by Sophie Bell
Then she’d pretty much turned herself into a rainbow, shooting the full color spectrum from her fingertips and filtering it from her pale blue eyes through her purple lashes. If the citizens of Sync City had any fears about the mutants Mayor Blumesberry had mentioned just a few minutes ago, Iris’s happy rainbow blitzkrieg blew them from their minds for the moment. With Iris’s intense high beams bouncing off the carved crystal walls of the HQT and refracting into a million more rainbows, all of them tinted violet whenever the power flower searchlight swooped past, the scene in Chrysalis Park could have been a time warp to an old, turn-of-the-twentieth-century dance party known as a rave.
Now Iris concentrated all her beams back into herself, unifying the colors until all that remained was the whitest ultraviolet, radiating out of every pore. She blazed so bright she looked like a star herself—not the Hollywood type, though she probably did look like that, too, but the diamond-in-the-sky type, come down to earth. Everyone in the crowd oohed and ahhed and blinked and squinted and had to scramble to put on their sunglasses.
Cheri had tried to narrate Iris’s performance by describing the viomazing math behind each part—announcing the average distance traveled by a migrating monarch butterfly, explaining that a rainbow was made up of angular 42-degree radii—that kind of stuff. But she gave up again around the time when all the gawkers were fumbling for their sunglasses. As had happened during Scarlet’s act, once more Cheri realized that the audience just wanted to experience Iris’s color explosions, not listen to a lecture about them. And once more Cheri was an itsy bit bothered by her super-BFFs’ flagrant power plays, even though she knew that was the whole point of this coming-out party.
What she knew was one thing. What she felt was another. You know?
So as Iris sparkled on, Cheri, every now and then, would traipse across the stage holding up Darth. He’d let rip with some wonderfully aromatherapeutic scent that the whole crowd clamored to inhale, mmming and ahhing even deeper. Cher was glad everyone was into the Ultra Violet skunk—even if she did feel like one of those game show hostesses whose only role was to spin a giant wheel or flip around letters on a great big board.
I’m getting great big bored myself! she mused.
Snuggling Darth close, she scanned the crowd for Scarlet, who had disappeared after her mega–stage dive.
Whaz iz she drownded? Darth thought, alarmed.
Cheri stroked the bridge of his nose. No worries, it wasn’t that type of dive, she reassured the fretful skunk. Anyway, Scarlet’s so strong, I bet she could swim with sharks.
Sharks on her mind, Cheri glanced past the black-and-white posts of the Gazebra, down the grassy lawn to the river. A curious party—of picnickers?—caught her eye. And made her skin crawl.
They stood in a semicircle at the water’s edge. From behind, they all looked eerily similar. Members of the same family? Cheri wondered. Taking in their strange outfits, she thought they must have been part of a tour group from another country. Or planet. Or maybe they’re wearing costumes for the Synchro de Mayo celebrations, she reasoned. Though already she didn’t believe that.
Each one sported a long grass skirt, like you’d wear to a luau, with a loud floral-print shirt on top. Cheri couldn’t tell if they were dancing or chanting or what, but every so often they would toss handfuls of pollen-yellow something into the harbor. Flowers? Cheri guessed. From that distance she couldn’t be sure. And the scent that wafted back on the wind was anything but sweet. It reminded her of rotting vegetables wrapped in dirty laundry.
“Ahchoopsie!” she discreetly sneezed, dabbing her watering eyes with the tip of Darth’s tail. Maybe Iris’s heat waves were taking a toll on her after all. She felt just a little bit sick.
I must be seeing double, she told Darth, blinking. The closer she peered, the more the tourists’ arms looked like sticks: thin, brittle, blackish. And in quadruplicate. With a melting ice-cream cone clasped in at least one of their four hands.
Dat be odd, Darth observed.
“That,” Cheri murmured back, “be weirdness.”
