So instead, he managed to say, “Uh. Er. Glugh. Blargh.”
Seth stared at him with a strange look on his face.
Owen smiled the way he did when he was about to be a dick. “Eh. I suppose he’s all right. But if we’re going to talk about cool Extraordinaries, we should probably talk about Pyro Storm.”
Which … okay. That was fair. Even though Pyro Storm was technically a villain and caused mayhem and chaos with his dastardly deeds, he was still Shadow Star’s archnemesis, and had to be acknowledged. Plus, he had really muscular thighs, and often posed in ridiculous positions while cackling maniacally. Nick had to appreciate the thighs and the cackling. It seemed like a lot of work. Nick’s own thighs were sticklike, and when he tried to cackle, he sounded like a chicken watching the eggs it’d laid being turned into omelets.
“I’ll allow it,” Nick said begrudgingly. “Pyro Storm is cool, even if he’s a bad guy.”
Owen arched an eyebrow. “Why does anyone have to be bad? What if we’re all misunderstood?”
Nick glared at him. “You really can’t believe that. It’s black and white. There’s no in between. Good is good. Evil is evil. One is a jerk who burns things because he’s a pyromaniac or something. The other is a paragon of virtue who saves people and controls shadows and climbs walls.” That was Nick’s favorite part, and it should be everyone else’s.
“Pyro Storm does control fire,” Owen said. “And Shadow Star is all about the shadows. One is dark. The other burns it away. It’s poignant, if you think about it. Opposites.”
“You’re so dumb,” Seth muttered. “Life isn’t a comic book. Extraordinaries aren’t everything. So what if they can do things others can’t? That doesn’t make them more special than the rest of us. It doesn’t work like that.”
Owen leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then why don’t you tell us how it does work, Seth? Seeing as how you apparently know better than the rest of us.”
Nick didn’t quite know what was going on. Were they still flirting? God, he hoped not. “Maybe we should—”
Owen flashed that dangerous grin again, all teeth. “It seems our Seth here thinks all this Extraordinary stuff is dumb. How do you feel about that, Nicky?”
If there was one thing Nick hated aside from having to console someone whom he’d made out with or being faced with his crush on an Extraordinary, it was being put on the spot. His brain tended to misfire more often than it didn’t, and he was feeling a little dizzy. “Um. Well.”
Everyone waited.
Instant flop sweat. “You both made good points,” Nick said hastily. “And while I normally am so on board with picking sides, I don’t know that I can, at this moment in time, without more data.”
Seth stood abruptly, glaring at Owen, who smiled lazily up at him. “I have to go,” he said through gritted teeth.
And with that, he grabbed his backpack and headed toward the exit.
Nick stared after him, wondering what the hell had happened. Since when did Seth feel so strongly about Extraordinaries? Normally, he indulged Nick’s diatribes about them, but to get this upset? It wasn’t like him.
“Go after him,” Gibby snapped. “You can’t let him walk away like that.”
Owen snorted. “He’s throwing one of his fits. Let him be. He’ll get over it. He always does.”
“Do you remember that time about ten minutes ago when I nearly broke that jock’s fingers?” Jazz asked him sweetly. “I can show you what would have happened if he hadn’t apologized, if you want.”
Owen paled.
“Go,” Gibby said to Nick, jerking her head in the direction Seth had gone.
“Going,” Nick said. He shouldered his backpack as he stood, glancing down at the others.
Owen winked at him.
Nick flipped him off before following his best friend out of the cafeteria.
4
When Nick was six years old, he met a boy who was sitting on the swings by himself. Nick was new at school and didn’t know anyone. He was wary of the other kids because they were loud and got finger paint on everything, and Nick hated finger painting.
There were two sets of swings. One looked brand new and everyone was shouting around it, taking turns, and the chains squeaked to the point where it sounded like they were screaming. Nick wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
There was another set of swings toward the rear of the playground. These swings were ancient. The seats were made of cracked plastic, and the chains looked like they belonged in a castle dungeon. But it was quiet, and it helped Nick’s head to clear and gave him a moment to think since no one ever used those swings.
Except on this day, there was another kid there, sitting on one of the swings, the tips of his shoes barely scraping the ground. He was chubby, and he wore a sweater and khakis. He was eating from a pudding cup. For a brief second, Nick thought about trying to find somewhere else to make his head stop spinning.
But then the boy looked up at him, and he had a smear of chocolate on his upper lip that resembled a sticky mustache, so Nick said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” the boy said quietly.
Nick had never introduced himself to anyone before. He’d always had his mom or dad there to do it for him. But they weren’t here now, and Mom said he had to be brave like Wonder Woman and Thor, and so he squared his shoulders and said, “My name is Nicholas Bell. It’s very nice to meet you.”
The boy stared at him.
Nick frowned, unsure if he’d gotten it wrong. He’d thought it had sounded just like Mom and Dad did when they said it, but the boy was looking at him like he was speaking another language entirely.
“Um,” Nick said. “So.”
The boy looked behind him. Nick did too. There was no one there.
The boy turned back around. “Are you talking to me?” he asked in a small voice.
Nick nodded. “I think so.”
“Okay. I’m Seth. Seth Gray.”
It was a nice name. Nick kicked at the dirt. “Those other kids were loud.”
“I know. S’why I’m over here.”
Nick felt relieved at that. “I don’t like loud kids.”
“Me either.”
“Or finger painting.”
The kid made a face. “It gets everywhere.”
“Right? S’not cool.”
“Not cool,” the kid echoed.
“Can I swing with you?” Nick asked nervously. He thought it was going well, but one couldn’t be too sure about such things.
The boy nodded, licking his pudding mustache away.
“Awesome,” Nick said.
“Yeah,” the boy said, watching Nick climb onto the swing. “Awesome.”
Nick tried to start swinging, but he wasn’t very good at it yet. Mom said he’d get there, but it would take practice. He gave up after a few seconds.
“I can’t swing either,” the boy said.
“It’s hard,” Nick agreed. “My dad is a policeman, and he says that he couldn’t swing until he was, like, eight or something.”
The boy looked amazed. Nick liked that. “He’s a policeman? With a badge?”