Isolation

ISOLATIONA Kid Sensation NovelByKevin Hardman


This book is a work of fiction contrived by the author, and is not meant to reflect any actual or specific person, place, action, incident or event. Any resemblance to incidents, events, actions, locales or persons, living or dead, factual or fictional, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Kevin Hardman.
Cover Design by Isikol
Edited by Faith Williams, The Atwater Group
This book is published by I&H Recherche Publishing.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address I&H Recherche Publishing, P.O. Box 2727, Cypress, TX 77410.
ISBN: 978-1-937666-47-7
Printed in the U.S.A.


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following for their help with this book: GOD first and foremost, since all the blessings in my life come from Him; my family, who continue to love and support me through good times and bad; and my readers, who are the best fans on the planet!


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Chapter 1
“Explain to me again what I’m doing here,” said my best friend, Smokescreen.
“You’re here so that I have someone to talk to if this thing starts getting boring,” I replied.
“Oh,” Smokey muttered. “And here I was thinking that you and your new West Coast buds just wanted some fresh blood to make fun of.”
“No,” I assured him, shaking my head. “We made fun of you earlier, so there’s no more entertainment value in it.”
Smokey chuckled, at the same time brushing a piece of lint off the shoulder of the suit he was wearing, which consisted of a black-and-white pinstriped jacket with matching pants. He also wore a black shirt, white tie, and a fedora.
Taken altogether, Smokey projected the image of an old-school gangster, which was fitting since we were currently at a costume party. He completed the look by carrying an obviously-fake Tommy Gun that nevertheless gave him a slightly menacing air.
“I feel like a horse’s rear,” he said.
“No, that guy is a horse’s rear,” I corrected, pointing to a skinny fellow wearing the back half of a horse costume. We both laughed heartily at that – perhaps too heartily, since our overt jocularity caused a few people nearby to glance in our direction.
As Smokey had noted, we were currently on the West Coast, attending a fete being thrown by the A-List Supers – or rather, their teen affiliate. The A-Listers were a top-notch superhero squad, second only to the Alpha League (which Smokey and I were a part of) in terms of power and prestige. That said, they had us beat by a mile when it came to glitz and glamour, as evidenced by the soiree where we currently found ourselves.
For instance, a massive ballroom had been rented for the event, which was being catered by a famous chef who had her own television show. The menu included Ossetra caviar, skewers of Wagyu beef, white truffle ice cream, and other dishes that probably cost a small fortune. All in all, it was well in excess of anything I could imagine the Alpha League spending on a party (and again, this was just for the teens).
“Look, your costume’s fine,” I assured my friend after we regained our composure. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Easy for you to say,” Smokey admonished. “You got the cool outfit.”
His comment caused me to give myself a once-over. I was sporting an Egyptian pharaoh costume, consisting of a black tunic, a black-and-gold nemes headdress, and a black shendyt. I also wore gold armbands and matching sandals, along with a black cape and a golden ankh on a necklace.
Overall, I thought it was a good look for me, but I honestly didn’t think it was any more “cool” than what Smokey was wearing.
“I wish I could take credit for this getup,” I said, “but it was all Vestibule.”
Smokey gave me an odd look, although it wasn’t completely unexpected. Vestibule was a teen member of the A-List Supers – a teleporter who also had a modeling career. In the past, I and most of my friends had generally considered her to be insipid and snobbish, but recently I’d discovered there was a lot more to her than met the eye.
“So she’s picking out your clothes now?” Smokey noted, his tone seeming to imply something.
“She picked out a costume,” I corrected. “That’s a far cry from her laying out my clothes for me on a daily basis.”
“Still, Jim, that she’s dictating what you wear at all has to mean something.”
“What it means is that I lost a bet,” I muttered sheepishly.
Smokey frowned. “What kind of bet?”
I sighed. “You remember that big budget mystery movie that opened last week?”
Smokey nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well, I actually went to the premiere.”
“I know,” Smokey stated. “The tabloids were all trying to figure out who Vestibule’s mystery date was.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I stressed.
“Right,” Smokey droned sarcastically. “You just both happened to show up at the same place, at the same time, and sit next to each other.”
“Anyway,” I continued, ignoring his jibe, “we made a bet regarding the identity of the killer, and she won.”
There was silence for a moment as Smokey just stared at me, and then he burst into laughter.
“Ha!” he chuckled. “Are you kidding me? You let Vestibule hustle you?”
“Nobody got hustled,” I argued. “She’s a lot more astute than we initially gave her credit for.”
“Or maybe she knows someone who worked on the movie and got them to tell her how it ends. After all, she’s in good with all