The Resilient Marigold

By N.D. Baxter

Mari lives in Carburville, deep in the Rustbelt, far from the metropolises featured in comic books portraying her world's real-life epic battles. Her genetic-variant ability to emit scents based on her feelings makes her a smelly outcast, but a flash of inspiration from an impulsively purchased book makes her want to use her ability for good. When a terrifying menace threatens her town, she forms a team with similar misfits and goes on a journey that brings her face to face with her idol - and her idol's nemesis - as she uncovers a villainous plot that even the greatest heroes can't thwart. For the sake of her community and everything outside of it, she will have to overcome her insecurities and face daunting foes against overwhelming odds to become … THE RESILIENT MARIGOLD

• Language: English
• Publisher: N.D. Baxter
• Release date: May 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224053827

Book preview

The Resilient Marigold

N.D. Baxter

NDH Publishing

Copyright © 2024  NDH Publishing

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. But if there are any interesting coincidences, please tell me, because I’d like to hear more about that.  

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

AI portraits created with assistance from Dream by Wombo and NightCafe. Chat excerpts created with ChatTales. Cover by rebecacovers.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Pine

Fresh Bread

Cedar

Canned Fish

Potential

Burnt Cookies

Dead Carnation

Gasoline

Blackened Wood

Ammonia

Chamomile

Cold Copper

Absolutely Vile Blend

Bouquet

Old Yoghurt

Wet Ashes

Roast Beef

Nonstop White Begonias

Wilted Iris

Ocean Spray

Crushed Cloves

Cherry Kool-Aid

Sweet Basil

Cupcakes With Buttercream Icing

Cold Autumn Day

Pure Terror

Decaying Fruit

Several Salad Dressings Mixed Together

The Inside Of An Old Freezer

Warm Butter

Rotting Roadkill

Dumpster Fire

Plastic

Kettle Corn

Black Licorice

Sharpened Pencil

Spearmint

Courage

Burning Fingernails

Spoiled Potato Salad

Peppermint

New Toy

Moldy Cheese

Wet Paper

Dried Blood

Lemon

Raw Chicken

Overheated Computer

Cherry Blossoms

Sadness

Father

Canola Oil

Fresh Cake

Pine

Carburville is the worst place in the world. The horizons here are steep forested hills behind high smokestacks and shuttered factories where our grandparents made steel. Empty red brick houses which were lively homes a generation ago line the streets that I drive my boss’s dented flowery delivery truck through. I keep my head down, stay as far from everyone as I can, and leave as soon as the receipt is signed.

This is an outcast town. I would know. I’m an outcast myself. 

My name is Mari Goldie Sertse. I’m a genetically varied person, or geevee, someone born with extra-twisty DNA. You wouldn’t know by looking at me. Unlike many other geevees who have animal-like extra body parts or metallic skin or something else obviously strange, I blend in as well as anyone with short orange hair can. People only notice my inhuman aspect when they get close.

Some geevees are different from the genetically standard at birth. Others, like me, become more inhuman when we grow up. Very few are super-strong or can shoot lightning or fly or have some other cool ability, but I’m not lucky enough to be one of those. With all of the other painful changes of puberty, I grew clusters of cells in my skin that release invisible gasses.

Yeah, I stink.

What I feel is how I smell. The stress of a long workday makes me reek of rotten eggs. When I had a hard test in school, I stank so much like canned salmon that classmates could smell it two rows over. Teenage angst and loneliness made me radiate scents of spoiled almonds and toilet cleaner, and I couldn’t turn it off any more than I could stop feeling miserable. I wear thick baggy clothes year-round to catch and block the gasses, but some always get through.

From middle school until graduation day, I was Stinky Sertse. I don’t get called that anymore, but I notice strangers sniff when I get close to them, which makes me let out a defensive disinfectant odor. My few friends left town after picking up their diplomas. I’d like to leave, but after rent and groceries there’s not much left for savings. Besides, even if I escape Carburville's gloomy grasp, my scents will keep me from fitting in anywhere else. At least here I know where the safe places are.

