We ended up compromising on a pair of jeans, eating a pretzel together, and both coming home grumpy.
And now, by the time I finish packing, my big duffel bag is jammed and I’m struggling with the zipper when I hear Mom’s footsteps on the stairs. I’m hoping that she won’t ask to see what I’ve packed, since I’ve left out almost every pink thing I own—all the stuff she bought me, basically—and I’ve kept in as many T-shirts as I could, plus my more comfortable jeans and jean shorts.
I hear Mom’s telltale double knock at the door and know she’s about to come in. I leap at my duffel bag and just yank the zipper shut as fast as I can. There’s no point in packing a secret wardrobe if it’s not so secret anymore.
Sure enough, Mom comes in. She peers around, knowing something happened but not able to put her finger on exactly what. I can see her face readjust as she decides to focus on what she came to say. “You know, Linds, we’re not just hoping that you’ll have a fun time with your cousin—we’re hoping you’ll learn a bunch from her too,” she says.
I’m shocked. Does Mom really think I’m going to take on Phoebe’s supervillain tendencies after just one summer? I can’t imagine Mom being thrilled if I come back covered in black eyeliner, listening to angry music and planning a museum heist. I nod stiffly anyway, because this isn’t really a topic I want to discuss.
“I can’t believe I’m not going to see you for so long,” she says, and I can see that she’s tearing up again, which makes me swallow a little harder. “You’re so grown up!”
“I know, I know,” I mumble. “At least you never sent me to summer camp before.” (I mean, that sounds like the absolute worst. There aren’t libraries at those camps, only craft rooms!)
“We’ll call a lot,” she says tearfully, and gives me a hug. “But promise you’ll try to make a couple of new friends while you’re with Phoebe?”
I nod again, but my fingers are crossed behind my back. Mom seems happy with that response, though, and after pulling out a couple of pink shirts (“I think you forgot to pack this one! And this one!”), she leaves me in the quiet of my room.
Mr. Muffin is the last thing to get slipped into my duffel, so he won’t get cramped in my big bag. Knowing he’s in there makes where I’m going feel a little less scary, potential hostage or not.
I take one last, longing look around my room, which seems strangely empty now that I’ve finished packing. All the comic books in the world couldn’t make this summer good for me. My duffel bag feels way too heavy, and I almost trip as I’m heading downstairs. That would be great—start the summer with my archnemesis while on crutches thanks to a stair-induced sprained ankle.
But I make it down unscathed and sink onto the couch clutching my book, wishing that the summer were already over.
This morning is officially go time. Phoebe’s supposed to be here at noon today to pick me up to take me to her apartment, just twenty minutes from here across town, and I’m going to be ready for her. I’ve been reading up on mind-control techniques and how to block them, so no matter what kind of mind control she thinks she’s going to try, I’ve got it covered. I even started meditating, because apparently, the clearer your mind is, the stronger it is, and the easier it should be to resist the dark side. Or that’s my current theory anyway. I thought about working more on my roundhouse kicks, but I figured Phoebe’s not likely to start a battle with me immediately: she doesn’t know I’m onto her, so I’m going to use the element of surprise and catch her in the act of…well, whatever evil thing she’s planning. The important part is that she doesn’t know I know.
Superhero Tip: Act casual. You don’t want your archnemesis to know you’re onto her. Better to infiltrate her evil organization and figure out exactly what she’s up to. Plus, if I’m stuck with Phoebe all summer, I don’t want things to be weird right away.
Stay golden,
Lindsay
(Hate it.)
CHAPTER 4
I made a couple of packing changes last night after my first attempt: I decided to bring my favorite comic books and DVDs instead of the new ones, and some extra superhero workout gear (like my favorite Superman T-shirt and shorts). And now I’m sitting in my room, reviewing fight scenes to prepare for Phoebe’s arrival, when I hear a car coming up the driveway. I look out the window and see a giant black van with a huge skull airbrushed on the side. Seriously? She’s coming to pick me up in her supervillain-mobile? What will my parents think?
The doorbell rings, and I can hear my parents answering it and chatting with Phoebe. They’re laughing about something and the words “van” and “band” drift up. She has a whole band of villains with her? (I know I probably misheard her, but you have to admit, this sounds pretty ominous.)
I slink down the stairs and see Phoebe for the first time since she left for school a few months ago. She looks…different, I realize. Something’s missing. The long, dangly earrings have been replaced by studs, and her hair is grown out and jammed into a ponytail. She’s still wearing black leggings with a tight black tank top, and her tattoos are peeking out, but she looks like she’s been in a training montage in a movie. She’s always been muscular, like me, but now her muscles are sticking out in her legs. I can see hints of a six-pack, and her biceps…well, I can see her biceps! I’m starting to regret pretending to be sick all those days in gym class. Brains over brawn only works when you’re not being sat on or put in a choke hold, and right now, Phoebe looks like she could take me.
The big difference, though, is that her face seems more like it used to when she was younger and she would come over to play with me—before she moved on to being officially A Grown-Up and got too cool/evil to bother talking to me. She still has a little makeup on, but she’s lost the black lipstick and heavy eye shadow. She looks…well, she looks a lot more like my mom. Or me.
