Solo Act

Narrator: Anrea Hart

This was my one good shot. I wouldn’t waste it. I was still trying to collect my thoughts as I gazed out of the window of the limousine. Across the car from me was Caro Amana, a successful talent agent. I was pretty sure that was a stage name. She had short, plump body in a business suit and skirt. A well put together professional. Perfectly straight hair, good lipstick. I had spent the last year in hell, with only a dream to keep me afloat. She might just get me that dream. So I needed to make sure my words were just right.

“If you need more time to consider your story, we could wait until after your rehearsal and makeup are done?” She suggested.

I knew I couldn’t accept her offer. Contestants on competitive talent shows like Ringing the Gongs, the show Mrs. Amana had gotten me a spot on, always had to be able to tell a heart-wrenching personal story along with a good performance. If they wanted to win, at least. That meant that I needed to be ready by the time I went up in front of the judges. 

“No, it’s alright,” I said. “I just need a second to put it all together. Is it alright if I open up? I mean I don’t want to hurt our professional relationship.” Half-true. I was also scared of looking insecure and pathetic.

The car stopped at an intersection, and Mrs. Amana took a sip of her coffee.

“Ms. Hart,” She addressed me. “It’s alright. Please, I want to do whatever I can to get you a good shot. Give me your sob story. I’ve heard a thousand.”

Give her a sob story she says. Well, I’ve got a hell of one. I breathed in and out one more time. The limo finally lurched out of the intersection, turning left onto the main street promenade. I let everything out, like I hadn’t in a whole year. 

“What I always cared about most was music. Everyone knew it since I was a little kid.” I began to talk but I couldn’t meet Mrs. Amana's eyes. I stared out the window and rubbed my wrists with my fingers. I continued, “I was in dance practice, school band, songwriting club, I moderated a small online music discussion forum. And I did it all with my three best friends. Vanessa, Milo, and Monique. Vanessa was a songwriter at heart. She really looked up to Bob Dylan. Milo always wanted to be a b-boy. She could break dance before she could walk. Monique was classically trained, her strict parents made her learn piano and violin for hours every day after school since she was six. We all taught each other what we cared about, we learned how to hone our crafts. We were always there for each other. 

One day, I had the bright idea to start a band together. It didn’t work out. We got into arguments over what music we wanted to make. What kind of band we were. Who would do the vocals and who would drum. They always made it my fault when the day ended with everyone storming out of my garage. One day, Vanessa confronted me, Milo and Monique in tow. I still remember how she glared at me as she gave me the news. They were kicking me out of the band, and none of them wanted to be friends anymore.”

I considered stopping there, but I couldn’t hold back anymore. Besides, it wouldn’t make for a good story unless it had a hopeful ending.

“I lost everything. I left all my clubs, the trio turned me against our mutual friends. If I could have dropped out of school to avoid them I would have. I certainly stopped caring about studying. Bullies, bad grades. No real support in my family. I endured it all for a year. I was small. I was meek. I wasn't anything. I hid within myself. And I pushed my energy into the thing I cared about. Writing songs, playing instruments, dancing. I didn’t need anyone else to succeed, I want do it on my own and do it better than the trio could have ever hoped. I got better. I never really did any gigs, but I honed my craft in obscurity. I played and I played and I played and I improved. The bullying never got better. I never got less isolated from my fellow students. Never made any friends. I didn't know how to reach out. Didn’t know how to say anything. But every time I shared a glance or saw someone I thought was beautiful, something that could have meant maybe a friendship, a connection later if I wasn’t so isolated, I put it In the book. I wrote song after song after song. They were beautiful. I thought I was really good. Then I’d practice until I was sure. Again, until I thought I could make it.  

My parents were never really proud of me. My grades failed. As I dedicated myself to working on music, they fell further and further. I didn't care anymore.”

There was supposed to be a grander point but my words fizzled out. After a couple seconds of silence, Mrs. Amana reached out a hand to hold mine, and took another sip of her coffee. I held her hand. I hadn’t realized I was crying. 

She spoke up, almost clinical. “Well, we probably can’t use their real names. It’s easy to put myself in your shoes and imagine how much that hurt, so that’s good. But where’s the story? You had this bad year and…?”

She paused, gesturing for me to continue.

“And now I’m on Ringing the Gong and this is my big shot. My first band failed, but now I’ll succeed all by myself. Solo Act. This time I’m going to get it fucking right.”

