by Zoe Quinn
Electra turned to me. “So … you have a wonderful weekend, and I'll see you on Monday.”
The minute she stepped out the door, I grabbed my backpack and dashed up to my room to check the scrapbook.
It seemed to be exactly as I'd left it, bookmarks in all the right pages and notes where I'd stuck them.
Everything was fine. The scrapbook was untouched; Electra hadn't ratted me out about the phony dentist appointment (although I still wasn't sure why—she must have known I'd lied from the way Mom didn't mention it); even the little boy from the zoo was probably safe at home right this very minute, dreaming about tigers and superheroes.
But it all could just as easily have gone wrong.
Suddenly, I was exhausted. Tired to the very marrow of my superbones. I sank down on my bed, trying not to let my mind wander to all the disasters that might have occurred in the course of this one day. Stress, worry, anxiety … each feeling, each thought, sent a shiver along my spine.
I put my head on my pillow and closed my eyes. Sheesh, this was one day I didn't want to live over.
On Saturday, I finished my essay on my Zip ancestry. I sent my report (of which I was quite proud) to the Superhero Federation via e-mail, then brought the scrapbook back to Grandpa's garage for safekeeping.
And then … I practiced.
Grandpa's backyard is where this whole Super experience started, so it seemed like a logical place to get in some much-needed review. I was safely hidden by the tall fence that enclosed the yard and free to completely cut loose.
I started out by running laps. I circled the yard a thousand times in one minute. Not bad. Then I worked on my superefficient stopping technique by sprinting fifty yards, then digging my heels into the ground and coming to a full stop, an instant halt.
The first time I stopped like that, I got a little woozy, but I shook it off and tried again. The second time, I left a pretty sizable divot in Grandpa's lawn (I was sure he'd understand, though). The third time, I did it perfectly. From ninety miles an hour to zero without even a wobble.
I finished up with a few thousand sit-ups.
After that, I ran a comb through my hair and went to meet Emily at the megaplex. Fifteen high-def surround-sound theaters in one building.
She was waiting for me at the candy counter. She'd already ordered me a medium popcorn (the container was practically the size of a bathtub!) and a king-sized box of chocolate-covered raisins. She got her usual: black licorice and a large blue-raspberry slush.
We were making our way toward theater number twelve when someone called, “Hi, Zoe. Hi, Emily.”
I wasn't surprised to see Megan Talbot and her crowd right behind us. They were eighth graders; coming to the megaplex was pretty much a standard weekend activity for them. They didn't really care which movie they saw. They just wanted to be seen by other eighth graders.
“Look,” Emily whispered as the girls approached. “They've all got R.A.D. BAGS!”
She was right—the outrageous designs were unmistakable. Each of the four eighth graders was carrying a different style. I did some quick calculations and determined that we were looking at roughly fifteen hundred dollars' worth of accessories.
Ridiculous!
“I love your purse,” Emily said to Megan.
“Thanks,” said Megan, then added, “It's a R.A.D. BAG. Have you heard of them?”
“Heard of them?” I said. “Emily interviewed Rachel Anne Donovan yesterday.”
Emily blushed as the eighth graders made a fuss over this news.
“What was she like?”
“Very cool. And nice.”
“What kind of things did she talk about?”
“My mentor, Harriet, asked Rachel why her bags cost so much,” Emily explained. “At first I thought that was sort of a rude question, but Rachel was actually happy to answer it. She told us that she's really into environmentalism and animal rights, so she only uses faux leather and fur. Ordinarily, faux materials cost less, but Rachel insists on extremely high-quality stuff, which is why the products look and feel real. It costs her extra money, not to mention time, to make her handbags without harming animals. And her manufacturing process actually exceeds all the government's environmental standards. That's why she has to charge higher prices.”
I hadn't known that. I wondered if my mom would think differently about spending all that money on a purse if she knew it came with a conscience.
“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Megan, “we didn't pay all that much for these bags. We got them at Miss Bettancourt's boutique. She's selling them for seventy percent off the suggested retail price. They were actually very reasonable.”
I'd have to mention it to my mother. Maybe she'd want one after all if she could get it at such a bargain price.
Then one of the girls noticed that the movie was about to start, so they said good-bye and hurried off to get good seats.
Emily and I continued through the huge megaplex toward theater number twelve.
“I wonder how Miss Bettancourt can afford to sell R.A.D. BAGS at such a discount?” I mused aloud as we took our seats.
But the music was starting and Emily was already transfixed by the first trailer, so I settled into my seat and cracked open my chocolate-covered raisins. The handbags could wait.
ON Monday at school, Mr. Diaz handed out two-page forms. “Please give these to your mentors today,” he said. “The first page is for their comments on last week's work. The second is for this week. There is also an envelope for them to use to send it back to me here at school.”
I arrived at Electra's at twelve-thirty evaluation form in hand, only to find the door open again. I hurried up to the studio, but before I reached the top stair, Electra burst out of the attic, looking flustered.
“Zoe! I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to cancel our time together for today.”
“Is something wrong?”
