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flow to her matching angora sweater. Granny Cane prowled the streets of Bigtime, getting thieves to try to mug her before wailing on them with her enormous handbag and walking stick and dragging them to the police station. Granny was a lot stronger and sturdier than she looked.

“Hurry up, old woman!” Black Samba snapped, stalking up and down the top of the bus. Her snakes hissed in time to her footsteps.

“Don’t make me wash your mouth out with soap, missy.”

Granny pointed her cane at the other superhero. “There’s no need to be disrespectful to your elders.”

Granny hopped onto the bus, and it pulled away into traffic. Well, with Black Samba and Granny Cane on the way, there was no need for me to get involved. They could handle a simple fire-and-rescue operation. Besides, too many superheroes on the scene wasn’t really a good thing. Everybody always wanted to get in on the drama. When there wasn’t enough danger to go around, the stronger superheroes tended to assert themselves, which often led to egobruising and spats. We all wanted to be the best—and most popular. It was sort of like being back in high school. With superpowers, a good image, and action-figure sales to maintain—instead of a cool quotient, high grades, and clear skin.

I did, however, still need to get to work. So, I forced myself away from the bakery and walked on. Fiona Fine Fashions sat in the middle of Retail Row in the heart of Bigtime’s downtown shopping district. The front of the multistory building housed the runway and store, while workers sewed garments and more in the back. A huge, marble F towered three stories above the sidewalk and announced the store’s presence to shoppers. I breezed through the front door. A bell chimed, letting 52

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everyone know that I had arrived. The inside of the store was rather like my apartment, in that it featured white marble walls and floors. Everything was simple and clean and colorless, the better to focus attention on my bright, bold, daring clothes. Racks of the Fiona Fine originals sat throughout the store, while a long runway cut through the middle of the open space. Models in various shapes and sizes trotted up and down the catwalk, showing off the latest, greatest designs to customers, who sat on plush leather chairs enjoying champagne and chocolates. Techno music pulsed out a snappy, happy beat through the sound system. Clerks bustled back and forth, fetching food and taking orders. I waved to them and to the society women I recognized. They fluttered their hands at me and kept on eating and drinking. I’d learned a long time ago that society ladies felt they deserved to be pampered, so I catered to their whims.

My eyes traced over the store with pride. The gleaming marble and pricey clothes were a long way from the simple home where I’d grown up in Ireland. Like so many others, my father had moved the family here in search of the American dream. I was one of the lucky ones who’d gotten mine. I sewed until my fingers bled to get to the top of the fashion world, and I did everything I could to stay there. I strolled through the store, punched in the security code on the back door, and headed for the factory floor. The whine and whir of sewing machines, ringing phones, and other equipment replaced the pulsing music. Men and women sat in colorful ergonomically designed cubicles and sewed dresses, tops, skirts, and more. Some placed dainty crystals on supple leather handbags, while a few worked with sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. The gems glistened and sparkled under the white lights. My jewelry H o t M a m a