open, almost touching the stove, with cardboard boxes packed with stuff taking up almost every inch of available floor space. Looking at the cramped living quarters, it occurs to me that in between kisses Joy and I have never really talked about her home life, although she’s alluded to how being a hero will “make things better.” I just thought she meant better for the world, not her personal circumstances.
Her mom starts leading the way through the piles of stuff, and all the mess is giving me severe claustrophobia. Just before we reach the bedroom door, she pauses, turning around to address me. “Claire, can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” I say.
“What do you think of Warrior Nation?”
Words catch in my throat. “Awesome,” “inspiring,” and “best thing that ever existed” don’t feel appropriate right now, my heart unable to conjure up its usual excitement. It’s weird for me not to burst into a long diatribe on how this organization is basically the most important group of people in the entire world, but I can’t muster up any other feeling but fear. Mrs. Goodwin stares at me, eyes begging for some kind of reassurance, but I struggle to think of what would appease her right now.
“Well. Heroes help people. They save lives,” I offer, flashing back to my childhood rescue with Blue Streak. I’ve never thought about him outside of his professional duties…. What did he do after he saved the day? When he flew out of the train and pulled bullets from his body, did he go home and nurse his wounds? Did he cry in relief that he made it out alive yet again? Or did that event barely register, just another day at the office? Blue Streak saving me was one of the most formative experiences of my life, but for him, it’s probably just a blip on his long career of wins. Maybe that’s how it will be for Joy someday. “A Warrior saved my life when I was little. I don’t know if I’d be here today if it weren’t for him.”
Nodding but not quite accepting the sentiment, she replies, “It’s just all so dangerous. Joy is so young. She’s been out fighting almost every day….”
“And she’s doing amazing work! I mean, the bus thing? That was huge! I’ve already started seeing WarNat fan art online of Girl Power carrying a bus on her shoulders.” But this doesn’t make her smile like I’d hoped. Maybe she needs to see how cool it looks? “Here, I’ll show you.” I pull out my phone to find the image, but her mom shakes her head.
“No, I…don’t like seeing my daughter in danger.”
“Oh, this is more like a hero pose. Very inspiring—”
“NO,” she says with more force, then presses her fingers into her temples, ashamed. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had enough with heroes for today.”
Okay, I tell myself, when you see Joy, you have to be brave. Don’t let her see how completely terrified you are. She needs you, just like you needed Blue Streak. You can do this, you can do this. Never cease, never cower.
But the second I get a glimpse of Joy, head wrapped in a giant bandage, my resolves crumbles and my hands fly up to cover my mouth. Lying on a pile of bohemian-style pillows on the bottom bunk of a bunk bed, Joy reclines like a beaten Sleeping Beauty, bandaged hands in her lap and a damp fishtail braid snaking down her neck. A shadow of blood seeps through the head wrap, a small waste bin filled with used medical supplies by her bed, the scent of antiseptic in the air. Joy’s dad stands in the back corner, whispering to a Warrior Nation doctor in scrubs.
“Greg,” Joy’s mom says, talking to her husband. “Greg. Joy’s friend is here.” He turns our way, tired eyes taking me in. “This is Claire,” she adds.
He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment, gesturing for me to come in. “Thank you for coming, Claire,” he says, his voice sounding far away. Upon hearing my name, Joy opens her eyes. She’s pale, void of her usual magnetism, but smiles when she sees me. Two fat tears stream down my face, betraying my goal for courage. So much for heroism.
“Hey, killer,” Joy slurs, blurry from pain meds. She tries to push herself up despite her wrapped hands, and her determination to be strong even when she’s battered floors me. Some people are born to be heroes. Joy is one of them. “I’m