Watch Your Step

by T. R. Burns

  “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.”

  Chapter 5

  DEMERITS: 410

  GOLD STARS: 150

  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: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: loliver@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Kamp Kilter

  S—

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

  —L

  I hit reply, start typing.

  TO: loliver@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  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: parsippany@cloudviewschools.net

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  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 troub
lemaker 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.

  Of course, that was before I found Mom up in the attic, surrounded by Kilter supplies. Then I figured she was probably so grateful to him for making me throw the apple in the school cafeteria and get shipped off to Kilter, she considered him an honorary son.

  Miss Parsippany doesn’t know any of this, though. Or what Kilter really trains kids to do. Telling myself she’s better off in the dark, I hit send.

  My K-Pak beeps with another new message.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: enorris@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Where are you?

  Hi Seamus,

  I got to Kamp Kilter a little while ago. I just checked your place but it’s empty. Does that mean you’re still on your way? I hope so. . . .

  —Elinor

  My heart pounds as I write her back.

  TO: enorris@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: Where are you?

  On my way, be there in no time!

  I hit send and lean between the two front seats. “Any chance we can go faster?”

  “There sure is!”

  Dad punches the gas. Mom yelps. I fly back into my seat. We’re still several miles away, but thanks to skills I had no idea Dad or his ancient sedan possessed, the Kamp Kilter sign appears nine and a half minutes later.

  The car skids to a stop by a small house. It looks like a log cabin, but made of steel instead of wood.

  I slide down the seat for a better view. Dad rolls down his window and sticks out his head. We stay like this for a long moment. Because nothing happens. No one comes out of the house to greet us. No other cars pull up behind ours. We’re parked at the edge of a deep, dark forest, but leaves don’t rustle, birds don’t sing, the air doesn’t stir. It reminds me of the very first time we came to Kilter, when Mom rushed toward the windowless gray building and Dad and I stood outside the chain-link fence topped in barbed wire, trying to convince each other it was anything but terrifying.

  Now I’m scared again. But this time of being kept out—not let in.

  Before fear turns to panic, the steel cabin’s door screams open. A figure steps out. It’s wearing green cargo pants, a green cargo shirt, and tall black combat boots. The clothes are stretched thin across big, sharp muscles, like they’re straining to hang on. Aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses hide the figure’s eyes.

  “Hi, Annika,” I say.

  She approaches us silently. Dad pulls his head back into the car slowly. Like he’s afraid one wrong move will make her yank the gun from the holster attached to her hip. Because he has no idea the weapon is a toy filled with water. Or that it’s only for show.

  Annika stops by Dad’s open window. Her head turns toward mine. As I stare at my reflection in her mirrored sunglasses, my pulse quickens. My lungs pump faster. Despite our differences, I know she considers me a star pupil . . . but she can still shrink me down to pint-size with a single look if I’m not sure why she’s giving it.

  She holds my gaze. Then she looks at Dad, throws open her arms, and smiles. “Welcome to Kamp Kilter, Mr. and Mrs. Hinkle!”

  Dad’s head hits the back of his seat as he exhales and laughs. Mom laughs too.

  “How was the ride?” Annika rests her palms on her thighs and stoops down so that she’s eye-level with my parents. “Find us okay?”

  “It was a breeze!” Dad says.

  “Wonderful. We’re thrilled you’re here! Now let me get your bags.” Annika disappears into the steel cabin. Two seconds later she pops out holding sparkly gray tote bags. “Here are a few things to get you started. Beach towels, water bottles, sunblock, sunglasses, straw hats, lip balm, flip-flops—you know, the basics!”

  Dad takes the bags. Not braced for their weight, his arms drop. His triceps slam against the bottom of the open window.

  “Oops! Careful.” Annika lends Dad a hand. Together they lift the totes into the driver’s seat. “Your K-Pads are also in there.”

  “K-what?” Dad asks.

  “Your very own Kamp Kilter personal computers,” Annika explains. “Jam-packed with information, including your cabin assignment, an interactive map of the grounds, and an e-mail and phone directory for all facilities and services.”

  “Like K-Paks,” I say.

  Annika ignores me. “They’ll also tell you everything you need to know about itineraries, class schedules, movie showings, workshops, lectures, special activities, and more. They shouldn’t leave many questions, but should you have any, our camp counselors are always available and ready to help.”

