MARK

The burger joint was dead. It was always dead on Tuesday nights, which was exactly why Dave gave me the shift. Cheap labor, no customers, just me wiping down the same counter over and over until my shift ended at eleven.

It wasn't so bad though, I had all the cold fries I could eat, and sodas I could drink.

"Just a few more minutes, and I'll be freeee" I was carrying a stack of napkins when my foot caught on the edge of the mat.

I didn't fall.

I floated. Maybe an inch. Maybe two. The napkins scattered everywhere and I dropped back down to the floor so fast my knees banged against the tile.

"Ow," I whispered, even though it didn't really hurt. It didn't hurt at all.

I stood there staring at my feet. Then I grabbed the edge of the counter and squeezed. The metal crumpled under my fingers like tinfoil. I let go immediately, heart pounding, and looked at the dent I'd just put into the workstation.

"Okay," I said to nobody. "Okay. Okay. Okay."

Was this really happening? WAS THIS IT?

Excited, I jumped. Not a normal jump. I hit the ceiling. My head cracked against the fluorescent light and the whole fixture swung on its mount, flickering. I landed softly on my feet like it was nothing.

My hands were shaking. I looked at them. They looked the same. Same hands that had struggled to open pickle jars two days ago. Same hands that typed boring essays about the Cold War for Mr. Hargrove's class.

I pulled out my phone. One bar. Enough.

I need to tell Clark!

It wasn't even a question. It was the only thought that made sense. I would tell my parents afterwards, but first I needed to tell Clark.

I clocked out six minutes early. Dave would write me up for it. I didn't care. I took off running toward the Kent farm, and halfway there I realized I was running way faster than I should've been. The trees were blurring past me. My feet barely felt the ground.

The farm was dark except for the porch light and one window upstairs. Clark's room. I could see him through the curtain, hunched over his desk, probably working on some story for the school paper. The guy never stopped.

I didn't knock. I just opened the back door and yelled up the stairs.

"CLARK!"

Clark appeared at the top of the stairs in a t-shirt and sweatpants, glasses crooked, hair a mess.

"Mark? It's almost eleven, what are you—"

"I got powers."

He stopped on the landing. His eyes went wide behind his glasses.

"What?"

"Powers, Clark. I finally got them!"

He came down the stairs fast. Too fast for a normal person, but I was used to that. He grabbed my shoulders and looked at me like he was checking, seeing if something was different.

"Show me."

I picked up the kitchen table. Not the easiest thing to grip, but I got my hands under it and lifted it over my head like it was a clipboard. The legs didn't even creak.

Clark's face broke into the biggest grin I'd ever seen on him.

"Mark. Do you know what this means?!"

"I know."

"This is—dude, this is huge."

"I know!"

"How long have you been waiting for this? Since we were kids? You've been talking about this since sixth grade!"

"I know, I know—"

He pulled me into a hug. A real one, the kind that would've cracked my ribs if I were still a normal guy. I could tell the difference because normally Clark would touch people like they were made out of glass.

"I'm so proud of you, man," he said into my shoulder.

"Clark, you're crushing me."

"Sorry, sorry." He let go, still grinning. "Okay. Okay, we need to test this. How much can you lift? Can you fly for real? How fast can you run—"

"I don't know any of that yet, I literally just found out twenty minutes ago. I freaked out and came straight here."

"Awww, I’m touched." He was bouncing a little on his feet. Clark got excited about a lot of things—good books, bad movies, pretty much any food—but this was different. "We should test everything. Carefully. Start small and work our way—"

"Punch me."

His grin faltered. "What?"

"Punch me. I want to see if I can take it."

"No."

"Come on—"

"Mark, you just found out twenty minutes ago—"

"That's why we should test it! You're the strongest person I know. If I can take a hit from you, I can take a hit from anybody."

"That is not how this works."

"You're being such a mom about it."

"I'm not being a mom, I'm being smart—"

"Chicken."

He stared at me. I raised my eyebrows.

"You're not doing this."

"Bawk bawk."

His mouth twitched. "Stop it."

"Bawk bawk bawk—"

He cracked. "You're unbelievable."

"Then hit me."

"This is a terrible idea."

