River Dyeing (Saint Patrick Edition)

Note:

This story takes place a few months before The Pencil Incident made everyone realize the full ramifications of Button’s mind blindness.

It also includes a few subtle teasers for some of Mind Blind’s endings.

Regrettably, no Vengeance members were harmed in the making of this story. For context, Chicago dyes its waterways green every Saint Patrick's Day.

* * * *

“Daddy, there’s too many people.”

The girl’s whisper went unheard, lost beneath the crowd’s raucous cheers and bagpipers playing “Danny Boy” in the key of Extremely Flat. Her father was laughing at a parade float behind the bagpipers, its large balloon rainbow deflating over an anxious-looking group of leprechauns due to someone from behind the tapeline having pelted the balloon with a half-filled beer can.

Although the girl’s words weren’t audible, a teenage boy immediately took her hand. He was perhaps six years older than her, thirteen or fourteen, gangly and awkward, with unruly hair and a black T-shirt at odds with the sea of green around them.

“Are you okay, Button?” he asked.

Button shook her head, eyes squinting closed as if to block out her surroundings.

Nick, there’s too many people, she repeated. They’re all going to laugh at me.

No one will laugh at you, Nick promised. He forced himself to smile, knowing that his sister would sense his frustration if he let it leak. For someone the opposite of an empath, Button was inconveniently intuitive.

It was infuriating, though. His little sister hadn’t been this self-aware until a kid named Alan (and whom Nick simply thought of as “Little Shit”) joined her class. Little Shit was a Ment, and had no qualms over letting Button know that he thought that her thoughts were dumb with stereotypic second-grader eloquence.

Button’s pudgy fingers tightened their grip on Nick’s hand.

They’re going to learn that I failed my last spelling test, she thought, and everyone will think that I’m stupid.

At this point, their father had begun listening in on their mental conversation.

“Come on now,” John Wiseman interjected jovially. “Enough doom and gloom, sprout! Or you’ll grow up to be a weepy willow.”

Nick winced. Ever since their dad had taken up gardening, his puns had developed a cringe botanical bent. Was there a more embarrassing father in all of existence? Nick thought not.

“It’s a weeping willow, Daddy,” Button corrected, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd. “Not weepy.”

Button always corrected her family out loud, despite being perfectly content to communicate mentally most other times. It was Nick’s favorite quality about her when directed at their parents. Less so when she criticized Nick’s homework.

“You’re so smart,” John told Button, suppressing a smile. “No one would ever laugh at such a smart girl.”

Button chewed her lower lip. “Even though I failed my spelling test?”

“Even though you were too sick to study the week before your spelling test,” John replied. “It’s not your fault that you had the flu.”

“It was the virus’s fault!” Button said.

“Exactly.” John’s face contorted in an overexaggerated glower. “Dirty rotten virus! How dare you make my precious daughter sick!”

Button giggled.

“We talked about this,” John added, his voice gentle but firm. “You wanted to come to the parade, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Button admitted.

“And here we are! You can’t let fear of people hearing your thoughts stop you from having fun.”

“But Mom said that—” Button broke off, gazing guiltily down at her sneakers.

A muscle in John’s cheek tightened, which Nick took as his cue to lighten the mood. He didn’t know exactly what Button had overheard, but his mom was a notorious worrywart. Sure, Button had weirdly loud thoughts. It wasn’t that big of deal, especially to Nick.

Button’s condition was still occasionally annoying—she got REALLY loud when she was upset— but Nick had learned to tune most her thoughts out (perhaps not quite as well as their dad, but John had the advantage of a limited brainrange). His sister’s mind blindness might mean that she got bullied by assholes like Little Shit, but it didn’t put her at any physical risk.

At least Button didn’t have to deal with daily nosebleeds.

Being heard? That was comparatively harmless.

* * * *

“It’s true,” Nick lied. “They use Mountain Dew to dye the river green.”

Button’s cheeks puffed out belligerently. “That’s not true!” she argued. “Daddy, Nick is being a liar!”

John yawned; he’d stayed late at the office last night finishing a mission brief so as to have today off. “Stop being a liar, Nick.”

“I’m not a liar,” Nick lied. “It really is Mountain Dew.”

Button glanced warily over the guardrail. John’s fame had managed to secure a last-minute lunch seating despite the crush at Vigo’s By The Water, a pizzeria which compensated for its lack of fine cuisine with the fact that it was by the water. Their view of the river swirling with neon green was as delightful as their pasta was bland.

“It is the same color as Mountain Dew,” Button begrudgingly observed. “But isn’t soda bad for the fishes?”

“It’s not Mountain Dew,” John said. “Nick, what did I say about lying to your sister?”

Nick rolled his eyes. His parents always said that he shouldn’t deceive Button because she didn’t have the luxury of being able to do the same, but they were overreacting as usual. And being hypocritical, since there were some things that they expected Nick to always lie about no matter what.

Parents were dumb.

“Is it really Mountain Dew?”

Button stared at Nick with wide, pleading eyes. A twinge of guilt—how he hated that familiar sensation!—plucked at his conscience. Maybe it was unfair to mess with Button, even if it was one of the greatest joys of being an older sibling.

“No,” Nick conceded. “It’s not really Mountain Dew.”

“I knew it!” Button exclaimed. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”

“Yeah, well, you almost believed me.”

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, I knew—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Wiseman. Sir?”

Nick looked up from his spaghetti to see the waiter addressing his father. The water pitcher in the waiter’s hand shook, which was odd because their glasses were all filled.

“Our meals are fine,” John said politely. “Thank you for checking in, though.”

“No, sir, that’s, er, not why I’m here.” The waiter cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry, sir. You’ve been nothing but kind, and my son will love the autograph, but today’s lunch rush is incredibly busy and, well . . .” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

“Is there a problem?” John asked, an edge entering his voice.

“Not that I’m aware of, sir!” The waiter’s eyes darted in Button’s direction. “I know that children can be loud. I have a son of my own, did I mention? But, well, you see . . .”

He sighed. “There have been complaints, sir. Multiple.”

John set his napkin on the table. “Nicky, why don’t you and Button go to the observation deck and take a few pictures of the river dyeing for Mom? She’d appreciate the thought—I know she was disappointed to be on call today and miss out on the parade.”

Button looked at her father, her small face serious. “Daddy, is this because of me?”

“Of course not, peanut,” John lied. “It’s because I’m Justice.” He gave the waiter a hard look. “Other customers have been making a commotion over my presence, haven’t they?”

“That’s not quite . . .” The waiter gulped.

“Haven’t they?” John repeated.

The waiter’s head bobbed up and down like a chicken facing the execution block. “Exactly so, sir!”

Apparently, deceiving Button was only morally wrong when Nick did it.

Nick stood and offered Button his hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go take pictures of Mountain Dew River for mom.”