Watch Your Step (12 page)

My chin drops. “That's how you stole my fish sticks so fast? And got me up here?”

“Yup.” He shoves the rest of the donut into his mouth, chews, and licks the powdered sugar from his fingers. “Your turn.”

I sit up straighter on the tree branch. Ike hands me the Kilter Katcher. For such an impressive weapon, it's surprisingly light.

“What should I catch?” I ask.

“We'll start easy. I'll give you ten demerits for that caterpillar two branches down.”

I frown. “Won't I hurt him?”

“Were you hurt when I caught you?”

No, but Ike's obviously had practice. So I'm still nervous as I spin the reel and move the bull's-eye over my furry target.

“Good,” Ike says when the radar's locked in place. “See the handle on the side of the reel? That's your firing lever. Pull it down to let 'er rip.”

“Sorry, little guy,” I whisper. Then I pull down the lever and cringe.

“Missed.”

I look down. “How? The bull's-eye was locked right over it.”

“The line's tangled in leaves.” Ike leans against the tree trunk and clasps his hands over his stomach. “Sorry. I should've mentioned that the Kilter Katcher can't do your job entirely. Once it's released, you have to guide the line toward its target. The instant you pull down the lever, the screen will change. It'll show you the line's route as well as obstacles in its path. Using the reel like a video-game controller, you have to watch the screen and move the line around those obstacles.”

“But it's so fast,” I say.

“That just means you have to be too.”

I consider this, then give the Kilter Katcher a strong tug. The line rips free of the leaves and flies back up into the pole. I find
the caterpillar on the screen and refocus the bull's-eye. I lock it in place, take a deep breath, and pull down the lever.

The screen changes instantly. I pretend I'm playing video games in my bedroom back home as I stare and adjust the reel. The tiny digital hook moves around tiny digital limbs and leaves.

“It made it.” I look at the screen, down at the target, and back at the screen. “I think it—”

“Voila.” Ike nods to the end of the pole, where the fuzzy caterpillar is now cradled in the hook like a baby in a swing. “You just earned ten demerits. Congrats.”

“Thanks.” I lower the pole, remove the caterpillar, and gently place it on the branch. “And congrats to you—you just earned a bite of maple-syrup-dipped fish stick!”

“Not so fast. That was just a warm-up. Your real challenge is next.”

“Bring it on.”

“Annika.”

“You want me to catch
her
?”

“No—although that's tempting.”

For a second, I forget about the Kilter Katcher. Because Ike's probably the happiest guy I know. He smiles a lot. I've seen him
serious and focused—but never in a bad mood. But now? When he talks about catching Annika? He sounds different. He
looks
different. As if he thinks trapping our director is a good idea . . . but for bad reasons.

But then he shakes his head and smiles, and he's happy Ike again.

“I want you to catch her sunglasses. Snatch them right off her face. For a hundred demerits.”

I smile too. “No problem.”

“Don't be so sure. The caterpillar was close. Annika's a quarter of a mile away—and she's a moving target. Even if the hook reaches her, it has to find her face. And there's always a chance she'll see the hook and dodge it.”

“Hinkle!” a male voice shouts far below us.
“Where are you?”

Abe. Our top secret mission.

I look at Ike. “Annika gave us ten minutes for breakfast. Can I take a rain check? And catch her sunglasses later?”

“If you do it right it won't take long.”

“Hinkle!” Abe hollers. “We
will
leave you!”

My pulse quickens. Not wanting to disappoint Ike, I adjust the reel and study the screen. After a few tries, I zoom in on the
beach and see Annika talking on her K-Pak. She walks as she talks, which makes it hard to lock the bull's-eye on her sunglasses.

Annika pauses. The bull's-eye hovers over the right lens of her sunglasses. My breath catches. I lock the bull's-eye, yank the lever, and release the line.

Two seconds later, I'm smiling at my reflection in Annika's mirrored sunglasses. Which Ike's wearing as he chows down on a maple-syrup-dipped fish stick.

“Pretty good, right?” I ask.

He swallows. “Don't know if I'd order it in a restaurant . . . but it's staying down. So that's good.”

I hand him the Kilter Katcher. “Thanks! This was fun. But I kind of have to go.”

“Understood.”

I wait. He licks his fingers.

“Sorry,” I say, “but do you think you could . . . ?”

“Oh! Sure.”

I turn slightly so he has a better shot at my back. He lifts the Kilter Katcher and casts the line in one quick motion. The hook latches onto my shirt. The line lifts me from the branch and begins lowering me down.

“Thanks again!” I smile and wave.

The line stops. My body jerks.

“Seamus?”

I look up at Ike. He's looking down at me. His mood seems to have changed again. But he's not mad. Maybe sad? Definitely serious.

“Annika has you working on a special project . . . doesn't she?”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Because I'm not sure what to say. Ike's my honorary big brother so I don't want to lie to him. But Annika's Kamp Kilter mission is top secret and I don't want to disobey her.

Fortunately or unfortunately, my silence must answer for me. Because Ike leans down and whispers three words.

“Be very careful.”

W
e're not going to make
it,” Gabby says.

“Yes, we are,” Abe says.

“But water's in the boat. The boat's sinking. That means
we're
sinking.”

“You can swim, right?” Elinor asks.

“Yes,” Gabby says, “but so can the flesh-eating fish that live in the lake. I bet they're faster than I am. And hungry, too!”

“If you'd all stop talking and start filling your cups, we'd go a lot faster.”

