Watch Your Step

by T. R. Burns

  Abe frowns. Gabby pouts. Lemon stares at his lap. I try not to be disappointed when nobody says anything else. I definitely don’t want to part on bad terms, but I can’t blame them for being mad.

  “Well,” I say, starting to stand. “I should go pack.”

  “Wait,” Abe says.

  I stop. He gets up and goes over to Gabby. He motions for Lemon to join them, and they form a small huddle. After a lot of whispering and nodding, they split up and face me. Looking serious, Abe starts to speak.

  “You can’t leave!” Gabby blurts out.

  Abe rolls his eyes.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t help it!”

  “Do you want to leave?” Abe asks me.

  “And never see us again?” Gabby asks.

  “Of course not,” I say. “But I just can’t lie anymore.”

  “What if there was a way to do both?” Lemon asks. “To come clean—and still stay at Kilter?”

  “That’d be amazing,” I say. “But it’s impossible.”

  “Not necessarily,” Abe says.

  Apparently worried the walls have ears, he waves for me to come closer. They huddle again, and when I join them, Abe and Gabby share their potential plan. Which is: to use what we learned in the Angel Makers’ secret cave last night to prove to Annika that I deserve to be at Kilter. Even if Miss Parsippany’s alive.

  “That sounds great,” I say when they’re done. “But I really don’t want to prank my parents anymore.”

  “You don’t have to,” Abe says. “If you do everything else right, Annika won’t even notice your parents were left out.”

  I think about this, then look at Lemon. “You’re onboard?”

  “I’m onboard with keeping my best friend,” he says, “so I’ll do what I can.”

  My chest warms. I want to hug them all, but since I don’t want Abe to run away when there’s so much to plan, I resist.

  Still huddled, we discuss the next steps. When we break after several minutes, Gabby and Abe take their shopping bags and go to their rooms to test their purchases. Lemon goes to his room to take a nap.

  When they leave, I sit on the couch. I’m about to take notes on my K-Pak when I notice a green ribbon on the coffee table. It’s Elinor’s ribbon, for her hair.

  Grateful for the reason to pay her a visit, and eager to tell her the truth too, I grab the ribbon and hurry from the room. Stopping outside her bedroom door, I take a second to catch my breath. Then I knock lightly.

  “Elinor? It’s Seamus. Can I come in?”

  There’s a long pause. Then, “Okay.”

  I inch open the door. Elinor’s sitting cross-legged on her bed. A book’s open in her lap.

  I smile. “Hi.”

  She sort of smiles. “Hi.”

  “How are you?”

  “Okay. You?”

  “Okay too.” I try to think of what to say next. Then I remember the reason for my visit and thrust one fist toward her. “I found your ribbon.”

  Her eyes lift from the book in her lap to the satin strand hanging from my hand. “Oh. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Should I . . . ? Where would you like me to . . . ?

  “On the desk is fine.”

  I walk over and place the ribbon on a closed notebook. Before turning away I notice her friendship bracelet, the one that matches the braided string currently wound around my wrist, lying on top of a different notebook.

  I force my feet away from the desk. “So that was pretty crazy last night, huh? In the cave? With Mystery? And the Angel Makers?”

  Still looking down at her book, she nods. “Yup.”

  “Elinor, I’m really sorry if—”

  “Seamus, I’m kind of in the middle of a chapter. Can we talk some other time?”

  My heart sinks. “Sure.”

  I lower my head and shuffle back to the door. I stop with one hand on the knob, hoping she’ll say something, anything to suggest that she’s not as mad at me as she seems to be . . . but she turns a page instead. And I leave the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

  Back in my room, I picture the friendship bracelet on her desk. Did she take it off after I hurt her feelings last night? Or was she wearing it today and just removed it before changing into her pajamas? Most importantly, what can I say or do to make her want to put it back on?

  After everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, my chest feels empty. Like a shell without a turtle. Unable to do anything else, I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling a while. Eventually my K-Pak buzzes with a new message. I open it.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: annika@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Your Parents

  Your father’s ignoring my Role Reverse e-vites. Your mother wrote back and thanked me, but she failed to say whether she accepted. They’re the only parents I have yet to meet with, and I’m curious as to why they’re being so elusive.

  Any ideas?

  —Annika

  I reread the note. She sounds annoyed, like she thinks I have something to do with my parents’ poor social skills.

  Not in the mood to try to make her feel better when I’m feeling bad myself, I exit that message and start a new one.

  TO: ike@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Careful?

  Hi, Ike! How are you? I hope you’re having fun doing whatever it is you do at Kamp Kilter!

  Thanks again for that super-fun Hammock Hauler lesson. I can’t wait to try it out on moving targets, and not just rocks and bushes!

  On another note, I’ve been wondering something. When we were talking about Annika the other day and you told me to be careful . . . what did you mean? I have some guesses, but I’d love to know the truth.

  Thanks!

  —Seamus

  I send the note. My tutor’s response comes two minutes later.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: ike@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: Careful?

  Hey, Seamus,

  Glad you enjoyed the lesson. We’ll have to have another one soon.

