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.

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. There are more bad days than good ones.

Falcon is popular and there are no vomit-related episodes in his past. Instead, he’s quick with a comeback, funny and smart. It would be annoying as hell if he wasn’t my best friend since the summer before ninth grade, and the coolest, nicest human being on planet Earth. He’s the Wayne to my Garth. Wallace to my Gromit. Shrek to my Donkey. Batman to my Robin. And sure, I guess you could argue that without Watson’s help, Sherlock would be a neurotic mess who couldn’t even solve the case half the time, but let’s face it, nobody would go see a film about Dr. Watson.

Ever since Falcon’s family moved in next door the summer before ninth grade, we’ve been best friends. He doesn’t mind that I’m awkward and dress like a cross between a nerd and the thirty-five-year-old whose parents just can’t seem to get him to move out of their basement.

Everybody wants to be a hero in their story. It’s human nature. But like my grandma used to say, life is not a wish factory. If you want something, you’ve got to be willing to work for it. And so, with those words of wisdom in mind, I took a good, hard look at myself at the end of my junior year of college. The results were disappointing, but I had a quick fix—I decided to drown all my sorrows in alcohol.

My goal was to turn the sidekick into a hero. And that’s how Project Hero was born. It was a brilliant stroke of genius. It would have been better if I’d done it just because I wanted to be a better, more accomplished version of myself. Unfortunately, I had a bit of a different goal in mind. Namely, I was in love with Falcon Asola, and I would finally make him notice me.

I, like a lot of people, am a creature of habit. I eat oatmeal for breakfast every morning. I take an eighteen-minute nap every afternoon. When I go to the library, I sit in a certain spot.

That's an oddly precise nap allottment.

The goal is to observe and when baseball cap here leaves, I’ll be on it like cream cheese on a bagel, before some other idiot with bad manners seizes the opportunity to snatch the best desk in the library. Not that there is exactly a line out the door, but you never know. I didn’t expect Mr. I’ve-Got-An-Incredibly-Firm-Ass over there either, and yet, here we are…

He doesn’t even seem to register that somebody else has entered the room. He’s hunched over, but his back is so wide that it’s impossible to say what he’s doing. I glare at the massive shoulders. Nothing happens. Guess I can cross off freezing people with my eyeballs from my potential list of superpowers. Bummer.

“This is my regular seat, and you’re not using it for its intended purpose anyway, so I figure you might as well ‘study’ your phone somewhere else.” I add finger quotes around the word study to fully express my disdain. Law leans back in his seat and looks at me. “Is that so?” he asks. Law is fighting a smile, and I make a valiant effort to not let it get to me. I’m supposed to be authoritative and resolute, but so far, Law only looks amused at my tentative display of alpha-maleness and shows no sign that he’s planning to move anywhere. Even so, I persevere.

“Are you coming on to me?” I blurt out the most ridiculous option that comes to mind and immediately wish the library floor would open up and suck me into a black hole because the guy loses it. There’s no other word to describe what is happening to him. He laughs so hard there are actual tears running down his cheeks. If there ever was a time to carry out seppuku, this is it. If only I had something sharp within reach. “Okay. Thanks for the humiliation,” I say. “This should last me a good while.” I turn around to flee the premises, and jump in a lake while I’m at it, but Law stops me with a hand. “Don’t leave. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh or insinuate that the idea is ridiculous. It was just unexpected. You surprised me. Not many people manage to do that.

“You’re Andy Carter,” he says. He doesn’t ask it. He’s stating a fact. I stare at him. It’s my turn to be surprised. Law Anderson knows my name?

“I am,” I finally say. He nods, still weary, but I can’t really blame him. “Good. Okay. This is going to sound weird, but I would like to offer you a job.” He’s right. It does sound weird. And my brain is off again, conjuring up another set of ideas that are way too out there for even the most dedicated conspiracy theorists.

