The 7 Useless Abilities of Hector Hainsberry -               
A YA Novel In-progress...

“Most heroes are born from catastrophe: overexposure to gamma radiation; murdered parents; murdered uncle…

            “Home planet exploded.    

            “Or eating way too much of a certain brand of breakfast cereal.  That’s how it all happened for Hector Hainsberry--

Chet shook his head, holding the heavy news camera steady.  “Maybe something different for that last line, sir.  Also there was a bee in the background…”

Dev nodded.  Most television news reporters didn’t like their cameraman putting their two cents in, but Dev Kandel had grown to trust Chet’s instincts.  “How about, Hector’s origin was the least dramatic in the history of heroes?”

“Beautiful, go with it.  Move left a step so I can get their front door…”

Dev shuffled left a foot.  “But Hector Hainsberry’s origin is the least dramatic in the history of heroes.  Getting too ‘round around the edges’ isn’t something you want to hear at the tender age of fifteen, so three months ago Hector began a weight loss diet, eating nothing but Brannie Crisps cereal for two solid weeks--breakfast, lunch, and din--“

“Holy God, watch out behind you!”

The front door of the house burst off its hinges and out stepped an eight foot behemoth.  Brushing scraggly black rock star bangs away from his sunglasses, the behemoth bellowed, “Get off my lawn NOW!  I just planted a spring mix of perennials where you’re standing.”

“Whoa, what happened to him?” Dev asked.  This can’t be the fifteen year old boy we’d come to cover…can it?

“That’s not him, Mister Kandel,” Chet said, grinning.  “That’s his dad!  Klaus something…”

“Stepdad,” Klaus said in thick German accent.  He took a large lumbering step closer to the news team, his knee high leather boots crunching out the glass panel of his ex-front door.  “And it’s Klaus Augustus.  If you want a real story,” he said, gesturing with the thumbs of what appeared to be prosthetic hands, “you can do one of me.” 

“No, thanks,” Dev said, rushing for the passenger door of their news van.  “Let’s get out of here, man!”

“Dev, no, no.  This is breaking news!”  Chet fumbled to zoom in on the freak…who was walking over to meet them. 

“Yeah, breaking doors down.  KDVN doesn’t pay us enough for this.”  So much for Chet’s instincts, Dev thought.  “Get in the van, dummy!”

Klaus Augustus stood on the doorstep of his southern California suburban home, smirking, the veins in his forehead visibly throbbing.  He watched as the pair drove off, the cameraman almost smashing into one of the neighbors’ overpriced parked cars. 

“Bunch of babies,” he muttered. 

Now…how was he going to pay to fix this door before his wife came home?  Maybe he could just blame it on his miserable stepson, Hector.

*

Paris hesitated to press the call button.  Taking in a deep breath, he shuddered only slightly as he waited for the man on the other end to pick up.  Perhaps he wouldn’t…

“Hello?”

“Hi, sir.  Captain Hainsberry here.”

“Retired captain, you mean?” the voice on the end of the line answered.  “How are you, Paris?”

“Fine, sir.  Golf swing never recovered from that cart overturn injury in Hawaii.”

“Or your ego, I imagine.  What’s up?  You miss the Navy and want back on active duty?”

Paris frowned and scratched his silver beard.  “No, sir; I make a lot more money working off the books.  The, uh…the department said to call you directly if the boy started developing more…abilities.”

“I think they meant call my secure line, captain.  This is my cell, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Paris said, repressing a smirk, even though the admiral couldn’t see him.  “But the information isn’t secure regardless.  It’s on YouTube.”

“Great.  Paris?  Next time you see your grandson, can you tell him to stay out of the limelight?  Exert your own…coerciveness if you have to.  Mildly, of course.”

“I will, sir.  But to be honest, the limelight is the last thing Hector ever wanted.”

*

            “Are you serious?” Hector asked incredulously.  “I have to wear this on the outside of my clothes?”