Most geevees find sanctuary and acceptance with their families. I don’t even have that. Two years ago, on this very day, my mother kicked me out of our house. We haven’t spoken since. As for my father, well, today is sad enough without thinking about him. 

Today is my twentieth birthday. Like any other day, I only talk when I must and drive with the windows down so my scents don’t accumulate in the cab. I don’t know what to expect when Ms. LaPorta calls me into her office at the end of my shift.

Fill the truck’s tank. She hands me the company card. Also, I hear you read a lot on the job.

The unexpected criticism makes me let out a scent like dry pine needles in winter. I read ebooks on my phone during my lunch break. But I quit when the time is up.

She takes a scratched-up gift card for the bookstore outside of town from her wallet. Happy birthday. Buy yourself a real book.

Appreciate it. My scent becomes more like fresh pine sap as my mood improves. Sure, it’s a regift, but it’s the only present I’m getting this year.

Before long, I’m wandering through aisles of books. I browse the classics and see a few I struggled through in high school, humor books with groan-inducing titles, and fiction paperbacks by authors someone told me I must read for forgotten reasons. There’s a rack of comic books retelling the real-world adventures of geevees with amazing abilities against diabolical villains. I always thought those were violent and simplistic. Sure, heroes are all over the news, and glorified versions of their battles in major cities make for blockbuster movies, but they flat-out aren’t my thing. I’m sympathetic to anyone who gets hurt, even if I’m told it’s a bad guy who wants to destroy the world.

Nevertheless, a prominently displayed new release at the end of the aisle catches my eye:

The woman on the cover is extraordinarily beautiful, with her sky-blue hair in a high ponytail and confident smile. Her revealing yet empowering outfit, a revealing mesh leotard clinging to her lithe body with an angular combination symbol of a heart and a diamond below her neck, makes her an epitome of genetic variant pride and femininity. The inside flap summarizes how she went from a small-town girl whose genetic variation made her an outcast to a member of the Los Angeles Legends, one of the most famous hero teams in the country. 

I never bought a newly released book before, but I use the full balance of the gift card for it. On the drive back to town, I sneak peeks at the cover until I cross the bridge over the Little Neshango River’s cement banks and pass the barely readable ancient billboard that reads CARBURVILLE–We Make What The World Needs. I park at Carburville Roses, turn in the keys, and briskly walk the last four blocks home.

The worn-out wooden steps creak beneath me as I go up to my single-room apartment. I hop on my futon and open the book. I intended to only read a few chapters before microwaving a TV dinner, but the easy-to-read prose draws me in. Gleam and I have so much in common. She used to generate uncontrollable flashes of light when nervous, similar to how I emit scents uncontrollably. Unlike me, she couldn’t wear concealing clothes because she needs to absorb light constantly to stay healthy, and wearing as little as possible led to people not taking her seriously.

There’s a whole chapter about how Gleam decided she wouldn’t let her photo-dependency and uncontrolled blinding flashes define her. She sought out mentors to turn her problems into abilities. Soon she learned how to control her flashes and shoot laser blasts. She also realized that since she had to wear as little as possible under bright lights, her best career option was to be a model. Before long, she graced the cover of the Supers Illustrated annual swimsuit edition. 

Page by page, Gleam transforms from a shy outcast into a formidable champion who fights alongside the most famous heroes by accepting herself, flaws and abilities alike. In the middle are glossy pictures of her growing up, including one of her as a child with her naturally blue hair in pigtails hugging a white teddy bear that’s bigger than her, another as an awkward sad-looking adolescent with short bleached hair who is trying to pass as genetically standard, one of her in a costume that looked like a gymnast’s leotard when she first started as a solo hero, and finally a group photo of her on Sunset Boulevard, her smile beaming alongside the more serious members of the Los Angeles Legends.

Her story makes me wonder what could happen if I took control of my life. I feel this more strongly when she writes about meeting other aspiring heroes who face their own challenges in their own ways. She says we must accept ourselves for what we are, and as long as we believe we can be better we must always strive to be our best.

The next page is the back cover. I read the entire book in a couple of hours. The questions it raised bounce around in my head as I lean back on my futon. What does it mean to accept myself? How can I be somebody when I don’t want anyone to notice me?

