The OK Team 2 by Nick Place Read Free Book Online

Fine.’ She flicks a glance at me. ‘Are you going out? You’re always going out these days.’
    â€˜It’s not much fun around here, Mum.’
    â€˜I guess it isn’t.’ She starts to cry and I fade in and out. I hadn’t meant to make her cry.
    â€˜Are you sure you’re okay, Mum?’
    â€˜I’m fine, darling. Just fine.’ She takes a deep breath and dazzles me with a completely fake smile. She takes in my all-silver costume, including the cape. ‘You’re in your little Dungeons and Dragons outfit again, huh? Off to see your nerdy friends.’
    â€˜It’s Magic cards, Mum. We play complicated battles based on the cards. And we’re not nerds.’
    â€˜Of course you’re not. That sounds just like what the cool kids would be doing.’
    â€˜I won’t be late.’
    â€˜All right, dear. Have fun.’
    â€˜See you, Dad,’ I say.
    He grunts. I go.
    Cannonball is outside, hopping up and down with excitement. Occasionally he rises slightly off the ground.
    â€˜Great! You made it. Parents buy the story again?’
    â€˜Every time. I changed it from World of Warcraft to Magic cards and Mum didn’t even notice. Where are we going?’
    â€˜I’ve got you a present.’
    â€˜You have? What?’
    â€˜Not yet. Come on.’
    He grabs me around the chest and yells, ‘Let’s fire the cannon!’
    â€˜Oh no,’ I say, but it’s too late. We shoot into the sky and I feel slightly sick as the houses of my suburb lurch beneath me, only air and gravity between me and certain death if Cannonball lets go.
    Only a year ago, Cannonball’s flying control was terrible. Tonight, once we level out, I almost enjoy the flight. Reasonably steady, we head west, past the Bolte Bridge, with its giant AFL goalpost props, and over the Princes Freeway towards Werribee.
    â€˜Where are we going, you caped freak?’ I yell over the wind.
    â€˜Almost there, Blur-brain,’ he yells back happily.
    Finally, we start to descend. There’s a massive shed, like a giant warehouse or maybe an aircraft hanger, large enough to stack three jumbo jets end to end, and maybe one on top of the other as well. That big. Truly.
    As we land, I notice a huge neon sign on the building: Auto Auction Warehouse.
    There is one small door, as though for a backyard shed, like a pimple on the side of the endless wall.
    â€˜Cannonball –’ I begin.
    â€˜Shut up and come on. You’re going to love it. Our game starts in 10 minutes.’
    â€˜Our game?’
    â€˜Yeah, I’ve played once already. It’s better than having your head covered in whipped cream!’
    Before I can even ask for an explanation of a typical Cannonball mangled simile, he’s charging through the door. I follow him and find myself in some kind of cavernous sporting arena. There is foam, a couple of metres thick, lining the walls. The foam goes all the way to the roof. Here and there, I can make out scorch marks on the foam, and stains and the occasional dent the size of a large truck. The floor is orange and a kind of rubber matting. At each end of the massive floor space there is a tiny goal, like a hockey goal, but possibly smaller. It’s hard to tell from this far away.
    We are standing next to a counter and music is playing softly on a small radio. It’s a Beatles song and it makes me think of Switchy. He loved – loves – The Beatles.
    A man with a big stomach and a faded cape stands behind the counter. His arms are folded as he watches us.
    â€˜Which game, Heroes?’
    Cannonball steps up to the counter. ‘We’re with the Flying Tigers.’
    â€˜Twenty bucks each. Change Room “Bat Cave”.’
    I hand over twenty dollars and follow Cannonball to the change rooms. One reads ‘Fortress of Solitude’. The other is the ‘Bat Cave’. Heroes have always liked their little