Watch Your Step

by T. R. Burns

  “Good,” she says. “Your teachers seem to be keeping you very busy.”

  I swallow. “They are.”

  “But I hope it’s not all work and no play.” Now Mom sounds concerned. “This is your summer too. I understand you have certain . . . lessons . . . that need to be learned, but I hope you’re being appropriately rewarded for your efforts.”

  “Like how?” I ask, genuinely curious to know what she thinks that I deserve.

  “With the kinds of things all kids enjoy at sleepaway camp. Dances. Pool parties. Movie nights. Free time.”

  “Free time’s for good kids. And if I wanted to be treated like a good kid, maybe I should’ve acted like one.”

  Which is what she said to me right before she and Dad left me at Kilter nine months ago. I’ve replayed this sentence in my head so many times it must be permanently etched in my brain tissue. But Mom doesn’t seem to remember it all. And I have to admit, she’s being so nice now, it doesn’t sound quite as bad as it used to.

  “You are a good kid!” she exclaims, and my heart warms. “You’re the best kid! All parents should be so lucky to have such—”

  She stops talking. Probably because a butter knife just sailed past her face, nearly taking her nose with it.

  “Nice catch,” Dad says.

  “Thanks.” I reach across the table to hand him the utensil. “Hang on tight to that. Real butter’s slippery.”

  “As I was saying,” Mom continues, “Seamus, you’re—”

  “Whoopsie!” Dad cringes. “Sorry, son. Don’t know what happened there!”

  I do. He took a fistful of ice cubes from his water glass and chucked them right at me. I then picked up my water glass and quickly moved it up, down, left, and right to catch the flying cubes.

  “No problem.” I place the glass back on the table. “Frozen water’s slippery too.”

  Mom tries again. “Seamus, you should never—”

  Take my eyes off of Dad. Because next he flicks gooey noodles from his plate. Before they can splatter across my face, I pick up my plate and angle it down so that his noodles land on top of mine.

  “Thanks,” I say when he’s done. “I am pretty hungry.”

  Dad frowns. Stares at my hands. Holds the edge of his plate with both of his.

  “Eliot, are you feeling okay?” Mom asks.

  “What? Of course! Never better!”

  As if to prove his point, he scoops more pasta onto his plate and starts shoveling forkfuls into his mouth.

  “May I be excused?” I ask, trying not to smile. “I need to use the restroom.”

  “Of course,” Mom says.

  Now trying not to laugh, I dart down the hallway and into the bathroom. I quickly close the door, then crack up into a towel for a few seconds. When that’s out of my system, I take out my K-Pak. Imagining how fun it’d be to trade tricks with Dad at home, especially if we both knew that’s what we were doing, I start a new e-mail.

  TO: loliver@kilteracademy.org, ahansen@kilteracademy.org, gryan@kilteracademy.org, enorris@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Tomorrow

  Hi, guys!

  Just wanted to check in. Everything’s fine here so far, although my parents are acting really weird. I expected it from Dad, who keeps trying to pull pranks, like, right in front of me, but I didn’t expect it from Mom. Why would I? She’s being super nice, which she never is. And she seems to really care about making me happy. That’s also a first.

  We know why Dad’s acting up, so I’m not worried about him. In fact, stopping his table tricks is kind of hilarious. Between that and Mom being so nice, it’s turning out to be a great night.

  So now I’m wondering . . . are we sure we want to go through with Troublemaking Tuesday tomorrow? Maybe there’s another way to stop the Angel Makers without misbehaving. It might sound crazy, but what if we tried just talking to our parents? During Role Reverse it seemed like grown-ups and kids had very different ideas about what went down pre-Kilter, and talking stuff out helped clear things up. So maybe we all just need to communicate with our parents more, in general? And get on the same page? I could talk to my parents tonight, and you could talk to yours during chores tomorrow. After that, no one would have to trick anyone.

