Watch Your Step Page 2
The video ends. I return to the e-mail.
With a 25-foot firing range and an automatic cleanup feature, the Kilter Bubble Blaster is the best in its class. If your mom thought doing the wash was a chore before, she’ll wear the same skirt forever to avoid it now!
This one-of-a-kind toy can be yours for 200 credits. Your dirty-sock toss this morning earned you 150 credits. Add that to the other ones you’ve earned since being home, and you have more than enough credits to make the KBB 3000 your own!
And don’t worry—shipping’s on us. If you place an order, we’ll overnight the KBB 3000 free of charge!
Keep up the good work!
At Your Service,
The Kommissary Krew
P.S. To make sure you keep making trouble at home, starting today you’ll earn 50 gold stars a day, no matter what! And we don’t have to remind you that you get 1 credit for every demerit you earn—and lose 1 credit for every gold star you earn!
When I finish reading, a thought occurs to me.
At Kilter, the school store’s always e-mailing with credit updates and weapons suggestions. But that’s because Annika, teachers, and even other students are always watching and reporting our troublemaking tactics. It’s how they monitor our progress and keep us on our toes.
But I’m home now. Hundreds of miles away from Kilter.
So how does anyone there know what I’m doing here?
I’m still trying to figure it out when we turn onto our street. Then, not wanting the fun with Dad to end already, I decide to worry about it later.
“Want to play Scrabble?” I ask. This is his favorite game.
“Sure.” He shifts in his seat. Loosens the collar of his yellow polo shirt. Checks the rearview mirror like we’re being followed. “I just . . . have to do something first? Like, for work? Yes, definitely for work. It’s extremely urgent.”
“Okay.” Wondering why he’s acting so weird, I watch his neck turn pink. “Whenever you’re ready.”
We pull into the driveway. Dad turns off the car, throws open his door, and hurries toward the house.
I follow after him. By the time I reach the front foyer, he’s already in his office with the door closed. Still hot from our game, I go to the kitchen for a glass of water.
“You’re back!” Mom’s sitting at the table with an open book before her. As I enter the room, she snaps the cover shut. “How was it?”
Once again I’m reminded of how different this summer is from other summers. Because this time last year, I would’ve gotten a nice glass of iced tea, sat at the table with Mom, and told her all about miniature golf. Part of me still wants to do that now. But the way she closed the book when I came into the room? She’s definitely hiding something. And before I do anything else this summer, I have to figure out what that is.
“Un-fay-ay,” I say, and head for the cabinets.
“Un-fay-ay?” she asks. “What does that mean?”
Exactly what I said: fun. Only I said it in pig French, which I learned at Kilter, and which is like pig Latin but with an extra “ay” at the end of each word. This is how I’ve been speaking to Mom for forty-eight hours. If I’d pulled this a few months ago, she would’ve banished me to my room until I promised to speak properly. Now she just grits her teeth and forces a smile, like she’s amused by my language artistry.
When I don’t answer, she gets up, taking the book with her, and flees the kitchen. “Time to weed!” she calls back. “See you soon!”
I gulp down a glass of water. Then I go upstairs, pass my room, and start up another flight of stairs . . . to the attic.
It’s cold. Dark. Somewhere I rarely go. I’m going now because Mom’s been acting nervous around me. And I want to make sure she’s no longer doing what I found her doing when I was home for Christmas.
Holding my breath, I flick on the overhead lightbulb. And then I exhale, relieved. They’re gone. All of the Kilter Academy boxes—filled with top secret troublemaking tools and weapons that no one off campus should ever know about, but that Mom somehow did and was able to get her hands on—are gone. All that remains are regular boxes filled with old clothes and holiday decorations.
Satisfied, I start toward the staircase.
Halfway there, my foot hits something hard. I stumble forward, then stoop down to pick up whatever tripped me.
And I almost fall over again.
Because I just walked into a brand-new Kilter Boomaree with night-vision technology. That Mom must’ve missed when cleaning out the other evidence.
Heart thumping, I grab the Boomaree and run down the attic stairs. I dart into my room and head for the open windows.
She’s still there. Yanking weeds from the dirt and tossing them into a wheelbarrow. She’s on her hands and knees with her back to me, so this could be the easiest trouble I ever make.
I’m still not sure I want to be the kind of kid who takes advantage of such opportunities . . . but Mom obviously wanted me to be. Why else would she have sent me away to a fake reform school? That she knew was actually a top secret troublemaking training facility?
I can’t think of another reason. So I’ll give her what she asked for, one more time.
The Boomaree’s part boomerang, part Frisbee. With the help of a small control box, you throw it like a disc and it circles back to you like a boomerang. I haven’t used one since the Ultimate Troublemaking Task at the end of my first semester at Kilter. That’s when Lemon, Gabby, Abe, Elinor, and I successfully completed the mission by making Annika, the school’s director, cry by setting the merry-go-round on fire at the old dilapidated amusement park her father built for her.
