Chapter 12

“Them’s the worst kind of folks.”

The Gates home was small and rundown, the polar opposite of Aunt Avril’s mansion on the hill. The single-story structure had been painted blue several times over the five decades that it spanned. The cement walkway sported cracks so large that the path looked tiered. A maple tree had been planted too close to the driveway. Now taller than the house, the tree roots reached far and limbs overhung the front porch.

Spencer found the house easily. After leaving Hadley’s white van in the school parking lot, he had biked four blocks to a Chevron gas station. There, shuffling through the pages of an outdated directory at a dilapidated pay phone, he’d found the Gates’s address. A two-block ride through the afternoon sun had brought him to the edge of Daisy’s property.

The grass was mostly dry and crispy brown—at least Aunt Avril’s house shared that feature after three months of Zumbro housekeeping. There was a large garage apart from the house. The garage door was open and a Buick was jacked up inside. There were two other cars parked on the broken driveway and a truck on the street.

Spencer stepped off his bike and put down the kickstand on the sidewalk. He reached into his pocket and felt the little bottle of soap. Would Daisy believe him now that he had told the truth in class? She wouldn’t want to get tricked again, but Spencer had a plan to help her believe. The first step was knocking on the front door.

Spencer stepped onto the first tier of the walkway. As though he had tripped some unseen sensor, a black dog came tearing around the corner, barking, teeth bared. Spencer jumped backward off the walkway, but the dog seemed to have dinner on its mind. The boy stumbled into the street, tipping over his bicycle.

There was a sharp jangle of chains and the barking snapped short. Spencer glanced over his shoulder to see the dog, chain pulled tight around its neck, halfway across the yard.

Movement in the garage caught Spencer’s eye. A pair of legs was sliding out from under the Buick! The legs gave way to torso, arms, and finally a head as a man stood up, staring into the street and wiping his grease-smeared hands on his blue coveralls.

Spencer stared. The man stared back. In his left pocket, Spencer was fingering the latex glove and wondering if he could slip through dog teeth if the chain snapped.

“What’s up?” the man called, walking down the driveway. His face was round and he was balding. Spencer guessed he was in his late thirties.

“Looking for Daisy Gates,” Spencer said. “Does she live here?”

“Most certainly does,” answered the man. His voice had a casual drawl. “But she ain’t home right now. She’s on a business trip to California.”

“Dad!” Daisy exclaimed, appearing beside the Buick in the garage. Mr. Gates began to laugh as his daughter strolled down the driveway toward them.

“Aw, shoot,” the man said, slapping his leg. “You heard me?”

“Hi, Daisy.” Spencer waved awkwardly. It had been two days since he’d drawn blue flames on her cheek. He knew she’d been intrigued, frustrated, embarrassed, and disappointed in the past few days—all because of him. Suddenly, standing in front of her house seemed really uncomfortable.

Daisy gave him an unreadable stare before saying, “Hello, Spencer.”

“This a friend of yours, Daisy?” Mr. Gates asked, gesturing at Spencer with a shiny, oiled finger.

“He’s in my class,” Daisy answered. Spencer painfully noted how he hadn’t gained friend status yet. “What are you doing here?” she asked Spencer.

“I missed the bus,” Spencer admitted.

“So you came to my house?”

“I looked you up in the phone book at the gas station.”

Mr. Gates whistled through his teeth. “Darn resourceful, this kid.”

“I was really hoping that you might give me a lift home. I live kind of far.” Spencer gave Daisy a pleading look.

“You’ve got your bike.” She pointed to the sidewalk where the back wheel of the toppled bicycle spun slowly.

“It’s uphill.” There was a moment of silence. “Please?”

“Don’t look at me,” Daisy finally answered. “I can’t drive.” Spencer shifted his plea to Mr. Gates.

“You bet,” he said. “It might do me some good to get away from that Buick for a bit.” He slapped the empty pockets of his coveralls, then said, “Daisy, run grab the truck keys, will you?”

Spencer quickly spoke up. “I was wondering if I could come inside for a minute. To use the bathroom,” he explained, somewhat self-consciously.

“Take him in, Daisy,” the mechanic said. “Just look out for the dog. She only bites a few times before she decides if she likes you or not.”

Spencer followed Daisy through the garage, across a patch of hard, dry dirt, up some side steps and through a screen door, narrowly missing the dog. They entered through the kitchen. Gratefully, Spencer saw plenty of clutter on the countertop and dining table. Daisy didn’t notice as he swiped a small paper and pen from the mess and tucked it into his pocket.

“The bathroom is yours,” she said after leading him down a narrow hallway with old, creaking floorboards. “I’ll meet you outside.”