She spots me, and I try really hard not to freeze on the stairs.
“Hey, kid,” she says, and smiles at me.
I did not work on my witty banter enough, and squeak out, “Hi!” before stumbling downstairs. I’m a little more intimidated than I expected to be: even though I know that she’s not really going to be planning a bank heist (I think) over the summer, she is still older than me, and she doesn’t normally talk to us much.
“Is this all your stuff?” she asks, pointing at my duffel bag with a concerned expression. It looks like a lot to me, so I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but I nod.
“Really? No second or third suitcase full of clothing?” she says, looking deadly serious.
“This is it,” I say.
She glances at my parents. “We may have to go shopping at some point,” she says to them, and my mom looks nervous but says that sounds good to her.
“You’re sure you’re okay with handling our superhero for so long?” Mom asks.
Darn it, Mom! You’re going to blow my cover! I think frantically.
Phoebe just laughs. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” she says, and smiles again. She doesn’t look quite as tough when she grins. She grabs my duffel bag, hefting it over her shoulder like it’s weightless (she really has gotten strong!), and walks it out to the porch as we all follow, and it’s suddenly time for goodbye.
My parents get choked up as we try to start saying our goodbyes, and I do too, but I’m also getting excited—okay, and slightly terrified—to get this adventure started. They hug me, promising to Skype and email and bring me presents, and I promise to generally try not to make trouble for Phoebe (ha!). She’s stepped back and tossed my bag into the van. Now she’s playing with her phone, potentially disabling all the crazy security features she has at her apartment/lair. (That’s what she’d do in a comic book anyway.)
“Ready?” she asks.
“Born ready,” I say (nailed the smooth-talking retorts!), and she looks at my parents like she wants to ask
them something, but I stroll casually by her and hop in the van. Mom smiles and shakes her head a little, and Phoebe does the same. Whatever she’s up to, I’m ready for it.
This may be my last entry. We’re in the van and have dispensed with the small talk. She’s taking me to her lair. I can barely speak or move, I’m so terrified. Sure, I know she’s not actually going to boil me in a vat of acid or tie me to train tracks or anything like that. But it’s been about five minutes and the silence is already freaking me out, and even scarier is the idea that we’re going to have to talk to each other for the next few weeks. I’m already out of things to say, and she’s not really chatty either. How are we going to survive this?
Superhero Tip: Witty banter is a lot harder than it looks in comic books.
Breathing deeply,
Lindsay
(That’s a mantra, not a sign-off.)
CHAPTER 5
When we pull up to her apartment building, I’m sort of disappointed that it’s not a hundred stories high and made of black glass, villain-style. Instead, it’s a three-story brick building only a few miles from where we live.
“It’s not much,” she says, “but it’s home.”
Her door has three different locks—at least that’s kind of villainy, but most likely it’s because this neighborhood borders the bad part of town—and the inside is pretty basic. At first glance anyway. I don’t really know what to do with myself, so I look around. The outside might not look like much, but inside, this is a total supervillain cliché! The living room is big and light, with a plump black leather couch and a sleek metal coffee table. The living area flows into the kitchen, which has a fair amount of slightly terrifying gadgets that—if I were in a comic book—I would guess are broken-down robots, plus some seriously huge (also intimidating) knives. There are jars with blobs floating in them lining the counters. It looks like a science experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong. I make a note to stay away from there.
On the far wall, there are two crazy bikes hanging from racks. They’re not like any bikes that I’ve ever seen before. These are painted black with bold red and gold stripes and flames, and they have crazy wheels that are entirely black, one with a clock face painted on it. One of them has bars in the front that look like the pointy tips that are meant to stab enemies, or pin them to walls. The other has tires that are three times as wide than the first’s, and they’re covered in knobs, like you’d need to go off-road to evade enemies. Since when does Phoebe have bikes? Clearly, there’s something going on here.
I don’t know what kind of crazy stuff she’s gotten into, but I’m starting to get a little nervous. I touch my phone in my pocket—Mom said it’s for emergencies only—and think about whether this qualifies. There’s a chance I was right and she actually is up to something nefarious.
Suddenly, I hear a high-pitched shriek and jump. Did I set off an alarm? But a tiny dog pops up from behind the couch, yapping in a shrill voice, and sprints at Phoebe, springing off the ground and into her arms. Well, as springy as a dachshund can be. This one is pretty bouncy, though—maybe she’s mechanically engineered it?
Normally, I know supervillains tend to have cats, but I remember that Phoebe is allergic. This tiny dog, with a drawn-out, snooty-looking nose and long black fur everywhere except its white belly, is about as close to a cat as you can get without it meowing.
“Say hello,” Phoebe says, and the dachshund looks right at me and daintily raises a paw.
“Woof,” it says, quietly this time.
I shake its paw, and it stares at me, like it’s considering whether I’m going to be a good sidekick. It is pretty cute, even if it’s potentially evil.
