added a broken arm to my fractured wrist.