It’s two hours past midnight. Pantheon U is deathly silent. Clare left half an hour ago, so giddy and pleased with me she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and said she can’t wait to see me in three hours so I can get ready for my eight in the morning Intro to Applied Combat class. She’d even gone through the trouble of setting out my clothes.

  Hurray for sidekicks, am I right?

  Now here I am, sitting on the floor with my back to my bed, mindlessly scrolling through my phone, watching the five videos and two selfies I supposedly posted today get reposted and liked and commented on into internet oblivion. Then my phone blinks, and the thing finally dies. I don’t even realize how hot it’s gotten in my hand, or how low the battery has even gotten. I’m in nothing except a large t-shirt and brand new underwear one of my supposed boosters got for me, and yes, it fits, and no, I’m not going to think too hard about why they already know my size. I drag my knees closer to my chest, then rest my forehead against them, tossing my phone away. I listen to it bounce off my bed and the clatter somewhere on the floor. I don’t care to get up and go hunting for it.

  Silence sits heavily in my bedroom. The lights are off. The shadows lie flat and moonlit on the floor. My window is wide open, letting in a warm breeze not yet turned cold by fall. And all I can do is hear my ears ring and listen to my heart beat and… I’m tired. I don’t get tired easily, but I am exhausted. I can’t sleep, though. Not yet. I tried for about ten minutes, tossed and turned and finally kicked my duvet off the bed. I sigh through my teeth and get onto my feet, then wander toward the TV and drop onto the couch. The only good thing about this room is that it’s mine. I can sleep anywhere. On the floor. On the couch. If I really want to, I can fall asleep in the bathtub, too.

  The entire internet has seen this room, anyway. Why? Well, contracts, of course. Now everyone is telling me how awesome it looks and how lucky I am. Go, Sam! You deserve it! Luckyyyy! Can’t wait to join PU next year, keep it cool, S! Barf. Clare had me replying to comments as she ran through my analytics. Fifty-seven thousand more people watching, a successful launch of my new video channel that’s already cracked eighty-thousand subscribers, and isn’t that just so awesome? I’m a sensation! Half a dozen of my posts yesterday made it onto the national news for tomorrow morning’s broadcast. Hashtag FreshmanForTheWin is trending because of me, and now everyone else is hopping onto it around the entire country, too. I’ll just delete the comments telling me mommy bought this room and I should’ve handed over the scholarship to someone’s brother or sister or someone who actually deserved it. Whatever. I lie on the couch, spread all over it, and blow a thick strand of hair off my face.

  I want alcohol. I want that thing Roman had given me. It would mean less silence and less…this. I’m tempted to go hunting for Kory. I can steal a couple of cigarettes off him. I don’t even know where he went, either.

  Doesn’t matter. All I want to do right now is defeat the quietness infiltrating my room.

  I stare at the ceiling. The red digital clock beside my bed crawls through five minutes of silence.

  And I can’t help but wonder: Why do I feel this way?

  I thought getting into this school would make me feel great. Awesome. You’d have to rip my face off the internet if you didn’t want to see me grinning for the next four years of my life. And yet… No, I’m being ungrateful.

  People have died trying to prove they deserve this scholarship, but on the other hand, that’s not my problem. So your kid died saving people in a burning building because he breathed in too much smoke. Now, was your son fireproof? Did your son even consider using his superpowers instead of looking cool for the cameras? So why are you in my comment section, moaning about your dead little vigilante, Susan? Who cares about your brother, James? Oh, Bozo the Clown ran him over with an eighteen-wheeler? Well, did you tell your brother that lying in front of a freight truck would be bad for his health? So why’re you bitching at me? Maybe next time, you should all just tell your friends and family that, yeah, no, being a superhero isn’t for everyone. Kiss my ass, losers.

  I slowly drag my hands down my face and swear.

