“You actually think I have superpowers?” Mara's face glowed amber in the light of a dying prayer candle. The cavern's pipes fell to the blackness of my peripherals; for all I knew, we were the lone survivors of the apocalypse.

“Think about it,” I said. “How do you explain all those boys outside your window? You saw them, right?”

“Duh. Every time I looked out my window there were more.”

“They even went back to steal your stuff! And what about that psycho woman? She took you out of school and never let you out of the house. That's not normal.”

“Yeah...”

“Plus, I've known those bullies since preschool and they've always been jerks--'specially Danny--but I've never seen them like that. They were totally nuts.”

“You think I made them like that?”

“Not on purpose. I just think that boys really, really like you when they see you. And when you sing...”

“When I sing... what?”

I shrugged. I didn't intend to finish the thought. “It's different somehow. Special. Did you see the way that Danny's uncle looked at you? Who does that?”

“Lots of guys do that.”

“Maybe to you. But not to other girls.”

Mara's pupils had consumed all but a sliver of her irises. She truly didn't understand.

“I think we should do some experiments,” I said.

“To test my superpowers?”

“But only if you want to.”

Mara considered the idea. “Kinda like a comic book.”

“Totally.”

She nodded and grinned. “Let's do it.”

*  *  *

“I call your house three times a day and your sister tells me you're too busy to talk. Now you need help with a science project and you come crawlin' back. You think I'm that easy, James Parker?” Whit spun his chair to face Mara. “What's a cute girl like you doin' with this doofus? You can do better. I'm Whitney, by the way. Whitney Morris Conrad the Third. And welcome to my bedroom.” He held out his hand.

Mara took it. She was smiling.

This is eaxactly what I was afraid of.

“Dude,” I said, “I've been super busy--”

“Don't 'dude' me. And I don't want your excuses. Mom thinks we're not friends anymore. I told her you dumped a cripple for a silly girl.” To Mara, “No offense, darling.”

She giggled. Giggled!

Whit rolled to his desk and pointed up to shelves that displayed three rows of ribbons and trophies. “Top shelf is spelling bees, geography bees and Quiz Bowl,” he said. “Middle shelf is science fairs. Bottom shelf is miscellaneous: Odyssey of the Mind, Science Olympiad... crap like that.”

“Whoa,” Mara said.

I rolled my eyes.

A string drooped from one end of the shelf to the other, displaying an unbroken row of Pizza Hut Book-it pins with five stars each. Whit's desktop was laid out like a grid with writing utensils, measuring tools, stationary, and a bin of cubbies with red labels. A computer monitor dominated the center of the desk with cords leading to a blocky tower at our feet.

He opened the lefthand drawer and removed--from a heap of fun-sized candy bars--our production notebook. “James tells me you want to test your superpowers.”

“He thinks I'm special,” Mara said. “I think he's crazy.”

“I rarely agree with a man who abandons his friends, but I think his hypothesis is right. Heck, you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen.”

I scoffed. When did Whit become a ladies man? “Just show us your plan, Romeo.”

He opened the notebook to a list of meticulous bullet points and flipped on the computer monitor for even more information. “Part one,” he began, “asks the question: is Mara prettier than other girls? Part two is the hypothesis: if we compare her to twenty other girls, we believe that Mara will be the prettiest. Part three, the experiment: I propose we find yearbook photos of the hottest girls in school--maybe add some pictures of girls from our families--and show them to a diverse group of strangers who will rate the overall attractiveness of each girl. Part four: we analyze the data and draw conclusions.” Whit closed the notebook and turned himself around. “Well?”

I looked at Mara. “Whaddya think?”

She shook her head. “I think you're both nuts!”

*  *  *

“Tell us! Tell us!” Mara said, bouncing on a quilt of beautiful photographs.

Whit tore a page from a Reader's Digest magazine and pressed his hobby knife around the “after” picture of a successful weight-loss program. “I'm working on a new invention.”

