Powers (6 page)

But to Deena's chagrin, Aaron Boucher was nowhere to be found.

They'd met at a family barbecue, before Aaron had entered the police academy. Tall, athletic, bright, and sarcastic, he'd struck up an easy rapport with the opinionated ball of spunk clad in shorts and a belly shirt. Their parents had been longtime friends: Judge Kenneth Boucher tirelessly worked with Waldo Pilgrim to put away the worst criminals that Atlanta had to offer. Their moms belonged to the same charities, and Deena's brother had played against Aaron's cousins in JV basketball. Choosing to abstain from the afternoon's traditional games and sports, Aaron had located a secluded pond where they could splash and horse around in platonic, good-natured fashion. They'd dug into stolen snacks as he briefed her on the history of rock—a passion of Aaron's, as were most types of music. It had been a fun, memorable day.

Only Deena hadn't wanted it to be so platonic. Deena had to admit, she'd developed something of a crush on Aaron Boucher.

Truthfully, this was new territory for Deena. Tomboyish, outspoken, she didn't fit the picture of the lovelorn wallflower. Deena Pilgrim took what she wanted and made her intentions clear to the chosen target.
So why all the anxiety?
she wondered
. What is it about Aaron Boucher that turns me into an idiot?

Part of it had to do with the way he treated her—as an equal, intellectually and emotionally. They shared passions, discussed goals. He knew what she thought about school and her limited social circle; she knew how he felt about Nine MM's second album and could regurgitate his treatise on the Conspiracy of Similar Chords Throughout the Music Industry. Treatise? More like a thesis. But Deena memorized it because it was important to Aaron. And he was important to her.

Mostly, though, it had to do with their shared desire to become working detectives. Aaron felt that an undercurrent of graft had crippled the police department. He vowed—should he be given the chance—to be as honest a cop as there ever was. Sometimes he intimated that Waldo had dabbled in dirty deeds, tainting the Homicide Division, but Deena chalked that up to a naïveté that came with principles. Everything about Aaron, from his looks to his fervor, made her want to spend time with him. She understood what it meant to covet that badge, just as he did. And he—unlike Waldo and her father's colleagues and cronies—was willing to share that world with her. That's why Aaron, unlike any man before, made Deena feel the way that she did. That's why she dug him, because of their mutual connection and interests.
Also? I want to fuck him all the time have his awesome babies spend our every minute fighting crime and sucking face.

I mean, is that too much to ask for?

Look,
she explained to the universe,
it isn't just about the sex.
Deena, at eighteen, had notched several dalliances on her bedpost—well, her first had been a notch on a locker room wall (the less said to the universe about that experience, the better). She'd been with guys, but guys in her school were dude-bros, morons, or—worse—weak in a sensitive, nice-guy way. This … what she felt for Aaron … she mooned over his stupid face when he went on about the Aquachords or Miranda rights. Despite the fact that she was still in school, Aaron already treated Deena like an equal. Like a partner. He'd given her a passport into his world.

And now,
she yearned,
I want to guide him into mine.
Wind fluttered through her hair, jangling earrings and shivering her skin. The ground trembled; a corona of yellow light appeared in the distance, encouraging her to look away. After a moment, a figure soared through it, dragging clouds in its wake. The front door opened, and Deena's mother stepped out, sucking a drag from an ever-present cigarette.

“Deena,” she demanded. “Help me set the napkin rings. Your father will never let me live it down if we don't use your grandmother's silver rings.”

“When is Aaron coming?”

Her mother arched an eyebrow. “He didn't come with Ken and Eveline? Who could tell amid the parade of moral turpitude that has descended on my King James living room set?” The last slipped from her tongue with a disapproving cluck. Mom was at the five-drink mark; too soon for insubordination, just at the level of biting sarcasm. “Chop-chop. Dinner in ten, rings or no.”