  A fan of mine, a musician, possibly famous and kinda old, gave me a guitar for my birthday. It’s leaning against the set of skis I found in my room. Shiny. Scarlet and white. Tuned to perfection. So expensive it can pay off most people’s student loans. I think. That’s what Clare whispered when she searched it online. And now it’s in my arms, resting on my stomach as I stare at the ceiling, cradled right up close to my skin. I drag my fingers along its neck, quietly strum it and listen to it sing into the dark. I already know how to play. Believe it or not, I was in a band a couple of months ago. My guidance counselor thought it would be a good idea to join the music club, maybe make more friends. Be a kid before it’s too late! Sure, whatever. I grudgingly did, then fell in love with the lead singer. I wouldn’t exactly call it love. I’d call it infatuation. She was a superhero, too. Minor stuff. Cats in trees (which is weird, because I’ve never seen a cat skeleton up a tree before, but sure, whatever, let’s make a superhero get the stupid furball down), old ladies across the street. Mild-mannered, you know? Brown hair always in a pony tail with two parts either side of her face. Soft skin. Freckles. She made me a friendship bracelet after school once when we stayed late practicing, and then tried to kiss me at prom. I bailed on her. Ghosted her. Then blocked her.

  She tried to wave at me during graduation when I was forced to give the entire class a speech, even though, you know, I barely knew anyone and I was mostly a stranger even they barely knew, apart from what the news told them about me. I’d ignored her. Made my speech. Got a round of applause. And proceeded to get really wasted.

  That was months ago now, and I hate the twist in my stomach when I think about her.

  Ana Walker. That’s her name. Stormweaver. Voted Most Likely to Become a Rockstar.

  I strum the guitar again, listening to it echo.

  I turn my head and glance at the clock. Two minutes have passed, and I’m barely any sleepier.

  “Nuh-uh,” I whisper to myself. “Don’t even think about it.”

  I think about it. I think about her. I think about that time when I grabbed a ride in her mom’s minivan to our first gig in a crummy bar near the waterfront, where the speakers didn’t work and the microphones sucked and the handful of people there that night told us to stop being so freaking loud. Shitshow. We totally sucked. Too many people wanting to do too many things. It wasn’t one of those fairytale nights where, afterward, we all laugh about it and try again tomorrow. Our drummer cried until her mom came and picked her up. The chick playing bass guitar sold it and joined the chess club. And so there Ana and I were, alone in the music room, talking for hours about what came next. She wanted to go to Pantheon U. Her folks couldn’t afford it, and her scholarship letters had been nothing but polite rejections. She didn’t mind getting her local hero license, joining a smaller team and doing it part-time if it meant she could still make a difference. She’d been sun-kissed in that room. Everything had glowed orange. Our fingers had touched and pulled away, searched and wandered and almost laced. Then she’d looked at me, and I knew in my stomach that I needed to kill whatever was going on. She had leaned in, and I had stood up.

  I’d told Ana I needed to go. Bank robbery. Or was it a police chase? Didn’t know. Who cares?

  I just needed to get out of there.

  Because I kinda hated that a human could make me feel so…scared.

  I’ve seen so many of them die before, so, so easily, too—they get caught between a falling car and a concrete wall, and now they’re nothing but gore and someone’s funeral expense. I’ve seen them running away from danger, just for a stray piece of rubble to ricochet and smash open the backs of their skulls. They trip, they fall, they break their leg, and now they’re wailing for help just before a Kaiju steps on them. And there I was, worried about some girl, wondering if she’s eaten enough, or where she got that scrape playing soccer, or if I should fly over to her place to make sure she got home without getting into an accident. I almost felt like putting her in a glass box and throwing away the key. And I knew that was wrong, because I didn’t need a human infiltrating my head that way.

  It’s not the first time I’ve felt like that. It’s just the first time I thought about reciprocating it.

  And now, ladies and gentlemen and mutants and anomalies, here’s your brave and fearless hero, charging her phone, licking her dry lips, watching it turn on, watching her own fingers tap and swipe until Ana’s profile pops up on her screen, and… I frown. There’s a tiny red dot beside her profile picture. Her in a white and gold costume, no cape, no mask—smiling nice and proud. She sent me a message? When? My thumb hovers over Ana’s profile.

  My gut twists so hard it’s practically screaming at me not to do it. I’ve got class soon, and…

  I press it anyway. It takes me to our messages.

  It’s a wall of unanswered texts on her side. Some are angry. Some are sad. Some of them simply asked me what she did wrong. She’d stopped texting me a few weeks ago. Well, if you don’t count the one she just sent me.

