Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(15)

It’s the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. The sidewalks might as well be empty for New York City standards. Only a few people pass as I halt next to a brownstone. The Hell’s Kitchen apartment building isn’t too far from here, and I could easily just hustle past the boy. But that is not a Spider-Man thing to do.

I give him a polite wave.

He waves back frantically. “Can I have a picture?” he asks me, then turns to his mother, who looks fairly impatient in her white tennis skirt. I’d think she’s late for a match, but a black turtleneck, Chanel shoes, and knee-high socks complete her outfit. She has rich-mom energy like my Aunt Rose. “Please, Mom, please!”

She blows out an annoyed breath. “Honey, that’s not Spider—”

“I beg your pardon,” the eighteen-year-old girl next to me interrupts dramatically. “This is definitely Spider-Man.” She makes a show of waving her hands in my direction. It’s a little too dramatic because she yanks her security mic cord, and the earpiece falls out of her ear. “Oh…shit,” she mumbles under her breath.

I smile. Not that anyone can see underneath the costume. The mom isn’t too thrilled, and she narrows a critical look at her. “If she’s Spider-Man, then who are you?”

Frog readjusts her earpiece. “I’m Spider-Man’s bodyguard.”

“Holy…” The little kid’s eyes widen like Frog just blew his ever-loving mind.

The mom assesses Frog’s tan suit jacket, red tight-fitting cropped sweater, even tighter jeans, heels, and young, thin frame like there is no earthly way she could be a bodyguard. Let alone Spider-Man’s bodyguard. Little does she know, Frog is concealing a radio and weapon beneath the suit jacket.

“Mom, pleeeeeease,” her son begs.

“Okay, okay,” she relents with a heavy sigh.

The little boy races to me, and I make the iconic Spider-Man pose. Yeah, this isn’t my first Spidey photograph. I just really love wearing this costume out and about. I’d rather be stopped in the streets for being a superhero than for being Luna Hale.

As soon as I’m in the iconic pose—an epic squat, one hand bracing the ground, the other extended theatrically—the mother actually smiles. She hoists the latest iPhone and snaps a pic.

“Thanks, Spider-Man!” the boy says, delighted.

I hold out my fist.

He bumps my knuckles before skipping away to his mom. They leave, allowing me to finally talk and break character. “That was cute,” I say.

“Such a bitchy mom though,” Frog says. “Like let the kid live a little.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s being protective. I could be a creepy old man under this costume.”

Frog side-eyes me. “You look like a chick. You have tits, Luna.”

“Barely.”

She checks her phone. “Don’t be going around insulting the Itty Bitty Titty Committee when I’m the president.”

“Who made you president?” I wonder casually.

“Self-appointed,” she says. “Before I met you, I was the only member so…by default.” She gestures to herself, then zips her phone into her suede fanny pack. I watch Frog scan her surroundings like other bodyguards do. Barely a month on my detail, she’s very new to the position, but she’s getting the hang of it.

She’s on Security Force Omega’s main roster as my full-time bodyguard, but since she has limited experience, Akara Kitsuwon (her boss and older cousin) is hesitant to leave her alone and often places a temp bodyguard with her.

He’s still in Fiji with Banks and Sulli, so in the meantime Thatcher has overseen SFO, and I heard Frog either wore him down or convinced him that she should spend today alone and without a temp bodyguard chaperone.

I’m glad Thatcher agreed, and now she’s all on her own in New York with me.

Frog does another sweep while speaking. “It’s probably the only thing I’ll win, so don’t take it away from me anytime soon.” She laughs, but it’s a sad kind of laugh.

I relate a lot to Frog, even though we’re really different.

She told me she’s the fuck-up of her family. Most of the time, I feel the same way.

“You can be pres,” I tell her. “I’ll settle for VP.”

“Deal.” She touches her earpiece like someone is talking on comms. “Copy. I’m still on my way with Zenon.”

I smile at my codename that Frog gave me. It’s a reference to a 1990s Disney Original Movie.

“That was Oscar,” she informs me.

I like how she loops me in like we’re part of the same club. It’s fun to pretend, even though in reality we’re two worlds apart. I’m famous and she’s on the security team.

With a steady pace, we walk two more blocks and roll up to the familiar Hell’s Kitchen apartment building. Paparazzi always camp outside the parking garage, so I’ve made it a habit to park a few blocks away behind an indie bookshop. Mr. McNeil, the owner, lets me use their private parking in exchange for signed issues of The Fourth Degree.

They’re not signed by me. No one would care if my name was autographed on the world-famous comic book line. Sometimes I slip a couple issues in front of my dad when he’s super busy, and when I hand him a marker, he’ll scribble his signature on the cover. A big get from the owner of Halway Comics, who publishes The Fourth Degree.