  Of course, I’d still tell Annika the truth about me. And if coming clean after all this time—and reminding her of my stellar troublemaking record at Kilter—doesn’t convince her I deserve to be here, well . . . there are always school vacations. I can visit you when you’re home, and you can visit me, too. We’ll work it out. That’s what friends do.

  What do you think?

  —Seamus

  I press send. Not surprisingly, Abe’s the first one to write back.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org, gryan@kilteracademy.org, loliver@kilteracademy.org, enorris@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: ahansen@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: Tomorrow

  Hinkle, whatever your parents are feeding you, STOP EATING IT. Something in there is messing with your head.

  Lemon writes next.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org, ahansen@kilteracademy.org, gryan@kilteracademy.org, enorris@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: loliver@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: RE: Tomorrow

  Abraham, chill.

  Seamus, I think this is an interesting idea. But maybe you should wait to talk to your parents until we discuss in person?

  —L

  I close my K-Mail and put my K-Pak in my jacket pocket. I’m sure my friends will have much more to say about this, but their input can wait. Right now I want to hang out with my parents—even if they are acting a little like strangers.

  I open the bathroom door and step into the hallway. Mom and Dad are talking in the dining room. I hear Dad compliment Mom on the ziti. Mom thanks him, then starts reciting the recipe.

  It sounds like a perfectly normal, pleasant conversation—one I’d like to be a part of. But instead of going right, toward my parents, my feet turn left.

  Toward their bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper once I’m standing before the dresser.

  Looking for answers. Despite the new plan I just suggested to my friends, I must still have some trust issues. As in, I don’t fully buy Mom and her new behavior. It’d be really helpful to find some sort of rock-solid evidence—like a recent entry detailing her change of heart—that the new attitude isn’t an act.

  Why else would I want to snoop through her journal now?

  This is it, I tell myself. The last time. For the good of us all.

  I take the book from the coupon folder and flip toward the back, where the newer entries should be. Mom thought I was too weak in the past. Does she think I’m stronger now? Is that why she’s decided to be nicer? Because she doesn’t think she has to be as hard on me?

  I have many other questions for her, like how she knew about Kilter, and what she’s been doing at camp while Dad’s been chucking ping-pong balls and going to Angel Makers meetings. We’ll get to those. I hope when the answers no longer matter, because we’ve all turned the page—and gotten on the same one. Just like I suggested to my friends.

  Then again, maybe we won’t.

  As I’m flipping through the book, a small card slips out from between the pages. When it lands on the floor, the handwriting is facing up.

  My eyes fix on two words near the bottom of the card.

  Then my heart stops. And I read the rest.

  Dear Mrs. Hinkle,

  Thanks for the present. Messing with Seamus is fun, so you definitely didn’t have to give me video games and homemade cookies, but I’m glad you did. Those chocolate chips were YUM-O.

  We should be good now that he’s gone, but if you ever need my help again, just let me know. I’m always happy to tease the little fish face. Keeps me sharp.

  From,

  Bartholomew John

  P.S. Looks like Miss Parsippany’s going to make
a full recovery. Whew!

  Down the hall, my parents laugh. I barely hear them as I pick up the card, stick it in the journal, and put the journal back in the coupon folder.

  Then I take out my K-Pak and type so hard, so fast, my fingertips burn.

  TO: loliver@kilteracademy.org, ahansen@kilteracademy.org, gryan@kilteracademy.org, enorris@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Troublemaking Tuesday

  Forget what I said.

  It’s ON.

  Chapter 28

  DEMERITS: 5200

  GOLD STARS: 3050

  Good morning?” I whisper. “Hello? This is Seamus. From your class? I’m really sorry to bother you, but—”

  Abe yanks the K-Pak from my hands. “We’re trying to wake them up, Hinkle, not put them back to sleep.”

  He nods to Gabby, who holds up the stereo remote. Then he takes my K-Pak across the living room and raises it toward a silver speaker. Gabby presses a button. Rock music shakes the floor and rattles the fake windows.

  I cover my ears. The pounding, shrieking, and squealing lasts five seconds. Then Abe nods to Gabby. She presses another button on the remote. The room falls silent.

