The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Thirteen EMILY

Chapter Thirteen

E MILY

Muscle memory means that you are able to reproduce certain physical actions without thinking because your body remembers; the movement is etched deep in your subconscious. Muscle memory is why on that TikTok, the elderly ballerina with Alzheimer’s could still do all the arm movements from Swan Lake when the music played. Our bodies remember. Essentially, muscle memory is a neural pathway in the brain that allows you to perform or compete, even in high-stress situations. Muscle memory is how we’re able to ride a bike or type on a keyboard without having to talk ourselves through the steps each time.

Action Emily’s muscle memory took hold and helped us get through this. Whatever used to work for me made its grand reappearance, and not a minute too soon.

When we landed in the back of that van, I felt lost, depleted, like I was out of juice. An empty husk. I couldn’t muster what I needed to get it together, to get us out of it. For some reason, I thought about the first time Jeremy and I went climbing, something he was new to and I’d been doing my whole life. My dad and I had been climbing Starved Rock basically since I could stand. Even though I was small in the beginning, I was never afraid, because my dad always told me how much he believed in me. Soon climbing became as natural as breathing.

The cliff face is absolutely flat, high and smooth and straight. I’ve done this a million times; I could do this in my sleep. But Jeremy, big, tough, fearless Jeremy, is looking up at the wall of rock like it just dumped him right before prom. He’s defeated, and it’s not at all like him.

“Love, not sure I can do this,” he tells me.

“Of course you can,” I say. “You have the strength and dexterity. You’re certainly brave enough, plus you’ve got those catlike reflexes. You’re going to be a natural.”

“It’s really high and flat.”

I take his rough, calloused hand in mine. “I believe in you; you just need to believe in yourself.” Then I wrap my arm around him and pinch his butt. “Besides, if you fall, I’ll catch you.”

He laughs. “Seriously?”

I shrug and deadpan, “I’m always serious.”

Then he takes a tentative grip on the first rock and begins his ascent.

I’d forgotten some of the specifics of our relationship dynamic. I recall deferring to him in times of stress or danger, but we were equals . There were times he saved me, but just as many when I was the hero, like when our kayak tipped and his jacket got stuck on submerged branches. When I run through the mental carousel of our lives together, I remember that I was strong, that I was Action Emily. I needed to remind myself of all that I had achieved on my own, long before I met him.

I’ve always had it in me, which means I still do . And after a prolonged absence, Action Emily returned to the scene of the crime, and just in time.

Muscle memory.

While I’m incredibly excited at this development, I may also throw up. Those guys could find us any second now, and I can’t imagine our treatment will improve after a successful escape. “We have to run. Right now. Far from here,” I tell everyone once we stop hugging.

“To where?” B-Money asks. “Where the hell are we?”

Michael looks puzzled. “Aren’t you from ... around here?”

“Yikes. That is definitely a microaggression. Not okay, Michael,” Liv says.

“Yeah, I live in Winnetka, ya racist,” B-Money says. He’s from one of the toniest towns on Chicago’s North Shore.

“Yes, yes, apologies all around, and we’ll have teachable moments later, but right now, we need to be running!” Vishnu exclaims, practically shoving us.

We take off down the street, passing empty lots and abandoned properties, running through wan pools of light cast by the streetlights. Our feet pound out a rhythm on the bricked alley, and we have to be careful not to stumble on the uneven surface. If one of us falls, it’s likely the end.

We pass tagged garages and bleak lots choked with weeds. We hurtle past yards where vicious dogs lunge at us, separated only by shoddy chain-link fencing.

After about four blocks at a full sprint, the men are legitimately exhausted. B-Money whips out an inhaler and takes a long drag. “I need a second,” he wheezes.

“May anyone get a hit off of that?” Vishnu asks, sucking wind. B-Money hands it over and Vishnu takes a greedy inhale.

“These shoes were not made for running,” Michael says, quietly seething. He reaches down to retie his shoe and adjust his pant legs.

I mutter, “Gym clothes, motherfucker,” but Michael pretends he doesn’t hear me.

