Watch Your Step (22 page)

WANT AN ANGEL? BE THE DEVIL!

This question-and-answer is emphasized by other items in the former closet. Like the wings made of white feathers that are also stuck to the door. There are big wings. Little wings. Wings with glitter. Wings that flutter when you touch the “Press Here”
button that holds them together.

There are rings, too. Big rings. Little rings. Rings with glitter. Rings that glow when you touch the “Press Here” button at their bases. A few rings are stuck to the inside of the door. Some hang from the door knob. Others hold together clusters of pamphlets. I assume they're halos. Just like the kind angels wear.

Including me. Or the angel someone really wants me to be.

I know I'm the target of these self-help guides because of the former closet's biggest item.

A life-size cardboard cutout. Of me. Made from the photo Dad always carries in his wallet—the one he took last year, when we went mini-golfing and I got my first hole in one. The cardboard cutout's even waving the putter overhead, just like I did when the ball went in with a single stroke.

The only difference between the cutout and the original photo . . . is the gold 3-D halo perched on top of my cardboard head.

“Hello?”

Dad. I'm so stunned I almost forgot where I am.

“Okay. Got it. Yes, I'll be right there.”

I hear footsteps. A faucet turning on. Water running. A loud
sizzling.

Heart hammering, I step back, swing the closet door. It clicks shut and I sprint on my tiptoes down the hall, away from the kitchen. But then I remember that I found the door slightly ajar. And I spin around and sprint-tiptoe back.

When I reach the closet door, I hear another one open and quickly close. The sound seems to come from the living room—and the front door. Now, with the exception of my pulse pounding my eardrums, the house is silent.

This is a great chance to snoop freely. But I'm distracted by Dad's voice inside my head.

Hello?

Okay. Got it. Yes, I'll be right there.

He sounded serious. Urgent.

I race down the hall and glance in the kitchen. The counter's still cluttered with eggshells, packages of bacon, and bottles of maple syrup. Steam's rising from the kitchen sink, where Dad must've poured water on a hot pan.

I fly from the house as fast as my short legs will carry me. But Dad's faster. By the time I reach the yard, he's already starting down the steep staircase to the beach.

I keep going. Pump my legs. Swing my arms. Try to control my breathing so Dad doesn't hear me coming at him like a train down the tracks. Skid to a stop on the top step to keep from careening over the edge and tumbling down the staircase. Then clamber down as quietly as I can.

Dad doesn't look behind him once. As far as I can tell, he has no idea he's being followed. Tripping and stumbling a few times, I stub my toe, bang my knee, and bite back cries of pain—so this can't be because I'm tailing him like a super-stealth silent ninja. It probably has more to do with the fact that he's really determined to reach his destination.

Unfortunately, I don't know what that is. Or if he gets there. Because in trying to pick up the pace, I jump over the last three steps of the steep staircase, land hard in the sand, and twist my ankle. My eyes squeeze shut at the sudden sting. When they open again, Dad's nowhere to be found.

I follow his footsteps, but the Good Samaritans are raking the sand so it's smooth for today's sunbathers. Dad's path disappears halfway across the beach.

“Excuse me?” I ask the closest GS. “Did you just see a man run through here? With a bouncy belly? Wearing penny loafers
and a pocket protector?”

“Nope,” the GS says. “Sorry.”

Looking around, my eyes zero in on the closest path to the beach. It's the one Dad would've come to first, so I head right for it.

A quarter of a mile down, I'm stopped. By a familiar voice. Singing softly. In the arts and crafts building.

Dad doesn't do arts and crafts. Neither does Mom.

So I almost fall over when I go to the building, peek through the open door, and see her surrounded by fabric and ribbon and spools of thread. Grabbing the door frame to steady myself, I watch the scene like I'm watching a really confusing movie.

I'm not just puzzled by the fact that Mom's sewing what appears to be the world's largest blanket. Or that she's singing the lullaby she used to sing to me before bed, but that I haven't heard in years.

It's that she's doing both of these things . . . and crying.

W
hat
is
that
?”

“Um, a dress?”

“Why does it have a tail?”

“It doesn't have a tail. It has a sash. The prettiest pink silk sash with sparkly rhinestones ever made! It makes me look like a beauty queen, don't you think?”

“I think it makes you look like a kangaroo in a cotton candy machine.”

“A kangaroo? I
love
kangaroos! They're like the cutest,
most adorable animals in the whole
world
! Thanks, Abe!”

“Ugh, please don't—why do you have to—okay. Wow. You're strong.”

“Abe,” I say, “do I see a smile?”

The corners of his mouth drop. “No, Hinkle. You see a guy struggling to breathe.”

Gabby leans down and plants a loud peck on his cheek, which instantly turns red. Then she releases her arms from around his chest, skips over to a mirror on the wall, and plays with her bangs.

The corners of Abe's mouth start to lift again—until he notices me looking at him. Then he frowns and scrubs his tainted cheek with one hand.

“I don't know why you're all making such a big deal about this,” he says. “It's just a party.”

“Exactly,” Gabby says. “It's a
party
. With music and dancing and fireworks! If that's not a good reason to get dressed up, I don't know what is.”

Abe starts to say something else, but stops. Probably because no one told him he should wear khakis and a blue plaid button-down shirt, all freshly ironed, and he did anyway. It's obvious he
wanted to look nice, too. Maybe even for Gabby, although he'd never admit it.

I'm wearing gray pants, my favorite white polo shirt, and the gray boat shoes Mom bought for me last summer that I brought to Kamp Kilter, just in case. Because I thought maybe I'd want to look nice too. For someone else.