  “It sounds like you’ve thought of everything!” Mom declares.

  It does. And considering Kamp Kilter has existed for less than twenty-four hours, I have to give Annika credit for this too.

  “Just one more thing, and then you’re off to having fun in the sun—or being made in the shade!” Annika disappears into the steel cabin again. When she reappears, she’s carrying a large basket. “I need your cell phones.”

  Dad reels back as she thrusts the basket forward.

  “We want you to be fully immersed in rest and relaxation, without any distractions. And uninterrupted family time is guaranteed to bring you closer than you’ve ever been. Is anything more important than that?”

  My parents exchange looks.

  “You’ll get them back at the end of camp,” Annika adds.

  They force smiles and fork over their phones.

  “Great!” Annika cradles the basket between her waist and arm. “Now just scoot over and make room for Horatio here.”

  A tall man wearing gray shorts and a gray T-shirt emerges from the cabin. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him—until I notice the silver fanny pack around his waist. Then I realize he’s one of the Good Samaritans, Kilter’s version of security. Apparently he’s been given a new look for his new position with Kamp Kilter.

  Horatio opens the driver’s-side door, nudges Dad over, and sits down. Then he produces two silver ribbons, winds them around my parents’ heads and across their eyes, and double-knots them. As Mom and Dad gasp and giggle, Annika opens my door, pulls me out of the car, and clamps one cold hand over my mouth.

  “Have fun!” she calls out as Horatio buckles up and hits the gas. “And if you need anything at all, just ask!”

  My pulse pounds in my ears as I watch them drive down a long dirt road. Annika brings her head toward mine and lowers her voice.

  “A true Troublemaker can’t be cured so fast . . . can he?”

  Which I guess is her way of saying that bad kids don’t deserve the kind of fun my parents are about to have.

  A few seconds later, Dad’s ancient sedan rounds a corner and is swallowed by trees. Annika releases my mouth. Nervous for my parents now that I can no longer see them, I resist sprinting after them.

  I turn around instead and see a golf cart that wasn’t there five seconds ago. An older man wearing black wool pants, a black turtleneck, and a black baseball hat sits as still as stone behind the wheel.

  “Get . . . in,” he hisses.

  I jump in the cart. Because when Mr. Tempest, a.k.a. Mystery, a.k.a. Kilter’s history teacher, tells you to do something, you do it.

  You could die if you don’t.

  Chapter 6

  DEMERITS: 430

  GOLD STARS: 150

  Oh my gosh, this is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen! Isn’t it the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen? I can’
t believe we get to live here!”

  Gabby squeals and sprints away. Abe looks at me.

  “Can we take out her batteries?” he asks.

  I grin. He half smiles too, so I know he doesn’t totally mind Gabby’s hyperactivity.

  “Oh my goodness! Guys. You have to see this!”

  We’re in the kitchen and follow Gabby’s shriek to the next room, where she’s standing between the biggest flat-screen TV and fleece beanbag chair known to mankind.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Agreed,” Abe says. “When Mystery dropped me off, I thought I’d be sleeping on the ground—not living in luxury underneath it.”

  I thought the same thing. Because after a silent ride that seemed to last days but only took minutes, Mystery dropped me off in front of a tent. Actually, that’s too fancy a term for what it really was. Because tents have zippers. Some even have multiple rooms and windows. What I ducked under was a ripped black tarp draped over two sticks stuck in the ground. Like Abe, I expected to find a big patch of dirt. Maybe a cot. Definitely the promise of long, sleepless nights watching for bears and flicking away bugs.

  But I found a gleaming silver trapdoor instead. And a computer screen attached to a pedestal. Once the section of tarp I’d lifted floated back to the ground, the screen flashed on and instructed me to place my palm to its surface. I did, the computer registered my print, and the trapdoor whooshed open. A clear glass tube rose up. Its door slid open, then closed after I stepped inside. I have no idea how far below ground it traveled. In fact, once it stopped I wasn’t even sure I was still below ground, because the room it landed in was bright and sunny. The windows throughout the room looked real. They offered beautiful views of blue sky, a turquoise lake, a white sandy beach, and flower-covered mountains. Those looked real too.

  I asked Abe how that was possible. He guessed live video feed. Which means the outdoor images we see are projections captured by digital camcorders scattered throughout the campground.

  “What are those?” Gabby asks now, pointing to several small gray spheres spread across the ceiling.