Fortunately, it turns out that throwing a Boomaree is like riding a bicycle. The technique comes back the second I pull it back to fling it forward. The Boomaree flies so fast you don’t see it, only hear it buzz as it whizzes past. Common target reaction is to bat at it like it’s a pesky bug.
Which Mom does when I throw it again. And again. With every launch, her reaction gets better. Soon she jumps to her feet and shakes out her hair. Rushes to the opposite end of the vegetable patch. Hops between lettuce heads to get to the other side.
When I think she’s had enough, I stop. After several days of similar tricks, we can call it even. Mom must’ve had her reasons for doing what she did, and maybe someday she’ll tell me what they were. But for now, we can activate a silent truce and try to enjoy the rest of the summer.
I hide the Boomaree under my bed, then leave my room and head for the bathroom. Our house is old and doesn’t have air-conditioning, so the best way to deal with the sweltering summer heat is to take lots of cold showers. I was already burning up after miniature golf, and messing with Mom has made it worse. I can’t wait to read Elinor’s note again and write her back, but I don’t want to be distracted by sweat dripping onto my K-Pak screen when I do.
Inside the bathroom I close and lock the door. Already imagining how great the ice-cold water will feel, I get undressed, step into the tub, turn the faucet—and scream.
The water’s not ice-cold. It’s molten-lava hot.
I leap out of the tub. Shake out my arms and legs. Jump from one foot to the other, like the tile floor is an active volcano crater. When I cool down enough to think straight, I turn off the water, then turn it on again, careful to keep the temperature pointer on the coldest position possible.
Steam billows around me as the water burns hotter.
I go to the sink and spin the cold knob as far as it’ll go. When only hot water gushes from the faucet, I throw on my shorts, grab the rest of my stuff, and dash downstairs. The same thing happens with the sink in the kitchen and in the first-floor bathroom.
I’m now melting. Officially. But despite our silent truce, I don’t want to ask Mom for help. Dad’s still in his office, so I don’t want to ask him either. Too hot to think of other options, I grab ice cubes from the refrigerator freezer, go to my bedroom, and collapse onto the bed.
I’m sucking on ice
and pretending my mattress is a glacier, when my K-Pak buzzes with another message from the Kommissary. Congratulating me on my recent Boomaree performance and the one hundred credits it earned, and suggesting that I might like the brand-new Boomketball.
A movie-reel icon is at the end of the message. Instead of pressing it for a video demo, I hit reply.
TO: kommissary@kilteracademy.org
FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: RE: Nice work!
Hi,
Thanks for telling me about this! The Boomketball sounds like a lot of fun.
But quick question. Since I’m home and not at school, how do you know what kind of trouble I’m making?
Sincerely,
Seamus
I send the message. Two seconds later, I get an answer.
TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org
FROM: kommissary@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: RE: RE: Nice work!
Hey, Seamus!
We have no idea what you’re doing at home. But somehow, someway, someone else does. And you can probably guess who that someone is!
I sure can. Because now that I think about it, I know only one person has that kind of sneaky superpower.
Annika.
Chapter 3
DEMERITS: 375
GOLD STARS: 100
First, fold the paper in half. Then unfold it. Next fold it in half the other way. Then unfold it. Now you have four perfect squares. See?”
I do. But I don’t quite believe it.
“Lemon, no offense . . . but where did this new hobby come from?”
We’re talking via our K-Paks’ video-chat feature, which was magically remotely installed on our devices last night. This would be a shocking high-tech achievement back at Cloudview Middle School, where notes are still taken with paper and pencils, but I learned fast that Kilter’s ahead of the technological curve. So when I woke up this morning to Lemon staring at me from my nightstand, where I’d put my K-Pak before going to sleep, I was only slightly freaked out. After I blinked and he was still there, I put two and two together—and was just really excited to see him.
“Why would I be offended?” Lemon asks.
“You wouldn’t be,” I say. “Or shouldn’t be. This . . . just seems a little unlike you. That’s all.”
His eyes hold mine. Then his head turns slowly, stopping only when his neck won’t twist anymore. Several strings crisscross the wall behind him. Hanging from them are dozens of brightly colored paper shapes. There are red paper dogs. Purple paper hats. Blue paper airplanes. Pink paper hearts. All of which Lemon made himself.
He turns back. “It’s origami. The traditional Japanese art of paper folding.”
“I know.”
“Japan’s cool.”
“It is. And paper’s awesome.” I don’t have strong feelings one way or the other about this nearly extinct material, but if folding it makes Lemon happy, it makes me happy too. “You just never did it at Kilter. Or ever said anything about it.”
The corners of his lips turn down. Then they lift and his mouth settles into an even line. “I made a shark out of a piece of tinfoil the other day and gave it to my little brother. He really liked it, so I went online to find out how to make other things. That’s how I learned about origami. You need special square paper to do it, so my mom and I went to the craft store.”
Before I can say anything, there’s a knock on his bedroom door.
“Enter,” Lemon says.
The door opens. A shorter, skinnier version of my best friend hurries into the room and holds up a giant matchstick.
“Look what I found!”
Lemon peers over his shoulder. Then he drops the piece of paper he’s been folding and jumps up. “Finn. Where’d you get that?”
