Tricia Rayburn's Blog

Hi there! 
I haven’t written in forever. I know. But see, I have this coworker. He’s very distracting. Because he’s super funny and totally adorable. And while I’m trying to get things done, all he wants is to take breaks and go outside and just have fun.
I try to ignore him. I tell him I have work to do. But then he smiles. His eyes light up. And I cave. Every. Single. Time.
How can I not?



Meet Augustus! A.K.A. Gus, Silly Goose, and the Demander of Attention. He’s a keeshond we welcomed into our family late last fall, and every day’s been an adventure since. This happy-go-lucky guy loves to chew, run, chase rabbits, frolic after butterflies, and, when he’s finally, eventually tuckered out, snuggle with his parents. 
But probably his very favorite thing to do…is pounce on his little big brother. As you can see, now a year old and fully grown, he has an unfair advantage. Although his brother’s pretty feisty for a small, older pup, and doesn’t back down when the huge ball of fur comes barreling toward him!


Anyway, Gus is tons of fun. He contributes to an entertaining, unpredictable office space. But we’ve had a talk, and he understands that attention is to be shared. So moving forward, you’ll find more posts from me, more often.
Although they may look a lot like this:
But that’ll be his fault, too.

You know how your parents, grandparents and basically everyone with a few years on you is always talking about how time flies? I didn't always understand what they meant, but the older I get, the more sense it makes. Because it truly feels like I JUST sat down to email my agent a story idea about a good kid who's sent to a top-secret school for troublemakers—and now here it is, the official release day of Merits of Mischief #3, Watch Your Step! 
I had such fun hanging with Seamus, Lemon, Gabby, Abe, and Elinor again. This story brings them back to Kilter Academy for summer camp. But instead of participating in sports, arts and crafts, and other "normal" camp activities, the gang tries to solve the mystery of their parents, who are acting really strange. They also keep an eye on Mr. Tempest, Kilter's mysterious History teacher; watch out for Incriminators, rival troublemakers who may or may not pay them a surprise visit; learn some new troublemaking skills; and, of course, have lots of fun! 
The first chapter is below. I hope you enjoy! 
Chapter 1            It’s funny. Once upon a time, summer was my favorite season. Come June there was no school or homework, no alarm clocks or early bedtimes. There was only three whole months to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. All year long I counted down to that stretch of freedom.            But this summer? I wouldn’t mind skipping it. Because there’s what I want to do…and there’s what I have to do. And those are two very different things.            “What can I get you, Seamus? Fish-stick pancakes? Fish-stick waffles? Fish-stick bacon? Fish-stick home fries? A bagel with cream cheese and fish sticks?”                       It’s first day of vacation. Mom’s spiraling around the kitchen like a tornado in a cornfield. Dad and I are sitting at the table. He’s reading the newspaper and drinking coffee—the only breakfast item not featuring my favorite food.             I’m waiting.            Mom gasps. Spins toward the table. Waves a spatula like it’s a hundred degrees in here and she’s trying to keep me cool.            “I know,” she says. “How about…a fish-stick omelette?”            “Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”            “Believe me.” Mom spins toward the stove. “It’s my pleasure.”            I bet it is.            “So, son.” Dad folds the newspaper and places it on the table. “Your first day off. Three free months ahead of you. Have you thought about how you’d like to spend them?”            “Well, they’re not totally free. We’ll still have weekly homework.”            Dad sits back like I’ve just sneezed without covering my nose. “But it’s summer vacation.”            “And a great opportunity to sharpen our skills.” I sneak a peek at Mom. She stills at “skills,” then cracks another egg over a bowl. “It’s okay. I don’t have any other plans.”            “Then we should make some. How about a few rounds at the Cloudview Putt n’ Play this weekend? Some quality father-son time? Just like the old days?”            Dad gives me a small, hopeful smile. Behind his thick, black-framed glasses, his eyes are bright. So much has happened since the old days, it’s hard to imagine going back. But Dad didn’t do anything. None of it was his fault.            “Okay,” I say. “Sounds fun.”            “Wonderful! I’ll call when I get to the office and reserve a cart.”            “You’re leaving?” Mom asks as Dad brings his dishes to the sink. “Already?”            “The numbers won’t crunch themselves,” Dad says proudly.            “It’s Seamus’s first morning home. Can’t you go in a little later?”            “Sorry, my dear. But I’ll be back soon, and we’ll have a great night. Together. As a family.”            I’ve just taken a bite of waffle and now force it down my throat. Not because it tastes bad—although I must say, despite being made with my favorite food it’s not my favorite dish—but because the thought of Mom, Dad, and I as a family, the kind that talks and laughs and plays board games, is so strange and unexpected, I almost choke.            Dad kisses her cheek, then comes over and gives me a hug. When he’s gone, Mom catches my eye, quickly turns away, and continues cooking.             This is it. We’re alone. For the first time since Christmas morning, when I found her in the attic, surrounded by boxes of—            My K-Pak buzzes. I take the handheld computer from my shorts pocket and press the K-Mail icon.                        TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org             FROM: loliver@kilteracademy.org             SUBJECT: hey            S-            Happy to be home. You?             -L
            I smile at the five-word email. This is typical Lemon. The only thing my roommate uses less than syllables is exclamation points.            I press reply.             “Errands.”            I look up.             “I just remembered,” Mom says, emptying a frying pan. “I need to go to the dry cleaners. And the post office. And the grocery store. And the vet.”            “We don’t have a pet,” I say.            She drops the spatula. It lands on the floor with a thwack. “I think I read that they’re having adoptions today. Wouldn’t that be nice? To welcome an adorable puppy or kitten into our family?”            Our family. It sounds even stranger coming from her.            She steps over the spatula and places a plate of mushy eggs and seafood onto the table before me. “Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll take care of it when I get back.”            