Fifteen minutes later, the horde of dignitaries, police luminaries, and celebrity guests settled around the dining room table. A feast had been laid, comprised of family standards—deep-fried turkey with Vidalia onions and chunky gravy, cranberry-walnut compote, and cheesy grits—along with nods to those of Italian heritage intermingled within the group: pepper-and-beef lasagna, shitake mushroom bruschetta, and a homemade manicotti prepared by the deputy mayor's wife. Deena was seated close to her father—between Judge Boucher and a drunk young man named Harley Cohen, rumored to be inventing anti-Powers technology for the FBI. Cohen absently pawed at Deena's leg, and she cheerfully set his hand aside each time. She kept an eye glued to the door, halfheartedly listening to breakdowns of the day's games (Lions won, Cowboys lost), perking up slightly when Waldo launched into an alcohol-soaked diatribe regarding Atlanta's criminal element.

“Thing about these murders,” he mouthed off to the deputy mayor and the judge, “isn't about motive, but—”

“Dear,” Deena's mother acidly ventured from across the table, “let's allow our guests to enjoy this delicious meal sans cops and robbers.”

Waldo chuckled in reply. “How do
you
know it's delicious? You didn't cook it.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Hey! Get the Cubans out here. They're the ones … they…” He stifled a belch as his guests ignored the awkwardness. Someone handed him a drink. It might have been the judge; it might have been Deena.

Mom, however, sweetly kept digging. “Yes, but the children—”

“Children? They're outside, riding the dog.”

“We don't have a dog.”

“Yeah? Maybe it's one of the Cubans, then. Ha!”

“Dear! Not in front of the guests … or your daughter.”

All eyes turned Deena's way, and her face conspicuously flushed a dull red. “Mom…” she deflected, “I like hearing about Dad's job. I want to hear about…” She turned to Dad. “What was it again?”

Waldo settled back. “Liberty murders. Coupla costumes over in Druid Hills.”

Deputy Mayor Hanover dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Best to table this…”

“Kids need to know current events. Keeps them abreast of what's happening in their own front yard. Nothing wrong with the truth.”

Mom snorted into her wineglass, and the judge neatly stepped in to cover the tension. “Druid Hills? By the CDC? That's troubling.”

Waldo quaffed a swallow of Infinity Gold. “Hardly,” he responded after wiping his mouth on a sleeve. “The Soldier's crew has things covered. Ain't that right, crew?” The assembled Powers around the table silently confirmed her father's half-sober conjectures. Even Deena, knee-deep in college applications, had seen the reports in the AJC; Downtown Atlanta had been levied a stringent curfew, and portions of the National Guard were stationed throughout the city, lending a hand to contain the resultant damage. The mayor had granted emergency powers to the both newly established and necessary Federal Powers Bureau along with a team of deputized Powers: names and masks like the Citizen Soldier, Diamond, Zora, Olympia, and Z. They flew around in capes and costumes, beating the tar out of other capes and costumes without ever coming closer to ending the violence. Frankly, she hoped it never ended; maybe she'd see some super shit in action. Maybe Dad or Aaron would put the holy beatdown on some dude with a death ray. For now, the Homicide Division had let the Soldier's goons contain the devastation. But as far as Deena could ascertain, two-thirds of said goons currently sat around her dining room, stuffing their faces with Eveline Boucher's cheese-and-onion pie.

Amateurs,
Deena sniffed.
Aaron would never stand for affluent supercops eating mushroom puffs while the city burned to the ground. That's why he isn't here, I bet—he's on the job. I get it. I'd be there, too.

“Fact is,” Waldo went on, ignoring the undercurrent of tension, “we can't be sure who's at fault. Maybe it's one of those morons with the lightning tattoos—”

“The Human Front,” someone supplied. It might have been the judge. It might have been the deputy mayor's wife, too flushed and engaged to sell an innocent, demure façade.

“That's right,” Waldo agreed, satisfied and smiling. “The latest in backward-thinking monkey uncle would-be fascists, too afraid to play with fire, too stupid to know when they're already trapped in a burning building.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” Judge Boucher stated, putting aside his napkin. “I firmly remain curious about some form of registry or restriction placed on those with powers … those without the responsibility to use their gifts for the relative good. Witness this gang war, for example.” The Powers at the table quietly seethed into their drinks. Thankfully, before things spiraled out of control, the judge stood up and winked at Deena. “Probably a fine time to extricate myself and stretch m'legs. Join me, dear?”