She asked for her hand back and I obliged, so she could take notes. It was all basically the truth. I had left out or toned down some of my deeper thoughts on what my performance tonight would mean. I definitely didn’t include that I had barely performed in front of three people, not to mention a live studio audience and potentially thousands or millions after it aired. I also kept my thoughts on the low quality of Ringing the Gong the show where ‘new, up and coming artists compete for the top spot and the chance to open for the Hammer Girls Spring 2023 tour!’ Chintzy. I was in no position to complain though.

The limo came to another stop as Mrs. Amana continued writing notes on her tablet. I realized I sounded slightly bitter earlier ,and thought of more to add to my story.

“I’m also excited for tonight because I’m really proud of my act.” I added. Mrs. Amana raised an eyebrow, not looking away from her tablet. 

“And my parents are coming. I think they’re interested in me finally taking action. I’m not sure they really approve, but this is something they can look at and be proud of me for.” I put a hand to my neck. “My grades, friendships, and extracurriculars all took a nosedive.”

Mrs. Amana continued silently, taking notes. I know she’s a professional, and I’m just an awkward kid but I would really appreciate something out of her mouth. Or at least holding her hand again.

The limo awkwardly jerked to the side, and Mrs. Amana almost spilled her coffee. We both made confused glances out of the windows, and I saw what made the limo skid. The street in front of us had been turned into rubble, the outer facade of the Halcyon City Bank Northeast Branch had been obliterated, and ten men in black and grey costumes holding unmarked bags and glowing guns were running away from it. One of the men was wearing a white face mask. Capes. Villains.

I was frozen with fear for less than a second. What if the criminals hurt me? Was I safe inside the car? Was the driver ok? Then a bolt of lightning streaked across my vision. It tore across the street and my head followed its path from behind the car, across the left side windows, and finally where it landed ahead of us. 

The bolt struck one of the masked men and he crashed to the ground, the gun and bag that he held fell around him. At the moment of impact, the lightning materialized into the form of a woman. She wore a green and yellow skin tight costume covered in golden armor. Her long, straight hair fell beneath her helmet. It could only be one person. My personal favorite of the Halcyon City heroes. Thunderstruck. My fear and worry disappeared in an instant.

My day couldn’t get any better...

The rest of the fight was short, which was a good thing for most of the civilians in the area and our schedule, but disappointing for me, Thuderstruck’s biggest fan in a 300 foot radius. The other villains didn’t seem to have powers. Thunderstruck made quick work of them, transforming into a living lightning bolt and body slamming them into submission before any of them could hit her with the guns.

She was just like who I wanted to be onstage. Every movement fluid and beautiful. She timed her transformations and attacks perfectly, almost like she was dancing. She made it look effortless, but I knew she would have practiced every punch, kick, and dodge a thousand times. She was so cool. 

Then, in a flash of lightning, she was gone. The goons were left moaning and disarmed  in time for the police to mop everyone up. The White masked guy was twitching and stood up while police swarmed the scene, aiming guns at him. He raised his hands behind his back, and then twisted them around into a double-thumbs up before disappearing into a plume of purple smoke.

I was still fangirling about Thunderstruck when the limo crossed the city center to approach Silk Studios. We passed by City Hall, and Legacy Park which surrounded it. The landmark was at the heart of Halcyon City, literally and metaphorically. The park honored the heroes who defend the city with larger than life statues. Halcyon City was the most cape-covered city in the world. That included Heroes, but it also meant villains. There was more conflict here than anywhere else, so heroes were more important than anywhere.

Around City Hall were the five statues of the Vanguard, the strongest heroes in the city. Among them was Thunderstruck, guardian of a doorway. The statue presenting her the moment she began transforming, lightning rippling around her body represented by neon lights, sparking off of her stone body.

There were other hero statues we passed along the way. The V-Tek assembly. A newer team, whose statues were still being assembled. I could recognize their leader, though his left arm and leg had yet to be carved. It was Wraith, a tall thin guy in a medieval-looking costume of loose fitting wavy robes and pointed, theatrical armor. He was cute, when he was carved in stone anyway.

It wasn’t too long until the limo stopped at the studio. Mrs. Amana hadn’t talked since the fight, but she nodded encouragingly as we both exited the car. I went right, toward the dressing rooms. She went left, probably going to talk to the producers.

