Watch Your Step

by T. R. Burns

  We look at each other. Smile. Whatever tension was between us during the second half of our walk here melts away.

  “Should we clean first and investigate later?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  She takes her supplies and goes to the fireplace. I take my bucket, Smudge-Be-Gone, and paper towels, and start toward the living room’s wall of windows. Then I think better of it and change direction.

  En route to the hallway, I pass the wall of tree branches and have an idea. I turn around again and head for the kitchen. I open the freezer and pull out the big bag I’d hoped would be there. I dump the bag’s contents into a bowl, pop the bowl into the microwave, and press start. Three minutes later, I remove the bowl and return to the living room.

  Elinor looks up when I come back in but keeps sweeping the fireplace without asking questions.

  Three more minutes later, I’m done.

  “What do you think?” I ask, surveying my work.

  “Wow.” Elinor surveys too. “Impressive.”

  “Freaky impressive?”

  “Definitely.”

  Good. That’s what I was going for when I stuck the warm, soggy fish sticks onto sharp points all over the wall of branches.

  “Is that a house?” Elinor asks.

  “Yup. And the fish sticks will probably start to fall apart before my parents see them. Which means the house will start to fall apart. Kind of like our real one did back home.”

  Elinor looks at me. “I’m still a good listener.”

  “I know. Thanks.” I nod toward the hall. “I’ll start in the bedrooms. Yell if you need anything.”

  “You too.”

  I leave the room, check the locked closet, which is still locked, and head for my parents’ bedroom. Once inside, I close the door slightly, leaving a wide enough gap that Elinor can still see me and won’t worry or wonder what I’m up to. Then I put down my supplies and head for the nightstand.

  It’s still there. Mom’s coupon folder. With her journal inside.

  “You have to do it,” I tell myself quietly. “Not just for your own good. For everyone’s.”

  I do believe that knowing Mom’s secret thoughts will somehow help me fix our family. But I still feel guilty as I slide out the journal, flip forward a few pages, and start reading.

  Today was a terrible day.

  My chest tightens. According to the date at the top of the page, Mom had this terrible day ten years ago, when I was three.

  My adorable boy was playing in the sandbox with another adorable boy named Bartholomew John.

  I stop reading. Cringe. Keep going.

  They were building castles and getting along swimmingly. They shared shovels and helped each other dig moats. For a time I thought I was watching the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

  But then everything changed. Seamus’ castle grew taller than Bartholomew John’s castle—and Bartholomew John couldn’t have that. As soon as he noticed the height difference, he grabbed a rock from the—

  “Seamus?” Elinor calls out.

  I snap the journal shut and drop it on the nightstand. Then I dart to the open bedroom door.

  “Yeah?” I call back.

  “Are you hungry?”

  My stomach grumbles. “I could definitely eat!”

  “Want me to see what I can find in the kitchen?”

  “Sure! Thanks!”

  I wait until I hear cabinets opening and closing, then spin around and hurry back across the room.

  “Hey. What . . . ? Where . . . ?”

  I stare at the nightstand. The coupon folder’s gone.

  I check the floor, under the bed, and behind the nightstand. When it’s not in any of those places, I stop and think. I had my back turned for ten seconds. How could it just disappear? Was I so surprised by Elinor calling my name that I only thought I put it back where I found it? Did I accidentally drop it somewhere else instead?

  That must be what happened. Because when I scan the room, I see it on the dresser, five feet away.

  I hurry over, find where I left off, and keep reading.

  Seamus’ castle grew taller than Bartholomew John’s castle—and Bartholomew John couldn’t have that. As soon as he noticed the height difference, he grabbed a rock from the dirt outside the sandbox, pulled back his arm, and hurled it right at poor Seamus’ head.

  I don’t remember any of this, but I can totally picture it. Hurling rocks at my head sounds like something Bartholomew John would love to do. Even as a toddler.

  “Seamus?” Elinor calls out.

  I place the journal on the dresser and dart to the open door. “Yeah?”

  “Do you like pancakes?”

  “Sure!”

  I return to the dresser. The coupon folder’s there.

  But the journal’s not.