            Danny Conklin, Hector’s chiropractor, shrugged his meaty shoulders and held up the harness.  “You were born crooked, Hector.  Bent out of shape.  If you want to realign your spine, you’ve got to keep coming to your appointments…and you’ve got to wear this brace to keep your posture ramrod straight.  It won’t be comfortable if you wear it touching your skin.  And it’ll itch like crazy.”

            Hector slipped the white fabric-covered harness over his shirt.  A strip ran between the two wide shoulder straps, and this clicked together just under his slightly flabby chest.  Looking in a full length mirror, Hector saw the contraption formed a giant H over his torso. 

            “See, every superhero needs a logo on their chest.  Now you’re H-Man!” Conkin said, turning to Hector’s mother for approval.  Mrs. Augustus didn’t crack a smile. 

            Hector sighed, mechanically combing his blond hair with his stubby fingers. 

            This is it, he thought. 

I’m overweight. 

I’m a freak developing freaky powers--one for each day of the week, it seems.  And so far they are utterly useless. 

I can’t get a date to save my life.  And I think my stepdad may be plotting to kill me. 

So now this stupid deal.  This is The Final Thing.  I swear--what else can life possibly do to me?

*

            “Shouldn’t the powers go away after a while?” Hector asked, fiddling with an RC servo in Robotics class.  “It was just a weight loss diet.  How did this happen?”

            Kennedy Carter tore off a piece of cinnamon roll hidden in his backpack and snuck it in his mouth.  Students weren’t allowed to eat in class.  “You complain too much.  I’ve kill for what you can do, man.”

            “You’d kill to glow in the dark on Sundays, bend spoons with your mind on Mondays, grow eyes anywhere on your body--“

            Kennedy snatched off his rimless specs, his eyes glowing with teenaged mischief.  “I’d kill just for that second one.  After what you did to that jerk Nate…”

            Hector tried not the think about it.  But whenever he did, he did crack a little smile, despite himself…

It was a Monday, and Hector sat at home after school, brooding in his “cave”--the garage Klaus had let him convert into a den--when Kennedy Carter pulled up outside and honked like a madman. 

“Heck, get your butt out here!  Heck!  Heck!!”

Hector opened the garage door and walked out to the street to admire Kennedy’s new ride.  Kennedy had just turned old enough to drive without an adult in the car; his father had leased him a sweet black Nissan coup with silver trim and respectable stereo speakers.  Behind the wheel, Kennedy sat wearing his customary high-end grey felt jacket with its funky epaulettes--a little Cold War dictator. 

“I really don’t want to go to this party,” Hector said.  “A Monday party?  Plus I wasn’t invited.  You were.”

“There’s gonna be cheerleaders there.”

“Because the football team will be there,” Hector countered.  “I’ll just be a wallflower the whole night.” 

Kennedy leaned over to the passenger seat and closed a box of cinnamon rolls, gently placing them in the back.  “Just get in.  If it’s lame, we’ll split and go see a movie.”

The party house was in one of the classier suburbs of Dice Valley.  Kennedy had a hard time finding a spot to park, eventually squeezing in behind a Humvee with tires large enough to swim laps in.  Walking up to the columned entrance of the million dollar home, they stopped short as the front door opened and Nate Gluck leaned out to vomit in the flowerbeds. 

“It’s only eight o’clock, Nate,” Kennedy said, peering over his specs with an air of condescension.  Hector looked on with apprehension, knowing that Kennedy’s habit annoyed people.  Especially jocks. 

Nate wiped his stubbly chin.  “I’ve been drinking since three.”

“You…cut class to start drinking?  Whoa, we’ve got a regular urban bohemian here.  Oscar Wilde in a football jersey.”

“What are you, a narc?  Find something else to piss your pants about.”  Spitting in the bushes, Nate went back in, leaving the door ajar.  Inside were few others Hector recognized…and none that he would call a friend.    

“Let’s go in,” Kennedy said, motioning with his head.  “Don’t worry about that guy.  He’ll get what’s coming to him one of these days.”

“Dude, this is not my kind of party.”

“You don’t have a kind of party.  Don’t be like that,” Kennedy said, walking in.  He turned when Hector didn’t follow.  Hector gestured to the vomit-covered roses and raised his brows. 