Mara clapped. I rolled my eyes. 

“What is it?” she asked.

“Well, everybody knows that the best part of Lik-M-Aid Fun Dip is the candy stick--”

“Duh,” she said.

“So I thought to myself, 'Why dip a perfect stick into inferior sugar?' And the Candy-Stick-Flavored Fun Dip was born.”

“Whoa...”

Whit noticed Mara's genuine interest and embellished his pitch with flamboyant hand gestures. “I’m going to pulverize two candy sticks into powder, then repackage the dust into miniature baggies. When I distribute the candy at school, I'll include an uncrushed candy stick for dipping.”

I scoffed. “You think kids'll dip their candy stick into more candy stick?”

Mara licked her lips. “I'm already drooling.”

“The trouble is turning a profit. The extra sticks are expensive. But then I realized I can sell the unused flavor packets for ten-cents apiece to hardcore sugar junkies looking for a cheap rush. For my high-end clients, I'll push the Candy-Stick-Flavored Fun Dip as 'the purest candy high without sucking a sugarcane.' If I market this right, I can charge two bucks per baggie, save enough to buy the sticks in bulk... and we're lookin' at massive profit margins.”

“That's the coolest thing I've ever heard,” gushed Mara.

“Would you buy Candy-Stick-Flavored Fun Dip?” he asked.

“I would totally buy Candy-Stick-Flavored Fun Dip.”

I held the cardboard package for a Star Wars action figure and worked my scissors around a photo of Princess Leia in her bronze bikini. “Whit's a nerd,” I said.

“That's why James and I get along,” he quipped, “we're both nerds.”

“That's what we call a 'Whitty remark.'”

Mara laughed. “How did you nerds get to be friends?”

“Ha!” Whit exclaimed. “We're friends because moms talk.”

I placed Leia in the “hot” pile and continued the story. “I invited Whit to my eighth birthday party at the roller rink. Because I was a nice guy and didn't exclude him, our moms assumed we were best buds.”

“They set up another play date--”

“And the rest is history.”

Mara grinned. “Neat.”

Minutes later, she excused herself to the bathroom (to check her lipgloss, I assumed since I couldn't imagine her doing anything else in there) and Whit and I continued our project.

“I can't believe she's actually sitting on my bed!” he said. “I'm never washing these sheets again.”

“Get over it, butt munch.”

“I know, I know... you saw her first.”

“Better believe it.”

Whit exchanged his knife for a pair of lefty scissors to cut his aunt from a family photo. “We're both only children. We both like Snickers bars. We both think Luke Skywalker is a whiny little brat... That's a lot to have in common, don't you think?”

“I think you better keep your grubby little hands off her.”

“I can't believe you let the three stooges meet her before me. Thanks a lot, buddy.”

“They didn't 'meet' her. They tried to kill her. A.J. went back to the Grisham house. Stole a tape of her singing.”

“Let the redneck have it. He’ll wear out the tape in a couple of days. Hot damn, Mara’s good lookin’.”

“Yeah...”

“And what a fine pair of melons!”

“Melons?”

“Boobs.”

“I know what melons are. But she doesn't even have--”

“Welcome back, darling!” Whit exclaimed in time to shut me up.

Mara struck a pose in the doorframe and showed off a pair of Whit's Batman boxers pulled over her shorts. She deepened her voice. “How do I look, boys?”

“Holy Hannah,” Whit said. “You with those curves, and me with no brakes!”

She rolled her eyes and sauntered in. “What a goof!”

I shook my head. “My friend here has a disgusting sense of humor. It makes up for his missing legs.”

Whit shrugged and nodded. “You know how blind people have better hearing? It's sorta like that.”

Mara lowered her head like a hyena, eyed the pile of photos, grinned an evil grin, and charged. “Cannonball!” she screamed and dove knees-first onto the bed, sending photos of pretty girls into all corners of the room. Upside down, she overtook the bed and her knee came to rest against my thigh. “What's next?”