My Top Secret Dares & Don'ts

by Trudi Trueit

  “Go diagonally up the hill from the lake.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “You can see the very top of the roof sticking up past the big bump in the hill. Did you start at the lake?”

  “I did, but I still don’t see it.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Kestrel, if all those itty-bitty toads can find their way—”

  “Got it.” In my defense, most of the lodge is hidden by a wrinkle in the hill. From here, I can barely make out the top of the A-line roof. “I thought it would be farther up the mountain—”

  Itty-bitty toads?

  Of course! Why didn’t I see it sooner? Maybe I was too close. From here, from the top of the world, everything is clear. It makes perfect sense!

  “Kestrel?” Langley’s hand is in front of my face. “Is it your height thing again? Maybe we should go down—”

  “I know what to do, Langley,” I say as the wind animates my hair. “I know how to save the lodge from the Terrible Tollivers.”

  17

  Dare to Make a Difference—No Matter How Small

  Toads?” Grandma Lark’s brow furrows. “Toads are going to keep the lodge afloat?”

  “Hear me out,” says Dr. Musgraves, unrolling a map. Mom, Dad, and I help him flatten it out on the table. We are in the dining room. It’s the middle of the afternoon, so we have the place to ourselves. “Here’s Lost Lake, and here”—the professor’s finger travels several inches to the northeast—“is your acreage, Lark. It sits directly in the migration path of Bufo boreas.”

  “That’s the western toad,” I say.

  “Yes, I know,” says my grandmother. “The little hoppers have been crossing our property for as long as I’ve lived here, but Jerome, I still don’t see how—”

  “Over the years, each of these larger properties around you has been sold to developers.” Dr. Musgraves takes out a pen. “See? Here’s the Alpenglow and the Four Seasons and one, two, three, four condos.” He crosses out the sections of land that have been built on. “You own quite a bit of acreage, Lark. Yours is one of only two remaining parcels that gives the toads a direct migratory route from the lake up the mountain. And the data my students and I have collected, so far, shows a significant percentage of the migrating toads from Lost Lake are following the creek bed and crossing your property.”

  “How significant?” asks my grandmother.

  “It’s still early in the season, but preliminary data is showing thirty-two percent.”

  My mom gasps. “That many?”

  “It could go much higher by the end of the season,” says Dr. Musgraves. “Perhaps, to fifteen or even twenty thousand toads.”

  “That’s more than half the population!” I say.

  Grandma Lark’s green eyes grow. “So you’re saying . . .”

  “Your land is vital to the survival of this toad population,” says Dr. Musgraves. “When Kestrel brought it to my attention that you were considering selling, I contacted the fisheries conservation group I work with. The director says he’s interested in spearheading a plan to purchase a substantial piece of your land for amphibian preservation. The land could never be built on, which means the remaining section of your property, here where the lodge sits, would hardly be attractive to a developer. It’s not a large enough for a condo or hotel complex.”

  “Western toads are blue-listed,” says Dad, “so even if a builder was interested, they’d have to conduct exhaustive and expensive environmental impact studies and go through a lengthy series of hearings to get approval. Trust me, Mom, I can tie them up in court for most of Kestrel’s life, if necessary. If the Tollivers know what’s good for them, they won’t want anything to do with our property once the conservation group gets involved.”

  “And the money from the sale of the property should help you with the necessary repairs to this place,” says Mom.

  My grandmother puts a hand to her cheek. “You mean—”

  “You won’t lose the lodge, Grandma,” I say.

  My grandmother slowly sinks into a chair. “I don’t know what to say.” Her eyes tearing, she looks around our little circle, from Dad to Mom to me to Dr. Musgraves. “Thank you.”

  “There’s something else, Mom,” says my dad. “We want to help you financially until business bounces back.”

  “No, I couldn’t—”

  “Yes, you could. Norah, Kestrel, Wyatt, and I talked it over, and it’s settled. We’re family, and this lodge means as much to us as it does to you. I should have said so sooner.” Dad smiles at me. “Besides, something tells me business is going to pick up soon.”

