The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Seven EMILY

Chapter Seven

E MILY

Staring out my window, I focus on the faculty lounge. Someone appears to be having a late lunch; it looks like tuna salad. I don’t have the wherewithal to fret about it being dolphin-safe. I’m too mad at myself for my performance at the Brew and Chew. The old me never would have frozen up. Darby called me a baked potato, and that’s what I feel like. Jacketed in a beat-up papery shell, full of uselessness and empty carbohydrates.

There’s a knock at my door, and before I can say anything, Taylor and her clone, Hailee, let themselves in. “Please, come on in, door’s open,” I say. My sarcasm doesn’t register.

“Hey, Professor Doctor?” Taylor asks. Argh. How is this my life? “I told Hailee you were cool with late submissions?”

I eye Hailee, who is chewing gum with an open mouth and nary a thought in her head. “Were you also at the protest?”

“Huh?” Hailee asks. She’s in my 8:00 a.m. class, and every time we meet, I’m surprised at how much makeup she manages to apply before class. I literally rolled out of bed as an undergrad, some days not even changing out of my pajama bottoms. What time does she get up to paint all those contoured lines and angles on her face, let alone whatever she does to make her lashes long enough to touch her eyebrows? There’s a degree of commitment I should appreciate here, misguided though it is.

“The salads?” Taylor prompts her.

“What, ick, no. I was in line at Sephora. Fenty’s new Gloss Bomb lip gloss dropped,” Hailee says. She puckers her overinflated lips. I’m concerned if she bumps into a plate glass wall, she’ll suction herself to it. “Check it out, I’m wearing Fu$$y. Do you love? I love, no cap. It’s giving clean-girl energy.”

I must appear confused because Taylor clarifies. “She’s hyping up for hot-girl summer.”

I feel a wave of weariness wash over me, threatening to pull me under. “You do understand that I can’t accept that excuse for a number of reasons? This paper is one-quarter of your grade. If I have to fail you, you’ll need to get ready for hot-girl summer school .”

Hailee’s response is to work her gum more aggressively and slow-blink at her counterpart. Taylor informs me, “Professor Doctor, I’m not sure if you know? But the university code of conduct says that if you make an exception for me, you have to make one for everyone?”

Another wave hits me. I have just been bested—by freaking Taylor . I have a doctorate and $68,000 in student loan debt, and I have been bested by a fool who fights for feta. In unison, Hailee and Taylor drop their papers on my desk and both call out, “Byeee!”

They’re not even out of earshot when I hurl their papers at the door in impotent rage.

I can’t go on like this.

I need a change.

B-Money is behind the counter when I enter today. I guess I thought that after yesterday, he might have quit. There’s a casually but expensively dressed woman seated at the counter. Her blonde pageboy is preppy and ageless, and her white shirt is so starched, it could be considered a weapon. At first glance, I think it’s Martha Stewart. As bizarre as the past twenty-four hours have been, why wouldn’t Martha be hanging out in Evanston?

B-Money seems genuinely happy to see me. I guess now that we’ve been through a trauma together, we’re bonded. “Yo, Liv’s friend. This is Bitsy, my moms.”

“I’m sure this lady has a name, Blake. Perhaps you’d like to use it?” Bitsy asks, but it isn’t a question. Though her face is kind and smiley, I detect a steel spine. What she posed as a question telegraphed like a command. My suspicion is confirmed when we shake hands; her grip causes me to gasp.

B-Money immediately snaps into a different mode altogether. “Hello, Emily, how may I help you? May I serve you another chamomile tea?”

I’m wondering if B-Money called his mom because the incident yesterday scared him so badly. Despite being well into middle age, this woman looks like she could kick ass on demand. Calling her in to be his muscle probably wasn’t a bad choice.

“Espresso, please. Make it a quad.”

He gives me a wry grin. “You feeling confrontational?”

“Yes, I am.”

“True dat.” He glances over at Bitsy, who is watching him intently. I suspect that this lady doesn’t need Zeus to train her to be a badass; it just comes naturally. She radiates power and confidence. “I mean, yes, given yesterday’s circumstances, I support you in that endeavor.”

