I Can Be a Hero Too

Dad wears tight straps in seven-league boots as he tends to stretch Mom's rough, black hair. Like gold threads. Precious.

"Oh, Besslynn, your mother would be so proud," said my father, helping me tie the ropes. "Who would have thought that our people could have such magic."

Kneeling on the dying carpet Mom found in a trash can behind the Grand Hotel. When the heroes arrive in the city in search of a victorious or slow-moving criminal, they settle in the Grand Hotel. Room and board include free uniform washing. At the time, side actors and background characters lived in the Treeside Motel, where there was no free washing and the furniture seemed to have passed a few episodes.

Back when Mother worked at the Grand Hotel, she searched the dump to find lanterns, cracked tables, and dirty tablecloths to clean. Things that most heroes wear, but are good for us second actors.

Seven league boots are also used, but you will not find such a thing in a trash can. Not those precious assets. My feet are slipping inside the worn-out leather jackets.

Dad helps me to be able to do something so that I don't have to take a step back until I'm ready. He kicks the front door to the base, as it is always trapped like that, and opens it to let in the usual hot air tar that is stirred by the musky sweat.

Rowing houses on our street have always been somewhat tipsy, and now they seem to be leaning forward with curiosity. The curtains fell as the neighbors peered.

My father's eyes are clear. "Go and show everyone that you are a hero."

I kissed Daddy and took a step back.

The spirits bit me on the cheeks. I catch fragrances very quickly so my nose can see them, without the cinnamon rolls. It was delicious and yeast, as Mom used to do, and it went fast. I set up seven leagues throughout the city in Monument Park, where freshly cut grass and cut trees cool the air. Stumbling a little at the fountain, the spray on my face tastes like Mom's cleaning solution. It tastes like victory, too. My first time in magic boots.

I look up at the rocky outcrops of the past, lined up between springs and square trees. They stand with their hands on their hips, some with swords at the top. My fist stands next to me, standing still as if recording myself.

Then the man spat in my face, being very careful not to hit the boots. These are not the precious boots, worn by many story heroes to save the day.

"Uppity side character," he jokes, blinking his helmet cap and sharp suit as he passes.

My lips taste the hatred that is left there. The next step forward seems too far away.

It seems that when life makes the heroes mold, they get better parts. We characters in the background were empty sugar cookies; the heroes find icebergs and shiny sprays. They discovered magical objects. Attractive swords, hats, sticks, and talking frogs fulfilled desires. The kind of values ​​that were passed on from grandfather to child to grandchild, because you did not want to lose that once you got into the family. The heroes were told stories by them and everyone ate these stories as if they were very interesting.

No one should be aware of the background characters like me. May no one pay attention to Mother.

My eyes sting with tears.

Mom worked as a sideline player while the hero Ignado fought a dragon that destroyed the city's edge. We needed more money, so he signed up.

Before he left, he stroked my head and kissed me goodbye.

I whispered you are a hero mom.

"No, I'm not, sugarplum." The shadows formed lines on his face, like a flowing cap, and I little did not see the concern there.

I see a statue of Ignado in Monument Park, the head of a marble dragon beneath his feet, an image of his magical sword above his head. The sword always finds the heart of the enemy, so the warrior was victorious.

But of Ignado's side players, three failed. My mother was one of them.

His death was a separate episode in the story of the hero. No one paid attention, except me and my Father. We are very careful. Very much.

Heroes like Ignado had powerful defenses, but it was not that way back then. Things have changed, what about the protests by outsiders. Dad and I marched down the magnificent streets, picking up pictures of Mom. Now there is Decree Number 14, which says that magical objects such as swords and clubs benefit the whole empire, not just families who are fortunate enough to inherit. And here's the kickback: the law says anyone can get the right to use something magical.

We too can stand out as heroes by our side. I worked hard to adjust my boots to seven leagues.

It is a big deal, though, to move forward. The boots felt heavy on my feet. The whole world is watching me. People like a bowler cap man expect me to fail.

Although I can finally stay at the Grand Hotel now, I'm not even sure I want to. Maybe I will, just to see Daddy's eyes smile.

You're right Mama can be proud of me. I imagined him touching my chin up, "Besslynn, you don't let anything get you down."

I remember her head was high when she came out of my bedroom for the last time, her black hair was braided like a shoelace pattern. There is no magic sword, nothing but his courage and dignity, stronger than any marble statue.

Somewhere over there, passing Monument Park, I heard a voice say, "Help!"

One step ahead with my boots, and flying seven leagues forward. That is what the heroes did.

But really, I just follow in the footsteps of a real hero. I know who that is.