Kennedy moaned.  “That’s one jerk, Heck.  I told you--we’ll leave if it sucks.  Half an hour.”

Within fifteen minutes, Kennedy was in trouble.  Hector, who’d been loitering in the restroom, came out to see his friend pinned to a wall by one of the heftier football players.  Nate stood inches away, waving a balled fist in Kennedy’s face. 

“Put him down!” Hector shouted, to absolute zero effect.

Nate turned his head.  “Get lost, tubbs.”

Tubbs?, Hector thought.  I’ll remember that.

“I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking--,” Hector said, poking the larger guy in the shoulder, “—to the behemoth holding my friend.” 

The behemoth in question released Kennedy and grabbed Hector instead. 

“Now whatcha gonna do?”  He tried to raise Hector as he’d done Kennedy, but his face just turned red.  Hector had enough wiggle room to make a fist of his own. 

“I could pop you in the nose,” Hector said.  “Not that I want to.  I don’t want any violence.”

The behemoth laughed.  “Then you should’ve minded your business, instead of trying to be a hero.”  Nate laughed, too, but then vomited a little and ran off to the kitchen.  Which gave Hector an idea… 

“Kennedy?  Could you bring me some spoons?”

            The behemoth grunted.  “Spoons?  What, you got some ice cream in your pocket?”

            “I wish,” Hector said, stalling for time.  “Maybe after this we can hit up a Cold Stone?”

            Kennedy rushed back in holding several silver table spoons.  Switching an internal mechanism to turn on his Power #2, as he called it, Hector visualized what he wanted to happen…and prayed it would work before he got his face smashed in.

The spoons leaped out of Kennedy’s hand, vibrating as they hovered in the air around Hector’s head.  Focusing, he pictured them wrapping around his knuckles to form a silver-plated fist.  Slowly, they inched forward to touch his hand...and once they made contact with his flesh, the spoons quickly rushed to meet his wishes.  A few of the party goers, who’d been trying to ignore the confrontation up to that point, suddenly hurried over, phones out, recording and photographing the whole thing. 

Hector reared his metal fist back as the behemoth’s eyes widened and his grip slackened. 

Aware he was being filmed, Hector tried to play it cool.  “The only thing getting creamed is you.” 

The behemoth jerked his head back, a mistake which gave Hector just the right angle to clobber him in the chin.  Wobbling, he released Hector but stood his ground, readying for a rebuttal.  Hector bent the spoons off his hand and sent two of them to loop around the larger guy’s thumbs, then tightly through the belt loops of his jeans so he couldn’t raise his arms. 

Raising a spoon left in reserve, Hector thumped him squarely on the nose. 

            “Told you I’d pop your nose.  Now, who’s up for that ice cream?”

*

            “’The only thing getting creamed is you,’” Kennedy quoted.  The line had become an Internet sensation…due to its lameness, mainly.  “Classic.”

            “I wish I could take that back,” Hector said.  “I was just trying to be like the movies.  You know, the good guy always has a snappy line when he’s about to wipe someone out.”

            “Usually after he wipes someone out,” a lilting female voice said from behind them. 

            “Brickhouse!” Kennedy exclaimed.  “Best looking roboticist in California.”

            “Thanks, KC.  If you wanted to compliment me, you would’ve said the world,” Jessica Brick said, tossing her mousy brown hair as she picked up Hector’s servo absently.  “This is junk.  You should get one of those new Robo Voodoo intelligent servos.  They’re pretty bad.  The Magic+ can be connected daisy-chain, and uses a proprietary comm protocol so you can exchange info with the controller.”

            “Thanks,” Hector said, astonished.  Jessica probably would never attract the notice of the GQ crowd, who preferred mascara-slathered Barbie queens over a sci-fi dork/ indie-chick like her…but with her easy laugh and voracious curiosity about all things “non-mainstream,” she was the dream girl of ninety percent of the geeks in the class. 

Also, she happened to be very cute.  And she’d wandered over to his table to chat. 

