Watch Your Step (2 page)

R
elax 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:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

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 hits 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:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

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.

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.