The rule is, you can’t play when your GPA is lower than 3.0, and a failing grade in physics brings some of those guys dangerously close. So far, I’ve found them a couple of different tutors, but they’ve all been more or less useless. I was getting desperate until I went to the physics department in person and started harassing people. It turns out Shaw has a student who helps him in the lab, and who Shaw seems to like. Every person I talked to said that Andy Carter is essentially the Holy Grail and the solution to all my problems.

And that’s the short version of how I ended up stalking Andy Carter. The way I see it, Andy is my last hope. He knows Shaw. Knows his demands. He has never failed Shaw’s class, and I’m hoping he can explain the material so that the guys will get it. He’s my Hail Mary.

I stop him. Again. At this point, we’re pretty much holding hands. “I don’t need just any tutor,” I say. “People tell me you’re the best, so I want you.” There was a TA who told me Andy is working for Shaw and possesses a magical ability to, and I quote, dumb things down to an extent that everybody gets them. From what I’ve seen so far with the tutoring sessions, I’m in desperate need of that exact quality.

Jesus Christ, seven people! I hurry down the library stairs and head toward my apartment at a brisk walk. Seven people is ridiculous. That’s not tutoring, for fuck’s sakes. That’s like teaching a class, and there is no way I can do it.

Falcon will leave behind the old Andy, the average dude who looks like he’s homeless half the time, and then, when he returns, bam! He’ll see the new, improved Andy. One who doesn’t look like an awkward octopus. And Falcon will realize that he likes this new guy way more than he could ever imagine. Cue a happy ending.

A haircut would be a good start. Some new clothes. Nothing too drastic. I still want to look like me, only better. An improved version of me. Andy 2.0.

“Are you trying to make taking my things a habit?” he asks. “Because if so, I should get a vote, and I’m gonna go with a firm no on that one.”

I smile and take a seat. For whatever reason, I enjoy the exchanges with this smart-mouthed guy. I like how genuine he is. People aren’t usually that honest in how they present themselves to the world. We all have masks we put on when dealing with each other. Not Andy.

Andy slams his head against the table so hard that the glasses rattle. “Kill me now. End my misery with a pizza cutter.” “Sorry, we don’t have one.” It’s getting hard to hide my amusement, but I do my best.

“Oh, so we’re friends?” I ask. “Not if you refuse to help a guy out.” “Fine, fine,” I sigh. “I guess I can strangle you if you insist.” He lifts his head and scrunches his nose, and I’m caught unawares by how adorable it looks. “I don’t think that’s how I want to go.” “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?” “The level of thought you’ve put into this is disturbing.”

“I prefer to be spontaneous,” I say. “Potato chips on a pizza. Really?” He raises his index finger in warning. “Do not even go there. I already have Falcon to give me a hard time about my eating habits, so you and I are going to be the kind of friends who don’t nag about junk food and sweets and don’t try to poison each other by serving kale.”

“Not a fan?” I ask with a grin that is getting wider and wider by second. “It’s the devil’s food, and since it’s super trendy people force themselves to ignore the fact that it tastes like old newspaper garnished with sweat from socks that have been forgotten in the bottom of someone’s gym bag for a week.” I raise my glass and nod solemnly. “I’ll drink to that.”

“So what’s the plan, then?” “Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to need to change,” I say. Law’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. “Hasn’t anybody ever told you that’s a bad idea? You can’t alter your personality to fit somebody else’s. It’s a recipe for disaster.” “I’m not talking about a complete overhaul of my personality,” I say, even though some changes are definitely in order. I don’t say that to Law because he seems determined to talk me out of it. It’s nice of him, but let’s be realistic, the guy’s known me for a minute. He hasn’t seen all the annoying, uncool parts that have been packed into me and that have got to go.

But Law surprises me. “What’s wrong with how you look?” he asks. “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 feel for you,” Law says drily, but let’s face it, unlike me, for him that’s probably a real issue. A six-foot-three hockey god with a fit body, emerald-green eyes, and black hair isn’t exactly what most people consider repulsive.

