I stood on a crate that once held oranges, sustaining a heroic stance in the face of boredom.  Doing nothing was never so hard.  Sun streamed through the shed’s open windows.  I had a clear view of shovels, rakes, and bagged potting soil.  Next to an old rimless tire, a lawn mower occupied another corner.  Pencil poised, Kristy sat at the table, peering intently over her sketchpad.  “Gene, stand still!” she demanded.
     “Aren’t you done yet?  I’ve been holding this pose for hours.”
     “Try two minutes.”
     “Well, it seems like hours.”
     She growled and ripped out the sketch, crumpling it.  “Something just isn’t working.”
     I dropped my arms in relief.   “Yeah, you.  What’s wrong?  Got artist’s block?”
     Kristy scowled at the suggestion, uglifying her usually pretty face.  “Somehow or other, it’s your fault."
     “Give me a break.”
     "You're just not inspiring me."
     "More gets done by discipline than anything else in this world."
     "Sounds like your mom's boyfriend talkin'," Kristy said.
     "Yeah, Rick's full of good advice, for everyone else but him.  I think he needs to get off our couch and go get himself a job."
     "The irony is killing me.  Speaking of killing, pick up that hand spade and make like a serial killer.  This drawing needs some drama."
    With a sigh, I did as told.  Kristy was a force of nature; it wasn’t smart to get in her way on anything.  I held the spade like a knife, poised over my head, frozen in mid-strike.  I was going to be glad when she got this thing done and handed in for the school’s art contest.
     “That’s better, but there’s still something missing.”
    “Yeah, my head for doing this--for free.”  She ignored the suggestion that I ought to get paid.
    “I know.  We need some mystery!”  She set her pad and number-two pencil down and went over to a faded sheet splattered with dried paint.  She grabbed it and brought it over to me, tucking one corner in the back of my collar.  “Caped figures always look mysterious.  Too bad you don’t have a mask.”
     I pulled out my cool-shades and slipped them on.  The lenses turned everything an off red.  “I am the Fierce Avenger!”
     “Perfect.”  She rushed back to the table.  “Now try not to move for five minutes.  I need that long to get the basic lines in.”
     “Right.”
     “Hey, what happened to my lighting?”
     I craned my neck to face the window, pulling off my sunglasses.  Limed by sunbeams, someone’s head peered in.
     “What are you doing?”  He recognized the voice as belonging to his little sister, Misty.
     “Go away!” I hollered.  “It’s not your business.”
     “You’re wearing a sheet.  I’m going to tell—-“
     “No!”  I wouldn’t have cared what she knew if she weren’t a chatterbox.  All I needed was people to start talking about me prancing 'round in a less than manly fashion.  I was picked on enough at school as it was.
     I launched myself from the box, but Kristy beat me to the door and had it open by the time I arrived.  Outside, she had my sister by the arm, bending down to stare her eye-to-eye.  “Not so fast,” Kristy said.
     “Yeah,” I chimed in.  “You can’t say nothing about this.  It’s a secret.”
     “Why not?”
     “You’ll give away his secret identity.”  Kristy eyes held a glint of mischief.  “He can’t go out and fight crime in the streets if he has to worry about evil-doers striking back at his loved-ones.”
     “You’re goin’ to be a super-hero?” Misty asked.  “Does Mom know?”
     I decided to go with the story.  If my little sister thought there was a really good reason, she was more likely to stay quiet.  “No,” I said.  “And I don’t want you to tell her either.  Mom would only worry, or maybe ground me, and that would be the end of my legend.”
     “Well, she’ll know it’s you anyway ‘cause you need a real mask, not those stupid sunglasses,” Misty argued.
     “We’re still working on the outfit,” Kristy lied.  “You will keep quiet, right?”
     “Well…”
     “I know where you live,” I warned.
     “All right, cross my heart,” Misty drew invisible lines across her chest with a two fingers.
     “Pinky-swear?” I demanded.  My sister hesitated, then stuck out her littlest finger.  Kristy and I took turns hooking it with our own, completing the ancient ritual.  “Good,” I said. “Now, go keep watch and tell me if you see anyone suspicious lurking around.”
     Misty saluted much energy and little precision, then ran off.
     “I know why I didn’t want her talking,” I said.  “But it seemed just as important to you.”
     “Well sure,” Kristy said.  “I want to win this art contest.  I’m not taking a chance on someone stealing my concept before I turn it in.”
     “That sounds a little crazy,” I said.  She studied me like a piece of day-old road-kill, brow furrowing in immanent wrath. Quickly, I headed off her explosion.  “But you could well be right.”
     She pointed back to the shed.  “You’re still on the clock.  Back to work.  I’ve only got a week to get this done.”
     With a small sigh, I returned to my box.  An eternity later, I was allowed to put the getup aside.  Kristy ignored me thereafter, adding improvements to her sketch as I crept behind her.  I peered past her shoulder at the drawing.  She had a talent for art that matched her enthusiasm.  Still…  I leaned in.  There was something funny about the picture.  She’d given it a slightly distorted perspective.  I saw the problem, the chin.  She’d made it larger than life and a little square.  It would be years before I looked like that—-if ever.  “Face is off,” I said.
