Watch Your Step (28 page)

Murmurs and gasps fill the cave-room.

Please don't . . . please don't . . . please don't  . . .

The plea cycles through my head. Once upon a time I would've been scared that Dad would say I killed Miss Parsippany in front of all these people. Now I'm scared that he'll say she lived. At this point the last thing I need is for word of my innocence to spread back to Annika.

“This incident,” Dad says as my heart pounds faster, “changed Seamus. In many ways he hasn't been the same since. And I have to say  . . .”

His voice trails off. I try to swallow the knot in my throat but can't.

“I miss him.”

The knot goes down. The breath that was stuck rushes from my mouth.

And then the relief I feel for his not telling the truth about the Unfortunate Apple Incident gives way to something else. Maybe regret? Guilt? Sadness? Because after he says he misses me, Dad looks unhappier than I've ever seen him.

“Anyhoo!” He shakes his head and claps his hands together once. “That's why we're all here, right? To get back our sons and daughters?”

“And back
at
them!” another parent shouts, making others chuckle.

“Now, now,” Dad says. “Let's not—”

“Thank you for the touching tale, Mr. Hinkle,” Mystery barks into the megaphone. “But I think we're all eager to see your demonstration.”

“Right,” Dad says. “Of course. My apologies.”

“Harrison!” Mystery shouts.

Impersonator Abe yanks off Abe's facemask and replaces it with another. Before his real face is covered, I notice that he's young. Maybe twelve or thirteen, like my friends and me.

“Look at that, Hinkle,” real Abe whispers. “You've grown, like, a whole foot!”

Because Harrison, who must be Mystery's assistant, is about
twelve inches taller than I am. And my two-dimensional face is now on top of his neck.

“The other tricks have been fun.” Dad stoops down and picks up a long bag I didn't notice before. “Startling Seamus with ping-pong balls, confusing him by moving objects around with my gym socks and chewed gum, rearranging the interesting wall mural he made for us in our living room.”

Us.
For the first time since we got here, I think of Mom. She has to be here. I still can't believe Dad would've ever gotten involved in this—whatever this is—on his own. But scanning the audience, I don't see her.

“Who here enjoys a rousing game of miniature golf?” Dad asks the crowd.

Two-thirds of the gathered parents raise their hands. Gabby starts to raise hers, but Abe yanks it back down.

“So do I!” Dad exclaims. “Seamus does too. In fact, playing miniature golf is one of our very favorite father-son activities. That's why I'm especially excited about this trick. I think it'll be more effective than all the others combined.”

The parents watch, mesmerized. Dad takes two mini-golf putters from the bag. One he gives to Harrison, the other he
keeps for himself. He takes out a bucket of rainbow-colored golf balls and places it by his feet. Then he pulls out a plastic cooler, opens that, and lifts out a snow cone. Just like the one I ate on the drive home from our last miniature golf game.

Dad gives Harrison the snow cone. Harrison thanks him. This is super weird to see since Harrison's wearing my face.

What happens next seems to happen in fast-forward and slow motion at the same time. Harrison swings the putter back and forth and eats the snow cone, like the rock stage is a course at the Cloudview Putt-n-Play and he's waiting for his turn. Dad stands a few feet behind him. He swings his putter too, the way he does when practicing for his next hit. And then, one by one by one, with barely a second between each, he drops golf balls to the floor and hits them toward Harrison's feet.

Harrison drops the putter and snow cone. He jumps around as he tries to dodge the balls. But Dad's too fast. His aim's too good. And before long Harrison slips on a ball and joins the club and frozen dessert on the ground.

Dad raises his club overhead in victory. The crowd cheers. Mystery punches the air.

“Marvelous! Fantastic! A real! Sight! To! Behold!”

Dad takes a bow then heads for his seat. He pauses by Harrison, who's still on the ground. His smile fades and I know that, in this moment, he feels bad about what he just did. But then he turns away, continues down the stage, and sits down.

“Impressive demonstration, Mr. Hinkle!” Mystery says. “And another fine example of just how successfully parents can teach a lesson if they only think like kids a little more. Your training options go far beyond sending a child to his room or taking away computer and TV privileges!”

“I don't get it,” Abe whispers. “Is he teaching our parents how to freak us out?”

“That's what it looks like,” I whisper back.

“Why?” he asks.

Then, as if Abe shouted this question for everyone in the cave to hear, Mystery explains.

“When I contacted you all several weeks ago, I was very clear about our organization's purpose. I wanted to help you help your children. I knew they were giving you problems—and that you were running out of solutions. That's why, when they were invited to apply for admission to the Kilter Academy for Troubled Youth, the very best, most exclusive reform school
for the country's worst children, you jumped at the chance to send them away. And let someone else do what you couldn't, no matter how hard you tried.”

At this, my friends exchange frowns and glances. I can tell that thinking about whatever their parents did to try to keep them in line makes them uncomfortable.

“I don't blame you for that,” Mystery says. “In fact, I applaud you! Not many parents would recognize the severity of their children's behavioral issues. Most would ignore it. Pretend it doesn't exist, that their kids are as sweet as honey. You didn't. And you're to be commended for it.” He pauses. “However. As good a reform school as Kilter might be, it's not foolproof. Your children went wayward once, and they'll likely go wayward again. That's why I reached out to you. To make sure you're as prepared as possible. To keep the power where it belongs: with
you
, the parents. And, I hope, to teach you how to prevent future troublemaking tragedies.”

At this, Harrison, still wearing a mask of my face, jumps up. He rushes to the front of the stage.

“WHAT DO WE DO?” he yells.