“This is Penguin the Pup. He’s pretty cool,” she says, and now I’m staring at her, not the dog. Everyone knows the Batman supervillain Penguin. That’s basic Batman trivia. Is she trying to send me a message? Phoebe doesn’t seem to notice, and Penguin seems pretty mild-mannered for a villainous dog. She sets down the dachshund, who stays right by her feet like a good minion, as she hefts my bag over her shoulder.
“Your room is back here,” Phoebe says, walking ahead of me and carrying my bag like it doesn’t weigh anything. There is a chance that she’s been on some kind of supervillain muscle-growth serum that’s made her this strong. I follow her down the hall, figuring I can at least make an emergency call in private if she leaves me alone in a room.
My room is at the end of the hall, and the first things I see are three tiny bikes propped against the wall. I can’t believe she’s even stealing bikes from kids! I’m about to say something, but she starts talking before I have the chance.
“I know it’s not fancy or anything,” she says, and for a second, I think she looks nervous. “It’s just the spare room I’ve been using for an office, so it has a futon, not a bed, but I cleared out some drawers for you.”
“Looks great,” I say. I actually mean it. I’m used to my babyish room at home, but this simple space with light gray walls and sun pouring in the windows—which don’t have fancy, frilly curtains, just white blinds—feels super grown-up and mature. Plus, I can use her big desk for my notes and research, which is a lot cooler than the dining room table at home.
We both pause awkwardly. Well, I feel awkward anyway. I doubt Phoebe has ever been awkward in her life.
“I know you’re not used to being on your own, but I know you’re totally capable of taking care of yourself. You’re, what, sixteen?” she says.
“I’m twelve!” I say, indignant. How did my parents let her take me for the summer?
Her lips twitch a little. Oh—she’s kidding. I feel a little deflated, and a little annoyed that I let her get under my skin.
“Anyway, I spoke to your parents, and they’re fine with you being in the apartment alone. But I’m not in school this summer, just working at this kind of cool place. So…” She drifts off, looking nervous. “If you want to maybe come to work with me tomorrow, that would be okay,” she finishes in a rush, like she’s as freaked out as I am by all this.
“Sure,” I say coolly. Clearly, she can’t be up to anything much in this apartment; it’s too small. Maybe she works at a supervillain hangout, like the Hall of Doom, or a top-secret lab. Going with her to her “work” will give me the chance to scope out her evil lair. Perfect!
“But for tonight, I figure we can just order a veggie pizza and watch a movie,” she says. I think she’s trying to make me feel comfortable when I should be on high alert, but after my stomach growls, I decide that pizza doesn’t sound like the worst.
She leaves to make the call, but Penguin stays behind. I think he realizes that I’m feeling lonely. For an evil dachshund, he’s pretty snuggly. He curls up next to me on the bed, his tiny head perched on my leg and one of his paws laid over Mr. Muffin’s floppy ears. He can’t be all that evil, I think as I hear Phoebe making the pizza order. Or at least he can be saved.
When the pie comes an hour later, we sit on the couch and chow down. It’s great. She got a few types of cheese and a ton of vegetables I’d never think to put on a pizza—like shredded beets!—and instead of sitting in silence, we watch TV. I’m fairly certain this is her way of lulling me into a false sense of security. But to be honest, I’m so stressed out from the day that I am fully lulled by the time she gets up and says she’s going to bed and that I don’t have to if I’m not ready.
That snaps me awake: Would an evil person enforce a kid’s bedtime or not? I decide that she must be trying to deprive me of sleep, so I fake a yawn and say I’m tired too, then stay up reading comic books with the flashlight that I brought in case of emergencies like this. I keep listening for sounds from her room, but it’s quiet except for Penguin’s occasional sneezing and shuffling around.
So far, this log hasn’t been discovered by Phoebe (or Penguin). I’m safe for another morning…and a lit
tle bored, to be honest. I’m writing this at the breakfast table, after having a normal meal—cereal—as Phoebe reads the paper in a pretty non-villainous sort of way. It’s been quiet. Too quiet. I’ll stay on high alert, because this is when trouble happens, at least in comic books.
Superhero Tip: Never let them see you sweat. That’s where meditation comes in. Clearing your mind and controlling your breath basically turn you into a superhero, since you get completely calm even in the face of a scary situation. I don’t know why I didn’t find out about this earlier and start doing it before science tests or gym class.
We’ve been acting casual, but man, she’s good. I feel like I’m already giving away way too much information every time we talk. I mean, of course she knows my age, but still—why didn’t I simply nod coolly when she asked if I was sixteen?
Ready for action,
Lindsay
(Getting closer.)
CHAPTER 6
I get up early the next morning and settle in on the living room couch. I have no idea what to expect on my first full day in Phoebe’s lair, but I’m ready for anything. When Phoebe finally comes out of her room at nine a.m., I look her up and down. She’s rocking her tight black skinny jeans, leather jacket, black hat, and some weird shoes with metal points on the bottom. They must be a special kind of shoe with knives built in or something.
“I’m just going to jet over to the bank,” she says.
This must be it—her first heist while I’m here! Finally, I can see where she keeps her jet packs and other supervillain gadgets. But how am I going to foil her bank robbery? If I call 911, they’ll end up taking me away to stay at my aunt and uncle’s.
Lindsay's Joyride Page 3
