The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(35)

Public school for the win, Foster thought before tuning back into Tate’s explanation.

“And this,” he proudly motioned toward the house. “Is our Fortress of Sauvietude.”

Foster had no words. No words at all.

“Superman has his Fortress of Solitude, and we have our Fortress of Sauvietude.”

Foster coughed around a mouthful of granola, trying hard not to gag.

“Can you stop making fun of me for a few minutes? Just long enough to try it?”

“What? No. You look stupid.”

“So what? Who’s going to see us?” Tate’s gesture took in the huge hedgerow of evergreens that framed the entire rectangular-shaped farm. “I’m surprised. I thought you didn’t get embarrassed.”

Foster swallowed the last bit of chocolaty granola and stuffed the wrapper into her pocket. “I don’t.”

“Then give it your best shot. Plus, you’re the one with the superhero alliteration name now, not me. That gives you an edge.”

Heavy, earth-trembling clomps echoed behind her and Foster froze.

“Oh, hey there, Calliope. No, I don’t have any more carrots for you. There was just that one I got from Finn.”

A husky snort swirled against the top of Foster’s head, and she whirled around with a sharp squeal, reminding herself of the terribly annoying, screaming blond girl from the original Jurassic Park. And Foster wasn’t far off. The enormous Percheron dinosaur bristled, snorted, and lunged backward as she shrieked again.

“Get away!” Foster flapped her arms at the giant beast, barely recognizing the terrified scream that tore out of her throat.

Ears pinned, Calliope snorted as if she was confused as to why Foster was freaking, then turned, swished her braided tail, and trotted heavily away.

“Guess we found your Achilles,” Tate groaned, climbing out of the hedgerow and picking green sticky needles from his clothes.

“Oh my god, she got you.” She helped him from the bushes, her hands still shaking from the close encounter.

“No,” he rubbed his chest. “You shot me,” he said with a cough. “You spun around and shot me with your hands. Your air cannon hands.”

“What?” Foster looked down at her hands. “Wait a second.” She held them, palms out. “Horses are monster trucks with brains!” she shouted, invoking the same terrified feeling she’d had only moments before.

Tate stumbled backward, a burst of air blowing his shirt tight against his chest.



“It’s not storms or tornadoes,” Foster realized with a sharp clap. “It’s air. We’re controlling air! That’s what she meant.” She grabbed the crook of his arm and pulled him behind her as she jogged back to the house. “I found this paper. Actually, Cora and air helped me find this paper, but that’s not the point.”

“Cora and air found a paper?” Tate asked, nearly tripping up the stairs as she practically dragged him behind her.

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” she reiterated. “The point is, that part makes sense.”

“That part of what?”

“The paper! Jeez, would you keep up?”

“I could if I understood even for a second what the hell you’re babbling about.”

Foster released Tate’s arm as she ran into the office. “Babbling? I’m not babbling. I’m just trying to tell you this very exciting, very amazing, very crazy, extremely life-changing thing that I found that you have to look at because I think that maybe, just maybe, we might have accidentally figured a part of it out,” she blurted in a rush of adrenaline.

Okay. Foster took a deep breath and sorted though the papers strewn across the desk. Maybe she was babbling.

Tate leaned against the doorframe. “Is this you excited?”

Foster held the paper out to him, pointing at the circle Cora had drawn with the arrow pointing to the word Air.

“It’s cute.” His lips ticked with a smile as he went to her and plucked the page from her fingertips. “So is this the exciting, amazing, crazy, life-changing thing you just had to show me?”

Foster’s chin bobbed, but no words came out. And her cheeks felt all warm from him calling her cute.

Gross. He’s Douchehawk, remember?

Foster cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes it is.” She brushed back the wild section of hair that kept falling into her face. “August twenty-fifth, one A, two A—that’s us. And Cora, she already figured the A part out. I just didn’t get it until now.”

“We’re air,” Tate breathed, scrubbing his palms down his cheeks. “Not storms. Not tornadoes. We’re air. We can control air? So I wasn’t out there talking to the sky like a complete ass?” He glanced over at Foster who hid her smirk behind the wall of hair that kept obscuring her vision. “On second thought, don’t answer that. We can control air. This is fucking nuts!”

Foster couldn’t help but join in as Tate hopped up and down. “We’re superheroes!” she squealed, happiness stretching her lips into a smile—a brief, but genuinely happiness-filled smile.

“Wait,” they stopped bouncing as Tate pointed at the page. “The other pairs, they each have different abilities.”

Foster nodded. “Water, fire, and earth.”