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When Allie was four, everyone thought it was cute. Oh, that's so adorable, they all said. Oh, look at her, with Superman . How darling. How sweet.
Of course, when Allie was six, everyone thought her play should be girlier. But that's another story.
Now, Allie is nine, and everyone thinks she's too old for an imaginary friend. They all think something is wrong with her, and her parents are getting worried. Why won't she make any real friends? they wonder. Does she even try?
The truth is, Allie does try. But she doesn't want to tell her parents that no one at school likes her. She's a loser there, no way does she want to bring that home with her. She knows her parents won't think badly of her if she's not popular, but grown ups can be just as mean as the bullies that are still Allie's age, and she doesn't want her parents' acquaintances (a-c-q-u-a-i-n-t-a-n-c-e-s, what is that stupid extra c for?) gossiping about her to them and making them worry even more.
So Allie still talks to "Superman". She knows he's not real, but she'll still insist he is to anybody who tries to tell her otherwise. On principle (p-r-i-n-c-i-p-l-e, not p-r-i-n-c-i-p-a-l), because she knows they're just trying to be mean. The real Superman obviously has better things to do than listen to her, but sometimes she pretends he does, and that he likes her. She can think that if she wants, because there's no way to prove he doesn't unless if you just asked him, and nobody can just ask Superman something except Lois Lane. So there.
Allie talks to Superman on her walks home from school, and whenever she plays outside in the yard. He keeps her company and helps her solve her problems, and sometimes he even saves her from imaginary bad guys with his heat vision (it is not lasers, Allie has done her research). He never comes inside with her, and he isn't around when it's dark, because she knows that he gets his powers from the sun so that's where he likes to be. Plus, she likes to imagine that he has to go home for dinner too. It adds realism (r-e-a-l-i-s-m).
Allie is walking home right now, and those big fifth graders are following her. Maybe. So she's talking to Superman, like usual, but she's doing it a little quieter today. She's telling him about her day, about how Miss Anderson taught them about ecosystems and how organisms adapt in order for their environment (e-n-v-i-r-o-n-m-e-n-t) to be just right, and how all the things that live there are needed to keep everything going smoothly, and how sometimes when new things are put somewhere they'll mess everything up.
"I guess you kind of did that when you came here," Allie says to Superman. "In a good way though. Not like a parasite , p-a-r-a-s-i-t-e - oops, sorry. Mom says it's rude to spell when I'm talking."
The boys behind her suddenly laugh. They're a lot closer than Allie thought they were.
"Don't worry, they're probably not following us," she tells Superman reassuringly. "They probably are just going the same direction as us by coincidence , c-o-i-n-c-i-d-e-n-c-e. Besides, even if they are following us, you can just blow them away with your ice breath and their noses will get all chapped and it'll serve them right."
That isn't true, though, and Allie's grip tightens on her backpack. She can't decide if she should walk faster to get home and away quicker, or if she should walk slower to make sure that none of her neighbors (n-e-i-g-h-b-o-r-s) see her getting picked on. It's a tough call.
"Hey, who are you talking to, weirdo!" one of the boys calls out. He looks like the leader. He's the biggest, and apparently also the meanest, so it would make sense if he was in charge. Whatever. Allie's just glad they spoke up before she got to her street. She turns around and faces the group of older kids. She's tested out just ignoring them, so she knows that won't work. Besides, she doubts the real Superman would like her very much if she was somebody who never stood up for anything, even if it's just herself.
So she tells those boys, "I'm talking to Superman," and she makes sure to sound very snotty and better than them when she says, "We're friends." That's a little mean, she guesses, but they started it. Anyway, she never said they couldn't be friends with Superman too. They'd have to be a whole lot nicer to do it, obviously, but that has nothing to do with Allie. She can't control who Superman likes and who he doesn't. He is his own person.