  I crouch down and peer under the dresser. When nothing’s there, I stand up.

  “What is going on?” I ask nobody.

  Because the journal’s back on top of the dresser.

  I close and rub my eyes. When I open them again . . . the journal’s gone again.

  “Looking for trouble, Troublemaker?” a low voice asks.

  My heart stops. My skin tingles. I spin to the right. The left. Right again. I don’t see anyone, but I do see the journal. On the bed. The nightstand. The top of my parents’ suitcase. It disappears and reappears, as if under the spell of a magician’s wand.

  My troublemaking training kicks in. I lunge for my supply bucket and yank out the squeegee. The journal’s still on my parents’ suitcase, so I throw myself in that direction, whirling the squeegee overhead.

  By the time I reach the suitcase, the journal’s gone. I stand still and scan the room.

  Just wait. Listen. Give your instincts a chance, and they won’t let you down.

  Ike’s voice fills my head. These are his instructions whenever I’m so excited to learn something new—and to get it right—that I do it all wrong.

  Every inch of my body aches to bolt around the room, but I force it to stay put. Then I close my eyes again. Wait. Listen.

  “HA!”

  This flies from my mouth as the squeegee flies from my hand. Opening my eyes, I see that my instincts worked. The window-washing weapon’s handle is lodged in the wall next to the bed. Stuck in the hole with it is the ankle end of a dirty tube sock. A piece of chewed bubblegum is glued to the toe end of the dirty tube sock. On the floor three feet below the hole is Mom’s journal.

  I know that whoever was in the room with me is gone now, but I look around anyway. Then I tug the squeegee and sock from the wall and drop both into my bucket. I pick up the journal, find the part where Bartholomew John threw a rock at my head in the sandbox, and quickly finish reading the entry I started before being attacked.

  My son cried like a baby.

  And I cannot have that.

  Ouch. This stings—and makes me want to keep reading. But I’m anxious to tell my friends what just happened, so I return the journal and coupon book to the nightstand, where I originally found them. Then I sprint from the room and head for the kitchen.

  But the kitchen’s empty. Smoke billows from a pan on the stove. I hurry over, turn off the heat, and keep running.

  “Elinor! You’ll never guess—”

  I skid to a stop. Elinor, who’s on her knees by the fireplace, stands up.

  “Seamus? What—”

  She doesn’t finish her sentence either. Probably because when she sees what I see, she can’t.

  The fish sticks. On the wall of branches. When I left the room a few minutes ago, they were arranged in the shape of a broken house.

  But instead of a picture, now they form three letters—and one terrifying message.

  I

  C

  U

  Chapter 18

  DEMERITS: 1630

  GOLD STARS: 850

  Who sees you?” Annika asks.

  “Shepherd Bull,” I say.

  “And his dirty friend
s,” Gabby adds. “Because Shepherd Bull couldn’t have been in the bedroom and the living room at the same time.”

  “Interesting.” Annika walks across the yacht deck, hands clasped behind her back. “What about the rest of you? Were you attacked too?”

  “Not today,” Abe says. “But we weren’t at our parents’ cabins very long before Seamus called us on v-chat and told us what was going on. If Incriminators were around, they probably heard us talking about them and decided not to make a move.”

  Annika reaches one end of the deck, turns, and walks some more. She’s been pacing since we got here twenty minutes ago. I e-mailed her right after I told my friends what had happened, and she sent a cart as soon as our chores were done and we got the clearance to leave from our teachers.

  “We need supplies,” Abe says. “From the Kommissary.”

  “As I said the other day,” Annika says, “you may engage them—but not run them off.”

  “But if we don’t have the right tools,” Abe says, “they might run us off.”

  Annika stops, cocks an eyebrow in his direction.

  “Believe me,” he says. “I don’t like admitting it. Because we’re good. Really good. But those kids are crazy.”

  Annika keeps walking. I glance at Elinor. Our eyes meet. She shrugs as if to say she has no idea what her aunt is thinking. Eventually, Annika stops. Right in front of me.

  “Do you feel you need additional supplies?” she asks.

  “They can’t hurt,” I say.