     “It’s fine,” she growled.  “I just improved on nature a little bit.”
     I drew back.  “That’s a matter of opinion.  That looks more like Rick than me.”
     She closed the sketchpad and stood.  “At least my project won’t involve gluing something together outta Popsicle sticks or macaroni.  I’m going home to work.  You can come over later if you bring a better attitude with you.  She stormed off.  I sat at the table, sighing from the depths of my soul.  “Some people just can’t take a little criticism.”
     I thought about what I was going to do to kill time before dinner.  It came to me in a burst of inspiration.  Target practice!   I went to the tire.  Reaching inside it, I found my stash, a lock box rescued from a trash bin.  Sure, the lock was broken, but it was the principle of the thing I liked.  It was just the right size to hold my valuables.  I opened the lid with a bit of effort.  It tended to stick.
     Riffling through my collection, I found what I wanted, three black throwing stars stamped from steel, decorated with winding dragons.  I wasn’t sure if mom would let me keep them so I’d never burdened her with the knowledge that I had them.  Stars in hand, I went out and around to the back of the shed where I had a dartboard hanging on a nail.  Putting the target here ensured my privacy since the shed blocked me from the house and the backyard fence took care of nosy neighbors.
     Standing a good fourteen feet from the cork dartboard, I rolled my shoulders, getting loose.  I aimed for the bull’s eye, but would be happy if all three stars actually hit and stuck to the board.  I wouldn’t actually mind being a superhero, if such beings existed, but I knew I was not the stuff of legends, urban or otherwise.  There weren’t even any ninjas clamoring to sign me up.
     I threw with an overhand motion and heard a solid THUNK.  Nineteen points.  Not bad.  I sent the next two spinning away.  One nicked the edge of the red center.  The other hit wrong and bounced off into the grass.  Win some lose some.  I went and gathered up the stars.
     I was about to go again when I heard Misty calling excitedly.  I shifted my body to hide the stars in my hand as she came around the corner of the shed.  Her face was flushed from running.
     “What’s up?” I asked.
     “Mom wants you to go to the store and get a few things for dinner.”
     “Why doesn’t Rick go?” I asked. He’s not doing anything but holding down the couch, right?”
     She nodded.  “I know, but Mom is still going to want you to go.  Rick can’t be bothered.  He’s napping.”
     “Alright.”  I slipped the throwing stars into my pocket, concealing them with my hand as I did.  I’d put them away later, when the brat wasn’t underfoot to see.  I crossed the immense backyard, passing a small cluster of bare-branched fruit trees and the family garden.  The growing season was past.  The only produce in sight lay off to the side, rows of maturing pumpkin.  In another month, I’d be carving up the largest for a Halloween Jack-O-Lantern.
     Mom met me at the back door with a shopping list and a ten-dollar bill.  “You want the change back I suppose.”
     She smiled.  “Not as long as you get something for Misty too.”  She ruffled my hair.  I let her.  Mom was paying for the privilege.  I slipped the money in my pocket.  “All right.  I’ll be back in a while.”
     I moved along side the house and grabbed my bike.  Looking up, I saw Rick, stickin' his head out the window with a grin firmly in place.  "Buy me a candy bar while you're at it," he said.
     "You can't find the store, You don't deserve one," I said.
     "Do I have to sic your Mom on you, boy?  Don't be a sassin' me."
     "Someone needs to."
     "I know about them stars o' yours.  Rock my boat, and I'll drop a dime on you."     
     "Alright, I'll git you your darned candybar."
     "Somethin' with peanuts.  I like peanuts." 
     He pulled his head back in, and I went on.  The store was down the road a bit.  Since we were on the edge of town, it would take me about ten minutes.  Peddling, I steered with one hand, and read the list.  I felt a jolt of pleasure. 
     We were having Sloppy Joes and tatter tots, my favorite thing next to lasagna. 
     I passed a couple dozen houses, shooting along the dirt road.  The evening was growing cooler as the red sun sank into tangled woodland.  Nearing the store, I passed the Griswold place.  Ida Griswold, gray-haired and spectacles, waved from her porch swing as I went by, raising dust with my wheels. 
      I waved back though I knew she had no idea who I was.  Her eyeglass prescription was long past due a needed change.  I doubted she’d recognize me if I were directly under her nose, but she was kind; sweetest woman in Texas.  On past Halloweens, I’d always made out like a bandit there, going back numerous times, with minor changes of costume. 
     I parked outside the store, locking up my bike.  You’d think in a sleepy town like Clarion Falls, there’d be little petty theft to worry about, but several of my friends at school had lost their bikes through carelessness.  I wasn’t going to make that mistake.  My bike was a Huffy ten-speed, a metallic mint green that was hard to miss.  Everyone in town knew it by sight-—except for Mrs. Griswold of course.  
