Watch Your Step

  For Aunt Lorraine

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With special thanks to Rebecca Sherman, Liesa Abrams, Alyson Heller, the wonderful teams at Writers House and Aladdin, and my friends and family.

  Chapter 1

  It’s funny. Once upon a time, summer was my favorite season. Come June there was no school or homework, no alarm clocks or early bedtimes. There was only three whole months to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. All year long I counted down to that stretch of freedom.

  But this summer? I wouldn’t mind skipping it. Because there’s what I want to do . . . and there’s what I have to do. And those are two very different things.

  “What can I get you, Seamus? Fish-stick pancakes? Fish-stick waffles? Fish-stick bacon? Fish-stick home fries? A bagel with cream cheese and fish sticks?”

  It’s the first day of vacation. Mom’s spiraling around the kitchen like a tornado in a cornfield. Dad and I are sitting at the table. He’s reading the newspaper and drinking coffee—the only breakfast item not featuring my favorite food.

  I’m waiting.

  Mom gasps. Spins toward the table. Waves a spatula like it’s a hundred degrees in here and she’s trying to keep me cool.

  “I know,” she says. “How about . . . a fish-stick omelet?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Believe me.” Mom spins toward the stove. “It’s my pleasure.”

  I bet it is.

  “So, son.” Dad folds the newspaper and places it on the table. “Your first day off. Three free months ahead of you. Have you thought about how you’d like to spend them?”

  “Well, they’re not totally free. We’ll still have weekly homework.”

  Dad sits back like I’ve just sneezed without covering my nose. “But it’s summer vacation.”

  “And a great opportunity to sharpen our skills.” I sneak a peek at Mom. She stills at “skills,” then cracks another egg over a bowl. “It’s okay. I don’t have any other plans.”

  “Then we should make some. How about a few rounds at the Cloudview Putt-n-Play this weekend? Some quality father-son time? Just like the old days?”

  Dad gives me a small, hopeful smile. Behind his thick black-framed glasses, his eyes are bright. So much has happened since the old days, it’s hard to imagine going back. But Dad didn’t do anything. None of it was his fault.

  “Okay,” I say. “Sounds fun.”

  “Wonderful! I’ll call when I get to the office and reserve a cart.”

  “You’re leaving?” Mom asks as Dad brings his dishes to the sink. “Already?”

  “The numbers won’t crunch themselves,” Dad says proudly.

  “It’s Seamus’s first morning home. Can’t you go in a little later?”

  “Sorry, my dear. But I’ll be back soon, and we’ll have a great night. Together. As a family.”

  I’ve just taken a bite of omelet and now force it down my throat. Not because it tastes bad—although I must say, despite being made with my favorite food, it’s not my favorite dish—but because the thought of Mom, Dad, and I as a family, the kind that talks and laughs and plays board games, is so strange and unexpected that I almost choke.

  Dad kisses her cheek, then comes over and gives me a hug. When he’s gone, Mom catches my eye, quickly turns away, and continues cooking.

  This is it. We’re alone. For the first time since Christmas morning, when I found her in the attic, surrounded by boxes of—

  My K-Pak buzzes. I take the handheld computer from my shorts pocket and press the K-Mail icon.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: loliver@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: hey

  S—

  Happy to be home. You?

  —L

  I smile at the five-word e-mail. This is typical Lemon. The only thing my roommate uses less than syllables is exclamation points.

  I press reply.

  “Errands.”

  I look up.

  “I just remembered,” Mom says, emptying the frying pan. “I need to go to the dry cleaners. And the post office. And the grocery store. And the vet.”

  “We don’t have a pet,” I say.

  She drops the spatula. It lands on the floor with a thwack. “I think I read that they’re having adoptions today. Wouldn’t that be nice? To welcome an adorable puppy or kitten into our family?”

  Our family. It sounds even stranger coming from her.

  She steps over the spatula and places a plate of mushy eggs and seafood onto the table before me. “Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll take care of it when I get back.”

