She continues. “And by the way, the van isn’t for my band of villain friends. It’s for my actual band. It’s just me and a couple of girlfriends: Phoebe and the Chainbreakers.”
She makes a lot of sense. But still…“Just one more thing,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Sure,” she says.
“You really didn’t rob a bank this morning?”
“I rode to the bank on my bike,” she says, confused.
“But what about those shoes with the hidden metal?” I ask, because that still doesn’t make sense.
“You’ll have a pair soon enough, if you’re training to ride bikes,” she says. “Those are cycling shoes! They clip onto pedals for certain types of bikes. Not the ones we’re starting with, but eventually we’ll get you on different types of bikes.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling a little ridiculous. “But come on, those shoes do look really goofy.”
Phoebe just shakes her head and laughs.
Dinner is over, and I’m pondering what my next move will be. Really, what my mind keeps coming back to is the bike park and how awesome it felt to take that jump. Scary, but awesome. Maybe jumping can be my “thing.” Every superhero has a few key moves: Superman has the lasers he shoots out of his eyes, for example, and while I obviously can’t do that, maybe sweet jumps can be my equivalent. I noticed some kids in the park were jumping pretty high without even having a cushy foam pit to land in, so maybe by the end of the summer, if I really work at it, I can get to that point. But maybe I won’t ask Phoebe about jumping just yet—she might not be evil, but I do get the feeling she’s going to push me pretty hard on the bike as it is, and I don’t want to give her any crazy ideas!
Superhero Tip: Have a signature move.
Called away by ice cream,
Lindsay
(Factually accurate, but, sadly, not always.)
CHAPTER 10
“So what would your costume be?” Phoebe asks, totally seriously, as she scoops more ice cream into her mouth. We had fajitas that Phoebe made from our grandma’s recipe (I’d never admit it to anyone in my family, but Phoebe’s homemade salsa is the best that I’ve ever had), but Phoebe says there’s always room for ice cream.
“Well, not like that,” I say, pointing at the TV screen, where Wonder Woman is battling an alien while wearing what is basically a bathing suit. (Phoebe said that since she picked what we did during the day, it was my turn to pick the movie. And it turns out she actually has a few of the same movies as me, so I didn’t need to dig through my bag to find my favorite Wonder Woman cartoon. She already had it—the special-edition one with all the bonus features!)
“Yeah, that might stand out if you wore that around town. Plus, you’d be super cold. And your mom might kill you.” She giggled. “But really, did you ever draw a costume for yourself?”
I have been working on my costume in my Wonder Woman notebook, though I wouldn’t admit it to just anyone. “Yes! Let me go get it,” I say, surprising myself and scrambling up to grab my bag. I guess Phoebe isn’t just anyone anymore.
As I’m running back to the room with my notebook in hand, Penguin hops up on the counter and starts begging for fajita leftovers, paws waving in the air.
“Phoebe, how come you named him Penguin anyway?”
“You’re not the only one who loves Batman,” she says, and I turn around, startled. “I thought he looked like a tiny penguin when I got him, and it seemed really appropriate, since I’m into comic books.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she says, and I feel a lot better about telling her everything. I should have known that she was a kindred spirit, even when I still thought she was evil: superheroes and supervillains actually have more in common than you’d think, if you read between the lines. We all care deeply about saving or destroying the world, but either way, we’re extremely passionate about it.
“I didn’t think he was totally evil,” I say, and reach over to pet him.
“Now, let’s see these costume sketches. I bet they’re pretty awesome—and I know they’re going to be smart, right?” She arches her eyebrow at me and points at the screen, where one of the villains has ripped Wonder Woman’s skirt, making it even shorter than before. “I definitely don’t think your mom would approve of that.”