“Thanks,” he said, stepping into the small bathroom and shutting the door. Immediately, Spencer removed the paper and spread it on the counter next to the sink. There was a grocery list hastily scribbled on one side, so Spencer flipped it over and started to write.

Daisy,

This is the soap—the real stuff. Wash your face with this tonight. If I’m lying, you have nothing to lose. I’ll never know that you used the soap and you never have to talk to me again. If I’m telling the truth, then tomorrow you’ll see what I see.

I need your help. Please try it.

Spencer

He read over the note once more, adding a comma that he’d missed the first time. Spencer pulled out the top drawer, revealing a tube of toothpaste, some fingernail clippers, and a single toothbrush. Removing the little bottle from his pocket, Spencer placed the note and the soap in the drawer next to the toothbrush.

A moment later, he was outrunning the dog and climbing into the Ford truck idling by the curb. Mr. Gates had already loaded Spencer’s bike in the back. The boy pulled the truck door shut and strapped on his seat belt. Daisy occupied the middle seat, but the cab was still spacious.

Daisy’s father put the truck in gear and rolled away from the Gates home, leaving his garage door up and the house unlocked. The driver’s side window was down and the wind blew what hair was left on his head.

“Where we going?” Mr. Gates asked.

“Hillside Estates,” Spencer said.

Mr. Gates whistled through his teeth again. “We’ve got a big shot here, Daisy,” he said.

Spencer felt his face turn as red as the truck’s paint. He wanted to explain that the house wasn’t really his—that they were just living in it because Uncle Wyatt was away on business and Aunt Avril felt bad that Spencer’s dad had left them in the lurch. Instead, Spencer just fumed silently for a moment, wishing that he had a dad who drove a Ford truck and trusted the world enough to leave the house unlocked.

The silence became awkward and Mr. Gates turned on the radio. When the stations only came in fuzzy, he snapped it off and turned to his silent passengers. “You go to school together, right? Don’t you two have anything to talk about?”

“I haven’t decided about Spencer yet,” Daisy said to her dad as though they were alone in the truck.

“Decided? What do you mean?” her dad asked. With each comment, Spencer grew more uncomfortable. He watched out the window in desperate anticipation for Hillside Estates.

“Well, he’s very confusing. He told me the truth and lied to another boy. But that made me wonder if maybe he lied to me and told the truth to the other boy. Now I’ll never know for sure. He says some really interesting things, but I’m afraid he might be a chameleon.”

“A chameleon?” Mr. Gates slapped a hand to his forehead. “Them’s the worst kind of folks.”

Spencer cleared his throat to remind them that he was actually still in the vehicle.

“And he drew on my face,” Daisy said. “But it washed off.”

Another bout of silence hit the truck like a black hole.

“Could someone please explain why I’m a chameleon?” Spencer finally muttered.

“A chameleon,” Mr. Gates said as he turned into Hillside Estates, “is a type of lizard that changes color. Might be green one moment and black the next. It changes to fit the environment around it, sometimes to blend in, sometimes to stand out.”

“But what does that have to do with me?” Spencer pointed out Aunt Avril’s house and the big Ford rolled into the driveway.

“You don’t get it?” Daisy asked, a faint smirk on her face. “In our family, a chameleon is someone whose story changes. They might tell it one way, then totally twist it around and tell a different version. People do it when they’re insecure. Sometimes to blend in, sometimes to stand out.”

Spencer wasn’t pleased about being called a color-changing lizard. He had a comeback worked up, but he let it die on his lips. Just wait. The soap was in Daisy’s drawer. Soon she’d see that he wasn’t a chameleon.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Gates,” Spencer said, slipping off the edge of the seat. He checked his pocket for the flashlight and the latex glove. With both items secure, he walked to the back of the truck, but Mr. Gates had beaten him there. With a smile, Daisy’s dad lifted out the boy’s bike. Spencer jumped on and pedaled up the driveway. Ditching the bike on the steps, he opened the front door.

The house was its usual mess. Spencer hadn’t seen the station wagon out front, which meant that his mother wasn’t home. She would most likely bring back dinner. His mom flaked out on a lot of things, but the kids could always depend on her for some kind of dinner. The house was quiet. Max was probably with Mom. The other kids could be anywhere.

Spencer waded through a three-month-old box of clothes yet to be unpacked and found his way down the hall to the computer room. Photographs of Aunt Avril and Uncle Wyatt flashed across the screen until Spencer wiggled the mouse. Compared to the school computers, the internet seemed faster at Hillside Estates, and he had his e-mail open in no time.

Spencer felt his heart race as he saw that there was one unread message from ghadley@bem.gov. “Instructions” was the subject heading.

With a nervous hand, Spencer opened the e-mail.