  My chin drops. This is easily the weirdest thing she’s said since she and Dad picked me up yesterday afternoon. Before I left Cloudview Middle School for Kilter Academy for Troubled Youth—or was yanked out of one and left at the other—I had a list of daily chores that needed to be completed before I did anything else, including homework. The first item on that list was making my bed. The second was cleaning the kitchen after breakfast. Skipping either was never an option. One time I was up late playing video games, overslept, and had eight minutes to get ready for school—and I still swept the kitchen floor and loaded the dishwasher, even though my breakfast was a handful of granola that I gulped down while sprinting to the bus, which I almost missed. Another time, Mom found crumbs because I forgot to wipe the table, and I lost TV privileges for a month. After that I didn’t want to find out what she’d do if I skipped the task entirely.

  So why the sudden rule change? Like the morning fish-stick overload, is it meant to butter me up? Or distract me? Or make me forget what she did?

  Hearing her hurry around upstairs, I return to my K-Pak.

  TO: loliver@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: Hey

  Hi, Lemon!

  So great to hear from you. I can’t believe it’s been less than 24 hours since we left Kilter. It already feels like 24 days since you made Abe, Gabby, and me our last black-bean breakfast burritos of the semester.

  How are your parents? And your little brother? He must be really happy you’re home.

  Everything’s okay here. Different, but I guess that’s normal since I was away for so long. My dad and I already have some fun things planned, so that’s good. I missed him.

  But it’s still a little weird. I bet—

  There’s a loud bang upstairs. It’s so loud I jump in my chair. My thumbs shoot across the K-Pak screen. I accidentally send Lemon’s unfinished note. The sound’s followed by several smaller, quieter thumps. When I land back in my seat, I register where they’re coming from.

  The attic.

  Mom’s cell phone rings. It’s on the counter, next to her purse and car keys. I hurry over to it, glance at Dad’s smiling face on the phone screen, and tap the red rectangle to ignore the call. The ringing stops. The screen goes black.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  And I am. For sending Dad to voicemail before Mom can hear her phone and rush downstairs. For doing what I’m about to do, which is something I never would’ve done eight months ago—or anytime before I found Mom huddled in the attic, surrounded by Kilter Academy boxes.

  Most of all, I’m sorry for having that reason to do what I’m about to do.

  Taking Mom’s keys from the counter, I slide the key ring onto a dish towel. I hold both ends of the towel so that the keys slip to the middle, raise my arm, and start making small, slow circles. Then I lift my arm higher and make bigger, faster circles. Soon the towel is whipping above my head like a lasso.

  As my eyes look for a target, my head fills with other images. I see the Cloudview Middle School cafeteria. A shiny red apple flying toward a cluster of fighting kids. Miss Parsippany, my subs
titute teacher, collapsing to the floor. A big, open field. A line of apple-headed mannequins defenseless against the archery arrows headed their way. An ancient school bus flying through the desert. Flaming paper airplanes.

  Me, throwing the shiny red apple. Firing archery arrows. Hurling flaming paper airplanes.

  And then I select my current target. And the other images disappear.

  I spin the keys again, then snap my wrist. The key ring slips from the dish towel, sails through the air across the kitchen, and descends in a perfect arc toward the stove.

  Where it lands with a plop into a pot of fish-stick oatmeal.

  I put the dish towel back on the counter, then return to my chair and pick up my K-Pak. I’m reading about Kilter’s plans to expand the Kommissary, the school store, when Mom enters the kitchen a few minutes later.

  “Well, that’s strange,” she says.

  “What?” I ask, not looking up.

  “My car keys were right here.”

  “Where?”

  “On the counter. Between my cell phone and pocketbook.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. That’s where I always put them.”

  “You must’ve put them somewhere else.”

  “I didn’t. I distinctly remember placing them here when we got home.”

  “Oh, well,” I say. “Guess you can’t do your errands now.”