Must’ve come because Kennedy was there. 

            “I’m going back to me table,” Kennedy said, grinning at his friend.  “She’s right about that new servo.  It’s only a hundred bucks.”

            Only?, Hector thought.   “I don’t have a hundred bucks.”

            “So I can spot you.  Or maybe you can, Jess,” Kennedy said, walking away.  “I mean, since you brought it up.”

            “Sure,” she said, chewing a strand of stray hair.  “But I won’t ‘spot’ you, Heck.  You can keep the money, but you’ve got to work for it.”

            “How?” Hector asked.  He’d do anything she asked, free of charge.

            "Stacy Dotson’s my partner, but she’s dropping the class.  You’re the odd man out; you don’t have a partner.  So now you do.”

            “That’s…yeah, it’s a deal.  Sold!” 

So…, Hector thought.  Things are starting to look up.  When you hit rock bottom, you can only go up.

*

Klaus’s gunmetal grey Volkswagon was waiting outside the school.  Hector frowned.  “Where’s Mom?” he asked, getting in. 

“Your mother’s not feeling well this afternoon,” Klaus said, adjusting his sunglasses.  “We’ve got to hurry.  I’m working tonight.”

Klaus was the manager of an upscale Spanish-fusion restaurant downtown--Table in the Sun.  The theme was that you felt like you were eating outdoors on a bright sunny day, even at nighttime.  The eating area was equipped with special lighting which precisely mimicked the effects and feel of natural sunlight, and the floor was covered with faux grass.  Even the walls and vaulted ceilings were painted baby blue, with light clouds shone on them via hidden projectors.  The tables were mostly of the round picnic variety, only made of much more expensive woods.  Guests were encouraged to wear topical attire and sunglasses; the entire staff was required to do so. 

            “Any VIP’s reserved tonight?” Hector asked.  The restaurant boosted of catering to some of Hollywood’s finest B-movie actors.  Many of the neighboring establishments catered to customers who loitered to gawk.  Hector has only once been excited, when a cast member of Star Trek: The Next Generation had been spotted. 

            Jealous of the attention the media lavished on his stepson, Klaus had he decided to try for some powers of his own.  First he spent two weeks eating nothing but Brannie Crisps, which seemed to have been the catalyst for Hector’s budding powers.  But this did nothing except shave a few rolls off his one pack.  Next he tried Mister Puffers, Charge-E-O’s…he worked his way down the aisle of breakfast cereals, all the while feeling his bitterness growing. 

            Until, at last, it finally worked.

            The cereals affected him differently than Hector, and he quickly gained an extra hundred pounds of lean muscle without so much as a glance at a gym.  He was virtually allergic to physical exertion. 

Now his short sleeve white dress shirts, which had always been baggy, strained to contain his barrel chest and arm cannons.  Add to that the thin little bolo ties he wore, the embarrassing tight grey dress slacks, and, the coup de grace--a pair of old Gene Simmons KISS boots he’d found on eBay.  Black leather things going up past the knees, with twelve inch high soles and “dragon talons” pointing out from the front. 

These are his daily footwear.

Apart from all that, his middle aged, conservative guy haircut morphed into a nappy 80’s rock star do.  And his sunglasses...he was required to wear them at work, but after the changes he never took them off.  Not even in the house.

Hector didn’t think he could take them off.  His brow and his cheeks were massive, protruding out over the lenses of the glasses as if holding them in place on his face. 

            This was Klaus Augustus, Hector’s stepfather…and evil nemesis. 

The tension within the house was high voltage, so Mrs. Augustus thought some quality time between the two men in her life might be beneficial.  So she pretended to be under the weather, forcing Klaus to pick up Hector after school. 

            “You are not spending much time doing homework, boy,” Klaus said, finally breaking the silence.  “Don’t let all this press allow you to believe you do not have to study.”   

            “I’m doing my homework just fine, thanks.  One of my powers is super-typing.” 