I set up equipment, using a turntable that the studio had on hand and arranging the set so everything was out of the way for my dance routine. I looked up at the seating, row after row where I knew there’d be excited onlookers-turned adoring fans in just a few hours. In the four large, empty seats at the front and center would be the judges. Thomas Cowl was the most famous, known for rejecting most candidates even if they were really good. Hopefully even he’d see what I had to offer. If not there was still the other three. 

There was a chance. That’s all I needed. I could be someone. I would. Every song, every note. It would be perfect. I get them there and I’d give them the show, something to watch for, something to look at. Something to pay attention to. Something that would scream out that I was the All impressive, awe-Inspiring Anrea.  

I hadn’t spent all of my time on music, I’d gotten good at other stuff too. When I was done checking my equipment, I went backstage and prepared my hair, makeup, and costume. I did my own hair, and my own makeup, not the Ringing the Gong crew. (Mrs. Amana had gotten me permission.). I had started slacking with applying it when I went to school. I also didn't really hang out with anyone outside of school. So I didn't see a reason to put makeup on at all. But now that I was at the show I put on a full face. Eyeliner, lipstick, lashes. I did up every part of me that would be visible on camera. I put some special focus on my hair. My hair was huge and curly, but I like it like that. I would never cut it. Last time I had it cut was about four years ago, no way I was starting now. I thought it was cool. I thought it would make me feel unique. Special. Eye-catching. I thought about dying my hair, but it didn’t feel right. I wanted this show to be me. 

Breaking open that shell. Reaching out to the world. There were no more bullies around. No more awkward meetings with old friends. Or if there were, I'd show them. I’d show them how cool I'd become. I told him how much work I've done making myself new. And how much I put into making myself special. I’d be something beautiful, something awe-inspiring, Something they’d never look away from. I mechanically changed into my costume, a brightly-colored dancer’s leotard with a domino mask. 

Not like, the shy, meek little girl who never made herself known in class. Who shied away from conversations. Who stammered because she didn’t know what else to say. Who cried in front of Mrs. Amana, even.

Here I was. Standing in front of the mirror. Everything else ready. This act would be everything. So I wouldn't play just one part. I didn't have a band. It was all me. Just going to be relying on my turntable and my earbuds, which would play music I’d already recorded. I’d be dancing, singing and DJing at the same time.  It would be impressive to watch on stage. Me flipping around the tables. Pressing switches to adjust the beat and turning pirouettes.  I practiced again and again and again. This would go perfectly.  

“I can do this,” I said softly, as I looked at myself In the mirror. After taking one last moment of peace to center myself, I slipped onstage. The show was about to begin.

The energy was palpable. The crowd stayed quiet but crackling with expectation and tension. For a second, I was scared. The pressure of all those eyes on me made me shiver. What if they didn't care? What if no one would? I put those fears away.  I'd make them care. I was going to rock this place. I turned on stage toward the crowd, and the judges. I started blaring my song. The sounds of electric guitars and thudding drums hit the room. I started my routine. I raised a hand high and sang “I will introduce myself to you....” 

And swung down at center stage, spinning. I turned, using my foot to stop myself after I had spun 360 degrees. I stuck out my arm and leg, smoothly going into a slide. I almost fell into a fugue state as I relied on my practice, my body moving as it had moved again and again and again. My voice repeating the words and melodies I’d practiced in the same way. A couple of people turned their heads. I dodged to the side, turning so my back faced the audience.  I flipped around as I was holding one side of the turntable and then jumped over it, sliding the other way. The move that I’d practiced was to dexterously lay two of my fingers on one of the turntables’ tabs, which would switch the beat, in the same swift motion as flipping over the turntable itself. But it went disastrously wrong.

Firstly, the weight of the table wasn't what I thought it was. I've been practicing on my old equipment in my house, and this table belonged to the studio. How hadn’t I thought of that! This turntable was lighter, and it couldn’t support my weight. I slid, and stretched out my fingers, to hit my mark. The table almost bent under me before I adjusted my weight and skidded; slamming onto the floor. I tried to save it, making it look like a part of the performance. I managed to hit the switch, but my rhythm was off. I was spared the looks from the judges as I hastened to get back on pace with my routine: spinning immediately away from their eyes. 

