My Top Secret Dares & Don'ts Read online

  It’s a few minutes before six o’clock. Mom said she’d be back around six thirty and then we’d get dinner. I prop my phone up beside me on the windowsill. I find my contact list, scroll down, and hit DAD. It’s a long shot, I know.

  “Cole Adams.”

  “Dad?” Astonished, I sit up. “Hi!”

  “Hey, Little Bird. How are things up north?”

  “Okay. It’s heaven here, except—”

  “Glad you’re having fun. It was a great place to be a kid—all those creeks, lakes, and trails. I sure do miss the fishing.”

  “You could come visit.”

  “How’s your grandmother?” he asks, sidestepping me.

  “Being brave. I think she’s still having a hard time with Grandpa Keith’s death. Plus, business isn’t so good—”

  “Your mom mentioned something about that. Hold on a sec. . . . What do you need, Maura?” I hear rustling and muffled voices. “Sorry, Kestrel,” he says. “I’m in the middle of a meeting. We’re on a break, so I don’t have much time.”

  “Dad, I think you should come up here—”

  “I would if I could. . . . Maura, Welton is going to want that EIS. . . .”

  I hear more rustling. More muffled voices. Then silence. My dad cut me off.

  I deflate onto the windowsill. A minute later, my phone chimes. It’s a text from Dad: Sorry. Didn’t mean to hang up on you. Have to get back inside. I’ll try to come up on a weekend, okay? Love u.

  I text back: Okay. Love u 2.

  He’s not coming.

  Tossing my phone on the bed, I go wash the day away under a warm shower. I dry my hair and get into my denim shorts, rust-colored I LIKE THE SIMPLE THINGS T-shirt, and white, sleeveless hoodie. I put on my socks and shoes, too, because it’s almost six thirty and my mother is always punctual. Sure enough, at 6:27, Mom walks through the door to find Wyatt and me in the sitting room—he on the sofa and me in the chair—both quietly reading. She is quite pleased at the sight of us, until she notices Wyatt’s sports book is upside down. Busted.

  She takes Wyatt’s book, turns it right-side up, and puts it back in his hands. “Did you have a good time today?”

  “We went on Kodiak Clem’s Bear Tour,” says Wyatt. “Except our guide was named Mutt. We got to ride off-road in a Land Rover. It was awesome. We didn’t see any bears, but we still had fun.” Wyatt grins at me.

  I grin back.

  “Glad to hear it.” She rubs her left shoulder blade. “Ready for dinner? Talia is grilling salmon on the patio tonight.”

  “Salmon!” hoots Wyatt. “Yum.”

  “Grandma Lark is already down there if you want to go ahead. I’m going to take a shower first. I’ll meet you there.”

  Wyatt zips for the door.

  “Mind your manners,” Mom calls after him.

  We hear a grunt before the door shuts.

  Mom glances at me. “Don’t you want to go too?”

  “I’ll wait for you.” I’m not that hungry. Besides, I want to get the scoop on what’s happening with the lodge. “So, Mom, how did things—?”

  There is no point in finishing the question. She is already heading for her bedroom. My mom does this a lot; chats on the go. If you want to carry on a conversation with her, you have to keep up. I spend most of my life talking to her back. I hurry after her. “Did you go over the books with Grandma Lark’s bookkeeper?”

  She reaches behind her neck to take off her silver key necklace. I watch the necklace dribble into the little pink decoupage jewelry box I made for her in the third grade. She takes off her earrings, watch, and rings, then, finally, says, “Uh-huh.”

  I wait for her to continue. Instead, she breezes past me out the door. I stay on her tail as she goes into the bathroom. From the doorway, I watch her take her purple toothbrush out of its clear plastic box. She unscrews the cap from the toothpaste. She carefully squeezes an inch of blue gel onto her toothbrush. Is she going to make me watch her brush her teeth?

  “Well?” I press.

  She looks at me in the mirror. “We’re doing everything we can.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about, Kestrel.”

  Blood roars into my head. “We’re doing everything we can? It’s nothing for me to worry about? That’s what you’d say to Wyatt. I’m not eight years old, Mom.”