He grins. “I’m a nice person. And as you said, we’re friends, and I don’t know about you, but as far as my experience goes, friends help each other out.” He just wants you to work for him. But that’s not all it is. He looks laidback. It doesn’t feel like he’s here, suffering through every minute spent in my presence. His pose is casual, feet stretched out and whole body relaxed. Spending time with me doesn’t seem to be a chore for him. I could be wrong, but it almost feels like Law Anderson might enjoy my company. Maybe. I think.

I cock my head to the side as I replay Law’s promise in my head. This is actually good stuff. Maybe I should take notes? Law is definitely nobody’s sidekick, so I should treat spending time with him as a learning opportunity. I wonder if Law would mind me filming him so I could study his mannerisms later? Okay, so Project Hero might be lagging, but I’m right on schedule with turning into a psycho.

“So…” I hesitate because I’m not sure why I’m entertaining this whole thing. “Let’s say I can do one person, how will you decide who gets the privilege of enjoying my shaky teaching skills?” I ask. “Because, let me be clear, you say you need me, but it’d be like… like… you’re buying a pet in a bag.” I straighten myself, pleased with the analogy I came up with. “See, you think there’s a dog in there. People say it’s a cute one and knows lots of tricks, but you won’t really know until you buy the bag and look inside and see that even though you might have been hoping for a golden retriever, you’ve ended up with a Chinese Crested and bulldog mix that can’t do anything other than sleep and pee on the living room carpet. It’s a dog, sure, but it’s butt ugly and makes your neighbors wince when you walk the poor sucker around the block. Think about it, my alleged teaching prowess might very well be a myth, and you won’t know until you’ve seen me in action.”

Law’s plan is shaky at best on paper. There are so many ifs and buts that I can’t even figure out which one to address first. I don’t particularly want to be the one to rain on Law’s parade since he looks so hopeful and excited. He’s given the phrase going the extra mile a whole new meaning, which must mean that he feels like his position as assistant coach is on the line. I really don’t relish disillusioning him. My mouth seems to agree, since the next words that come out of it are, “That could work.” Wait! What? “I could probably write you some sort of a list with bullet points to follow, and I can show you how to solve problems step by step.” Abort! Abort! “It sounds doable.” It sounds bonkers, and I have officially lost my mind.

Today, I’m not as apprehensive as usual. Today, I’ve got something to look forward to. This afternoon, Andy is going to drop by and we’ll have our first tutoring session, and I’m pretty excited about it. Fuck if I know why. There’s something about Andy that is addictive.

Every month my parents fly to Vermont from New York. Dad has a pilot’s license and a small Cessna that my parents bought when Dad turned fifty. It’s the one hobby he allows himself to have and it’s good for him. Makes him seem more human when he does something outside of staying in the office for fourteen hours a day, six days a week like a robot whose only energy source is paperwork.

The two of us working together sounds like a nightmare, even if I had a deep passion for the finance world. I should just come clean. I don’t want to take over the business, Dad. There. Is it really that hard? Why yes, yes it is. Otherwise I would have already said the fucking words out loud.

Disappointing my parents is not something I want to do. I’d love to be interested in finance. It would make life easier for everybody. Unfortunately, when Mom and Dad combined their DNA, there must have been some sort of an error. How else do you explain that two people who are as unathletic as they come, managed to produce a son who lives and breathes hockey? So we’re at a stalemate. Say it. I don’t want the company. Just man up and say it.

I open my mouth… and Dad’s phone rings. I slump back in my chair. Saved by the bell. It’s cowardly as hell, but I’m fucking relieved I can postpone this conversation for at least another month. Cowardly Lion, thy name is Lawrence Anderson.

“I’ll be there in a couple of hours,” Dad says. He stands up and starts walking. It takes him a couple of steps before he remembers that a) he wasn’t here alone, and b) he forgot to pay. Mom’s already taken out her purse, and she tries to hold back a smile as our waiter hurries toward us. It always amazes me when she does that. How is that funny that your husband forgot about you because of a business call? Dad is still distracted as he tries to wrestle his wallet out of his pocket and ends up handing his car keys to the waiter. Mom snatches them back as she gives the guy her credit card.