Klaus poked him in the shoulder.  “You need to work on your comedy routine.  Your powers so far are:  Sunday—glow in the dark; Monday—bending spoons with what you call your mind; Tuesday—growing eyes anywhere on your plump body; and Wednesday—the ability to cook small objects within your mouth, which is unsanitary…”

            Hector scrunched up his face.  “Can you turn down the death metal, I can’t even hear you.”

            Klaus obliged, decreasing the volume of his Megadeth CD.  “It’s not death metal.  To continue…”

            “You don’t have to,” Hector said.  “I know my powers.  And if I forget, I can always look it up on Wikipedia.”

            Klaus said nothing.

            “Look,” Hector said, staring out the window at all the fancy cars zooming past them.  “I just don’t have a lot of homework lately.  My teachers are taking it easy on us, since its summer and every other school in the country is out.”

            “Then they are not doing their job.  And if you do not study more, you’ll have a loser job like them, if and when you grow up.”  He gestured with his prosthetic hands, making two big thumbs down. 

Without the fake hands, Klaus had nothing but two lumps at the ends of his wrists, from an undisclosed “industrial accident” he’d been in as a minor.  But Hector wondered at how much more mobile the prosthetic hands seemed, how agile the finger movements. 

“Did something change with your hands?”

Hector immediately wished he hadn’t said anything; being asked about his hands was Klaus’s number one pet peeve.  Of course, lately, everything Hector did was Klaus’s number one pet peeve. 

Klaus wrinkled his protrusive brow and it pulsed.  He was pulling up to their home’s driveway. 

“Better get going,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror as his forehead rippled slightly.  He reached up and felt his face.

That’s an odd thing to do, Hector thought.  His prosthetics can’t feel. 

“Get to class, boy,” Klaus said defensively. 

Hector stared.  “You just picked me up.  We’re home now.”

“Then go inside!”

Hector jumped out and watched as Klaus drove off erratically, still gazing into his rearview. 

Still feeling his face.    

*

“We finally got the settlement check from HK Foodcorps!” Mrs. Augustus proclaimed, giving Hector a huge hug as he walked in. 

“Mom, I thought you weren’t feeling good?”

“Oh.  Well, I’m better now that we have this check.  This is huge; they’ve pulled Brannie Crisps off the shelves and are going to fully fund any and all medical research required to figure out what happened to you.  See, the media pressure…”

“I know, Mom.  But I don’t want to do any more interviews.”

“We don’t want you, too, sweetie,” she said, taking his bag and setting it down on the floor.  “Come in here and sit down.  You know, I was talking to one of my food engineer friends, from back when I went to Berkley.  Her take on it is that the increase of thiamin, one of the vitamins Brannie Crisps is super fortified with, was the catalyst to a pre-existing but dormant set of abilities.”

“Mom, I’m tired, and Klaus was acting weird on the drive home…”

“He’s always like that these days.  Now he’s affected, too.  All the more reason we need to try and understand what’s happening.  He ate a lot of cereal made by HK, too.  So, Sue, my friend, says we all have a set of weird things we can do, just waiting to be switched on.  After talking with some of her colleagues here at the UC-Dice Valley, she discovered the exact area in which these latent abilities reside.  The appendix!  Of all places.”

Hector shrugged.  If it dealt with organic or biological matter, he couldn’t follow it.  Robotics was his thing.  Now Kennedy Carter--he was the cybernetics expert, able to bridge the gap between man and machine technology.  It all seemed to come so natural to him, Hector often wondered what he was still doing puttering around in robotics class.

“Hector, are you listening to me?”

“Umm…”

“So, Sue’s findings were published in the Journal of Modern Food Science and in Western Medical Discoveries.  I downloaded them earlier for you.  The interesting thing to me is, you know how they say your body will crave any food it needs?  Like how sailors with scurvy craved fruits, not knowing why.  It was the vitamin C, of course.  Their bodies knew what their brains didn’t.  I wonder if maybe your body knows something.  If there’s a reason for all this to be happening…”

...Hope you enjoyed this excerpt from the first few chaprters of "The 7 Useless Abilities of Hector Hainsberry!"  Drop me a line and let me know...

Matt@Catesbury.com

- MC