  Happy birthday.

  “That’s it?” I whisper.

  But I guess that’s more than what I deserve for leaving her high and dry.

  I groan and massage my face, then click unblock. I swallow. My thumbs hover over the screen. And then, slowly, guitar still on my stomach like a shield covering my heart, I type: Hey, Ana. It’s been a while. Thanks. Then I delete it because it sounds dumb, then type it again because I’ve got nothing else to say, and finally decide to send it because I’ll be here all night doing the same thing over and over and holy shit, she just read it. I turn off my phone, then pull out its charger and watch it die in my hands again. I’m breathing hard. Swallow. Then I stand up.

  Bedtime. Yep. Can’t think about anything if I’m unconscious.

  The laptop on my bed lights up. I turn to look at it, then slowly pry it open.

  It’s Ana, because right, Clare set up my new phone and the new laptop for me.

  Two words, that’s all she’s sent.

  Ana: That’s it?

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  I stare at the text on the screen, then pull the laptop onto my folded legs. Fingers above the keys, I think for a while, then type: I’m sorry. I hit send. This time, I chew my thumb, waiting for a response, staring at the screen.

  It takes a minute, then two, then five, until I get one back. Lame.

  A ball of ice quickly forms inside of my gut.

  I type: Yep. That’s me. Really freaking lame.

  She reads it, types, then goes offline.

  “And that’s what you get for crushing on a human,” I whisper, shutting my laptop. I flop onto my bed and use the heel of my palm to massage my eyes. “Idiot. Stick to flings. Ditch the feels. You know this, Sam. C’mon.”

  Now she’s probably going to go to some sleazy journalist who’ll publish the screenshots on their shitty website, and probably title it something stupid like: How Not To Pick Up Superheroes. Before I know it, I’ll be the face of romantically inept heroes across the globe, because of course, let’s keep adding onto my amazing weekend.

  I roll onto my side, using my arm as my pillow, and stare across my room at nothing but empty space.

  Insomnia, that damned supervillain, has won this round. I can’t fall asleep to save my life.

  So I decide I’m going to take a walk and make myself tired. I grab a pair of sweatpants and sneakers, leave my phone charging on my bed, and slip out of my room. The hallway is, of course, dead silent. The carpet swallows my footsteps, and the elevator takes a handful of seconds to swing open. My finger hovers over the eighth floor button, maybe to go into the sim-room, maybe to figure out what I’d seen, but the scars still hurt, and my head still aches, so I choose to go down instead. I sigh and lean against the wall, arms folded, listening to some old hero song that must’ve come out way back during the Cape Wars. Then the elevator slows to a stop on the fourth floor. I frown. My heart starts jogging. Great. I’m praying it’s not one of those dorks. The last thing I want is any of them trying to hang out with me for the rest of the night. I fix a tight smile onto my face, almost by reflex as the doors slide open.

  Ana freezes on the other side of the door in a bra and sweatpants. We both blink. Both open and close our mouths but say nothing. The hallway behind her is louder, messier. There’s graffiti on most of the walls, and some of the doors are wide open, revealing blaring music or laughter or the occasional grunting moan of two people getting frisky late at night. The doors judder, then begin to shut. I stick out my arm, forcing them to open again. Ana blinks, then smiles so briefly it almost looks like her face twitches. She stands on the other side of the elevator, phone in hand, headphones around her neck. She doesn’t press any other button, which means we’re both going down now.

  I glance at her. She’s staring straight ahead, clutching onto her phone so hard her knuckles turn white.

  I look away, mind racing, then my mouth moves before I can stop it. “So. You, um, got into PU.”

  “Seems like it,” she mutters.

  I chew my tongue, then more words come out of me. “Pretty crazy coincidence, right? I mean, what are—”

  “You don’t want to talk to me. I get it. I’m not over it yet, but I’m getting there, and…” Ana sighs. Her shoulders lower, and she stops gripping onto her phone so hard. “Just…keep pretending I don’t exist, alright?”

  “Ana—”

  “Sam, please. Just don’t.”