My chin drops. This is easily the weirdest thing she’s said since she and Dad picked me up yesterday afternoon. Before I left Cloudview Middle School for Kilter Academy for Troubled Youth—or was yanked out of one and left at the other—I had a list of daily chores that needed to be completed before I did anything else, including homework. The first item on that list was making my bed. The second was cleaning the kitchen after breakfast. Skipping either was never an option. One time I was up late playing video games, overslept, and had eight minutes to get ready for school—and I still swept the kitchen floor and loaded the dishwasher, even though my breakfast was a handful of granola that I gulped down while sprinting to the bus, which I almost missed. Because another time, I forgot to wipe the table, Mom found crumbs, and I lost TV privileges for a month. After that I didn’t want to find out what she’d do if I skipped the task entirely.            So why the sudden rule change? Like the morning fish-stick overload, is it meant to butter me up? Or distract me? Or make me forget what she did?              Hearing her hurry around upstairs, I return to my K-Pak.                         TO: loliver@kilteracademy.org             FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org             SUBJECT: RE: Hey            Hi, Lemon!            So great to hear from you. I can’t believe it’s been less than 24 hours since we left Kilter. It already feels like 24 days since you made Abe, Gabby, and me our last black-bean breakfast burritos of the semester.             How are your parents? And your little brother? He must be really happy you’re home.            Everything’s OK here. Different, but I guess that’s normal since I was away for so long. My dad and I already have some fun things planned, so that’s good. I missed him.             But it’s still a little weird. I bet—
            There’s a loud bang upstairs. It’s so loud I jump in my chair. My thumbs shoot across the K-Pak screen. I accidentally send Lemon’s unfinished note. The sound’s followed by several smaller, quieter thumps. When I land back in my seat, I register where they’re coming from.             The attic.            Mom’s cell phone rings. It’s on the counter, next to her purse and car keys. I hurry over to it, glance at Dad’s smiling face on the phone’s screen, and tap the red rectangle to ignore the call. The ringing stops. The screen goes black.            “Sorry,” I say.            And I am. For sending Dad to voicemail before Mom can hear her phone and rush downstairs. For doing what I’m about to do, which is something I never would’ve done eight months ago—or anytime before I found Mom huddled in the attic, surrounded by Kilter Academy boxes.            Most of all, I’m sorry for having that reason to do what I’m about to do.              Taking Mom’s purse and keys from the counter, I slip the key ring onto the long leather purse strap. I hold the strap near its ends at the top of the bag, raise my arm, and start making small, slow circles. When the keys stay in place in the middle of the strap, I lift my arm higher and make bigger, faster circles. Soon the strap’s whipping above my head like a lasso.             As my eyes look for a target, my head fills with other images. I see the Cloudview Middle School cafeteria. A shiny red apple flying toward a cluster of fighting kids. Miss Parsippany, my substitute teacher, collapsing to the floor. A big, open field. A line of apple-headed mannequins defenseless against the archery arrows headed their way. An ancient school bus flying through the desert. Flaming paper airplanes.                   Me, throwing the shiny red apple. Firing archery arrows. Hurling flaming paper airplanes.            And then I select my current target. And the other images disappear.            I spin the keys again, then snap my wrist. The key ring slips from the strap, sails through the air across the kitchen, and descends in a perfect arc toward the stove.            Where it lands with a plop into a pot of fish-stick oatmeal.             I put the purse back on the counter, careful to arrange the strap exactly as it was, then return to my chair and pick up my K-Pak. I’m reading about Kilter’s plans to expand the Kommissary, the school store, when Mom enters the kitchen a few minutes later.            “Well, that’s strange,” she says.            “What?” I ask, not looking up.            “My car keys were right here.”            “Where?”            “On the counter. Between my cell phone and pocketbook.”            “Are you sure?”            “Yes. That’s where I always put them.”            “You must’ve put them somewhere else.”            “I didn’t. I distinctly remember placing them here when we got home.”            “Oh, well,” I say. “Guess you can’t do your errands now.”            I peer over my K-Pak and watch her rummage through her purse. She turns the bag upside down and dumps its contents onto the counter. Her fingers tremble as she sifts through tissues and breath mints, loose change and coupons.            “We can spend all day together,” I add. “Won’t that be nice?”            Her hands freeze. They thaw a second later, and she throws everything that’s on the counter back into her purse.            “No problem,” she says. “I’ll walk.”            “Town’s four miles away.”            “The exercise will do me good.”             Taking her bag, she flies from the kitchen. The front door opens and slams shut.            Still in my hand, the K-Pak buzzes.                        TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org             FROM: loliver@kilteracademy.org             SUBJECT: RE: RE: hey            Different how?             Weird in what way?            –L                        I press reply, start typing.
            TO: loliver@kilteracademy.org             FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org             SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: hey            You don’t want to know. Trust me.            I wish I didn’t.

Hi, there!

I hope you're happy, healthy, and enjoying a great start to 2014. It's been a very, VERY snowy one here, and depending on which groundhog you believe, we're due for six more weeks of winter...or not. The fluffy white stuff is pretty—and great for productive writing days—but my fingers are crossed for an early spring!

As it's been a little while since my last post, I wanted to give you a quick update on what I've been up to lately. Writing-wise, I've been plugging away on a few different projects, both young adult and middle grade. I wrote and revised Merits of Mischief 3, and I've also been working on some new things. This has been an interesting experience, as it always is. Brainstorming new ideas and exploring new stories is fun and exciting, but picking the best one to plow full-steam-ahead on can be tricky. My agent and I have been working together to find the "right" project to pursue, and this has entailed a lot of writing (me), reading (her), and revising (me). But I think we have it now! The story's still in its early stages so I can't share too much yet, but I can say it's middle grade—and really fun to write.

Things have been quite busy in my non-professional life too! A few months ago we moved from our little cottage near the sea to an old farmhouse. Between packing, tossing, unpacking, and organizing, moving is always a chore, but this move was particularly challenging. Mostly because our new house required a bit of work before we could actually get in and start making it ours. But get in we did, and it didn't take long for it to feel like home!