  “I know—”

  “Then why won’t you tell me the truth? Why are you hiding things?”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are! At least Breck was honest, and he barely knows me! I don’t know why I expected anything would be different here. It’s like with Dad.” Balling my hands, I spin and charge for the door.

  “Little Bird?” She is on my heels. I kind of like being the one chased for a change. “What do you mean it’s like with Dad?”

  “Never mind,” I toss over my shoulder.

  “Don’t you ‘never mind’ me, young lady. Wait.”

  She hates it when I say “never mind.” That and “whatever.” But sometimes, those are the only words that perfectly describe exactly what you are thinking.

  “Kestrel Lark Adams. Hold it right there!”

  A few feet from the door, I whirl. “This is exactly what you do at home. You pretend like nothing is wrong when everything is wrong.”

  She flails her hands like I am speaking a foreign language. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re always saying things will be better after the next case and Dad will have more time for us after the next trial, but they never are and he never does.”

  “Calm down, Little Bird—”

  “I don’t want to calm down, and I’m not a little bird. Not anymore. I’m almost thirteen years old! Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you see what’s right in front of you?” I yank open the door, march through it, and pull it behind me as hard as I can.

  “Kes—”

  The slamming door cuts off my name.

  I race down the hall and fly down the split-log staircase. I dash down two flights, leaping over the last couple of steps to land hard on the stone floor in the lobby. Zipping past the front desk, I catch Jess out of the corner of my eye. I smash a palm against one of the heavy oak doors. A sharp pain slices through my wrist. I grit my teeth to keep from crying out. Breck is coming up the front walk, pulling a packed luggage cart with his left hand. I dodge around the cart on his opposite side. I am in no mood to talk to anyone right now. Did he call my name? I don’t stop to find out. Running across the flagstone driveway, I turn at the first dirt trail I see. I don’t know where it goes. I don’t care. I need to get away from here.

  The dirt path is thin, and I have to put up my elbows to fight off the branches that grab for my clothes and smack my knees and shins. I run hard, until everything on both sides of me becomes a blur, until the greens and browns of the forest blend like watercolor paints, until all I can hear is the sound of my own breath coming in rapid, sharp puffs. I run for a long time, maybe a mile, maybe more. I stop only when my legs can’t take another step. I fall forward at the waist, clutch my knees for support, and gobble air. My lungs ache, but my heart hurts worse.

  I don’t get it. If she isn’t going to include me in anything, why did she even bring me? The answer smacks me harder than the twigs and branches that scraped up my legs.

  Because she had to.

  Dad’s too busy working, and she didn’t think I was responsible enough to look after Wyatt, or myself, for the summer. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I am never smart enough, old enough, or trustworthy enough for her.

  Several minutes later, once I can breathe normally again, I straighten. I do a slow circle to take in my surroundings. I see a drooping pine-like tree with bright red berries, a tangle of blackberry bushes, and a thirty-foot section of a tree that’s fallen across the path. The rotting wood is green with mosses and lichens. I don’t see any trail markers; shoot, I barely see a trail.

  I am in the middle of
the woods. I am alone. And it’s getting dark.

  8

  Don’t Run When You’re Angry, Hungry, or Facing Down a Wild Animal

  I pat the pockets of my hoodie. Dang! No phone. It must be still on my bed. It had better be. If I lost it I’m going to be in big trouble—if I survive. I try not to panic. I scuff at the ground, pushing aside leaves and twigs to find the squiggly line of dirt that is the trail. All I have to do is follow it and it will lead me back to the parking lot of the lodge, right? Unless I took a turn, which I don’t think I did, but I might have. . . . Did I?

  The sun is dipping between the trees, casting gangly shadows across the forest floor. I need to get going. I start briskly walking back the way I think I came. My shins and forearms sting from all the scratches. Licking my dry lips, I try not to think about water. Or icy-cold apple juice. Or the sweet, tangy fizz of orange soda—

  My stomach rumbles. “Oh, now you’re hungry?” I say out loud.

