Free Villain's Lair by Wendelin Van Draanen

Laundromat, gets a job
couriering
envelopes between businesses and banks and restaurants in the hustling, bustling heart of the city.
    It would, after all, be a reasonable thing to wonder.
    And I could give you a lengthy, detailed explanation, but instead, I’ll simply say this: the school librarian, Mr. Kelly, got him the job.
    Hmm. Perhaps you do need to know just a
little
bit more.

    Mr. Kelly’s official title was library media specialist, for although the school did not have an adequate public address system, it did, in fact, have a few computers in its library. And it was on one of these computers (the main one) that Mr. Kelly discovered a message that had been forwarded via the school district’s communication lines. It was a message originated by City Bank looking for a bike-riding student who would work as a courier.
    â€œThey want someone quick, punctual, tidy, and reliable,” Mr. Kelly had told Dave. “Sounds like you to me.”
    Dave hadn’t known what to think, as he was, at this time, still twelve (and not yet an all-knowing thirteen-year-old). Up to now his job had been to get good grades. His dad had always told him, “School is your job and your only job, son. Prove yourself at this one and you’ll be a rich executive someday!”
    But Mr. Kelly had taken out a map and said, “Here’s City Bank. All they want is for you to make deliveries to places around town. I’ve seen you ride that bike of yours—you could handle this easily.” Then he leaned in and said, “Dave, they’ll pay ten dollars per delivery!”
    That afternoon, Dave reported to City Bank.
    And yes, the woman at the bank was surprised to see a boy so young, but there he was, punctual, tidy, and (so far) reliable. So she gave him a shot. And when Dave’s father saw the extra twenty dollars on the dinner table that night and heard how it had gotten there, he sat for a very long time just chewing and thinking.
    At last he said, “If you are going to do this, I think you should start a business and do it right. Business cards, a shirt, everything.” He gave Dave a stern look. “But if your grades start to slip, that’s it.”
    This, then, is how Dave formed Roadrunner Ex-press. He kept his grades up, his hair trimmed, and hisclothes neat. His orders came in through Mr. Kelly’s computer, and every day when the dismissal bell rang, he pulled on a red ROADRUNNER EXPRESS sweatshirt (which his mother had embroidered), clipped on his helmet, and pedaled into the city to courier envelopes for a growing number of customers.
    It’s why the kids at school always called “Meep-meep!” when he raced by.
    It’s also why girls like Lily thought he was a buttoned-up dork.
    Now, by the time Sticky came into his life, Dave had been delivering envelopes and packages for at least six months. His deliveries had taken him through every street in the city and out to nearly every neighborhood. He had met a lot of people, and it had opened his eyes to things such as luxury cars and golf courses and private helicopters and sushi bars. (Not to mention hoboes and hustlers and piles of stinky garbage and people who seemed certifiably crazy.)
    But in all his days delivering, there was one thing Dave had never seen. One thing that, when he did see it, struck terror in his heart in a way that not even hoboes and hustlers and certifiably crazy people can.
    A mariachi band.
    Dave skidded to a halt about a block away. “Sticky!” he whispered into his sweatshirt.
    â€œSí, señor?”
Sticky answered with a yawn and a lazy stretch, for while Dave had been racing around town, he’d been enjoying a siesta.
    Then he heard the music. “Ay-ay-ay!” he said, poking his head out. “There’s only one band that plays that bad!”
    It was true.
    The band was screechy.
    Out of tune.
    Out of time!
    And their singing was terrible!
    â€œWhat are