Hero by Perry Moore Page B

questions were just beginning to take shape in my head. Why had she hidden it from me? Did Dad know? Is this where my powers came from?
    I flipped over the picture and found a newspaper article folded and taped to the back. The headline read, "Metro City Mystery Figure Foils Ladybug's Larceny!"
    The next shot was taken when Mom was around my age. I'd never seen any pictures of her when she was a young woman, before she met my father. You know how women can be with their pictures. Most of them don't like to be reminded of how they looked thirty pounds ago.
    But there was a specific reason I'd never seen these. Dad simply would never have allowed it. Not after what happened to him. Not after he'd laid down the law in his own house about superpowers.
    There were more pictures of my mother, her body lithe and fit in a tight costume, in various victory poses with her own rogues' gallery of victims: The Ladybug, Miss Malevolence, Zorba the Meek, Morning Glory and her henchmen, the Pansies (no comment), and this chick called the Quarrel Queen, who had some sort of sonic scream device that poked out of her stom¬ach. God, what a bunch of losers. In those ridiculous outfits did they ever pose a real threat to anyone?
    There were a series of group shots where Mom must have joined a C-list group of costumed heroes called C.R.I.M.E.B.U.S.T.E.R.S! Looked like she was teamed up with a guy who could shoot fire out of one hand and make ice cubes with the other. The entire group was young and tan, their bellies trim, held in effortlessly, and you could tell by their persistent smiles that they were always aware when the cameras were on them. There was a picture of the governor himself awarding them with medals of valor. The "Ones to Watch" article heralded Mom as one of a group of new up-and-coming heroes poised to take over where their golden age predecessors had left off.
    There were also pictures of Mom in her civilian identity when she graduated from teachers college. She posed with a group of friends holding their diplomas and throwing their hats in the air. In the group, Mom was the only one looking at the camera, her graduation cap still on her head, a serene smile on her face, her lips slightly pursed, like she knew something they all didn't.
    And then I saw how my parents had actually met. The banner above them read "LEAGUE TRYOUTS." I had no idea my mother ever got this close to the big time, but there she was up on the platform receiving her official probationary certificate from my father, Major Might. Mom looked elated at receiving official League-try out status; but what you could see in her eyes was the way she looked up at my father. Here she was, fresh out of teachers college, holding a small idea of wanting to fight for truth and justice with her bag of invisible tricks, and a moun¬tain-size crush on Dad, one of the most popular heroes of his time.
    In the next group of shots, you could tell she'd become chummy with everyone on the League. She'd spent this day wandering around their secret clubhouse snapping candid photos. Elastic Elbert caught with his coiled arm down the toilet as he tried to unclog it; Warrior Woman putting on mascara and slathering on some anti-wrinkle cream—showing that maybe that ageless Greek-goddess beauty didn't come without a little effort; and the Nucleus and his sidekicks, the Electrons, engaged in their weekly poker night, cigars dangling from each of their mouths, brown liquor drinks resting on the table. From the surprised look on all their faces, you could tell my mother had uncanny access, a level of intimacy the mere mortals of the world would never have.
    The subjects in the last picture of the series she had more respect for: she'd clearly asked them to pose. In the same fluid cursive handwriting, she'd written on the white border at the bottom of the graying photo, Three generations of my favorite heroes. Captain Victory, the elder statesman of the group, and according to history the