We sat in a circle of folding chairs with mugs of tea or coffee and made small talk before the meeting began. I was next to Chitinia—er, Jessie—so I did more listening than talking.

“So I just stood there,” she said. “What could I say? ‘I forgot I charged like a hundred gallons of gas to that card. Napalm isn’t cheap.’ As if.”

I smiled, but inside I was reconsidering the wisdom of the group’s privacy policy. Half the ladies here were dangerous supervillains. A girl could really clean things up if she dropped a tip to the local league of superheroes.

Then again, the other half of the ladies here were superheroes, so…

The group leader, Rebeca, stood up. “Welcome, everyone!” she said. “The AA meeting is down the hall.”

One girl left, embarrassed. We weren’t alcoholics, but “AA” did have special meaning for us.

“I call this meeting of Underprivileged Overachievers to order,” Rebeca said. “Any newcomers?”

A willowy teen stood. “Hi, my name is Gail, and I…” She gulped. “I’m a flat-chested superhero.”