Electra shot a glance over her shoulder, toward the inside of the studio. “No. Actually, I'm in the middle of a real brainstorm. The ideas are just pouring out of me. I can hardly draw them fast enough.”
“Wow, that sounds great,” I said, lifting my foot to the next step. “I'd love to watch you.…”
“Frankly,” said Electra, “I think I'd be better off working alone this afternoon. When I go into a creative frenzy like this, I just get into a zone—I won't be in much of a mood for company.”
I was about to say something about learning through observation, but Electra had already dashed back through the attic door. There was nothing left for me to do but turn and go. Then I remembered the evaluation form.
I went back up the stairs and stuck my head in the door, ready to say “excuse me.” But my voice froze in my throat. It was as if a comic book had exploded all over the studio. There were storyboards everywhere—on the worktable, propped on easels, tacked to the wall—and each one depicted a different exciting superhero adventure.
Oh, Electra was in a creative frenzy, all right. But none of the adventures I was looking at had been “created.”
They'd been stolen.
I couldn't believe my eyes. Lightning Girl's newest adventures were actually some of Zip's oldest ones. Everything, it seemed, from the rescue of the interatmospheric craft to the smoke-filled Kremlin, had been taken right out of Grandpa's scrapbook.
I felt angry, disappointed, betrayed … and worried! This was not good. If Electra published these comics, Grandpa Zack's feats would be revealed. That was one huge step toward exposure! And if that happened, it would all be my fault.
I ran down the stairs, out the door, and down the long driveway. At the bottom, hidden by one of the wide brick pillars that flanked the entrance, I opened my backpack, rummaged around for my communication device, and began punching buttons.
“Hello? Thatcher? Are you there?”
A loud beep sounded, followed by a voice—not Thatcher's, but a robotic one. “Thank you for calling the Superhero Federation. Please listen carefu
lly, as our menu options have changed. If you have a question regarding Super health benefits, please press one. For information regarding the upcoming Super community tag sale, please press two.”
Tag sale? Were they kidding?
“If you are interested in upgrading your security clearance, press three. If you have reason to believe that you or a hero close to you has risked exposure, and for all other inquiries, please stay on the line. The next available operator will be with you in a moment.”
“C'mon,” I urged through my teeth. “Hurry.”
It seemed as if years passed before I finally made my connection.
“Good afternoon. Exposure Hotline. This is—”
“Thatcher? Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“It's me, Kid Zoom.”
“Well, hi-dee-ho there, Zoomling. Everyone here at the communications hub has been talking about your great work at the zoo the other day. Well done, well done.”
“Thanks, but Thatcher, I have a huge problem. I think I may have accidentally let secret information about my Zip ancestry be revealed to a non-Super.”
There was a long, worrisome silence.
I winced. “That bad, huh?”
“Hard to say.” There was another long pause. “Exposure is a serious and often dangerous matter,” said Thatcher, his voice sounding way more somber than before. “Irresponsible heroes who allow themselves to be revealed are severely dealt with.”
I gulped. “How severely?”
“Depends on which Federation members are called upon to hand down the penalty. Now …” There were faint shuffling sounds, as if he was looking for a pen. “Were you seen performing a heroic activity at the time of exposure and are you now surrounded by an angry mob intent on capturing you for the purpose of scientific research?”
“Uh … no.”
“Good. Then we aren't talking about an imminent threat of discovery. In that case, someone will be contacting you within ten to fourteen business days to obtain more detailed information regarding this potential exposure issue.”
“So I might have to wait two weeks before I know if I'm in trouble or not?”
“Don't worry, Zoom,” Thatcher assured me. “I doubt there'll be any actual trouble. It's been my experience that when Ordinaries come face to face with a superhero, they are either too narrow-minded or too frightened to allow themselves to believe it. Most of these potential exposure cases blow over. Trust me.”
“REALLY?”
“Really.”
I smiled, feeling relieved and comforted. “Hey, Thatch,” I said.
“Yes, Zoom?”
“Maybe one of these days I will bring you that pizza.”
I returned the device to my backpack and began walking slowly thinking about those storyboards that Electra had clearly not wanted me to see. Now it was obvious why not!
I had so many questions: Why had she looked through my personal stuff? It wasn't as if she had needed to search the bag for ID, like when you find a lost wallet and want to return it. So what was the point of snooping? And what could she possibly have thought when she saw the scrapbook? Even someone who wrote about superheroes for a living would have to be at least a little bit shocked to learn that superpowered heroes really did exist, not to mention the fact that the one in question, Zip/Zack, happened to be one of her oldest acquaintances.
It was just too much. I felt sad and angry and generally freaked out all at once.
Suddenly, all I wanted to do was go home.
I found Howie waiting for me on the front porch.
“Well, if it isn't Officer Howie Hunt,” I said, grinning and throwing a friendly non-Super punch to his shoulder. “What are you doing here? Am I under arrest?”
“I was wondering if you'd help me out with something,” said Howie.
“Sure.”
“I think Miss Bettancourt's in trouble. It's not her fault, but I think she's been unknowingly conducting business with an underground counterfeiting ring.”