  As for Annika and being careful, I’ll just say this. A few years ago, I was you. A skilled marksman. Top Troublemaker in my class. Teacher’s pet. Annika’s favorite. Destined to get the real-world assignment of my choice after graduation.

  Then I got a peek at our director’s true colors. And feeling like I could, I called her out on it.

  Now I am me. Tutor eternal. With no hope of doing anything more than teaching great kids like you what they could teach themselves with the help of online demos.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like my job. I just thought I’d be doing more. Better. Good. For so many people who needed it.

  But it turns out Annika’s only concerned about the good of one person. Herself. And when you get in her way, she’ll get in yours. Forever.

  And that, my friend, is the truth.

  —Ike

  I read Ike’s note three times. Then I get another message.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: annika@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Meeting

  Seamus,

  So sorry I wrote without mentioning your meeting request from the other day. I’d love to get together ASAP. Am dying to hear all about this exciting development on the parental front!

  How’s tomorrow morning, before you head across the lake? I’ll send a cart.

  Hugs!

  Annika

  I press reply. Without even thinking about what I’ll say, I start typing.

  TO: annika@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: Meeting

  That’s okay, Annika. Was a false alarm. Will let you know if anything changes.

  —Seamus

  Chapter 27

  DEMERITS: 5200

  GOLD STARS: 2950

  My friends and I spend the next few days gathering informat
ion for Troublemaking Tuesday. When we report for cleaning duty in our families’ cabins, we observe our parents’ behavior, let them act out the way Mystery tells them to, and note their strengths and weaknesses. This helps us plan our retaliation. I still don’t want to prank my parents, but watching them—or watching Dad, since Mom’s still mostly MIA—is useful. Or it will be, when the time comes.

  I feel more prepared, and confident, every day. But I’m still caught off guard when, on the Monday before Troublemaking Tuesday, Dad throws a curveball.

  Dear Seamus,

  Your mother and I would like to invite you to dinner at our cabin tonight. Seven p.m. Bring your appetite!

  Love,

  Dad

  I found the note taped to our tent flap early this morning. Standing on my parents’ front porch now, I read it for the hundredth time, searching between the lines for hints of a hidden agenda. Because it’s been five days since my friends and I spied on the Angel Makers meeting. Nine days since we all arrived at Kamp Kilter. According to Annika, my parents have been ignoring her Role Reverse invitations. And this is the first time since we got here that they’ve wanted to spend time with me.

  So I can’t help but wonder . . . why?

  There’s only one way to find out, so I raise a fist. The door swings open.

  “Hello, Seamus.”

  “Mom?” I ask. Because the woman before me kind of resembles the one I’ve known as my mother for thirteen years. Her hair’s still brown. Her eyes are still green. She’s wearing her favorite red sundress and matching red sandals. But something’s different.

  “Oh, it hasn’t been that long, has it?” Mom opens the door wider. “Won’t you come in?”

  Still trying to pinpoint what’s off, I step into the living room. She closes the door behind me.

  “These are for you.” I hold out the bouquet of wildflowers I picked from the woods behind our underground house. Mom and Dad always bring flowers whenever they’re invited to someone else’s house for dinner, so it seemed like the thing to do.

  Mom gasps. Brings both palms to her heart. Smiles.

  That’s it! Her smile. It’s totally different. Usually her lips press tightly together. The corners of her mouth barely lift. Her cheeks, chin, and forehead are tense, as if it’s taking every bit of her facial muscle strength to hold the expression.

  But now her lips actually part. The corners of her mouth lift up her cheeks, which are totally relaxed. Instead of being frozen in place, her face looks warm. Open.

  Happy.

  “They’re beautiful!” she exclaims, taking the flowers. “Thank you. Come into the kitchen with me while I find a vase.” She turns, stops, and turns back. “I mean, would you like to come into the kitchen with me while I find a vase?”

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  She beams. As I follow her across the room, I note the lit fireplace. Soft light coming from a dozen candles set on the coffee and side tables. Jazz music playing from several round wall speakers.

  “The place looks great,” I say once we’re in the kitchen.

  “All thanks to you.” Mom opens a cabinet and takes out a tall glass cylinder. “You’re doing great with your chores. I’ve never seen a house so immaculate day in and day out.”

  “What about our house? Back home? You always make it look it perfect.”

  She stops arranging the flowers in the vase and looks at me. I think her eyes might start to water.

  “Do you really think so?” she asks.

  “Of course. The only reason I know how this house should look when I’m done is because you’ve shown me a million times.”

  She sniffs. Blinks. Continues arranging the flowers.

  “It smells great too,” I say. “What’s for dinner?”

  Her face brightens. “Baked ziti!”

  This throws me off for two reasons. The first is that she didn’t say fish sticks. The second is that I can’t recall baked ziti in my internal dinner database.

  “Is that filled with tofu?” I ask.

  “Nope,” she says, placing the flowers on the table.

  “Broccoli?” I ask.

  “Not a spear.” She hurries to the stove and puts on quilted oven mitts.