  Abe grins at the K-Pak screen. “That’s more like it.”

  Uncovering my ears, I hear moans and groans coming from the small computer. The noises get louder as Abe crosses the room.

  “You have their undivided attention,” he says, and hands me the K-Pak.

  I take the computer and scan the small squares displayed on the screen. After sending out a mass v-chat blast to reach all of our classmates at once, my K-Pak screen divided into thirty miniscreens showing thirty individual Troublemakers. Now some of them are getting up from the floor, where they fell when the music burst through their K-Paks. The ones who managed to stay in bed are pulling pillows away from their heads. Many are trying to turn off their K-Paks—and get rid of the horrible source of their rude awakening.

  “Wait!” I exclaim. “Please. It’s Seamus Hinkle, from your class.” I wait for Troublemakers to register my voice, stop freaking out, and look at their computer screens. “I’m sorry for all the noise, but I really have to talk to you.”

  “And you couldn’t wait until we were all above ground?” Chris Fisher asks.

  “Unfortunately, no,” I say. “We couldn’t risk anyone overhearing. The situation is too sensitive. And we need as much time as possible to prepare.”

  “What situation?” Alison Parker asks.

  “Prepare for what?” Carter Montgomery asks.

  I glance at Abe. He nods. I take a breath and fill in our classmates.

  “By now you probably know that something’s up with your parents. Maybe they’ve been sneaking around while you’re cleaning their cabins. Or performing practical jokes. Or setting silly booby traps. I saw a lot of you at the infirmary the other day, when we were supposed to send our moms and dads there, so I know their tricks have been working.”

  “Their tricks?” Alison asks. “You’re saying the reason I walked into the screen door I knew I left open—”

  “Was because one of your parents closed it when you weren’t looking,” I said. “Exactly.” She frowns. I keep going. “Listen. Our parents love us. They would never hurt us. But they’re afraid of us hurting ourselves—by being bad kids and missing out on all the things that being good can bring. So their job is to get us back on track. That’s why they sent us to Kilter. And it’s also why, when they had the chance to do more, they took it.”

  “You mean by dropping everything and coming to Kamp Kilter?” Chris asks. “So we could have even more time at our pretend reform school?”

  “That,” I say. “And . . . joining The Secret Society of Masterful Angel Makers.”

  There’s a long pause as Troublemakers stare blankly at their K-Paks.

  “Huh?” Carter finally asks.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” Abe takes my K-Pak and talks to the small camera. “Mr. Tempest brainwashed our parents. He formed some sort of weird club, invited them to join, and convinced them that playing tricks is the best way to get us to be good. A few days ago, they put ink in a soap dispenser that turned my hands blue. They never would’ve done that at home, but here? Under Mr. Tempest’s watch? That’s another story. And your parents have been doing the same kinds of things to you.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Alison says.

  “It’s true!” Gabby declares over Abe’s shoulder. “We saw them practicing at their secret meeting spot. They’re up to no good!”

  “That’s why they need to be taught a lesson,” Abe says. “Today.”

  “What kind of lesson?” Eric asks.

  “The kind that’ll remind them who’s really in charge.” Abe points to himself.

  “They’re our parents,” Alison says. “They’re always the bosses—even if we make their jobs difficult sometimes.”

  “Right,” Abe agrees. “So they don’t need to prank us on top of it. And we have to remind them that trying to won’t help anything.”

  “I don’t know,” Eric says. “My parents have been through a lot with me. If they want to prove some kind of point, maybe I should let them?”

  “If we tell them we get it, who’s to say they’ll stop?” Abe asks. “What if they take Mystery’s twisted tricks home? And keep practicing and trying new things until they’re totally out of control?”

  Our classmates are quiet. I motion for the K-Pak. Abe hands it over. I look into the camera.

  “Our parents thought joining the Angel Makers was a good opportunity. And we think launching a surprise sneak attack today will show just how much we’ve really learned at Kilter.”

