From a window across the street, Eben Lavi watched the couple and the two children leave their loft and climb into the back of a white limousine. It pulled away from the curb and started down the street. A moment later a blue SUV fell in behind the limo, three cars back, and began to follow.

Eben pulled his disposable cell phone out of his pocket and thumbed in a number.

“Ziv?”

“Yes.” Ziv answered from the SUV in his old, gravelly voice.

“When they get to the park, go over to San Rafael and install the device. When you’re finished come back into the city. I’ll call you when I’m ready to be picked up.”

Eben flipped the cell phone closed and turned to the two women standing behind him. One was named Carma, the other Devorah.

“Get everything cleaned up here then get to the airport to catch your flight,” Eben said. “I’m going over to the park. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“This is crazy,” Carma said. “I say we just take her now and be done with it.”

Eben pulled a light jacket over his crisp waiter’s uniform and straightened his tie in the mirror. “That is my decision to make,” he said calmly. “And now is not the time.”

“I agree with Carma,”Devorah said. “It’d be easier to take her here in San Francisco than while they’re traveling.”

“Not necessarily.” Eben walked to the apartment door and opened it. He paused before stepping out into the hallway. “Have a good flight,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

He closed the door and walked down the hall, wondering for the hundredth time why his superiors had decided to saddle him with two out-of-control women and an old man who should have been put out to pasture years ago.

Wedding Vows

If the ceremony didn’t end soon I thought I might pass out, or worse.

“Will you, Blaze Munoz, take this man, Roger Tucker, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, through sickness and health, until death do you part?”

“I will.”

“Will you, Roger Tucker, take this woman…”

I felt a drop of sweat dance down my side like a spider and disappear into the waistband of my itchy, brand-new suit pants, which I hoped never to wear again.

Mom, dressed in a white wedding gown, stared through her veil at her husband-to-be (my stepfather-to-be), Roger Tucker, with loving expectation. In my entire life I’d never seen this expression on Mom’s face. (At least I didn’t remember seeing it.)

I glanced at my future stepsister, Angela Tucker. She was staring at her dad who wore the same blissful expression as my mom. Angela looked like I felt.

“…through sickness…”

I didn’t object to the marriage. In fact, I liked Roger. A lot. It was just that everything had happened so quickly.

“…and health…”

Three months ago Mom and I were living peacefully on our little sailboat in Sausalito, California, then Roger shows up at one of Mom’s rare singing gigs with a pile of songs he wrote, then…

“…until death…”

They put together a band called Match and cut a single called “Rekindled.” The song goes platinum in two weeks. They’re signed up to record an album. They get a national tour, then…

“…do you…”

They announce their marriage, sell the sailboat, lease a bus, and sublet Roger and Angela’s place in San Francisco.

“…part?”

Here it comes, I thought, trying not to sway. Mom, Roger, Angela, and me (Quest Munoz—Q for short) are heading out on a yearlong tour as soon as Roger says…”

“I will.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Reception

It was supposed to be a simple wedding in a small church with a little reception afterward for close friends at Roger and Angela’s loft in the city.

I scanned the crowd. There were hundreds of people mingling in the roped-off Strybing Arboretum in the middle of Golden Gate Park and I didn’t know more than about thirty of them. Outside the cordon, kept at bay by bicycle- and horse-mounted San Francisco police, were at least another five hundred people hoping to get a glimpse of the invited celebrities.

The Golden Gate wedding was the record company’s idea. A publicity stunt to kick off the Match album and concert tour. At first Mom and Roger said no, but when the company offered to foot the bill and make all the arrangements they changed their minds.

I looked across the dance floor and spotted Angela. She was standing by the vegetable table munching on things that were good for her. She was a vegetarian like her dad. I guess I was too, now. “It’s a much better way to eat,” Mom had told me. She was probably right, but I missed hotdogs, cheeseburgers, chicken, beef, bologna sandwiches on white bread, and everything else I used to eat.

In the four months I’d known Angela we probably hadn’t exchanged more than a thousand words. I’m thirteen, she’s fifteen (but I’m taller). I like her, though she’s always been quiet. Maybe she was shy. Or maybe she thought she was too old to hang out with her little brother-to-be. (But it turned out to be none of these things…not even close). She was always standing or sitting off to the side—like she was now—watching everything, but rarely participating.