  As I walk, my eyes scan ahead for something familiar. Yet, each time I go over a small hill or take a bend it’s more of the same. More trail. More trees. How far did I run? I hope I don’t step on a snake or stumble into poison oak. Not that I even know what poison oak looks like.

  I’ve reached a T in the trail. I stop. Did I come from the right or left? The trees look thicker to the left, but the path looks thinner to the right. I want to go left, but I’m usually wrong when I follow my gut, so I should turn right. The breeze ruffles my hair, reminding me I am wasting time.

  I choose left. I pick up the pace and get into a comfortable rhythm. After a while, I realize I am singing the new Caden Christopher song. It helps. I’m not thinking quite so much about my growling stomach, raw throat, and burning arms. “Still hanging by a thread from your heart. You kept me on a string from the start. If only you would untie the knot, we could both be free. We could both be free.”

  I like Caden’s lyrics. I’m glad Langley told me he wrote the words, as well as the music. I write poetry. A little. I won a school district poetry contest last year. I got a nice gold medal and a $100 gift certificate to Clarice’s Books. It was the first thing I’ve ever won in my life that wasn’t some kind of drawing or random contest. I earned it.

  Singing is helping. I don’t feel on the edge of panic anymore. Breck is right. Distraction can work wonders. I start in on the third verse and swing my arms to the song. As I hit the chorus, I spot something ahead. It’s about twenty yards away on the right side of the trail. It’s kind of big. And roundish. And black.

  It’s a bear!

  My knees start to crumble. I grab the nearest tree and drag myself behind it. It’s a leafy tree—an alder, I think, and, like me, kind of puny. The slim, rough trunk barely hides me. I hug it. Tightly. My pulse is racing. My brain, too. What do I do? What do I do?

  I hear Mutt’s voice. You don’t run, that’s for sure.

  No need to worry there. I’m not sure these legs could hold me up, let alone take me anywhere. Maybe if I sit tight, the bear will move first. I decide to stay where I am. I remain a statue for what feels like forever but is probably less than ten minutes. Finally, I dare to move my head a few inches to peek around the tree. The bear is still huddled on the trail. He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. Maybe he’s asleep. Or dead. Or playing dead, while he waits out the fresh, young human dinner clinging to a tree. Wyatt will never believe this, not in a million trillion years. I hope I live to tell him about it.

  What else did Mutt say? Something about waving your arms to look big. Oh, and making noise to be a threat. I am the shortest girl in my class and lighter than a fawn, according to Langley, who ought to know because she volunteers at a wildlife rehab center. I’ve never been a threat to anybody or anything in my life. EVER. I glance up. The light is fading. A mosquito the size of a sparrow lands on my cheek. I slap it away. I feel a tickle on the back of my knee. Another mosquito. I swat at it. One way or another I am going to get eaten alive out here. I have to do something.

  Reluctantly, I release my death grip on the tree. I take one step back. Then another. My heart is slamming against my ribs. Carefully, I step through the underbrush until I am back to the trail. I don’t snap even a single twig. Reaching back, I grab the back hem of my hoodie with both hands. I pull the back of my jacket up and out, stretching my arms above my head to make myself look larger than I truly am. I know I look ridiculous. Maybe he will think I am a polar bear. Yeah. Right. I take a deep breath. Then another. On the count of three I will walk quickly and confidently down the left side of the path. I will be big. I will be loud. Who am I kidding? What I will be is bear food.

  I can’t do this. I have to do this. I’m ready. Let’s start the countdown.

  Three . . .

  Two . . .

  One . . .

  Go!

  “Bear, bear, bear!” I shout, marching down the left side of the trail. I want to be sure I give him an escape route, the way Mutt said. Yet, he doesn’t move. My heart is beating so fast I am sure it will burst. Every shred of DNA in me is telling me to run in the opposite direction, but I tighten my fists and my resolve. Wyatt is right. The fear won’t kill me, but the bear might. I can’t give in. If I run, the bear will give chase. I’ve got to keep going. “Bear, bear, bear!” I yell again, but it comes out at about half the level of my first cry. Oh, no! My throat is closing off. I’m about ten yards away from the animal now. I can see he’s long. And smooth. A hairless bear? Weird.

