Jen lee w / salida pantalones en (Sobre el carácter #comics que dispara a su autor y el #blerd matemáticas que le podría dejar de) Episodio 2!

Lea a continuación para leer el texto de la historia, o escuchar por encima de, o pre-pedido Ser héroe aquí:
con cómics:…
sin cómics:…

En otra parte:
*Resuelve rompecabezas de matemáticas de Skye como una oportunidad de ganar $100, en todos los libros. *

Skye es el personaje de cómic agitado por la tormenta en busca de venganza en el autor que mató a su familia. Jace es el amante de las matemáticas #blerd tratando de escapar legado mortal de su padre. Cuando los mundos chocan, Jace debe elegir entre el mundo real siempre ha odiado, y el mundo del cómic que ha amado siempre–y Skye debe decidir si matar a su autor va a salvar su mundo, o condenar su alma.

Jace, cuenta.

Chico nuevo se puso sobre mí la mano extendida, oliendo cáscaras de plátano y bancos.

"Hey," él dijo, Me tirando a mis pies. “Soy Caleb.”

“Hey Caleb. Estoy Jace “.

“Jace, como Jason?”

-sí, pero deletreado como el hijo en el Universo Expandido StarWars, no como el segundo Robin “.

Él fue la primera persona que había conocido fuera de la tienda de cómics que consiguió la referencia. “El hijo de un pícaro, en lugar de hijo sin escrúpulos.”Su sonrisa maliciosa se suavizó. "Estás bien?”Miró a mi antebrazo.

Miré, y arrepentido. No pensé que estaba asustado por la sangre. No era mucho, sólo un rasguño, solo-solo-mareos barrió la frente y todo mi cuerpo se sentía débil porque Santa mierda que casi me desollados, debido a que papá casi-! Abrí la boca para no decir nada.

"Es eso un no?" preguntó.

Tragué. Me. no lo haría. Hacer. Eso. Divertido. por. Ellos. Si no estuviera asustado, no podían asustar a mi padre, y perdieron.

Pero yo los quería asustar a papá! Yo quería salir de aquí! De esta estúpida barrio, y esta escuela secundaria estúpida estúpida donde mi maestro que me de confianza dejado escapar en la clase que incluso tuve un padre, y estúpida Jerome, and stupid everyone who said I wasn’t “Black enough” because I was a nerd, as if the math in my brain somehow released neurotoxins that killed my melanocytes because that made sense—oh wait, No, it didn’t! It really didn’t!

“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.” I broke my gaze away from it to look Caleb in the face, noticing now the industrial bar piercing his right ear. “Are you hungry? Because after that I could eat a bookshelf.”

“Yeah—uh, sí, I haven’t eaten in a while.” His face colored a little: he meant a very long while. He wasn’t from around here, and he wasn’t dressed well enough to be a lost tourist—not that we got tourists around here on the regs, but hey—so I pegged him as a runaway right away. From where, I wondered?

“Why a bookshelf?" preguntó.

“I like books.” I shrugged, and pulled my hoodie up against his inquiring stare and against the frigid wind tickling my hot cheeks. «Vamos. I’ll—I have stuff at home.”

And that’s how I chose to bring a violent stranger into my house.



My breathing slowed, and the chill began to evaporate my sweat as we passed dingy brush littered with trash, and dead bushes crowded against the alleyway walls, and the yellowing grass that clung to the cracks in the whitish half-paved gravelwe turned onto another street, past the big abandoned red brick building on the corner, and for a second I didn’t hate West Baltimore.

I always don’t hate West Baltimore when I pass red brick. There’s a lot of that here: the big factory-looking thing, with its lone chimney jutting into the grey sky like a bold unmoving middle finger thrown up against all the struggle and change and turmoil; the rows of brick apartments huddled side by side like tall, thin soldiers, shoulder to shoulder against the cold, some of them rounded with feminine bulges, towers and buttresses, powerful women in a protest line holding together their neighborhoodall old, old buildings. Sometimes a new mural will go up, or street art that actually means something. That day a black phoenix rose against one of the grey-walled buildings, framed in purple fire.

We’d almost reached my dad’s apartment when we passed a different strain of graffiti. This tag was about cops, and my shoulders sagged.

I caught Caleb watching my reactions.

“What?” he and I asked at the same time.

He laughed. I sighed.

“You got opinions about that,” he nodded back towards the angry wall-scars. “Mind if I ask what they are?”

“Man, I don’t even know,” I said. “My first day out in driving class I got a DWB, con my teacher in the car, con the car marked Student, and they still made us get out while they patted us down and yelled at me and searched the seats because I ‘fit a description.That guy you just whupped, Jerome? His older brother was shot by police who broke into the wrong apartment for a bust.” I paused, wondering if I should really tell Caleb why Jerome hated me. Caleb waited, listening so intently, so openly, I kinda had to: “My dad’s a police officer,” I said.

“Ah. So you’re caught in the crossfire.”

“There’s no crossfire. I’m minding my own business.” I sealed my lips, and he minded his own, también.