As he fires up the espresso machine, I find the flyer on the bulletin board and tear off one of the few remaining strips. I’ve been searching for something for a while.

Maybe Fearless Inc. is what I’ve needed.

Liv and I idle in front of a warehouse with its blacked-out windows. The GPS directed us to this sketchy neighborhood on the city’s near west side.

“We’re here,” I announce.

Miles was terrified when I mentioned I was driving into the city. He asked me three separate times to text him when I got here, and he’s already checked in twice. I should appreciate his concern, but I’m largely just annoyed. Also, Chicago has some problems, just like any other large city. But to hear Miles talk about my town like it’s completely lawless grates. He’s from St. Louis, the city with the highest violent crime rate in the country .

Someone recently created a line of merchandise with the slogan “Shut the fuck up about Chicago,” and I am tempted to purchase a shirt to wear around Miles. Granted, as I ease my dusty old Prius into a parking space, I am concerned about being abducted and sold into sex slavery, but I am shutting the fuck up about Chicago because it’s probably fine.

We approach a half-open metal garage door on the loading dock. “Should we?” Liv asks. She sounds anxious. I can’t say I don’t feel the same, but I want to come across as brave for her. It’s like how you look to the flight attendants on a choppy flight. If they’re fine, thumbing through their phones or chatting with their coworkers, it’s a sign that all is okay. But if they’re panicking, clasp your knees and find religion.

I want to give Liv some flight attendant energy, a flash of the old Action Emily. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I reply, hiding my anxiety. Besides, the way the clouds are gathered, it’s about to start raining, so we’re better off indoors. “Do the math. I’ve already been confronted at gunpoint multiple times in my life, almost run over by three bulldozers, shot with a half dozen water cannons, and chased by poachers, and once I was on a plane that briefly lost pressure and was too small to have oxygen masks. Also, there was the time I found that eyelash viper in my sleeping bag. Statistically, you’re probably safe with me. Let’s do this.”

I don’t want to say that I’m unkillable, because that tempts fate, but I have narrowly avoided disaster with more frequency than most. Besides, I have to press on. The prospect of changing my life for the better is too powerful to ignore. I want Action Emily back, and if I have to make some sacrifices, so be it. Liv seems to relax after my pep talk.

We make our way down a dark hallway toward murmuring voices as Liv grasps my sleeve. We enter the fluorescent-lit, hangar-like room. I survey the surroundings, taking in everything and seeking out emergency exits (old habit). There’s a boxing ring in the middle of the room, and lots of free weights. Metal folding chairs are arranged around the ring. A few of the seats are occupied by people I recognize. Everyone involved in the café robbery is here, save for the lady with the little kid.

“I see we’ve gathered the whole sack of baked potatoes,” I say as I choose an empty seat closest to the boxing ring. And exit door.

B-Money offers me a fist bump and I return the gesture. “Hey, Liv’s friend,” he says.

“Hey, Bitsy’s son,” I reply. We’ve definitely bonded.

“My moms sent these for you.” He hands me a gorgeous hand-woven basket covered in a checked napkin.

“What? Wow, that’s so nice. What are they?” I ask, peeking under the cloth. When I peel back the parchment paper, I spy rows of perfectly symmetrical little squares, topped with a mirror-smooth chocolate glaze that’s so shiny I can practically see my reflection. The scent of coffee and cocoa is overwhelming and intoxicating. I normally avoid chocolate because so few companies use ethical or sustainable practices, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist these.

“Triple espresso brownies. Moms said we’d all be better off if we were more confrontational.” Then he holds up a finger like he remembers something important. “She also said to tell you the chocolate company’s profits benefit Dian Fossey’s gorillas, and the coffee is shade grown and supports Indigenous farmers.”

“How did she know I’d love this?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You guys talk. I eavesdrop,” he replies.

I really am pleased about the chocolate. If a civilian saw the damage even one multinational conglomerate has done to the rain forest, they would never touch mainstream chocolate again. Last year, we lost something like eleven soccer pitches of primary rain forest per minute . And without these crucial natural resources, we’re never going to limit global warming to preindustrial levels. That his mom cared enough—knows enough—is touching.

