My Top Secret Dares & Don'ts

by Trudi Trueit

  “I know, but some things you need to see for yourself,” he says. “I should have come up sooner. I didn’t realize things had gotten so bad.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t realize a lot of things until I almost lost Mom. I should have been here for my dad’s funeral. You were right, Kestrel, I should have come. I was just . . . just . . .”

  I know. And none of it matters anymore. “She’ll be happy you’re here,” I say. “You have a lot to talk about.”

  Breck is wheeling the luggage cart past with my dad’s suitcase. We exchange smiles.

  “Kestrel?” It’s Dinah. “I could use your help again. Langley’s, too.”

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” says my dad, with a wink. “I’ll catch up with your mom and grandmother at the hospital. See you later, Little Bird.”

  Once Langley and I are in a huddle with Dinah, she says, “First, I have to know I can trust you to keep everything I am about to tell you and everything you are about to do top secret.”

  “You can trust us,” I say, as Langley bobs her head.

  “I need a favor,” says Dinah. “Actually, the favor isn’t for me. . . . It’s for Caden Christopher.”

  At the mere mention of his name, Langley and I grab each other and start jumping. We can hardly believe it. Supercute rock star Caden Christopher needs a favor. From us! Hoooooray!

  Dinah twists her lips. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I say, remembering my vow to be professional and put the guests first. “What does he need?”

  “Not here,” Dinah says mysteriously. “I’ll let your mom take over, Langley.”

  “My mom?” gulps Langley.

  We turn to see Mrs. Derringer standing at the corner near the elevator. She signals for us to come with her. The minute the elevator door closes, Langley swings to her mother. “All right, Mom, what’s up?

  “Not here,” Mrs. Derringer says as mysteriously as Dinah. “In a minute, sweetie.”

  Ding.

  The elevator opens to the second floor. No one says a word. Crossing the catwalk to the south wing, I peer over the rail. Tipping her head, Dinah gives me the tiniest of nods. I return it. I feel like an international spy. Technically, I am one, because, after all, this is Canada. Mrs. Derringer leads us to the Tantalus Suite.

  “You forgot to say presidents,” I whisper to Langley.

  “Huh?”

  “You said to try comic characters. I should have tried presidents. The guest name in the computer for this suite was Lincoln.”

  Langley snaps her fingers. “That’s not a president. I mean, it is a president, but it’s also his hometown. Caden’s from Lincoln, Nebraska.”

  Mrs. Derringer knocks on the door three times. He waits a few seconds, then knocks twice. A secret knock! The door unlatches and opens. One of the muscled bodyguards leads us into the sitting room, where two more big guys are lounging.

  A balding man in a dress shirt and jeans comes toward us. “Hello. I’m Richard Hoskins, Caden’s manager.”

  “Chandra Derringer,” says Langley’s mom. “This is my daughter Langley and her friend Kestrel Adams. Kestrel’s family owns the lodge.”

  Langley and I are scanning the room, but there’s no sign of Caden. He must be in the bedroom or the bathroom. I wonder if he’s as fussy about his towels as Mrs. Tolliver.

  “Thank you for agreeing to help,” says Mr. Hoskins. “As I explained to Dinah, we need to get Caden through the village and to a private concert today, but, as you know, the streets are pedestrian-only, so driving him is out of the question. With these guys”—he tips his head toward one of the giant bodyguards—“we certainly can’t walk him there. He’d be mobbed.”

  Langley’s mom turns to us. “That’s where you come in, girls.”

  I get it. “You want us to walk with Caden through the village?” I ask.

  “Exactly,” says Mr. Hoskins. “All you have to do is act natural, like normal teenagers on vacation.”

  “Won’t people recognize Caden?” I ask.

  “He’ll be in disguise. Also, he rarely gets recognized when he’s with other kids. Usually, if someone is suspicious, by the time they think, Was that who I thought it was? he’s a block away. People tend to see what they expect to see, and when they see three teens they don’t expect one of them to be Caden Christopher. So what do you think? Can you two handle it?”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “Yuh-huh,” says Langley, but her head is bouncing like crazy and she’s got a goofy, lovesick look on her face. I hope she can pull this off. She is already failing the act natural directive, and Caden isn’t even in the room.

