Watch Your Step (5 page)

“And if that were true,” I say, “why didn't they just tell you? Why hide your stuff? Why the secret?”

Before he can answer, Gabby chimes in. “Something really weird's going on here, too. But it's making everyone miserable—not just me—so I don't know if it's like what's going on at your houses.”

“Let's hear it,” I say.

She clears her throat. Opens her mouth. And sings the first few bars of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“You're singing a Fourth of July song in June,” Abe says when she's done. “That is weird.”

“The song doesn't matter,” Gabby says. “It's what my family does whenever I sing. And you guys didn't do it right now, so I know it's just them.”

“What do they do?” I ask.

She's sitting on a towel on the beach. A blue-gray ocean's behind her. After she raises one pointer finger, asking us to give her a second, she puts down her K-Pak and jumps up. As she runs across the sand, I notice a large white house in the distance. She reaches the house quickly, sprints across a deck, and peeks in the windows. The coast must be clear, because she charges toward us and plops back down onto the towel.

“Sorry,” she says. “Sound travels really easily at the beach. Anyway, you all know how much I love to sing? Yodels, Christmas carols, pop songs, the alphabet, whatever? And how good I am at it?”

Abe snorts. Lemon strings together multicolored snowflakes.

“We do,” I say.

“Well, three days ago . . . something . . . happened. It was the night before my dad's birthday. Over dinner we talked about how we should celebrate. No birthday's complete without its famous song, the one your friends and family sing before you blow out the candles on your cake, so I started practicing. At the table. In the middle of dinner.”

“Why?” Abe asks.

“Why not?” Gabby asks simply.

“Um, because people were talking,” Abe says.

“Restaurants play music while people talk all the time,” Gabby points out. “I thought my song would make the meal even more enjoyable.”

“So what happened?” I ask. “What'd your family do?”

Gabby pouts. “They put on headphones. All of them. I hadn't even finished the first note when Mom, Dad, and Flora each grabbed a pair from under the table and put them on. I asked what they were doing, and they didn't answer. Because they couldn't hear me.”

“I'm not sure I'm following,” I say.

“They blocked me out!” Gabby exclaims. “With special headphones that silence all noise when you wear them. Since then, anytime I break into song—which is, like, once every five minutes—they put them on. Then they take them off as soon as I stop.”

“Have you asked why they're doing that?” Abe asks.

She nods. “Mom says my voice is so beautiful they don't deserve to hear it every day. I believed her at first, because my voice really is magical, you know?”

Abe swallows a groan.

“But,” Gabby continues, “I've always sung the same, and they've never worn headphones before. So I don't know.”

“It definitely sounds suspicious,” I say. “How about you, Lemon? Notice anything weird since you've been home?”

He stares at something offscreen.

“Nope,” he finally says.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “No one's saying or doing things they usually don't?”

“Nope.”

“We should call Elinor,” Gabby says, tapping her K-Pak screen.

“I don't know if that's such a good idea,” I say quickly. Although Elinor's not an official member of Capital T (Abe nixed the idea when we talked about asking her to join our alliance last semester), I still considered inviting her to this meeting for her input. I didn't, because I thought it might be hard for her to get away from her mom. Also because I wrote her back three days ago and still haven't heard from her. “You saw where she lives.”

“The hole in the desert?” Gabby asks.

“IncrimiNation's a school,” Abe says. “Her mom works there. They must live somewhere else.”

“Remember those abandoned houses?” I ask.

“The ones without windows or doors?” Gabby asks.

“And with dirt yards covered in garbage?” Abe asks.

“Where we found Elinor standing on an inner tube in a swimming pool filled with snakes instead of water?” I nod. “Home sweet home.”

Gabby shudders. “Poor thing. We should organize another rescue mission.”

“No thanks,” Abe says. “I swallowed enough sand during that trip to throw up a second Sahara.”

“Ew,” Gabby says.

“You were awesome.” I don't compliment Abe often (he does that enough himself), but last semester, when Elinor didn't return to school and we (nicely) hijacked a Kilter helicopter and flew to Arizona to free her from IncrimiNation, the troublemaking camp her mom runs, he
was
awesome. They all were. We had to be to escape Shepherd Bull and his gang of wild, dirty misfits.

“I guess we don't want anyone there overhearing anything they shouldn't,” Gabby says.

“Right. And Elinor promised that her mom's much mellower when school's not in session. She didn't seem worried about going home.” I wouldn't have let her go otherwise.

“Getting back to
our
parents,” Abe says, “I think we need to go big.”

“How?” Gabby asks.

“Not how. Who.” He looks at me. “Annika.”

I frown but don't disagree. Kilter's director and I have a complicated relationship, one I'm not sure I trust, but she tends to know things no one else does. If anyone can help figure out what's going on with our moms and dads, she can.

“Who's going to tell her?” Gabby asks.

She looks at me. So does Abe. Lemon continues stringing snowflakes like he's not even listening.

“Okay,” I say. “I'll do it.”

I
haven't talked to Annika
that much since last semester. One reason is because she can be super nice one second and super mean the next, so I'm not sure how to feel about her. But the bigger reason is because she accepted me into Kilter for what I did—or what she
thought
I did—to Miss Parsippany. She doesn't know the truth, which is that my substitute teacher is still alive. My apple hit her, but it didn't kill her. And thank goodness for that.

