My Top Secret Dares & Don'ts Read online

  “Look down,” he commands.

  I do, but all I see is the wind sifting through the long blades of grass. Why is Wyatt making such a big fuss over—Whoa! That’s not the breeze. It’s the ground. It’s moving!

  “Toads!” I cry.

  “Yessireee,” says Wyatt proudly.

  I bend to get a closer look. I remember Dr. Musgraves described the toads as small, but I had no idea they were going to be positively tiny! I figured they would fit in the palm of my hand, but each one is barely the size of my pinkie fingernail. The toads are the color of wet dirt, their backs covered in shiny, bumpy, light brown warts. Some are jumping, but most are crawling through the damp grass.

  “They’re supposed to be on the other side of the fence,” I say, straightening.

  Wyatt grunts. “Tell them that.”

  “Oh, how cuuute,” says the same girl who shuddered at their mention five minutes ago. “They are so teeny and bouncy and adorable.”

  “And everywhere,” I say, lifting my foot. “Oh no! I think I squished one.”

  Langley makes a face. “Icky sticky. You did!”

  I feel awful.

  Langley goes up on her toes. “Let’s get to the concrete, where we can see them better. Everyone, watch where you step.”

  The three of us carefully pick our way through the grass to reach the gray cement walking path. There are only a few toads on the path, thank goodness. I catch sight of Dr. Musgraves. He’s standing on the beach, close to the shoreline where the amphibian fence begins. I inch my way toward him so I don’t crush any more toads.

  “Good morning!” he says. “I see good news travels—what’s the matter?”

  I start blubbering. “There’s a bunch of them in the field. . . . I stepped on one. . . . It was an accident.”

  “It’s okay, Kestrel.”

  “We were running. . . . There’s no telling how many more we squashed.” Tears spring to my eyes. I am a toad murderer! “I’m sorry, Dr. Musgraves. I didn’t know they would be that little or that they’d be on this side of the fence,” I say. “I should have paid more attention. I should have—”

  “It’s all right. Really. We’ve all done it. Me included.”

  “You . . . have?”

  “They’re so small and there are so many of them, it’s bound to happen.” He bends toward me. “Okay now?”

  I nod, brushing my tears away.

  “Come on. Take a look at nature at work. It’s quite spectacular.”

  He is right. We are on the outside of the amphibian fence, the closed side that’s protected by netting, but there is still plenty to see. Packs of the miniature toads are leaping, walking, scooting, and crawling up the shore.

  “Aren’t these guys on the wrong side of the pipe?” I ask.

  “They’re still safe behind the netting, and most will funnel into the underpass anyway,” he answers. “Shall we check and see how it’s working?”

  “Yes!” I turn to tell my brother to come too, but he has squatted on the sand, his hand reaching out toward a toad. “Wyatt, no! Didn’t you see the sign?”

  A few feet away, a sign reads SENSITIVE SPECIES: JUVENILE WESTERN TOAD HABITAT. DO NOT TOUCH, CATCH, OR PUT IN A BUCKET.

  He draws his hand back. “Sorry.”

  Dr. Musgraves grins. “I know how hard it is for boys to resist picking up frogs, but in this case, it’s the best thing for him and you. The oils and sunscreens on our skin aren’t good for the toads, and they secrete a milky toxin to keep predators away that isn’t good for us. If you get it in your eyes or mouth, it can sting.”

  Wyatt stands up. “Gotcha.”

  Dr. Musgraves, Langley, Wyatt, and I delicately make our way off the beach and down the cement walking path. I count only a dozen or so toads on the pathway and can find only one on the footbridge. He has found a divot in the wood about the size of a quarter and is sitting inside. There’s plenty of room for a few of his friends, too, if he wanted to invite them.

  I glance at the professor. “Hardly any frogs on the path, at all. That’s good, right?”

  He gives me a thumbs-up.

  Zak, Cassie, and Elise are on the opposite end of the footbridge, huddled near the start of the underpass with their clipboards. We take up position on the other side, where the toads should come out before they head on their route into the forest.

  “Take a look,” says Dr. Musgraves.

