I huff out a little laugh and shake my head. “Good point.”
After all, if I hadn’t been so stunned by the situation, I would have known it was Nitro just from his abilities. Why wouldn’t Rebel? Especially when life at her house is a daily course in villain identification. I swear if Mrs. Malone would allow it, Mr. Malone would display photos of the twenty most-wanted villains in their house like a museum displays Picasso paintings. All in an attempt to memorize their faces so he can eradicate them from the planet.
“So, are you going home?” Rebel asks after an awkward silence.
I nod. “My mom doesn’t want me here during the cleanup.”
“She’s right. No one wants to be here for that.” Rebel slings an arm around my shoulders. “Too much time with the zeroes…oops, I mean heroes”—she gives me an overly dramatic eye roll—“could cause cavities.”
I ignore the dig. She knows it bugs me when she calls them that.
“But seriously,” she says, “you shouldn’t be alone tonight. Come home with me.”
Normally I would protest, out of pride if for no other reason. But the truth is that I really don’t want to go home. While I’m not exactly freaking out, I think I’ve earned a night at my BFF’s house.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
Rebel gives me another oxygen-depriving hug before walking me to my car. Then I follow her home.
The Malones live about ten minutes from the lab in a house that looks like a giant wedding cake. Big and white, with huge plantation shutters and trees lining a driveway that stretches a half a mile from the street to the front porch. It looks more like a vast southern estate than part of a wealthy Boulder neighborhood.
I park in my regular spot in the designated guest parking area—yes, her parents are more than a little anal—then follow Rebel into her house. There’s a light on in the foyer but the rest of the house is dark, which means her mother is still in bed. I can’t help feeling relieved. I like Rebel’s family, but they’re all a little high strung. My half-goth, half-hipster best friend is actually the low-maintenance one in the Malone household.
Rebel and I became friends in kindergarten. On the first day of class, the teacher asked everyone to demonstrate their powers—teleporting, cloud making, even changing the color of people’s hair, which Rebel totally wishes she could do. When they got to me, I had to admit that I didn’t have a power. It wasn’t unheard of for an ordinary to attend the school for superheroes, but it was unusual. Enough so that no one wanted to sit with me at lunch.
When she saw me sitting alone at a table, Rebel made a big production of picking up her lunch, skipping across the cafeteria, and sitting next to me. She said, “You’re special. We should be friends.”
We’ve been inseparable ever since.
Once we’re in her room, Rebel loans me a pair of pajamas and it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open long enough to change into them. Funny, half an hour ago I was pumped so high on adrenaline that I felt like I’d never come down, and now I’m crashing so hard all I want is to pull the covers over my head and hide for a week.
I reach instinctively for my journal. Even exhaustion can’t keep me from my nightly ritual of scribbling at least a line or two about my day, about my results.
But my backpack isn’t where I usually drop it in Rebel’s room. It’s not here at all.
“Crap,” I say as I fall back into the bed. “I forgot to grab my bag.”
This is all Riley’s fault. If he hadn’t started droning on about security systems and surveillance equipment—while wearing a freaking cape—I wouldn’t have been in such a rush to get out of the lab.
“Get some sleep,” Rebel tells me, crawling in the other side of her king-size bed and pulling out her tablet. “You can go back for it tomorrow.”
I don’t even argue. Instead, I close my eyes and fall into a restless, dream-filled sleep.
I’m not sure how long I’m out before the sound of an incoming text wakes me up. I’m starting to grope for my phone when I hear Rebel tapping out an answer. Seconds later, she throws back the covers and climbs stealthily out of bed, so stealthily that I simply watch her instead of saying something, like I normally would.
She walks to the French doors that lead out onto her veranda and pushes one open. Then, after flicking on the exterior light, she steps outside and softly closes the door behind her. I wait a minute, two, for her to come back in, but when she doesn’t, I climb out of bed too. Through the glass, I can see her silhouette walking toward a small copse of trees at the back of her yard.