Lindsay's Joyride

by Molly Hurford

  I see my reflection over the mannequin, and it almost looks like I’m wearing this jumpsuit, and I envision showing up at school and looking like I run the place. I know it would be just my style—if I were allowed to have a style anyway. See, I got lucky for a superhero-in-training. I know I worked for it, but without too much effort, my biceps are already looking extra tough. I wouldn’t mess with me. My mom says I got that from her side of the family—all the ladies have muscles to spare. They also tend to have that glam, curvaceous thing going for them…and as far as I can tell, it’s skipped me altogether. I’m less va-va-voom and more comic book BOOM at best. I’d say I’m still twelve and maybe I’ll have a “glow-up” in a few years, but most of the girls in my grade are fully “glowed” already. I’m still flat as a board. I’m just a board with biceps. But that’s fine—it’s just more proof that I was destined to be a superhero. A superhero who should probably own this jumpsuit.

  But when it comes to my wardrobe, it’s like my parents are actively preventing me from dressing anything like a superhero, or even their alter egos. No catsuits here. And Alley23 isn’t just jumpsuits—it’s full of cool leggings and bright sleeveless tank tops, while I’m stuck in a too-baggy T-shirt and too-long jean shorts that make me look about nine years old. I’m pretty sure that if Mom had it her way, I’d be wearing the same exact jumpers that I wore when I was seven, with matching Peter Pan–collar shirts. Yuck. (And who still wears those anyway? I don’t even know where she buys stuff like that anymore.)

  And why am I complaining about all of that? Because of my archnemesis, of course—the Joker to my Batman: my cousin Phoebe. (Insert dramatic music here.) She couldn’t be more different from me if she tried. And I bet she would buy that jumpsuit.

  Archnemeses are hard to find, and from a comic book standpoint, she seems like my perfect opposite. She even looks a little like Catwoman in one of the books I’m just about to return: muscular like me, but that “curvy gene” didn’t skip her part of the generation. And while she looks a lot like her mom with her dark hair and big, dark eyes, Phoebe’s short-cropped hair is spiked up, and her tattoos poke out of her sleeves even when she’s trying to cover them up.

  Come to think of it, since my aunt is my mom’s sister, Phoebe probably had the same rules as me growing up. Maybe Tía Maria was even stricter, since she’s older than my mom.

  Yeesh. No wonder Phoebe became a supervillain. I mean, what choice did she have?

  With a sigh, I take one last look at that perfect jumpsuit before walking into the library next door. I just know I’d be a superhero if I were allowed to wear it. Maybe Phoebe has it right; even I’d consider a life of crime if it meant ditching my pink shirts for a better wardrobe.

  But I can’t be bummed for long. Walking into our small-town library, I feel instantly at home. The smell of old books mixed with new ones comes over me as Karen, the cool, younger librarian, greets me with a nod and a quiet “Hi there, Lindsay.” It’s one of the only places that I feel completely comfortable, and now that the librarian knows that I’m into comic books, she’s been making sure they get all the new ones.

  She waves me over to the counter. “Got the latest Batman and stashed it back here for you,” she says, reaching under the counter and pulling it out.

  “Thanks!” I say enthusiastically. “I’ve been dying to read this one.”

  “I know. Enjoy!” She winks and turns around to help another person, and I head to the best part of the library: the section for the comics and graphic novels is tucked away in a corner, where a couple of beanbag chairs have recently been added. I sink into my favorite one, flip open my new comic, and settle in for an afternoon of reading and studying. (Who knew there were so many ways to do a flying kick?)

  The day flies by as I’m reading—Karen even brought me a pile of other comic books she thought I’d love, and I’m just about to dive into a Wonder Woman comic that I’ve never seen before when I feel a presence looming, and a shadow falls over my reading light.

  Trust the popular girls to ruin a good book. My blissful afternoon is rudely interrupted as Dana walks by. Remember the skinny blond girls from school who don’t look like me? Dana is sort of their leader.

  She doesn’t look happy to be there, and while I’ve never really talked to her in school, I can’t imagine why she’s here instead of hanging out with her friends at the local pool. She’s more dressed for that, in tiny, artistically ripped jean shorts with a pink tank top, her blond hair even lighter than it was during the school year, but just as perfectly straightened. She looks like she stepped off the pages of Generically Cool Preteen Magazine. (Do I sound jealous or catty?)

  While she doesn’t actually say anything to me—she never does, so this isn’t a shock—she does look me up and down, and after her eyes fall on the Wonder Woman comic that I’m holding, she tosses her hair and walks toward the Young Adult section, bypassing graphic novels. I can practically see her thinking, What baby still reads comic books?

  I feel like screaming after her, “Adults read comic books too! Also, who actually tosses their hair in real life?”

  Of course, I don’t. But wouldn’t it be cool if I did?

  I know I should get back to my reading—the library closes in a couple of hours, and I have so much more work to do!—but I keep an eye trained on her to see what she ends up picking to read. Then I almost fall off my beanbag when Karen greets her by name, like she did with me, and hands her a book from behind the desk. Dana thanks her and walks out—but on her way out the door, we lock eyes (superhero tip: seriously, get better at watching someone out of the corner of your eye!). She gives me a small smile and an even smaller nod.