  It’ll also really impress Annika. That was the original reason I agreed to this when my friends suggested it the other day. They thought as long as I rallied the troops and led the charge, it wouldn’t matter that my parents weren’t among the targets. I could leave them alone, the way I’d wanted to, and Annika would still be awed by my participation. Enough that, once I told her the truth about Miss Parsippany and me, she’d let me stay at Kilter.

  Of course, that was before last night. When I discovered Mom had been in cahoots with my ultimate enemy. Pleasing Annika now is just icing on the cake.

  “How’d you find out about the Angel Makers?” Alison asks.

  “We have our ways,” Abe says.

  “When did you find out our parents were in the club?” Carter asks.

  “Last week,” Gabby says.

  “And you’re just telling us now?” Chris asks.

  “We wanted to be sure of what was going on before saying anything,” I explain.

  “Okay,” Reed says, “but now that we know, we need at least a few days to prepare.”

  “We don’t have that kind of time,” Abe says.

  “Why not?” Liam asks.

  “Because they could launch a sneak attack on us any second!” Gabby says.

  “Then you guys should’ve given us more notice,” Natalie says.

  “You don’t need it,” I say. “You’ve been training for this since you got to Kilter. You know what to do, and you have the skills and weapons to do it. If you had more time, you’d overthink. And get nervous. Then you’d get sloppy. And maybe even accidentally spill the beans to your parents. Right?”

  Nobody disagrees.

  “So what’s the plan?” Chris asks.

  I hand the K-Pak to Abe. He fills in our classmates.

  “Our families are attending a special breakfast in the Kamp Kilter cafeteria this morning. Unlike the mandatory beach party they skipped, this is an event they won’t want to miss. If they do, they’ll also miss out on a chance to win a million dollars.”

  Our classmates gasp.

  “Annika’s giving away a million dollars?” Eric asks.

  “Nope,” Abe says. “But thanks to flyers we plastered all over camp last night, they’ll think she is. That means they’ll be really excited—and not
worrying at all about trying to get us. They won’t even think we’re around, since we always go right to their cabins every morning. Their guards will be totally down. Troublemaking conditions don’t get any better.”

  “Will we go after them as a group?” Alison asks.

  “We’ll be there together,” Abe says, “but we’ll act individually. Each Troublemaker will teach his or her parents a lesson they’ll never forget.”

  “What if they see us?” Carter asks.

  “They won’t!” Gabby chimes in. “Not if you’re doing your job!”

  Abe hands me the K-Pak, and I field a few more questions, like what our teachers will do when we don’t show for assignments, what the Good Samaritans might do if anyone reports us, what we’ll do if we’re caught. I wait until my classmates are done asking, and then I give one answer.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?” Eric asks.

  “How could I?” I ask. “We’ve never done this before. But I do know one thing: Annika will love it. And she’ll probably reward us better than she ever has.”

  This does it. At the idea of credits and Kommissary shopping sprees, I can tell all doubts have been erased.

  Just to be sure, I ask, “Are you in?”

  “YES!” they shout.

  “Great,” I say. “We’ll meet on the beach in an hour. See you then!”

  I hang up. Gabby and Abe dash to their rooms to get ready. I check in on Lemon, who’s just getting up and promises he’ll be ready in time. He also reminds me that he won’t be attacking anyone, least of all his parents, but that he’ll station himself outside the cafeteria and be on the lookout for potential surprises.

  Then I go to Elinor’s door, which is closed. When we told her about the plan, she said she had no reason to participate, since her mom’s not here. Gabby’s the only one she’s really been talking to ever since I told her about Abe suspecting she was working for the Incriminators, and she tried to convince her to play long anyway, but Elinor refused.

  Now, feeling a little bolder after rallying the troublemaking troops, I knock gently on her door.

  No answer.

  “Elinor?” I ask. “Are you up?”

  Nothing.

  I’m about to knock again when my K-Pak buzzes. Reminding myself I’m not the happiest when someone wakes me up from a sound sleep, I reluctantly leave Elinor alone. Then I return to the living room to read the new message.