Delighted to be relieved of baked-goods guilt, I tear off a small bite and suddenly feel like I’ve been punched in the tastebuds with a bag full of espresso beans. I mean this in the best possible way. “Holy shit, please tell her thank you and that this is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tried. You should get your mom to supply the café with these.”

“Negatory. I don’t want people comin’ in for fresh brews or tasty chews getting in my business. I’d never have time to work on my music.”

“Fair point.” I look around the room, and Vishnu does a two-handed wave like a little kid, the eagerness just spilling out of him. Michael seems less enthusiastic as he shoots his cuffs and adjusts his pocket square.

“So,” Liv says, “who’s ready to master their life?” Liv immediately starts her nervous talking thing, trying to be everyone’s favorite cheerleader. Occasionally her prattle can fall into restating-the-obvious territory, but that’s who she is. We should all be so lucky if our biggest fault is being incredibly friendly.

Our first couple weeks of college, I thought she was going to drive me to distraction with her constant stream of sunshiny chatter. She’s a morning person and she was up at 6:30 a.m. every day—even weekends. She tried to be quiet, but the second she saw me move, she assumed I was awake and ready to converse, despite having rolled back into our dorm room a couple of hours earlier.

I’ll never admit this to her, but I actually talked to our resident advisor about changing rooms. I didn’t think I could deal with her constant babbling. As an only child, I was used to quiet and privacy, and the transition to sharing everything (with a smile) was disconcerting.

My RA was a lot better at figuring out people than I was. She helped me understand that chitchat was how Liv was trying to adjust to her new life, and I’d be better off if I leaned into it rather than fought against it. Eventually, Liv and I got into a groove, and I learned to appreciate her ability to talk to anyone about anything, to look on the bright side. The two of us were yin and yang in those days, balancing each other perfectly. Together, we were unstoppable, especially as I’d get us into trouble and she’d ease us out of it. She’s the only reason I wasn’t kicked out of the dorm after that incident with our neighbor’s barn-dance date who didn’t consider “no” a complete sentence. We were the best team.

Liv’s ability to make sure everyone feels comfortable and included is a gift, and I need to make sure I remind her of that.

“Who’s ready to be fearless?” Liv adds, and I give her my biggest smile and an enthusiastic nod.

Vishnu immediately raises his hand, just full-on pick-me energy. He beams at Liv, and when she smiles back, he blushes a deep purple. I realize that I may not be the only person in this room who needs to change the way they interface with the world.

Michael checks his watch. “It is now 7:04 p.m. Apparently, promptness is not a Fearless Inc. virtue.”

B-Money looks at his phone. “I got 6:59, bro.”

Michael taps the face of what is surely an expensive timepiece. “This is a precision Swiss watch.”

“That runs precisely five minutes fast,” B-Money replies.

From the dark perimeter of the vast room, a man emerges from a smoky corner, timed precisely to a clap of thunder and lightning flashes. Everyone gasps.

As the haze around the man clears, we get a better look. He appears to have been minted in the John Cena/Jason Momoa/the Rock factory. Liv squeaks and quickly pinches my arm. I swat away her hand. She has no need to point out his obvious lats or baked-ham-sized thighs or the thickness of his neck; I am well aware. I’m glad I’m not standing, because a specimen like this leaves me weak in the knees. I grew up staring at the framed Monsters of the Midway poster my dad had in his office from when the Bears won the Super Bowl. When I was growing up, even though I’d eventually learn we shouldn’t judge based on appearances, that’s what I thought men were supposed to look like. That predilection stuck. I’ve been a Bears fan—and big-guy fan—ever since. Give me a Kelce-brothers type every day, and twice on Sunday.

In a deeply timbred voice, the man says, “Tolstoy said that happy families are all alike, yet each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

The Greek god man pauses to step fully out of the shadows. He commands the room with his silence and strikes a power pose, which he holds for an uncomfortable length of time. There’s another well-timed flash of lightning as some inexplicable wind howls.

