“I won’t eat them; they’re nasty.” Henley chased his Brussels sprouts around his plate with his fork, making it look like a hare-and-hound type of race. While he rested his face on his
arm inches away from the plate so as not to miss the close finish, he added, “I hate green things.”

“You’re not leaving the table until you do,” Mama said with a face that Henley knew meant business. He had tried the “Daddy doesn’t have to eat vegetables in the desert,” argument too many times, so tonight he tried a different approach.

He sat up in his chair with such force that his brown tousled bangs sprang out and settled back even more awry. He pushed them aside with his hand, trying to make contact with the eyes in the back of Mama’s head, believing his new position would save him from Brussels sprouts. “I bet you Getchu doesn’t have to eat sprouts. He can eat whatever he wants. He’s my hero!” As he spoke, his last three sprouts nearly raced off his plate.

Mama stopped rinsing the dish in her hand and turned to look at her son. “I thought Dad was your hero,” she said, sounding a bit surprised. “He was…he is…I mean…Getchu can do whatever he wants.

Mama seized the moment to talk about heroes. “Getchu can’t be a hero, honey. He doesn’t have a heart. He’s a robot.” She hoped her shift in the conversation would not be too obvious. Henley may look average to everyone else, but Mrs. Banks knew her son’s quick mind.

“What do you mean, Mama?” asked Henley a bit puzzled. He looked at his plate cockeyed, wondering what heroes, Getchu, and sprouts had to do with one another.

Mama breathed a sigh of relief that her hero hint was not immediately rejected. “Robots can only do as their inventor instructs them. They cannot choose to be courageous or brave; they just do what they’re programmed to do. A hero needs a heart so he can do extraordinary things. Remember, dear, every good story needs a hero.”

He didn’t like Mama sneaking in the Book of Heroes into their conversation and wanted even more to be done with his sprouts, so he resumed his plea. “Theorr nosty,” he said as he half chewed, half swallowed, two sprouts at once. He closed both eyes tightly, pursed his lips together, and swallowed hard. In a last-ditch effort to be rid of them, he smashed the last one into his plate with his fork. He walked to the sink with his best “I’m the son you love” look on his face. His smile revealed remnants of his last bite.

“Nice try, Henley.” But this time she was smiling into his big blue eyes, letting him know the last sprout was the disposal’s dinner.

Success! He charged out of the kitchen, his red-hooded sweatshirt flapping. His plate clanked on the edge of the counter as Mama caught it with her right hand. Relief spread
over her muscles as he left because this dinner ended without a major fight.

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Henley went to bed troubled by the evening’s events. Getchu had filled the hole in his heart left by Dad, and now it felt like Mama was trying to take him away. What’s the big deal
about a heart, anyway? he wondered as sleep took him.

That night Henley had a strange dream. He was in Getchu’s game, working side by side with him, blasting enemy robots into spare parts. He sped through the levels. Five…six…seven…eight. Hours and hours they fought. At level ten, instead of seeing Gorse, the creator of all evil robots, he saw a large antique mirror hanging on his bedroom wall, from ceiling to floor, illuminated by a single spotlight. The mirror’s wooden frame was gnarled and knotted, and the glass was darkened silver. It looked similar to one he had seen hanging in Grandpa’s apartment, only larger.

Getchu and Henley walked up to see their reflections, blasters still in hand. Henley was sure he would see a row of medals plastered across his chest for bravery in battle. He tilted his head to one side, trying to look like a western gunslinger and even imagined he had spurs clanging on his sneakers. A tip of his sweatshirt hood let a grateful imaginary citizen know he was, “Just doing my duty, ma’am.” But the mirror held an unexpected revelation.

When they swaggered up, only one reflection looked back at him. Henley was Getchu! In place of medals gaped a hole where his heart should be—a deep, dark hole in which light itself vanished. He instantly dropped his blaster and covered his chest with both hands as he stepped back in shock.

“What?” His hands began disintegrating into the hole! This abyss would destroy him if he did not do something fast. It took all of his strength to pull his hands out. Once they were free, he noticed his fingertips were still missing. Not wanting to go through that again, he shoved his hands out to his sides like an awkward bird ready for flight; he needed to keep them as far away from the black hole as possible. “What’s going on?” he said out loud, hoping someone would answer; but no one did.

Frantically, he turned around wide-eyed to ask Getchu for advice. He’ll know what to do; he’ll help me. A quick survey of his surroundings, however, revealed he was alone. He stood abandoned in inky blackness—his hero left him. Desperate thoughts flooded his mind. How do I get out of here? How do I get home?

The only visible light came from the mirror. Henley slowly backed toward it, still searching for his hero. “Getchu, where are you?” Hot tears burned his cheeks; the heaviness of the darkness and the silence pressed him. His thin shoulders drooped.

“Remember who you are!” shouted an elderly woman’s voice in a perfect English accent.

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During the next few days, the tug of war for Henley intensified. His heart swayed from suspicion to hope many times a day, and it showed in his actions. Everyone steered
clear of this ship without a rudder unless absolutely necessary.

One morning Henley discovered Mama in the back room finding a few moments peace doing laundry. “Hey, Mom, can I play Getchu?” He noticed George napping peacefully by the dryer and decided peace was not an option for the cat, so he covered him in a mound of dirty clothes. George’s displeasure was delivered with a hiss.

“After your homework is done.” She was putting some clothes in the dryer but looked up to see if he really heard her.

Henley had a way of weaseling out of homework. “Yeah, Mama, I got it, after my homework is done.”

“And leave the cat alone; you know he doesn’t like that.” “Yes, ma’am.” Henley’s whiny tone suddenly changed. He unsheathed an invisible sword and turned on the unsuspecting pet. “He’s not a cat. He’s Gorse’s evil dragon trapped in a cave.” He addressed the cat while heaping more clothes on him, “There is no escape, traitor! Die!” George, who had no intention of giving up quietly, clawed his way out, leaving behind a scratched floor and torn clothing, then jetted toward the kitchen door.

“Good job, brave knight! Now go finish your homework.” Mama was frustrated with his antics but hopeful that his heart was at last coming out of darkness.

“Yes, ma’am.” Henley trudged off, head hung low and bangs flapping; the hero blew it—again. He wondered if he could do anything right. If something went wrong in the
Bankses’ home, he was usually to blame, and he was tired of it.

Doubt saw his chance and jumped in. “You’ll never change. Who needs to be a hero anyway?”

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