"You won't hurt me."

"You don't know that."

"I lifted a table, Clark. A whole table. With my hands."

"That barely classifies as a super feat."

"Then don't punch me hard. Just—"

"Fine. Fine. One punch. You asked for this."

He pulled back. Not far. And without wasting any time, he hit me in the chest.

The air left my lungs. My legs went out and I hit the kitchen floor on my back, gasping. 

"Oh my God—" Clark dropped next to me. "Mark—"

I held up a hand.

Then I started laughing.

It came out as this horrible wheezing sound because my lungs weren't working right yet, but I was laughing. Clark looked horrified for about two seconds before he realized what was happening, and then he started laughing too.

"Oh my God," I wheezed. "I thought I could take a hit from you."

"I told you—"

"Maybe it's too soon!"

"And I was right!"

I was laughing so hard my eyes were watering. Clark sat back on the floor. Mrs. Kent was going to kill us for the cracked floor.

"Okay," I said, still wheezing. "Note to self. Not ready for that yet."

"Yet," Clark repeated, laughing again. "I wonder WHO told you that, before."

"Shut up."

"You literally just—"

"Shut up."

He helped me up. My chest was throbbing but I was fine. I'd be fine by morning probably. Clark kept his hand on my chest, checking me over with that worried-big-brother look he'd had since we were kids.

"You good?" he asked.

"I'm good."

"Promise?"

"Clark, I'm good."

He finally relaxed. Then his expression shifted into something sly.

"You know what this means, right?"

"What?"

"The bet."

My stomach dropped. "No."

NOOOO! I had forgotten all about the bet!

"You said, and I quote, 'If you are right in your estimation, I'll give you my signed poster.' Those were your exact words."

"Clark—"

"That poster is mine now."

"Dude, come on—"

"A deal's a deal, Mark."

He was trying to look serious but the corner of his mouth kept betraying him. He'd wanted that poster for years. I'd wanted it more. But I'd made the bet because I thought it was safe. I thought I'd never have to pay up.

"You're really going to take my poster?"

"Absolutely."

I hate him.

"I hate you," I said.

"No you don't." He was grinning again. "I'm proud of you, man. Seriously. We'll figure all of this out together."

"Yeah," I said, rubbing my shoulder. "Together. But I'm not giving you the poster tonight."

"Tonight, tomorrow, doesn't matter. It's mine."

"You're the worst best friend I've ever had."

"Only best friend you've got."

“Nuh-uh, I have William!”

“We have William.”

That was true. And he knew it, and I knew it, and we both stood there in his cracked kitchen laughing about it until Mrs. Kent yelled down the stairs to keep it quiet.

"So," he said. "You need a name."

"I need a lot of things. A name is pretty low on the list."

"It's not, though. You go out there, people are going to call you something. Better to pick it yourself than let the news do it."

He had a point. I'd seen enough headlines about Clark to know how that went.

"You're right," I said. "Okay. Hit me."

"Not literally."

"Not funny."

"I thought it was funny."

"You would."

Clark pulled out a notebook from under the coffee table. He had like twelve of these scattered around the house. He flipped it open to a fresh page, pen ready.

"Okay. Superboy."

I stared at him. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're Superman. I'm not your sidekick, besides you already used that one."

"I didn't say sidekick. Superboy is a strong name."

"It's your name with 'boy' at the end. That's not a name, that's a knockoff."

"It's not a knockoff, it's an homage to my early days as a Superhero."

"Clark, if I show up somewhere and someone yells 'look, it's Superboy,' that sounds like I'm your kid brother following you around."

Clark wrote something down. I couldn't see what.

"What are you writing?"

"Superboy. With a star next to it."

"Take the star off."

"No."

"Clark—"

"It's a good name, Mark."

"It's a derivative name. I want my own thing."

"Okay, okay." He tapped the pen against his lips. "Omniboy."

I blinked. "Omniboy."

"Yeah. Omni means all. All-powerful. It covers everything."

"That sounds like a laundry detergent."

"It does not, besides your dad is Omniman, it kind of goes with it."

"Omniboy. New and improved. Fights crime and stains."

Clark laughed despite himself. "That's not—okay, maybe the 'boy' suffix is throwing things off."