To give my brain a break, I stream The Melon Mess, one of my favorite episodes of Capybara Club. Lots of people say it’s a cartoon for kids, but everyone who takes the time to watch it knows it’s surprisingly profound. Seeing six pastel-colored best friends band together to protect their river is oddly inspiring, and the capybaras are ridiculously cute when they improvise plans to protect Capyborough from an invasion by Arnie Conda and his serpents. Sure, the capybaras disagree or even argue, but they’re always supportive friends, which I sorely want in my life. When Shimmerdawn, the orange-furred leader of the club, gives a speech about using what’s right with you to fix what’s wrong with the world, it makes me so restless I turn off the TV.

Her words make my skin tingle as inspiration fills me. I let out the scent of clothes coming straight out of the drier, warm and invigorated.

It’s good to know I can smell something other than awful. Gleam’s self-acceptance was her first step to becoming a hero. What if I became a hero too? What would I look like? I grab my phone, open the browser, and find a website for a company that offers customized hero costumes. I use the digital model to create an orange leotard adorned with a stylized gold flower symbol in the center.

What would I call myself? The name Marigold pops into my mind. It’s practically my name anyway. There’s no point in hiding my identity because I don’t have much to lose. Plus, marigolds are hardy with strong pest-repelling fragrances, so they’re the protectors of their gardens. I could be the protector of Carburville, the scentinel who always clears the air. The thought makes me let out the excited smell of cinnamon.

But reality crashes down hard. How could I be a hero? My ability is useless. I’m not powerful, I’m walking potpourri. Making scents is not impressive compared to the super-strong champions, supersonic tricksters, and geniuses who make scientific breakthroughs before breakfast every morning. Besides, I don’t face problems, I hide from them. Gleam embraces challenges with courage. When she was twenty, she was a supermodel, and four years later she’s a hero. I’m twenty today. I’m super-nothing.

I turn off my phone without placing an order for the costume. Why dream about something so far-fetched? I don’t stand out in a crowd, crowds stand away from me. What could I do, stink the bad guys away? How dumb.

A surge of restless energy courses through my veins. I shed my thick gray work shirt and cargo pants and slip into a pair of orange shorts, a blue T-shirt, orange socks, and my worn-out orange running shoes. When I examine this outfit I’d rarely wear without leggings or a long-sleeved shirt underneath, an unexpected burst of fresh apple comes out of me as self-acceptance takes hold. I may be more of a skinny freckled tomboy than a shapely hero, but at least I’m not hiding what I am.

Fresh Bread

I step out of my apartment on this cool early spring evening. When I moved into this neighborhood, the lot across from the sectioned-off mansion I live in was filled with industrial debris from a long-defunct glassworks. My neighbors cleaned it out to create a huge community garden with a stone archway entrance in its chain link fence. I was too deep in depression to care until Ms. LaPorta ordered us to dig out a plot in the center as a big advertisement for Carburville Roses. It started as another menial task for a paycheck, but the hours of digging, weeding, and planting were soul-soothing. Now I always volunteer to help out around the garden when it’s on the weekly duties chalkboard. Sometimes, off the clock, I weed and sweep the walkways as an excuse to be outside.

The neighborhood around it grew more vibrant. Nearby houses are spruced up and the front yards are blooming columbines and begonias. People from nicer neighborhoods park on our streets and shop at our corner stores. While I like the change, I don’t like how the landlord raised my rent, and if he does it again I’ll have to find a cheaper place, probably in one of Greasetown’s dingy old buildings.

When I jog past familiar houses, I wonder how my neighbors would react if they saw me in an orange leotard with a bold marigold symbol on my chest? Would they gasp in disbelief at seeing a hero or shake their heads at the crazy girl? Actually, I don’t even know most of the current neighbors. Most of the ones I met after moving in are gone, replaced by families that keep to themselves.