  Huh. That was more pleasant than I expected. My superhero brain takes over, and I start imagining what it would have been like if I’d been bolder, gone up and said hello or asked what she was reading. I want to do some detective work and ask Karen what Dana was reading, but I feel like that might be sort of weird. So instead I go back to my books for a while longer before packing up and starting the walk home to make it back for dinner. This might be the one part of the day I’m most excited for, since Mom promised to make her famous enchiladas (with her secret sauce).

  When I came home from the library with a stack of books, I thought Mom would be annoyed that every single one of them was a comic, but she seemed distracted. She even let me have a soda, although it was already after five p.m. You know how when something big is about to happen, it sometimes seems…quiet? That’s how this afternoon has felt. I’m on red alert, feeling really jumpy….Or maybe I can’t handle caffeine this late in the day!

  Superhero Tip: No overdoing it on the caffeine. You always want to be in control of your hands. Mine get way too shaky.

  Queasily yours,

  Lindsay

  (Definitely not.)

  CHAPTER 2

  Summer vacation started earlier this week, and it turns out I wasn’t just being dramatic in my journal. (It’s happened before.) But this time something big really is about to happen. My parents come into my room while I work on turning a swimsuit into the bottom part of a costume. Mom sighs when she sees it, but for once she doesn’t bug me about it. That’s a pretty good indication that something’s up.

  She and Dad sit down on the bed, and I can just tell—I can feel it in my gut—that this is the start of my epic adventures. They don’t say anything, and it makes me nervous, until I realize that they’re both smiling.

  Big relief. Despite kind of wanting some kind of tragic element in my life—you know, to better fight crime—I’m not really ready for anything truly tragic to happen.

  Mom takes a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

  (Never mind. This might be bad after all.)

  Dad laughs at my expression. “Nothing bad, kiddo,” he quickly adds, and my mom smiles.

  Phew.

>   “You remember that dig we were trying to get involved with in Estonia?” she asks.

  “Yes…,” I answer, trying to act much calmer than I feel. This is it! The dig where I “accidentally” get lost, stumble on a magic artifact, and gain the superpowers I’ve been waiting for.

  “Well, we got invited!” My dad grins.

  “That’s awesome!” I jump up to hug both of them. “When do we leave?”

  When their faces fall, I know in my gut—this is the truly tragic moment of my life. I’m not going.

  “Sweetie, we’d love to have you, but actually we think it’d be better for you to stay here—” my mom says.

  “—with your cousin Phoebe!” Dad enthuses. “You’re going to stay with her at her new apartment near Tía Maria’s for a few weeks this summer. You’re going to have so much fun!”

  They both look so proud of themselves, but all I can do is smile weakly back at them.

  Crud.

  Why would Phoebe want me to stay with her? My immediate thought is that she wants to convert me to her evil ways before my powers start working—that way, I’m already on the dark side. And in a weird sense, I can see why Phoebe might want me to turn into her. Mom is always saying that Phoebe and I look alike, so maybe she wants a mini-me version of herself. We have the same eyes and nose, and the same boring brown hair—and like me, Phoebe has always been muscular.

  Even I have to admit we kind of look like sisters, or twins separated by a tragic time machine accident. Well, we used to anyway. Now she has probably ten holes in each ear, filled with weird earrings (clearly part of her supervillain costume—some of them were skulls). We might have the same eyes still, but you can’t really tell, since every time you see Phoebe she wears a ton of dark eye makeup. I think it looks really cool, but I know my mom and my aunt hate it. (Dark makeup is a supervillain thing and all, but I still wish I could at least try it on sometime.)

  “Lindsay?” my dad says, looking concerned.

  Darn. I zoned out and into my own imagination again.

  “I heard you,” I respond dully. But the shock is still settling in.

  I mean, as soon as Phoebe moved out of her parents’ house, she cut her hair into short spikes, and every time I see her, her naturally dark hair has streaks of a different color mixed in: red, green, blue, purple. Once, it was even bright white!

  Phoebe also has a lot of tattoos, which caused a lot more grumpy phone calls from her mom to mine. (They aren’t exactly quiet talkers.) She started getting them as soon as she went to college, and I was fascinated when she would come home covered in more and more colors and pictures. I hadn’t realized she would be my archnemesis one day, so at the time, I thought it was kind of cool. She has a massive tattoo on her back of a tree and a bunch of branches surrounded by all types of birds: there are gulls and small birds flying, sparrows perched on branches, an owl blinking near the top of the tree, and a weird variety of birds that can’t fly walking around down by the roots—a penguin, an ostrich, and a dodo!

  I know it’s probably an evil penguin, but it is my favorite. I love the way it looks like it’s about to waddle away—it’s so lifelike. She also has words written on her ribs, and a bunch of other smaller tattoos that I only catch glimpses of when she’s over. I’ve never gotten close enough to read them. I’m sure there’s some kind of evil power or meaning behind them, but just between you and me, I still think they look pretty cool. My mom tells me that I’m never ever allowed to get tattoos, especially after we see Phoebe at family parties, when a couple of the grandmothers start telling her she doesn’t look proper, crossing themselves and whispering. (My great-aunt really likes her tattoos, though, and she keeps the family from complaining too much.)