It’s weird. And annoying. And a little bit hot.

Vishnu immediately raises his hand, and the man nods, permission to speak granted. “Shall I take notes?” Vishnu asks.

“At Fearless Inc. we say that the strong are all alike and the weak are each weak in their own ways.”

“I’m going to take notes,” Vishnu confirms to no one in particular, whipping out a small tablet and a stylus.

I look around at all the rapt faces and have to wonder what in the fresh Tony Robbins hell is this nonsense. The only thing missing is AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” playing in the background while this man poses and flexes for another thirty seconds.

The Adonis man finally says, “Let’s address your physical weakness first. Everyone, grab some boxing gloves and—”

I interrupt, “Um, hi, are you planning on introducing yourself or is this all part of your little act? I’ll go first. I’m Dr. Emily Nichols, the academic kind, not the physician kind.”

I try to ignore how Liv keeps poking me in the thigh, like every one of my senses isn’t already aware of his being.

“Ah! I am the physician kind!” Vishnu blurts. “Dr. Vishnu Rai, at your service!”

I say, “See, that’s how it works. You say your name and we tell you ours.”

Thor, god of Thunder The guy approaches and levels his gaze at me. Are ... are his eyes topaz? I thought that color only existed in romance novels. After another inexcusably long pause, he says, “I’m Zeus.”

Oh, wait, this is Zeus. This is who Darby was going on about.

“Zeus what?” They have to be colored contacts, right? No one looks like this in real life. The last time I saw eyes this color, I was face to face with a tiger cub I’d helped rescue in Myanmar. Liv pinches me again.

“Zeus It’s-Not-Important.”

Wait, what? No. Not acceptable. “Seriously?”

“I’m always serious.” He delivers this line with a glint in his gemstone eye, almost as though he knows this is something Miles says that makes me redline.

Vishnu scribbles furiously during our exchange.

Zeus says, “You’ve come to Fearless Inc. because I know what’s wrong in your life and I’ll make it right.”

I’m not buying it. How would he know what my problem is? I didn’t even fill out a form or anything. My entire social media is just retweets of environmental infographics, so there’s not much about who I am as a person, what I love, desire, or want, other than fewer carbon emissions. (I don’t even post shots of Meow; I leave that to Miles.) Besides, I’m not sure I know the answers to those questions anymore. When I was completing tenure paperwork, I had the hardest time stating my goals. It’s incredibly difficult to look forward when all you want is in the past.

Under her breath, Liv whispers, “Miles who ?” but I ignore her.

“Just like that?” I say. “How can you know how to help us when you’ve never even met us? It’s not possible, unless you’re some kind of roadside psychic who specializes in cold reads.”

“It’s probably all part of the job, right?” Liv offers, trying to defuse my newfound—or maybe refound—aggression.

Zeus appraises us, and I try my hardest not to let him win me over, but his physical presence makes it difficult. I mean, does he have an auburn man bun? Check. Angular jawline? Check. A scar on his right cheek with an otherwise flawless face character? Check. Does he appear to have been chiseled out of a single slab of marble? One hundred percent check. Not that it matters, right?

Regardless, here? Today? I am too old and too jaded to simply fall for a handsome and perfect physical specimen snake oil salesman. You know what? I’m already over this Fearless business. I’m not sure what this guy is after with all the cheap stagecraft, but I don’t buy it. And that makes me angry, because I need change, not amateur dramatics.

Zeus says, “You mean, how can I help Liv learn to self-advocate?” Liv’s entire expression changes, and I can see that she’s already Team Zeus one line into all of this. She lets out an audible gasp. Damn it, Liv. “Or Vishnu gain confidence in his talent?” Vishnu flushes purple again, but this time he’s also nodding. “Find direction for rudderless B-Money?”

“Yo, I think he’s been talking to my moms,” B-Money whispers to me.

“Make Michael comfortable with technology?” Michael uncrosses his arms and legs, leaning forward in his seat.

I’m not convinced.

“Or tap into the courage that once defined you, Emily?”

I let that marinate for a long beat. Finally, I reply, “Boxing gloves are where, now?”