  I peer over my K-Pak and watch her rummage through her purse. She turns the bag upside down and dumps its contents onto the counter. Her fingers tremble as she sifts through tissues and breath mints, loose change and coupons.

  “We can spend all day together,” I add. “Won’t that be nice?”

  Her hands freeze. They thaw a second later, and she throws everything that’s on the counter back into her purse.

  “No problem,” she says. “I’ll walk.”

  “Town’s four miles away.”

  “The exercise will do me good.”

  Taking her bag, she flies from the kitchen. The front door opens and slams shut.

  Still in my hand, the K-Pak buzzes.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: loliver@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: RE: hey

  Different how?

  Weird in what way?

  —L

  I press reply, start typing.

  TO: loliver@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: hey

  You don’t want to know. Trust me.

  I wish I didn’t.

  Chapter 2

  DEMERITS: 300

  GOLD STARS: 50

  Relax your grip. Stand up straight. Shake it out. Spit.”

  Dad pushes his enormous black sunglasses, which remind me of the helmet face shield I wore during my first real-world Kilter combat mission, up the bridge of his nose. It’s ninety degrees out and we’ve been standing under the blazing hot sun for an hour, so the instant he pushes them up, sweat sends them sliding right back down.

  “Spit?” I ask. “Like, at the ball?”

  “There.” Up go the sunglasses. “Or anywhere.” Down they go. “It’s a good release.”

  I’m so thirsty I want to dunk my head and gulp the hole’s water trap dry, but I do as he says. I relax my grip on the miniature golf club. Stand up straight. Shake out my sweaty arms and legs. Swipe my dry mouth with my dry tongue, aim for a nearby patch of real grass, and spit.

  “Good.” Dad paces behind me, analyzing the shot from every angle. “Now, just stay calm. Hold steady. Don’t overthink. Feel the motion.”

  I try to hide my smile. Little does he know that this is kind of my specialty. Kilter students are divided by troublemaking talent into six groups. Because I was sent to Kilter for accidentally taking down my substitute teacher in a crowded cafeteria with a single apple, I was assigned to the marksmen group. That means that in addition to attending classes and doing regular homework (if you call burping the alphabet homework), I meet with Ike, an upper level marksman and my troublemaking tutor, who helps me improve my aim and technique. Compared to some of his assignments, putting a yellow ball down a patch of fake grass, through a fake polar bear’s jaws, and into a small hole is like brushing my teeth. So easy I could do it with my eyes closed. Which I often do, because it takes me a while to wake up in the morning.

  But Dad doesn’t know this. And he never can.

  I curl my fingers around the club and survey the course. Once again, the hole-in-one route’s obvious. I need to whack the ball left.

  “That’s it,” Dad says quietly from the sidelines. “You can do it, son.”

  Son.

  I tap the ball right. When it stalls on the fake grass six inches away from the fake polar bear’s mouth, I clap one hand to my forehead and groan.

  “Hey, hey!” Dad says. “Don’t be hard on yourself. That was a fantastic shot! And you’ll just make up the strokes on the next hole.”

  Which is what he said after I finished each of the sixteen holes before this one. That’s why I keep playing badly. He’s always so nice, he deserves to win.

  Dad finishes the hole in five strokes, plus a one-stroke penalty for his ball bouncing off course and into a bush. I finish in six strokes, plus a three-stroke penalty for hitting my ball into a bush, a sand pit, and a little boy’s ice cream cone.

  “Chin up,” Dad says as he records our scores. “We still have one to go!”

  The last hole is where you return your balls. There are no fountains or fake animals. There’s only a narrow plank that inclines up toward the hole. All your ball has to do is make it up the plank without rolling off and dropping into the pit below. It looks like the surest, easiest shot of the entire course, but it’s actually the hardest. Probably because whoever makes it wins a free game and two hot dogs.

  Dad goes first. And misses.

  I go next. And make it in.

  Above the hole, a red light bulb flashes. A siren sounds. Dad throws up both hands, sending the scorecard and tiny pencil flying.

