If she’s gone, I’ll never get to work on my superhero training, or keep her supervillainy in check. I’m sure she’ll just escape anyway. My parents will be super upset and have to leave the dig early.
Also, it’s pretty unlikely she’s really going to rob a bank. I mean, it’s midmorning. Who robs banks this early?
“Sure, no problem,” I call out, trying my best to seem indifferent.
She walks toward the wall and pulls down one of the weird bicycles. This might be the jet that she’s talking about—it looks so crazy that there must be an engine in there somewhere that gives her a massive boost of speed for quick getaways.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she says with a smile. I hope she doesn’t know that I’m onto her. Is she warning me to stay away so I don’t try to stop her?
As soon as the door closes, I see her leap onto her bike and clip her shoes to the pedals, like she’s syncing to the bike and it’s part of her. In a flash, I rush to explore her room. I feel bad about it for a few seconds, but I need to search the house if I’m going to see what I’m up against. She left the door slightly open—what was she thinking?—so I don’t need to try to bypass the voice identification that’s obviously engaged when it closes. Too bad, really. I had a great plan for it too: a voice mail on my cell phone from Phoebe to my mom, played on speakerphone!
Flicking on the light by the door, I realize that I’ve struck gold. The room is filled with all sorts of crazy villain stuff. On the wall opposite the door, there’s a whole workbench with really weird tools on it, like a wrench that just has a chain on the end of it. Next to the workbench, there’s a stand that looks like it could either hold a person still, or maybe a robot while she works on it. Maybe it is a robot! There’s also some stuff that’s clearly for fixing her bike, like spare tires and a pump. I had no idea she was a mad-scientist-slash-engineer type of villain.
I hear the front door creak, and I bolt back to my room, then jump across the futon to grab a book, trying to look casual while my heart races. I hear footsteps down the hall, and Phoebe sticks her head in the doorway just seconds later. She doesn’t seem suspicious. Phew.
“Ready to go?” she asks. For a second, I’m confused about where we’re going. But then I remember that I agreed to go with her to work today. Maybe she wants me to be part of her “family business.” I figure I’ll just play along until I figure out exactly how to stop her.
“Sure!” I say, and bounce up.
“You might want to change into leggings or something comfortable,” she suggests. “We’ll roll in five minutes.”
Leggings? As in, tights? The plot is thickening already—I think she’s trying to get me into a supervillain costume. Instead of the leggings—clearly evil in this case—I pull on jeans and a Batman T-shirt so she knows which side of the law I’m on. But while I thought she’d be upset, she just smiles and says, “Cool shirt.” She’s wearing leggings and a T-shirt too, but hers says “Joyride” on it. Hmm. Is that her supervillain name?
She’s changed into regular sneakers, I note. I’m still pretty confused what those first shoes were, though!
We pile into the van, and I see she has a couple more tiny bikes, probably stolen from little kids on her way to her bank heist, stacked in the back. “So where do you work?” I ask casually.
“Joyride,” she says. “You’re going to love it.”
We’re only a few minutes from her work, which looks like an aircraft hangar on the outside. It’s black, though, and I can hear music pumping out of it. Seems evil enough. But when we walk in, my mouth drops open in shock.
There are kids everywhere, and all of them are on bikes like the ones Phoebe is wheeling in next to me. They’re going off jumps, hopping up stairs, skidding down rails—and they look like they’re having an amazing time.
“What is this place?” I ask, completely in awe. I thought we were going to a lab or something. Even if she isn’t a supervillain, I figured work would be something science-y, since that’s what she’s in school for.
“This,” Phoebe begins, gesturing energetically from wall to wall, “is Joyride. I’m a coach here.”
Definitely not villainous at all, I realize as a kid with a huge smile rides by and high-fives Phoebe. I feel…shattered.
What does a superhero do when it turns out that the supervillain she’s spent her life planning to stop turns out to be…awesome?
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to spend the summer solving a mystery and saving my cousin from a life of crime before I returned home a hero. Instead, I’m just hanging out at a bike park, where I’m probably going to get made fun of, and there isn’t even a corner to sit in and read. I feel tears start to well up. I know it was silly to think I’d actually get to be a hero, but deep down, I kind of believed it. Now I feel sort of dumb. I mean, look at the facts, as they’re laid out:
Those little bicycles that were in my room, that I just knew she stole? Apparently, they’re all BMX bikes—tiny bikes that people ride to do really cool tricks. There are teenagers and little kids zipping around on them, skidding to screeching halts to high-five, standing at the top of jumps, and generally looking cooler than I ever will.
Phoebe’s clothes: sure, they’re a little over the top. But as I glance around at the posters she has hanging in her office, and check out some of the older kids in the park, she blends right in—tons of them have piercings and tattoos, and very few aren’t wearing a lot of black.
A bank robbery? An evil lair? Seriously…How did I believe that stuff?
Luckily, Phoebe takes pity on me and shows me the back room, since I’m clearly overwhelmed. I’m hiding in her office writing this while I sneak peeks through the window at her working at the booth.