I look at Lemon. So do Abe, Gabby, and Elinor.

“Shouldn't you be napping?” Abe asks.

It sounds like a sarcastic question, but Abe's serious. Because normally at this point in any challenge, Lemon would be relaxing while everyone else was hurrying to get the job done. Out on the lake and under the warm sun, he'd be asleep in seconds.

But today Lemon's at the head of our hole-riddled canoe. He's using two of the plastic cups Annika gave us to scoop out the rising water and dump it back into the lake. And he's moving so fast, his gray T-shirt's already black with sweat.

“Lemon's right,” I say. “The other boats are almost there.”

“There” is the other side of the lake, home to our parents' luxury cabins. According to Annika's latest e-mail to me and my friends, we'll start our day with the rest of the Troublemakers and split up after the assignments have been given. Our classmates are either really strong, excited, or afraid of the flesh-eating fish in the lake, because we all left shore at the same time, and they're way ahead of us.

I can't say I'm helping. I mean, I
am
helping—I'm scooping out water and dumping it back into the lake—but I'm also distracted.
I can't stop thinking of what Ike said before he released me all the way to the ground.

Be very careful? Of what?

“You okay?”

I glance up. Elinor's looking at me as she crouches in the ankle-deep water, trying to plug two holes with her feet. Remembering that as our weakest swimmer she has much more reason to fear sinking than Gabby does, I fill and dump my cup faster.

“Yup.” I smile. “Just thinking.”

“I'm a good listener,” she says.

“I know. Thanks. Maybe we can talk—”

Later? That's how I'd finish the sentence—if Lemon didn't leap out of the canoe. The boat's still rocking when he grabs the front with one hand and starts paddling with the other.

“Who released the Olympian?” Abe asks.

Which is another good question. Because thanks to Lemon's superhuman swimming, I fill and dump only three more cups of water before we reach the shore.

We hop out and drag the canoe a few feet up the beach so it doesn't drift away. Then we hurry toward the other Troublemakers, who are gathering around Samara, our biology teacher.

As we run, I look around for my parents. But besides us and a few Good Samaritans, the beach is empty.

Halfway to the group of Troublemakers, Lemon stumbles over a rock. I grab his arm to help steady him—and to slow him down.

“Hey,” I say. “Have a sec?”

“Not really. Everyone's here. Samara's about to give out assignments.”

“We have our assignments. Annika gave them to us yesterday.” When he glances at the group, clearly worried that I'm holding him back, I add, “They're all drying off. And they're soaking wet. That'll take at least a minute.”

He takes a deep breath and releases it in a loud rush. “What's up?”

“Um, well . . . I was just wondering . . . is everything okay?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

“I don't know. It's just . . . you kind of seem . . . a little off?”

“Off?”

“Well, like . . . the origami?”

“What about it?”

“You're really into it.”

“So?”

“So you never were before.”

“It's a new hobby. I'm off because I've developed an interest in the ancient Japanese arts?”

“No. Of course not. And ‘off' is probably the wrong word. It just seems like an odd choice. Considering your other hobby, I mean.”

“Which is?”

My eyebrows lift. “Playing with fire?”

“I can have more than one hobby.”

“Definitely. But those two together seem kind of dangerous. What if you're throwing flames one day—and they catch on a strand of paper snowflakes?”

He shrugs. “I'll put out the fire. Like I always do.”

“Okay,” I say, “well, then how come you didn't dig a hole with the rest of us yesterday? Or play the silverfish game?”

“I've never been an overachiever when it comes to Kilter assignments.”

“Yes, but you still do them. Even if it's later or slower than everyone else.”

He sighs. “I don't know. I didn't plan to spend the summer
here, so maybe my brain's still in vacation mode.” He pauses. “Is there anything else?”

I think about it. “I guess not.”

“Great.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to—”

He puts one hand on my shoulder. “Don't be. It's okay. You were concerned. Because you're my best friend. I'm lucky to—”

“Care to join us, boys?”

We look down the beach. Our classmates have formed a circle around Samara.

“Shall we?” Lemon asks.

“Let's,” I say.

He sprints toward them. My legs are about half as long as his, so it takes me a few seconds to catch up to the group. When I do, Samara's calling out names and chores.

“Chris, laundry! Alison, window washing! Jake, toilet scrubbing!”

At this, a few Troublemakers snort. Others giggle.

“Abe, mopping! Gabby, ironing! Lemon, dusting! Elinor, silverware polishing! Seamus, indoor-plant maintenance!”

Samara gives out the rest of the chores. When every
Troublemaker has one, she lowers her clipboard and addresses the group.

“Rules for the day! You'll do your chores in your parents' cabins. When you're done, you'll e-mail me or another faculty member, and we'll come evaluate your work. We have extremely high standards, so I wouldn't e-mail unless you're absolutely certain you can't do anything more! If the job isn't done to our satisfaction, we'll make you start all over—
and
punish you with demerits!” Samara pauses and gives us an exaggerated wink. Then she continues. “Also! Your families are on vacation.
You
are not. Some of our softer-hearted parents might be inclined to hug you and kiss you and include you in their camp activities. We've advised them not to, but accidents happen. In any case, you are under no circumstances to have any fun with your families. Is that clear?”

Nicole Fields, a tall Troublemaker in the Athletes group, raises her hand.

“What?” Samara asks.

“What about the hugs and kisses?” Nicole asks.

“What about them?”

“Can we accept them—and give them back?”

Samara turns, quietly confers with our other teachers, and faces us again.