  Wyatt, Langley, and I kneel side by side on the edge of the wooden planks. I cross my first two fingers on both hands. I hope this works.

  I lean out and look under the bridge. Hundreds and hundreds of teeny brown toads are bounding across the sandy dirt toward us. It’s quite the traffic jam. It looks like rush hour on the freeway in Seattle, except with frogs instead of cars. Once the toads make it to our side of the bridge, they haphazardly file around the cement supports and continue following the amphibian fence into the forest. The underpass is working! One group comes through, then another and another—they keep coming and coming.

  “Look at ’em all,” shouts Wyatt. “I wonder if they know each other.”

  “That’s silly, Wyatt,” I say. “How would they know each other?”

  “It’s not all that far-fetched,” says Dr. Musgraves. “We think they emit chemicals so they can recognize their brothers and sisters. And since each female lays about twelve thousand eggs, that’s a lot of siblings.”

  “Cool!” says Wyatt. “How far will they go into the woods?”

  “A kilometer or two,” says the professor. “Many will follow the creek.”

  “You mean Blackcomb Creek?” I ask. From the bear tour, I know a large section of the creek flows down my grandmother’s property.

  “That’s right,” he says. “That’s one thing we’ll be collecting data on—where and how far they migrate. Some western toad populations have been known to travel up to seven kilometers.”

  Wyatt looks at me to translate.

  I do the math in my head. “About four miles,” I say.

  “Double cool!” says Wyatt.

  “That’s a long way to go on such little legs,” says Langley.

  “It’s not a one-way trip, either,” says Dr. Musgraves. “They’ll dig burrows, hibernate, and return in the spring to breed.” Then quietly to me, he says, “But the truth is more than ninety-nine percent of them won’t come back.”

  “Why not?”

  “Predators, disease, pollution, habitat loss.”

  “It’s a good thing they have people in their corner to look out for them, like you and your students,” I say.

  “I wish there were more people in that corner with us,” he says. “Twenty years ago this was a sleepy ski village. Now it’s an international tourist destination. With so much growth and development, the toads are getting crowded out.”

  “Is anybody doing anything to help them?” asks Langley.

  “The conservation group I work with buys land to help preserve toad populations, but the odds aren’t in their favor. Humans leave a big footprint.”

  Another group of toads is coming through the tunnel. One toad stops directly under where I’m perched. He moves his head to the right, then to the left. He puts out one webbed foot as if testing the grass. I bet this is the first time he has ever felt grass. It must be strange to go from swimming in the water to hopping on land. Talk about a complete transformation!

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You can do it.”

  After a few minutes of getting jostled by the other amphibian commuters, the toad inches his way onto the grass. He takes one hop, then another. The third takes him toward the amphibian fence. He’s on his way. Does he know the odds are against him? Probably not. Even if he did know, what would he do? What else? He’d go anyway. It’s his destiny. Some things are meant to be.

  “Good luck, little guy,” I whisper.

  13

  Dare to Get Involved in Adults’ Problems

  I am on the leather sofa across from the fireplace in the lo
bby. My best friend takes a seat beside me. It is two minutes to four.

  “Status report,” says Langley under her breath.

  I lower the mystery I am pretending to read. “Jess is in place. Dinah is packing up. It won’t be long now.”

  We are about to put Operation Locate the Supercute Rock Star into action.

  Here’s the plan. Once Dinah leaves for the day, Jess will be alone at the front desk. That’s Langley’s cue to stroll up and start chatting. At some point, she will ask him about Kodiak Clem’s Bear Tours. Jess will come out from behind the front desk to get her a brochure from the rack by the front door, but oh, no! All of Clem’s flyers are gone. Confession: A half hour ago I slipped them into the storage bench near the elevator when Dinah was busy. Jess will have to go the supply room to get more flyers, and on his way he will discover that—oh, no!—some thoughtless person has spilled orange juice on the floor in the hall (also me). Jess, being the nice guy that he is, will clean up the mess, get the flyers, and come back to find Langley patiently waiting for him and me coolly sitting in this very spot reading. He will never know that his detour to the supply room gave me all the time I needed to sneak behind the desk, glance at the computer, and find Caden’s room number. It’s an excellent plan, if I do say so myself!