I reach Halayko Park as the sky turns orange. The vision of myself wearing an orange leotard begins to shift from being a fantasy into something tangible and possible. But as I start running on the smooth asphalt trail, I focus on the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground to drown out my silly fantasy. My life isn’t perfect, but it certainly isn't bad enough to warrant the dramatic challenges being a hero would bring. Besides, this is Carburville, not an exciting metropolis. We don’t have villains here, only petty criminals.

As I pass the picnic pavilion and follow the trail along the edge of the woods, I recall stories about the Hunchback Hobo. Kids whisper about this filthy misshapen creature who occasionally emerges from hiding to chase people. He’s usually spotted around the park but sometimes shows up in dark alleys throughout the town.

Being a hero takes on an additional meaning. It’s not just about fighting crime, it’s also about protecting people from horrors. I like to think I’d do something brave if I saw a menacing creature, but I’m sure I’d be one of the people running away.

On the far side of the park are several rough-looking young men in matching denim jackets running. When I get closer, I see they’re chasing a willowy young woman. Her iridescent skin shifts from purple to green to pink, like a human chameleon.

My mind races as my emotions trigger the release of an array of scents into the air like a symphony of smells. Anger and anxiety combine to make the acrid scent of smoldering grass.

As scared as I am about getting involved, I can’t let them hurt her. Gleam would do something.

I take a deep breath and walk towards the scene. Despite all my reservations about becoming a hero, there is something undeniably exhilarating in this moment.

The gang members with denim jackets embroidered with patches of a dark-red devil have the young woman cornered against the chain link fence that makes the border of what used to be a dog park. The apparent leader steps forward. He’s the only non-teenager in the gang. An x-shaped scar sticks out on his rage-flushed cheeks. What you did back there wasn’t nice.

She looks terrified. I’m not going anywhere with you.

Not your choice.

I’m short and skinny and not intimidating to anyone. I summon all my compassion to make myself brave, yet also calm enough not to be driven by anger. Scents of warm vanilla and gentle lavender trail behind me. When the gang catches wind of these aromas carried towards them by a gentle breeze, unexpected confusion replaces their aggression. They look at each other before following them back to the source - me.

The leader says, Are you stinking up everything?

I swallow hard, then speak loudly enough for them all to hear, She doesn’t want to go with you. My voice wavers between nervousness and determination.

He scoffs. Gonna stop us?

The scent of jasmine wafts through the air. My skin feels cool even though there’s no wind. A flicker of uncertainty passes across the gang leader’s face. I speak though my voice shakes. Leave her alone.

Looks like we’re bringing the big man two mutants. Get her!

The woman against the fence waves her hands. Balls of light explode in bright bursts in the gang members’ faces. While they clutch their eyes, she grabs my hand. Together, we run out of the park, dashing several blocks until we pass a police car and go around the corner to a bus stop bench.

The woman coughs and signals for me to stop. Even though I’ve been running, I pant less when I ask, Are we safe here?

They won’t go past the cop, and if they do, the police station is a block away.

Should we report them?

No point. He’s already wanted for a lot of things. She takes a vape pen from her purse, says, I have a prescription, honest, and puffs. Her cheeks softly tinged with light green as she puffs out marijuana vapors. She offers me the pen.

No thanks.

She takes another puff and sits on the bench. I’m Mavrica. She pronounces it ma-wreet-za.

Oh, interesting name.

It’s Slovene, like my ancestors.

I’m Mari, with an ‘i.’ Ukrainian spelling. What did you do to those guys?

Threw some of these. Small balls of light form around her hands.

How cool. You have photokinesis?

No, luminescence generation. Photokinetics use ambient light to do cool stuff like shoot lasers. I manifest my own little shapes by projecting light through tiny organs under my fingernails. As she relaxes, her skin settles into shades of teal.

I sit next to her. Who were those jerks?

The Rust Devils. Their leader, the guy with the ugly scar, calls himself Razorface. I’ve known him since I was in third grade and he was in sixth.

What do they want from you?

Razorface says someone wants to meet the geevees in town and didn’t take it well when I said I wasn’t going anywhere with him. She sighs. This town went downhill while I was away. Razorface was always the worst, but he never tried to abduct me before. I should head home.

We walk together as night falls. I say, I don’t remember seeing you at Carburville High.

I left after freshman year.