  “Bear, bear, bear.” My voice is barely a croak now.

  He isn’t moving. Something’s wrong. Maybe he is dead.

  Is that . . . ?

  I move closer.

  What the . . . ?

  Just a hair closer.

  I drop my arms. I can’t believe it. I cannot believe all this time I’ve been terrified of a big, black plastic pipe!

  Throwing my head back, I let out a crazy laugh. Doesn’t it figure? Langley will love this!

  I zip up my hood and turn toward the trail. Wait.

  A pipe in the middle of the forest? It has to go somewhere, right?

  I spin back. The plastic tube is three to four feet wide, with the bottom third anchored in the ground. It must be old or broken, because the side facing the trail is open and being supported by short, wooden stakes. It looks like a smaller version of a half-pipe used for snowboarding, only turned on its side. It stretches farther than I can see, paralleling the trail for about thirty feet then curving sharply to the right. Following it might lead me to civilization before the sun sets. On the other hand, it might lead me deeper into the forest. I stare at the trail, then the pipe, then the trail again. Why, oh, why did I quit Girl Scouts in the fifth grade? I decide to follow the pipe. It is a decision I regret minutes after I make it because it takes me into a thicket of blackberry bushes. Like witch fingers, the thorns grab at my arms, my legs, my hair, even my socks. Wrestling with the bushes is starting to wear me out. I see a gap in the brambles and leap through it.

  Everything on my body freezes, except my eyes. I feel like Alice in Wonderland in reverse. I am in a park. A real honest-to-goodness park with a lake, a small wading beach, a picnic shelter, a concrete walking path, and bathrooms. Is this a mirage? A hunger hallucination? I take a few steps.

  Ka-ching! Ka-ching, ching!

  I lean back a fraction of a second before a bike whizzes past. It’s real, all right. On this side of the bushes, the half-pipe is protected behind thick, black netting.

  “You’re early!” A man is walking toward me. I recognize the olive outfit, dress socks, and hiking boots. It’s the same man Wyatt and I saw in the dining room of the lodge at lunch. “Bufo boreas, eh?”

  Is he speaking French? We’re a long way from Quebec.

  “Oui?”  I say, because the only French word I know is “yes.”

  “Naturally, you’ve come to see the western toads migrate,” he says in perfect English, thank goodness. “Why else would you be looking over the amphibian fence?”

 
; The pipe is a fence? For toads?

  “It’ll be a couple of weeks yet before they come out of the water,” he says.

  “O . . . okay.” I still don’t get why toads need a fence.

  He gazes up at the deep violet sky. “I’d better get my students before the park closes.”

  “You’re a teacher, then?”

  “Professor,” he corrects. “I teach herpetology ecology and conservation at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver.” He puts out a hand. “Dr. Jerome Musgraves.”

  I shake it. “Kestrel Adams. I’m here from Seattle for the summer. My grandmother owns Blackcomb Creek Lodge.”

  “That’s where I’m—we’re—staying.”

  I confess to seeing him at lunch today.

  “I met your grandmother when we checked in,” he says. “Very nice lady. Her whole staff is top-notch. Everyone is so warm, helpful, and efficient.”

  “You sound like a commercial.”

  “I suppose I do, but you can’t say that about too many places these days, eh? Customer service is a dying art.”

  If only he knew how close to the truth he was. . . .

  “Have a good night, Kestrel.” He turns to go.

  “Dr. Musgraves, could I ask you one other thing?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Uh . . . where exactly is the lodge from here?”

  “Still getting your bearings, huh?”

  I nod.

  “I am pleased to inform you that you are, most appropriately, at Lost Lake.”

  I laugh. Not only because it’s funny, but also because I am relieved. If I am at Lost Lake, I can’t be far from home. I remember the trail marker on the way to the village. Dr. Musgraves offers to show me the way back, but we have to pick up his students first. We head across the beach, walking perpendicular to the amphibian fence, which curves to follow a split-rail fence. It runs all the way to the water’s edge. Soon, three young adults come into view. Two girls and a boy are kneeling next to a low footbridge, hammering stakes into place.