"No you're not, stupid," the leader boy argues (a-r-g-u-e-s, clearly Allie is not stupid). The other boys laugh, like he said something funny, which he didn't. He didn't really even say much of anything at all. He could have just said nuh-uh and it would have meant the same thing.
"Yeah," agrees another boy. "Superman is cool ." They all laugh again, but Allie just rolls her eyes. Superman is cool, and Allie's not, but she thinks he'd like her. She hopes he would. Nobody can prove that he wouldn't.
"Anyway," a third boy adds. "I don't see Superman here right now." He looks around at his friends. "Do you guys see Superman anywhere?" They all laugh some more and shake their heads no.
"I guess you're just crazy," the leader decides, once they've all pretended to really look for Superman. "Or maybe you're just such a loser that you have to hang out with somebody you made up!"
"He has super hearing, dummies," Allie insists. She will not cry. It would be so silly be upset about this. They're not even saying that isn't true. But maybe that's why it's upsetting. Allie blinks back her tears, but she can't help the hitch of her breathing and the little noise that comes out with it, or the way her voice is tight when she finishes, "He doesn't have to be nearby to hear me."
"Oh, yeah, that's right," one of the boys admits. Allie thinks for one second maybe she won this round, but then he adds, "That makes you even more pathetic! Even Superman doesn't care about you!"
It's true, Allie knows. Superman doesn't care about her. Not because he's mean, like them, but just because he's so busy. They're right, Superman is cool and he has a lot of important stuff to do all the time. Besides, who would want to listen to Allie talk about boring stuff when they could listen to Batman or Wonder Woman talk about hacking the government (g-o-v-e-r-n-m-e-n-t) or being a princess. The tears finally fall, and there's nothing Allie can do about it. Superman would never be her friend, imaginary or not. She's all alone.
"Excuse me," an adult voice says behind Allie, and all of her muscles tense up real tight. She hopes it's not anyone who will tell her parents that these awful bullies made her cry right out in front of everyone (that she has no friends and nobody cares about her except them, not even anybody made-up, anymore). "I don't appreciate our conversation being interrupted. That was very rude of you boys, and I think you should all apologize to both of us."
That's not at all what Allie was expecting, so she turns around, and right there, floating just above the ground, is the real Superman. His cape is blowing around a little bit in the air and his arms are folded. He's even frowning a little bit. He looks very scary, but Allie knows from what he said that he must be there to have her back, so she copies his expression (e-x-p-r-e-s-s-i-o-n) and turns back around to face those mean boys with her arms crossed too.
"S-sorry, Superman," the leader stutters out. "Sorry, Allie," and all his rude friends echo him hurriedly.
"That's Miss Allie, to you," Allie says with a click of her tongue, because how cool would it be if they all treat her like a grown up? If they give her respect (r-e-s-p-e-c-t, like in the song).
"Sorry, Miss Allie," they all repeat, and they rush off like, as Mama says, their tails are on fire. When the moment is over, it hits Allie that Superman is really here, and he really stood up for her like he's really her friend. He lands lightly on the sidewalk next to her, his red boots not making any sound at all. He looks upset, and he touches his leg as if he's looking for a pocket. He doesn't have any.
"Is it okay if I take you the rest of the way home, Miss Allie?" he asks her, very politely.
"It's just Allie to you, since we're friends," Allie tells him cheerfully, before biting her lip. She can't just assume that they really are friends. Superman is a hero. He saved her because that's what he does. They don't know each other, so they can't really be friends. Can they? "Are we friends?"
"Of course we're friends, Allie," Superman assures her. "I mean, you talk to me every day, don't you? I know I don't usually talk back, but that doesn't mean I'm not listening. I think what you were saying before those kids interrupted you about me being a foreign species was really smart, and important. I hadn't thought of it like that."
Allie's throat feels a little weird, so she can only say "Oh," to that, but she takes Superman's hand when he offers it and follows him to the cross-section, where - no way - the Batmobile is parked. Batman himself is leaning against the driver's side door, doing something on his bat-phone (smarter than a smartphone, definitely). He looks over when they approach, and even though his mouth is flat, Allie gets the feeling that he's laughing.