I should tell Annika this, since she and my Kilter teachers still
think I'm a supremely skilled, one-and-done kind of marksman, but I've been stalling. Because the second she knows, she'll kick me out, and I'll probably never see my friends again.

But sometimes, talking to Annika pays off. I'm reminded of this while rereading the e-mail she sent last night.

Greetings, beloved Kilter Academy parents!

Heat dragging you down? Humidity frizzing your hair? Sweat staining the armpits of your favorite T-shirts?

Then escape to Kamp Kilter! At this inaugural annual retreat, you and your family will forget all of your summer struggles during TWO WHOLE WEEKS of spectacular lakeside living. Nestled among the glorious Adirondack mountains, Kamp Kilter offers luxurious accommodations and waterfront fun in a cool, technologically enhanced climate.

As we give your children a surprise session they'll never forget, you'll enjoy swimming! Sunning! Jet-Skiing! Canoeing! Hiking! Biking! Tennis! Rock climbing! Or if indoor activities are more your
thing, enjoy TV! Movies! Shopping! Fine dining! Napping! All in the comfort of our state-of-the-art air-conditioning system!

And put away that wallet! Kamp Kilter is FREE to all Kilter families! PLUS, parents will receive generous financial compensation for playing hooky from their jobs. The only thing you need to worry about is packing a swimsuit and getting here ASAP!

The Fine Print: Offer redeemable by families of current Kilter students ONLY. Trespassers will be punished accordingly. E-mail invite required for entry. Everything that happens at Kilter stays at Kilter, so attendees will be required to sign nondisclosure agreements. Violation of these agreements will result in immediate, permanent expulsion of the associated Kilter students.

Hope to see you soon!

Sincerely,

Annika Kilter

Founder and Director,

Kilter Academy for Troubled Youth

“How're you doing back there, sport?” Dad asks.

I look up from my K-Pak. We've been on the road six hours, but I'm still surprised to see him in the driver's seat and Mom in the passenger seat. In all my thirteen years, he's never taken the wheel if she's been in the car.

“Fine,” I say.

“Hungry?” Mom asks.

“Nope.”

“Thirsty?”

“Nope.”

“Need a bathroom break?”

“Nope.”

She smiles at me between the front seats, then faces forward again. I'd wonder why she was being so nice if I didn't already know that she's trying to make up for her past bad behavior. Plus, we're going to Kilter, which is like her favorite place on earth.

Returning to my K-Pak, I scroll through the short slideshow that came with Annika's e-mail. The photos include a turquoise lake, a white sandy beach, and flower-covered mountains. They show a place so beautiful you'd be crazy to spend your summer anywhere else.

I have to give Annika credit. After talking to Capital T, I e-mailed her our concerns. Two minutes later, she wrote back and said she was on it. Three minutes after that, I got the Kamp Kilter invitation. I showed my parents right away and can't remember ever seeing Dad so excited. Of course, that might be because we've never received a paid vacation before. Mom seemed less excited, which was weird considering she couldn't send me to Kilter fast enough a few months ago, but she was probably just caught off guard. It didn't take her long to agree that it'd be nice for us to get away as a family.

That was fifteen hours ago. And now here we are. In the car, on our way to two weeks of spectacular lakeside living. I don't know what else Annika has up her sleeve, but I'm impressed she got us so far so fast.

“Remember the last time we made this drive together?” Dad asks.

“Sure do.” It's impossible to forget. Especially since I spent most of it fighting back tears while imagining the horrible but deserved punishment I'd receive at what was supposed to be the best reform school in the country.

How times have changed.

My K-Pak beeps.

“Exit here,” I say, following the GPS directions.

Whistling, Dad signals and guides the car right. My K-Pak beeps again. I instruct him to turn left and stay on the twisty two-lane road for twenty-seven miles.

My K-Pak beeps again. This time, it's for a new e-mail.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Kamp Kilter

S—

Almost there. But not sure it's a good idea. You?

—L

I hit reply, start typing.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: Kamp Kilter

Hi, Lemon!

I think it's too soon to know what kind of idea it is . . . but I do know that I'd rather find out what's up with my parents with you guys at Kilter than by myself at home. And I also wouldn't mind swimming in the turquoise lake and watching movies on the school's enormous TVs!

So don't worry. We'll figure everything out!

—Seamus

I hit send. Then I start another note.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: Happy Summer!

Dear Miss Parsippany,

Hi! It's great to hear from you. I hope you're having a lot of fun traveling. Were you visiting friends and family? Or just exploring new places?

Thanks for the coconut recommendation! I'll see if the Kilter chefs have some fresh ones I can try.

By the way, I'm on my way back to school right now. I thought I'd be spending the summer at home, but our director decided to throw a fun retreat for all our families!

As for Bartholomew John, I'm not sure where he is or what he's doing. I haven't seen him since Christmas, when he delivered flowers to my house. So the last I heard, he was a star employee at Cloud-view Cards and Carnations. Which doesn't sound like something a troublemaker would be . . . but he's Bartholomew John, so who knows?

And I hope you don't mind, but can I ask why you asked?

Hope you're having a great time wherever you are!

Sincerely,

Seamus

As I reread the note, I think about how stunned I was when the doorbell rang Christmas morning—and Bartholomew John,
Enemy No. 1, sauntered in like he owned the joint. He didn't even wait for us to open the door. The only thing more shocking than that was that my parents seemed to find his visit completely normal.