Power to the Purple!

by Sophie Bell

  And she drifted off into the most delightful nightmare.

  Get Out!

  DEAREST READERS, COOL GIRLS AND FAN BOYS, BOOKISH cats and dogs, loyal devotees of the Ultra Violets: As this second story in their superheroic saga draws to a close, what have we learned?

  Not much, I hope! That’s what school is for. Although if erstwhile ever pops up on a vocabulary quiz, I, Sophie Bell, your plus-size personal flight attendant on this purple-empowered magic carpet ride, will privately weep glitterdust tears if you do not know the definition!

  Forgive me. I get so emotional when it comes to *sniff* goodbyes. Parting being such sweet sorrow, etc. *dabs eyes with feather boa* And O to the MV, what a long, strange trip it’s been.

  The good news? The Ultra Violets foiled Opaline’s plot to reprogram their Chronic Prep class into Debbie Downers and Crabby Patties, Gloomy Georges and Melancholy Melvins, Sullen Samanthas and Woebegone Joes. Let’s not forget the Bummed-Out Howards, either. Bummed-Out Howards are the worst! Completely unbearable, take it from me: You do not want a Bummed-Out Howard on your hands. If you spot a Bummed-Out Howard headed your way, turn around and run in the opposite direction. Screaming optional. (Like this, at the top of your lungs: “Optional! Gah! Optional! Ack!”)

  Awesome that the UVs put a stop to all that sadness and rebooted the student body with a massive surge of solar power—topped by one of Opaline’s very own lightning balls, like the cherry bomb on a dynamite sundae. That was pretty genius of the girls, to use Opal’s own evil energy against her. Even if they do now owe some clown a new saxophone.

  So much for the awesome. Moving on to the downright terrifying: BeauTek’s blueprints for what-the-wha? And just who’s going BOOM! in that sub-sub-parking lot? Don’t ask me, I don’t know, either!

  But if there’s even the skinniest, slimmiest shimmer of a silver lining to this latest black cloud Opaline is brewing, it’s that another viomazing adventure can’t be far away.

  And speaking of clouds . . .

  * * *

  Candace had parked the cloudship on the roof of Club Very UV and left it idling. Recycled mist surrounded it, and its millions of tiny mirrors twinkled beneath the brume. Down in the club, Candace was crouched on the floor in front of the massive flower window, repairing a rusted old searchlight she’d flown over from the FLab. Official FLab toolbox by her side, she tinkered with the lamp while the girls filled her in on the birthday party fallout. Minus the blueprints and the sub-sub-parking-lot parts. Which they didn’t even know about.

  (But you do.)

  “Whoa, girls, that sounds epic,” Candace said, testing the light switch. “And the brussels sprout sauce sounds barf! Iris, are you all right now?”

  Iris sat sideways in the fuzzy orange egg chair, contemplating a lollipop. Her long purple ringlets spiraled down one of the curved armrests, and her legs dangled over the other. Darth had scampered up into her lap. She ran her fingers over his violet-striped tail, lost in her thoughts.

  “No worries,” she said softly. “I’m all recharged now.”

  “Good,” Candace said. Somehow she had smeared grease on her chin while fixing the lamp. It looked like an inky black goatee to go with her baby blond bangs. “It’s major that you stopped BeauTek from turning Chronic Prep’s sixth-grade class into a bunch of zombos—you girls rock. First mutants, then mind-control: Who knows what they’ll whip up next at the Vi-Shush!”

  Just the mention of that horrible laboratory gave Cheri the heebie-cheribies. From her spot on the marshmallow sofa, she shuddered and her hand slipped. By accident she daubed a dot of sparkling burgundy nail polish on the white cushions. It didn’t look bad.

  “So you don’t think this is over yet?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

  “Opaline is madder at us than ever,” Scarlet said, in between upside-down jumping jacks. Dress rehearsals for the school play began next week, so she had even more nervous energy to burn than usual. “I really don’t see how we could ever be friends again, Candace.”

  Candace didn’t say anything. She just stuck the tip of her tongue out in concentration as she tightened a screw on the searchlight with a pointed prong of one of her trusty sporks. Scarlet was right: As long as Opal stayed evil, the Ultra Violets would have to keep fighting her. Erstwhile besties or not.

  “There’s something else,” Iris said, swinging her feet down. She put Darth on the floor, and he scampered over to his potpourri pillow at Skeletony’s feet to snuggle in for a skunk nap. Then she attempted a few wobbly pirouettes of her own, spinning over to the massive flower window to watch what Candace was doing.

  “Hmm?” Candace murmured, attempting to swivel the searchlight up and down on its rusty axle. It stuck in spots, so she took an eyedropper out of her toolbox and squeezed a few greasy beads into the joints of the machine. “Baby oil,” she stated. “Always does the trick. What were you saying, Iris?”

  “It’s just . . .” Iris paused, tugging on the end of one of her purple tendrils. She looked out the window, over to the rock-crystal FLab atop the Highly Questionable Tower glinting in the distance, then at the gleaming gold and silver spires of the Sync City skyline. She looked back into the clubhouse, at Scarlet and Cheri. “Guys, I’m pretty sure pretty much everyone saw us using our superpowers at Opal’s party. Maybe they don’t know what they saw. But they saw something.”