Oh, another reason I'm looking forward to spring: gardening. I've never done this but have big plans for our new yard! Flowers, fruit, veggies—if there's a seed, I want to sow it. :) Any and all tips for turning my plain thumb green would be greatly appreciated!

We also took a few trips. We visited family in Florida, traveled to our favorite spot in the desert, and headed north for a few days. I'm a huge fall/foliage fan, and as I've spent a lot of time in New England over the years, going back always feels a little like going home. So that trip was particularly fun.

Speaking of fun, I now love football! Anyone who's known me a while, like all of my friends and family members, is very surprised by this, because up until two or three years ago, I never paid much (or any) attention. But my husband has always been a Giants fan, and with the help of his thorough, and often patient, explanation of the game, rules, positions, and everything else, now I am too! (I think the intrigue first started after watching Friday Night Lights, which made me interested in the players off-field, and it's just grown from there!) I do all sorts of things I never used to. Besides watching every Giants game, and a lot of non-Giants games too, I now watch ESPN and visit its website every day; check in with the Giants website every day; watch football documentaries; and read football books. My birthday was a few weeks ago, and one of my favorite presents was an Eli Manning jersey! I have to say, I never saw this interest coming, but I'm very glad it did.

So, those are some of my recent highlights! A few visual accompaniments are below. I hope to post more pictures—especially of my Adventures in Gardening—sooner rather than later!

Until then, Happy Early Spring! :)

When last we saw 12-year-old Seamus Hinkle, he'd just learned some very startling news about his substitute teacher, Miss Parsippany. A few months earlier he'd thrown an apple in the school cafeteria to break up a fight—and hit her instead of his target, bully Bartholomew John. Miss Parsippany had fallen to the floor, and before Seamus could find out whether she got up, he was shipped off to Kilter Academy, the best reform school for the country's worst kids (or so he thought).

But then, at the end of a fun yet confusing semester spent making amends, friends, and a little bit of trouble, Seamus receives an email from Miss Parsippany. Seamus is relieved but stunned. If she's well enough to write him, maybe he should've never been sent to Kilter Academy. Maybe he can go home, and to his regular school, again. Maybe his family, including his mom, who's been acting very strange, can start over. And they all can pretend like the past few months didn't happen.

But is that what Seamus really wants? Or would he rather continue training to be a professional Troublemaker so he can hang out with his new friends, Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and Elinor?

You can find out today! Merits of Mischief: A World of Trouble, the sequel to The Bad Apple, is now available. The first chapter is below. I hope you enjoy!



