by Zoe Quinn
I saved poor Howie's life, I reminded myself silently. To Mom, I said, “Don't worry. I won't.”
I took the note and left the kitchen, seizing my superbackpack on my way up the stairs. After tucking the backpack into the closet, I sat on the bed and opened the note.
My toes tingled. But it had nothing to do with shifting into superspeed!
I looked up from the note to see Emily poking her head in the door.
“Hey, Em!” I cried, jumping up from the bed and pulling her into the room. I'd been missing her even more than I realized. “I'm so glad you came by.”
“Me too.” Emily was toting four huge shopping bags. “Caitlin's nice and all, but we have very different shopping styles, and, well, she wouldn't split a hot fudge sundae with me at the food court. She wanted to go to the juice bar instead, where they only use organic fruits and they don't add any sugar. It was like drinking fresh-squeezed lawn clippings!” She gave me a puppy-dog look. “I kept wishing you were there.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She noticed the flyer in my hands. “What's that?”
My cheeks turned pink. “A note,” I said. “From Josh.”
Emily opened her mouth. She closed it. Her eyes danced. “Shut up”
I grinned. “It is.”
Emily snatched the note and belly flopped onto my comforter, facing away from me. Her feet dangled over the side of the bed as she devoured the words. “Gosh, could he be any cuter?” she sighed.
I seriously doubted it.
Emily got right down to business. “Okay, well, I think you definitely should buy hot lunch tomorrow. It's a lot more sophisticated than brown-bagging it.” She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. “Unless they're serving meat loaf surprise. Oh, and try to snag the picnic table farthest away from the basketball hoops. That one has the most romantic ambiance.”
“Okay,” I said. I wasn't sure what ambiance was, but I trusted Emily completely.
She bounded off the bed and went straight for my closet. “Now comes the tough part,” she warned. “We need to decide what you're going to wear!”
About twenty-seven outfits later, Emily approved an A-line denim miniskirt with a flouncy embroidered tee she'd just bought herself at the Templeton Heights mall. I tried it on while Emily dove (literally) into the task of finding the right shoes, which left her on her hands and knees crawling around the closet floor.
“I'm thinking flats—the navy ones with the rhinestone buckle… or maybe boots….” There was a pause. “Hey, where'd you get this?” she asked. “It's awesome.”
I was so distracted with adjusting my skirt that it took me a minute to realize that she'd scooted out of the closet; she was sitting back on her haunches, holding up the superbackpack.
My first thought was Please don't let it self-destruct.
“It was a present from my grandparents.”
“Oh.” Emily put it down beside my tennis shoes. “Love the color. It goes great with your…”
Emily stopped talking. In fact, she stopped moving.
“This can't be good,” I muttered, stepping toward her. “Emily?” I bent down and snapped my fingers in front of her face a few times, but she didn't respond.
She was frozen! But why? How?
My eyes shot to the backpack; I dropped to my knees, grabbed it, and shook it. But all that did was make the key chains jingle.
Frantically, I poked into the pockets and compartments but came up empty. Then I noticed the zipper pull tab. It had looked like ordinary metal before, but now it was blinking like a tiny blue Christmas tree light. I squinted at the tab and saw two words engraved into the metal: Emergency Pause.
Great. The backpack had somehow zapped Emily, and it had put her on pause, as if she were a CD player. I guess Grandpa forgot to mention that handy little feature, so I had no idea how to use the zipper to take Emily off pause.
As it turned out, though, I didn't have to do anything. The next second, the zipper stopped blinking blue and began flickering fuchsia. I took that to mean “Time's up,” and dropped the backpack where Emily had left it. Then I scrambled back to my feet just as the zipper pull went dark.
“… eyes,” Emily said. Clearly, she had no clue that she'd been frozen for the last few minutes. “Maybe I'll borrow it sometime,” she said.
It took me a minute to catch up. “Huh?”
“The backpack,” she explained patiently. “It goes with your eyes. And maybe I'll borrow it.”
“Oh, uh…”
Luckily, Emily didn't wait for an answer. She crept back into the closet and resumed her search for the perfect shoes as I let out a long sigh of relief, making a mental note to ask Grandpa about the zipper zapper.
“One thing I don't understand,” she said, her voice muffled inside the closet again. “If you and Josh were together at the meeting, why the note?”
“Why didn't he just ask you to have lunch?” she asked, tossing a patent leather chunky-heeled Mary Jane out of the closet. “You were both at the meeting, so he could have just asked you, face to face, up close and personal. Right?”
“Actually …” I swallowed hard. “Actually, I kind of had to leave before the meeting started.”
It got very quiet inside the closet.
“Em?”
She didn't poke her head out this time. “I thought you said you had to hang around at the meeting to help.” There was a note of accusation in her voice.
“I was going to, but then …” I fiddled with the embroidery on my shirt.”… something came up.”
“Like what?”
“Like … something.”
Silence.
My forehead was perspiring; I felt like I did when I stood on the high dive at the Sweetbriar pool, deciding whether to jump (not that that would ever be an issue again, after my training session the day before). The point was, I felt like I was on the verge of making a huge decision.