“What are we going to do?” Liv directs her question to me, as I’m apparently in charge of the operation. I like the feeling; it’s like reconnecting with a long-lost friend. “These guys are spent. Not sure how much more running they have in them. Do we knock on doors to ask for help? Do we find someplace to hide?”

“That seems like a good way for something bad to happen,” B-Money replies.

“Are there police patrolling?” Vishnu asks. “Perhaps we could flag someone down?”

“No idea,” I reply, racking my brain for an alternative.

“Wait, why don’t we call an Uber?” Michael suggests.

“They have our phones! We cannot!” Vishnu replies.

“Mine’s still in my sock,” Michael says. That information stops us in our tracks. He fishes under his pant leg and retrieves it. “What? It’s a fitted suit. I can’t ruin the lines with a bulky phone in my pocket.”

I’m trying to keep the rage out of my voice. “You had a phone with you this entire time?” I ask. Given the look on Michael’s face, I am unsuccessful at this endeavor.

“My bad.”

“I swear to God, I will kill you if these evil clowns don’t first,” B-Money says, cuffing Michael on the back of his head. Michael swats back and another slap fight ensues.

Liv breaks them up and demands, “Uber! Now!”

Dire though the situation seems, I’m proud of the way Liv handled that. “Really assertive, Liv. Well done.”

She beams. “You think?”

“Totally. So proud.” I wrap her up in a hug, and Vishnu tries to slide in like it’s a DM.

“That means a lot to me, coming from you, because—”

Michael interrupts. “Okay, Jesus, literally our savior, is coming in one minute. He’s driving a Suburban.”

“Weird,” muses B-Money. “I always pictured Jesus coming back in a chariot or whatnot.”

We hear someone shout, “There they are!” A man and a woman are about a block away and closing in fast! We run into the street, hoping to intercept Jesus before these devils take us again.

“Faster, everyone!” I shout. “Come on, move!” The captors quickly close the distance. They’re close enough that we can hear their ragged breath. But before they can reach us, a black Suburban skids between our groups and I throw open the door. “In! Now!”

We scramble in. B-Money is still clinging to the doorframe as we drive away, and Vishnu and Liv pull him into safety.

Liv is full-on hyperventilating now. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!”

I hold her face in my hands. “Slow breaths, Livvy. Slow it down, you’ve got this. Inhale, one-two-three, pause, one-two-three, then exhale, one-two-three. Come on. You can do it.” Her breathing slows and the panic begins to leave her eyes.

“Praise Jesus,” Michael says. Not sure if he’s referring to the son of God or the guy driving, but at this moment, they’re indistinguishable. In the back two rows of the cool, calm car, we catch our collective breath.

As our panting quiets, I can hear the strains of Taylor Swift’s “Out of the Woods” coming from the speakers.

“Hi, excuse me? I just want to say thank you so much! You saved our lives. We’re definitely giving you five stars, but I’d also like to write a letter to your supervisor. You were really something!” Liv says.

Yep. She’s okay.

The driver nods.

She says, “To confirm I’m saying it right, can you tell us, is your name pronounced Jesus, like the Lord, or Hay-soose, like the Spanish pronunciation?”

He says, “It’s Hay-soose. But you can call me Zeus.”

I would know that voice anywhere. One by one, it dawns on the rest of the group exactly who’s driving our getaway car. WTF?

“But how?” Vishnu asks.

“That’s a twist I did not see coming,” says B-Money.

“Hay-soose?” Michael asks. “But it’s spelled Jesus, like the one on the cross with the abs.”

“You are so not woke,” Vishnu replies.

Michael is still confused. “Can someone please tell me what in the hell is going on here?”

Zeus looks at us in the rearview mirror. “That was your first test. You passed. Congratulations. Your training officially begins now. Welcome to Fearless Inc.”

“So, it was a scam,” Miles says. We’re sitting in bed, and he’s thumbing through a copy of the Atlantic while I pet my lapful of the Chairman. I don’t even know why he decided to stay; I didn’t invite or encourage him, and usually he’d ask my permission. I wonder how eager he’ll be to camp out here if I paint the walls the brilliant navy of Oregon’s midnight sky. As poorly as he reacted to the green, blue might just cause him to blow a gasket.