Chapter 1            My face is melting.  The goopy blob that was my forehead is slipping south, its molten heat softening everything in its path.  I’m literally liquefying, right here, in the back parking lot of Shell’s Belles.            Okay, maybe not literally.  That’d leave a pretty big mess, which is what I’m trying to avoid.  That’s why I’m still wearing this helmet when all I really want to do is rip it off what’s left of my head and chuck it in the Dumpster I’m hiding behind.             “Soft as silk!  How do you do it?”            A familiar voice crackles in my ear.  I sit up straight, swipe one hand across the helmet’s tinted face shield.  My view’s still fuzzy so I flip up the plastic, rub my thumb over the damp interior, and lower it again.  Through the small window I watch the teenager lounging in the purple salon chair.  He holds a gossip magazine in one hand and pets his hair with the other.  Grins at the young woman who stands over him with a comb and scissors, then at his reflection in the mirrored wall.  Raises his palm for a high five, and gets one.            A good Troublemaker is an invisible Troublemaker.  That was the first thing Houdini, my math teacher, told me when he found me standing on a bench and waving both arms in baggage claim three days earlier.  Apparently, he missed his own memo.            “What do you think about upping the cool factor?” Houdini asks.            “The cool factor?” the stylist repeats.              “Like with a blue streak.  Or a lightning bolt.  Or a blue lightning bolt.”            “You mean…in your hair?”            Houdini laughs.  The stylist laughs.  I roll my eyes and settle back in the seat.  If I’d known he was going to get a makeover before doing what we’d come here to do, I would’ve asked to stay at the hotel.  Where there’s air conditioning.  A mini fridge.  Bottomless buckets of ice.            I’m considering dunking my head in the dirty snow bank next to the Dumpster, ostrich style, when the bell above the back door jingles.  A woman walks out.  She wears a white velvet coat with a black fur collar.  Her blonde hair, newly done, forms a stiff half-moon around her head.  She pinches a cell phone between her thumb and pointer finger.  Against the parking lot’s gray backdrop, her red nails glitter like rubies.            Or maybe even apples.  Perfect, shiny…powerful apples.                 For a split second I picture the woman falling, her body slamming into the frozen pavement, her face twisting in pain.  The image is so vivid I start to stand, to go toward her.  But then I remember where I am.  Why we’re here.  And I stop.            “She’s leaving,” I hiss into the helmet’s small microphone.               I listen for a response.  None comes.  All I hear in the earpiece is muffled chitchat and country music.            The woman pauses by a shiny SUV.  I tear my eyes away and scan the salon’s windows.  They’re cloudy—but I can still see that Houdini’s chair is empty.            “Target’s on the move,” I say, louder this time.  “Do you copy?”            I hear guitars strumming.  Fiddles plucking.  Ladies giggling.  I glance back and hold my breath as the woman unlocks her car.  My responsibility for this leg of the mission is not to let her out of my sight—even if that means leaving Houdini behind.  So I slide forward.  I take the silver handles in both hands and place one foot on the kick-start lever.  I relax slightly when her cell phone rings, thinking I’ve won more time, but right after she answers it and gets in her car, the engine hums and brake lights illuminate.            “Um, hello?  Houdini?  I know you’re busy, but the lady?  The one we’re following?  I think she’s about to leave.”            The warmth of my breath combined with the heat radiating from my face creates a new, wet coating inside my helmet shield.  As quickly as I wipe it away, a fresh one forms.            I can’t see.  I can’t see, and I’m supposed to drive this scooter, which resembles a fighter jet on wheels, through a strange town.  Across ice and snow.  Without drawing attention to myself or losing my target, who, given the way her tires are currently sending dirt and pebbles spiraling through the air, is in a hurry.  Worrying about this only makes my heart thump faster, which makes me hotter, which makes it even harder to see.            I’m here because I’m the best of the best.  Because I can do things other kids my age can’t—or so I’ve been told.  But it’s clear a mistake has been made.  Again.            “I’m so sorry,” I say, watching the gray film before me thicken, “but you’ve got the wrong guy.  I can’t—”            The scooter dips suddenly.  I drop both feet to the ground and squeeze the handles.  Houdini’s voice sounds behind me and echoes in my ear.            “I don’t.  You can.  And winners never apologize.”            The scooter bolts forward.  My boots skid across pavement.  I really hope this thing can be steered from the back seat, because if not, we’re about to become Kentucky road kill.            “So I think I get it!” Houdini calls out.             The scooter jerks to the left, then the right.  Fighting wind and gravity, I pull up my boots, find the foot rests.            “Get what?” I call back.            “The high maintenance!  My hair’s never looked this good!”“Well, I don’t get it!  I thought we were supposed to stay invisible!”            “We are!”            “But you followed her inside!  And sat right next to her!”            The scooter hits a rock.  We sail through the air.   Eventually, the scooter drops to the ground and speeds up again.            “Sometimes being seen is the best way not to be seen!”            This makes no sense.  I might point that out, but then we round a curve and tilt sharply.  My body’s pulled down and to the right.  I hug the bike with both legs.  Release my fingers, lean forward, and wrap my arms around the handles.  Close my eyes, even though it’s as dark as night inside my helmet.            “I was one of the girls!” Houdini continues.  “I had to be—the supply closet was in full view of the rest of the salon.  It was safer to do that and win their trust than it was to sneak around.  We can’t get into trouble before we’ve made any ourselves!”            I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t.  We cruise along for several minutes.  I don’t ask where we’re going or what we’ll do when we get there, and Houdini doesn’t tell me.  All I know is what he shared when I woke up this morning: today we finish what we started three days ago.  And as soon as we’re done, I can go home…where a very different sort of trouble waits for me.            “You’re up.”            I blink.  A mental picture of Mom biting into a fat cheeseburger disappears.            “So I am.”  I note that we’re no longer moving—and that I’m still vertical on the bike and not horizontal on the side of the road.  “Nice driving.”            “Phenomenal, actually.  But that’s not what I meant.”            I slide off my helmet and find Houdini standing next to me.  I peer past him to the small red house with white shutters.  I’ve spent fifty of the last seventy-two hours monitoring live video feed of the property’s occupants and activity, so I know the home almost as well as I know my own.  That, however, doesn’t make it any less strange to be parked behind a bush at the end of its driveway.              “Everything looks okay,” I say.  “Sounds it, too.”            At which point a door slams.  A familiar voice yells.  High heels hit floor like bullets to a concrete wall.            Houdini holds a purple purse toward me.  “Don’t worry.  I emptied it for its owner before filling it up again.”            I take the bag.  Unzip it.  “You said you were getting weapons.”            “I did.  You’re welcome.”            I pull out a short, plastic tube.  Thanks to Mom’s endless pursuit of fuller, bouncier hair, I actually know what it is.  “A roller?  What am I supposed to do with this?”“You’re the marksman.   You’ll figure it out.”            Snow flurries drift around us, but a fresh layer of sweat spreads across my face anyway.  Houdini must notice because he steps toward me and offers more explanation.               “Bows and arrows?  Paintball rifles?  Water grenades?  They’re great, but generic.  They can do damage to anyone, anywhere.  If you want to make a lasting impact, it’s always better to personalize.”  He shrugs.  “Plus, try getting a metal Frisbee through airport security.”            “Boomaree,” I mumble.            “What?”            I drop the roller back in the purse.  “Frisbees are for kids.”  This is something Ike, my tutor, told me back at Kilter.  “Boomarees are part Frisbee, part boomerang.  They’re for Troublemakers.”             Houdini grins.  “You can rock this, Hinkle.”            Can I?  Maybe.  In the past few months I’ve definitely done things I never thought I would. But do I want to?            A scream shatters the snowy stillness.  And just like that, I stop thinking and start moving.            I put on the helmet, throw the purse over one shoulder.  I stoop then shoot forward.  As I run, I keep one eye on the ground and the other on the shadowy figures hurrying behind pulled curtains.               “IV in Q3.”  Inside my helmet, Houdini’s voice is steady yet urgent.  “ML in Q2—scratch that.  ML backtracking to Q1.”            He must be watching the live feed on his K-Pak.  I translate quickly.  IV is Innocent Victim, also known as Molly, an eleven-year-old only child.  Q3 is Quadrant 3, or the bedrooms in the rear of the house.  ML is Mother Lubbard, our target.  Q2 is Quadrant 2, the combined living and dining room, and Q1 is Quadrant 1, the kitchen.            I’m so busy decoding Houdini’s locations I don’t think about what they mean until I’m in the backyard, crouched beneath the living room window.  Through the lace curtains I watch Mrs. Lubbard storm from the kitchen.  Then I glance behind me to confirm that Mr. Lubbard is in his usual spot: the small woodshed, where he pretends to build bookcases while actually playing poker online.             “D2 washed the white sweater,” Houdini says.             I turn back.  “Wasn’t she supposed to?”              “The cotton cardigan, not the cashmere v-neck.  ML’s freaking because the sweater shrunk ten sizes.”            “Then maybe she should give it to her daughter.  As a thank you for everything else Molly—IV—has done right.”            “A good mother probably would.”            But this, we know, isn’t Mrs. Lubbard.  After all, a good mother doesn’t treat her daughter like an overworked, underpaid employee.  She doesn’t demand that her indentured servant vacuums, dusts, mops, and scrubs every window in the house every single day, before the young girl’s even done her homework—and then punish her when she finds a rolled oat on the floor or a smudge on the glass.  And she definitely doesn’t do all this when her real priorities are spending hours at the salon, soaking in bubble baths, and recovering from the exertion with daily two-hour naps.            Mr. Lubbard, of course, is no prize himself.  But he hides out mostly to get away from the missus, so if we fix her, there’s a good chance we fix him too.            “ML and IV en route to Q4.”            Houdini sounds even more serious now.  Once I translate, I know why.                  Quadrant 4 is the basement.              “Copy,” I say.  And then I run.            I reach the back door outside just as Mrs. Lubbard and Molly reach the basement door inside.  Mrs. Lubbard flings open the entrance to her daughter’s worst nightmare.  Molly’s back hits the opposite wall.  Her head shakes back and forth.             I reach into the purse.            Two shots.  One to break the door’s small window, and one to teach this mother a lesson she’ll never forget.  That’s all it’ll take.            My fingers find what feels like a thick rubber band.  They keep digging until they hit the purse’s hardest, heaviest item, which turns out to be a jar of lime green goop.  On the way out, they snag something long and prickly.            An elastic hair tie.  Pauline’s Pear Pomade.  A metal comb.  These are my weapons.             “IV WW about to commence,” Houdini says.WW.    Waterworks.  Molly’s about to cry.I slip the hair tie around the jar.  Hook my left thumb on the elastic and pull back the jar with my right hand.  Raise both arms.  Close one eye.  Aim.            “ML WW about to commence?”             Mrs. Lubbard’s about to cry?            I lower my weapon and lean toward the door.  Houdini’s right.  Our target’s face crumples as she holds out one hand, examines her fingers, and fans her eyes.  Molly steps toward her, concerned.            “Now, Hinkle,” Houdini urges.  “Her defenses are down.  Take your shot.”            I start to aim again—and then stop.  Because what am I doing?  Who am I to try to teach anyone—but especially an adult I’ve never even met—anything?  What do I really know about this family?  I know what I saw on video, but what about everything our cameras didn’t catch?  What if Molly was a total terror last week?  What if all that we’ve seen the past three days, all the yelling and fighting and demanding, is simply one desperate mother’s way of dealing with her out-of-control daughter?              Parent-kid relationships can be complicated.  I get that.  I’ve lived that.  And I don’t want to make this one any worse.            “Start the scooter,” I tell Houdini, already running.  “It’s not happening.”            “What do you mean it’s not—”  He pauses.  “You’ve got to be kidding.”            “Nope.  Sorry.  I tried to tell you I wasn’t cut out for—”            “Fingernails.”            My earpiece must be malfunctioning.  I tap the side of my helmet.  “What?”            “ML’s fingernails.  She pretended to give a flashlight to IV, and when she yanked it away, her nails brushed against the wall.  Her manicure’s ruined.  That’s why she’s crying.” Houdini’s voice sounds different.  Not just serious.  Nervous, too.  It makes my feet slow beneath me.              “Now she’s yelling,” he continues.  “She’s got IV by the elbow.  She’s pushing her toward the stairs.”My feet come to a stop.  I stand there and listen—to Houdini’s play by play. Molly’s whimpers.  Soon a door slams.  The deck shakes.              Molly falls silent.            “She’s in the basement,” I say.            “Yes,” Houdini confirms.            “Where she can’t reach the overhead light.”            “Correct.”            “And she’s so scared of the dark she needs three lamps on just to fall asleep at night.”            “Right.”            I take a deep breath.  “Get her out through the storm door.  I’ll take care of Mom.”            When Houdini informed me earlier that I’d be the one teaching Mrs. Lubbard the ultimate lesson, and I asked how I was supposed to do that, all he said was that I’d know once the moment was right.  I didn’t believe him.              Until now.            For the next ninety seconds, I don’t think about what I’m doing.  I just do it.  I follow along the side of the house, peeking in windows to monitor ML’s progress.  By the time she reaches the marble vanity in the bathroom, I’m in position, locked, and loaded.  As she sits on the velvet-cushioned stool, I slide open the window and take aim.            The elastic hair tie makes for a stellar slingshot.  I use it to fire everything Houdini swiped from the salon, including Pauline’s Pear Pomade.  Nail files.  Curlers.  Cans of hair spray.  Combs.  Brushes.  I’m careful not to hit my target directly, but I don’t mind when the weapons fly around Mrs. Lubbard so fast she twists and turns and falls off the stool.  And while she’s not struck, the same can’t be said about her precious beauty supplies.  Jars of lotion break.  Perfume bottles shatter.  Tubs of powder shoot up and fall back down, releasing thick white clouds.  I discover a clump of bobby pins near the bottom of the purse and fire them at the small light bulbs framing the mirror.  I break all but one so that Mrs. Lubbard can see what happens next.            A bottle of nail polish slams into the middle of the mirror.  Red liquid drips down cracked glass.  A note, scribbled in lipstick on a piece of hair foil, stays in place with fake-eyelash glue.            Mrs. Lubbard is curled in a ball on the floor.  Her arms cover her head.  Her shoulders tremble.  She stays like that for a few seconds, then gets up slowly, tip-toes to the mirror, and leans forward to read the message.            It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.
            Think you pay a price to look nice?            Not BEING nice can put you in the poorhouse.            Make it up to Molly.  Or lose everything.
            Mrs. Lubbard stands up straight.  Presses the fingers of one hand to her lips.  Looks around.              By the time her gaze turns toward the window, I’m gone.