  Dinah comes out of the office. She’s carrying her floral tote, lunch sack, and travel mug. She says something to Jess, who is checking in a man in a business suit. Dinah crosses the lobby, and out the back door she goes. Once the businessman heads for the elevator, I tug on Langley’s sleeve. It’s her signal to go.

  Hiding behind my book, I keep an eye on my best friend. She plays her part perfectly. She compliments Jess on his buttercup-yellow bow tie then starts asking questions about the bear tours. “Do you really see bears? How long does it last? What does it cost?” Jess patiently answers her questions, then comes out from behind the desk to get her a flyer. Oh, no! The flyers are gone. He tells her he’ll be right back and walks down the north hall. The moment he passes me, I’m out of my chair.

  “Man the lookout,” I remind Langley, scurrying behind the desk. She takes up position in the center of the lobby, where she can see down each hallway and both front and back doors.

  Once I’m at the computer, I quickly scan the page tabs: housekeeping, maintenance, back office, front office—there! I click on FRONT OFFICE. A diagram of the lodge comes up, showing the lobby, the dining room, and guest rooms. All I see are room numbers. No names. Oh, no! Am I going to have to click on each room to find out who is staying in it? There are twenty-eight rooms in the lodge. I don’t have time to check every one!

  “Did you find it?” hisses Langley.

  “Working on it,” I hiss back.

  “Hurry!”

  “I’m going as fast as I can.” My hands shaking, I start clicking down the row. Room 101: vacant. Room 102: Samuelson. Room 103: Amori. Room 104: vacant.

  Wait! Dinah would never put a celebrity like Christopher Caden in a standard room. He’s got to be in a suite. I slide the pointer to each of the suites on the diagram in turn. Cedar Suite: vacant. Pine Suite: Helmholtz. Spruce Suite: vacant. Summit Suite: Tolliver. Alpine Suite: Adams. That’s us.

  “He’s not here!” I say.

  “He has to be,” she says. “He’s probably using a fake name. A lot of famous people do that, you know.”

  “You know him better than anybody. What name would he use?”

  “Um . . . maybe a comic book character? He’s into comics. He likes Batman.”

  “There’s no Batman here.”

  “It wouldn’t be Batman, silly. Try Bruce Wayne.”

  I search. “No, there’s nothing—”

  “Kestrel, somebody’s coming,” snaps Langley. “It’s Jess. He’s coming back!

  I see my mistake. There are six suites, and I have only clicked on five. “Just a sec.”

  “Get. Out. Now!”

  “One more sec.” I click on Tantalus Suite: Lincoln.

  Dang! That’s not a comic book character. Is it?

  “Kestrel!” snaps Langley. “Go!”

  I click the back arrow on the computer. As I fly to the end of the desk, the front door of the lodge opens. It’s Breck! If he sees me here, he’ll know what I’m up to. I do a 180 and skid back behind the desk, my eyes darting in every direction. There’s only one place left to hide. Slipping inside the office, I shut the door. The office is empty, thankfully. That was close! My phone chimes. It’s a text from Langley: You okay?

  Yeah. What’s happening? Why did he come back so soon?

  He said he couldn’t leave the front desk for that long to clean up the juice. He’s calling for someone to clean it up.

  So I’m stuck in here?

  Afraid so. Stand by. I’ll text you when the coast is clear.

  Standing by.

  She sends a smiley face.

  This could take a while. I might as well have a seat. I head for a chair near the door, smacking my elbow on the coatrack. The pole sways and falls forward. I catch it before it clatters to the floor; however, a folder of papers tumbles out of a black leather messenger bag on one of the hooks. Some spy I am! I watch the door, certain Jess is going to come through it any second. He doesn’t. Scooping up the pages, I straighten them and place them back in the folder. I am about to close the cover when I notice the top page has a hand-drawn map of Blackcomb Mountain. Did Grandma Lark do this? It’s quite good. I see Lost Lake, Blackcomb Creek, and part of the Upper Village. I follow the squiggly blue line of Blackcomb Creek up from the lake so I can find the lodge. . . .

