Watch Your Step (6 page)

Of course, that was before I found Mom up in the attic, surrounded by Kilter supplies. Then I figured she was probably so grateful to him for making me throw the apple in the school cafeteria and get shipped off to Kilter, she considered him an honorary son.

Miss Parsippany doesn't know any of this, though. Or what Kilter really trains kids to do. Telling myself she's better off in the dark, I hit send.

My K-Pak beeps with another new message.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Where are you?

Hi Seamus,

I got to Kamp Kilter a little while ago. I just checked your place but it's empty. Does that mean you're still on your way? I hope so. . . .

—Elinor

My heart pounds as I write her back.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: Where are you?

On my way, be there in no time!

I hit send and lean between the two front seats. “Any chance we can go faster?”

“There sure is!”

Dad punches the gas. Mom yelps. I fly back into my seat. We're still several miles away, but thanks to skills I had no idea Dad or his ancient sedan possessed, the Kamp Kilter sign appears nine and a half minutes later.

The car skids to a stop by a small house. It looks like a log cabin, but made of steel instead of wood.

I slide down the seat for a better view. Dad rolls down his window and sticks out his head. We stay like this for a long moment. Because nothing happens. No one comes out of the
house to greet us. No other cars pull up behind ours. We're parked at the edge of a deep, dark forest, but leaves don't rustle, birds don't sing, the air doesn't stir. It reminds me of the very first time we came to Kilter, when Mom rushed toward the windowless gray building and Dad and I stood outside the chain-link fence topped in barbed wire, trying to convince each other it was anything but terrifying.

Now I'm scared again. But this time of being kept out—not let in.

Before fear turns to panic, the steel cabin's door screams open. A figure steps out. It's wearing green cargo pants, a green cargo shirt, and tall black combat boots. The clothes are stretched thin across big, sharp muscles, like they're straining to hang on. Aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses hide the figure's eyes.

“Hi, Annika,” I say.

She approaches us silently. Dad pulls his head back into the car slowly. Like he's afraid one wrong move will make her yank the gun from the holster attached to her hip. Because he has no idea the weapon is a toy filled with water. Or that it's only for show.

Annika stops by Dad's open window. Her head turns toward mine. As I stare at my reflection in her mirrored sunglasses, my pulse quickens. My lungs pump faster. Despite our differences, I know she considers me a star pupil . . . but she can still shrink me down to pint-size with a single look if I'm not sure why she's giving it.

She holds my gaze. Then she looks at Dad, throws open her arms, and smiles. “Welcome to Kamp Kilter, Mr. and Mrs. Hinkle!”

Dad's head hits the back of his seat as he exhales and laughs. Mom laughs too.

“How was the ride?” Annika rests her palms on her thighs and stoops down so that she's eye-level with my parents. “Find us okay?”

“It was a breeze!” Dad says.

“Wonderful. We're thrilled you're here! Now let me get your bags.” Annika disappears into the steel cabin. Two seconds later she pops out holding sparkly gray tote bags. “Here are a few things to get you started. Beach towels, water bottles, sunblock, sunglasses, straw hats, lip balm, flip-flops—you know, the basics!”

Dad takes the bags. Not braced for their weight, his arms drop. His triceps slam against the bottom of the open window.

“Oops! Careful.” Annika lends Dad a hand. Together they lift the totes into the driver's seat. “Your K-Pads are also in there.”

“K-what?” Dad asks.

“Your very own Kamp Kilter personal computers,” Annika explains. “Jam-packed with information, including your cabin assignment, an interactive map of the grounds, and an e-mail and phone directory for all facilities and services.”

“Like K-Paks,” I say.

Annika ignores me. “They'll also tell you everything you need to know about itineraries, class schedules, movie showings, workshops, lectures, special activities, and more. They shouldn't leave many questions, but should you have any, our camp counselors are always available and ready to help.”

“It sounds like you've thought of everything!” Mom declares.

It does. And considering Kamp Kilter has existed for less than twenty-four hours, I have to give Annika credit for this too.

“Just one more thing, and then you're off to having fun in the sun—or being made in the shade!” Annika disappears into the steel cabin again. When she reappears, she's carrying a large basket. “I need your cell phones.”

Dad reels back as she thrusts the basket forward.

“We want you to be fully immersed in rest and relaxation, without any distractions. And uninterrupted family time is guaranteed to bring you closer than you've ever been. Is anything more important than that?”

My parents exchange looks.

“You'll get them back at the end of camp,” Annika adds.

They force smiles and fork over their phones.

“Great!” Annika cradles the basket between her waist and arm. “Now just scoot over and make room for Horatio here.”

A tall man wearing gray shorts and a gray T-shirt emerges from the cabin. He looks familiar, but I can't place him—until I notice the silver fanny pack around his waist. Then I realize he's one of the Good Samaritans, Kilter's version of security. Apparently he's been given a new look for his new position with Kamp Kilter.

Horatio opens the driver's-side door, nudges Dad over, and
sits down. Then he produces two silver ribbons, winds them around my parents' heads and across their eyes, and double-knots them. As Mom and Dad gasp and giggle, Annika opens my door, pulls me out of the car, and clamps one cold hand over my mouth.

