“We’re gathered together around the Y+Table,” said Soren “Sabersnag” Sneed (with a slight speech impediment since he was a saber-toothed tiger), “at this, the headquarters of the Troy+Thems, to consider the charges leveled against Clarissa James, the sometime-megahero known as Ms. Megaton Man …”

“Charges?” I cried.

“… to wit: how she has knowingly and willfully divulged personal secrets about her friends and associates in the megahero trade to persons in the media, some of which have ended up in an underground comic book …”

“She’s a gossip,” said Kav “Tempy” Kleinfelter, brushing his—I mean her—golden locks.

“She’s a back-stabber,” hissed Dana “Domina” Dorman, her spiked Mohawk bristling like a axe blade. “A back-stabber and a snitch.”

“She’s got a big mouth,” said Beatrice “Kiddo” Bryson, who was nursing her toddler, my second cousin, Biff, at her naked teat. “And she likes to run it.”

“It’s called an alternative comic,” I protested. “It’s in full-color—undergrounds are black-and-white … but it’s only available in select comic shops …”

Soren continued, “… a so-called ‘megahero parody’ known as Megatron Man #1, #2, #3 and #4 …”

I gasped. “The third and fourth issues are already out?” My heart sunk. “I haven’t seen those yet.”

“… and further, has leaked confidential information to a crusading journalist, Pamela Jointly, a person known to have a vendetta against megaheroes.”

“Tell me about it,” said Trent Phloog, who was also in attendance with his parenting partner and child.

“Clarissa James is nothing but a treacherous little slut,” said Stella Starlight, her arms folded, fingers strumming against her elbow. “We should never have invited her to be our off-campus housemate.”

“Clarissa’s not so bad,” said Trent. “She’s been a loyal friend.”

“You would say that,” snorted Stella. “Because she let’s you … do things to her, things that propriety forbids me to mention.”

“Aunt Clarissa,” said Simon, who sat playing with plastic dinosaurs. “Did you bring me toys?”

“Look, I didn’t realize my friend Chase Bradford was going to turn my experiences into a comic book,” I protested. “Or that he was going to involve all of you in his parody, satire, whatever you want to call it. You must believe me! If I had known …”

“You wouldn’t have blown him for three continuous weeks last year?” spat Domina, scowling. “You didn’t realize he was working on a comic book, even though you modeled for him naked, and he showed you his work in progress? … in which he made you prettier and whiter, and drew you with bigger tits? For that matter, what about all the other men you hook up with on the downlow, betraying the sisterhood? Did you tell your cartoonist boyfriend all about them, too?”

“Wait a minute,” said Trent, who turned pale. “How many other guys is Clarissa seeing?”

“Not only has she betrayed confidences to Civilians for personal gain,” continued Soren, “to enhance her personal standing, to get in good with her social betters …”

“To try to fit in where she doesn’t belong,” said Kiddo.

“To be liked, because otherwise she’s so unlikeable,” said Tempy.

“To prop up her status as a newbie megahero,” said Stella.

“How influential can some jerk-off underground cartoonist be, anyway?” Dana sneered.

“Kill all Civilians,” said Simon, who was making his plastic dinosaurs fight each other. “Eat them alive!”

“… there is the question as to whether Clarissa James is even a megahero at all,” said Soren.

“What do you mean? Of course, I’m a megahero,” I said. “My grandma made this costume for me…” I looked down only to realize I wasn’t wearing it under my street clothes; I only had on my usual jeans frayed at the knees, shabby hoody, and dirty tennis shoes.

“Who’s she kidding? She doesn’t fight crime,” said Tempy. “And she lives in Detroit, where the crime rate is out of control.”

“She never been a part of our team,” said Kiddo. “She’s not a Youthful Permutation—she only happens to have had a father with megapowers.”

“She’s never been a real Lesbian, either,” said Domina. “Never trust anyone who claims to be ‘bi,’ I say.”

“I’ve never claimed anything,” I said. “I’m just looking for love, for friendship. I thought you were my friends.”

“Friends don’t sell out their friends to the media,” said Kiddo.

“Clarissa only uses her megapowers to fly around town,” said Stella. “And she only flies because she’s never bothered learning to drive—because she’s scared.”

“I … I can’t argue with that,” I said, defeated.

“Her membership on this team is no longer appropriate,” declared Soren. “Her attendance has been inadequate, even for an auxiliary member.”