  “Seamus! How did you—? What did you—?” He looks around, motions to nearby putters. “See that? That’s my boy!”

  I don’t hide my smile now. “Can we come back tomorrow?”

  “Can we!” He puts one arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”

  For a split second, my smile disappears. My stomach turns. I’m tempted to tell him everything, only so I can apologize and swear I’ll never do any of it again.

  But then I remind myself that what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. And say yes when he asks if I’d like a celebratory snow cone for the road.

  The drive home is fun. I eat my treat. Dad sings along to the oldies on the radio. Every now and then I sing too, which makes Dad so happy he laughs and claps and swerves into the next lane. I try to think of somewhere else to go to prolong the trip. Before I can, my K-Pak buzzes with a new message.

  I start to turn off the computer without checking my K-Mail. I’m sure it can wait, and I want to focus on having fun with Dad. But then I glimpse the sender’s name. And my fingertip hits the digital envelope.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: enorris@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Hi

  Hi, Seamus,

  How are you? Happy to be home? Having fun with your parents?

  I’m great! Okay, maybe not great. But really good. Definitely fine. The desert’s a hundred and twelve degrees and the pools are still filled with snakes instead of water, but Mom hasn’t thrown me into any of them yet. That’s something, right?

  Anyway, I just wanted to say hi and see how you were. Also, I know it’s only been a few days . . . but I miss you.

  Anyway, I’m sure you’re really busy, but if you have a minute to write back, please do. I’d love to hear from you.

  From,

  Elinor

  “Everything okay?”

  My head snaps up. The K-Pak h
its my chest.

  “Your face is the same color as your mouth,” he adds.

  I lower the visor and check the mirror. The cherry snow cone stained my lips red. And Dad’s right. My face matches them perfectly.

  “Everything’s fine.” I flip up the visor.

  “She must be special.”

  “She? Who said anything about . . .” My voice trails off. If he were anyone else, I’d totally deny his assumption. But he’s Dad. So, “Yeah. She is.”

  His eyes are hidden behind the enormous black sunglasses, but I know he winks at me. Then he returns his attention to the road, cranks up the radio, and starts whistling.

  I return my attention to Elinor’s note. My eyes stick on “I miss you” and “I’d love to hear from you.” Since leaving Kilter, an hour hasn’t gone by that I haven’t wanted to write her, but I’ve been waiting. After Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and I rescued her from her mother’s strange secret school in Arizona and brought her back to Kilter last semester, Elinor and I hung out a lot. Usually in a group, but sometimes just us. By the end of the semester we were really good friends. So checking in after saying good-bye for the summer probably wouldn’t have seemed like a big deal. But I didn’t want to be pushy, just in case. Also, I wanted to see if she’d write me if I didn’t write her.

  And she did. Which makes a great day even better.

  My K-Pak buzzes again. I open the new message.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: kommissary@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Nice work!

  Hey, Seamus!

  After your impressive first-year performance we shouldn’t be surprised by your stellar summer shenanigans—but we are! That trick with the laundry basket this morning? When you hid behind the vacuum and chucked in dirty socks every time your mom turned to the washing machine, so that the basket never emptied? Priceless!

  Know what’s not priceless? The Kilter Bubble Blaster 3000.

  A movie-reel icon appears. I make sure the K-Pak’s on mute, then tap the icon. A video starts. In the demo clip, a kid my age empties a bottle of laundry detergent, then refills it with purple liquid. He takes a long, thin tube and places one end into the bottle. The other end holds a small wand that looks like the ones that come with toy bubbles, except it’s silver. The kid raises the wand near his mouth, smiles at the camera, and purses his lips. He puffs once, like the wand’s a birthday candle on a cupcake, and disappears. So does the entire room he’s standing in. Everything in the camera’s shot is swallowed by a thick cloud of white foam. In the next instant, the foam gives way to thousands of clear bubbles. The bubbles pop all at once, and the kid reappears. The room looks as it did before he blew into the wand.