Did you drop out? 

No, I transferred to the magnet art school in Homesburg. Actually, before I left Carburville, I started a mural in one of the stairwells. Did they ever finish it?

Oh, the one with a lot of shapes? A few of them are colored in.

Her skin turns dull. I did the outline and initial pattern, and left my plans with the art teacher. They should all be colored in. My tribute to Francois Deschamps is unfinished.

Who?

He’s a French artist, a geevee with fluctuating hyperpigmentation like me. His skin also changes colors. It’s inspiring to see someone go through what I have to go through.

I know what you mean. I just read Gleam’s books about how her geevee ability made everyone treat her badly until she learned how to control it. I had the same problem with my scents.

Who’s Gleam?

She’s with the Los Angeles Legends. She’s photokinetic. Have you heard of her?

I’m not into the hero scene. I saw a few, and they’re all shorter in person.

I wasn’t interested until today. They always seemed so violent, but Gleam wrote about compassion. Where did you see them?

When I lived in Pittsburgh. I studied art at Carnegie Mellon, but couldn’t get a job after graduation, so I’m back home, freelancing and applying to every open graphic design position.

Must be weird to leave this depressing place and then come back.

At least I don’t have to pay rent here.

After a lull, I say, "I have to ask, do you watch Capybara Club?"

She laughs. No way, that’s a kid show.

I pout playfully. Boo! Well, they say ‘boo’ at least once an episode. Seriously, watch an episode sometime. It’s smarter than it looks.

I’ve had this conversation with other people before. I’m not into cartoons.

There’s a long silence. It’s my fault. I met someone cool, and I ruined it by being a dork.

She points to a well-maintained red brick house with two grimy vinyl-siding houses on either side. There’s my humble home. Thanks for helping me out of a tight spot.

Anything for a fellow geevee.

Too bad we’re not cool hero-type geevees.

Well, maybe we can be more. There’s a line from Gleam’s book I can’t stop thinking about: ‘You have the power within you to shine brighter than any star.’

Her skin takes on shimmering hues of soft purple and amber. Let’s hang out sometime, maybe get brunch. Almost all of my old buddies either left town or turned rotten.

We exchange phone numbers before parting ways. As we say goodbye, her gaze lingers for a moment. The warm feeling of a new friendship makes me smell like fresh bread.

Cedar

The next night, I shed my heavy flower delivery uniform and slip into my orange Shimmerdawn t-shirt paired with denim shorts. It’s crisp out, but if Gleam can fight for justice in her skimpy costume then can deal with a little chill.

I don’t feel like microwaving dinner, so I head to Sal’s Pizza Place on Main Street. The wide empty street in the shadows of tall boarded-up buildings where executives worked for businesses that went bankrupt long ago make me feel small. Red brick walls have barely readable signs for forgotten restaurants and grocery stores painted on them. The tallest building in town, the Meyer Building, is six stories of boarded-up windows that once offered views for high-priced apartments. Every block has at least one storefront with a yellow CONDEMNED notice glued to a cracked window. Faded American flags flap from poles under the windows. To the north, the street ends with a rusted steel bridge over the Little Neshango River’s cement channel connecting to the few roads leading out of here. Behind those are steep forested mountains, which were dirt brown but are turning green.

I remember what most of these places used to be. The department stores and movie theater were closed before I was born, with only the unusual architecture indicating what they once were. I let out a scent of waxy crayons when I pass what used to be an independent bookstore with a colorful children’s section. On the other side, next to a narrow Chinese takeout restaurant, was the discount variety store where I got most of my toys. The other empty storefronts must have two or three occupants before the last one removed all traces of its identity.

Hirsh’s Candies is a remnant from the old days. Behind its window is the glass counter adorned with neat rows of treats, with one shelf dedicated to its award-winning homemade black licorice. I don’t know who gives awards for black licorice or how one kind of black licorice could taste better than another, but the ribbons are all the proof I need. Mentioning anything related to Carburville to Ms. Hirsh will get you a lecture on local lore. I have so many memories of going in with nothing but pocket change and walking out with a pocket full of assorted sweets and half-remembered stories swimming in my head.

