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  superhero training manual was open to page ninety-four. I was sprawled across my puffy pink and green comforter, but in the last hour I'd barely glanced at the book. Instead, I'd been reading my newest Lightning Girl comic book; then I had started sorting through photos and other souvenirs from the school play. I was supposed to be studying for the superhero test, but I was entitled to a little “research”—the photos weren't going to put themselves into the album, right?

  Smiling, I slid a photo of Howie Hunt into one of the pages. It was a great picture of him as Prince Irving St. Ives, snapped during his dance number.

  Not that I needed a photograph to remind me. If I live to be five hundred years old (and who knows… I just might), I will never forget Howie Hunt's performance—or any other moment of the sixth-grade play. After all, it was not only a great theatrical success, but it also happened to be the most exciting drama production in the history of Sweetbriar Middle School.

  Of course, I was the only one who knew that. Me, and my grandpa Zack.

  I plucked the program from the pile of flyers and ticket stubs and glanced through it. I was listed as a member of the stage crew. But that wasn't the half of it.

  Not to brag or anything, but I, Zoe Richards, single-handedly prevented the production from being a full-on catastrophe. To be more specific, I used my superpowers.

  Yep—I've got superpowers. And if you're surprised, think how I felt when I found out! Strange things began to happen to me on my twelfth birthday, the kind of things that don't happen in real life, you know? Like being able to outrun the school bus and lift cars with my bare hands. I was confused, to say the least, since I (like most intelligent, logical kids) figured superpowers were the stuff of comic books and action movies. But my grandpa Zack set me straight:

  “Think of these powers as a special kind of talent you never knew you had. Being a superhero is, in the truest sense, part of who you already are: Zoe Richards. Nothing can ever change that.”

  Grandpa knew what he was talking about, of course. He isn't just the proprietor of Sweetbriar's premier dry-cleaning store; he used to be a superhero, too. Even though he retired several years ago, he had one last task to perform for the Superhero Federation (oh, yes—did I mention that we have our own federation? Kind of like a PTA with extras). Now that he was sure I had inherited the superhero gene, it was his job to steer me through the early phases of my hero-ness, using the superhero training manual as a study guide. (Remember the superhero manual? The one I was supposed to be reading instead of pasting snapshots into my photo album?)

  Anyway, during a rehearsal for the school play, I'd used my very new superpowers to stop a giant stage light from crashing down on Howie's head in the middle of his tap-dance routine. Boy, would that have messed up his rhythm… not to mention the fact that it probably would have killed him!

  The good news was that Howie walked away without a scratch, and nobody knew how close we'd come to disaster. The bad news was that as an apprentice hero, I really shouldn't have been using my superpowers at all. If the Superhero Federation were to find out (and I'm pretty sure they have ways of detecting that sort of stuff), I could be in for a major reprimand. Or worse. Looking at the photos of Howie reminded me of just how much trouble I could be in, right that very minute….

  My worrying was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Reaching over the stacks of photos, I grabbed the superhero manual and tucked it under my comforter just as my mother came through my bedroom door. She was carrying a laundry basket filled with folded clothes. She was frowning down at the clean laundry like she had no idea what to do with it.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  My voice startled her out of her daze, and she looked up from the basket. From across the room I caught a whiff of the flower-scented, just-washed clothes.

  “Oh, hi, kiddo. Here's your laundry.” She placed the basket on the foot of my bed and smoothed a wrinkle from a sweatshirt that lay on top of the pile. “Nice and clean and still warm from the dryer.”

  I squinted at her. “You okay?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, I'm fine. Just thinking about something.”

  “Something” could only mean one thing: a Big Thing. Mom doesn't waste time worrying about the small stuff in her life. If she was mulling something over, it had to involve the environment, or social injustice, or animal rights, or some other issue that needed a major campaign.

  I sat up on the bed and moved some of the snapshots so I could scoot toward the basket. “Did you wash my gray T-shirt with the yellow sleeves?”

  “I think so. It's probably at the bottom of the pile….”

  “Great!” I snatched the sweatshirt out of the basket and dropped it on the bed. '“Cause I want to wear it tomorrow.” I began digging in the snuggly-warm pile for the T-shirt.

  “Zoe!”

  “Did you wash the camouflage cargo pants?” I grabbed a handful of socks from the basket and dropped them on the bed. “You know, the ones with the broken zipper on the side pocket? Emily says they go great with the T-shirt.”

  “Zoe, I just folded those!” Mom shook her head and bent down to pick up the socks.

  “Don't worry,” I told her, smiling as I tossed aside a pair of flannel pajama pants and leaned into the basket. “I'll put everything away as soon as I—”

  I fell backward onto the pillows as if I'd been shoved. The room seemed to spin, and my eyes burned. I sucked in a deep breath, but that only made me dizzier.