And that stranger...would be me! I truly can't believe it's been so long since my last post. To think that I was wearing flip-flops when I wrote about Dark Water and have gone through fun fall boots, less-fun snow boots, and fleece-lined slippers since then, and that flip-flop season's coming around again, is crazy. My apologies for the blog silence!

I've been working on a few different projects over the past few months, including the third book in the Merits of Mischief series. It's always fun to revisit characters, and since Seamus, Lemon, Abe, Gabby, Elinor, Annika, Houdini, Mystery and Ms. Marla, Kilter Academy's Hoodlum Hotline operator, are some of my all-time favorites, this has been especially enjoyable! When you catch yourself chuckling while writing, as I did just this morning, you know you're having a good work day.

On that note, I thought I'd kick off my blog return with some fun covers! Bad Apple, the first in the Merits of Mischief series, has a new look for its paperback. And A World of Trouble, the second book in the series (out this August), follows in its (sticky!) footsteps. I love, love, love the original Merits cover, but I love these just as much. And in case you're wondering why the new look, the original, super-talented artist came up with a few designs for World of Trouble, but the wonderful folks at Simon & Schuster didn't know if those quite captured the story the way they'd hoped. So they tried a different approach, and voila! The covers below were born.

I hope you've had a great few months! And I promise to write again before the snow returns!

Dark Water, the third and last book in the Siren trilogy, releases day! It seems like just yesterday that I was excitedly filling a notebook with thoughts and ideas about Vanessa, Justine, Simon, Caleb, Paige, Zara, Raina, and everyone and everything else in Winter Harbor, so I can't believe we're already here, at the end of their story. It's definitely bittersweet for me...but for you, I hope it's all sweet!
That said, thank you so, so much for sharing this experience with Vanessa, and with me. The first chapter of Dark Water is below. Enjoy!