She's my best friend. I should tell her.
But the rules say I have to keep the secret.
But she's hurt. She thinks I'm keeping things from her.
I am keeping things from her.
Man, I hate this!
“I had to go out to get something,” I said. “For the meeting. We were running low on supplies.”
Emily came out of the closet holding my navy blue shoes, which she placed at the foot of my bed.
“You bailed on Josh? You went away and left him here just because you ran out of snacks?”
“Activists love their snacks,” I said lamely.
Emily considered the situation. “Personally, I wouldn't have left this house for anything less than chocolate torte.” She gave me a sympathetic look. “So you didn't get to hang with Josh at the meeting, but hey, you've got lunch plans, so it's not a bad trade-off.”
“True.”
“Zoe,” my mom called from downstairs,”Emily's father is here to drive her home.”
“Okay,” I called back.
Emily looked me up and down. “One final adjustment,” she said with a grin. She walked back to my closet and pulled out a pair of brown suede boots that came up to my knees. “Try these.” I quickly pulled on the boots, then turned back to the mirror to check the effect. Perfect! “Looks great!” Emily declared. She started out the door, then turned back with a grin. “Oh, and if the school cafeteria runs out of coffee cake tomorrow, do me a favor and choose something else. No abandoning Josh for the sake of dessert!”
I laughed. “Don't worry, I won't. See you tomorrow.”
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror and smiled. Something told me if the Federation ever got a good look at my best friend, they'd recruit her in a hot second.
I wasn't sure she'd be any better at saving the universe than I would, but I knew one thing for certain: if Emily had superpowers, the world would definitely be a more fashionable place!
that evening—after I'd called Grandpa and he'd explained that the Fast Freeze Feature was the backpack's way of keepi
ng intruders from getting at the contents (it was a recent update he'd forgotten to mention earlier)—I settled down to quiz myself on the superhero training manual.
Seeing how great I looked all decked out in the supersuit had really motivated me, and I was slammin' through the questions like some kind of genius.
What factors must a superhero consider
when determining whether to
apprehend a villain in a public place?
The number of innocent bystanders in the immediate vicinity
b. The weather conditions at the time of confrontation
c. The distance to a local incarceration facility
d. All of the above.
Well, duh! All of the above. The bystander thing and the location of the nearest jail were no-brainers. The weather-conditions consideration was a little trickier, but I was prepared for it. Because I'd studied the manual thoroughly and had reviewed the footnotes in chapter four—and because of a particularly exciting Lightning Girl comic strip I'd read the month before—I knew that some villains had the ability to influence atmospheric conditions. If the prevailing weather was right, they could manipulate wind speed, barometric pressure, and air temperature to their advantage, increasing their chances of escape. Not to mention the fact that several of the nastier villains had the power to spit fire, in which case a superhero would be very fortunate if there was a sudden rainstorm about to blow through.
I tallied up my answers and scored the practice test: 99 percent. Good job, me!
It was weird how Electra Allbright, creator of the totally fab Lightning Girl comic-book series, was so good at coming up with story lines that seemed so uncannily realistic. Since I was sure an Ordinary cartoon illustrator would never have seen the superhero manual, I chalked it up to her having a terrific imagination.
Super studying was thirsty work! I decided to take a quick break and go downstairs to see if Mom had any punch left over from the meeting.
Halfway down the steps, I stopped. Mom and Dad were in the living room, talking. And it sounded serious.
“I'm sorry, Maria. I just don't like it.”
“Brian, it's not as though I've never done this before. And besides…”
Mom's voice trailed off as she walked out of the living room and into the kitchen. I heard Dad's footsteps going after her. He was saying something I couldn't make out.
I found myself wishing that invisibility were one of my powers. Then I'd be able to follow them and hear every word. Then again, even if I could turn invisible at will, I wouldn't have been able to do it just then, not when I was on probation.
So I had to rely on the one power every kid has: the power of sneakiness!
Hopping from the midpoint step to the landing, then from the landing to the floor, I dashed across the living room area rug and flung myself behind the sofa just as Mom and Dad were coming out of the kitchen. I peeked around the edge of the couch and listened.
“Remember the last time you held a rally?” Dad was saying.
“Of course I do,” Mom replied cheerfully. “We were demonstrating at the high school to protest the new school superintendent's book-banning policy.”
“And do you remember how it ended up?”
“Hmmm.” Mom flopped down on the love seat and pretended to search her memory.”If I recall, it ended with the mayor, the high school principal, and me chained to the school library's circulation desk singing America the Beautiful' in three-part harmony.”
Dad gave her a mock scowl and sat down next to her.
“Oh …” Mom smiled sweetly and snapped her fingers as though she'd just remembered something. “And the superintendent resigned that very afternoon and all of the so-called offensive reading material—The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, for heaven's sake—was returned to the high school library.” She beamed proudly.
“Maria, you're not dealing with a high school superintendent here. George Mitchell is a very wealthy man, and in business, that means power. He's not going to sit back and let people cast doubt on the way he runs his factory.”