  Since I'd never experienced anything like that before, I couldn't help wondering if the reaction was superpower related. That would certainly explain why Mom wasn't gasping for breath like me. Luckily, she was on her knees at the foot of the bed, reaching underneath it to retrieve a yellow argyle, and didn't notice that I was clutching the headboard for dear life.

  It was the scent! It was everywhere, like an explosion from the depths of the laundry basket, like some crazy chemistry experiment gone bad … only it smelled good. Really good, like … like …

  Well, like mountain springwater.

  Or fresh country air. Ocean breeze, summer rain…

  The aroma drifted up to choke me as familiar phrases from fabric softener and detergent commercials rang in my head….

  Sunshine bouquet, wildflower soft, autumn sunrise…

  And even though the smell was pleasant, it was so intense I was sure I was going to hurl!

  I gave the laundry basket a good hard kick, toppling it off the bed. The clothes tumbled onto the floor, taking their aroma with them. I could still smell the waterfall-fresh fragrance, but it was farther away, less overpowering. The spinning slowed and I could breathe again.

  Mom stood up, clu
tching the socks. Her eyes went from the overturned basket to the pile of crumpled clothes on the floor.

  I gave her a weak smile, hoping she wouldn't notice that my eyes were still a little watery. “It was an accident,” I said, my voice raspy. “Sorry.”

  For a minute, I thought she was going to yell at me and tell me to pick up every piece of clothing. But she didn't. Instead, she sat down on the bed, absently tossing T-shirts and underwear back into the basket, staring vaguely at the Lightning Girl poster above the headboard.

  Boy! She really was lost in thought. Whatever activist issue she was thinking about must have been a biggie. Like, on a global scale.

  “What's wrong?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was just thinking about that new factory that opened outside town.”

  I pictured the sprawling cement building with its three tall smokestacks, and the high chain-link fence surrounding the property. A massive full-color board outside announced that it was the property of Mitchell Enterprises. “What about it?”

  “They manufacture household soap products. The detergent I used on this load of laundry is one of their new brands.”

  Hmmm, interesting. Maybe my dizziness had something to do with the detergent. What the heck was in this stuff that nearly knocked me out?

  “I'm not going to use it anymore, though.” Mom let out a long sigh. “I've heard some terrible rumors.”

  “I'm not sure this factory is… well… on the up-and-up.”

  On the up-and-up. It was one of those expressions grown-ups used when they didn't want to scare you. I frowned knowingly.

  “You mean, the factory is an evil presence, poised to wreak havoc on our innocent village?” (That was one of the expressions Lightning Girl's commander used when he was about to dispatch her on a major, gnarly mission.)

  Mom's eyebrows arched in surprise. “An evil presence?” She smiled a little. “I doubt it's that bad.”

  “Well, someone should definitely look into it,” I suggested. And by “someone,” of course, I meant me—it would be a great opportunity to prove to the Superhero Federation that I really do have what it takes. “We could go over there right now and bang on the door and demand they let us toss the place—you know, search it, top to bottom!”

  Mom's smile stretched wider. “I think we'll hold off on that for the moment. For now, I think I'll just stop using their products.”

  I'd had a feeling she was going to say that. But I thought this sounded perfect for me—it had superhero written all over it. I picked up another photo of Howie that was taken just after the near miss with the lighting canister and glanced over my shoulder; poking out from beneath the pink ruffle of my comforter was a corner of the training manual. The manual I'd been ignoring for the last seven days. If I didn't get my almost super butt in gear and start studying, I might never become a full-fledged hero, and I wouldn't be able to investigate this or any other situation. It wouldn't do just to go running blindly toward trouble. Even without studying, I knew that being truly super included being superprepared.

  Mom nodded to the laundry basket filled with rumpled clothes. “You'll put those away?”

  “Yup.” I might have to use nose plugs, but I'd do it.”I'm glad you won't be using this detergent anymore. The smell makes me dizzy.”

  “Really?” said Mom. “I suppose it does have a stronger scent than other soaps I've used, but it didn't bother me.” She reached into the basket, sniffed my yellow sweatshirt, and shrugged. Then she tossed the sweatshirt to me.

  I held my breath and caught it.

  “And don't just ball it up and stuff it in a drawer… fold it!”

  I gave her a thumbs-up, still holding the air in my lungs.

  “I think I might go and do a little research on that company,” Mom said.

  I gave a little grunt of agreement, pretty sure I was turning blue.

  Looking determined now, Mom marched purposefully out of the room. I waited until the door closed behind her before I tossed the sweatshirt across the room and exhaled gratefully.

  Then I removed the manual from where I'd hid it under the comforter.

  It was time to get real. Time to be honest with myself. The reason I'd been avoiding the manual was simple: I was scared that even if I studied 24-7, the Superhero Federation would still write me off as a troublemaker who couldn't follow the rules.

  And I didn't want to blow it. Something about the way my mom was so concerned about the factory, about the greater good of Sweetbriar, reminded me that being a superhero was just about the biggest deal in the world.