I sit down, open to the page, and show her. “I was watching a bunch of ballet movies with a girl from school a year ago, and seeing ballet costumes and workout gear gave me a great idea for a superhero costume that’s practical but still totally wearable to school. That is, if Mom would ever let me wear it.” The picture is a girl wearing leggings with a sleeveless leotard over them, a short shrug sweater, a midthigh-length skirt, and a pair of high-top sneakers. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail with a scarf wrapped around it.
“See?” I say, pointing to parts of the costume. “When I’m walking around school, I just look like I’m wearing a cute skirt and sweater. But then crime happens, and bam! Skirt and sweater are both easy to take off, leaving me in a leotard and tights, and sensible shoes. Plus, the scarf can be used as a weapon, lasso, or rope.”
Phoebe looks like she’s about to laugh, and I can feel disappointment welling up in my chest. She doesn’t get it. But to my surprise, she starts to look thoughtful.
“I think it would be even more incognito—that means sort of undercover—if you switched it up,” she says. “So you could change it and make different outfits in the same style, like sometimes use a funky leathery material for your tights, or maybe a metallic leotard,” she adds, getting even more excited. “And you could switch the fabric and color of the skirt and sweater so it’s more stylish. Come on.” She grabs my hand, pulls me into her room, and starts flinging things out of drawers.
How many non-supervillains have not one, but four pairs of metallic tights in different colors? And how many have multiple leotards?
I know we’re becoming friends, but I still find it really hard to believe she’s never been tempted by the dark side.
“A lot of the kids at Joyride just wear leggings and whatever shirt they want when they’re riding,” she says. “So I don’t see why you shouldn’t do that this summer. I have some stuff from a couple of years ago that might fit you.”
Before I know it, I’m in front of her mirror wearing black leggings with a long emerald-green tank top, a short fake-leather vest, and my black high-top sneakers. (I wanted the metallic tights, but Phoebe says metallic and leather definitely don’t mix.) My hair is in a crazy braid that Phoebe says is a “fishtail,” and she tosses me a long pendant necklace with a silver chain, and a big purple amethyst armband with rocky, raw silver edges.
“You can wear this to dress it up a little, but not while you’re riding,” she says. “It kind of goes from sporty to mystical, right?”
I look in the mirror, and I actually look kind of…cool. Having a little bit more muscle than most girls my age seems pretty sweet, especially with a silver armband pulled up around my bicep—kind of like Wonder Woman’s amulets—and an outfit that isn’t baggy everywhere.
“You know, I think I like it,” I say, and Phoebe grins. She comes and stands next to me, and we look in the mirror together.
“You look like you could kick some serious butt,” she says. I feel like I really could. And I’m pretty stoked that I no longer have to figure out how to kick my cousin’s.
It’s been a long day, but I can’t stop thinking about how much fun it was talking about clothes and trying some on, and having someone actually take my ideas seriously. Mom never really got what I was doing, and I never had a close girl friend to talk to, so it’s kind of new and exciting to chat with Phoebe about it. Even though I said I was going to bed, I’m not tired at all, just writing with my flashlight and sketching more designs. Okay, fine. I’m a little tired, and blinking a lot, but maybe I
can get through one more design….
Superhero Tip: Sequins, while a nice shiny touch, are impractical whether superhero-ing or bike riding. And not very easy to wash, apparently.
Zzzzzzz,
Lindsay
(No, I didn’t write that in my sleep, but wouldn’t it be cool if I had?)
CHAPTER 11
“Time to get up!” Phoebe shouts, sticking her head in the door to my room. I’m still snuggled under my Batman comforter with my not-so-super-but-still-cozy stuffed bunny, and I shove Mr. Muffin under the covers so Phoebe doesn’t see. “Time for breakfast! We have to head out to Joyride in an hour,” she says, and before she closes the door again, she adds, “And you know, Mr. Muffin used to be mine.”
Man, I can’t get anything past her. But I shouldn’t be surprised, since she’s the one who brought me the Batman comforter last night, like she knew I’d need it. That also used to be hers, apparently. I throw on my clothes and head to the kitchen.