“Team membership is bitch,” said Trent. “It’s easy to join, but no so easy to quit.”

“Look, I don’t want to be a part of your team, or any team,” I exploded. “I never asked to be a megahero. I never expected my roommates would turn out to be … retired freaks, with a potentially more freakish kid. I never asked for megapowers or a primary-colored uniform. I’m just an introverted, studious college student, studying urban policy and social planning … I mean, planning social policy and urban studies … I mean, policy and planning and something urban … oh, I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

I broke down sobbing.

***

I daydreamed this scenario during my SEMTA bus-ride up to Troy. It was as grey, drizzly, February day; the rain at least was washing away the salt and snow but threatened to turn to a frozen slush. I brought my bookbag but didn’t even look at my homework and couldn’t stand the thought of reading my conference paper for next week yet again. I glanced at the two Megatron Man comics I brought along but couldn’t absorb the word balloons. I just looked at the panels as if they a storyboard for a silent movie, then turned to look out the window of the bus to note the passing scene: white suburbia, Oakland County, so much cleaner and newer than midtown Detroit, where I lived.

I trudged through the sleet half a mile along Big Beaver Road from where the bus let me off to the glossy office building that secretly was the Troy+Thems headquarters. I checked to see that I was wearing my Ms. Megaton Man uniform under my jeans and ratty Arbor State Abyssinian Wolves hoody, not only as thermal underwear but in case I had to duke it out in a megahero fight scene with anybody—most likely, Domina, who had it in for me.

Inside the headquarters, the team was already mulling around the Formica-and-glass Y+Table. In addition to the four core Y+Thems—Soren, Dana, Tempy, and Kiddo, with baby Biff in tow—there was also the Brilliant Brain and Cowboy Gorilla, resident freaks in this side show. Secret Agent Preston Percy, natty in his dress shirt and tie and looking restless, was also in attendance. To my relief, Trent, Stella, and Simon weren’t there, but I was delighted to see the Phantom Jungle Girl and Rubber Brother, who apparently were visiting from New York.

“Missy!” cried Fanny, as she gave me a hug.

“Donna! Jasper! What are you doing in town?” I asked.

“There’s been a bit of a shake up in Megatropolis,” said Rubber Brother. “We’re Quartet members no more.”

I was stunned.

“It’s a long story,” said Fanny. “We’ll fill you in after the meeting.”

“Right on time,” said Soren, looking at his watch. “Thanks for being here, Clarissa. Your sister Avie’s excused, since she’s been cast in a musical, but everyone else is here. I guess we can get started.”

We all took their seats at the table.

“I call this meeting to order,” said Soren. “First, I’d like to welcome back the Phantom Jungle Girl and Rubber Brother as auxiliary members of the Troy+Thems. Since they’ll be back in the Detroit area, I expect we’ll be seeing a lot more of them. The Quartet’s loss is our gain. The first order of business is to review the minutes of our last meeting.”

I looked over the handout that was distributed. I had not attended a meeting in months, but nothing much had happened in the way of epic battles lately. “The Teen Idols are still missing in another dimension,” I noted. “Huh.”

After a vote to accept the minutes, we listened to the report from the treasurer. “There’s plenty of money in the bank, courtesy of the Pentagon Black Ops budget,” said Preston, who didn’t have any paperwork in front of him. He flicked his cigarette into an ashtray. “Call it a poverty program if you like. Washington, D.C. doesn’t like seeing homeless megaheroes roaming the streets; it makes them edgy.”

Next we heard from the social director: “The bathroom policy continues in force, although some team members continue to flagrantly disregard it, using whichever powder room they please,” said Tempy as he scowled at Dana. “Also, the kitchen and break area continue to be a complete mess; frankly, I’m sick and tired of cleaning up after everybody else. From now on, dirty dishes left in the sink will be discarded, as will leftover food in the fridge, every Friday. This will be your only warning.”

“Just like every workplace I’ve ever known,” said Fanny. “Coworkers, even if they’re costumed megaheroes, are always pigs.”

The property report was next. “The weight machine is still broken,” said Dana. “I’ve just been lifting the whole machine up and carrying it around for exercise, myself.”

“We have some guy coming to fix it next week,” said Soren.

“The computers and other technology stuff haven’t gotten much use lately,” continued Dana.

“I’ll be getting that stuff up and running again with Tempy,” said Jasper. “Everything seems to be in working order so far.”

“That’s my report,” said Dana gruffly.

