Watch Your Step (21 page)

“Earth to Seamus.”

I put down my K-Pak. “I'm listening.”

“Really,” Abe says drily. “What'd I just say?”

“Earth to Seamus.”

Gabby giggles. Elinor smiles. Even Lemon, who's kicking and paddling in front of the canoe, flashes a grin.

“Way to bring down the house, funnyman,” Abe says. “Now can we please be serious? And discuss the plan?”

“We
discussed
the plan.” Gabby dips her plastic cup into the lake water pooled in the bottom of the boat. “For, like, hours last night. And this morning. We're going to engage the enemy. See what they've really got. And fire back.”

“Without totally bringing them down,” I add. “Since Annika wants us to watch them in action.”

“And you're sure she wouldn't change her mind about that?” Abe asks. “Especially if she saw what we saw onstage yesterday?”

My K-Pak buzzes. I look down at my in-box and see Annika's name pop up on the screen. “I am, but she just e-mailed, so I'll write her back, tell her what we saw, and confirm that we should stick with the original plan. Good?”

“Great! Marvelous! Glorious! Stupendous! Exquisite! Scrumptious!”

For a second I think Mystery actually overheard our conversation—even though Lemon's just reached water shallow enough for his feet to touch sand—and is answering me. But then I realize he's addressing Troublemakers in the canoe ahead of ours as he helps them onshore.

“That's what today is!” he sings. “Great, marvelous, glorious, stupendous, exquisite, and scrumptious! Don't you agree?”

“I might have to borrow some of his super senior-citizen vitamins,” Abe says. “The dude's got pep.”

We all hop out of our boat before it reaches sand to avoid Mystery's bizarre greeting. Once onshore, we run to our teachers for our chore assignments and supplies. I get laundry detail—and a jug of detergent, another of bleach, and a box of fabric-softener sheets.

“How do I do it?” I ask Houdini after he's done loading me up.

“See this sweatshirt?” he asks. “I've bought the same one thirty-seven times. Whenever it really starts to reek, I just toss it and buy a new one.”

This, apparently, is his way of saying he doesn't know. Because he doesn't do laundry.

I thank him for the supplies and turn around to look for Elinor. She's standing with Abe a few yards away. They seem to be having a serious conversation. When Abe sees that I see them, he waves me over.

“Elinor's working with me today,” he announces when I reach them.

I look at Elinor. “Is that what you want?”

“She wants to help the group,” Abe says. “Right?”

“Of course,” Elinor says. “But—”

“She has mopping duty. My parents' floors are awful. If she gave them a good scrub today, that'd be really helpful.”

I start to protest, but Abe catches my eye.
His
eyes say everything he doesn't want to say out loud. Which is the same thing he wrote in an e-mail to me late last night.

Which was: Elinor wasn't included in Shepherd Bull's presentation of Troublemakers to Incriminators at the Performance Pavilion. And if they're really here to get back at us for stealing Elinor from their school, then she should've been. Abe's convinced this is because she's secretly working for the other team.

I'm not. I still don't believe Elinor would ever do such a
thing. Abe's e-mail also said that he doesn't trust me to see who she really is. So if I'm smart, I'll let him keep tabs on her today. It could only help my case.

His eyes say that, too. They're very expressive.

“Fine,” I tell him. Then to Elinor, “Call if you need anything.”

They leave. Looking around, I see that Lemon and Gabby are already gone. So are most of our classmates. I pick up my supplies and start across the beach.

The jugs of detergent and bleach are heavy, but they feel like jugs of feathers compared to my head. There's just so much in it. Like, is Abe right? Could Elinor be some kind of spy? Maybe to earn points with her mom? How come I haven't seen
my
mom since we got here? Does she leave the house before dawn every morning to do top-secret work for Annika? How come Dad can't seem to get away from me fast enough? What will the Incriminators do with us if they have the chance? And why'd Miss Parsippany once again not say what her new job is?

I'm so busy sorting through all of these thoughts and questions, I don't notice the flyers covering the sand until one sticks to my sneaker. Then I stop, yank the flyer from my shoe, and read.