“Ooh.” I sit down next to him, not caring that we’re still in my hallway, and make a grab for the bag of candy. “I haven’t had those in forever.” He scoffs, “Of course you haven’t. You’re an athlete. You guys hate things that make you feel good.”

“Do you want something to eat?” I ask as Andy sits down on my dark-blue couch and starts taking things out of his backpack. He lifts his massive bag of candy and shakes it in my direction. “I’m good. Gotta finish these bad boys before I head home.” I take a seat next to him on the couch. “Why can’t you eat them at home?” He sighs and looks at the candy forlornly. “Falcon,” he says as if that one word explains everything. “He thinks it’s his mission to save my arteries from trans fats.” “Ah,” I say. “How’s that going, by the way? Ready to confess your feelings yet?” He throws me an annoyed glance. “But of course. I brought up the topic of my undying love yesterday during a house meeting. We voted on it, and then we fucked all night like two crazed rabbits.”

While we’ve been talking, Andy has laid out the contents of his bag. Holy shit, the guy has been busy. There are three textbooks, a spiral notebook, and a bunch of notecards. Everything is color coded and organized to death. He’s also brought some weird instruments with him that I’ve never seen before. I’ve always considered myself a well-organized person, but compared to Andy I’m a slob who writes his notes on rolls of toilet paper that I store in a box, mixed with regular toilet paper.

“You only think I’m a decent teacher because I feel comfortable enough with you not to puke on you.” Andy feels comfortable with me? For whatever reason, that feels like a lottery win. My insides go all warm as I let the thought settle.

“Hey, you want some dinner?” I ask before I can consider whether or not it’s a good idea. I just know that I don’t want Andy to leave yet. I’m having too much fun hanging out with him to call it a night, even though I have an early practice tomorrow at the camp and on a normal day, I would never do something like this. Andy looks surprised at the offer. “I’m a decent cook,” I add. Andy looks torn as his eyes flitter between my kitchen and the front door. He scratches his head. “I kind of told Falcon I’d be home for dinner. It’s this farewell thing since he’s going away for the summer. I’m going to regret it later when I’m trying to force down tofu or Brussels sprouts or something equally as horrifying, but raincheck?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll just eat that chicken alfredo myself then.” Andy glowers at me. “You evil bastard.” I grin as I watch him pull his sneakers on. “It’s my grandma’s recipe with extra cheese.” Andy shakes his head. “Keep talking. But just remember, people have gone to hell for less, and God is always listening.”

“I was also thinking you should come to the gym with me,” I continue. The look on Andy’s face is priceless. Already freaked by the stylist news, his eyes go wide and he closes and opens his mouth a few times. “The gym?” he repeats like it’s a foreign word, and he’s testing it out to get the pronunciation right. “We can go in the morning. I usually run on the treadmill before work. You should come with me,” I propose. He laughs. “Phew, for a moment there, I thought you were being serious. Good one.” “I think it makes perfect sense. First of all, exercise is good for you.” He gasps. “You take that back.”

Andy doesn’t look convinced, but eventually, his shoulders drop and he lets out a resigned sigh. “Fine. I guess we can try.” I rub my hands together excitedly. “It’ll be great,” I announce. “We’ll start tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at six.” “Six!” he yelps. “My alarm clock didn’t come with the six a.m. option.”

Five forty-five in the morning is a ridiculous time to get up. The sun is rising, true, but the apartment is still dim, for Christ’s sake. That must be a clear sign from God that He does not approve of doing anything other than sleeping at this hour of the day, and who am I to contradict the big guy? Clearly, people aren’t meant to be up this early.

As it is, only murderers, lunatics, and prostitutes are out at this time of day, and since I’m none of those, I feel like I should have stayed in bed to avoid false advertising.

Law and I get out of the car and make our way into the gym. “Is this the right time to mention that running, and exercise in general, is against my religion?” I ask as we drop our things in the lockers. “And what religion is that?” “I worship on the altar of Mars Inc. and Hershey Co.”

“Relax. We’re just going to do some light running.” “Oh, okay. See, I should have told you before, in my religion it’s only acceptable to run when somebody’s chasing you.”