  “Don’t dawdle, but don’t rush,” says Mr. Hoskins. “Don’t make eye contact with anyone. Don’t leave his side. And whatever you do, do not call him Caden.”

  “What should we call him?” I ask.

  “Bob.”

  Langley and I laugh. Even Mrs. Derringer is grinning.

  “Our security team will meet you at the concert site and usher Caden to a secure backstage location,” says Mr. Hoskins. “You’ll then be free to return here on your own or you’re welcome to stay for the concert if you want.”

  Stay for the concert if we want? Is he kidding? We want! We want!

  “Yes, we’d like to see the concert,” I say calmly.

  “I’ll meet the girls there and make sure they’re comfortable,” Mr. Hoskins says to reassure Langley’s mom, then to us, “How do front-row seats sound?”

  My mouth falls so far I hear a pop in my head. Front-row seats at a private Caden Christopher concert? Langley and I are like shaken soda bottles. One more twist and we’re gonna blow!

  “Girls, if you run into trouble at any point along the way, call Langley’s mom or Dinah at the front desk,” directs Mr. Hoskins. “Our team will come to the rescue if things get dicey. Once the concert is over, our security staff will get Caden back here safe and sound. They know how to throw off the fans and photographers. We’ll stay the night and head to Vancouver tomorrow.”

  The bedroom door opens, and a tall young man steps out. I almost don’t recognize Caden. He’s wearing a shaggy, chestnut brown wig. It’s different from his usual wavy blond hair. He’s got on a loose white T-shirt with a red Canadian maple leaf emblem on the shoulder and jeans. In his right hand he’s holding a towel—nothing special, just one of the regular hotel towels. Nice.

  “Caden, this is Kestrel Adams,” says Mr. Hoskins. “Her grandmother owns the lodge. This is her friend Langley Derringer, and her mom.”

  Ice-blue eyes peer straight into my soul. “Good to meet you, Kestrel and Langley. Thanks for helpin’ out.”

  “Hi,” we say shyly.

  Caden trades his towel for a light blue Vancouver Canucks cap, putting it on over the wig. Honestly, if we passed on the street, I wouldn’t give him a second look. If my best friend can keep her googly eyes in her head, this plan might work.

  “Everybody ready?” asks Mr. Hoskins. “We all know what to do?”

  “Yes,” Langley and I say.

  Mr. Hoskins hands Caden an envelope. One of the bodyguards opens the door for us.

  “Relax. Be yourselves. Have fun.” Mr. Hoskins waves. “Off you go.”

  I take the lead, Caden follows, and Langley brings up the rear. No one is ever going to believe in a million years that I, your ordinary American twelve-year-old, helped a rock star in disguise get to a concert.

  “I’ll see you up there in about an hour,” Mr. Hoskins says to Caden before the door shuts.

  Up there?

  In the hall, I spin. “Ca—Bob, I thought the concert was in the village.”

  “No.”

  My heart is, suddenly, slamming against my ribs. “Then where is it?”

  He gives me that magical grin that turns average, ordinary American twelve-year-old girls into syrup. “At the top of Whistler Mountain.”

  15

  Dare to Do the Thing I Fear Most

  Did he say
. . . ?

  Oh, no. No!

  I force my quivering legs to get in the elevator with Caden and Langley. What am I going to do? There is no way I can get on the gondola of death.

  I have to.

  But I can’t.

  I have to.

  But I can’t.

  My brain is spinning. It’s mush. It’s spinning mush.

  “It’s okay,” Langley whispers, putting an end to my loop of dread. “You don’t have to go with us. I can take him up.”

  “But we’re both supposed to—”

  “Nobody has to know. We’ll say someone recognized him in the village and you were the decoy. You led the girl away. Wait for me at the base of the mountain. I’ll drop him off with his security team and come right back down.”

  She knows! I start to ask her how she found out about my fear of heights, but she only says, “Later.”

  “What about the concert?” I hiss.

  “I don’t want to go without you.”