  I stare at her, sigh through my nose, and push my fingers through my hair. “Fine,” I say quietly. I fold my arms and lean against the wall again, stomach a knot, skin getting all prickly the longer we’re stuck here together. But I can’t keep tapping my finger against my bicep, or stop my eyes from sliding toward her. Where’s she going at this time of night? Ana’s always been a little rebellious. The angel wing tattoos on her back and the dozens of others littering her shoulders and arms are enough proof of that. Her mom’s the kind of person who goes to church every Sunday and sings hymns to Ana’s baby sister. Ana once got caught smoking a cigarette on the roof and put her dad in the hospital after he passed out and hit his head on the curb. She’s probably going out to do just that. Or walk around and cause mayhem. If she’s got her phone with her and she keeps checking it… “Seeing someone?”

  “What’s it matter to you?” she asks me. “You’ve been seeing lots of people lately.”

  “I’ve been single since forever, you know that.”

  “Right. So Julia and Amy and Carla and—”

  “Flings. All of them.”

  “Kinda like me, right?”

  I sigh and say, “Ana, come on. You know that’s not fair.”

  “You know what’s not fair, Sam?” She turns to look at me with nothing except quite malice. “That you held my hand first. That you wrote me those stupid little valentine letters.” She pokes her finger into my shoulder. Hard, I don’t feel it, but she does, which makes her wince and shake her hand. “And then you ran away the second I tried to figure out what was going on between us, but right, you’re Sentry. America’s Future. You’re bigger than me. Your problems are way more important than any feelings you have inside of you, am I right? You’re a fucking asshole.”

  “I wrote you that letter because you kept begging me for it!”

  Her mouth hangs open, then she says, “I was joking.”

  “Joking?” I ask her. “That’s got to be the lamest excuse—”

  “Don’t tell me what’s lame and what’s not when you’re the walking, talking embodiment of it.”

  I laugh and throw my hands into the air. “Woah, look at you getting really creative. Hear that everyone? Stormweaver thinks I’m lame. Me. The same person who came for your stupid music recital when your dad didn’t.” She goes silent. I should stop. I don’t. “Who took care of your little sister when I could’ve been saving someone. When I pretended like I needed your help to study, but you wasted my time showing off your guitar collection and drawing stupid inky blobs on my arm all night, which, by the way, made me fail that test, thank you very much!” The elevator reaches the lobby. The doors slide open. I point a finger at her. “I’m the furthest thing from lame, Ana.”

  She stares at me. The silence is filled with my quick, quiet breathing.

  “You’re right,” she finally, quietly says. “You’re you, and that’s worse.”

  I grab her wrist when she steps out of the elevator. “Don’t you walk away from me.”

  Ana looks at my hand, then says, “Sam, that hurts. Please let go of me.”

  The worst part is how even her voice is, how sharp her eyes are as she stares at me. And, slowly, I let go. She massages her wrist, a bruise already forming. She glances at it, then me, shakes her head, and turns to walk away. I let her. I don’t follow. I’m not some love-struck idiot, chasing after someone who’s gonna come crawling back, too.

  Holding my hand is gonna be her biggest claim to superhero fame in ten years, mark my words.

  “Ana,” I say. Damn you, mouth. She keeps walking for a handful of seconds, and then stops dozens of meters away. I sigh and push hair out of my face, and say, “I’m sorry, alright? I shouldn’t have said those things, and I know you think I’m a giant asshat, which I am. I get that.” She starts walking again. I fly across the lobby and stop in front of her. She rolls her eyes and sighs, tries to move past me, but I keep talking. “Listen to me for one second. Please?” She groans and stops and folds her arms over her chest. I search for the right words, because if we’re being really honest, apologizing isn’t easy for me. It’s not like I do it often enough to know what I’m supposed to say at times like this, but that’s the good thing about having been in so many commercials, or made surprise cameos on shows I wasn’t even given a script for, and instead told by a director to just wing it, smile, and act like myself. Well, right now, acting like myself is gonna have to work. I’ll be Sentry. Easy. Everyone loves her. So I start soft, and slow, and twist my fingers so her eyebrows aren’t so pinched with annoyance right now. “I’m a jackass and a terrible friend, and…I got scared, because everything got too much, too fast, and none of it was your fault. That was me being lame.” Ana’s face softens. Her arms remain firmly on her chest. “We don’t have to try again, probably ‘cause you’ve got someone else, and I don’t deserve it”—yes, I know how this sounds, but walk with me—“but can we at least kind of maybe sorta be friends? We don’t have to talk all the time. Just…let’s not hate each other, please?”