 I wouldn't let that slip up be the end of me. As I clicked back the knobs and turned up the volume. I kept my regime going, perfectly careening around the table again and again. I made sure not to slip up on my choreography for the rest of the night. Even if my singing failed a little bit as a result. It was worth it as long as I didn't fuck up the choreography at all after that. But the further and further away it got the more minor it seemed. I was flawlessly executing my plans, my body moving exactly as I had in the practice, my voice following and the song coming from the turntable right in sync. 

I wasn't even thinking about it. I wanted them to be paying attention. I wanted them to be enthralled by me. Enraptured by my performance. All I focussed on was my movements, making sure I did everything perfectly, down to the most minute details. They were watching. This was my time. I finally completed my performance by throwing arms atop my head triumphantly. 

I stopped. I looked out in the crowd. The crowd. No one said anything. No one was looking at me. Mrs. Amana? She gave a small nod. Almost painful. I looked at her desperately. She looked back to her conversation with another person in a suit and shrugged. I looked to the stands. Four X’s. Every single one of the judges  rejected me. I was out in round one. And their hands weren’t on the buttons. They did it earlier. I hadn't even noticed. I looked up at Thomas Cowl. He had his hand up, covering his face in disappointment. He couldn’t even look at me, just dramatically staring down at the table hamming it up for the camera. The rest of the judges looked awkward. 

I stared up in disbelief. I was broken. I looked up at my hands, the stage lights shining down through them. I was barely taking in the information that was in front of me. I released a short, shuttered breath and  dove offstage to the wings. I ran and I didn't let anyone stop me. I threw off the headphones I was using while dancing, but they were connected around my neck and didn’t fall. Betrayers. I fucked up because I was so distracted by the sound that I didn't even notice I’d been rejected.

I wanted to toss them away but I couldn’t. I needed to hide, escaping into my safe place. Blaring music in my ears loud enough to drown out the rest of the world. But music wouldn’t distract me now because music is what failed me. The one thing keeping me together, the one place I’d felt safe. The one reason I had to live. I knew no matter what song I screamed it wouldn’t make me feel safe.

I bolted through a set of double doors, and out onto the parking lot. The sun had set. I kept running. The audience didn't care about me. They didn't even care about my song! I looked like a moron on stage because I was too distracted for me to notice. Why couldn't they understand? Why couldn't I just make them see? 

Music was the thing that kept me safe. When I got mocked, when I embarrassed myself in class by saying the wrong thing, or tripping in from the popular kids, or running my mouth, I would go home and I would want nothing more than to be gone. Then I would grab my guitar and I would play something and it would save me. Now that was all gone. My music, my music didn't help me. My music failed me. I ran out of energy and crashed to the ground in a corner of the dark parking lot outside of the studio. Away from everyone else who’d look at me or find me or see me. The Asphalt was damp but still hot and smelled of freshly fallen rain. I tore off the domino mask from my costume. Stupid. I cried into the night. I must have been there for an hour.

Mrs. Amana found me. She walked over and called my name. She still looked as put-together as ever. Her face looked perfect, whereas my makeup was running down my face with my tears. 

“Gonna stay laying there outside?” 

“Go away.”

Liar. Monster. Betrayer. She said people would care about my music. No one cared. Not about what I thought or felt or was. She was trying to comfort me when I knew she would reject me just like the judges. Why couldn’t she just fucking understand. Why couldn't she see who I was? What couldn’t they see what I had? 

I stood up and beside me, she stood copying the movements exactly. 

“No,” I shouted at her in rage. 

“No,” She said back to me in the same voice. The same tone I used. I was sniffling when I said it to her. I was gasping for air. I didn’t even notice. I could feel which parts of her body moved, like I was hearing or sensing an earthquake, but inside her veins and muscles. I realized I was holding on, then I consciously moved without projecting my movements onto her. I could feel it. The spell broke.

“What did you do?” She stammered in disbelief, no longer echoing my words. Her demeanor had completely changed. Her mask of concern for my vanishing had itself disappeared. Replaced with concern for herself. 

I refocused. “Go…Go away!” I yelled at her, and I pushed it outwards. I projected my voice. In the same moment I swung my arm to point. The muscular impulses from my arm as it moved, from my mouth as I spoke, the feelings in my head I projected them onto her. My disappointed, angry, desperate, hateful glare made its way onto her face. My words echoed out of her mouth.

“Go. Away.”

