13
The Electric Snare
“Three rubber chicken bones,” Bronson said, punching a few keys on the register. “That’ll be $4.50.”
The man at the counter dug through his pockets until he found a creased five dollar bill. Bronson put it in register and handed him back two quarters along with a coaster-sized promotional magnet.
“Luckily, you got all three shades,” Bronson said. “Keep ‘em all with you then just compare the fakes with the real wishbone and find one that’s close. As long as you keep talking, people shouldn’t notice too much if they’re a little different.”
“Thanks,” said the man. He picked up the paper sack with his purchases inside. “Say, aren’t you a little young to be working in a store all by yourself like this?”
He’d actually only been alone for a few minutes before the day’s last customer showed up. Cindy stuck around for hours after she’d taken him back to the shop. She patched him up then kept him company while making sure he didn’t need real medical attention.
They’d spent the afternoon pretending to clean up around the shop while they talked about anything and everything but the Guild. They alphabetized the bookshelves and mocked Mr. Lee’s mustache. They realized they both had a secret addiction to an ancient musician called Elvis Costello, who they’d both been introduced to by their fathers. Cindy’s favorite song was Watching the Detectives, while Bronson preferred Alison. A sound defeat had turned into the best afternoon he’d experienced in forever. Simple, stupid, fun. It almost made up for his dud of a birthday.
“I said, ‘Aren’t you a little young to be working by yourself this late?’” the man said, tapping on the counter.
Bronson wasn’t sure if it was the head injury, his inconsistent powers, or the afternoon that caused him to lose sight of the present, but the man’s words snapped him out of it.
“We’re kinda already closed, but I didn’t want to rush you,” Bronson said. “Besides, the owner should be calling any time now.”
“Ah. Well, tell him he has a very dedicated young man working for him.” The man sounded the bell above the door as he left.
Bronson followed behind him, locked the locks, and turned over the sign. He’d told the man the truth. He was expecting Mr. Horum to call, but the call was already two hours late. Eight o’clock. He’d give him until eight o’clock before he started to freak out.
He pulled out the register drawer, counting each bill, then jotted the amount down on a notepad. The total came to $317.35, which included the $50 the drawer started with every morning. Sometimes Bronson wondered how the shop managed to stay in business. He’d even asked Mr. Horum about it once, but the old guy had claimed the circus that came through town once a year made up half his business. They’d erect their tent in the fairgrounds near Dixon Park and make camp for a month or so. Every few nights the head clown showed up to buy red noses, grease paint, and rolls of tickets. Bronson had met him once when he first started working at Horum’s shop. Seemed nice enough, but Bronson didn’t have a weird fear of clowns like most kids his age.
As he slipped a stack of twenty ones back into the drawer, the lights in the shop flickered then went out. Something exploded out on the street. Bronson slammed the register closed.
Hope Mr. Horum doesn’t pick now to call, he thought, running back to the office to grab his cape and mask. That sounded like a job for Dogboy.
Dogboy jumped out then waved at the crowd. “Everything seems cool here, folks,” he said. “Go ahead and wait on the fire trucks. Make sure to stay back. I don’t feel like getting under that thing.”
A blue sedan coasted through the intersection. A screech. Metal groaned as the sedan clipped a mini-van in its path. The mini-van continued through the intersection unfazed, but the less-hearty sedan veered toward the curb, spinning to a stop underneath the damaged transformer.
“Freaking great,” Dogboy said. He ran to the car, dodging sparks as he pulled the driver out. She was awake, but barely.
A shadow moved in the alley. It backed away with calm, measured steps. Almost like he wants me to see him, Dogboy thought.
He pulled the driver’s arm over his shoulder. She leaned against him, eyes fluttering as sparks rained down around them. When they made it across the street, Dogboy sat her down on the curb then started back toward the pole.
The blue sparks coming from the transformer burned brighter. It held for a moment, an electric light show worthy of Tesla. Then a POP— The world was white. No form, no color. A sheet of light. Then nothing.
By the time the assembled eyes adjusted to the darkness, Dogboy was gone. They murmured to themselves— Probably for the best. He’s dangerous, right? I wouldn’t let my son run around like that— Snippets of inherited wisdom, sanctimony, and plain gossip.
Dogboy didn’t hear any of it. He was already halfway up the building on one side of the alley. Whoever the shadow belonged to, he figured scoping them out first was a good idea. Can’t afford another defeat, he thought. My first aid bill is too high already.
He grabbed a can of white spray paint from the red messenger bag he had over his shoulder. When he shook the can, the metal mixing ball inside clinked against the sides like an out-of-tune xylophone.
Axle sprayed three wide arcs across the brick wall then filled in the eye holes, ears, and other details until he was left with a good representation of Dogboy’s mask. As he filled in the whisker marks on the cheeks, three quick footsteps sounded behind him.
“That’s a pretty good likeness,” said a boyish voice.
Axle tapped his fingers together, sparks fading as quick as they appeared. He prayed he wouldn’t have to use his powers but asked for guidance if he did.
“About time you showed up,” he said, whipping himself around. “Keep it chill, Dogboy, or else I’m gonna—”
The electricity he channeled into his palms arched towards the spray paint can in his hand. He threw it against the ground. It exploded, splattering white paint on the sneakers of the boy standing behind him.
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