something inspirational, something to carry me for years to come, but instead, all he leaves us with is “Stay alert.”
Millie rushes back up, telling the room there will be no further questions as the screen fades to the Warrior Nation logo. I stare at it, a symbol that usually fills me with hope, but tonight, there’s a twinge of sadness.
“I just can’t believe he’s leaving,” I say, my voice hollow.
“I’ll miss him too, but he did great things with his time,” Mom says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “Now it’s time for you to do good.”
I lean into her. “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We sit there for a while, lost in memories of the man who saved our lives, when Mom says, “Do you need cookies? I think sugar will help us through this.”
“Definitely. Do we have any of those double chocolate chip ones left?”
“I’ll go check.” She jumps up, “Never cease, never cower!” written across her butt in silver letters, and I stifle a laugh. Just then, my phone buzzes with a text from Demi.
hey sorry I was a jerk earlier. I just heard about Blue
Streak. I know that dude is your jam. You okay?
No, but I will be, I write back.
Besides, new adventures await.
ABC 7 Chicago news brief
Earlier this evening, Warrior Nation held a press conference to announce the retirement of Blue Streak, the organization’s longest-running hero. The news was met with shock and disappointment, with an entire city left wondering who could possibly take his place.
In a tearful salute, hundreds of fans have gathered in Daley Plaza to show their appreciation of their retired hero, waving blue flags, ribbons, and signs with messages such as “Don’t leave us!” “The end of an era,” and “Forever blue skies.”
When asked to comment on the outpouring of emotion from Chicago fans, Blue Streak simply stated, “It has been my honor to serve.”
THE WHIPPED CREAM ON THESE FRAPPUCCINOS IS MELTING.
I’m sitting on the stoop of River North Arts, Terese’s gallery, waiting for her to arrive. I don’t even usually like fancy coffees, but figured I needed the one-two punch of caffeine and sugar to give me extra courage for this ambush. Terese has to give me that job. And I have to make her see that I’m more than a broken window.
I spot her coming up the street, a long, flowery caftan breezing behind her. She takes a long puff of her e-cig, happily letting the vapor cascade around her as she smiles up at the sun. But her leisurely morning walk is interrupted when she glimpses me. Visibly disappointed, she contorts in what could only be called a full-body eye roll, but still I hop up, giving her thick black sunglasses and asymmetrical haircut the biggest smile I can muster.
“Good morning!” I cheer, handing her a slightly melted coffee.
She looks at the overpriced drink as if I’m giving her a lab rat. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Drink it?”
She pushes it away, jingling her keys to open the door. Since she doesn’t immediately lock it behind her, I take it as an invitation and suck down the rest of my caramel mocha before heading inside.
An art gallery is such a different place in the dark. Beauty shrouded in shadows, there’s a haunted aura that forces you to whisper, lest the ghosts of artists past are listening. Lighting is so important with art; you want it to be bright enough to highlight the brushstrokes and brilliance, but not so glaring that it blows out the subtleties. It took me four days to properly hang, position, and illuminate the twenty-seven pieces my classmates submitted, and I felt really proud about how beautifully everything turned out. But here, in the dark, I don’t recognize a thing—it’s only been a few days, but Terese has already swapped them out for a new collection. Grim and gritty shots of the city loom over me, making me feel like I’m lost in a place I love.
“Bridgette,” Terese says from the back of the room, flipping on a few of the lights. “What are you doing here?”
Her frustrated tone isn’t enough to overpower the last shred of hope coursing through my system. “I just wanted to leave things on a more positive note, to discuss the highlights of the event, and not just—”
“The broken window?” she callously calls over her shoulder.
“Right.” I look down at the floor, remembering what it looked like covered in glass, Matt’s body crumpled in a pile.