“No, you’re not getting it. This was more like an initiation, like the Sea Baptism when you cross the equator for the first time and the shellbacks initiate the pollywogs.” I’m referring to an age-old seafaring tradition, a celebratory hazing where experienced sailors absolutely torment those on their virgin crossing. It can involve eggs and head shaving—it’s a whole thing .

“Not one word of that makes sense.”

“It was a challenge, Miles. He wanted to confront us with all our fears and then see how we reacted, both individually and as a group,” I explain, giving the Chairman the head scritches he loves so much.

“Since when are you afraid of clowns?” he asks.

“It’s been a while coming,” I reply tersely.

Zeus was surprisingly chatty after he picked us up, although I imagine he had to be, lest we press charges. Apparently, he does something like this with every class. He tailors the exercise to the group since each class has different strengths and fears. For example, he knew about my history as a rock climber, so he factored that into our scenario. He knew what an accomplished sailor B-Money is, so he made sure we had (almost) enough material to fashion a rope.

I was mad at first—furious, actually—but that gave way to grudging admiration. He’d thought through every scenario, really digging into what makes us us . Ultimately, he got me to tap into what’s been dormant inside, and that’s exactly what I needed. I feel like I’ve been asleep for so long, and something about this experience is making me wake up, finally. It’s exciting to me, and likely frightening to Miles, hence his attitude.

“Anyway, it sounds like a scam.” Miles’s tone is dismissive, and I’m aggravated that he’s not grasping how important this is to me. Instead, he’s kind of shining me on while he skims the articles’ titles and bolded phrases; he thinks it’s a close enough approximation of reading the whole thing. Every time he wants to turn a page, he licks his finger first. It’s a tiny gesture, but the fury it engenders in me is huge. “If I were you, I’d be a lot more worried about your tenure interview. I’m worried that it’s not a sure thing, so maybe it would be better if instead of rope climbing, I helped prep you?”

I don’t know if his offer is more sweet or more infuriating. Judging from how my blood pressure just spiked, I’m going with infuriating. I should care about my upcoming tenure review, but I don’t. Tenure means permanence, and I don’t want to be stuck teaching these intro classes to nonscience majors. Maybe not getting tenure would be a blessing. However, I do not raise this point, because Miles would want to debate me on why it’s so important and then we’d never get to sleep.

I am exhausted, but it’s the good kind of exhaustion, the deep-down delicious kind of weary you feel after running a race or facing off against illegal whalers. The adrenaline dump today was real, and there is no greater high than that.

“The New Yorker had an article about something like this not long ago,” Miles says. “The group leader was a total mountebank.”

I sigh and toy with Meow’s tail. “Just say ‘con artist,’ Miles.”

He asks, “May I?” and leans over to kiss Meow on the head, and then me on the cheek. Then he digs his night guard out of the nightstand. He says, “All I’m saying is, you’re a scientist, and I know you won’t proceed without empirical evidence. Good night.” He switches off his light, adjusts his mouthpiece, and lies flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, like King Tut in his sarcophagus. It’s creepy.

Leave it to Miles. I swear, it’s like he revels in being a wet blanket, a buzzkill. One time, I took him to Bears Fan Fest out at the convention center. I was so excited to meet some of my favorite players, and I was having the best conversation with a young QB who’d recently become a spokesperson for a new sports drink. It was a big deal. An endorsement like that could take care of his family for life.

Instead of just shaking the player’s hand, Miles had to drone on and on about how companies like the one he was representing spread myths about hydration. I know he was being sincere and genuinely trying to help, but he literally ignored every sign I tried to give him to stop. The whole thing was mortifying.

Later, I looked into what he’d said about sports drinks, and he wasn’t wrong. Somehow, that made me even madder.

I had planned on going to sleep, but now that tiny seed of doubt that Miles planted is irritating me, so I start googling to see if I can find out anything else about Zeus and Fearless Inc.