CHAPTER ONE
7 p.m.
Thursday.
Eight months ago.
My whole life changed all because I wanted a peanut butter cup.
It was the end of summer vacation, and I was in my basement binging the second season of that cheesy Batman show from the sixties starring the greatest of greats, Adam West.
I was the little piggy that stayed home that summer, soaking up old TV shows like a sponge. They were a nice distraction from how boring my life was after my best friend, Finn, moved away only three months before.
His dad got a job across the country that needed his family to relocate, like, stupid fast.
One weekend Finn and I were building cabins in the woods; the next weekend he was gone.
I tried to make it a “no bummer summer,” but even with the awesome title, it was still a vacation slathered in lamesauce without my best friend.
Before starting the third season of Batman, I decided I needed a snack encounter of the peanut butter kind.
That, and I probably needed to air myself out. Clothes get funky pretty fast when you’re in a dark basement all day.
I hopped on my bike, rode to the gas station a block over, and slapped four quarters on the counter like I was a big shot with cash.
“A package of your finest peanut butter cups, good sir!” I said.
The gas station clerk groaned.
The little bell jingled behind me as the flimsy screen door slammed shut. I slipped my snack into my back pocket, grabbed my bike, and pedaled for home.
A decent end to a decent day.
And then some kid shouted for help in the distance.
It sounded like “Halp!”
I shrugged it off and kept riding. I had only about five minutes until my peanut butter cups melted in my back pocket.
BTW, peanut butter cups are my fave. I love them, but … would I marry one? Probably not, but only because my second love, the PB&J sammie, would get jelly. Get it? Jelly?
I wonder what a peanut butter cup wedding would even look like.…
Um … nevermind.
Although my dad calls me creative, and my mom says I’m a free spirit, I, Ben Braver, am really just the most normal eleven-year-old boy in the world.
Nothin’ special here.
I’ve got hobbies like everyone else. I love riding my bike through the woods. I play video games like it’s my job. I’m a movie buff, too. My favorites are awful sci-fi ones from the fifties with titles like The Day of the Triffids, and where they say things like “Her brain kept alive by experimental science!”
And I read books … comic books.
Honestly, comics are more than a hobby. They’re my way of life. It’s supes nerdy, but I secretly dream of becoming a superhero.
I bet you do, too.
Ever stare out the car window and imagine yourself flying through the clouds? Running at superspeed? Saving the day?
Remarkable. That’s what I’d be if I were a superhero.
If I were, then maybe kids would actually notice me.
But I’m not. So they don’t.
I’m the soggy fries on the bottom of the carton, the powder at the end of a box of cereal, the last kid standing when teams are picked.
Unremarkable.
That’s me.
But it’s all about the journey, right? That’s the part of comics that sucks me in. Being a superhero is more than having powers—it’s about the struggles and the choices heroes have to make. It’s about deciding to do the right thing even when the right thing is the hardest thing to do.
And as I slowed my bike on the bridge near my house, I knew I suddenly had my own choice to make: go home and dig into my peanut butter cups or save that kid shouting for help.
Copyright © 2018 by David Halvorson
