I shrugged. “Does it really matter? They’re bad, we’re good, and we’re going to stop them.” Being a superhero had always been rather black-and-white to me. No gray allowed. Nobody looked good in gray, especially superheroes. Hermit drove through the streets of Bigtime, stopping at a red light. Suddenly, Swifte was there. The speedy, iridescentclad superhero skidded to a stop in front of the van. He waved at us and dashed away to do whatever it was he did all by himself late at night. Before the light changed, three police cars hauled ass in the same direction. A white van bearing the SNN logo zoomed by a couple of seconds after that.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Big traffic accident on the southbound side of the interstate. Looks like fifty cars involved. Injuries, gasoline fires, people trapped in their vehicles, the usual,” Lulu explained, staring at her computer screen.

“Should we divert?” Mr. Sage asked.

Lulu pounded a few more keys. “Nah. Swifte’s already there, along with the Invisible Ingénues. It looks like they’ve got things under control.”

“How can you tell the Ingénues are on the scene?” I asked.

“Because they’re not quite so invisible when they’re covered with soot and ash. Look.”

Lulu turned the screen around. Sure enough, I spotted two shapely outlines pulling people out of burning, crumpled cars.

H o t M a m a

87

“Good for them. Who knows? Maybe they’ll finally get the recognition they deserve, and not be so invisible anymore.” I laughed. Lulu wasn’t the only one who could do bad puns.

The others looked at me like I’d just sprouted a third eye. Lulu shook her head and went back to her typing. Mr. Sage stared out the window, while Hermit concentrated on his driving.

I ignored them. It was funny. Johnny would have laughed at my joke. Johnny. My hands crept up to my lips. I could still feel his lips on mine, still smell his rich exotic scent. Maybe I’d call him when I got home. Rich, spoiled playboys kept late hours. It might not be too late for a booty call—

“We’re here,” Hermit said, stopping the van and killing the headlights.

I peered out the front. We sat at the end of a long, deserted street. Buildings squatted all around us. Even though it was dark, I could see the graffiti on the walls and the broken doors and windows. Trash and debris cluttered the streets and alleyways, spilling out of the tops of metal cans and Dumpsters. A few streetlights flickered on and off, as though in pain.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“About two miles east of Good Intentions Lane,” Lulu said.

That explained it. Good Intentions Lane made a mockery of its own name. It was one of the worst streets in Bigtime and the major hangout of drug-running gangs like the Westsiders. Every couple of weeks, we had to come down here and clean out the riffraff. The gangbangers were like cockroaches, though. You could never get them all, and they always scuttled back out from their hiding places when the lights were turned off—or when there were no superheroes or cops around.