Watch Your Step (27 page)

“You don't know that,” I say, even though I probably
would've said something very similar to this. In a much nicer way. But only because I wouldn't want him to be kicked out for underperforming.

“Sure I do,” he says. “And if you didn't, Abe would've.”

I don't say anything. Because he's right about that.

We round another corner and start down another tunnel. This one's narrower and darker than the others. Lemon walks faster. So do I. When we've put a few more feet between us and Abe, Gabby, and Elinor, I ask another puzzling question.

“If you didn't want to tell me before, why are you telling me now?”

“You're my best friend. I knew you were worried, and I felt bad. You didn't do anything wrong, so I wanted to clear the air. This seemed like a good time to share.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I'm really glad you did.”

“You're welcome. But if you could keep it between us, I'd appreciate it.”

“You got it. Can I ask you one other thing, though?”

“Shoot.”

“If you wanted your privacy—which I completely understand—why'd you offer to bring us here?”

“Pre-emptive strike. Abe was bound to start making my life difficult very soon. So I thought I'd buy some time and throw him a bone.”

“Smart. Abe would approve.”

“What's that?” Abe calls out from behind us. “Did I just hear my name? You better not be—”

He stops. Because Lemon stops. The rest of us do the same. Our secret-passage leader motions for us to come closer. We do.

“We're about to pass the daycare rooms,” he says. “The kids get to stay up later on meeting nights. They should be too busy to notice us, but move fast and duck past the doors just in case. And don't talk. Got it?”

We exchange looks. Nod. Lemon brings one finger to his lips, then creeps around another corner. We creep too.

“It's so quiet in here,” Gabby whispers right away. “Are you sure—”

She's cut off. By Abe's hand over her mouth.

As we make our way down this tunnel, I see that Lemon was right. The kids, who must be the brothers and sisters of other Troublemakers, are definitely too busy to notice us. We pass by a series of rooms—or small caves. In one, a few kids color at a
table. In another, they nap on blankets laid out on the ground. In another, they read books around a large TV, which is off. In another, they seem to practice cleaning dishes, making beds, taking out the trash, and other chores on various household props.

Halfway down the tunnel, Gabby stops. She faces one cave, eyes wide and chin near the ground. When we gather behind her to see what's so shocking, she points into the cave.

“My sister,”
she mouths.

Flora sits on a chair behind another chair holding a mannequin. The mannequin's dressed like an ordinary mom in pressed khakis, a red cardigan, and gleaming white sneakers. She has long brown-and-gray hair, which Flora's brushing. She shares the room with three other teenagers, and they do the same thing the same way with their mannequins.

Gabby steps forward. Abe grabs her hand and pulls her back.

“This way,”
Lemon mouths. And we move on.

We turn down another tunnel. And another. And another. They grow even narrower, darker. The ceiling slants lower. Soon I wonder if the Angel Makers caught wind of a rat and relocated. I'm sure of it once we reach a dead end. And there are no more tunnels to turn down.

But then Lemon whispers, “Ready?”

We nod. He reaches one finger into a small crevice in the rock. There must be a button in there, because the wall begins to lift.

“Holy  . . .”

“Cow,”
Gabby says, finishing Abe's stunned sentence.

It's an appropriate reaction. Because when the wall stops moving, we're standing in the mouth of another cave. Only this one's huge—and it doesn't have a ceiling. A million stars shimmer overhead. There's a turquoise waterfall. It falls into a natural turquoise pool. Dozens of large rocks rim the pool. Sitting on the rocks are dozens of Troublemaker parents. They're still. Silent. Transfixed.

The scene before us is hard to believe. But one thing isn't.

Perched on a tall rock in the center of it all . . . is Mystery.

W
hat's he doing?” Gabby asks.

“Why does everyone look hypnotized?” Abe asks.

“I see my mom and dad,” Lemon says. “I think I'll go say hi.”

“Are you crazy?” Abe asks. “If Mystery sees you he'll shut this thing down in the blink of an eye.”

“But—”

Lemon's cut off by an explosion. I can't tell what or where it is, but the force shakes the ground and makes us stumble and knock into one another.

“Wonderful! Spectacular! Amazing!”

When I'm steady enough to look away from my feet, I look toward Mystery's mini island. Wearing the same white shorts and T-shirt I saw him in earlier today, he punches the air with one fist. The repeated action is like an exclamation point after each word.

“Splendid! Awesome! Glorious! You! Are! The! Best!”

“Whoa,” Abe says, “Is that . . . me?”

He's staring straight ahead. I can't see what he's talking about. This is because I'm short, but also because the parents sitting on rocks fifty feet away jump and cheer, blocking my view.

“Over there!” Gabby calls out over the noise. She points to a nearby boulder.

Crouching down, we dash over to the rock. I glance behind me once to make sure Elinor and Lemon are following. Given how they've both been acting, I wouldn't be surprised if they ditched the rest of us. But for better or worse the weird scene must be weird enough that they want to see more. They look sideways, toward Mystery and the explosion's source, but they keep running forward.

Reaching the boulder, we use grooves as handholds and footholds and scramble to the top.

“It
is
me!” Abe exclaims. “What on earth is my dad doing?”

“Totally messing with your masterpiece,” Gabby says.

She's right. From this high up, we have a clear view of Mystery—and everything else. His island is a stone's throw away from a long, flat slab of rock. It seems to be some kind of stage, because that's where Mr. Hansen is standing behind Abe. Or someone Abe's shape and size wearing a mask of Abe's face. The Abe impersonator is standing at an easel, painting a very abstract picture of a cat. As we watch, Mystery raises one hand. The crowd quiets and sits down. Mr. Hansen reaches into a box at his feet. Takes out a balloon. And throws it at the Abe impersonator.