I don’t even have a cool sign-off,
Lindsay
(Well, that’s not a keeper.)
CHAPTER 7
Phoebe is smiling and handing a helmet to a boy about my age with shaggy brown hair and nice eyes. He grins when she says something before he hops on his bike and pedals away. A few teenagers come in, and she does the same for them. They don’t seem psyched to put on helmets, but they do it anyway. One of them fist-bumps the young kid Phoebe just talked to. There’s light streaming in from massive skylights, and announcements are blaring from the PA system, competing with loud rap music, and there are SO many people. I was ready for an epic battle, but this? I’d rather just stay in here and read.
After an hour goes by, Phoebe sticks her head in the doorway. “Linds?” she says.
I look up.
“Want to go ride?”
I shake my head. I know how to ride a bike, but going out with all those people around—watching me, laughing if I fall? I just can’t do it.
She plops down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “You know how to ride a bike, right?”
I nod, somewhat insulted. But she’s not far off. I didn’t ride a lot as a kid, and I definitely don’t now.
She nods and stares at me, hard. “It’s pretty loud out there,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to figure out word by word what to say.
I nod again.
“I get it,” she says, and I look at her, hard. My parents, my teachers, the therapist my parents sent me to, all of them say that. But Phoebe looks like she actually understands what I’m feeling.
“That’s part of why you read those comic books so much, isn’t it?” she asks. “You’re not super comfortable with kids your own age?”
“More like any age,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Well, do you maybe want to change that this summer?” she asks.
I freeze. Do I want to give up the dream of being a superhero and focus on just being a normal kid? My training, my grand plans of reinvention before Mom and Dad get home are over, and instead I’m here to make
friends instead of fighting crime? Just like that?
Phoebe sees me pause and decides for me. “Here, put these pads on,” she says. “We’re going to go play.”
I am not having a good summer.
I only have a minute to write in here before I do something that might end in a visit to the hospital. This is not how I thought my life as a superhero was going to end. Who knows what’s going to happen out there….I haven’t been on a bike since I was a little kid pedaling in the driveway, and Phoebe wants me to ride on wooden ramps? At least I have my journal here with me so I can make what might be my final entry.
If this is the end, thank you for reading. I hope someone will one day find this and share my story.
Eternally yours,
Lindsay
(That might have to be it.)
CHAPTER 8
I’m wearing kneepads and elbow pads. I have a giant helmet strapped to my head. I’m holding a bike at the top of a massive drop into a pit. And yes, the pit is filled with foam, but this still may be the scariest moment of my life. That foam looks pretty solid. I’m not actually sure I can make my legs stop shaking. Phoebe is standing behind me, looking ahead too. I can picture how this panel would look in a comic book: her face cool and confident, with just a hint of a smile starting. Mine…well, I’m sure it looks like I’m about to plunge to my death.
“I’m about to plunge to my death,” I say.
“You’re going to be fine,” she says. “Think of it as practice for flying, superhero-style. You think Supergirl was perfect at takeoff when she first got her powers?”
She clearly knows how to get me. We’ve already covered the really easy stuff: pedaling, cruising around, and—most importantly—stopping. Which, by the way, I did not realize meant grabbing a brake lever with my hand. My bike at home has a coaster brake, so you have to pedal backward to stop. I think. I’m not entirely positive of that, since it’s been a hangout for spiders in the corner of the garage for years.
Riding bikes never seemed very cool before, but being here, I’m seeing it differently now. I remember hearing girls at school laughing at one girl, Danielle, who rode her bike to school all of last year. Thinking about it now, I make a silent vow to be nicer to her and try to make friends next year, especially since I may start riding my bike to school too. Maybe we can even ride together! (If my mom lets me, that is.)
I’m getting ahead of myself, considering I haven’t actually started pedaling down the ramp yet, and the thought is terrifying.
Phoebe yanks me out of my elaborate daydream as she cues something up on her phone and hits play. I immediately recognize the strains of music, but I’m shocked she knew just what to put on. It’s the theme music that introduces Superman in the cartoons I watch every weekend.
And all at once, my legs stop shaking. I stand up straight, put one foot on the pedal, look forward, and kick off with my other foot.
The bike and I roll down the few feet of wooden ramp and then off a tiny cliff with a slight tilt to it. It’s like running and diving off a diving board, but on a bike and over a pit of foam. A few hours ago, I would have assumed that Phoebe was trying to torture me, that this was her diabolical death machine. But the way she’s smiling and encouraging me, I know this might be the best thing I’ve ever done.
I get in two pedal strokes before I’m off the ramp, and then it happens. I’m flying, actually flying, still holding on to the bike. This is how Supergirl feels, how Wonder Woman flies. It’s only half of a second in the air, but it feels like forever, and when I hit the foam blocks that fill the giant pit, I can’t stop smiling—and it doesn’t hurt at all. Phoebe sticks her hand over the side and I grab it. She isn’t a supervillain at all. She’s my cousin, and she gets me.