“Thank you,” said Soren. “Now we’ll hear from the membership committee.”

“We currently have—what? Five, six, seven, eight active members,” noted Kiddo. “Eight full-time, counting the Brilliant Brain and Cowboy Gorilla as two, and two auxiliary—Ms. Megaton Man and the Wondrous Warhound. The latter’s been cast in a musical, as Sabersnag noted, so she’s excused until the end of the semester. Otherwise, everyone’s in good standing.”

“You mean, you’re not going to kick me out?” I asked.

This got a surprising chuckle—they thought I was kidding.

“Is there any other business?” asked Soren. “If not, do I hear a motion to adjourn?”

“Yeehaw!” shouted Cowboy Gorilla, who pulled his six-shooters from his holster and fired wildly into the ceiling tile. Then, he blew the smoke out of the barrels and put them back. “No, I guess I don’t have any further business at this time.”

“Wait, I wanted to show you something,” I said. I reached into my bookbag and pulled out Megatron Man #1 and #2, which were in plastic sleeves with backing boards. “In case you didn’t know, you guys are featured in a comic book … sort of.”

The issues were passed around the table. “Chase Bradford?” said Dana, leafing through the pamphlet. “That little jerk-off schnook cartoonist from the old neighborhood? The one who was always carrying around a portfolio and staring at all the college girls like he’d never kissed a real one? He got his little funnybook published, finally; big deal. He drew your tits too big, Clarissa.”

“Well, I guess that’s it,” said Soren. “We’re done here.”

“I move to adjourn,” said Jasper, who was always one for Robert’s Rules of Order.

“I second the motion,” said Kiddo.

Soren: “All in favor, say ‘Aye.’”

“Aye,” replied everyone in chorus.

“That’s it?” I said to myself. “I expected to get called on the carpet for sure.”

The rather perfunctory business meeting was over in less than twenty minutes—hardly worth my long bus trip from Detroit.

***

“Rex wouldn’t stop chasing me around the Quantum Tower headquarters,” Fanny confided in me as the meeting broke up. “It was good exercise—kept me in shape; I easily outran the old bugger, what with my natural agility and all. But I nearly had to spear him with my jungle javelin on more than one occasion, which would have been lethal to Liquid Man; that’s when I decided to call it quits. He’s worse than Cowboy Gorilla. Really, you’d think a noted scientist and elder statesman of megaheroics would act his age. I just said, ‘This is for the birds.’ And Jasper just got restless, too; you know how he is. He was homesick for Detroit and his daughter.”

Fanny and I walked down the stairs to the dormitory level. “So what happened in New York?” I asked. “How’re Bing and Rex doing?”

“Fine—Yarn Man and Liquid Man decided to join the Doom Defiers in their twilight years, believe it or not,” Fanny replied. “We’ll see how long that lasts. Rex never got along with the Lens, as you know. The Quantum Tower itself is doing fine—the occupants seem to have adjusted to their new lives in this reality.” That was good to hear, since wrenching it out of another dimension to replace the one that had blown up had been a traumatic experience for the tenants and service staff that came along with it.

We got to Fanny’s room; I sat on the bed as she changed from the skimpy tiger-striped bikini of the Phantom Jungle Girl into the street clothes of Donna Blank, licensed social worker, stripping unabashedly down to the skin right in front of me. She placed her red wig and tiger-striped cat-eye mask on a Styrofoam head on top of a chest of drawers and her flint earrings, leather bracelet and bear claw neckless into a jewelry box; I noticed she was letting her normally spikey short hair grow out, much like I was letting mine. I watched as Donna hung her bikini on a hanger and put it into the closet. The hair on her head wasn’t the only thing she was let growing out; she’d skipped bikini wax or two.

“Doesn’t it bother Soren, you wearing an animal hide as a uniform?” I asked. “Since he’s a saber-toothed tiger and all?”

“It’s synthetic,” said Donna. “I could never wear an endangered species. You know me, bleeding heart liberal that I am.”

Looking around the spartan dorm room, I asked, “Are you planning to live here now full-time, at the Troy+Thems headquarters?”

“For the time being,” said Donna. “The old detective agency offices in Royal Oak still rented out, and I gave up my apartment in Ferndale. That’s what I wanted to tell you—I’ll be closing on a ranch house at Six Mile and Inkster in a few weeks. It’s a great location in Avondale, right near Redford and not far from Detroit. I’m going to be suburban homeowner, Clarissa, can you believe it? I’ll give you lift back to Detroit; we can stop by on the way. I can show you the front and back yards, at least; I don’t have a key just yet.”

