Arin Adams never felt like much of a “super.” But she always thought “super” was an interesting word. Alone, and out of context, it meant something similar to “very good” or “excellent.” However, something spectacular happened whenever the word was placed directly next to an otherwise normal word. Take the word “natural,” for example—possibly one of the most normal words out there. “Supernatural,” however, was as abnormal as it could get. Something that was “supernatural” was not simply excellent at being natural, but something so beyond naturalism that it became unnatural.

Whereas a “hero” was by no means something that was exceedingly “normal,” a hero could come from anywhere and could be anyone. A fireman could be a hero. A really good teacher could be a hero. A “superhero,” though? That was a whole other situation. To get that little extra “super” in front of “hero” you typically needed something a bit supernatural: a superpower. Or, at the very least, a super power. 

Arin had a particularly un-super power.

And still, the story of this Red Electron “superhero” went viral. Joe’s account of a hooded hero cloaked in scarlet, with only the name “Red Electron” to identify him, was the biggest news the small town had in decades. Citizens went nuts with rumors and boisterous opinions. Some people thought it was cool that their suburban town had a big hero; some feared that it would bring villains into the town which was, at the time, the third lowest in crime rates for their area. 

Arin didn’t want to acknowledge any of it. She just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the right set of skills. No one knew she had these powers, and everyone thought Red Electron was some muscle-clad dude. 

She didn’t even consider what had happened to be a heroic act. Joe was a drunken slob, and she knew that before she chased him down. If he was dangerous, she would never have tried to apprehend him; her moral compass wasn’t that straight. She did get an automatic passing grade on her final collab project, which was really the most important part. That meant only one more class stood between her, summer break, and freedom from this ruckus.

Unless all those Red Electron articles continued to stick around and haunt her. 

As Arin sat in her final lecture of the semester, scrolling through her phone, she couldn’t find anything to distract her from the ticking clock besides theories on who this new small-town hero was. They didn’t even get close. No one suspected the innocent-looking twenty-one-year-old majoring in sarcasm with a minor in being anti-social. 

Class droned on forever, taught by a bleak old man who was way past his “best if used by” date. The clock reached 3PM, the exact time he should have released the class, yet he did not. 

Arin impatiently swiped her finger up and down her phone, turning it on and off and on again. No doubt a boring game, but her favorite way to practice her relatively new power, nonetheless, even though she hated calling it that. 

“Powers” just sounded so young-adult-novel to her. “Magic” wasn’t any better. “Science” didn’t feel accurate. She didn’t know what to call it, which was one reason why she never told anyone at all.

 After the clock struck ten-minutes-past-freedom-hour, Arin decided enough was enough. She was going to be late for work if this nonsense continued any longer. She glanced up at the old grey-haired teacher in a tweed jacket, sliding through information on the projector. It was hooked up to a laptop that sat on his desk with all sorts of wires plugging it up from every side. 

Arin closed her eyes and focused.

The laptop shut down, and the whole class cheered.

Arin opened her eyes and smiled at the sight of the teacher banging the edge of the laptop, trying to get it to start. He fiddled with the charger cord and clicked the power button at least two dozen times. Eventually he gave up and dismissed the class. Everyone rushed out the door without a single ounce of hesitation. That was more the type of hero work Arin was into: subtle.

Arin arrived at work a little over seven minutes late. It was, of course, never good for anyone to be any length of time late for an obligation, however for Arin it was typically a lot worse than it was for others. This had a whole lot to do with her fuddy-duddy Uncle Georgie. Her Uncle and Aunt were very old fashioned—like so old fashioned even other “ye-olden-day” folks often told them to chill the hell out. 

When Arin showed up seven minutes late, Uncle Georgie was already there, waiting for her, with his arms looped through each other and tapping his foot like some kind of poorly rendered cartoon character. 

“‘Ur late,” Uncle Georgie snorted.

“My teacher’s lecture went long,” Arin responded, trying to make it sound like it was no big deal when she knew it was going to be made into a big deal either way.

“I supported ya when ya decided ya wan’ed to pursue this whole ‘career’ thing...” Uncle Georgie started. He had most definitely not supported her, but that is neither here nor there. 

Uncle Georgie very much didn’t believe in sending young folks to college. He believed they should grow up to be farmers, or perhaps really excellent gas station employees. And as much as there was nothing wrong with those jobs, and they were much needed in the economy, Arin would have done just about anything to get out of that small town, even if that meant paying her way through school by working at his frumpy-dumpy garage.

Uncle Georgie gave her the same lecture at least once a week, and Arin always listened as she bobbed her head back and forth with each syllable that she had heard a thousand times before. “...so if you want to do these ridiculous education things, you need to abide by my rules.” 

Arin closed her eyes so she could roll them unnoticed. “Of course, Uncle.”

“Good, now we have ‘bout a dozen cars that need a good washing down before they’re picked up, I’d start with that un’ over there, it drove through some freshly fertilized farmland and whooo-ee it smells like the back end of a—”

“You told me a few weeks ago you’d let me start working on cars soon,” Arin interrupted. This was a true statement in factuality, however in actuality she knew Uncle Georgie never really had any intent in giving her a promotion. In this case, factuality and actuality, in technicality, were not the same reality.

“We can’t talk ‘bout this stuff on a day when ‘r late. Whaddif I gave ya a promotion when er’ryone else was on time? What’d that look like?” Uncle Georgie asked, in a voice that attempted to be heartfelt and fell flat on literally every account.

“Favoritism.” Arin sighed.

“And ya dun exactly know much ‘bout them cars innyhoo.”

“I do actually. I know they use electricity to—”

“We can’t have them there other workers thinkin’ I treat ya better, all righty? Now do me a favor and dun be late tomorrow or I’ll dock it from yur paycheck.” Uncle Georgie smiled wide, his crooked teeth making his face resemble a toddler’s first jack o’ lantern.

“That’s kinda the point of clocking in and out isn’t it?” Arin grumbled.

“You better watch yurself! Ya dun wanna find out how we deal with them smartasses ’round here.”  

Uncle Georgie huffed and turned his back to Arin, giving her the opportunity to whisper, “At least I’m a smart ass,” under her breath.

... and Arin washed all the cars as well as she could, with the best attitude she could manage. Even if she had a grudge against her uncle, that wasn’t the car owner's fault. She even got the horrible smell out of the car Uncle Georgie had mentioned. And it did, in fact, smell like “the back end of a—” 

When the man came to pick up that particular car, he was so thrilled that he pulled out a twenty dollar bill from his back pocket.

“She can’t accept tips,” Uncle Georgie called from back in the office. Arin was sure Uncle Georgie couldn’t even see them from where he sat. 

“I—uh, can’t accept tips,” Arin said reluctantly. The man shrugged and walked away as he pocketed that sweet, sweet currency. 

“That’s coming out of your pay,” Uncle yelled across the garage.

Arin took in a deep breath, rubbed at her temples, and just let it slide. 

Again.