Watch Your Step (4 page)

“What?” Gabby asks.

“Get to the point,” he says. “What have you been practicing?”

I only half listen as she talks about glow-in-the-dark contact lenses, X-Ray sunglasses, and other tools she's been using to
get back at her sister. Gabby's in the Biohazard group at Kilter because of her ability to manipulate her gaze to get anyone to do anything she wants, and it seems she's been keeping up on those skills while home.

I'm still half listening when Abe—who for his talent in drawing, painting, and otherwise creating confusing, occasionally scary works of art, is a member of Les Artistes at Kilter—hints at what he's been up to. Clearly wanting to keep a troublemaking edge, he admits only to working on an outdoor wall mural in the dark of night. When completed, the masterpiece will supposedly turn his entire neighborhood upside down.

While they're talking, I focus mostly on Lemon. He folds and unfolds the same square sheet of paper over and over again. He doesn't pay any attention to Gabby and Abe. The only time he looks up is when there's a knock on his bedroom door. Then he puts down the paper and stares into the K-Pak camera.

“Later,” he says, right before his third of my K-Pak screen goes dark.

“What's his problem?” Abe asks.

“
He
doesn't have a problem,” Gabby says. “He's just being Lemon. What's your excuse?”

My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I haven't eaten breakfast. “I should go too, guys. V-chat later?”

They agree. We say good-bye and hang up. As I climb out of bed and shuffle across the room, I think about Lemon and his strange new hobby. Did something happen? Are his parents giving him a hard time about his old hobby, the one that made them send him to Kilter? The super-exclusive reform school for the worst kids in the country?

I pause with one hand on the doorknob. It's so weird to think that that's what parents—minus Mom, of course—believe Kilter is. A great place to turn bad kids into good ones. Its real purpose, to turn naturally talented amateur troublemakers into professional ones, is known only by Annika, Kilter staff members, and, shortly after their arrival, Kilter students.

“Crazy,” I say, and turn the knob.

It doesn't move.

I twist the other way. Then back again. I make sure the door's unlocked. I twist and turn some more. I squeeze the knob and lean all of my weight back until I'm standing at a forty-five degree angle.

It won't budge.

My heart races. My palms grow slick.

“Don't panic,” I say.

And I don't. At least not right away. First I take a sock from my dresser and the Rubik's cube from my desk. I hold the sock's ends in one fist and load the cube into the loop. Then I pull back the sock like it's a slingshot and let the cube fly. It nails the knob and drops to the floor.

Hoping to break the knob off the door, I do this three more times. Then I dart across the room and jiggle the knob.

Nothing. It's like it's superglued in place.

I start to panic. Just a little. Because nobody's home. It's only ten o'clock. Mom and Dad won't be back for hours. There's no phone in here, so I can't call and ask them to come let me out. I haven't been to the bathroom yet today. My empty stomach's growling. It's already hot in here, and once the sun's all the way up, the room will begin to boil. Then my skin will ooze off my body, my bones will splinter and crumble, and all that'll remain of the sometimes-bad-but-mostly-good kid formerly known as Seamus Hinkle is a messy mound of hair, green pajama pants, and a Kilter Academy T-shirt.

My K-Pak buzzes then, saving me from a premature
meltdown. Hoping it's an e-mail from one of my parents, even though that's impossible since the K-Pak can't receive messages from non-Kilter e-mail addresses, I rush to the nightstand.

The note's not from Mom or Dad. It's from Miss Parsippany. My former substitute teacher, accidental apple casualty, and current pen pal. Who's also the only exception to the no-non-Kilter-e-mail rule. (We've chalked it up to a glitch in the Kilter system.) I haven't heard from her in weeks.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Happy Summer!

Dear Seamus,

Hello! How are you? Happy to be home? Enjoying your summer break?

I'm sorry I haven't written in a while. As I mentioned in my last note, I was doing some traveling. And I learned that when you're deep in the Appalachian wilderness, or lost among the Utah red rocks, or exploring a remote island fifty miles off
the Floridian coast, Internet service can be hard to find. By the way, have you ever had a coconut? A real one, right off the palm tree? If not, I highly recommend it.

Anyway, I just wanted to say hello. Also, I was wondering if you'd seen Bartholomew John since you've been home. If so, how is he? Still starting fights? And getting into trouble? Have you visited with other kids from Cloudview? Or from around your neighborhood? Have you encountered any other local troublemakers? You're such an expert now I bet you can spot the real ones before they even fire a spitball—or throw an apple! ;)

My helicopter's about to take off so I should wrap this up. Please write when you can. I'd love to hear from you.

With Kind Regards,

Miss Parsippany

A few things in this note stand out. First, Miss Parsippany doesn't say what she was doing in all of those interesting locations.
Is she on a long vacation? But she mentioned traveling during the school year, too . . . so is she on a
really
long vacation? And why's she asking me about my archnemesis, Bartholomew John? Why does she want to know if I've met other local troublemakers? And most people fly by plane, so what's she doing in a helicopter?

These are all things to think about. But I can't. Not now. Because one thing in her note has made it impossible to think about anything else.

Coconuts. They remind me that I'm starving.

Vowing to write her back as soon as I'm free, I put the K-Pak back on the nightstand and go to the window.

“It's ten inches,” I lie. Because my room's on the second floor. I hate heights. Trying to convince myself that the ground is much closer is the only way I'll be able to reach it.

I keep my gaze level with the trees as I sit on the window ledge. Holding my breath, I lift one leg up and through the open space.