“Have fun!” she calls out as Horatio buckles up and hits the gas. “And if you need anything at all, just ask!”

My pulse pounds in my ears as I watch them drive down a long dirt road. Annika brings her head toward mine and lowers her voice.

“A true Troublemaker can't be cured so fast . . . can he?”

Which I guess is her way of saying that bad kids don't deserve the kind of fun my parents are about to have.

A few seconds later, Dad's ancient sedan rounds a corner and is swallowed by trees. Annika releases my mouth. Nervous for my parents now that I can no longer see them, I resist sprinting after them.

I turn around instead and see a golf cart that wasn't there five seconds ago. An older man wearing black wool pants, a black turtleneck, and a black baseball hat sits as still as stone behind the wheel.

“Get . . .
in
,” he hisses.

I jump in the cart. Because when Mr. Tempest, a.k.a. Mystery, a.k.a. Kilter's history teacher, tells you to do something, you do it.

You could die if you don't.

O
h my gosh, this is
the most amazing thing I've ever seen! Isn't it the most amazing thing
you've
ever seen? I can't believe we get to live here!”

Gabby squeals and sprints away. Abe looks at me.

“Can we take out her batteries?” he asks.

I grin. He half smiles too, so I know he doesn't totally mind Gabby's hyperactivity.

“Oh my goodness!
Guys.
You have to see this!”

We're in the kitchen and follow Gabby's shriek to the next
room, where she's standing between the biggest flat-screen TV and fleece beanbag chair known to mankind.

“Wow,” I say.

“Agreed,” Abe says. “When Mystery dropped me off, I thought I'd be sleeping on the ground—not living in luxury underneath it.”

I thought the same thing. Because after a silent ride that seemed to last days but only took minutes, Mystery dropped me off in front of a tent. Actually, that's too fancy a term for what it really was. Because tents have zippers. Some even have multiple rooms and windows. What I ducked under was a ripped black tarp draped over two sticks stuck in the ground. Like Abe, I expected to find a big patch of dirt. Maybe a cot. Definitely the promise of long, sleepless nights watching for bears and flicking away bugs.

But I found a gleaming silver trapdoor instead. And a computer screen attached to a pedestal. Once the section of tarp I'd lifted floated back to the ground, the screen flashed on and instructed me to place my palm to its surface. I did, the computer registered my print, and the trapdoor whooshed open. A clear glass tube rose up. Its door slid open, then closed after I stepped inside. I have
no idea how far below ground it traveled. In fact, once it stopped I wasn't even sure I was still below ground, because the room it landed in was bright and sunny. The windows throughout the room looked real. They offered beautiful views of blue sky, a turquoise lake, a white sandy beach, and flower-covered mountains. Those looked real too.

I asked Abe how that was possible. He guessed live video feed. Which means the outdoor images we see are projections captured by digital camcorders scattered throughout the campground.

“What are those?” Gabby asks now, pointing to several small gray spheres spread across the ceiling.

Abe and I step farther into the room to investigate. I'm standing on my tiptoes for a closer look when the room blows up.

Against the deafening roar, my palms hit my ears. My knees hit the floor. My eyes squeeze shut. My entire body shakes.

And then, just like that, the noise stops. The room, and my body, still.

I move my hands an inch away from my ears. Open my eyes one at a time.

“Lemon?” I ask, not sure I'm still alive or that he's really standing in the living room doorway.

“Lemon!”
Gabby leaps out of the beanbag, where she fell during the explosion, sprints across the room, and almost knocks him over when she hugs him.

“Are we dead?” Abe reaches one hand out from his hiding place under the coffee table. “Is this warm fuzzy thing a rug . . . or my insides smeared across the floor?”

“Ew.” Gabby grimaces. Then she skips to the coffee table, takes Abe's hand, and helps him slide out. “Music can't kill you, silly.”

“That was music?” he asks doubtfully.

Lemon holds up a short silver wand, then aims it at one of the gray ceiling spheres.

“That's okay!” Abe jumps to his feet. “I don't need another demo.”

Lemon tosses the remote onto the couch and drops his duffel bag to the floor. I'm so happy to see him I want to hug him too—but he doesn't say hi. He doesn't even look at me. All he does is cross his arms over his stomach and slowly tilt to one side until his left shoulder stops at the doorway wall.

“How was your ride?” I ask.

“Long,” he says.

“Were your parents so excited about Kamp Kilter?” Gabby asks.

He shrugs. “They're here. So  . . .”

“What about your little brother?” Abe asks.

“Oh my goodness, little kids
love
camp,” Gabby says. “A long time ago? When I was five? My parents sent me to Camp Songbird, this amazing camp for super talented musicians. And at first? I totally didn't want to go. I was, like, crazy homesick. I cried myself to sleep and—”

A doorbell rings.

Gabby gasps. “Company!” She claps her hands and races out of the room.

Abe looks at me. “
Now
can we take out her batteries?”

I smile at him, then look at Lemon. Or at the empty space he occupied half a second ago. Lemon's idea of hurrying is walking instead of shuffling, but his legs are about twice as long as mine are and can move fast when he wants them to. Before I can decide whether to go find him or give him space, Gabby bounds back into the room.