  “Oh, Langley. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It’ll be fine.”

  I feel awful. We are going to miss seeing Caden Christopher sing from our front-row seats, all because of me!

  “Here we go,” says Caden, as the elevator opens to the lobby.

  Dinah is behind the front desk. “Good morning, kids,” she says calmly.

  “Morning,” I say, raising my eyebrows as we pass.

  Langley holds the door open for George, who’s coming behind us pulling a luggage cart crammed with backpacks. “Thanks, guys,” he says. He doesn’t seem to recognize our famous friend, which is a good sign.

  Once outside, I look for Breck but don’t see him. The three of us stroll down the tree-lined driveway. I want to ask Caden a million questions, and I can see by the look on Langley’s face she does too, but both of us are too shy. We’re supposed to talk like normal teenagers, and now we are too starstruck to say a word!

  “Soooooo,” says Caden, stuffing his hands on his pockets. “You are two of the quietest girls I’ve ever met.”

  “Sorry, Bob,” I say. “Okay, I have to know. Where did Bob come from?”

  He laughs. “I have an angelfish named Bob.”

  “I didn’t know that,” says Langley, astonished. “I know everything about you. How did I not know that?”

  I shoot Langley a glare that says Shut up, we don’t want him to think we’re crazed stalker fans. She gives me a sorry look back.

  “Also, Bob Dylan is one of my idols,” says Caden. “I never planned on being a singer. Or being famous, for that matter. All I ever wanted to do was write songs, but put one song on the Internet and suddenly your whole life changes.”

  “Isn’t that what everyone dreams of?” asks Langley.

  He lifts a shoulder. “I guess, but I miss my old life. I miss sittin’ in the barn and writing songs—you know, playing my guitar and singing to the cows.”

  “You should take some time off,” I say.

  He smirks. “If only it were that easy.”

  We turn onto Painted Cliff Road. The sidewalk is clear, except for an elderly woman walking her poodle on the other side of the street.

  “Ca—Bob, you ought to write a song with Kestrel,” says Langley. “She won a poetry competition last year.”

  He turns to me. “Yeah?”

  “It was no big deal,” I say. “It was a contest held by our public library.”

  “Her poem was great,” says my best friend. “It was about honesty and helping each other. It made me cry, it was so good. You should show it to him, Kes—”

  “Langley, he doesn’t want to see my dumb—”

  “Sure, I do,” says Caden. “Great lyrics are poetry.”

  My legs turn to oatmeal.

  We take the corner onto Blackcomb Way, and although there are more people here, most are walking or jogging or talking to friends. Nobody is paying any attention to us. This is going to be easier than I thought!

  We stop at the intersection of Lorimer and Blackcomb to wait for the light. Langley takes a minute to text her mom that everything is going according to plan. Once we cross the intersection, we’ll head through the Upper Village and into the main square. The gondola is at the farthest end of the village.

  “So, do you have a favorite place to eat here?” asks Caden. He is talking so he doesn’t make eye contact with the people waiting to cross on the other side.

  “I’m seriously addicted to Cows ice cream,” I say.

  “Same here.” He laughs. “Wowie Cowie?”

  “Gooey Mooey.”

  “Oh yeah, that one is good. Have you ever tried the Udderly Sinful Chocolate?”

  “It’s on my list.”

  “Uh . . . guys?” Langley cuts in. “I think we have a problem.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Don’t look now, but straight ahead.”

  Naturally, we glance up. On the other side of the crosswalk, three girls are gawking. They look a couple of years younger than me. Each is wearing a different color of pastel shorts: peach, yellow, and pink. They remind me of a trio of Easter eggs. Uh-oh. The Easter-egg girls are waving at us.

  Caden looks behind him, pretending he thinks they are waving to someone else. “You’re in a disguise,” I hiss. “How could they possible know it’s you?”

  “It’s called Cadar,” says Langley. “I read it about it in a magazine. No one knows how the girls know. They just do.”

  “I don’t think we should stick around to watch their Cadar zero in,” I say. “Come on, Langley and Bob.” I grab Caden’s hand and pull him down the sidewalk. We aren’t running, but we sure aren’t walking, either.