Chapter 1            It started an hour into the trip.  The fluttering in my chest.  The weakening of my legs.  The tightening of my throat that made each breath feel like it was filled with broken glass rather than clear, fresh air.  These feelings were nothing new. For nearly a year they’d been the messages my body sent whenever it was slowing down, tiring out…drying up.  The difference this time was that I wasn’t thirsty.  We’d visited enough rest stops along I-95 to be sure of that.I was scared.  “Chips?” An economy-size bag of Lay’s appeared between the two front seats.  Shook back and forth.“They’re your favorite,” Mom said.  “Salt and vinegar.”            “Heavy on the salt,” Dad added.            I watched him take a plastic shaker from his cup holder and tilt it over the top of the bag.  As the white powder fell onto the chips, I thought about how the mere idea of this road-trip snack should make my stomach turn.  But it didn’t.            “No, thanks,” I said.  “I’m not hungry.”            “You haven’t eaten today,” Mom said.  “And you barely picked at your dinner last night.”            “I’m saving my appetite.  For Harbor Homefries.”            Mom’s eyes flicked away from the road and met Dad’s.  His head lowered and lifted so slightly you wouldn’t notice the nod if you didn’t expect it.            “So,” he said, leaving the bag on the console and replacing the shaker in the cup holder.  “Several of my students were renting a house in Kennebunkport this summer.  It’s supposed to be a pretty hopping place.”            “Hopping?” I said.            “You know—happening.  Grooving.  Or, as one young wordsmith alleged, slamming.”            “Slammin.’”            Dad looked at Mom.  “How come it doesn’t sound nearly as ridiculous when you say it?”            “Because I said it correctly.”  She tried to catch my eye in the rearview mirror.  “You leave off the ‘g.’  Right, sweetie?”            I turned my head, faced the window.  “I think so.”            “Well,” Dad said, “if our Dartmouth-bound daughter thinks it’s so, then so it is.”            I pressed my forehead to the glass, blinking away images of green, ivy-covered walls.“In any case, the town gets fairly busy, but it’s by the water and is supposed to be beautiful.  Maybe we should check it out.  Like, today.”            “That’s a great idea,” Mom said.  “The exit will be coming up soon.”            I sat up.  “Don’t we have an appointment?”             “We do,” Mom said. “And it can be rescheduled.”            “But you’ve been planning this trip for weeks.  Why the sudden detour?”            “Why not?” Mom asked.  “It never hurts to know all your options.  Especially when it comes to real estate.”            “But where we’re going is also by the water.  It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.”  I tried to smile.  “And after last summer it shouldn’t be too crowded.”            This last point was an attempt at keeping things light.  For better or worse, my poor delivery broke through my parents’ happy façade.    “We don’t have to go back,” Mom said, squeezing the steering wheel.             “We can go anywhere,” Dad said.  “Try someplace new.”            “I know,” I said.  “You told me that six months ago and every week since then.  I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary.  I don’t want to try someplace new.”            Mom glanced over her shoulder.  Her lips were set in a thin, straight line.  Behind her sunglasses, I knew her brows were lowered, her eyes narrowed.            “Vanessa, are you sure?  I mean, really sure?  I know you’ve visited a few times since…everything…but this is different.”  She paused.  “It’s summer.”            Summer.  The word hung above us, heavy, expanding.  I looked at the empty seat to my left, then reached forward and grabbed a handful of potato chips.              “Yes,” I said.  “I’m really sure.”            Despite my countless assurances over the past few months, I understood their concern.  We’d made the same trip each June for as long as I could remember, and this was the first time we were doing so without my older sister, Justine.  Not only that, due to our realtor’s schedule—and a supposedly amazing property that’d recently hit the market—we’d had to leave today.  Which just happened to be the day after my graduation from Hawthorne Prep…and the one-year anniversary of Justine’s death.            As my body continued to remind me, this was scary.  But one thing would be downright terrifying.            Not returning to Winter Harbor at all.            I washed down several handfuls of chips with two bottles of saltwater.  For fifteen minutes I half-listened and nodded along as my parents debated the benefits of all-weather siding.  When we passed the Kennebunkport exit, I waited another five minutes for good measure, then settled back and checked my cell phone for the hundredth time since waking up.            V!  So excited to see you.  Who knew 20 hours could feel like 20 years??  At restaurant all day.  Stop by when you can.  xo, P                Paige.  My best friend, recent housemate—and one of the main reasons why vacationing anywhere else this summer was impossible.  I smiled as I texted her back.            Can’t wait to see you, too.  Still a few hours away.  Will write again when closer.  Don’t work too hard!  L, V            I sent the note and scrolled through older messages, hoping, like I always did, that I’d missed one.  That maybe there’d been a glitch in my service and I hadn’t been notified of every incoming text.              There wasn’t.  A quick call to my voicemail proved that it, too, was working fine.             I swapped my phone for the Dartmouth course descriptions I’d printed from the school website, and curled up on the backseat.  I already had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to take in the fall, but my parents didn’t know that.  And more than anything else, looking like I was thinking about my future stopped them from bringing up the past.  In fact, the course descriptions were such an effective shield, no one asked how I was or what I needed for the rest of the trip.            Of course, by the time we pulled off the highway, they didn’t have to.  Not out loud anyway.  Mom looked in the rearview mirror more than she did at the road, and Dad gave a bag of pretzels an extra coating of salt before propping it between the two front seats.              “I’m fine,” I said as my pulse pounded in my ears.  “Promise.”            This seemed to appease them until we neared the sailboat-shaped “Welcome to Winter Harbor” sign.  That’s when Mom jerked the steering wheel to the left—and we took an unexpected detour bypassing Main Street and all local businesses.  I started to protest but then hesitated.  Did I really want to sit in traffic and inch past Eddie’s Ice Cream?  Which had always been our first stop—and the official start of another wonderful family vacation?            Probably not.  I let my parents have that one.            I took another water bottle from my backpack and focused on drinking.  A few minutes later, the detour led to the same intersection we would’ve reached had we stayed on Main Street.  Turning right would take us toward the mountains and down a long, winding road I knew so well I could drive it at night without headlights.  I listened for the clicking signal, waited for the gentle pull west.  Neither happened.  We went straight instead.              As we drove, the straight, flat road began to incline.  The houses grew farther apart, the trees closer together.  I’d never been in this part of Winter Harbor; before I could decide whether that was a good or bad thing, the road ended.  The car stopped.  We all stared straight ahead.            “Is this a joke?” I asked, peering between the front seats.            “I don’t think so,” Mom said after a pause.  She handed the directions to Dad, rolled down her window, and pressed the button on a silver box next to her door.  The tall gates, which featured iron mermaids with ornate tails rather than simple bars, swung open.            “Let’s give it a chance,” Dad said, then busied himself with folding and refolding the directions.            I wanted to take the stack of course descriptions, hold them in front of my face, block out everything I didn’t want to see.  But I couldn’t.  My eyes were glued to the faceless heads, the flowing hair, the intricate fins.  I told myself that these mermaids were functional art, nothing more, but I still searched for something, anything familiar about them.  As the gate closed behind us and we continued down the driveway, I even turned in my seat to watch them grow smaller.  Or perhaps more accurately, to make sure they grew smaller. The steep driveway curled through dense forest.  About half a mile in, Mom, growing nervous, impatient, or a combination of both, hit the gas.  The SUV shot up a small hill—and toward the edge of a cliff.            Dad and I reached for the grab handles above our doors.  Mom gasped and slammed on the brake.  The car skidded a few feet before rocking to a stop.            “A fence,” Mom said, exhaling.  “We’ll just get a good, strong fence.”            She opened her door and hopped out.  Dad slowly leaned forward, started to turn.  Sensing a fresh wave of concern approaching, I opened my door and stepped down before it reached me.            “Jacqueline!  So glad you could make it on such short notice.”         A woman strode down a wide stone path to our left.  She wore white linen pants, a white caftan, and leather sandals.  Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail so tight, the corners of her blue eyes lifted.  I must’ve been even more shaken by the iron shield of swimmers we’d just passed through than I thought, because for a split second, she looked just like another woman I’d met last summer.              But that was impossible.  Wasn’t it?