I turned away and she turned away from me. We walked in the opposite directions and I could hear the clacking of her heels as her body copied my movements as her own. We got farther and farther from each other, walking in parallel opposite directions. I ran again and didn’t stop running this time.

I woke up the next day, shaken. Raw. I ran home, right into my bed. I hid, but I couldn’t escape. I used my music to keep me safe. But now? All it would do is remind me of how badly I failed yesterday. 

I wasn't thinking. 

After I woke up, my brain finally stopped spinning and I began to actually reflect on the past six hours. I realized. I had powers. I was a parahuman. I wasn't really a cape geek. Everyone in Halcyon City knew about Capes though. When I had used my abilities on Mrs. Amana, she puppetted my movements. She was a backup dancer. Just following the cheoreo. It wasn’t just her body. I could feel her mind bending to me, following my cue. I didn't know how to test my power without using it on someone. Without potentially hurting someone. Maybe I could like, find a villain? Either way. I knew my life was over. I mean, I knew my old life was over. I wasn't going to be a star on the stage after that performance. Never going to be a headliner in a band. But that's fine. That's fine. Now I have something even better. I could be like Thunderstruck. 

The woman in a blazing green costume who saved the city time, time, and time again with the Vanguard. Everyone looked up to her. Everyone was inspired by her! She was a savior, someone who people would look up to and give a shit about. They wouldn’t forget her or her statute in Legacy Park. I wouldn't just have record sales and fans, maybe a star in Hollywood. I’d have something better. I’d get a statue in Legacy Park. 

It just clicked like that. I'll be leaving my world. If you're a parahuman, planning to be a hero and you lived in Halcyon City, there's only one place you want to go. You go to Hyperion High. A Special, Special Public High School specifically for kid capes. The Wards (a government program for child heroes) operated through the school. You didn't have to be a Ward to join, but pretty much all the Wards went to Hyperion. I was going too, or at least It was going to be the first place I wanted to go. No more hiding, No more shy waiting in the closet. No more sitting alone in an empty classroom during lunch. Whatever my power was going to be, I was going to be out there. I was going to be me. I was going to make friends and be respected. I’d be the star I always wanted to be. 

The problem was I didn’t really know where to start. I definitely didn't want to tell my parents. And I wasn't super looking forward to it. There was no way I was missing out on this though. If that meant talking to my family then so be it. My mom. uggggh my Mom. We hadn’t talked about the audition. She never really cared about my dream. I’d grip onto the bannister of the stairs up to my room and sing. She’d politely smile, unsure how to respond. I was pretty sure I was up for a big lecture about how I'm embarrassing myself in front of the world and how I was never going to let this down. How I should look for a real job and meet a nice African boy with a rich family. Even so, there was no way she was going to stop me now. I had a power and that meant I was going to be a superhero. 

I was still thinking mostly about the adults as I changed out of the ragged outfit from last night. I’d fallen asleep in it and now I was focussed on cleaning myself up and looking presentable for my confrontation with my mom. Under all that doubt there was a part of me that was excited to finally meet people who’d get me. The weirdos like me who’ll understand. Superhero lives aren’t normal, they’ll understand how it feels to be an outcast. 

Before I did anything else I wanted to decide a name. I was definitely leaning into the music. I didn't learn all that song and dance just to not perform. Especially when my power will copy my movements. If I can make people dance that could be pretty useful, especially on the battlefield. Disabling on a battlefield, even. I Imagined springing into Action kicking my legs out. And then doing the Macarena as a villain helplessly puppeted my actions: unable to resist while my hypothetical Hero teammates arrested and  handcuffed him. 

Hmmm. Dancer? No, too generic. Broadcast? It might give away the gimmick of my powers. Chorus? Ooo I liked that one. But then a sneaking suspicion came into my head. I checked Kape, the online social media for all things Capes in the Anglosphere. Just as I suspected, Chorus was already taken. A duplicator who copied himself in a screaming echo that lasted as long as he could hold a note. I was scratching my head as I looked in the mirror. Maybe something that alluded to various aspects of my power but was subtle? Still obviously music themed but maybe more general. Syncopated? Rhythm? Earworm? Oh, Earworm was good. After all, I needed people to remember me. And that gave me an idea for a costume. I could even get a basic version of it on with just what I had in my wardrobe.