  “It’s him! It’s Caden!” We can hear the girls yelling, but there are too many cars and they can’t cross.

  “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” I shout.

  With Caden and I linked and Langley a few steps behind us, we zip right, then left, then right again. We are dodging pedestrians like loose tires rolling at us in some kind of car-racing video game. Once we are out of sight of the girls, I search for a break in traffic. I’m hoping they’ll think we turned right into the aboriginal center to hide, which should give us enough time to sneak through the alleys of the main village and get Caden to the gondola. There’s our break!

  “Now!” I shout, and the three of us bolt across Blackcomb Way.

  We scramble through an alley, take a hard right at the ski shop, and come out at the steps leading to the village. Hurrying down a couple dozen steps, we rush across the covered bridge at Fitzsimmons Creek, follow the walkway into the Upper Village, and take a left to skirt the Pan Pacific hotel. We don’t stop until we reach the corner of the hotel.

  “I think we lost them,” I say, huffing as I glance behind us.

  “There it is!” says Langley, also trying to catch her breath. The gondola entrance is less than one hundred yards in front of us. All we have to do is get across the redbrick square.

  “Cool and calm, everybody,” says Caden, reaching into his back pocket for the envelope with our tickets. “Cool and calm.”

  The three of us casually saunter across the square. We point at the gondola sailing up the mountain as if we can’t wait to get on. But one of us can wait. And will wait. I’m not sure when I should tell Caden I won’t be going. In front of the roundhouse, fence-like steel barricades are set up in a maze pattern. They funnel the lift line to a gate with two turnstiles. An employee sits at each turnstile, scanning tickets before letting people go through into the roundhouse. There are only about fifteen people ahead of us, so it doesn’t take long to snake our way up to the gate. Langley leads us to the left turnstile. Caden is behind her. I bring up the rear. Our ticket taker is a muscular woman who could easily qualify as one of Caden’s bodyguards, if she wanted. Sitting on a wooden stool, she holds up her hand to signal for us to wait. I need to tell Caden I’m not going up.

  An image flashes in my mind. I see myself standing at the base of the gondola, watching Caden and
Langley glide up the mountain. A thought strikes me like a billion volts of electricity: THIS is it! If I don’t go now, I never will. If I cannot summon the courage to go with my best friend and my favorite singer to the top of Whistler Mountain and sit in the front row of what will be the most incredible concert of my life, then what will it take for me to beat my fear of heights? I can’t think of a single thing. And that scares me more than anything.

  Caden hands a ticket to Langley then turns to give one to me.

  “Actually,” says Langley. “Kestrel is . . . uh . . . staying behind.”

  “No,” I say, my voice catching. “I’m going.”

  Her eyes bulge. “You’re going?”

  I give a weak nod.

  Langley pumps her fist. “O-kay!”

  The ticket taker motions for us to step through the turnstile.

  “Caden Christopher!” The name booms across the square. We’ve been caught! The crazed trio of Easter-egg fans are sprinting toward us, their little pastel peach, yellow, and pink purses flying out behind them. “Wait for us!” they screech. “Caden, wait!”

  Blip. Langley goes through the turnstile.

  “Coming through! Coming through!” the girls shout, but while we’ve been waiting, the line behind us has grown to about forty people, and no one is letting them cut in.

  I spin Caden to face the building. “GO!”

  Blip. Caden pushes through the turnstile. It’s my turn.

  Blip. I am moving the big spoke forward when pain slices through my neck. I am being jerked backward. “Ow!” One of the girls has a chunk of my hair. I bet it’s the peach chick. She was the loudest and the fastest of the three.

  “You’re not allowed to jump the line,” scolds the ticket taker. “Let go of her.”

  The girl releases my hair. She points to Caden, who is staring at his feet with his hands in his pockets. “Do you know who that it is?”

  “Yeah,” says the woman, getting up off her stool. “I know exactly who that is.”

  I suck in my breath. This cannot be happening. Our cover is about to be blown in the most public place possible!

  “He’s a guy with a ticket,” says the woman. “Do you girls have tickets?”