I’m so lost in nostalgia that I barely notice the door abruptly open. A tiny figure with her face hidden by a floppy sun hat bumps into me. I assume it’s someone’s grandmother. Sorry.

She’s older than me, but far from elderly. Her unnaturally pale skin is taught around her sharp cheekbones and delicate nose. Red rimless sunglasses conceal much of her face. She chews a rope of black licorice and firmly rasps, Stay out of my way.

I let out a cedar scent to express uncomfortable confusion. There are some weird people in this town. But there are some decent people too, like Sal. 

Sal’s Pizza Place may not look like much from the outside with its ragged red awning, and it’s less impressive on the inside with its beige tiles and yellow walls painted with the maroon words GO SCRAPPERS next to Carburville High School’s logo. Framed editions of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s front pages for the Steelers and the Penguins winning championships on the other side. After my apartment, it’s my favorite place in Carburville.

I’ll never forget running home from school on a rainy autumn day, eight-and-a-half years ago, fleeing from Kevin Rummel, the square-headed chubby bully who made it his mission to make me cry as often as possible, and his two toadies after I had one of those uncontrollable scent bursts that happened more often when I was younger. They yelled Stinky Sertse and Mutant and chased me until I slipped on wet leaves in front of Sal's double glass doors.

I curled into a ball. I was so scared I couldn’t breathe and didn’t let out any scents. Sal yelled until they scattered. He took me inside, cleaned my scraped knee, and put a Band-Aid on it. After I stopped crying, he gave me a slice of red top pizza, where the cheese is between the bottom crust and a second thinner crust, and on top is tomato sauce with a sprinkle of parmesan. It’s been my favorite food ever since.

Sal let me hang out inside his restaurant whenever I didn’t want to be at home. The aroma of baked dough and fresh herbs covers my scents, and I felt so comfortable there that I rarely emitted anything unpleasant. This low-key hardworking nice man became a father figure who always listened and gave advice on slow nights. I needed that after my real father left. In the early days, I tried to talk Mom into dating him, but as I got older and things got worse between her and me I abandoned that dream. Towards the end, when we couldn’t stand being around each other, I spent a lot of evenings and weekends at Sal’s. He even had his deliverymen teach me to drive. Lately, though, I haven’t come by much, because since my rent went up even a single slice feels like an indulgence.

As I step through the first glass door, someone runs through the second door, his arm carrying a stack of pizza boxes. Sal’s voice rings out behind the counter. Hey! You didn’t pay!

I step in front of the man, focusing on being bold without being mean to make the strong scent of sandalwood emanate from me. The small space between the two doors holds my odor.

The man stops abruptly when the scents reach his nose.

I gently say, You can’t do this. Sal’s a good guy.

He mutters something about money.

Sal comes out from behind the counter. Give back those pizzas or pay up.

The guy begrudgingly hands them back to Sal, then leaves with his head hung low. I go inside as Sal goes back behind the counter with the pizzas. 

Is everything good with you? I ask Sal.

It’s never easy living in Carburville. Wasn’t yesterday your birthday?

I’m surprised you remembered. 

Consider this large red top pizza a belated birthday present, and I’ll throw in your pop as a reward for saving it. He takes the top pizza from the stack and hands it to me. Why don’t you bring your friends here anymore?

I don’t have friends anymore.

What about the girl with the back brace?

Agnes moved to New York, I reply with the subtle smell of old carnations. She loved doing the lighting for school plays. Last I heard, she was working with an off-Broadway musical. She had so many stories of camaraderie among the theater geeks. I was so jealous because she knew what she wanted to do and had a passion for it. She may never have bowed for applause after a performance, but I was always her receptive audience.

Well, how about the kid with weird hair? Not sure if that one was a boy or a girl.

I let out a scent like the air after a soft rain. Leaf went to an art school out west. Leaf was the only one who responded to my fliers when I tried to start a geevee-genetic standard alliance at school. When no faculty member would advise my club, I followed Leaf to the gay-straight alliance, which attracted a few students before the conservative school board members ordered it shut down. Leaf introduced me to Capybara Club and insisted I give the show a chance after though I dismissed it as a kid show. Now I constantly bring up Capybara Club when I meet new people, and I usually get the same resistant reaction I once had. Maybe I do it as a tribute to my non-binary friend who never complained about my scents. 