“Thanks, that’ll be great,” I said. “Public transportation around a decentralized metropolitan area is grueling—one of many things I plan to fix after I get my degree. But I’m trying to imagine you living with Cowboy Gorilla in a quiet subdivision—that will turn it into a real ranch. I assume he’ll be moving in with you?”

“Are you kidding? Hell no,” said Donna, running a brush through her hair. “Getting away from him for a while was one of many reasons for going to New York. I needed it just for my mental health. But to be honest, he was more than the Y+Thems were equipped to handle. Soren’s been pleading with me for months to come back—Dana’s about ready to kill him. Hopefully, I can help reign in the ol’ buckaroo. But I’m sure as hell not living with him again—he was the roommate from hell.”

Donna slipped into skinny jeans and a sleeveless black T-shirt, no bra. She stuck her bare feet into sandals, sockless even in late winter.

“Aren’t you flying anymore?” she asked. “Ms. Megaton Man hasn’t lost her abilities, has she?”

“Nothing like that,” I said. “I’ve just been busy with school. Maybe we can talk about it on the way.”

“Okay, I’m already to go.”

***

We went down to the parking lot where Donna was parked and climbed into her Pinto—one that had been recalled to keep the gas tank from exploding. As we drove, I confessed all my usual misgiving about being an unintentional megahero. It was the same old song, and she’d heard it before; she simply nodded as she drove through late Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic.

“You don’t think I’m oversexed, do you?” I asked.

Donna raised her eyebrows. “How often do you screw?”

I figured it out in my head. It worked out to less than once a week over the past couple of years. “But I when I hook up with somebody, it tends to be multiple times. I think I have a binge personality.”

“How do you feel after these encounters?” asked Donna, in her social worker voice. “The question is whether you feel good about yourself, not how others label you.”

“I guess I feel pretty good,” I replied. “Yeah, I guess I feel okay.”

We pulled in front of an address on Pershing Avenue. “This is it,” said Donna. Sure enough, it was a modern ranch house, one of three models repeated throughout the neighborhood, this one with a tree in the front yard. Built in the late fifties from farmland, there was still an old farm house behind Donna’s place on Inkster Road. “The descendants of the farmer who had to sell out still live there and scowl at the squatters, still,” Donna noted.

“Donna, how can you afford this, if I may ask?”

“Didn’t I explain?” said Donna. “I filed sexual harassment charges against and impotent Rex Rigid, settled for a huge payout from the Megatropolis Quartet Corporation. Jasper was depositioned, which put him on the outs. He got severance pay—we each got a buttload of money. He bought another HUD home in the city to rehab.”

We walked up the driveway. Neighbors—all white—were out salting their sidewalks and driveways to prevent the rain from freezing as the afternoon temperatures dropped. It occurred to me that Donna, who was white, chose to live here, while Jasper, who was black, lived in Detroit. But I didn’t bring it up the invisible force racism had in determining where even megaheroes could live.

“I’m planning on putting up a backing board on the garage,” said Donna. “You can visit me in the spring; we can play driveway basketball.”

I peered into the back yard. Along the fence between Donna’s house and the old farm house was a pile of broken concrete. “The previous owner’s idea of modern landscaping,” she noted.

“This is very nice,” I said. “I’m happy for you, Donna.”

Donna pulled up the garage door; inside was filled with all kinds of mechanical automotive stuff and rubbish.

“The previous owner is supposed to have this all hauled away,” she said. “The basement has some junk, too. Something tells me I’ll left holding the bag. There are a few things to fix around her, to be sure, but it’s not bad housing stock for being only twenty-five years old. And it’s a nice neighborhood.”

I turned to look back down the driveway to the street. A white kid with pop-bottle lenses sat astride his bike, staring at me. He was skinny and had slicked-back hair; he couldn’t have been more than ten years old. I took a few steps toward him.

I called out, “What’s the matter? Never seen a black girl before?”

He seized his handlebars and pedaled off down the tree-lined street.

“Friendly neighborhood,” I said to myself. “The Lily-White Suburbs of Detroit.”

I’d never had a friend who lived this far from the city.

Donna closed the garage door and clapping the dust from her hands. She said, “This is going to be a great summer, don’t you think?”