"Maybe."

"Let's drop 'boy.' Just Omni."

"Just Omni?"

"Omni. Clean. Simple. One word."

"That sounds like a phone company."

"Okay, now you're just being difficult."

"I'm being honest."

Clark paused. Tilted his head. "Turbo-man,"

"It sounds like a guy who sells car insurance."

"It does not."

"Turbo-Man: protecting your future with comprehensive coverage."

Clark threw a pillow at me. I caught it without thinking. The pillow exploded in a cloud of feathers.

We both looked at the destroyed pillow. Then at each other.

"So that's going to keep happening," Clark said.

"Apparently."

"Note to self: no throwing things at you."

"Good note."

He started picking feathers off his shirt while I tried to brush them off the couch. Mrs. Kent was going to murder us. Twice in one night. First the floor, now the couch.

"Okay, let me think," I said. "What about something with 'invincible' in it?"

Clark looked up from the feather carnage. "Invincible?"

"Yeah. Like, nothing can hurt me. Invincible."

"Mark, I literally just knocked the wind out of you with one punch."

"That was you. You don't count. You are unfairly powerful."

"I don't count?"

"You're on a completely different level and you know it. Against anybody else, I'm basically invincible."

Clark wrote it down. "Invincible. I actually like that. It's strong. Confident. A little cocky, which suits you."

"I'm not cocky."

"You totally are."

He shook his head but he was smiling. "Invincible. Okay. I'll put a star next to that one too."

"How many stars do you give out?"

"Very few. It's an exclusive system."

"What else have you got in that notebook?"

He flipped back a few pages. I leaned over to look and he tilted it away.

"Those are for my stories, I like to write."

"Since when do you keep story ideas in the same notebook as—"

"Since I grab whatever's closest. Don't worry about it."

"Are there super names for yourself in there?"

He closed the notebook. "No."

"Liar."

"Mark."

"You have a whole list of names you considered before settling on Superman, don't you?"

"I don't see how that's relevant—"

"What were they?"

He sighed. Defeated. "I'm not telling you."

"Was one of them Metro Man?"

He didn't answer, which meant yes.

"Oh my God. Metro Man."

"It was a working title—"

"Did you also consider Farm Crusader?"

"That was never—"

"Did you write 'Farm Crusader' in a notebook with a star next to it?"

Clark put the notebook behind his back like I was going to grab it. I could've grabbed it. We both knew that now. But I let him have it.

"We're getting off track," he said. "Your name. Invincible is good. I also had—wait, hear me out—Guardian."

"Guardian?"

"Yeah. Guardian. It's protective. It says 'I'm here to keep people safe.'"

"That sounds like a security company."

"Everything sounds like a company to you!"

"Because everything does! That's my point! You have to pick a name that doesn't sound like it could be a brand."

Clark chewed on the pen. "What about just Mark?"

"Just Mark."

"Yeah. No secret identity. No costume name. Just show up, do the thing, leave."

"That's terrible. That's the worst idea you've had."

"People would respect it. No gimmick."

"The gimmick is the whole point, Clark. You wear a cape."

"The cape is practical."

"It is not practical. You told me it gets caught on things all the time."

"That's not—I didn't say—it's symbolic, Mark."

I laughed. He threw another pillow. I caught it gently this time. No explosion.

"Okay," I said. "Okay. I like Invincible. Let's sit on that one."

"Good choice." He wrote it down with two stars. "I still think Superboy is solid, though."

"Drop it."

"Just putting it out there."

"Drop it, Clark."

He held up his hands in surrender, but he had that look. The one that meant he was going to bring it up again in like three days. He always did that. He'd let something go and then casually slip it back into conversation later like he hadn't already been shot down.

"Hey Clark?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For, you know. Not making it weird."

He looked at me. "Why would I make it weird?"

"I don't know. Because you're the only person I know who gets it. The powers thing. The being different thing. I figured maybe you'd be weird about it."

"Mark." He said it simply. Like it was obvious. "You're my brother. You've been my brother since we were eight. Nothing about this is weird."

I nodded. 

"Also," he added, "you still owe me that poster."

"Go to hell."