“Our parents will be there,” Lemon says, hurrying into the room. “And our brothers and sisters. If
that's
not a good reason to get dressed up, I don't know what is.”

Abe's chin drops. So does mine. And Gabby's.

“Dude,” Abe finally says. “Is that a tie?”

“And gel in your hair?” Gabby asks, reaching out to pat it.

“And real shoes?” I ask.

Lemon ducks away from Gabby's hand, then nudges her for room in front of the mirror.

“Sorry to keep everyone waiting.”

Gabby's chin drops again. So does Abe's. And Lemon's. And mine, furthest of all. We all stare at Elinor, who stands in the living room doorway.

Gabby's the first to recover. She squeals, claps, and beelines toward her friend. “You look
amazing
!”

“Are you sure?” Elinor looks down at her outfit. “It was so nice of you loan me one of your dresses . . . but I don't usually wear them, so I feel a little weird.”

“Trust me,” Gabby says. “It. Looks. Gorgeous!”

“It's a very nice dress,” Lemon says.

“Not bad,” Abe says. Coming from him, this is the ultimate compliment.

I'd give her one too if I could talk. But I can't, so all I can do is try not to stare.

Because somehow, wearing the sleeveless turquoise dress she borrowed from Gabby, her long red hair hanging loose past her shoulders, Elinor looks even prettier than I've ever seen her.

If Dad's looking for an angel, here she is. No wings or halo required.

“We should go.” Abe jumps up from the couch. “The party's starting soon.”

We head for the elevator and gather inside.

“I'm so happy Annika invited us,” Gabby says during the ride up. “The party was originally just for our families, right?”

“Right,” Abe says. “Until Hinkle convinced her it was a
great chance for us to see our parents in action. Since we haven't really seen them in days.”

It turns out my friends are having a hard time gathering information, because their parents have also been leaving the second their kids come to clean. I told Annika this and suggested that watching our families in a casual atmosphere when their guards were down—like at a beach party—might help us learn more. She agreed and sent an e-vite to the rest of the Troublemakers that night—but asked them not to tell their parents that they planned to attend. She thought the element of surprise could work in our favor.

“Well,” Gabby says as the elevator slows to a stop, “I hope this won't be all work and no play. I'm dying to dance!”

The elevator door opens. Gabby skips out. Lemon follows her. Abe follows him.

Elinor and I stay put. She seems to be waiting for me to say or do something. After a few seconds of shy glances and awkward silence, we both speak at once.

“You look really nice.”

We laugh.

I smile and motion to the door. “After you.”

We hurry from the elevator, out of our fake tent, and to the lake. A boat's waiting for us. It's ten times the size of the canoe we usually take to our parents' beach—and in much better shape. Dozens of Troublemakers are already on board, no one's filling plastic cups and dumping water over the sides, and the ship's staying afloat.

As I follow Elinor up the ramp leading to the boat, I think about how glad I am that Abe made her go with him to his families' cabin the other day. According to the thorough report he gave me that night, he watched her like a hawk, and she did nothing suspicious. That didn't mean he necessarily trusted her, or was ready to invite her to join Capital T, but it at least knocked down his paranoia a few notches.

I also think that I'm with Gabby. I hope tonight's not all work and no play . . . because I wouldn't mind just having fun with my friends. Without worrying about parents, Incriminators, or even making trouble.

The evening has a promising start. Once the last Troublemaker's onboard, we set sail across the lake. The sun starts to set. The sky softens, turning from blue to gold. Waiters pass out glasses of lemonade and iced tea. Other waiters come by
with trays of snacks—peanuts and pretzels, chips and dip. Music plays. My friends and I talk and laugh with our classmates.

It's nice. Normal. I almost forget where we're going and why.

But then the boat docks. The music stops. And it all comes back to me.

“Are we really late?” Gabby asks.

“Or really early?” Lemon asks.

“Do we have the right beach?” Abe asks.

“There's the band,” Elinor says. “And our teachers.”

“But where are our parents?” I ask.

“More food for us!” Chris Fisher declares before bounding down the ramp.

As we disembark, I note that the beach definitely looks ready for a party. There are balloons and streamers. Lit tiki torches. Picnic tables. A dozen Kilter chefs behind grills. Snack and beverage stations. Big speakers playing loud music. But besides camp staff members, our teachers, and the arriving Troublemakers, there are no guests.

“Hey, hey!” DJ Houdini stands behind a large turntable, holding a microphone in one hand and headphones to his ear in the other. “Welcome to Kamp Kilter's first annual Beach Bash!
Help yourself to some grub, and feel free to cut a rug!” He puts down the microphone, then picks it up again. When he speaks this time, his voice is stern. “But whatever you do, do
not
get into trouble!”

“Was that warning for our parents' benefit?” Abe asks me.

“Probably,” I say. “Only they're not around to hear it.”

He checks his watch. “The party started at eight. We're fifteen minutes late. Should we split up and check their cabins?”

“Let's ask Annika first,” I say. “Maybe she knows something we don't.”

“Can you say . . .
conga
?”

Abe winces. “Don't tell me.”

I look past him to the sandy dance floor, where Gabby's already skipping and sashaying barefoot. She either doesn't realize or care that no one's joined her.

“She's not bad,” I say. “If the singing thing doesn't work out, maybe she has a backup career.”

“That'd be
so
much quieter,” Abe says, heading her way. “I'll go suggest it. You find Annika.”

“Looks like fun.”