  “And you think you can give my sister’s students a run for their money without stopping them from proceeding with anything else they may have planned?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  She nods. “Very well. I’ll program the cart to take you to the Kommissary.”

  “Great.” Abe jumps up. “Thanks, Annika. We’ll just—”

  “Not so fast.” Annika motions to a waiter. He goes to the door on the far side of the deck.

  “Oh no,” Abe says. “Please don’t tell me my parents are here again.”

  “I think you and your families would benefit from another Role Reverse session,” Annika says. “But no, your parents are sitting this one out.”

  I hold my breath. If the Hansens and the Ryans aren’t participating . . . does that mean mine are?

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. and Mrs. Oliver!” Annika declares as Lemon’s parents step out onto the deck. “And Finn, great to see you!”

  Exhaling, I smile and wave to Lemon’s little brother, who hides behind his mother’s legs.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Oliver says. “But is everything okay? A golf cart came for us and whisked us away so suddenly, we were worried something had happened to Lemon.”

  “He wasn’t with you?” Annika asks. “In your cabin? I assumed you’d all come together.”

  “We weren’t in our cabin,” Mrs. Oliver says sheepishly. “We were . . . out.”

  “I see.” Annika frowns, then looks at me. “Any idea where your best friend might be?”

  Lemon’s whereabouts are turning out to be a bigger mystery than Mystery himself. Before I can try to buy him time, the deck door flings open.

  “Sorry!” Lemon dashes onto the deck. “I’m here! Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad! So great to see you, little brother!” He hugs his parents and pats Finn’s head. “What’d I miss?”

  “Nothing yet,” Annika says. “But Lemon, I’m not pleased with your tardiness. Your friends have been here thirty minutes. It was bad enough not coming when they did, but then not coming with your parents either? And keeping them waiting?”

  “Oh, we haven’t been here long.” Mrs. Oliver puts an arm around her eldest son. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” Annika strides to her deck chair, sits, and holds a clipboard in her lap. “But I’ll deal with that later.”

  “May I ask what we’re doing here?” Mr. Oliver asks. “The teacher who told us we were to meet you didn’t mention why.”

  “Of course! And I do apologize for the lack of information. You’re here for Role Reverse.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Oliver exchange looks.

  “Surely you’ve heard about it from the other parents,” Annika says. “No? That’s odd. It’s been such a hit.” She shrugs, then proceeds to tell them what she told Abe’s and Gabby’s parents about the insightful activity, and suggests that they reenact the moment that made Lemon’s parents decide to send him to Kilter.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Lemon says.

  “I don’t think that’s for you to say,” Annika says.

  “Can’t we act out a different time?” Lemon asks. “Please?”

  “That’d be fine with us,” Mrs. Oliver says quickly.

  Annika tilts her head, clearly wondering why the entire Oliver family doesn’t want to do as she’s asked. This, of course, only makes her want them to act out that specific moment even more.

  “Lemon,” she says, “you may play either your mother or your father. Who do you choose?”

  Lemon’s quiet for a long moment. Then he mumbles, “Dad.”

  Annika looks at his parents. “Mr. Oliver, you’ll play your son. Okay?”

  Mr. Oliver swallows and nods.

  “And . . . action!” Annika declares.

  If this were a movie, we’d be watching the slowest, least dramatic opening ever. Because nothing happens. Mr. Oliver and Lemon don’t speak. The rest of us are silent. Even Finn is quiet as he sits in his mother’s lap.

  “Dude,” Abe finally says, not unkindly. “The faster you do it, the faster it’s over.”

  Which is enough of a pep talk to get Lemon to speak.

  “How could he do this?”

  “Louder!” Annika commands.

  “How could he do this?” Lemon tries again, slightly raising his voice. “I’ve never understood this . . . hobby . . . of his. I know we used to build fires together a while ago, during our father-son camping trips, but then Finn was born. And we stopped going camping. We stopped doing a lot of things. Anyway, there wasn’t a reason to build campfires anymore. Yet he kept playing with matches, lighters, and other flame-sparking things. I didn’t approve, but we always kept fire extinguishers on hand. And he was always so safe. So careful. But then . . . this. Finn.”