“Can we do it again?” I ask before I’m even out, scrambling to pull my bike with me.
“Let’s get back to the basics first,” she says. “I don’t normally start anyone on the foam pit—but that was really good. You might be a natural at this!” We high-five, and I only kind of miss her hand. My glasses got a bit knocked around by the foam, so my vision isn’t the best.
And I’ve never felt better about myself in my life.
Riding a bike for the first time in years, learning that my cousin isn’t evil, and the extreme volume of music, voices, and tires squealing in that park has been a lot to take in, but I’m not just tired—I’m trying to figure out what’s next for the summer. My plan to complete this manual as a hero-in-training has flown out the window. Part of me wants to throw this journal in the dumpster and give up on the whole training thing, but there’s this glimmer in the back of my mind that maybe—just maybe—there’s a different kind of training I could be doing instead.
What if I want to be a super bike rider instead? It does seem like superheroes and cyclists dress pretty similar: a lot of spandex, a lot of bright colors and logos on their chests, so basically, they’re kind of the same thing. And hey, this is my journal, right? So in here, I can be as super as I want to be.
Maybe Phoebe was meant to be my mentor, not my archnemesis, all along. Kind of like Batman and Robin, but I can dress a lot better than the Boy Wonder ever did.
Superhero Tip: There’s more than one way to fly.
Kind of, sort of becoming a superhero,
Lindsay
(Umm…maybe not.)
CHAPTER 9
Because I’m thinking so hard, I’m quiet in the car on the way home from Joyride. It’s been the best day, and Phoebe has been awesome. She’s quiet too, and I start to feel a little bad that I’m not talking to her after all she did for me today.
“That was really fun,” I say.
“It’s pretty great, isn’t it?” she says.
“I felt like a superhero,” I say, and wait for her to laugh at me.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she says, looking serious. “I started riding there a couple of years ago when I was feeling pretty down on myself. My dad suggested I check it out after he read about it. I didn’t expect to like it, but I ended up loving it so much that I’ve started coaching and working there. I was a lot like you—I wasn’t into sports, and I just wanted to stay home and read. And that’s cool too,” she says quickly, seeing my face fall. “But don’t you ever want to be out doing the things that the people in those comics are doing?”
She’s exactly right. That’s what I’ve been missing—the real-world training. And yeah, after today, I’m starting to see that I might not have an archnemesis after all, but that doesn’t totally mean I can’t be super, does it?
The more I think about it, the more it makes sense: Superman didn’t meet Lex Luthor right when he discovered his powers. It took a while. Maybe my chance to be a hero will come with time, as I develop my powers.
“Can I come back and keep riding?” I ask hopefully.
“You can if you want me to coach you,” she says. “And I have a bit of a secret I’ve been keeping from you too.”
Just when I think I finally know what she’s up to…
“I have a bike for you—it’s just my old one, but it’s a pretty good one that I think you’ll like,” she says. “And part of why your parents wanted you to stay with me was because they were hoping I’d be able to get you to come to Joyride and start riding.”
“Seriously?” I snort a little bit and then start giggling, and Phoebe starts laughing too. I thought they were ditching me with my archnemesis, who I’m starting to realize isn’t exactly evil—more misunderstood. (Just like Batman.) Instead, my parents are trying to get me to…ride bikes? The idea seems so bizarre that I can’t really make sense of it.
I imagine them scheming with Phoebe to make me athletic, and it’s somehow hilarious.
“Why are we laughing?” she asks, not stopping.
“I…I th
ought you were a supervillain!” I say, bursting into giggles again. But Phoebe doesn’t keep laughing.
I mean, I did think she was evil, but she also just taught me to do the coolest thing I’ve ever done. I’m not sure she’s ready to hear I thought she was my nemesis…but she deserves the truth.
“Well, you know, with the hair and the makeup and the clothes and the tattoos and the weird bikes and shoes and the van and everything,” I say, all in a rush. And as I’m saying it, I realize how it sounds, and that she might really be mad at me, that I might have ruined everything.
“Oh, man.” She sighs and looks straight ahead through the windshield. “Lindsay,” she starts, and before she keeps going, I cut her off.
“But now I know you’re not, and I’m really, really sorry!”
“You do know that supervillains like the ones in comic books aren’t real, right? There are bad people in the world, but most of us—just because we have tattoos and wear a lot of makeup—are generally not evil,” she says, and seems pretty grumpy. But then her face shifts a little, and she just looks sad. “I know sometimes I might look different, but I don’t want you to think that I’m a bad person because of it. I don’t have some kind of criminal plan for world domination or anything, okay?”
“I know you’re not evil,” I say. “And I knew that before today. It’s just…well, how can I be a superhero if I don’t have a supervillain to fight?”
“You know, in a weird way, I get that,” she says. “But maybe we can work on making you more super on the bike instead.”
I nod excitedly. “That’s what I was thinking!”
Lindsay's Joyride Page 4