  “I think it already has.” Mom is standing next to the window. “Look!”

  Everyone rushes over. There must be at least five hundred people in the parking lot—most of them under the age of eighteen and most of them girls! They are pointing their phones at the windows, front door, and balconies, hoping for a glimpse of Caden Christopher. They won’t get it. He left early this morning, exactly thirty seconds after giving Dinah permission to let the cat out of the bag.

  I look down at the full parking lot. Thanks, Caden.

  “It’s a hot day out there,” says Grandma Lark, heading for the kitchen. “We’d better break out the lemonade.”

  I hurry after her. “Let’s give them Lemon Fizz soda. We’ve got a whole fridge full of the stuff.”

  In shorts and tees, Langley and I stroll past the line of people waiting for Dinah and Aubrey to check them in. Aubrey Farraday is Jess’s replacement. She’s a few years older than Dinah, but just as cute, with dozens of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and naturally curly hair the color of caramel. Aubrey is smart and friendly, but I think we are all a little scared to completely trust anyone new. It will take time.

  Outside, I stop on the flagstone to retie my tennis shoes. This is Langley’s and my last run together. She and her mom are going home tomorrow. Mrs. Derringer has to get back to work. I hoped Langley would stay for the rest of the summer, but she has to get back too. She’s got piano lessons and tennis lessons, and she misses her cat, Mouse. I think she misses Aaron, too. I know she planned on accidentally running into him at the lake at least twice this summer.

  We jog the trail to Lost Lake and stop at the amphibian fence so Langley can see the toads one last time. There aren’t quite as many as last week. They are bunched up in groups on the sand, warming themselves in the late-afternoon sun. As we walk the length of the fence, they hear our vibrations and hop into the beach grass. We follow the shoreline up to the path so we can stop at the toad underpass.

  “Careful,” I say to a woman in neon yellow shorts jogging toward us. “There are toads crossing here.”

  She pulls up. “Where?”

  “There’s one about two inches in front of your foot.”

  She squeals. “That’s a toad? Oh, my gosh, I didn’t even see him. Thanks for telling me.” She forgets all about her jog and spends the next ten minutes inching along behind her toad until he makes it safely to the other side. I know the feeling. There is something about these fragile, bumpy, clumsy creatures that touches you. You can’t help but want to protect them.

  “Excellent work, Kestrel Adams, amphibian protector,” Langley says in her best news announcer voice. “Another day, another toad saved.”

  “And same to you, Langley Derringer, trusty toad assistant.”

  At the footbridge, Langley gets on her knees to peer under the planks. “They’re still coming through.”

  I kneel next to her. A group of little brown heads are bobbing toward us. The toad traffic jam isn’t as heavy as last time, yet it’s still busy. I’d say a six on a scale of one to ten.

  I have not forgotten Dr. Musgraves’s warning that only 1 percent of the toads will ever return. Still, I’d like to think that all of the hard work everyone has done—the fence, the netting, the underpass, the signs—means many of the toads that would not have survived will make it back next March to lay their eggs. And who knows? Once the conservat
ion group buys Grandma’s land, maybe one day this site could be home to the biggest western toad population in the world. Wouldn’t that be something?

  “Bye, toads,” says Langley.

  “Bye, toads,” I echo. “See your kids next summer.”

  18

  Don’t Forget to Remember

  I am sitting on the deck of our suite, the chair tipped back as far as it can go, with my neck tipped back as far as it can go. The sky is a deep indigo. Only a sliver of moon hovers above the rounded black silhouette of the hill. Thousands of stars are winking, as if competing for my attention in some kind of celestial beauty pageant. I see Vega in the east. That’s the only star I can remember by name. Music floats up from the patio, just around the corner. Someone is playing an acoustic guitar. I don’t know the song, but it has a Spanish feel to it. People laugh. Glasses clink.