I switched my gaze to Mom, waiting to see what she would say next. She didn't disappoint me.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, her face serious now, “but the fact that George Mitchell is rich and well connected doesn't give him license to destroy the environment. I have a duty to this town to publicize what's going on at that factory.”
Way to go, Mom /When she talked like this, it was easy to imagine how she'd been a great student activist.
Dad thought for a long moment. Mom and I held our breath.
“I'll tell you what,” he said at last. “Since this means so much to you, and since the environmental angle is a significant one, I'll call the chief and volunteer to be at the rally on Saturday. That way, I can keep an eye on you and George Mitchell.”
Mom squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”
Relief washed over me. We were still going to make our protest!
Dad got up and went to his den to make the call. I waited behind the sofa until Mom picked up a home decor magazine from the coffee table and became engrossed in it. As quietly and quickly as I could (without violating my probation), I scooted out from behind the sofa and back to the landing, then took the stairs on tiptoe.
I felt a little nervous. Grandpa and I had suspected that Mitchell was big trouble, and now Dad's remarks confirmed it. There were going to be a lot of concerned citizens at that rally on Saturday. If Mitchell got mad enough, who knew how he'd… what was that word Dad had used…
A shiver went down my spine. I didn't like that word. I didn't like it at all.
the moment I woke up on Monday morning, I couldn't stop thinking about my lunch date with Josh. I managed to wrap myself in Emily's baby blue sweater and spent extra time on my hair. As soon as I got to school, I checked the lunch menu and heaved a sigh of relief. The cafeteria was serving French bread pizza for lunch—way sophisticated. Everything was going to be perfect.
The first four class periods crept by like sleepwalking snails, but finally I found myself heading out to the lunch tables, tray in hand, and hoping no one had snagged the romantic table farthest away from the basketball hoops.
No one had, but it looked like a couple of seventh graders were eyeing it; it was all I could do to keep from busting into superspeed to beat them to it. Luckily, the seventh graders decided to eat their lunch under a tree near the soccer field, so I made my way over to the table and took a seat.
I'd just opened my milk carton when I spotted Josh coming out of the lunchroom with his tray.
Shoot! What should I do? Wave? Jump up and shout, “Josh, over here! “1 Then everyone would know Josh and I were going to have lunch together—which, come to think of it, wasn't the worst that could happen. Or should I just be cool and wait for him to find me? Or…
“Hey, Zoe.”
I looked up to see Howie Hunt sliding onto the bench across the table.
“Howie! What are you doing?”
“I'm having lunch. What do you think I'm doing?”
Okay, I'll be the first to admit that I don't know a heck of a lot about romance, but I was pretty sure that having Howie Hunt as a third wheel was pretty much the definition of mood kill.
“Are you sure you want to sit here?” I asked a bit desperately. “I mean, wouldn't you rather sit somewhere less … romantic?”
He looked at me like I'd grown another head.
By then, Josh had spotted me—correction: us—and was on his way over. I wished the superhero manual had included a chapter on how to get rid of extreme Howies, but no—all the Superhero Federation seemed to care about was ridding the world of fire-spitting villains. Not that their advice would have made a difference, since I was on probation and all.
Josh arrived and took a moment to size up the situation, looking from me to Howie and back to me again. I felt a little ripple of joy around my heart to see that clearly Josh was as bummed as I was about having Howie in the picture.
He sat down across from me, next to Howie, and I allowed myself to imagine that it was so he could gaze dreamily into my eyes throughout the entire lunch period—and not because the bench I was on tended to wobble when more than one person sat on it.
“So,” said Josh, “about this rally …” He crunched into his French bread pizza and chewed.
I wished I could take a bite of my own pizza, but I was afraid I'd wind up with a long, drippy string of cheese hanging off my lip. I knew it was kind of a goofy, girly-girl thing to think, but I couldn't help it. This was my first date, after all.
“My dad says the rally is going to require a police presence,” I offered. “That's a little scary, isn't it?”
“Scary,” Josh agreed, swallowing his mouthful,”but cool. If this Mitchell guy really is polluting our river, I wouldn't mind seeing him handcuffed and hauled away to the hoosegow.”
“Hoosegow?”
“It's another word for jail,” Howie piped up. “You know, like 'the pokey' or 'the big house.' ”
“Thanks, Howie,” I grumbled, shooting him a look that he missed entirely.
Howie opened his backpack and withdrew his lunch bag, which, as always, contained a baloney sandwich, a juice box, and a tangerine. Then he reached into his backpack and pulled out a digital camera. Josh's eyes lit up.
“Like it?” Howie asked, a proud grin on his freckled face. “It's last year's best state-of-the-art model. My uncle got a new one, so he gave this one to me.”
“Awesome,” said Josh. “I'm into high-tech stuff.”
I wondered what Josh would think of my superbackpack. Whatever; it was becoming pretty obvious that I'd done my hair and borrowed Emily's T-shirt for nothing.
“Have a look,” said Howie, handing the camera to Josh. “Just be real, real careful.”
“This a zoom lens?”
“Yup.”
“High-definition?”
“Uh-huh.”