  Gritting my teeth with resolve, I opened the manual to page ninety-four.

  I was going to study like I'd never studied before. For the greater good.

  I just hoped it wasn't too late.

  awoke to the sound of whistling coming from the kitchen.

  “Come on down, Zoe,” Mom called cheerfully. “Breakfast is ready, and I have something to tell you.”

  I shoved off the blanket and got out of bed, glad that my mom seemed to be in a better mood than she'd been in the night before.

  I dressed quickly and bounded downstairs, expecting to find Mom in her pretty yellow bathrobe, sipping her coffee as she admired the garden through the kitchen window. Instead, I found her still dressed in the clothes she'd been wearing the night before, bustling around the table, which was covered with papers—a bunch of computer printouts and several yellow pages torn from a legal pad. From the doorway I could see that she'd scribbled lots of notes—complete with little flow charts, lots of underlined words, and exclamation points here and there. Mom had been busy.

  “I've been up all night!” she announced, not looking even the least bit sleepy. “I was thinking about what you said, you know, about banging on the factory door, and I decided I should do it. Well, not literally, of course. But that factory is hiding something, I can feel it in my bones. So I'm going to take action the best way I know how. ”

  I smiled. “Let me guess—you're holding a meeting.”

  In response, Mom picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  “Hello, Mary Jane? Maria Richards here. I'm sorry to call so early….”

  While she explained to her friend Mary Jane about the factory, Mom pointed to the stove, where a plate was warming on the back burner.

  “So you've heard similar rumors, then?” Mom was saying into the phone. “Yes, I'm terribly worried. Which is why I'm holding a meeting at my house this Sunday. That's right, day after tomorrow, at noon.”

  I cleared an area on the table and sat down with my breakfast: waffles and sausage links. I dug in, glancing at a page my mother must have printed from the Internet.

  FEDERAL REGULATIONS

  RE: INDUSTRIAL WASTE

  Guidelines for Safe Disposal of

  Toxic and/or Hazardous Material

  Mom had highlighted passages here and there. A hot pink sticky note flagged the corner of the report; she'd written a phone number on it, and I was surprised to find that the number seemed familiar to me. I stared at it, wondering where I'd seen it before. When I heard the beep of the telephone's Off button, I looked up.

  “So what's the scoop?” I asked.

  “It's still sketchy,” Mom admitted. “But I've gotten some solid information from the Internet. And when I telephoned the spokesperson for the factory just a few minutes ago, he was very evasive, even a little hostile. He certainly wasn't about to let me talk to Mr. Mitchell.” She paused to eye my breakfast. “How are the waffles, by the way?”

  “Delicious,” I said, dragging a triangular piece through a puddle of maple syrup on my plate. “But cereal would have been all right, if you were busy. Did you know that Lightning Loops are the official cereal of the Lightning Girl fan club?”

  Mom laughed. “Yes, I'm well aware of that. But I'll never be too busy to make your breakfast.”

  She reached for the phone again and dialed the number that was written on the sticky note. Someone answered and Mom said, “Hel
lo, is this the Devlin residence?”

  Devlin? I nearly choked on the waffle. As in Josh Devlin? No wonder I recognized the phone number! Back in fourth grade, when I'd first noticed how cute Josh was, I'd gone a little goofy and looked up his digits in the Sweetbriar phone book (which, as any girl who's ever had a crush will tell you, is a perfectly normal thing to do), and just for the heck of it, I'd sort of committed the number to memory—not that I'd had the guts to use it so far.

  “Oh, good morning, Josh. This is Mrs. Richards, Zoe's mother.”

  I couldn't believe it! Josh Devlin was on the other end of that phone line? I couldn't help smiling—until Mom said to Josh:

  “Is your mom at home, sweetie?”

  This time it was a bite of sausage that almost choked me. Did she really just call Josh Devlin “sweetie”!

  “Sure, honey, I'll hold on.”

  Honey! I slapped my hand to my forehead in exasperation. “Mom! Couldn't you have called him something cooler? Like… dude? Or… dog?”

  Mom looked at me like I was nuts. “Why would I call Josh a dog? He's a very handsome young man.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And what are you calling Mrs. Devlin for, anyway?”

  “Because,” Mom explained, “we've worked together on community service projects before. I thought she might be interested in coming to the meeting.”

  “I'm going to school now,” I announced, getting up from the table and depositing my syrupy plate in the dishwasher.

  “So early?”

  “I have a big test coming up, and I want to get in extra studying,” I told her, which was the truth… mostly.

  “Well, have a nice day, swee—” Mom caught herself and cleared her throat. “I mean, catch ya later, girlfriend.”

  Well, at least she was trying. I picked up my school stuff and gave her a grin. “Right back atcha,” I said. “And if you need help at the meeting on Sunday, I can pitch in. Maybe we can make some charts or something to show people what information you've found.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “You're super.”