  That’s weird.

  There’s a big, rectangular building with a tower where the lodge should be. And is that a golf course next to it? Below the map it says GOLDEN MARMOT HOTEL AND GOLF COMPLEX SITE PLAN. In the corner is a picture of a beaver inside a red circle. What is going on? Is my grandmother planning to remodel the lodge? Where would she get the money? This makes no sense. Even if she was planning to renovate, she would never rename it. Goose bumps zip down my arms. There is only one logical explanation for this: my grandmother is going to sell to a developer, who is planning to tear down the lodge and build a hotel and golf course in its place! The lodge isn’t going to be repaired or upgraded. It never was. And I bet nobody is going to get to keep their job either. The only thing that is going to happen is my grandmother is going to get that nice nest egg she wanted. She lied to me! How could she do that? I need to show this to my mom. I throw the map on the copier, snag a copy, put the original back in the folder, and cram the folder back in my grandmother’s bag. I check my phone. Still nothing from Langley. I don’t care if I get caught. I’ve got to get out of here. Slowly, I open the office door.

  Jess spins. “Kestrel? What are you—?”

  “Hi, Jess,” I say, flying out from behind the desk, Langley hops up from the sofa and we meet in the center of the lobby. She sees I am upset. “What’s wrong?”

  “This.” I shake the fist that is clutching the copy of the map. “My grandma is . . .” I stop short. Veranda and Rose are coming down the stairs. I don’t want them to hear me.

  Veranda is wearing a raspberry-pink satin tee with a short, frothy skirt that looks like cotton candy. Beside her, Rose is in a pale blue tank, white shorts, and white tennis shoes. Over one shoulder, Rose carries the same tote bag she had at the pool the other day: cream linen with an embroidered gold beaver in a red circle.

  I uncurl my fist. Straightening the page, my eyes race to the bottom corner to find the gold beaver in a red circle. The logos are identical. No! The Terrible Tollivers are the developers!

  Veranda and Rose are gliding down the steps like a couple of beauty pageant contestants.

  “Rose!” I call up to her. “Does your family own Golden Marmot Resorts?”

  “You don’t have to say,” spits her sister.

  “Yes,” says Rose.

  “I knew it!” I yell. “You think because you’re rich you can do anything you want, but you can�
�t. My family won’t let you do it. I won’t let you.”

  Rose frowns. “Do what?”

  “Go ahead,” yells Veranda. “We’re not one bit scared.”

  “Ladies, please,” says Jess. “Let’s keep our voices down in the lobby.”

  Sauntering down the last step to stand in front of me, Veranda plants her hands on her hips. We are toe to toe. Her feet are a few sizes bigger than mine, and, with her cork wedge heels, she towers over me by a good six inches. “Nobody, and I mean nobody talks to my sister and I that way,” she snarls. “You got that . . . I don’t know who you are—”

  “Then maybe it’s time they did.” I go up on my toes. “My name is Kestrel Lark Adams, and my family owns this lodge. I may be small, but I don’t back down from bullies, no matter how much money they have. And FYI, the word is me. Nobody talks to my sister and me that way.”

  “Ohhhh!” Veranda’s face is turning three shades darker than her outfit.

  Rose bites her lip. “She hates having her grammar corrected.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grandma Lark, my mom, and Langley’s mom hurrying across the lobby. Jess must have called them.

  “Kestrel?” It’s Breck. His hand is on my elbow. “What are you doing?”

  “Declaring war.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  I glare at him. “Positive.”

  Seeing the look of determination in my eyes, he drops my arm and steps back.

  “Kestrel, what on earth is going on?” asks my grandmother.

  “Grandma, how you could even think of selling our lodge to these . . . these . . . vultures?”

  “Little Bird, I thought we discussed this. You said you understood that selling might be the best option—”

  “That was before I found out you were lying to me.”

  “What?”

  “You can quit pretending. I found this in your bag.” I thrust the map at her. “I know everything. You’re going to sell the lodge to the Tollivers so they can demolish it and build a hotel and golf course.”

  As Grandma Lark studies the map, her mouth drops. “I’ve never seen this document. Where did you get it?”