  Lemon pauses. Mr. Oliver moves to pull him into a big hug.

  Annika clucks her tongue. “Stay in character, please!”

  Dropping his arms, Lemon’s dad says softly, “It was an accident. I’m sorry.” He looks at Annika. “That’s all he was thinking in that moment. I know it.”

  “Fine.” She makes a note on the paper on her clipboard. “You may be seated. Elinor, you’re up.”

  Elinor gasps lightly. “My mom’s here?”

  “Don’t be silly. But you’ve displayed your theatrical talents at Kilter more than once. Surely you can play both parts.”

  Elinor’s sitting next to me. I lean toward her and whisper, “You don’t have to do this.” She might be in the Dramatists group at Kilter, but that doesn’t mean she’s comfortable taking center stage—especially by herself, with such personal material.

  She gives me a small smile. “Thanks. But it’s okay.”

  Our chairs are arranged in a half circle. She gets up and stands in the middle of the arc. Annika’s chair faces ours, so she’s sitting behind Elinor.

  “I’ll do my mom first.” She closes her eyes and, for a moment, is perfectly still.

  I glance at Annika. She’s typing on her K-Pak, not even paying attention. Knowing her, she probably put Elinor up to this just to make her uncomfortable.

  “Useless!”

  I jump. So does everyone else on board. Now Elinor’s eyes are wide open. Her nostrils flare.

  “Poor excuse for a daughter!” she exclaims. “It’s Mother’s Day. My day. And what would make me happy? If my kid would just listen to me. Do what I tell her to the rest of the year, but without arguing. Is that too much to ask?” Elinor shakes her head. Fast. “But what does she do inst
ead? She cleans the house, from roof to floor. She brings me breakfast in bed. She asks if we can take a walk together, just the two of us. I mean, really? A walk? Doesn’t she know how busy I am? I don’t have time for walks! And if she’d only do what I want her to, she wouldn’t either!”

  Elinor stops. Closes her eyes again.

  “Mommy,” Finn whispers. “What does her mommy want her to do?”

  Make trouble. Mrs. Oliver doesn’t know this, though. She probably thinks Elinor’s a wonderful daughter for doing all those things for her mom on Mother’s Day. I know I do. Unable to answer, she shakes her head and kisses the top of Finn’s head.

  “I made her French toast,” Elinor begins again. Her voice is softer now. She looks like herself, only sadder. “That’s her favorite. And I asked her to go for a walk, because I wanted to spend time together. I wanted a chance to talk. About the weather. Movies. Music. Whatever. I wanted to get to know her a little bit. And for her to get to know me a little bit. Because she’s my mother . . . but in a lot of ways, we’re strangers.” Elinor looks down. “I’m sorry I disappointed her again.”

  She brushes at her eyes. Gabby jumps up and throws her arms around her. Mrs. Oliver pulls Finn tighter. Mr. Oliver puts one hand on Lemon’s shoulder. Abe frowns and clenches his fists, clearly upset by what he just heard.

  Glancing at Annika, I see her lips tremble. A single tear slides down her cheek. For perhaps the first time ever, she seems to feel something for her niece besides annoyance.

  “Well done, Elinor,” she says quietly. “Well done.”

  Chapter 19

  DEMERITS: 1720

  GOLD STARS: 850

  Oh. My. Goodness! These. Are. So. Cute! Aren’t they? Hello? Guys? Do you even see this?”

  See this. See you. As in . . . me.

  “You alright, Hinkle?” Abe asks, ignoring Gabby.

  I nod. Even though I can’t stop thinking about the rearranged fish sticks in my parents’ cabin.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “If the Incriminators want to play, we’ll give them a game they won’t forget. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Here” is the Kommissary. As soon as the Olivers returned to camp, Annika had a golf cart take us to our shopping destination. The second Abe, Gabby, Elinor, Lemon, and I were seated and buckled, the cart took off like a rocket. Traveling at the speed of light, we shot through what seemed to be hundreds of acres of dark forest, and reached the school store in minutes flat.