Super, Girl! PROLOGUE As John Doe dived out of the bullet path—or where a bullet would go if he lingered—he had time to wonder: When did my life turn into a John Woo movie? Or a Road Runner cartoon? When my burglar parents named me John Doe so I’d have an automatic alias? This is all their fault: yes. It really did start out simply. Crime ran in his family, and marijuana is a gateway drug. How else to explain how he’d gone from amiable, sleepy pot user to emaciated, stressed pseudo-ruthless cokehead dealer? It was once again trendy to blame the parents for everything from bleeding ulcers to a life of crime, but he never had a chance. Dad: “There’s no point in trying to have a normal life. Rather than work hard and then throw it all away with reckless behavior, throw it all away while you’re still young. It’s the American dream!” Mom: “Also, we don’t think you’re smart enough for college.” High school guidance counselor: “Smart’s not the issue. You seem to have been genetically programmed for a life of crime. I wash my hands of you. And also any prospects I once had of making a name for myself in this field.” Okay, maybe going from occasional pot use to dealing coke was inevitable, but bullets flying past my nose? Sirens shrilling