Out on the porch, settled into a pair of varnished rocking chairs, Deena and the judge ignored the evening chill and looked into the distance. Over the horizon, scattered pinpricks of ongoing battle twinkled in the fading light, like summer fireflies that had lived to see the autumn. Echoes of carnage radiated out from Atlanta, skimming the edge of Tuxedo Park and causing skeletal trees to shiver. Judge Boucher reached into his pocket and removed a fat cigar; once lit, it conjured up a cloud of smoke that rested about their shoulders, obscuring his face in its muddy haze. They rocked in silence, the sounds of debate and boisterous mirth thrumming from back inside the dining room.

The judge allowed himself a lazy, playful smile. “Not exactly the romantic evening you'd hoped for, is it?”

Deena hunched, keenly aware of color rising to her face. She felt hot and stupid; her tongue grew three sizes, unable to form a coherent response.

The judge chuckled. “It's all right. I got eyes.”

“Please stop talking.”

“It ain't like it's a secret. Both Eveline and I know about your crush on Aaron.”

She hid her head in her hands. “Remember when you weren't talking? Those were good times.”

“Ah, let an old man have his fun.” The cigar blazed in the gathering dusk, casting a ruddy look about his face. “Besides, love—or hell, even lust—is nothing to hide. Don't be embarrassed or keep it secret. Never be afraid to seize love. You'll regret it when it's gone and mourn after it's far too late.”

She tucked away an errant lock of hair. “I'm not in love.”

The judge rocked and contentedly puffed. “I'm just happy for the company, dear.”

“I mean…” She searched for the words, feeling them slip away. “I don't know that it's love. But I will say—if it's all right, Judge?”

He indulgently waved a free hand. “Lay on, Macduff.”

“I will say I'm excited about his passions—the music and being a cop.”

“That boy has strange taste in music, I'll give him that.”

Deena grinned. “Strange wonderful. Nine MM. Little Doomsday. Alison Nightbird, Rocket to Planet X. Everything from hip-hop to grunge to—”

“Hmph. Whatever happened to Jimmy Dorian and the Belle City Bass?” The judge tapped his ashes over the porch, scattering them on the gravel below.

“—classic and even country, depending on the artist.”

Judge Boucher poked Deena in the arm. “And what do
you
like?”

“Well … I like them all.”

“But that's what Aaron likes. You must have had your own opinions, some original thoughts before my boy came along?”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

“Don't get lost in another person's passions, Deena. Have your own beliefs and principles—desires and dreams independent of the man you love.”

“But, his dreams
are
mine. And his beliefs. Like … well…”

“Yes?”

“Well, like he's a cop. But a
good
cop, right?”

The judge squinted through the smoke. “As opposed to?”

“No one, really. I mean, Aaron thinks—”

“He thinks?” The judge scooted closer, dangling the lit cigar from his fingers.

She felt flush again. “No, it's not like that. I just—”

Thankfully, before she could stick her toes in any deeper, a patrol car banked hard into the driveway. It stopped behind the other cars, and a sharply dressed officer leaped from behind the wheel and started toward the porch. The judge rose to his feet, ashing his cigar, and stepped forward to meet the cop. Deena joined him, heart thumping against her larynx, happy to have been given a reprieve from further humiliation. Happier still to see that Aaron Boucher had finally arrived.

“Son,” the judge began, voice tightening with questioning expectation, “your face is the color of cheesecloth.”

The younger Boucher mounted the steps. Deena charted every move, mentally cataloging the expressiveness of Aaron's eyes and, to be honest, the way his butt looked in his uniform. She waved hello, but he'd breezed by and ushered his father inside so fast that Deena wasn't sure he'd even registered her presence.

“Time to go, Pop. Get Mom, your coats. You need to get home now.”

Judge Boucher liberated his arm. “What is going on, Aaron? Let go of me.”

“Dinner's over, okay? You have to get home before—”

“Before what?” The dinner party had filtered out into the foyer, drawn by Aaron's explosive arrival. Waldo Pilgrim stumbled toward the door as Eveline briskly approached her son.