  I close my eyes the way a camera closes its shutter and take a picture with my mind. Click. I have been doing that all week. Everywhere I go in the lodge, I spend a few minutes committing things to memory so I won’t forget them when we go home in a few days. The elegant cream-and-blue dining room, where the chairs and napkins match and on every clear summer night, the room is painted pink by the setting sun. Click. The little library with its hollowed-out shelves and red-and-green plaid chairs and lamp with the stained-glass frogs chasing each other around the shade. Dinah and Aubrey at the front desk handing out maps and key cards and advice to the tourists. Breck, George, and Kyle rolling their squeaky luggage carts through the lobby. Click. Click. Click. I have been taking photos with my phone, too, but there are some things that can only be captured by your heart. I don’t want to ever forget how close we came to losing Blackcomb Creek Lodge.

  I slap away a mosquito. I guess I’d better go in. I’ll sure miss seeing the stars when we go home, which is kind of funny when you think about it. They are the very same stars I can see at home, but how different they are here.

  Going in, I lock the door behind me. “Mom, can I walk around inside for a bit?”

  Her eyes shift from her book to her watch.

  “I know it’s after ten,” I say, “but I’m not tired. And Wyatt isn’t back yet.”

  “Got your phone?”

  I pat the back pocket of my jeans.

  Leaving our suite, I walk down the hall to the elevator. Instead of pressing the button, I step into the little nook that overlooks the lobby the way I did the first day we got here. The scent of warm, buttered popcorn wafts up from below. It’s movie night in the dining room. Wyatt is there with Grandma Lark. They should be getting out soon.

  I lean my elbows on the rail and look down. The lobby is empty, except for Aubrey behind the desk. She is sorting papers, placing them into four neat stacks.

  Ding!

  The elevator opens. Breck steps off. He’s carrying a paper shopping bag. “Everything okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Fly on the wall, eh?” He holds up the bag. “I’d ask you to come along, but we know how dangerous that can be.”

  I break out in a full-blown case of lobsteritis. In the few minutes it takes for my face to return to its normal shade, Breck is back.

  “Hey, you’re makin’ progress,” he says.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re leaning on the rail.”

  He’s right. I am!

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” I say

  “That’s the idea.” Breck comes to lean beside me. There is barely enough room in the nook for the two of us. “My shift is done,” he says, surveying the lobby. “I’m waiting for my mom to finish up in the kitchen.”

  “I’m . . . uh . . . waiting for Wyatt to get out of the movie.”

  Our elbows are touching. Breck’s left hand is holding his right elbow. My right hand is holding my left elbow.

  “Movie should be over soon,” he says.

  “Soon,” I say, letting my gaze drop to the first floor. I’m almost daring myself to get jittery or dizzy or sick to my stomach, but nothing happens.

  “Leaving on Saturday, huh?” he asks.

  “Yeah, but we’ll be back for Christmas.”

  “Sounds like we’ll still be here.”

  “Grandma says the lodge is almost fully booked for the winter.”

  “That’s great news.”

  “It turned out to be a good summer, after all, didn’t it?”

  “It sure did.” Breck’s index finger taps mine. He curls it around my knuckle. I bend my finger and we are linked together. Together, we watch the comings and goings below. Aubrey is humming while she straightens her stacks. A young mother has taken a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs next to the fireplace and is feeding her baby a bottle of formula. An elderly couple strolls, hand in hand, toward the library. I could stay here forever, leaning over the rail next to Breck, seeing a world that can’t see us. Yep. Forever. If only my brother weren’t charging up the stairs, yelling, “Kes, you missed some wicked dinosaurs!”

  Click.

  19

  Dare to Do One Thing Every Day That Scares You

  The fiery orange sun dips toward the whipped meringue mountaintops. The cloudless sky is easily changing colors, from daytime’s rich topaz to evening’s deep delphinium blue. A brisk breeze wraps my hair around my neck and sends goose bumps down my arms. I am at the top of Blackcomb Peak with my grandmother. It’s my first time here. I had to ride a lift where you sit in a chair with a clear dome over your head and your legs dangle freely. Yes, dangle ! Argggh! I won’t lie. I was scared, but I knew I could do it.