At least that's what it looks like. It's not until the balloon hits the easel, pops, and releases black paint, completely covering the painted cat, that I realize the artwork was really the intended target.

Fireworks boom overhead.

“Superb!” Mystery punches the air again. “Exactly! What! This kid! Needed!”

Impersonator Abe's shoulders slump. Mr. Hansen leans toward him and seems to say something.

The fireworks stop.

“What are you doing?”
Mystery demands into a megaphone.

Mr. Hansen faces our history teacher. “Apologizing for ruining his picture?”

“Why?” Mystery asks.

“Because he's my son? Or is pretending to be my son? And I—”

“Who cares about his feelings?” Mystery demands.

Mr. Hansen steps back. “I do,” he says meekly.

“Thanks, Dad,” Abe whispers.

Mystery aims the megaphone toward the crowd. “You're all good parents! You love your kids and want nothing but the best for them! You feed them! Give them shelter! Wash their snotty, smelly clothes! Wipe their tears! Make their needs and wants
your
needs and wants, forever sacrificing the things that made you happy before they did!” Mystery pauses. His dark eyes shift around the cave-room. “But I ask you this. What have you gotten in return?”

The crowd's silent.

“Um, our adorable faces?” Abe says quietly.

“And beautiful singing voices?” Gabby says.

“And overall enjoyable company?” I say.

Mr. Hansen puts one fist on his hip, scratches his head.

“Are you kidding?” Abe asks. “He can't think of one nice thing he's gotten from being my dad?”

Mr. Hansen stops scratching his head. Snaps. “A paperweight.”

“A paperweight,” Mystery says.

“Yes,” Mr. Hansen says.

“Did you
ask
for a paperweight?”

“No, but—”

“Did you
need
a paperweight?”

“No, but—”

“Does a paperweight compare in any way, shape, or form, to anything you've given him?”

“It's a different kind of—”

“Wrong answer!” Mystery shouts. “
No.
It does not!”

“But . . . but . . . he made it himself!” Mr. Hansen exclaims. “When he was five!”

Mystery lowers the megaphone. Lowers his head. Walks from one end of the rock island to the other and back again.

“Mr. Hansen,” he says, still pacing. “Has your son made you other things recently?”

Now Mr. Hansen's head lowers. “Yes.”

“Please tell us more.”

Mr. Hansen sighs. Then he lifts his head, turns toward the crowd, and raises his voice. “Two years ago, Abe gave me a tie. That he supposedly sewed himself. I'm a lawyer and wear ties all the time in the courtroom, so I thought this was a wonderful gift. Unfortunately, it was no ordinary tie. It was somehow programmed so that whenever I said ‘Your Honor,' which I can do countless times an hour in my line of work, the long part of the tie flew up, right into my face.”

“Nice,” Gabby says to Abe.

“Thanks.” He grins.

“Do you believe your son knew what his gift was capable of?” Mystery asks Mr. Hansen.

“I do,” Mr. Hansen says.

“And why is that?”

“Because I demonstrated it at home. Abe looked shocked. And apologized for the obvious malfunction.” Mr. Hansen hangs his head. “But before he did either of those things . . . he laughed.”

Mystery continues with the line of questioning. “Why do you think your son would do such a thing? And intentionally, repeatedly embarrass you?”

Mr. Hansen shrugs. “Because he could?”

Mystery snaps the megaphone to his mouth. “Because . . . he . . .
could
! And why could he?”

Mr. Hansen mumbles something.

“I can't hear you!” Mystery sings.

“Because I let him!” Mr. Hansen declares, like he's making a great confession.

“Exactly,”
Mystery says, his voice closer to normal. “Thank you, Mr. Hansen. You may take your seat.”

Abe's dad lowers his head and returns to the crowd.

Mystery continues. “As Mr. Hansen has just reminded you all, your children aren't the kind, sweet, faultless creatures you think they are. Sure, they have their moments. Like when they hug you. And on the rare occasions that they thank you. And when their chubby cheeks and cute little dimples make you forget every bad thing they've said and done. But even these moments are selfish. Why do they hug and thank you? Usually because you've done something for them. When they're very young they might not realize the powers their chubby cheeks and cute little dimples possess—but they learn. And fast. By and large children are much smarter than they look. And it doesn't take long for them to figure out what they can do . . . and how.”

As we watch, another man takes the stage.

“Now,” Mystery says, “your babies didn't drop from the stork with hearts made of stone. The transformation happened gradually. Isn't that right . . . Mr. Hinkle?”

“Dad?”
I say.

Just as he says, “Yes.”

I feel the heat of eight eyes on my skin as my friends look at me and I look at the stage. I want to tell them not to worry. That I'm totally fine. Because until recently, Dad and I have gone together like peanut butter and jelly, Christmas and carols, addition and subtraction. Unlike Mom, he loves me exactly as I am—and always has. So there's no way he'll say anything now to suggest that he's disappointed in me.

But then I picture the weird closet filled with parent guides and fluffy wings . . . and I realize I have no idea what my dad is about to say.

“My son Seamus is the best!”

I smile.

“Until he wasn't.”

And frown.

“A few months ago,” Dad continues, “there was an altercation
in the cafeteria of my son's former middle school. Seamus, being the well-behaved boy he is—or was—tried to break up the fight between several students by taking the apple he was about to eat and throwing it across the room. He intended to hit the instigator of the fight. Instead, he hit his substitute teacher, who fell to the floor.”