At which point a swarm of bloodthirsty bats lunge at my face. Or two butterflies flutter past. It's hard to be sure since whatever it is makes me fly back through the window and land hard on the bedroom floor.

“Elinor's waiting in the backyard,” I say, picking myself up. Unfortunately, this too is a lie. But pretending it's true helps me come up with another plan of attack.

I pull the top sheet from the bed and knot one corner around one leg of my desk. Then I toss the rest of it out the open window so that it hangs like a rope down the side of the house. I grab my K-Pak from the nightstand and stick it in the waistband of my pajama pants. If I fall and break my legs, I can always e-mail or V-chat Lemon and ask him to call 9-1-1.

Then I sit on the window ledge. Move my legs into the open air. Squeeze the sheet in both hands. Take a deep breath. And push off the ledge.

It works. My awkward slip-stop-shimmy technique probably wouldn't earn a standing ovation from Tarzan, but that's okay. All that matters is that five minutes after leaving my bedroom, my feet touch grass. Which, dropping to my hands and knees, I kiss before sprinting to the back door.

I find the spare key under Mom's favorite concrete turtle, unlock the door, and burst inside the house. I smile and wave to the couch, call out hello to the washing machine, feeling like I was this-close to never seeing them again.

I hit the bathroom first, then run to the kitchen.

“Fish sticks,” I gasp. “Must . . . have . . . fish sticks.”

I stumble toward the refrigerator. Throwing open the freezer, I relish the icy blast to my face, then thrust one hand inside.

They're not there. The freezer has held an endless supply of fish sticks since I've been home . . . but now there's none. Where bags and bags of my favorite food should be, there's only a half-empty ice cube tray and a box of frozen spinach.

Thinking they must be thawing out for tonight's dinner, I check the refrigerator. But there are none in there, either.

Mom's up to something. I'm as sure of this as I am that Lemon's new origami hobby is strange. I don't know what, exactly—but I'm going to find out.

Starting with the book she tried to cover up the other day.

I eat a bagel as I check cabinets and drawers. Finding nothing, I head for the laundry room. Since Mom's the only one who hangs out in there, she probably thought it'd make a great hiding place.

I'm halfway down the hall when something stops me. One hand clamps to my mouth, the other to my stomach. My breakfast sloshes around, threatens to shoot back out the way it just went in. My eyes water. My nostrils burn.

It's a smell. A
stench
. Of something dying. Decaying. Rotting.

The odor's bad. So bad, it's taking all my strength and concentration to keep the bagel down the hatch.

And it's coming from Dad's office.

L
et me get this straight
. Your mom was reading in the kitchen. You had no cold water. You got locked in your room. Your gross fish sticks were thrown out.” Abe pauses. “Is that everything?”

I review my mental checklist. “Yes.”

“You think your parents turned off the cold water?” Gabby asks. “Like, on purpose? And locked you in your room? And suddenly threw out your favorite food that they'd been making for you since you got home?”

“I do.” It's the only explanation I can come up with.

“Why would they do all those things?” Gabby asks.

“No idea,” I admit.

“Have your parents called a plumber?” Abe asks.

“Yes, but—”

“Has the lock on your bedroom door ever gotten stuck before?”

“Maybe, but—”

“Did you check the expiration date on the bag of fake fish?”

“No, but—”

“Then I don't get why you called an emergency alliance meeting,” Abe says.

I'm talking to Capital T on my K-Pak behind a rose bush in the front yard. Eight hours have passed since I discovered hundreds of fish sticks decomposing in a large trash can in Dad's office. My parents got home two hours ago. Both looked surprised to find me sitting on the couch, but I couldn't tell if that was because they expected to be the ones to release me, or because I'd entered the living room without automatically turning on the TV. Dinner was fairly normal, but that could've been because Mom picked up a vegan pizza on her way home,
so there was no need to address the fish-stick disappearance. If either of them noticed the stench coming from Dad's office, they didn't say so. When my stomach stopped spinning long enough for me to say I was going for a quick bike ride, they told me to have fun.

And then I came out here. I didn't want to be in the house during this meeting because I didn't want my parents eavesdropping.

“Those are just examples,” I say. “But they've been acting weird in general. Mom's been too nice. Dad's been as nice as he always is, but something else too. Like when we got home after our last miniature-golf game, he said he had work to do and went right into his office and closed the door.”

“Wow,” Abe says. “Your dad . . . went to his office . . . to work. Alert the FBI.”

“Abraham.” Lemon holds up a green paper monkey, adjusts its tail. “Seamus called an emergency meeting. That means something's wrong.”

“What about your parents?” I ask before Abe can argue. “Have any of them been acting weird?”

“Actually . . . ,” Abe says, to my surprise. “Maybe.”

My heart skips. “What do you mean?”

He glances at his bedroom door, then leans closer to his K-Pak. “My supplies disappeared.”

“What supplies?” Gabby whispers.

“Spray paint. Pastels. Watercolors. I keep art materials in every room for easy access when inspiration strikes. But the other day I couldn't find any of them. Not for eighteen hours.”

“What happened then?” I ask.

“My dad asked me to cut the grass.” Not one for outdoor activities, Abe cringes. “And when I went to the shed to get the lawn mower, I found all of my supplies. Shoved in a corner. In black garbage bags. Under a tarp.”

Gabby gasps. “Did you ask why they were in there?”

He nods. “Dad said he and Mom were allergic to the fumes. Even though they've been around my supplies tons of times, and I've never even heard them sneeze.”