“Give them a taste! Of their own! Medicine! Give them a
taste! Of their own! Medicine! Give them a taste! Of their own! Medicine!”

The parents chant this, over and over and over. They punch their fists in the air, just like Mystery. And they do both in perfect unison, like they've done so many times before.

“WHY DO WE DO IT?” Harrison shouts.

“For! Their! Own! Good! For! Their! Own! Good! For! Their! Own! Good!”

“WHO ARE WE?”

“MR. TEMPEST'S! ANGEL MAKERS! MR. TEMPEST'S! ANGEL MAKERS! MR. TEMPEST'S! ANGEL MAKERS!”

This chant lasts longer than the others. Harrison asks no further questions.

While our parents are still yelling, the cave darkens. Then the walls begin to glow.

“There's me!” Gabby exclaims.

“And me!” Abe exclaims.

“And me!” Lemon exclaims.

And me. And every other Troublemaker in our class, minus Elinor. Enlarged pictures of our faces are plastered all over the jagged rock. As I watch, the faces change. First they're happy and
smiling. Then they're grumpy and frowning. The expressions switch back and forth like holograms. When the faces are happy, white electric halos shine above them. When they're grumpy, the halos turn off and red devil horns turn on.

Eventually the chanting dies down. A spotlight shines on Mystery, who stands tall on his rock island as he brings the megaphone to his mouth.

“I've been very impressed with your performance so far. Tricking your children is a very new concept to most, if not all, of you. Yet day after day you take the skills you've just learned and implement them in real-life situations, successfully catching your kids off guard. And there's more work to be done! Before we get to tonight's lessons, I must implore you not to speak a word to anyone outside these cavern walls. As I explained in my initial invitation several weeks ago, Angel Makers is a top secret program. It must stay that way in order for it to be successful. That means no one can know about it . . . especially not
Annika Kilter
.”

Mystery spits out Annika's name like it's poison.

“And I must say again,” Mystery continues, his voice lighter, “kudos for contacting me right away about Kamp Kilter! I
thought we'd have to be in touch electronically for a while, so to be able to work with you all together, in person, is a real dream come true!”

The parents cheer like it's their dream come true too.

Abe leans toward me and shouts over the noise. “This is great!”

I look at him. “It is?”

He nods. “They're asking for trouble—and that's what they're going to get! Better than they've ever gotten before!”

I try to smile. I want to be excited for this reason to show our parents that they're no match for us, not with our Kilter training.

But I can't. Because I'm not excited.

I'm sad.

F
irst I'm going to sing
‘Silent Night.' That's my favorite Christmas song, so Flora hates it. Then I'm going to do ‘Happy Birthday' for Mom. She doesn't like when people sing that to her, because it means she's another year older.”

Gabby bursts into the living room. Abe follows close behind. They carry Kommissary shopping bags, which are filled to the brim.

“I'm not sure about Dad yet.” Gabby plops her bags onto the coffee table, then drops onto the couch. “He's not a fan
of country music so probably wouldn't enjoy something with twang . . . but I could also rip apart one of his favorite show tunes. What do you think?”

Abe takes his purchases to the beanbag chair. “Neon.”

“Huh?” Gabby asks.

“You should see our place back home,” he says, reaching into a plastic bag. “Mom's favorite color is cream. Dad's is tan. So everything—the walls, furniture, carpet—is some shade of those two sort-of colors.” He holds up a pack of bright markers in one hand and a set of even brighter paints in the other. “So I'm going to assault their sight. With neon.”

“By drawing on the walls?” Gabby asks.

“And everywhere else.” Abe pulls out a small jug. “See this?”

Gabby leans forward, reads the jug's label. “FluorEssence?”

“It's a cleaning solution. Only whatever you wash it with, like dishes or clothes, turns fluorescent yellow. The Kommissary just got it in. I can't wait to try it.”

“Your parents are going to be so surprised!” Gabby says appreciatively. “Mine will be too. As long as I get the songs right. And sing them into this amazing new microphone!” She takes
a short, skinny wand from one of her shopping bags. “Can you hear me?” she whispers.

Abe drops his supplies, claps his hands to his ears.

“The Kilter Voice Enhancer.” She smiles, switching off the device. “Guaranteed to turn up the volume ten times louder than your normal shouting voice. I guess it works!”

“This stuff is awesome,” Abe says, reaching into another bag. “And when we use it, we will be too. Our parents don't stand a chance.”

They try out a few more supplies. They're so excited I'm not even sure they notice me sitting in the lounge chair in the corner of the room. Of course, it's not like I've made my presence known. I haven't even said hello . . . let alone do what I've been working up the nerve to do since last night.

“Hey!” Lemon dashes into the room. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Late?” Abe says. “For what?”

“Seamus's news.” My best friend drops onto the couch and puts his feet on the coffee table.

“What news?” Abe asks.

“Whatever it is, you're not late,” Gabby says. “Seamus isn't here. We haven't seen him in—oh! Seamus! Where'd you come
from? That kind of sneakiness will really come in handy when you get your parents. Speaking of, you just missed out on the. Best. Shopping. Spree. Ever!”

“You both did,” Abe says, looking from me to Lemon. “I expected Lemon to skip it. He couldn't even make it to our emergency alliance meeting last night.”

“I told you,” Lemon says. “I was tired.”

“But I thought
you'd
come.” Abe looks at me again. “I had to pull strings to get GS George to open the Kommissary for us again. I doubt we'll get another chance to shop before Troublemaking Tuesday.”

“That's next week,” Gabby adds. “When we're going to cure our parents by giving them a huge dose of troublemaker medicine! So that they freak out, give up—and stop their silly Angel Maker attacks, once and for all.”