The full gravity of the situation doesn't hit me when the newspaper runs the story of how I stopped the school shooting. It doesn't hit me when I see myself on the cover, in all the glory of my mud-splattered hoodie and ten-dollar jeans, my arms wrapped awkwardly around the gunman's waist as we both fly through the air. It doesn't even hit me when the cheerleaders smile at me and whisper to each other on their way to practice. But when this random little kid runs up to me in the middle of Wal-Mart, gapes up at me, and states "My mom says you fight bad guys," then I start to think.
I saved all those people. That makes me a hero. That in itself is something I'm rather unaccustomed to. And then you have my freaky powers, which I guess elevate me to the status of . . . superhero? I almost grimace. Seriously? Superheroes, at least in my experience, are either ridiculously buff dudes in suits that are practically spray-painted on, or nerds that get bitten or electrocuted and somehow miraculously grow rippling biceps out of the very bones of their arms. They're scientists or billionaires or the sons of gods or just plain losers, but average guys? Never.
I'm still turning the matter over in my mind as Michael, Christy, and I sit in my garage discussing my newfound celebrity status. Michael babbles on and on about how this is not only my golden ticket, but his as well.
"Dude," he crows, "we market this baby, we hit the jackpot. I mean, dang! You're a freaking superhero! You gotta be a superhero. I'm talking lights, cameras, action--"
"Cut," Christy interrupts, raising her bottle of Coke. "Will can't handle that crap. Have you seen the poor kid lately? Clearly he has no clue how to act in the public eye."
"Which is why we're going to be his managers," Michael says promptly.
"We?" Christy repeats.
"You?" I splutter.
"Us," Michael confirms, draping his arm around Christy's shoulders. "We are gona make you . . . immortal."
"Yeah." Christy blinks. "Like a vampire."
"Or a god!" Michael suggests.
"I think I'll pass on the public relations committee," I say.
"Fat chance, Wonder Boy," Michael replies. "You're gonna be a superhero and like it."
"You know, you would look pretty sexy in red panty hose," Christy says blandly.
"Oh no," I stammer. "No, I am not--"
"Or blue with yellow stars, if you prefer."
"I'm visualizing something more along the lines of black with a little gold trimming," Michael says, waving his hand artistically. "And maybe flames going up the sides. . . ."
"Hearts and peace signs!" Christy admonishes.
"Just no letters," I plead. "Whatever you do, just please no letters."
As fate would have it, that's when the inspiration strikes him. "Letters!" he announces. "I love it! But you can't have letters without a name. . . ."
"Oh, God," I groan.
"You need a name," he informs me.
"I have a name," I reply, rather alarmed at the direction things are taking. "It's Will Murdock, thank you very much."
Michael ignores me and turns to Christy. "How does Superboy II sound to you?"
"Too original," she says dryly.
"How about Nightwing?" he says, striking a catlike pose.
"Too taken."
"The Flame!"
"Too barbecue." Christy crosses her arms and looks me up and down. "I'm seeing him as more of an Amazing Mr. Absorbency."
"I can't absorb," I interrupt. "Besides, I'm a superhero, not some kind of freak-show magician."
"You're so right, Will," Christy chirps. "I vote he stays Wonder Boy."
"Oh my God, no," I protest.
"Yeah, that's just not dramatic enough," Michael agrees. He grabs Christy by the shoulders. "Think, Christina! What's dramatic and heroic and not taken?"
Christy gives him a big, cheesy grin. "The Guardian."
But Michael loves it. "Yes!" he hollers. "The Guardian! That's awesome!"
"It's also taken," I remind him.
But talking to Michael while he's under the inspiration is like talking to a brick wall, and a brick wall who can't shut up at that. "Ladies and gentlemen," he crows, "I give you Will Murdock, Guardian of New York City!"
"And the surrounding districts," Christy adds.
I make a face as Michael grabs my arm and raises it high above my head, as if I just won a boxing match. Christy claps vigorously and gives me a smug grin. Now it's official. If Michael Anderson and Christy White have anything to say about it, I'm gonna be more than just an ordinary guy with extraordniary powers. I'm gonna be a superhero--and like it.
Or not.
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