• • •
Out in the audience, after Opal lost sight of Scarlet, she focused her attention on Iris’s viomazing light show. Hope Sync City remembered to wear sunblock today! she thought wryly as Iris’s ultraviolet rays blazed across the crowd, surely sunburning the tops of any bald heads they touched. Opal tugged on her cuffs, pulling them down until her hands were almost hidden inside her long sleeves. But only from anxiousness. Not because she had any concerns about UV radiation. After all, she had been doused in the Heliotropic goo same as her three former besties lo those four years ago. Her DNA had been altered, too. It was why she had superpowers just like the other Ultra Violets.
Yes, you read right: the other Ultra Violets. That’s exactly what Opal thought. Because despite everything that had gone down between them, all the Albert drama, the mutant foofaraw, the hijacked birthday party . . .
Despite all that . . .
Opaline Trudeau still considered herself an Ultra Violet.
But Scarlet Jones definitely doesn’t, Opal thought, based on the tense encounter they’d just had. And by now Cheri Henderson has probably calculated some brilliant algebraic formula to negate my “fundamental ultravioletness” or something! Opal crossed her arms, her hands still tucked up inside her sleeves. The cuffs hung empty at her elbows. Iris Tyler used to think I was an Ultra Violet, though. She remembered how Iris had hugged her right there in the park, just before her notorious birthday. Wonder if there’s any chance she still does.
Iris’s ultraviolet beams could burn in a fight—Opal had felt their heat. And Opal’s lightning bolts could shock—she’d blasted Iris off her feet. When their hug took a turn for the wrong, the two of them had nearly combusted! But, it suddenly occurred to Opal, maybe, since they shared the same altered genes, neither girl could ever really destroy the other.
Because that would be like destroying yourself—or would it?
It was the kind of scientific question Opal might have asked Candace, her erstwhile babysitter and volunteer fairy godmother. If only the two were still on speaking terms.
Opal sighed, heart and head heavy with all these thoughts, as she stood there in the thick of the ridiculously blissful crowd celebrating Synchro de Mayo and the Ultra Violets’ coming-out. The audience loved the supergirls! Iris hadn’t even had to zombotomize their Chronic Prep class to get them to clap along to her light show.
Opal’s gaze drifted across the sea of spectators, coming to rest on a boy. His back was turned to her, but that was almost always how she looked at him anyway. At his shaggy sandy hair and the tips of his pinkish earlobes peeking out from underneath. “Feinstein” came far before “Trudeau” in the alphabet; Opaline almost always sat rows behind Albert in class.
As if he could sense the power of her stare pressing against the back of his neck, Albert twisted around and their eyes met. But just for a second. Then both of them quickly looked away.
What else did I expect? Opal felt a twinge for her old crush in the pit of her stomach. I never went out on that chess date with him. And I did short-circuit his brain. She would have laughed if it weren’t all such a mess. To this day, Albert had zero idea of the devastating impact he’d had on the four girls’ friendships. So smart, Opal thought, risking another glimpse in the direction of the mathlete captain, and yet so clueless.
With another small sigh, Opal returned her attention to Iris. She began to imagine what she would do, how she would show off, if she were up on that Gazebra with the other three . . .
A swaggery voice broke into her daydreams.
“’Sup, girl?”
Swan Jive
A HUSKY BOY WITH CRINKLED ORANGE HAIR AND flushed cheeks to match was standing uncomfortably close to Opal, waiting for her answer. In one plump hand he clutched two defenseless hot dogs; the other held a sweaty can of soda. Grinn
ing, he chomped off the ends of his frankfurters—both of them in one bite. “I’m in training,” he said, as if that excused his piggishness. “Defending my title this afternoon.” Opal could smell the sour relish on his breath. She could see the crusts of yellow mustard in the corners of his mouth.
Opal leaned back. Keeping her arms crossed, she looked him up and down. But she didn’t recognize the boy from Chronic Prep.
“Do I know you?” she asked, her voice clipped with suspicion.
“Depends,” the boy said before washing down his masticated hot dogs with a slurp from his soda. “What’s your name?”
Opal bit her lower lip, but the question was so direct she didn’t know how to avoid it. “Opaline,” she reluctantly admitted.
