“Okay, well, thanks for totally abandoning me in my moment of need,” I joke, petting the bulldog’s wrinkly head.
“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “If Warrior Nation doesn’t pick you for this internship, I’m sure you’ll pester them to death with an angry letter campaign, just like you did when the academic decathlon timed out your final math equation.”
“They were in the wrong and they knew it!” I shout while Demi rounds up her canine friends.
“Text me if you find anything!” she calls as the dogs pull her back up the trail. I wave, happy that she came with me this far. Demi may not be a WarNat, but she gets prestige when she sees it. We’ve both been working on our college application essays since eighth grade, and landing this internship would put me over the top at any university. But that’s not why I’m doing it. In fact, even though I’ve toured schools with Demi and have stacks of university brochures on my desk, I have no intention of going to college. Working for Warrior Nation—being one of them—is my true purpose, the only thing I want to devote real energy toward.
Tucking my grail diary back in my bag, I stop at a fountain, splashing water all over my face and hair, thankful that I recently shaved down the undercut on the right side of my head, leaving me with less weight in the tangled bun hanging limp on my neck. I originally got an undercut because Demi dared me to, saying I needed to upgrade my “basic brownnoser” look, and while it definitely did accomplish that, I now have no idea how to ever grow it out, so I guess this is my look for life. The other half of my long wavy locks are dyed dark purple; I would’ve done blue to match the Warrior Nation logo, but worried it’d give off a hypothermia vibe. Ahead on the trail I spot a massive boat-shaped building hugging the shoreline, which puts some extra pep in my step. I pick up the pace, letting the red-white-and-blue vessel act as my finish line.
It is so hot, but the scenery can’t be beat with the mix of high-rises glittering on my right to the lapping waves of Lake Michigan on my left. Once I reach North Avenue Beach, I start canvassing the perimeter of the boathouse, which was designed to look like an ocean liner washed ashore. Out on the sand, scantily clad bodies play beach volleyball, splash in the waves, and drink brightly colored beverages with little umbrellas poking out. B96 blares from a random speaker, prompting people to sway to the pop beats. But now is not the time to soak up the sun: I need to focus.
Taking on the role of a hero anthropologist, I get to work, carefully observing the double-decker boat, weaving in and out of the people buying overpriced chicken fingers and sunscreen. I run my hands over the concrete walls, looking for cracks in the foundation or levers hidden in plain sight. Heroes are all about hiding in plain sight: secret identities and whatnot. They spend their whole lives living a double existence, both proudly in the public eye and quietly amongst the rest of us. I mean, there could be a hero standing around us right now, fully concealed in their civilian persona, pretending to be in awe of this wannabe Titanic. I’d like to think I could spot a hero even when they are Clark Kent–ing it, though. I certainly spend enough time scrolling through forums and fansites to have every available scrap of Warrior Nation info implanted in my brain.
Of course, out of all the heroes in all the world, the one I’d want to find most is Blue Streak. The legend. The inspiration. The man who started it all for me. Blue Streak! God, I love him. All the heroes give me life, but he’s the beating heart, pulsing in my veins every day. No other hero in any chapter can even aspire to the bravery and selflessness he’s exhibited over the past several decades. He’s the oldest, most decorated Warrior ever to have lived, and if you ask me (which you should because I’m the expert), he’s the greatest American hero of all time.
Just thinking of bumping into him now—his strong, commanding frame draped in iconic red-white-and-blue spandex and cape—gives me goose bumps, and the reality of meeting a real-life hero sets in. If I stumble upon an HQ entrance today like I desperately need to do, I could be face-to-face with one of my idols. Ahh! Excitement and nerves tangle together in my chest: Even though I have several drafts of my “What to Say to a Hero” speech in my grail diary, each composed for different kinds of encounters (being rescued, being recognized as the official WarNat Club president, etc.), I suddenly can’t remember any of the words and my heart races at the thought of being caught off guard. If unprepared, I’ll revert to a fangirl freak-out, and I have to show them I am different than the average squealing WarNat.
I take a beat, sitting against the cool concrete while flipping to my written speech. Taking deep breaths, I review my carefully composed “Meeting a Hero as Equals” speech:
Hello, my name is Claire Rice, and I am so honored to meet you. Your service and heroism has inspired me to commit my life to community, and I hope to one day join your ranks….
I run the words over and over in my head, their clarity resetting the hysteria in my head and helping me resume my mission. But after thirty more minutes of exploring, my search comes up fruitless. Fake fish in decorative nets laugh at me as my thoughts return to their usual question: Where are you, Warrior Nation? Please reveal yourself to me! I’m worthy, I swear!
My phone buzzes with a text:
Hi hon! How’s it going? Any luck yet?
Oh, Mom. She’s just as excited about this and almost called off work today to help me. But we can’t really afford a missed day of work, so I’ve been trying to live-text my progress.
Not yet, but I’m not giving up
Never cease, never cower!
Nice, the Warrior Nation creed. She’s the best. I can’t let her down.
I’ve poked my head through every porthole and looked for clues in every room, though…maybe there’s a trapdoor on the top of the boat? Actually, that would make sense! An entrance only a hero could spot from the air! It’s genius!
Two red ocean-liner funnels stare down at me, taunting me with possibility. A bold “DO NOT CLIMB” sign also stares me down, challenging my rule-following heart. Upholding a model-citizen status gives me another advantage for Warrior Nation recruitment, but even heroes have to break the rules sometimes in the pursuit of justice, right? I grab hold of a pole, sneakers screeching as I try to shinny up to the roof, which is more than challenging, seeing as how my physical abilities cannot compete with my academic prowess. My upper arms quiver in resistance, but after a couple pathetic attempts, I manage to pull myself onto the roof, only to find I’m not alone at the top.
“Hey!” a voice calls, and before I know it, an exceptionally strong girl is balling up the front of my sweaty tank in her fist, hoisting me an inch off the ground like it’s nothing. Her nose hovers just above mine as I screech in fear, her bright blue eyes squinting in disapproval. “Who are you? Who sent you? Are you part of the siege?”
Still catching my breath from my awkward climb, I gasp, “Do I look like a person who’s conducting a siege?” My toes dangle over the edge of the roof, and I grab her arms in desperation. I really don’t have time to break a limb today. “Please put me down!”
Brows pinched, she sneers. “Hmm, lucky for you I’m not supposed to apprehend suspects just yet.” Setting me down, she releases the death grip on my top and steps back to observe my trembling body with a smirk. “Besides, I don’t think a real siege against the city would involve a shrimpy teen girl.”