For a second or two I just stood there with my mouth hanging open from shock, partly because it was unthinkable that Miss Bettancourt—knowingly or unknowingly—could ever be involved in anything illegal, and partly because I couldn't believe that this was actually Howie speaking. He sounded so official, so professional.
“What do you mean?” I asked at last.
“Have you ever heard of R.A.D. BAGS?”
Hah. It seemed as if over the past few days I'd heard of nothing else. Emily, Electra, Megan and her sidekicks. “What about them?”
“I've been doing some research down at the station house. You know, on the Internet. I found out that thousands of fake R.A.D. BAGS—the police call them knockoffs—have been manufactured and are being sold all over the country. Well, I managed to piece together a pattern, and it looks like maybe they've reached this part of the country. So maybe the ones Miss B has been selling are actually phony. I want to go down there and get a good look at them.”
I thought back to what Megan had said about the bags' being seventy percent off. If they were fakes, that would certainly explain the discount—not that I could imagine a sweet old lady like Miss Bettancourt being part of an interstate counterfeiting business. “Howie, I think you might actually be on to something.” I filled him in on what I'd heard about R.A.D. BAGS in the last few days—from Emily, Electra, and Megan. “How can I help?”
“Well, I was hoping you'd come downtown with me to check out the boutique. I'd go myself, but I think it would look less suspicious if we went together. You can keep Miss B busy while I look around for evidence.”
“I don't know …,” I said. “Is my dad okay with this?”
“Um … sure. He's completely okay.”
“All right. Let's go.”
On our way to the store, we decided our cover would be that Howie was shopping for a gift for his mother and I had come along to help him pick out something nice. We arrived at the boutique about twenty minutes before closing time. No one was in the store except Miss Bettancourt.
“Oh, I've had such a busy day!” she exclaimed when we entered. “Those new designer bags are selling like crazy. I guess everyone loves a bargain.” She paused to push some strands of silver hair off her forehead. “Now, how can I help you?”
“I need a gift for my mom,” Howie stated, as if reading from a script. “I think she'd like one of these cool bags.”
“Well, we've sold out of most of the styles,” Miss B said. “But as luck would have it, I'm expecting a delivery this evening. The truck should be arriving just after I close up shop. So if you don't see anything you like tonight, you can come back when I open in the morning and have first crack at it.” She pointed us toward the selection of R.A.D. BAGS. “You just holler if you have any questions. I'll be in the stockroom, making sure there's room for the new shipment.”
Howie and I went over to the display of purses. “What are we looking for, exactly?” I whispered. “How do we tell if it's a real R.A.D. or not?”
“According to my research”—he opened a small pad and scanned some notes—“there are several indicators if it's a fake. Shoddy stitching, discoloration in certain suedes, mostly the hot pinks and aubergine tones. They fade more quickly than the mushroom and canary colors.”
I was impressed.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Er, what's aubergine tone?”
“Dark purple,” I replied. I had Electra's pencils to thank for my thorough knowledge of color names. I pushed the thought of Electra out of my mind—I needed to concentrate on what Howie and I were doing.
“Oh. Well, the only surefire way to tell a knockoff from a genuine R.A.D. BAG is by the logo. You see, Rachel Anne Donovan originally used her own handwriting to create the R.A.D. logo. Look.…”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture of the R.A.D. logo he'd printed off the Internet. “There's this peculiar little swirl at the top of her R.”
I squinted at the R in the printout. Sure enoug
h, I saw it—it was little, but it was there.
“Now, look at this,” said Howie. He showed me a second printout, of what at first glance looked like the same logo. He pointed. “No swirl. Just a standard capital R. This is one of the knockoff logos.”
I was stunned. “You figured this out all on your own?”
Howie nodded, blushing. “It's just good old-fashioned detective work. Patience, diligence, and a really powerful magnifying glass.”
I turned from the creased pages in Howie's hand to the shelf of display bags in Miss B's window. After looking over my shoulder to make sure Miss B wasn't coming back into the store, I reached out and picked up a purple suede bag, what must have been the aubergine tone.
“Go ahead. Check out the logo,” Howie said encouragingly.
I squinted at the small script on the purple bag. Sure enough, the R was swirl-less.
“OH, NO!” I gasped.
Howie was right. These bags were fakes, made by counterfeiters. Counterfeiters who were on their way here right now with a new shipment! A creepy feeling filled me. I started checking the logos on the other bags.… Knockoffs. All of them!
I turned to Howie, my eyes wide. “Miss Bettancourt would never agree to sell fake bags,” I said.
Howie nodded. “I know. The bad guys must have her fooled as much as her customers.”
“And the delivery—” I stopped short. “Do you think the counterfeiters are going to deliver the bags themselves?”
“I'd guess so,” said Howie. “They probably wouldn't trust an ordinary shipping service with their phony goods.”
“How are you two doing over there?” Miss B called, returning from the stockroom.
“Er, f-fine,” I stammered. “We … we like this purple one, but we also like the striped one with the bamboo handles.” I lowered my voice to a whisper and said to Howie,“We should call my dad!”
“NO!”