“Opaline!” the boy boomed right back to her. Sometimes people stumbled over her name, because it wasn’t the most common. But the way this boy said it was as if he’d known it all along. As if he was just waiting for a chance to show it off. “Call me Sid,” he ordered. “And now, yeah, you know me.”
“Sid” went to extend a hand before remembering that both were filled with junk food. As Opal watched, appalled, the boy shrugged, then tucked the remains of the two helpless hot dogs under his armpit. He stretched out his now-empty palm.
Opal cringed at the sight of the five greasy fingers wriggling toward her. Just a week or so ago, she would have shocked this kid on the spot without a second thought. But somehow, basking in the secondhand glow of the Ultra Violets’ performance, she wasn’t sure what to do. Tentatively she snaked a hand out from its hiding place in her sleeve. Sid’s immediately pounced on it, pumping her arm up and down like a jump rope. His hand was so large it completely swallowed hers. She could feel the lingering bready dampness of the buns that had gone before her and was filled with a weird rush of sympathy for the squished hot dogs.
Gritting her teeth, she yanked free her hand.
“So how about this whole scene?” Sid elbowed her roughly in the shoulder. “Like, supergirls in Sync City? That’s k-ray-z, right?” He wiped his hand down the front of his shirt, rubbed it through his frazzled carrot hair, then retrieved his half-eaten hot dogs from his armpit.
“Um, right,” was all Opal mumbled in response. “Crazy.” She tried to look past him, to some escape route out of this awkward conversation, but the boy tilted in too close. She couldn’t see a thing beyond the ketchup stain on his collar.
Someone seriously needs to teach this Sid kid the concept of personal space, Opal thought, squirming backward and folding in her arms again. The sharp threat of a headache throbbed at her temples, and her vision began to blur.
“And mutants?” he pressed, hovering over her. “What’s that about?”
Opal glared sideways at the red-faced boy. This wasn’t a conversation; it was an interrogation.
“Yeah. Scary,” she deadpanned, watching his face for a reaction.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a mutant, have you, Opaline?” He sounded out her name as if it were another deep-fried snack for him to devour. She imagined the letters mixing with the relish and rubbery hot dogs already in his mouth. The idea made her queasy. “Any mutants at your school, Opaline?” he persisted, poking her again with his pudgy elbow. It reminded her of how teachers sometimes talked to you, or salespeople in stores. Using your name like they’re trying to help you, like they’re on your side, when really they’re trying to trap you, or sell you something you don’t need. Opal had just met this kid. He didn’t have the right to roll out her name like he owned it! They weren’t friends. In fact, she was starting to hate him.
She locked onto his hazel eyes, knowing by now that hers must have been spiraling with white. As Sid stared back at her, he began to wobble, losing his balance.
“Have I ever seen a mutant?” Opal repeated his question back at him. Maybe she would tell him she’d once commanded a battalion of them—as if! “Well, Sid”—it was a short name, so she couldn’t drawl it out anywhere near as long as he had hers, but she did the best she could, then mocked him with his own words from before—”that ‘depends.’ You look like you might be a mutant. In which case, yeah, I guess I have seen one.”
Opal could tell instantly that her answer angered the big red boy. He choked a bit on the bun in his mouth, crumbs sticking to the dried-up mustard at the corners. The flush on his cheeks flared into a five-alarm fire. With her hands still sheathed inside her sleeves, Opal pinched the soft under-skin of her forearms to stop herself from smirking. Any second now, she bet, this blubbery volcano was going to blow.
“Agent Bristow.” A low, insistent voice came between them. “No fraternizing. With the, uh, civilians. Remember, dude?”
“But she’s not a civilian!” Sid protested, turning toward his friend and forfeiting the staring contest. “She’s—”
Before Opal could hear just what, according to this boy, she was, his buddy gave him a friendly (?) punch in the stomach.
“Oof!” Sid blurted, coughing up the remains of his hot dogs. He slapped a hand across his mouth, stickily shoving them back in, then took a long swig from his soda. But he must have sucked in some air—purely by accident—because he began coughing harder.
