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every casino in Las Vegas. He would have left his son a stolen fortune had he not squandered it all.
    Instead, he left him a watch that can stop time, though only for a minute before having to reset.
    That watch represents the extent of Mr. Masters’s powers. No weapons. No laser vision. Not even a costume, really. The sweater vests are just a fashion statement. Still, he is highly connected in the superhero network, a former agent in the Department of Homeland Security’s Supernormal Activities Department. H.E.R.O. is his baby. He built it from the ground up, recruiting each and every member, gathering us like lost sheep, helping us to hone our powers, giving us a sense of purpose.
    And clucking after us like a big, balding mother hen.
    The H.E.R.O. program meets three days a week for two periods—not counting special training sessions on some weekends—which for me means skipping gym and lunch. Missing gym is always a bonus, but skipping lunch is hit-or-miss. Today is Wednesday. It’s a quesadilla day. So I’m pretty noncommittal.
    I walk beside Jenna Jaden as we make our way to the teachers’ lounge on the first floor. Her honey-blond hair is pulled back in its characteristic nerdy ponytail. You can’t see the bandage on her side because of the baggy sweatshirt she wears. She has her glasses on, of course, with thick black rims and lenses that might help you discover planets. It is all part of her look. Jenna’s look. Without the glasses, you wouldn’t know who you were talking to. Or who was smashing you in the face.
    I always wished I could do that. Just whip off a pair of glasses and instantly be in character. Instead I have to keep my mask in my backpack and run around looking like Zorro’s pathetic second cousin with blue spandex on my head and a belt full of homemade gadgets wrapped around my waist. All to compensate for the fact that my powers are not “combat compliant,” which is a fancy way of saying I’m next to worthless when it comes to fighting bad guys. Though Mr. Masters says there is more to being a hero than punching people.
    â€œSo did your parents say anything about yesterday?” Jenna whispers.
    â€œNo. Masters called before I got home.”
    â€œYeah. Me too. Though he just left a message.”
    Jenna’s parents take almost no interest in her life. I suppose it helps her keep her cover, but the way she talks about them, I sometimes wonder if she’d rather it be the other way. I look around to make sure none of the other kids in the hallway is taking an interest in our conversation either. Not that they would. We aren’t exactly at the top of the popularity pyramid, though I sometimes wonder about the value of that, too.
    â€œAre you okay?” I motion to her side where the harpoon got her.
    Jenna shrugs. “It hurts a little. You?”
    I know exactly what she’s referring to. She told she me she was sorry yesterday as we made our escape. She really thought he’d show this time. “I’m fine,” I say. I know she knows I’m lying, but I know she knows I don’t want to talk about it right now.
    We meet Eric and Gavin right outside the teachers’ lounge. Mike won’t be here today. He is still in the hospital, recovering from his “skateboarding” accident. With Mike out, that means we are only missing Nikki. She’ll probably show up late, like always.
    I wave to Eric, who makes the sign for bee , and then spells out the word awesome . I roll my finger around in a circle, the universal sign for whoop dee freakin’ do . Eric Ito has been deaf since birth, but it doesn’t stop him from totally kicking butt as a sidekick. There are some days when I think his sense of sight is better than mine, and he’s an expert in, like, six hundred forms of martial arts, including one he calls the Dance of the Striking Viper, where his hands move so fast even I can’t see