“The garbage,” Lemon’s little brother says. “It’s yours, right?”
“It was mine. Before I threw it out.”
“But it still works. See?” Finn presses a button. An orange flame appears at the top of the long lighter. “If you don’t want it, can I—”
Lemon dashes across the room and snatches away the fire starter. “Play with these instead.” He thrusts a stack of paper at Finn, ushers him out of the room, and closes the door. Then he returns to his desk, picks up the paper he dropped, and continues folding. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” I say.
“Anyway. You wouldn’t believe how many different kinds of paper there are. All colors. All sizes. Some are shiny. Some even have glitter.”
“It seems like a fun hobby. And you’re obviously great at it. But—”
“Son!”
I jump. Dad knocks on my bedroom door.
“I’m off to work! And your mother’s already left for her spa day with the girls. We’ll both be back around five. Have fun! See you later!”
“Scrabble rematch tonight?” I call back.
He doesn’t answer. All I hear are his usually slow footsteps racing down the hallway.
“Something wrong?” Lemon asks.
I frown at the closed door. “Don’t know.”
Because Dad usually won’t leave for work until he gives me a hug. If I’m in the shower or getting dressed, he’ll wait for me to come downstairs so we can go through our morning routine before he leaves. Even if it means getting to work late.
I’m about to run this by Lemon when my K-Pak beeps.
“It’s Abe,” I say, reading the name in the notification box now covering Lemon’s nose. “Should I answer?”
Lemon analyzes his paper work in progress. Taking this as permission to proceed, I tap the notification box. The K-Pak screen splits as the face of our fellow Capital T alliance member appears next to Lemon’s.
“Hey,” Abe says.
“Hi.” I smile. Abe and I aren’t as close as Lemon and I are, but we still went through a lot together over the past year. It’s nice to see him. “How’s it going?”
“Great! I mean, fine.” He tilts his chin toward where Lemon must be on his K-Pak screen. “Fancy finger work, L-Dog.”
“How’s your summer?” I ask before Abe can annoy Lemon.
“Busy,” he says. “But I just wanted to check up on—I mean in with—you guys. See what you’ve been doing. If you’ve been practicing anything we learned at school.”
“I’ve been trying a few things,” I say, intentionally vague. Abe’s ultra competitive and is always trying to be the best Troublemaker in our class, so not knowing exactly what I’ve been doing will bother him—and entertain me.
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press. “Lemon? Set any mailboxes on fire lately?
Lemon’s hands freeze. It’s a reasonable question, but he obviously doesn’t like it. Fortunately, my K-Pak beeps again.
“Gabby,” I say as her name pops up on the screen. “Should I answer?”
“No,” Abe says.
“Yes,” Lemon says.
I tap the box. Lemon’s and Abe’s faces shrink as the K-Pak screen divides into thirds and Capital T’s fourth member appears.
“Oh my goodness!” Gabby squeals. “You guys! There you are! I’ve missed you so much! How are you? Tell me everything!”
“Did you just kiss your K-Pak camera?” Abe asks.
She did. At least that’s what it looked like when her face got really big, disappeared behind a shiny pink mouth, and reappeared again after she rubbed lip-gloss film from the camera lens.
But Gabby doesn’t confirm this. Instead, her blue eyes widen until they seem to take up half her head. They aim at Abe, who looks away to avoid becoming trapped in her powerful death stare.
“We’re good,” I offer. “How about you?”
Gabby’s eyes return to their normal size. “Great! Especially now that we can talk to and see each other, like, all the time!”
A loud knock comes through the K-Pak speaker.
“Busy!” Abe calls out.
Abe’s bedroom door opens. A man—I assume his dad—appears behind him.
“Yes,” Abe says.
“But you can pick the sport!” Mr. Hansen exclaims.
“Then I pick none,” Abe says.
“Oh, come on! A little friendly competition is great for—”
Mr. Hansen stops when Abe swivels around in his chair. I can only see the back of his head so don’t know what kind of look he gives his dad, but it must be pretty serious. Because his dad frowns and leaves the room without another word.
Abe swivels backs. “So. Gabby. Have you been making trouble?”
Gabby pauses, and I know she wants to ask about what just happened. But she answers his question instead. “Maybe a little. But only because I had to!”
“Why’d you have to?” I ask.
“Flora? My older sister? She’s out of control! She was so sweet when I first got home, but now? It’s like she’s doing everything she can to get rid of me. Like, she took my favorite stuffed monkey slippers without asking. Then when she gave them back, they were covered in grass stains. And—”
“Hey! Dorkus!”
Gabby’s mouth snaps shut. Her bedroom door swings open. A teenager with long blond hair bursts inside and flies around the room.
“Mom and I are going to the mall. I need a jacket. Where’s your denim one? With the crystal buttons? And flower patches? And . . .”
The girl, who I assume is Flora, Gabby’s sister, keeps rambling as she opens drawers and flings around clothes, but I stop listening. I focus only on Gabby, who looks down and says nothing. Nothing. Gabby. Who always has something to say.