Project Hero

by Briar Prescott

I was sixteen years old when I realized something life changing about myself—I was the sidekick.

I’m the guy who looks like the boring neighbor that lives across the hall from you and later turns out to be a cannibal with a freezer full of body parts in his spare bedroom.

I’m too average to be a psycho.

I once drew a bunny for my niece. She started crying when she saw the result. My sister was pissed and refused to listen to my

explanation that I was not trying to scar her kid for life with my rendition of mutant rabbits but rather, I was trying to educate Lily and show her which rabbits to avoid should there ever be a nuclear disaster.

I have glasses that are an absolute must, since otherwise, I’m blind as a bat and walk into a lot of walls. I’ve tried not wearing them in hopes of walking into a hot guy instead. Didn’t happen.

My hair is a curly mess, and when passing on genes, my dad bestowed upon me the gift of multiple cowlicks. On a good day, I look like I do not own a hairbrush. On a bad day, I look like the lovechild of Albert Einstein and Edward Scissorhands.

He’s the Wayne to my Garth. Wallace to my Gromit. Shrek to my Donkey. Batman to my Robin.

Some people don’t like the routine. Me? I love it. It helps me concentrate and makes my brain less crowded if I have all the everyday decisions made beforehand.

Guess I can cross off freezing people with my eyeballs from my potential list of superpowers. Bummer.

if I felt indifferent toward him before, I now fully support Falcon in his hate for the guy.

“Please don’t be spinach. Please don’t be spinach,” I repeat like a mantra. I pull the lid off and take another deep breath before I look at the contents and groan. It’s worse. Quinoa with broccoli. I lift my eyes to the ceiling and mutter, “Thanks a lot.”

I slam the lid on the container and stuff it back in the fridge like the thing is laced with cyanide. It’s a shame we now have to burn the fridge to get rid of its offensive contents. I place my palm on the door and lower my head.

“I keep finding junk food hidden in the craziest places. It’s like living with an alcoholic, so I’m warning you now, the moment I find Cheetos in the toilet tank, you’re going to rehab.”

But now he’s coming after my potato chips, and I’ve got to be honest, I’m not appreciating this development. I’m already on thin ice in the library because of my snacking habit.

“Oh, but a pizza cutter would be fine.” “I like the gore factor. I presume you’re not very skilled at murder, so it’d be a bloodbath. People would forever remember me as the slaughtered-pizza-place guy. They would come here and see the bloodstains on the floor, and I’d get a pizza named after me. I’d prefer Andy’s Assassination to have pineapple, ham, blue cheese, and potato chips on it. Be a pal and let the owners know, m’kay?”

“I’m too sexy,” I deadpan. “People find it hard to resist me, which let me tell you, makes walking down the street a real challenge.”

I should have left my car doors unlocked. Maybe somebody would have stolen it, and I would have a reason to leave.

Parents should be proud when their child sets their mind to something and works their ass off to get it, but listening to my mom and dad, it almost feels like they’re embarrassed.