  “Soy cheese?”

  She opens the oven door, pulls out a deep dish, and places it on the counter before me. My nostrils tickle as all sorts of yummy smells—garlic, tomato sauce, more garlic—float up with the steam.

  “Nope,” Mom says. “Real cheese.”

  Smiling wider, she reaches back into the oven and pulls out a long, skinny slab wrapped in tinfoil. She places that next to the baked ziti and peels back the tinfoil so I can see what’s inside.

  “Garlic bread?” I ask. “Made with . . . ?”

  “Real butter? Yup.”

  Practically drooling, I reach one hand toward the loaf. Then I stop.

  “Go ahead,” Mom says. “Have a piece.”

  “But we’re not seated at the table.” She’s scolded me for pre-meal munching countless times before.

  She peels back the tinfoil some more. Then she tears off two pieces of bread, hands one to me, and keeps the other for herself.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she says, and takes a big bite.

  I smile. Take a bite. And another. And another. The bread’s hot and moist and salty. I don’t know if I’ve ever tasted anything so delicious in my entire life.

  “Well, well! Look who’s here!”

  I turn around. “Hi, Dad.”

  He’s standing in the kitchen doorway. His eyes shift from me, to the counter, to the floor, to the ceiling, to each wall, and back to me.

  “Thanks for coming,” he finally says.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” I say.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Mom says. “Shall we?”

  Dad comes all the way into the room. Cautiously. Like he’s afraid the floor’s booby-trapped. I stay where I am so he can give me a hug before sitting down.

  But he doesn’t give me a hug. He breezes past and sits down.

  “Isn’t this nice?” Mom motions for me to take the chair across from Dad. “The whole family, together again.”

  “It is.” I glance at Dad.

  “Indeed.” Dad glances at me.

  Mom scoops the gooey pasta onto our plates. We start eating.

  “This is great,” I say. “Thanks for making it.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Mom beams for about the fourteenth time since my arrival. “I was hoping you’d like it. I thought it’d be fun to cook something none of us has ever eaten before. As a way to . . . kind of . . . I don’t know. Start over?”

  Dad and I stop chewing. Our forks hover over our plates.

  “From what?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Dad says. “From what?”

  “Oh, come now. We all know it’s been a difficult few months. A lot’s happened. Changes have been made. Our whole world was turned upside down.”

  I shove another forkful of gooey noodles into my mouth to stifle the question that wants to pop out.

  Whose fault was that?

  “Anyway,” Mom continues. “Now we’re here. It’s summer vacation. Which is for recharging. Preparing for whatever comes next. And I thought, even though we’re not spending every second together, that we could still try to do all those things. As a family.”

  “It was a very nice thought,” Dad says, and pats Mom’s hand.

  It was a very nice thought? Does he think starting over as a family is impossible? Or that it’s simply too late?

  This reminds me of Annika’s last e-mail.

  “By the way,” I say casually, “how come you didn’t get back to Annika about her Role Reverse invitation?”

  “I got back to her,” Mom says.

  “With an answer?” I ask.

  “Well . . .” Mom avoids eye contact. “We need parmesan!” She jumps up and heads for the refrigerator.

  I look at Dad. “She said she wrote you, too. And didn’t hear anyth
ing.”

  Dad becomes very busy spearing noodles with his fork. “Yes. Ah, I did get those notes. And I’ve been meaning to respond. There’s just so much to do! We’ve been so busy!”

  “Too busy to type yes or no and hit send?” I ask.

  Dad shoves the noodles into his mouth. Chews. Shrugs.

  “Everyone else’s families have already role-played. Annika says it helps kids understand parents and parents understand kids. Which helps them become better families. Don’t you want our family to be better?”

  “Water!” Dad gulps, then jumps and heads for the kitchen sink.

  Mom comes back to the table with the grated cheese. Dad fills and empties the same glass three times. They must have their reasons for avoiding Annika’s role-playing request, and they’re clearly not about to share them.

  I’ve been here all of fifteen minutes and I’m way more confused than I was before I walked through the door. Deciding I’ll need to control the situation better if I’m going to figure out what this night’s really about, I ask another question I’ve been holding back.

  “So how’d you swing this?”

  “Swing what?” Mom asks.

  “Dinner. Here. With me. None of my friends’ parents invited them over tonight, so this can’t be an Annika-approved event. That means you got special permission.”

  “We don’t need Annika’s permission,” Dad says quickly.

  Mom and I look at him. A second later, they continue eating. I watch his hands. He holds a fork in one hand, a piece of garlic bread in the other. The fork’s shaking. The garlic bread keeps slipping and dropping onto the gooey noodles.

  He’s nervous.

  Mom, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease. Despite getting a little emotional before, when I said how nice she keeps our house back home, and jumping up for cheese when I brought up role playing, now she looks as if she hasn’t a care in the world. She sits back. Eats slowly. Offers me more bread. Gives me more teeth-revealing smiles.

  And when Dad’s done talking, she asks a very unexpected question.

  “How are you?”

  I stop chewing. “Fine?”