  Cheri daintily cleared her throat. “It’s mostly you, RiRi,” she said, in the gentlest way she could. “Alas. You’re the one who glows violet and shoots off rainbows. I mean, it looks cosmically gorge when you do, but . . .”

  “But it’s not beige.” Iris blushed, embarrassed. “I know. Cher, your eyes go into neon green data streams now, when you’re supercomputing. Your hair turns magenta pink. Scarlet’s changes to aubergine.”

  By now Scarlet was right side up again, her everyday-black ponytail swishing back and forth as she practiced cha-cha slides. “Hey, I can keep my superdancing on the downlow!” she protested. “Piece of cake.”

  “Maybe,” Iris said, seriously doubting it, “but how can we explain why a, um, cute little pipsqueak like you is as strong as the Hulk?”

  “I eat my Wheaties?” Scarlet offered weakly. She knew Iris had a point. Also, she never ate her Wheaties. They gave her a stomachache.

  “Opaline knows about us, obvi,” Iris stated. “Her mom knows, too.”

  “And the Black Swans,” Cheri said, blowing on her hands to dry the polish. “At least the short, silent, salt-and-peppery one does,” she added, narrowing her eyes at Scarlet.

  Scarlet wrinkled her nose. She knew Cher was trying to tease some kind of gushy mushy reaction out of her, but she refused to take the bait. She still wasn’t sure what to think about Agent Jack, and she wasn’t about to beam her confusion all over the place like Iris and her spontaneous rainbows! That just wasn’t Scarlet’s style. But she hadn’t forgotten how Agent Jack had called her a supergirl. Right to her face! “So what are we saying?” she asked, dropping the topic of the Black Swans.

  Candace squirted some baby oil into the palm of her hand, rubbed it in, then used it to smooth down her flyaways. As she went to push herself up off the floor, her greasy fingers slipped and she flailed back like a beginning ice skater.

  “What I think we’re all thinking,” she said when she was finally on her feet, “is that even though No One Must Know, some people already do.”

  “So maybe we don’t deny it anymore.” Iris tried to read the reactions on Cheri’s and Scarlet’s faces. “Maybe it’s PDH all the way.”

  “PDH?” Cheri repeated, puzzled. She got up from the marshmallow couch and gave Darth a pat on the head, careful not to get fur in her fresh manicure. Then she rolled around the shag rug on her platforms to join Candace and Iris at the window. “What does PDH stand for?”

  “Public Displays of Heroism,” Iris explained.

&
nbsp; “You mean we should come out as superheroes?” Scarlet said, astonished. “Take the purple to the people?” She raced forward in flying brisé ballerina steps.

  “It’s who we are.” As Iris spoke, the setting sun behind her cast a hazy lavender halo around her curls. “It’s who we’re meant to be!” she declared. “Our destiny! We can’t hide it. We never could, even when we tried to. Instead we should be, you know . . . out loud and proud!”

  “Ultraviolet Pride!” Scarlet shouted, inspired. “Power to the Purple!” She bounced up to touch the ceiling, just because she could. If the ceiling hadn’t been there, she might have bounced right up to the moon.

  “The cat is kind of out of the bag already . . .” Cheri mused. Darth popped up his head at the mention. Not here in the club, Cheri thought to him. No cats, don’t worry! He settled back down again.

  “Right on, girls,” Candace agreed, taking a step back to scrutinize the searchlight. She didn’t seem surprised in the least by Iris’s PDH suggestion. “With all the break-ins at the FLab . . . something’s up. I don’t know what. But we’ve got to be prepared. Next time it might not be just your class at Chronic Prep that needs you. It might be all of Sync City!”

  “Eek,” Cheri squeaked, slightly stressed by the idea.

  “Whoot!” Scarlet whooped at the same time, kickboxing and karate-chopping the air.

  All four of them stared out the flower window, across the Joan River to the nauseating yellow fortress of the Mall of No Returns. As they watched, a sonic boom exploded from the building. It was so loud it scared all the ombré otters out of the lipsticked reeds lining the banks and sent the nesting gingham geese in flight. A second boom followed, and the smokestacks behind the mall spewed brackenish black fumes shaped like broccoli florets.

  “Ew.” Cheri automatically went to hold her tote bag close, even though she’d left it back by the sofa and she knew Darth was safe and sound on his pillow.

  “They are definitely not just baking cookies over at BeauTek,” Scarlet quipped.

  “Opal did say we hadn’t smelled the last of her.” Iris folded her arms and lifted her chin, determined. “So what do we do now? What do we do next?”

  “Right-this-minute now?” Candace spun a spork in each hand, then tucked them into her tool belt like a policewoman holstering her pistols. “We celebrate! You girls just had a viomazing victory! Triple High Fives! And in the meantime, I’ve been working on a project for the mayor. Iris, did you do that painting I texted you about?”

