Watch Your Step (20 page)

“She helps because she's my
friend
. And your friend. And Gabby's. And Lemon's.”

Abe pauses. “What about today?”

“What about it?”

“She wasn't with you. When you were in your parents' bedroom.”

I roll my eyes. “Could you
please
give up the whole Elinor-spy theory? I told you, there's no way she'd—”

“Mess with your head? By moving things around your parents' room? And changing your gross fish mural?” Abe nods once. “You're right. She wouldn't . . . if she were one of us. A Capital T member. Who could be trusted.”

I pick up my shopping basket from the floor and start walking.

“You were messed with twice!” Abe calls after me. “One Incriminator couldn't be in both places at  . . .”

His voice fades as I reach the end of the aisle and round a display of waterproof toilet paper. A sign at the top guarantees
WORRY-FREE TP-ING!

I drop a few rolls into my basket and keep browsing.

Aside from the reason for our visit—and Abe's accusations—it's been a pleasant shopping experience. When we arrived, Good Samaritan George greeted us and told us we had the store to ourselves. During the school year the Kommissary's always packed with Troublemakers checking out the latest arrivals and buying supplies needed for homework or tutor training sessions. That makes it hard to see everything—and to buy weapons you might not necessarily want anyone to see you buying, since you might want to secretly use them on classmates to complete assignments. Giving other Troublemakers a sneak peek into what's coming
puts them on high alert, and gives them the chance to thwart your attack. So it's nice that my friends and I have the run of the place.

It's also nice that besides Gabby's and Elinor's giggles, the occasional rustle or explosion as my friends try out weapons, and the mellow music coming from overhead speakers, the store's quiet. So I can really think while I shop.

One subject keeps coming to mind: Mom's journal. Specifically what I read right before leaving the room to find Elinor.

My son cried like a baby.

And I cannot have that.

“Breaker-breaker one-nine.”

I stop next to a display of Dump Ropes. They look like normal jump ropes, but according to the video playing on a small TV, they trip and tangle around the legs of unsuspecting users, knocking them down.

Next to the TV is a silver box with a skinny black antenna. It doesn't seem to be part of the Dump Rope display. And it broadcasts a familiar voice.

“We got a brown micro in white water. Do you copy?”

I pick up the box, hold it near my mouth. “Lemon? Is that you?”

“Seamus! Awesome. Don't move. I'll be right there.”

I follow his instructions. Soon I hear a loud beep as the Kommissary door opens and closes.

“Hey!” Lemon jogs down the aisle, breathless. “Thanks for waiting.” He stops before me and grins. If he's still upset after his family's role-playing session, he doesn't show it. “How'd I sound?” I must look puzzled because he adds, “On the Turbo Talkie?” He holds up a small silver box. It's identical to the one still in my hand.

“Oh! Great. I heard what you said, loud and clear. Although I have no idea what it meant.”

“It's code for chocolate chip cookie with milk.” He smiles. “Was there any static? Did my voice break up at all?”

“It was like you were standing right next to me.”

“Awesome. The package promised a thousand-mile hearing range, but I didn't—”

He's stopped by a white ribbon. It sails over the top of the Dump Rope display, hits his nose, and winds around his head, covering his entire face. When it's done, only his eyes remain exposed. He tries to talk, but the ribbon hardens like a walnut shell, freezing all of his features.

“Not bad,” Abe says, coming up behind us. Standing before Lemon, he holds up a plastic spray bottle and pulls the trigger. Clear liquid shoots out from the nozzle and hits Lemon's face. The ribbon softens. Droops. Slips down. Soon it looks like a scarf around Lemon's neck. “Papier-Mâché Mold. Guaranteed to conform to your target and lock them in a personal arts-and-crafts cave.”

Old Lemon would be annoyed right now. But New Lemon laughs.

“Good one, Abraham! You really had me there.” He nods to my hand. “Can I have that? I want to go pay.”

I give him the Turbo Talkie. He jogs down the aisle, whistling.

“What do you think happened with his little brother?” Abe asks quietly. “That made his parents send him away?”

“No idea,” I say. But I plan to find out—when the time's right.

“By the way,” Lemon calls over his shoulder, “there's some crazy party going on over at the Performance Pavilion. Maybe we should check it out!”

Abe looks at me. “I didn't hear anything about a party tonight. Did you?”

“Nope. And if there
were
one, wouldn't it be closer to camp? Like the pool party was?”

Annika had told us that with the exception of the Kommissary, which would open only at her request, the regular Kilter campus was closed for the summer. The Performance Pavilion is located on the regular Kilter campus. Which means no one should be there now.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Abe asks, his voice grim.

I nod. “We'd better hurry up and pay for our supplies. We're going to need them.”

“I'll get the girls. You make sure fun-loving Lemon doesn't leave without us.”

He sprints toward one end of the aisle. I head for the other end. When I reach Lemon, he's talking with GS George at the register.

“Eight hundred credits?” Lemon asks. “Are you sure that's the right price?”

“Absolutely,” GS George says.

“But I only have eight hundred and ten,” Lemon says.

“Well, are these worth nearly wiping out your account?” GS George asks.

No. For one thing, we can use our K-Paks like walkie-talkies.
For another, unless there's more to them than Lemon let on, Turbo Talkies don't start, grow, or extinguish fires. So why does he want them? Especially when buying them means he can't buy anything else that'll help his troublemaking talent?