            “This must be your beautiful daughter.”  The woman shook Mom’s hand and beamed at me.  “The Ivy Leaguer.  I’ve heard so much about you.  Dartmouth, right?”            I forced a smile as I joined them.  “Right.”            “You’re a parent’s dream come true.”            I looked down.            “Vanessa,” Mom said quickly, “this is Anne.  Our realtor.  And Anne, yes, this is my beautiful daughter.”            “I’m the perfectly average-looking husband and father,” Dad said, shuffling up behind us.  “And this is quite a place.”            “I told you.  Didn’t I tell you?”                     Anne took Mom by the elbow and led her down the path, rattling off details about bedrooms and bathrooms and energy-efficient construction.  Dad followed close behind, hands in his pockets, eyes turned to the horizon on our right.  I followed a few feet after him, keeping my cell phone in one hand in case someone turned around and I needed to look distracted.  It wasn’t that I wasn’t curious; I just didn’t want to influence the decision any more than I already had.            “The house has never been lived in,” Anne said as we neared a building.  “The owner, an architect from Boston, designed it for his wife.  It was supposed to be a gift for their tenth wedding anniversary, but then, just last week, the missus decided to celebrate early with one of the mister’s male coworkers.  It’s awful the way these things happen, isn’t it?”            Under his red plaid shirt, Dad’s back muscles tensed.  Mom’s head dropped as her hands shuffled through the papers she carried.            “Yes,” she said.  “But happen they do.”            “Is that a pool?” I asked.            Anne, instantly recovered from her disappointment in the state of modern-day relationships, shot me a quick grin.  “And hot tub.  Wait till you see.”            She and Mom hurried inside the house.  Dad paused by a tall, coral-shaped stone planter.  I stood next to him.            “Thank you,” he said.            I nodded.              “It’s not quite what we’re used to, is it?” he asked a moment later.            It took me a second to realize he referred to the house, which looked like a cluster of glass boxes connected by wooden hallways.  There was no rickety front porch.  Thanks to countless windows I could see the backyard from the front yard, and there was no deck, either.  Peeling paint, crumbling bricks, and dangling gutters were also missing.            “No,” I said.  “But what is?”            I went inside.  Mom’s and Anne’s voices echoed through the house from the right, so I headed left.  I passed through the living room, dining room, and two bedrooms, all of which were decorated in various shades of taupe and still smelled like paint and sawdust.  One particularly long hallway ended at a set of glass doors.  I pushed through them into a third bedroom—and was nearly knocked over by a rush of wet, salty air.  I automatically closed my eyes and inhaled, savoring the warmth as it traveled down my throat, soothed my aching body.  When I opened my eyes again, I saw water.  As I stepped into the room, the slate-blue horizon seemed to curve, wrap around me.  I kept my gaze level as I walked to a second set of glass doors and out onto a stone patio.  And there it was.  The ocean.  So close I could feel the spray each time it lunged against the rocks on which the patio rested.“We won’t do better than this.”I jumped.  Spun around.  Mom stood in the open doorway, arms crossed over her chest, eyes aimed past me.“The only way we’d get closer is on a houseboat…and no offense, sweetie, but my stomach simply can’t handle that way of life.”Personally, I thought she was a trooper for trying to handle this one.  Not many women would.“Do you like it?” she asked, joining me on the patio.A wave slammed into the rocks below.  I rubbed the spray into my bare arms.  “Yes.  I don’t know if it’s really Dad’s thing, though.”“Your father will be fine with whatever we decide.”I knew this.  I also knew why.  If it was possible to assign blame to such a thing, they agreed it was his fault we were here.            Mom tilted her chin toward the water and breathed deeply.  “I think someone else would’ve approved.  The possibilities for unobstructed sunbathing are endless.”            I couldn’t help but smile.  “Justine would’ve loved it.”              We stood quietly for a minute.  Then Mom put one arm around my shoulders, pulled me close, and pressed her lips to the top of my head.            “I’ll go work out the details.  Stay here as long as you’d like.”            When she was gone, I walked to the patio’s edge and surveyed the grounds.  The pool and hot tub were off another patio about fifty feet south of this one.  Bright green lawn filled the space in between.  A stone stairway led from the yard down to a private beach.            Or, a nearly private beach.  As I watched, a tall figure dragged a red rowboat across the sand.  He had dark hair and wore jeans, a t-shirt…and glasses.            My heart thrust against my ribcage.  My breath lodged in my throat.  My feet moved, off the patio, down the rocks.            How did he know I was here?  Did he find out from Paige?  Had he stopped by the restaurant to ask?  But how did he know she’d be there?  Maybe he’d been checking in regularly, just in case?            It didn’t matter.  What mattered was that he was here.  He’d found me.  And we’d be together on my  first day in Winter Harbor, the way we always were.              I scrambled across the last rock, jumped into the sand.              “Simon!”            He stood up straight, started to turn.  I quickened my pace, wondering what he’d do if I threw my arms around him the way every inch of them ached to.            “Hey.”            My heels dug into the ground.  My smile vanished as his widened.            “It’s Colin, actually.”  He released the boat, brushed his hands on his jeans, and held one toward me.  “Anne’s son.”            I heard his words but they made no sense.  Until I saw that he wore sunglasses, not eyeglasses.  And that his hair was blonde, not brown.  And that the rowboat was really a kayak.               “My mom’s big on staging,” he said, noticing me notice the kayak.  “Not that this place needs it.  Have you ever gone?”            My eyes raised to his.  “Gone?”            “Ocean kayaking?”                 I shook my head, took a step back.                “Then you have to.”  He stepped toward me.  “Maybe we can go together sometime.  I’d be happy to give you a lesson.”            I stopped.  My legs trembled.  My chest tightened.  I opened my mouth to thank him, to say I’d love nothing more than to be taught by such a skilled expert, to ask if we could make a date as soon as possible…and then I closed it.            When I was weak, only one thing made me feel better than saltwater did, and that was enticing the interest of the opposite sex.  But I hadn’t resorted to such measures since doing so cost me the only relationship I ever had, the only one that had ever mattered, and I wasn’t about to start now.  I didn’t know if there was still a chance for Simon and me.  But I did know I wasn’t going to risk losing it if there was.            “Thanks anyway,” I said.            And turned around just as the tears started to fall.

Just in time for Aladdin M!X's five-year anniversary (wow!), the Maggie Bean books have gotten new looks! I think these covers are absolutely adorable, and I'm especially fond of Maggie Bean in Love. Because pink water, a dock, handholding...what's not to like?

I hope readers like them, too!

I'll be talking trouble at the lovely Books & Books store in Westhampton, NY, tomorrow at 4 p.m. If you're in the area, please stop by and say hello! 

More info can be found here:
http://www.booksandbookswhb.com/

Hope to see you soon!

So I just emailed Seamus, the supposedly Bad Apple in Merits of Mischief—and he actually wrote back! He said I should come to some party for Troublemakers. As a lifelong good girl, I don't know if that's such a great idea...but I bet it'd be a lot of fun! Maybe I'll write his friends for more info.

You can too!

Email Seamus: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

Lemon: loliver@kilteracademy.org

Abe: ahansen@kilteracademy.org

Gabby: gryan@kilteracademy.org

Want to know what else is shaking at Kilter Academy? Check your K-Pak!
www.meritsofmischief.com

Here it is, the final installment of the Siren trilogy (available July 10)! Who's that boy on the rocks? You'll have to read to find out!

Have a great weekend!