KILTER FAMILIES!

READY TO GET YOUR GROOVE ON?

JOIN DJ HOUDINI AND THE FUNKY FACULTY FOR THE 1st ANNUAL KAMP KILTER BEACH BASH!

ENJOY A NIGHT OF MUSIC,

FOOD, FIREWORKS, AND FUN!

WHERE: KAMP KILTER BEACH

WHEN: SATURDAY, 8 P.M.

Note: Attendance is mandatory—because at Kamp Kilter,

FUN is mandatory!

A beach bash. Great. While I'm lugging around a hundred pounds of worry, my parents are living it up.

I shove the flyer into my shorts pocket. Then I keep walking.

When I reach the base of the long, steep staircase, I stop again. I drop the jugs to the sand, take my K-Pak from my other shorts pocket, and read Annika's latest e-mail.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
So?

Dear Seamus,

I hope you enjoyed your shopping spree. Did anything happen after that?

—Annika

I glance around to make sure no one—like Shepherd Bull or one of his criminal companions—is lurking nearby, trying to see my computer screen while waiting to pounce. When the coast seems clear, I press reply and start typing.

TO:
[email protected]

CC:
[email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: So?

Hi, Annika!

Something did happen after our shopping trip. But before I tell you about that, I wanted to tell
you about Mr. Tempest. He's been acting kind of strange. Like, really happy. That's probably a good thing, but I thought you should know in case it isn't.

Back to business—and an Incriminator update. After our Kommissary trip last night we heard noise coming from the Performance Pavilion. We investigated and found dozens of Incriminators gathered for some kind of informational meeting—about Abe, Lemon, Gabby, me, and the rest of our troublemaking class.

We're on the case to find out exactly what they're up to. Do you still want us to engage them without taking them down?

Let us know! Thanks!

—Seamus

I send the message. I'm reaching down for the cleaning jugs when my K-Pak buzzes.

TO:
[email protected]

CC:
[email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: RE: So?

Thanks for the update. Proceed with Incriminators as planned IF YOU HAVE TIME. Remember: Your parents are the priority!

—Annika

Huh. It's not like I expected her to be super concerned about us being targeted, but she didn't even comment on the Incriminators' meeting. I might be offended if I didn't have too many other things to worry about.

I pocket my K-Pak, pick up my supplies, and hurry up the stairs. I cross the yard and start up the porch steps. Before I reach the door, I hear Dad whistling inside. I crouch down by a window and peek through the gap in the curtains. He's sitting on the couch with his back to me. The coffee table's covered in books and papers, but I can't make out titles or words.

Remember: Your parents are the priority!

Annika's reminder helps me focus. I know exactly what I
need to do.

I dash down the porch steps and around the back of the house, where I stash my cleaning supplies under a bush. I slink across the deck, climb onto a railing, and grab a low-hanging tree branch. Wishing I had Ike's Kilter Katcher, I lift myself up and scoot and shimmy across branches. After a few minutes—and several splinters—I reach a second-floor window. Unlike all of the other windows, this one's foggy. Also unlike the other windows, it's cracked open. Dad always opens the bathroom window while taking his hot morning shower. Thankfully, he hasn't changed his routine at Kamp Kilter.

Gripping the branch with one hand, I reach forward with the other and push up the window. When there's a wide enough opening, I lower my torso to the branch and aim my head at the opening. Moving an inch at a time, I slide through the space. As soon as more of me is inside the bathroom than outside, I grab the edge of the marble counter and pull. The force of my legs flying through the window shoves my entire body off of the counter. I land on the floor with a thud.

I hold my breath. Wait.

Dad's still whistling. He didn't hear me.

I scramble to my feet and peer around the door to check the hallway. When my K-Pak buzzes, I see that the new message is our daily troublemaking assignment, and I exit my K-Mail without reading it. If our parents are the priority, then the troublemaking assignment can wait.

But two steps later, I find another distraction.