“Yes,” Lemon says. “Wipe away.”

He makes his purchase. Abe, Gabby, Elinor, and I make ours. Soon we're outside and hurrying across campus. The Performance Pavilion is about half a mile from the Kommissary. On foot it normally takes ten minutes to reach, but it takes much longer tonight. Because instead of following the paved walkways, we play it safe and travel in the dark cover of trees and shadows.

By the time we reach the Performance Pavilion, I think we're too late. The building is dark. Quiet.

“Lemon,” Abe says, “are you sure this is where—”

Before he can finish his question, there's a loud
BOOM
. The ground shakes. The Performance Pavilion lights up, as if someone flipped a switch. The sudden, deep noise is followed by music. Shouting. Cheering.

Abe and Lemon head for the entrance.

“Hang on!” Gabby declares, stopping them. She reaches into her Kommissary bag, tears open a package of Vision Vortex Lash
Extensions, and puts them on. Then she blinks, releasing a small sparkle shower. “Okay. Let's go.”

Hugging walls and hiding in shadows, we make our way inside and through the arena. Each time the music and voices die down, I think the party's ending—but then there's another
BOOM
. The floor shakes. The music, shouting, and cheering start up again, even louder than before.

By the time the main stage comes into view, the party's in full swing. And it's obvious our invitations weren't lost in the mail.

“Are those . . . ?” Gabby's voice trails off.

“Incriminators?” Abe finishes. “I don't know anyone else that dirty.”

“But there are so many of them,” Gabby says.

She's right. As we squat behind a low wall at the back of the auditorium, I scan the rows of seats—and guess that at least fifty of Nadia's students made the trip from IncrimiNation. Some are sitting, many are standing. They all face the large stage.

“How have we not seen them around before now?” Abe asks.

“They're really good at hiding,” Elinor says.

“We better be too,” I say.

Because the Incriminators want to find us. That's obvious
when there's another
BOOM
and a gigantic picture of Alison Parker, our classmate, appears on the screen hanging down from the ceiling to the stage. As we watch, the screen changes to show video footage of Alison making trouble with Kommissary supplies around the Kilter campus. With each new image, the gathered Incriminators cheer and shout louder. The last screenshot lists Alison's likes and dislikes, her troublemaking strengths and weaknesses, and the location of her parents' camp cabin. That information lingers for several seconds, then the screen goes dark—and there's another
BOOM
.

Carter Montgomery appears next. Then Reed Jenkins. Natalie Warner. Liam Jones. And many more of our classmates.

Finally, the screen goes dark and stays that way. I think the show's over.

But then I hear more booming. Quieter than the explosive sound effect that announced each new Troublemaker, but just as frightening. The sounds get louder and seem to travel across the stage.

Then they stop. A spotlight flicks on.

And shines down on Shepherd Bull.

Standing center stage, he shouts over the whoops and
clapping. “So there they are! Some of Kilter Academy's best Troublemakers—and IncrimiNation's biggest pains!” He lets the crowd boo and hiss a minute, then holds up one hand. When the crowd quiets down, he yells, “They all deserve our attention! No Troublemaker will get off easy this summer! But
four
of them will feel our heat the most. Because there's bad . . . and then there's the worst. And that's what these Troublemakers are!”

Shepherd Bull throws up his hands. A series of booms, all louder than the ones we've heard before now, seem to rock the Performance Pavilion from its foundation. The Incriminators scream and stomp their feet as three more screens lower from the ceiling . . . and four familiar faces appear.

Abe's. Gabby's. Lemon's.

And mine.

Crouched down next to me, Elinor takes my hand.

“What do they
want
?” she asks.

The answer couldn't be clearer.

“Revenge.”

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Zipped Lips

Dear Seamus,

Thanks so much for your last note! Hearing from you always makes my day.

First thing's first: I'm very sorry. You probably received a notification stating that your e-mail
didn't reach me because my in-box no longer exists. If so, you must've been quite surprised! I was too. Fortunately, as you can see, my in-box does exist, although it's now attached to a different address. Since I never said I'd never again teach in the Cloudview School System, I assumed they'd keep my e-mail address active indefinitely. Apparently that wasn't the case, and they deactivated my account without warning. In any event, I apologize for the confusion! From now on you can reach me at my new e-mail address above.

Now on to apology #2. You asked what I meant when I said that honesty's always the best policy, except when it's not. You also asked if I'd ever lied. I should've been clearer in my last e-mail. When I said that honesty's always the best policy, except when it isn't, I simply meant that sometimes, it's better to edit the truth. Pare it down. Leave out details. Shape it into something the person you're telling will have an easier time processing.

I'll give you an example. Many years ago, my
mother bought a new dress. It was lime green. Too short. With too many ruffles. Please don't think I'm a terrible person . . . but the dress made her look like a stuffed party piñata.

See? I bet you winced just reading that. I winced while writing it, and this happened decades ago! Which is why, when my mother asked how she looked, I said “nice.” I didn't say “fabulous,” because that definitely would've been a lie. But I didn't say “bad” either, because the whole truth would've really hurt her feelings. So I went with an altered version of the truth. Sometimes that's just better for everyone. For whatever it's worth, I'd keep this in mind whenever you're tempted to come clean to Annika about what you did or didn't do, or who you really are or aren't.

I hope that answers your question! If you have any others, ask away!

With Kind Regards,

Miss Parsippany

P.S. Any new Bartholomew John news?