  I know my grandmother was afraid to come up too. Not because of the chairlift but because the last time she was here was with Grandpa Keith. They watched the sunset together, the way we are watching it now. Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak glances at her profile. I stay alert for anything that might indicate the memories are too much for her. The wind is whisking her short white hair into spikes. I see sorrow in her eyes, but no pain. Hugging my jean jacket closer, I look down the mountain. I can see our lodge. Our lodge.

  “I’m going to miss you,” says Grandma Lark.

  “Me, too,” I say. We are going home tomorrow. “The summer went by so fast.”

  It’s strange to hear myself so that. I practically dropped dead when my mother told the border officer we were going to stay a month or two. Now it’s a foggy memory, as if it happened ages and ages ago and to somebody else. I can’t imagine spending my summer anywhere but here.

  “It’s getting chilly,” says Grandma Lark, closing the zipper of her white Windbreaker. “Ready to go?”

  “Can we wait a few more minutes? For the green flash? Tell me what to do.”

  “You sound like your grandfather,” she says, then turns me slightly so we are facing the sun straight on. “Focus on the horizon. Look at the top of the sun, right before it disappears.”

  We stay as still as an Inukshuk statue. I keep my eyes glued to where the peaks meet the sky. “Grandma?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think I could ever be as good as Dinah? You know, when it comes to hospitality?”

  “I do,” she says without hesitation. “It’s in your blood.”

  It is, isn’t it? This place and everything in it is part of me now. I belong here. I am a girl with her foot in two countries, and I am at home in both.

  Only about a quarter of the sun is still visible. The orange orb is slipping behind the mountain range.

  Going . . .

  A curved slice.

  Going . . .

  The thinnest of stripes.

  Going . . .

  An emerald-green flare.

  “There!” I shout.

  Gone.

  “Grandma Lark! The green flash? Did you see it?”

  “I did,” she cries. “I did!”

  We grab each other and hold on as tight as we can. We keep gazing at the horizon, half expecting another miracle to occur, but nothing does. The sky is turning a deep purple, the silhouette
of the mountain range fading from view.

  “Time to go,” says my grandmother, though she does not release me.

  “Let’s take the Peak 2 Peak gondola,” I say.

  “Across the valley? It’s the long way.”

  “I know, but I’ve never been in a gondola with a see-through floor before.” Hearing myself say it out loud makes me nervous. “On second thought, we don’t have to. It is kind of scary.”

  My grandmother gives me a devilish grin. “Then we have no choice, Little Bird. We must go that way.”

  She’s right, of course.

  And so we do.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to:

  Alyson Heller, my talented editor, who helps me to be a better writer and person; Rosemary Stimola, my incredible agent, who is as kind as she is wise; my parents, for their faith and support; William, whose love makes all things possible; Lauren, Daniel, and the dedicated staff at Fairmont Gold at Fairmont Chateau Whistler; and Whistler, BC, whose breathtaking beauty inspired this book.

  TRUDI TRUEIT knew she’d found her life’s passion after writing (and directing) her first play in the fourth grade. Since then, she’s been a newspaper journalist, television news reporter and anchor, and freelance writer, but her favorite career is what she does now—writing for kids and tweens. She’s published more than ninety fiction and nonfiction titles for young readers, including Stealing Popular and The Sister Solution (Aladdin M!X) and the Secrets of a Lab Rat series (Aladdin). Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, Trudi still lives in the Seattle area with her husband and cats. Visit her website at www.truditrueit.com.

  ALADDIN • SIMON & SCHUSTER, NEW YORK

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  Also by Trudi Trueit

  Secrets of a Lab Rat series

  Stealing Popular

  The Sister Solution

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.