  “The one on plastic?” Iris turned away from the belching BeauTek buildings and dashed over to the club’s marble table to grab it. “Here it is.”

  “Compelling!” Candace raved, admiring it. “Delicate, yet powerful!” She bent down and slipped the sheet over the lens of the searchlight. A flick of a latch locked the painting in place. “How about a sneak preview?” she asked, flashing the girls a grin.

  Then she flipped the switch.

  A bright violet flower blossom beamed out from Club Very UV up into the twilight sky. It sparkled above the city, a symbol: a way to let the citizens know that everything would be all right. That the Ultra Violets were on the case!

  “Cool,” Scarlet cooed, then darted off to the beanbag.

  “Pretty!” Cheri gasped.

  “Purple!” Iris smiled.

  “Watch out, evil-doers!” Scarlet called, returning to the group with her Super Soaker in hand. She shot off a big burst of glitter. “We are the Ultra Violets!”

  “Ultra Violets Forever!” Cheri cheered.

  “Ultra Violets for Life!” Iris cried.

  As the sun set over Sync City and the flower power signal shone high above, the super trio stood in silhouette. For just a second or three, they linked pinkie fingers, and an ultraviolet wave pulsed around them, lighting up their hair pink, purple, aubergine. Then Cheri flared her perfectly manicured hands out to one side. Scarlet aimed her Super Soaker to the other. And in the middle, Iris raised her fist high. The glitter from the gun blast floated back down, dusting each of them with tiny pieces that glimmered in the shadow of the searchlight. The three best friends wondered what would happen next. And felt seriously ready for it.

  “Bring it on!” Scarlet announced to the world.

  “Bling it on!” Cheri giggled, shaking the glitter from her hair.

  “Bring it in!” Iris said. And even Candace joined them for a supergroup hug.

  Then they broke apart. And because they were really hungry, they ordered a pizza.

  Beaucoup Gracias

  {Acknowledgments}

  SWATHED IN A PSYCHEDELIC TURQUOISE MUUMUU THAT serendipitously dropped from the sky, squaring her padded shoulders to confront the gale-force winds whistling down Broadway, the original Sophie Bell can’t help herself. She holds up one hand and cries, “Stop!” Before she goes any further, she’s just got to say thank you to:

  The House of Razorbill: Publisher Ben Schrank, captain of the ship, floater of boats. Editor Rebecca “E is for I’m So Overwhelmed, Find Me One Month More Please, The Handshake Idea Was Genius, You’re So Pretty and Smart, Did I Mention How Much You Look Like Iris?” Kilman. Designer Kristin Smith, who wouldn’t be caught dead in *the horror* pleated-front khakis: Where would the UVs be without your art direction? Managing Editor Vivian Kirklin—sorry. Sorry again. Sorry for this one, even more sorry for the next one, and I may as well say a preemptive sorry now for the one after that. Marketing Director Erin Dempsey. Publicist Marisa Russell. All the dedicated Penguin people I don’t even know who are doing their utmost to propagate the purple.

  Chris Battle, the creator of archetypes.

  Ethen Beavers, the awesome executioner. Thanks for changing the clown—a phrase that from this point forward can be a euphemism for whatever you want.

  The founding mothers: Jocelyn Davies, the first reader in my mind for at least the first half of the first draft; and Micol Ostow—oh, for those halcyon days of three pages.

  The three graces: Aimee Friedman, my emergency cheerleader; Jazan Higgins, deliverer of shocking bolts of clarity, guardian of the chocolate drawers; and Marijka Kostiw, my fantasy personal stylist. If only I could write books as easily as epic, obsessive e-mails and text messages. . . .

  Barry Cunningham, the sixth Beatle.

  An old-school new-wave shout-out to the B-52’s for their eponymous debut album and its follow-up, Wild Planet, which soundtracked me through Opal’s party.

  While this book was being written, downstairs they drilled through bricks. Outside, on rusted dinosaurs, they ripped up concrete, then covered the wound with fuming asphalt. And on a Monday in October, the ocean washed away the island’s brief history. Special thanks to Kevin, who managed the damage while I apologized for deadlines.

  For Cornelius, forever. Fiona, Eila, and Niamh, sparkle on. As for Siobhán McGowan? Some say she’s from Mars. Or one of the seven stars. That shine after 3:30 in the morning.

  Well, she isn’t!

  LOOK OUT FOR THE NEXT VIOMAZING ADVENTURE FROM

  THE ULTRA VIOLETS

  WITH BOOK THREE:

  When SOPHIE BELL isn’t busy scribbling the super-sparkly adventures of the Ultra Violets, she’s refreshing her French, attempting to African dance, going solo to rock shows, and scouring thrift shops for other people’s old clothes. All at the same time. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with way too many books but still no sofa.

  ETHEN BEAVERS grew up in Oregon and currently lives in California. He was about thirty years old when he entered the professional artist field (it’s never too late to try). He works in comic books and children’s publishing and is the regular artist for the New York Times bestselling series NERDS. He likes fly fishing for trout and root beer. And cartoons. He’s married to a wonderful gal and is the second of seven children.

  , Power to the Purple!