Don’t you stay in touch?

I have Agnes’s number but we have nothing to talk about. A few times a year, Leaf and I exchange postcards. There’s no one who hasn’t left town that I want to stay in touch with.

What about your coworkers or customers?

My scent shifts to humid sourness. I don’t get too close to my coworkers so they don’t complain about my scents. A few customers asked Ms. LaPorta to stop sending the ‘stinky girl’ for their deliveries.

Sal hands me a cup filled with orange pop. A sweet kid like you should have friends.

I give him a sad smile before taking my pizza to a booth. After I finish a couple of slices, I say, Sal, I read a book about finding strength by accepting yourself. It really inspired me to do more with my life, but I'm not sure where to start.

When I started this place, I didn’t know much about running a business, so I focused on making the best pizzas I could. Sometimes you have to figure out what you want to do and take it from there. It may not always be easy, but if you stay true to yourself and keep learning as you go, good things might happen.

What do you think it means to be a hero?

Why are you asking me?

Because you’re a good guy.

He scratches his head. I guess it’s doing what's right even when it's hard or scary. And sometimes it means standing up against evil even if you’ll lose because doing nothing means letting the bad guys win.

Is that why you helped me out all those years ago? Those kids yelled nasty things at you.

If I hadn’t, I’d never forget I let a girl get beaten. Doing the right thing can get you hurt, but doing nothing can hurt even worse.

I think back to the encounter at Halayko Park with Mavrica and the Rust Devils. My worst fear became real when I became their new target. But if I hadn’t done anything, I’d still be kicking myself for not helping her. Thanks for the advice.

Sal points to a bulletin board near the entrance. You might find a place to start there. People post all sorts of things, like volunteer opportunities and community events.

I go to the bulletin board. In the middle of the pinned business cards, next to a poster for the community picnic in Halayko Park the Sunday after next, there’s a glossy flier: 

The surge of mixed emotions coursing through me when I read the words makes me smell simultaneously floral and metallic. The Iron Guard’s call to heroism is undeniable, but the bold colors and strong language make the flier threatening. Can I really do something like this? If I don’t go, will I ever stop wondering if I have what it takes to be a hero? 

Canned Fish

I feel torn as I walk home, carrying the remaining three-quarters of my pizza in a box. The prospect of trying out for the Iron Guard is both thrilling and terrifying. Hammersmith Field is in Greasetown, which has a reputation as the roughest neighborhood around. Could this be where Slugfest honed his skills? And if so, what kind of people would I join forces with?

But then again, maybe Carburville needs someone like Slugfest, someone tough and hardened. Maybe I could learn from someone like him. In her book, Gleam said we have to make our own path in life, but we have to accept our surroundings for what they are. The Iron Guard is a rougher path than I envisioned, but this could be my way to be a hero. Or maybe they’ll laugh me out of the audition when I show my scent-making ability.

A young girl’s voice interrupts my thoughts. Milkshake, please come down. She stands beneath a tree, her pleas directed towards a cat in the branches. 

I forget about the Iron Guard and set down my pizza box. This is something anyone who wants to be a hero should be able to do.

I say to the girl, Don't worry, we’ll save her.

I look up to Milkshake and climb a tree for the first time since before I was a teenager. When I get as close as I can, I think back to those huge midterms that made me emit the canned fish scent from stress. I relive the memory until the scent comes back. 

Milkshake, enticed by the aroma, gingerly makes her way down the branches. I keep thinking about those midterms until she’s close enough to grab. But she jumps back. I tap the branch he was on and lose my balance. My knee slips into a crotch formed by two boughs. 

A stout young woman in glasses and a blue hoodie arrives. She whispers soft sounds. The wind picks up, rattling Milkshake’s branch. She jumps willingly into my hands, then bounds out of the tree and into the arms of the little girl. She nuzzles her cat and runs back to her house. 

The woman stands with