While Sid spluttered and hacked, Opal sized up the other boy. He was a lot shorter than his friend. Almost as short as Scarlet Jones, Opal couldn’t help thinking. He had a smattering of freckles like Scarlet, too. But while Scarlet’s licorice-black locks shone aubergine when she was in Ultra Violet mode, this boy was graying at the temples of his short, clean-edged haircut.
That’s different, Opal noted, even though it did give the boy a serious vibe that was sort of cool.
At last “Agent Bristow” got it together. He must have been pretty embarrassed by his friend punching him in the stomach, especially considering that his friend was a pipsqueak. Opal fought another impulse to smirk.
“Anyway,” Red Sid said, his voice still raspy from coughing, “I thought you were supposed to be trailing the—”
This time the short boy stomped on the big kid’s foot.
“Youch!” he yelped, hopping up and down. “Baxter, what the—”
“Soda. Makes him hyper,” the boy with the salt-and-pepper hair bluntly explained as he ushered Sid into the crowd. “Sorry. To bother you. Opaline.”
Opal’s eyebrows shot up. It was bad enough she’d actually told the big red one her name. But how did the lil’ freckled one already know it?
Bristow and Baxter, she repeated. I know your names now, too.
An urge overtook her, and this time she didn’t resist. She freed one hand from its sleeve and, pointing her pinkie finger, whipped a thin lightning bolt through the bystanders.
“Yowza!” Agent Bristow howled, reaching back to cover his zapped butt as his crinkled orange hair stretched out straight.
Bull’s-eye! Opal thought, smugly holstering her electric hand again.
• • •
But we were speaking of camouflage, weren’t we? That was so one chapter ago! That was where the chapter BEFORE this one began. And it’s where Iris was ending her performance. Gradually she dimmed her ultraviolet diamond light, fading it out in disintegrating glitter-dusted beams. Like a starset, instead of a sunset. (Though, since the sun is a star, they’re actually the same thing.) The crowd ahhed and oohed once more, now fumbling to pluck off their sunglasses so that they could see every last sparkle. And as they watched, they realized it wasn’t only the light beams that were vanishing. No, the purple-tressed Ultra Violet herself seemed to be disappearing right before their eyes!
“She’s invisible!” someone cried, though that wasn’t 100 percent true. Iris was just camouflaging herself—blending in, like a chameleon, with the black-and-white stripes of the Gazebra. Only her periwinkle blue eyes and glints of her royal purple ringlets remained.
This has gone viomazingly! Iris thought, sneaking up t
o the steps of the stage and peering out at the audience. It was funny to watch them craning their necks to find her when she was standing right in front of them. Iris allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Scarlet was fierce, she reflected, Cher was brill, and everyone seemed to love my light show! It had been Iris’s idea for the Ultra Violets to come out. But on the inside, she’d been pretty nervous about it. What if all of Sync City had decided they weren’t superheroes after all, but superfreaks? What if, instead of clapping, they’d booed and thrown moldy peaches and demanded their money back—even though the performance was free? Worse, what if they’d been arrested?
Standing before an adoring crowd might have been a strange time to think so pessimistically, but Iris’s mind moved in mysterious ways. She’d never forgotten what Candace once said about people who might want to probe them like specimens. Scarlet had gulped and Cheri had whimpered. Opal was still with us then, Iris recalled. That night, she had tried to calm down her three BFFs. But what if Candace had been right? (She usually was.) What if there WERE people who still wanted to probe them? Now that everybody knew . . .
Even in the warmth of the afternoon sun, even with her own solar heat radiating from every single one of her chemically altered cells, Iris shuddered with a sudden chill. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Mayor Blumesberry, way off by the Mister Mushee truck. To Iris’s shock, the woman was absorbed in a conversation with none other than Develon Louder! She was covering her face with her black Burkant pocketbook, but Iris recognized the president of BeauTek instantly. Because who else hid behind their designer handbag like that?! As Develon ranted, her silver chignon slid around like a loose scoop of ice cream atop her head. Mayor Blumesberry nodded along, anxiously wringing the powderpuff between her hands. And now, as far as Iris could see, she wasn’t tittering one bit.