    I threaded the aisles and bought the items on my list, adding a bag of gummy worms for Misty, a bar of dark chocolate for me, and a Baby Ruth for Rick.  His candy bar got accidentally dropped and stepped on a few times.  The grocer rang everything up, took my cash, and returned my change.  I left with the items in a plastic bag, putting it in the front basket of my bike. 
     I’d just started for home when I smelled smoke.  I pulled up in front of the Griswold house.  The old lady was nowhere to be seen.  Glancing up, I saw smoke rising from the back of the structure.  The place was on fire.  I don’t remember getting off my bike.  My feet pounded the ground as I tore through the front gate and charged the porch. 
     Fortunately the front door wasn’t locked.  I was through it in a flash.  “Miz. Griswold!”  I yelled her name and listened.  Nothing.  Better look near the source of the fire.  I hurried toward the kitchen.  As I entered it, I heard coughing.  The old lady lay sprawled on the floor, on the far side of the table, barely conscious.  The stove and the wall behind it fed the blaze.  There were signs that Mrs. Griswold had tried to put out a grease fire with water, splattering the burning oil widely.
     That was dumb.  I thought everyone knew that you put out grease fires with flour.  I didn’t know if the old lady had breathed in too much smoke or if she’d scared herself into a heart attack or something.  It didn’t really matter just then; the important thing was to get her out, quick.
     I rolled her on her back and grabbed her by the armpits.  Backing and dragging, I moved toward the back door, coughing as the smoke stung my eyes, bringing tears.  Mrs. Griswold was heavier than I expected.  Still, I managed to get here clear of the house, leaving her out under the laundry line where sheets flapped in the wind.  I guessed she liked that outdoor smell in her linen.  Most people used a clothes dryer.  I pulled down a sheet, balled it up, and slipped it under her head.
     As I stood again, a pale blue sheet blew off the line, wrapping me up like a man of mystery.  Mrs. Griswold moaned.  Her eyes fluttered, attempting to focus, but I didn’t wait.  She might need immediate medical attention.  I tore off, letting the sheet fly off me.  I rounded the house, snatched up my bike, and headed off toward the store.
     Using the pay phone, I reported the fire and asked for an ambulance.  By the time I finished.  There were several vehicles stopping at the burning house.  I saw people running around the building as well as into it, and knew I wasn’t needed anymore.  Better get a move on, I decided.  Mom will be waiting, wondering where I am.
     Riding past the confusion, I headed home, my chest swelling with pride.  Maybe I had what it took to be a superhero after all.  Wait ‘til Kristy hears about this.  She’ll be turquoise with envy.
     It was the next day before I saw her again.  “What do you mean, you don’t believe me?” I asked.  
     “I wasn’t stutterin’.  You heard me.”  Kristy added a few final touches to her drawing.  “I went with my mom to the hospital to visit Mrs. Griswold.  She told us all about the fire.  To hear her go on, her rescuer was a cross between a desert nomad and Mr. Universe.  That isn’t you.”
     “She’s obviously a little confused.”
     “She ain’t the only one.”
     I sighed from the depths of my soul.  I should have known; no good deed ever gets properly rewarded.

             *  *  *

     A few weeks later, Kristy’s finished painting hung at the school.  It had received a second place ribbon.  She and I both ranted at the rank injustice of it, not that it helped.  
     Funny thing was; Mrs. Griswold, back home now, had come down to see it--dragging the county sheriff and a reporter along.  With a shaking finger, she pointed at the image.  “That’s him!  That’s the man that saved me!  I’d know that iron jaw anywhere!”
     The reporter took a picture of Kristy and her painting.  The sheriff questioned her about who’d done the posing.  Curious parents and kids crowded near to hear as well.  I shot Kristy my best pathetically-pleading glance.  If people thought me a real hero, I’d have to live up to the rep, go on crime patrol, and probably get killed.  And when Mom found out I’d run into a burning building, she’d never let me out of her sight ever again.
     “That’s Rick,” Kristy said, crossing her fingers behind her back.  
     “Rick?” the reporter asked.  
     I took it from there.  “My mom’s boyfriend.  He sneaks off in the dead o’ night to prowl the rooftops, comes back at dawn  and sleeps through most of the day.  He keeps his crime-fighting gear in a shed on our property.”
     “I’ll need to talk to this fella,” the sheriff said.  “I can’t condone vigilantism.  Some would think law-enforcement weren’t doing its job.”
     “He’s sure to deny it,” I said.  “That’s how superheroes are.”
     The sheriff grunted menacingly.  “We’ll see about that.”
     He turned and started off, with Mrs. Griswold charging along in his wake.  “Now, you leave that nice young man alone," she yelled.  "He’s good at heart.  I know it.  Deserves a medal…!
     Apparently I was wrong; there is justice in the world—-just a little.
     As the crowds dispersed, I gave the picture a final glance.  “You’d have won first place if you’d done the jaw right.”
     Kristy slugged me in the shoulder.  Hard.  I was sure glad she liked me."