I finished getting dressed before I assessed my next move. I needed to hedge my bet before I talked to my mom, and there was one good way of doing that that I could think of. Not to mention it was something I’d have to do anyway. I sighed, calmed myself down, and prepared for the phone call of a lifetime. I sat and called the Vanguard hotline. It was promoted as the line to call if you wanted to join the Wards. I didn’t know about that, but I’d still need to get enrolled in Hyperion somehow. I dialed. Someone picked up on the other end.

“Hi, um. I'm 16. And I have powers. Today I want to start being Halcyon City’s latest hero. You can call me Earworm.”

“Hello then Earworm,” A calm, practiced kind of voice replied. I could picture it on a kind but pudgy office worker. “Things can be rough for young parahumans. Are you interested in joining the Wards program? We can give you access to-”

“Not Right now, sorry.” I interrupted him. Right now, I dodged. I didn’t want to make that choice immediately. It wasn’t the right time, and I wasn’t fully sure if I ever wanted to go the government-sponsored cop route. “But, ummm, I want to figure out how to go to Hyperion High.”

“Hmmm. I see. Are you already a resident of Halcyon City? Or another nearby area?”

“Yes. Yeah. Mhmm.” 

“Do you mind giving me your home address? I assure you that no details of your personal life outside of your cape identity will be known by any government agency or hero outside of what is strictly necessary, and submitting yourself to the national parahuman registry. However, if you are publicly a student at Hyperion people will already know that you’re a cape, although they may not know which one. For the record, Hyperion has a mask-always policy. Unless you’re a maskless Cape like the Bayside Boys or Martyr. Ideally, no one at the school will know your civilian identity, not your teachers and certainly not your fellow classmates and the public. I certainly hope you aren’t planning to, but part of the speech is that even should you turn villain your identity will not be unnecessarily leaked to the public or any heroic teams or individuals.”

“I know. It’s ok. I think my goal is to be pretty public anyway. I’ll give you my address.” I did. There were a couple seconds of silence as computer keys clacked on the other side of the phone.

“Alright,” the worker said, “We will have to meet you in person, as well as needing consent from your parent or legal guardian. But your home is already on a major bus route. There should be no logistical difficulties in your attendance, especially if you’re transferring from another school in Halcyon?”

“Yeah, I go to Hoover.”

“Exactly. We have dealt with quite a few capes who’ve gone to that school before. It shouldn’t be any issue. I’m going to give you the personal number of an assistant, one of our employees who works directly with these matters. Call them and you can get this process finished.”

“ThankyouThankyouThankyou!” 

“You’re welcome,” She said, clearly happy but not letting her air of professionalism falter. 

She hung up and I audibly squee’d and flapped my hands in the air while kicking my legs. Yes! Yes! Yes! It’s going to be so fun!

Sitting across from the dinner table with my mother glaring at me was not fun. 

“C’mon Mom. This was my dream.” I pleaded, doing my best to act sullen and dejected. Affecting my puppy-dog eyes.

“This is your dream?” She said, her Nigerian accent as clear in her voice as it ever was when she was angry. I never spoke with an accent, at least as far as I remember. Sharing classes with American students and teachers all day had changed that apparently. But she never lost it.

“Your dream? A dream you have had for what. A day? Two? I did not even know you had powers!”

“I didn’t have powers until yesterday, Mom.” I crossed my arms and looked down, nervous.

“Then how is this your dream!”

I sighed, “You know I’ve always wanted to do something special. That audition…”

“That audition,” She cut in, “You did not even listen to the judges. You are lucky if they do not air it at all.”

“I know Mom, I know. But please? Maybe I’m not a good musician but I can be a good hero…

Please?”

She looked down at me. Disapproving, sad, disappointed. But mostly, she just seemed like she couldn’t connect with me. 

“Look, Mom. This matters a lot to me. I didn’t tell you about the performance until I’d already booked it. I didn't tell you about this until I already had all the papers in order. I’m sorry. This is what I want to do. Please don’t stop me. Just sign the form.”

She contemplated that for a terrifying minute. Her eyes bored into me with scrutiny. Thinking, judging. She slowly put on her glasses and brought out a pen. She finally spoke with no merth or sympathy.

“…Fine my dear. …If that is what you insist.” 

Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! I mean she was annoying and stupid about it and I’m going to be grounded for a month but she let me do it! Hyperion High, here I come.