“Okay, one more villain question: what’s with those weird jars on the counter?” I can’t help but ask. I know now that there’s probably a rational explanation, but still…they do look pretty gross. There are blobs floating in the brownish water, in giant containers. It reminds me of last year’s science fair when an experiment this kid did on mold went a little overboard.
“That’s kombucha,” Phoebe explains. “It’s a fermented tea that’s really good for your stomach. It’s really expensive and you can usually only get it in health food stores, so I started brewing it myself because I like the taste and it keeps my guts happy.”
Well. That makes sense, even if it is kind of a letdown.
“You can try some,” she says, going over to the fridge and grabbing a small bottle off the shelf. Tentatively, I take a sip…and it’s delicious! Acidic but a little sweet, and really refreshing.
“This is good,” I admit sheepishly.
“Thanks,” she says, sitting back down next to me after grabbing a bottle for herself.
Phoebe tells me the plan for the day over scrambled eggs with spinach, which she swears is superhero food, but which I think may be at least slightly sinister. “I run a class called Shred Girls, and I have two of them coming in today for the first session,” she says. “I think you should do the class. Ali and Jen are pretty cool. You’ll like them.”
My stomach drops. “I sort of thought it was going to be just us,” I say slowly, trying to think of a reason to stay home. And I wouldn’t be lying if I said my stomach hurt—it’s starting to ache thinking about meeting and talking to new people.
“I know how hard it is making friends, especially at your age,” Phoebe says. “But just try today, and if you really hate it, I won’t make you go again—and after the session, we can spend my lunch break playing on the mini jump line. Just us.”
Part of me wants to just refuse to go, but the other part of me is aching to feel that flying feeling again.
“Oh, and one more thing to convince you?” Phoebe says, grinning. “I haven’t shown you your new bike.”
She walks back to her room, and a second later, she’s wheeling out the coolest bike that I’ve ever seen—it must have been hidden in her closet since I got here. It’s the same emerald green as the tank top she gave me last night, with purple grips on the ends of the handlebars, a purple saddle, and purple spokes on the wheels. It matches my outfit perfectly.
“I know superheroes stick to a color scheme, and I thought this would be perfect for you,” she says casually.
I look at her accusingly. “You’re trying to bribe me!”
“Yep,” she says unapologetically. “Did it work?”
“I’ll be in the car,” I say, as dignified as I possibly can be when I’m practically hugging the bike. It has a purple chain—I didn’t think they made bike chains in any color other than silver!—and glitter in the paint. It’s the perfect bike. And it’s mine. But as I wheel it out the door and bring it over to the van, I look at my cousin. She’s walking behind me, wearing black leggings with a loose gray three-quarter-sleeve top that hangs off one shoulder, a silver sports bra peeking out to match her silver Vans slip-on shoes. Her hair is braided to the side, and her silver hoop earrings go halfway up her ear, and tattoos on her shoulder peek out of her top. Her bike—the same size as mine—is black, with silver accents to match. She looks like the coolest person in the world, not the scariest. I put down my bike (my bike!), and before I can think about what I’m doing, I’m running at her and tackling her in a flying hug.
“Thanks,” I mutter as she hugs me back, stumbling a little but managing to stabilize us before we fall into the bushes.
“Let’s roll,” she says, shifting the hug into a bit of a headlock on me, but it seems more cousiny than villainous, so I roll with it happily. She’s got a huge grin on her face as she hops into the driver’s seat, so I know that the hug was just right.
When we get to Joyride, it’s still loud and scary walking in, but this time, I’m feeling a lot cooler with my amazing bike. Phoebe walks in front of me and leads the way over to the spot where classes meet, and I start to feel way more nervous.
“What if they don’t like me?” I whisper.
“I know it sounds like something your parents say, but I promise, people aren’t as scary as you think. I bet these girls are going to be just as nervous as you are about you not liking them,” Phoebe responds, which makes me feel a little bit better. Not fully better, and I don’t completely believe her, but I’m trying to remember my own rule about never letting people see you sweat. Probably good advice regardless of supervillainy.