  “Sam, you blocked me and ignored me for months. Now you want me to just forget about it?”

  “You were the only person who I knew in that entire school. I never made friends. My birthdays were mom and I going to have pancakes before she dashes off to save the day, now I’m stuck walking home on my own. Then you came along, and it made my gut feel weird every time you laughed with me, and I know how this sounds, but you mean something to me. You do. I promise. I guess…” I sigh, this time for real. “I wasn’t used to someone caring about me. My agent does. And my manager. And everyone who wants something from me. But not really care. You cared. A lot. And I shouldn’t have thrown that all away because the girl who can lift up buildings got scared about her feelings.” The edge of her lips curl. I scratch the back of my head, feeling like a moron. “One more chance?”

  It works. Her arms unfold and her shoulders lower, then she massages the back of her neck and swears.

  “I’m not with anyone right now,” she sighs. “And, Sam, you made me feel like shit.”

  “I know.” I get closer. Just a little. My old intimacy coach told me humans love this kind of shit. I had to get used to touching and saving people during commercials. A stunt-double couldn’t do everything. And, I guess, this is one of those things. “Lemme make it up to you. I’m living up on the seventh floor. I’ve got this flat screen and a gaming console, or we can just, you know, hang out and talk and listen to music like we always used to do.”

  Ana tilts her head, making strands of hair fall over her face. “Lucky. My room’s got roaches.”

  I smile a little. “I’ve got super-hearing, too. I can catch each one of ‘em if you want.”

  “That might get you into my kinda-maybe-sorta book.”

  “Kinda-maybe-sorta sounds nice,” I say softly.

  Ana sighs and checks her phone again. “Look,” she says. “I was going for this weird student council thing. We got a couple of fliers shoved under our doors last night, and it’s a mock debate thing. My roommates are asleep, and I can’t get a wink of it with all that noise on my floor, so…” She shrugs. “Wanna come watch people argue?”

  “Why’re they having a mock debate at two in the morning?”

  “Superhumans sleep less, remember?” she says. “Heck, most of us are fighting bad guys at this time of the night on a normal day. I guess we’re used to being awake when the sun goes down, and it’s pretty hard to get rid of a schedule you’ve been doing since you were ten, maybe eleven years old. But you don’t have to come if you’re—”

  “I’ll come.” Fuck, this is gonna suck so bad, but if it means she doesn’t hate me… “Beats being bored.”

  Ana gently punches my shoulder. “And also sulking in your room all night long.”

  “Me? Sulk? Do you know who you’re talking to right now?”

  Ana smiles, and I hate what my heart does inside of my chest. “A jackass superhero who’s face I hate.” She jerks her head to the side. “Who I also wouldn’t mind walking me across campus. I’m a little scared of the dark.”

  “Still?” I ask her.

  “Don’t ‘still’ me. Not all of us can see through it.”

  I shrug and say, “Fine, whatever. Hold my hand then, scaredy cat. Before Jester jumps out and scares you”

  Ana rolls her eyes, and it takes just a few minutes for her fingers to tentatively find mine.

  I curl mine around hers, ignoring the feel of human skin grinding against my own.

  Hey, at least she won’t tell everyone I’m an asshole now. It’s all about good PR, and I’ve spent way too much time today curating my socials to make me look like an angel just for one person to ruin everything like that.

  Clare would probably love this right now. Heck, so would my socials. I’d take a picture of our hands and post something vague like: late night walk, or: might’ve found a sidekick. But I left my phone upstairs, and Ana put hers in her pocket a while ago, which means we walk through Pantheon U’s dimly lit paths, hands tight, both silent.

  And I think I’m starting to get afraid again, this time because I glance at Ana trying not to smile.

  Just one mess after another with you, I think to myself. Great job, superhero. Really great job.