Mom's journal. It's sitting on the dresser in their bedroom. Inches away from where I'm standing in the hall.

Glancing toward the living room, I don't see Dad. I hear him, though. Now he's humming. But it doesn't sound like he's moved from the couch.

Deciding it's worth the risk, I leap across the hall and into my parents' bedroom. I take a second to appreciate my ballerina-soft landing, then grab the journal and flip ahead a few years. Thanks to the time crunch, I have to skip, not stroll, down memory lane.

This entry was written five years ago, when I was eight.

We had another incident today. Seamus and I were spending the afternoon at the park. Several kids decided to play hide-and-seek. Seamus seemed content to sit alone on a seesaw, but I
encouraged him to join the game.

I stop, listening for Dad. He's still humming in the living room. I keep reading.

He started playing. And for a while, everything was fine.

Until Seamus was the seeker.

Is it my fault? Did I baby him too much? Did I wrap him too tightly in soft blankets all those years ago? These are the questions I've been asking myself ever since my son found Bartholomew John crouched under a picnic table and happily announced his discovery. And Bartholomew John insisted that he hadn't been found—and shoved Seamus to the ground. At which point, rather than insisting he'd won, Seamus ran over to me and cried.

Physically he was fine—but I wasn't. My heart broke. Because he was embarrassed. And I felt awful that he didn't feel strong enough to stand
up for himself.

I have my work cut out for me. But whatever it takes, I WILL get the job done.

There's a noise down the hall. I put the book back where I found it and tiptoe to the bedroom door. Peeking out, I see Dad coming toward me—and I duck back inside. A second later, his footsteps stop. I lean forward.

In the hallway, the door that's always locked is now open. Dad's bottom sticks out past the door's edge as he bends down and rummages around. This lasts nearly a minute, then he stands up straight.

“Whoo-boy!” Dad exclaims, patting his belly. “This tank needs some fuel. Chow time!”

Good. He's going to the Kilter Kafeteria. Now I can read more of Mom's journal—and figure out how to get inside that closet.

“What'll it be this morning?” Dad asks, heading down the hall. “Bacon? Eggs? Cheeseburger and fries?”

My stomach turns as I hear him open and close the refrigerator, then clang around pots and pans. He's making himself
breakfast. Which means he's not leaving.

This answers one question, anyway. Just like every other morning, Mom's not here. If she were, she'd be cooking—a low-fat, healthy meal.

Still in their bedroom, I wonder what I should do. Keep watching him from a safe distance inside the house? Or sneak back outside, knock on the door like I've just arrived for my daily cleaning detail, and see what he does?

I think about it, then go with option number three.

Play with fire. Not the way Lemon does (or used to).

The way Mom would want me to.

I peer down the hall. The coast is clear, so I tiptoe from the bedroom.

“Real maple syrup!” Dad declares, making me jump into the next open doorway. “Made from Kamp Kilter tree sap! What a treat!”

He continues whistling and banging pots. I continue creeping down the hall.

Five steps later, the wood floor creaks. I freeze. Listen.

Dad falls silent. Like he's listening too.

A few seconds later, he keeps whistling. I keep walking.

When I reach the door that's usually locked, I stop and smile. Dad left it ajar. I don't even have to turn the knob and worry about it clicking—and inviting attention.

But then I open the door farther. And my smile vanishes.

What I thought was a closet isn't really a closet. It might have been once, but now there are no coats. Or bath towels. Or anything else Mom keeps in our hall closets at home.

Books are stacked on the floor. And they're not literary classics or accounting texts, which until now are the only kinds of books I've ever seen Dad read. Skimming the titles, I see
Keeping Your Kid in Line
.
How to Sabotage Your Son
.
101 Rules for Pure Parental Power
.

There are pamphlets, too, like “Popular Smack and Slang.” “The 10 Most Common Lies Kids Tell.” “Childproof Your Life.” Some are taped to the inside of the door, with certain phrases highlighted. Scanning quickly, I see one phrase repeated—and highlighted—more than any other.