As we wait for a couple of minutes, I scan the entrance looking for potential Alis and Jens. So far, I’ve only seen boys, and a couple of really young girls that Phoebe says are too young to be in our class. But then a girl about my age walks in. And she looks so cool that I’m instantly terrified.
“Ali, over here!” Phoebe calls.
Ali glides over on her bike, looking totally at home in Joyride. She’s wearing a button-down flannel and knee-length baggy shorts, and her backpack has a flat-brim baseball cap hanging off it. Her red hair spikes out when she takes her helmet off, and she looks so cool and comfortable that I start adjusting my glasses and fiddling with my braid, trying to make myself invisible behind Phoebe. Her bike doesn’t quite match her outfit—it’s bright blue with white accents—but it looks just right for her.
“Hey, Phoebe!” Ali says, smiling.
“Ali, meet my cousin Lindsay. She’s staying with me for the summer,” Phoebe says, and pushes me forward. Ali smiles and sticks up her hand for a high five.
I high-five her, and she looks over and rolls her eyes a little as another girl our age walks in the door. Phoebe waves the other girl over. This girl has to be Jen, and she walks toward us with her helmet in her hand, pushing her all-silver bike next to her, not looking overly happy.
“Hi, Jen,” Phoebe says cheerfully. Jen reminds me immediately of the girls who are kind of mean to me at school—the ones who don’t tease me to my face but who I sometimes hear talking about me at lunch or in class. She’s got blond hair with purple streaks (wow!), and she’s wearing jean shorts and a really cool black tank top with silver streaks. As she walks up to us, Phoebe makes the introductions.
“Jen, meet Lindsay and Ali. Ali is here visiting her mom for the summer, and she’s been messing around on the BMX bike for a couple of years now, though she mountain bikes more often than she BMXs. Lindsay is my cousin and she’s in town to train with me for the summer.” I look at her, grateful for making me sound like a pro, not just some kid who’s never been on a BMX bike. “And, Ali and Lindsay, Jen here is one of the fastest twelve-year-old road cyclists in the country.”
“Umm, Phoebe?” I ask. “What’s the difference between the BMX, mountain, and road?”
“Right, sorry
!” she replies. “So BMX bikes are these small ones you’ve been riding, and they’re mostly for in the park and doing tricks.”
I nod.
“Road bikes are those bikes with the super-skinny tires, and the people who ride them are usually wearing spandex, like superheroes,” she continues. “And mountain bikes are the ones with wider handlebars and wide, knobby tires for riding on trails—the people who ride them are usually in baggier shorts and T-shirts.”
“Thanks,” I say gratefully. I can picture Jen flying by on the road in (probably pink) spandex, and Ali speeding over stones and roots rocking the same outfit she’s wearing now.
“Hey, guys,” Jen says. When Phoebe walks off to sign us all in, Jen leans in to us. “Are you really stoked about this?”
“Absolutely,” Ali says, a little too loudly. “I’m hoping to win this summer’s jumping tournament here.”
“For sure,” I manage to squeak out.
Jen looks kind of disappointed. “I’m only here because my parents said I had to,” says Jen, then adds, almost proudly, “They said I needed to learn to relax, because I was getting too focused on winning. So they told me I couldn’t ride a bike for a while, unless it was for fun—can you believe that?”
“Then how did you end up here?” Ali asks.
“I got them to let me come here because they think I’ll get ‘socialized,’ instead of spending all my time at my grandparents’ house for this month,” Jen says, emphasizing “socialized” with air quotes. “It’s not the riding I want to be doing, but at least I’m still riding.” She seems more proud of her cycling ban than upset about it, so Ali and I just nod sympathetically. Clearly, neither of us gets her deal—I want to ask more, and I can tell Ali’s trying to think of a good way to ask a question, but we’re at a loss for words.
Lindsay's Joyride Page 5
