Not So Secret Identity

September 15, 2019
Ernest sits on the couch, headphones off for once, trying to accustom himself to the noises of Halcyon City. The cars whizzing by on the street below send lime green threads pinging across his vision, and each horn adds a splash of fuchsia to the mix. It’s distracting enough that he could lose sense of the living room in front of him if he doesn’t focus.
Focus, that’s right. He’s trying to focus. He hefts a small rubber ball and tosses it at the wall, which it hits with a soft thud and a shower of indigo sparks. It rebounds off the floor, setting off a flash of yellow before slapping back into his hand with a magenta fuzz. He bounces it again - indigo, yellow, magenta - concentrating on the sounds within this room alone and ignoring the tapestry of street noise clouding his vision.
He knows that it doesn’t need to be this overwhelming. New York City hadn’t exactly been quiet either, and the ambient noises there never bothered him. In the same way that a few minutes after putting on a shirt he stopped noticing the texture of the fabric against his skin, the silver spirals of subway cars and chartreuse screech of taxi brakes had dissolved into the background, subtly present but not demanding his attention. He’d always taken it for granted until they moved.
Despite both being bustling cities, Halcyon sounds different enough from New York for him to notice, constantly. The streets were smoother – probably because of how often they had to be replaced – which shifted the hue of tires rolling across their surface. The traffic lights followed an entirely different pattern than the one he was familiar with, triggering a symphony of car horns when they changed.
He would probably adjust over time, but in the short term it was so much easier to pull on a pair of headphones and let the noise cancelling filter for him. In the long term though, it would be nice if he could cross the street without needing to plug his ears. That’s why he’s practicing now. Just center on the bounce of the ball - indigo, yellow, magenta - and let everything else slip away.
“Hey Ern, I’m home!” Timothy’s piercing sky blue voice cuts through the collage and Ernest stills the bouncing ball with a small grin.
Ernest waits until Timothy makes his way from the front door to the living room, angling himself to face his brother’s direction. Timothy might claim he doesn't need it, but Ernest can tell that being able to read lips helps him understand better these days. “So how did auditions go?”
“They went great!” Timothy says, dumping his backpack on the floor. “With the way things are going I think I’ve got a real shot at the leading role.” He’s sporting a mischievous grin that lets Ernest know he’s not actually quite that overconfident.
Ernest snorts, only partially willing to play along. “I hate to burst your bubble, but you know one of the seniors will get that part, not a sophomore, no matter how much you dazzled them.”
Timothy’s smile widens by a fraction. “So you’re saying that you’ve got a better shot at it than me?”
Ernest tilts his head to the side considering. “I could give you a run for your money in terms of singing, but you’ve got the edge in acting,” he admits. “But you know what I mean, they’re gonna give the part to someone who’s been here for years already.”
“I suppose I’ll have to make do with a supporting role then,” Timothy sighs dramatically before flopping down onto the couch. “How about you, how’s everything going on your end?”
“Fine.” Ernest shrugs. Having to start senior year over again at a brand new school wasn't ideal, but he certainly preferred it to last year’s nightmare. It might take time, but he'd adapt.
“Just ‘fine?’ Are you sure?” Timothy raises an eyebrow, clearly finding his answer lacking.
“Yeah, I guess.” Timothy’s fishing for something, but Ernest can’t figure out what he wants. They’ve talked about his synesthesia before, and dealing with it is hardly a new problem.
Timothy gives him another moment to respond as he pulls up something on his phone. With a final glance in Ernest’s direction, he rolls his eyes and reveals the screen. “So…. when were you planning on telling me that you’re a superhero?”
The video that plays is blurry and shaky, apparently a recording from someone’s phone, but it’s clear enough for Ernest to recognize the sign for the nursing home across the street. A few seconds later, the sky darkens and he sees himself in his Weatherman hero gear float into the air, crackling with electricity.
“Oh, right. That.” He hadn’t meant to keep the hero thing a secret from Timothy. Some heroes tried to hide their identities, but his powers were hardly a secret. It wouldn’t take a genius to draw the line connecting ‘new student with weather powers’ and ‘new hero with weather powers,’ so he hadn’t even bothered to hide his face. He just hadn’t finished thinking it all through, and there was never a great opportunity to bring it up at home.
“So, you’re part of that hero team now?” Timothy asks.
“The Big Team? Yeah, Seth invited us after the robots.” Ernest can see that Timothy is about to burst with curiosity, so he caves and describes the two fights from last week. He tries to leave out his more embarrassing mistakes, although for all he knows there are more videos documenting those. Timothy soaks up the information, asking questions here and there but mostly letting Ernest direct the story.
After the tale concludes, the two of them sit quietly for a few moments. Timothy had seemed excited to learn about the Weatherman’s adventures, but his expression grows serious as he says, “Please tell me that you’re not becoming a superhero just because mom thinks it’s a good idea.”
“No, I wouldn’t have accepted the offer to join the Big Team if I wasn’t interested in trying it out for myself. I just… want to help people with my powers, instead of hurting them.” He’s unable to keep looking directly at Timothy as he finishes the sentence.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Timothy nod. “Okay. Well, you know you can talk things over with me if you need to, right? I may not have superpowers, but I’ll always have your back.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that,” Ernest says with a small smile.
As Timothy heads to his room to study, Ernest returns to bouncing the ball against the wall. Indigo, yellow, magenta. Forget the bus shuddering to a stop and the people spilling out. Forget the clatter of feet on the sidewalk. Forget the lightning simmering under his skin, prickling for release.
Just focus in on this moment. Indigo. Yellow. Magenta.
Category:The Weatherman
Category:Journals