"Is this still an AB conversation?" he asks Superman. "Should I C myself out?"
"Shut up," Superman mutters as he ushers Allie forward, but she can tell he doesn't really mean it. "Batman, this is my friend, Allie. Allie, this is the Dark Knight." Batman tucks his phone away into a pocket on his yellow utility belt, and when Superman says, "Do you happen to have-" he pulls out a tissue from another one and hands it to Allie to wipe her face with.
"Hello, Allie," he greets her while she rubs snot off her nose.
"Aren't you supposed to kiss my hand?" Allie asks, and when neither man seems to know what she means, she explains. "Because you're a knight , k-n-i-g-h-t. Like with a sword. Don't knights kiss people's hands to say hello?" There's a quiet pause and Allie starts to get nervous. Maybe she overstepped. Mom says she does that sometimes. But then Batman gets down on one armoured knee, takes Allie's hand from Superman, and kisses the back of it just like the knights in storybooks. Holy crap.
"Hello, Allie," he repeats from down there.
"Hello, Batman," Allie replies. She doesn't know how she manages to get any words out in front of two whole superheroes, but she does it, and she's very proud of herself for it too.
"Now, I know that Batman is a stranger, and you don't know me that well either since all of our conversations have been so one-sided, so I'll understand if you don't want to, but do you think it would be okay if Batman and I drove you home in the Batmobile today? Just so that you can finish telling me about ecosystems without anyone else bothering us."
Allie does try to think about it seriously, instead of just going with it right away because it's Superman and Batman, but it's really hard to think it through when they're so cool and they're right there in front of her. Eventually, she decides, "It'll be okay as long as we go right to my house and don't make any other stops along the way."
"That sounds fair," Superman agrees. He looks over the car at Batman to make sure, and Batman sighs, but he gestures easily for them to get in.
The backseat in the Batmobile is tiny, so Allie is close to the front and she gets to hear it perfectly when Batman tells Superman, "You've gotta share your secret, Clark. How do you find time to stand up to adolescent bullies and rescue kittens from trees?" and Superman, like Mama says, snarks back, "Oh please, Mr. Grim, like you don't stop in the middle of patrol to feed strays every single night."
"Do not," says Batman, and Allie giggles.
They take her right home, just like they said they would, and they even walk her right up to her front door. Mom is in the back, in her studio, and she hasn't seen them. Allie can't decide if she wants her parents to see them and that Allie knows real superheroes, or if she wants her parents to never find out that Superman and Batman had to come save her from bullies. Another tough call. It doesn't end up mattering because Superman says, "We have to get going now, Allie, but you can always talk to us whenever you feel like it, okay?"
"Okay!" Allie agrees, and uses her manners to thank him and Batman for seeing her home, and for being her friends. She watches them drive off in the Batmobile, talking back and forth again, and she feels warm in her heart.
When Allie was four, everyone thought it was cute. Who wouldn't find it adorable, a tiny little girl with those pink bows in her hair talking so casually to the one and only Superman? She kept it up through six and that cowgirl outfit she refused to take off to be washed, and even to nine when she preferred leggings and oversized tees.
Now, Allie is ten, she likes yellow, and she doesn't talk to Superman anymore.
Liz runs her hand along Jenna's back, enjoying the warmth of her wife's closeness, as they watch their daughter play in the yard by herself from their back porch. Allie speaks with seriousness into the open air, "I think you need to communicate , c-o-m-m-u-n-i-c-a-t-e. You should try using your words sometimes, Mr. Grim. Tell him, Clark."
"That's a little bit weird, isn't it?" Jenna frets. "Should she be telling her imaginary friends they need to communicate?" Liz smiles softly and takes a sip of her wine cooler.
"Relax, Jen," she soothes. "I think we should just be glad she's finally over that Superman thing."