  Phoebe’s supervillain costume might look cool, but it’s pretty impractical. She’s always wearing a lot of jewelry, and her ripped jeans would definitely get caught on something midfight.

  My mom must have registered that something about their Estonia plan wasn’t exactly thrilling me, because her smile fades and she looks more concerned. “I know it’s a long time to be away from home,” she says. “But your dad and I, and your aunt and uncle, all think that Phoebe could be really great for you to spend time with, and they’ll be nearby. And Phoebe’s excited about it too—I promise.”

  Despite her supervillain style, my parents still love Phoebe a lot. She got straight As all through school and she’s in a graduate program now (supervillains are just as smart as superheroes—that’s why they’re “super”), and she comes home to see her family on weekends, even though at twenty-three she’s old enough that she doesn’t technically have to. I heard my mom tell my dad how sweet it is that Phoebe trains with my uncle on the weekends, which surprised me a lot: it must mean that my uncle is in on the supervillain thing. Mom and Dad love Phoebe, and while they don’t love how she looks, they constantly try to get me to talk to her about college and school and stuff.

  So I guess that’s what they’re up to, putting us together for the summer, and since I kind of am hoping that (a) I can defeat Phoebe as my first superhero act, and (b) my parents might find a superpower-infested artifact and bring it home as a present for me, I don’t want to burst into tears or tell them to stay home.

  “I’m just going to miss you guys,” I say, sniffling a bit.

  And of course, that’s when Mom starts crying and even Dad gets a bit misty-eyed. Naturally, they both pull me in for a massive group hug—my family is big on the hugging—and I feel a little better, even if I’m slightly squished and my prized stuffed rabbit, Mr. Muffin, is stuck under all of us, completely squashed. Once Mom starts crying, though, it’s almost easier for me to pull myself together—I mean, one of us has to be mature, right?

  Besides, a plan is starting to form in my head. I’m imagining them coming home to their newly grown-up and superpowered daughter, being incredibly proud of me. Of course, I don’t think anyone else in my family realizes that Phoebe’s a supervillain, so I can’t explain why I would never follow in her footsteps like they seem to want me to. So I’m hoping that she and I can battle it out as superpeople, and then once I defeat her and make her see the light, our normal-people alter egos can go back to being friends at family dinners. We haven’t talked much since she went to the dark side.

  What does someone pack to go stay with a supervillain? You would think TV would have prepared me for this.

  Now that I’m packing up and preparing for battle, I don’t know how much time I’ll have to write. I’ll try to keep you updated as best I can.

  Superhero Tip: No matter how super you are, packing enough clean underwear is still a top priority.

  Live long and prosper,

  Lindsay

  (No, I stole that one.)

  CHAPTER 3

  As I’m packing the day before Phoebe comes to take me away, I’m still unsure of what to bring. It’ll be a few weeks of living with her, and I’ve never been away from home that long. I’m not sure how many pairs of underwear to bring. I’m not sure if Mr. Muffin should come along or if that will give Phoebe leverage to hold him hostage (or just make fun of me). I don’t know if I should pack comic books, or if that will make my duffel bag too heavy. And I don’t know if I should bring old favorites or new ones I haven’t read. That’s somehow the hardest decision I’ve faced so far: new books that I may or may not like, or old ones that I know I’ll love rereading but might get a little tired of by the end of two months.

  Clothes are easy, though. I don’t really have many to choose from, and they’re all pretty much chosen by Mom on our annual school shopping trip anyway. Jeans that are a little too loose to be skinny, a little too tight to be considered baggy in a stylish way. T-shirts that are about the same—not cool, not uncool, just…shirts. Some of them have comic book characters on them, but getting those is a hard-fought battle, since Mom is e
ncouraging me to be “trendy,” whatever that means. (And I don’t think it means what she thinks it means.)

  Take the last time we went shopping, for example. We were getting clothes for this spring, since I’ve outgrown most of my stuff. I told Mom I wanted to wear more funky patterns and have more of a cool-librarian style. You know, clothes that Batgirl would wear on her days off. But Mom had other ideas, mainly pinks and plaids—and I really hate those.

  So we ended up at the mall, with Mom pulling clothes off the kid racks while I tried to slip into the junior section. We barely made it out alive, and there wasn’t even a villain to fight or a science experiment that went horribly wrong and attacked the mall.

  The biggest fight came when I was trying on a maroon miniskirt with a mustard-yellow sweater in the dressing room, and as soon as I opened the door, before she even got a good look at it, Mom was shaking her head and saying, “Absolutely not.” And then she held up a knee-length light pink skirt and said it was a lot more “appropriate” for someone my age.

  Someone my age who has never been to a public school maybe. But if I walked into school wearing that droopy pink nightmare, I’d look even more out of place than I do already.