Fine.â She flicks a glance at me. âAre you going out? Youâre always going out these days.â
âItâs not much fun around here, Mum.â
âI guess it isnât.â She starts to cry and I fade in and out. I hadnât meant to make her cry.
âAre you sure youâre okay, Mum?â
âIâm fine, darling. Just fine.â She takes a deep breath and dazzles me with a completely fake smile. She takes in my all-silver costume, including the cape. âYouâre in your little Dungeons and Dragons outfit again, huh? Off to see your nerdy friends.â
âItâs Magic cards, Mum. We play complicated battles based on the cards. And weâre not nerds.â
âOf course youâre not. That sounds just like what the cool kids would be doing.â
âI wonât be late.â
âAll right, dear. Have fun.â
âSee you, Dad,â I say.
He grunts. I go.
Cannonball is outside, hopping up and down with excitement. Occasionally he rises slightly off the ground.
âGreat! You made it. Parents buy the story again?â
âEvery time. I changed it from World of Warcraft to Magic cards and Mum didnât even notice. Where are we going?â
âIâve got you a present.â
âYou have? What?â
âNot yet. Come on.â
He grabs me around the chest and yells, âLetâs fire the cannon!â
âOh no,â I say, but itâs 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, Cannonballâs 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.
âWhere are we going, you caped freak?â I yell over the wind.
âAlmost there, Blur-brain,â he yells back happily.
Finally, we start to descend. Thereâs 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.
âCannonball ââ I begin.
âShut up and come on. Youâre going to love it. Our game starts in 10 minutes.â
âOur game?â
âYeah, Iâve played once already. Itâs better than having your head covered in whipped cream!â
Before I can even ask for an explanation of a typical Cannonball mangled simile, heâs 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. Itâs hard to tell from this far away.
We are standing next to a counter and music is playing softly on a small radio. Itâs a Beatles song and it makes me think of Switchy. He loved â loves â The Beatles.
A man with a big stomach and a faded cape stands behind the counter. His arms are folded as he watches us.
âWhich game, Heroes?â
Cannonball steps up to the counter. âWeâre with the Flying Tigers.â
âTwenty bucks each. Change Room âBat Caveâ.â
I hand over twenty dollars and follow Cannonball to the change rooms. One reads âFortress of Solitudeâ. The other is the âBat Caveâ. Heroes have always liked their little