Chronicles of a Weather-Inclined Superheroine

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Cook

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My spatula pokes at the frying pan, a tentative movement. Apparently, even aspiring superheroes need to learn basic skills. So, my hero class was given the 'surprise' of a Home Economics lesson instead of our Mad Scientist one (Medulla wasn't happy).

I had just grabbed what I could, trying to escape from the mad rush-crush, and ended up with eggs, hot dogs, and some condiments like ketchup and cheese.

I think I added too much oil to the pan—it's brown and bubbly, sliding around like some gross sludge from a pit of primordial ooze. Oil is oil, though, and I quickly dump the bowl of beaten eggs onto the simmering metal surface.

Ouch.

Several drops of oil splatter out on my bare arms (it's too warm today for a sweater), hissing slightly against my skin. The eggs are cooking too fast, bubbling like the oil that's currently turning the edges of the eggs a slimy tan color. I scrub at my skin with a towel, the burns reducing to a faint tingle before disappearing. I lower the flame as quickly as I can, trying to save my food. The small bits of hot dog are added, as well as cheese, and some tomatoes from the condiments. It's looking all right now; even if the oil has splattered around the pan, my eggs are turning brown, and I've discovered I really, really don't like cooking.

Mr. All American Boy is on the other side of the room, preoccupied with Lash reaching over and sabotaging other projects. Speed, surprisingly, is quiet, cooking his…things… with ease.

I tap my fingers on the stove top, being extra careful to stay free of any kind of sparks. Mine is a gas stove, one of the older models, and I know very well the effects of electricity and gas. I have no wish to blow the next three consecutive people and myself up in a fiery blitzkrieg.

Behind me, Warren Peace is coolly mixing several unidentified items together. Mr. Boy is casting wary looks his way. Earlier, a few boys laughed at the feared pyrokinetic doing something as domestic as cooking. But they shut up when he calmly blew a fireball the size of my head onto the stove to light it. The fact that he's using flaming fingers instead of a spoon to stir/cook his project might be cause for wariness as well.

I lower the flame a little more, stalling for time, leaning heavily on my left hip. I nudge the eggs around a little, trying to separate the burned bits from the good parts…

"What are you making?"

I jump at the unexpected voice, and teeter, off balance. My hand reaches out to the stove, grabbing the edge—and a slim spark jumps from thumb to forefinger. It's small, but just enough to make the nightmare a reality.

Mr. Boy looks up from the shelf he was hiding behind, giving incredulous looks to the exploded stove, splattered food, and crispy-looking Warren Peace and me, standing in front, me guilty and Warren shocked.

"Man," some kid says, picking ash from his hair, "you really can't do anything right, huh Peace?"

Warren hits him.

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A/N: Well, this is actually a long(er) chapter. I didn't mean for it to get this long, but I couldn't find anyplace that I couls cut some stuff out. I hope you like it!

The next chapter should be out in about a week, this time. Please review, even if it's just a "good job". Reviews really help me get writing, and let me know that there ARE people who read this.