She has shoulder-length black hair with bangs, olive-colored skin, and dark brown eyes, which she usually covers with sunglasses. I look like my mom: curly straw-colored hair, green eyes, lanky. I thought I looked like a tall blond version of Harry Houdini (a stretch, I know) who had been my idol since I was about six years old.

Angela always carries a small, tattered, camouflage back-pack with her. She was carrying it now, slung over her shoulder. It didn’t quite go with the long pink dress she was wearing. (And that was another thing about Angela. She didn’t seem to care what she looked like, or what people thought of her). In the pack was a book or two, a journal she was always scribbling in, sunglasses (several pairs), and by the bulk of it, a lot of other things I hadn’t seen yet.

Cameras followed Mom and Roger’s every move. Right now the newlyweds were in the middle of the dance floor. I snapped a couple of photos myself without anyone seeing, and then caught Angela’s sunglasses watching me. I gave her a wave and headed in her direction. It was about time that I got to know my sister—whether she wanted to get to know me or not.

Brother & Sister

Angela was holding a plate of broccoli and carrots with a large glob of blue cheese dressing on the side.

“Some party,” I said. “There must be three hundred people here.”

“Two-hundred-fifty-six, I think,” Angela said, surveying the crowd. “Counting guests, catering staff, reporters, and security people.”

She couldn’t have possibly known the exact number. People were bouncing around the arboretum like tennis balls. “How’d you know that?” I asked.

“By observing,” she said with a slight smile.

I didn’t know Angela well enough to know if she were kidding me or not. I looked over at the dance floor. Several other couples had joined Mom and Roger.

“I think this might be the first time we’ve actually been alone,” I said. “Not that being with two-hundred-fifty-six people is being alone. But—”

“I know,” Angela said. “Between your mom, my dad…” She gestured toward the crowd. “…and everyone else, there’s always someone around.”

“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I thought I was going to pass out if the ceremony went on a second longer.”

“Me, too!” she said. “I felt woozy.”

“Exactly!” This was about as friendly as Angela had ever been to me. Now that we were official stepbrother and sister maybe things had changed.

“What do you think caused that woozy feeling?” I asked.

“Stress maybe,” Angela said.

“I guess I’ve never felt stress then,” I said, “because I thought I was going to puke.” This probably wasn’t the right thing to say. Angela set her plate of vegetables and blue cheese dressing on the table. “Aside from the stress,” I continued quickly, “what do you think of all of this?”

Angela shrugged. “I guess it all seems kind of orchestrated, as if—”

“We’re on a reality TV show or something?” I said.

“In a way we are,” Angela said. “They’re going to incorporate the wedding into the music video.” She looked at the crowd again and sighed. “I guess we’ll have to get used to it.”

“Nah…” I said. “It’ll be fine once we get on the road. No one’s going to follow us across the country to Philadelphia. You heard what they told Buddy.”

“Speak of the devil.” Angela pointed to a short, balding man bullying his way toward us through the crowd. He was flanked by two burly plainclothes security men running interference for him.

Buddy T.

Buddy T. is Mom and Roger’s personal manager, or PM. No one knows what the T stands for, but Roger thinks it stands for To-Do, because when Buddy speaks it always sounds like he’s reading a list.

Buddy is abrasive, arrogant, and supposedly one of the best PMs in the music business. His job is to deal with the booking agent and concert promoters, fill the venues with fans, and make sure the equipment, roadies, and musicians all show up on time ready to work and perform. It’s an important and complicated job.

Mom and Roger don’t get along with Buddy very well. He didn’t want Angela and me to go on tour with them. Mom’s response: “If they don’t go, we don’t go.”

Buddy wanted to hire a driver to drive the tour bus. Roger’s response: “For the next year the bus is our home. We’re not staying in hotels. We don’t want a stranger living in our home.”

“Or driving our home,” Mom added.

In between personal appearances, performances, recording sessions, and tour rehearsals Mom and Roger had squeezed in driving lessons so they could handle the bus safely.

Buddy asked for a detailed itinerary of our cross-country trip.

Roger’s response: “We haven’t decided what route we’re taking to Philadelphia, where we’re going to stop, or what detours we’ll take. All you need to know is that we’ll be at the Electric Factory in Philly in plenty of time for the first concert.”

None of this had set well with Buddy. He had worked with some of the biggest names in the music business and was used to getting his way no matter how famous they were.

“One platinum song!” he had shouted during one of their meetings. “Big deal! Who do you two think you are? I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of one-hit wonders I’ve worked with in my life. One of them is a security guard now. Three of them sell insurance for a living. And they were all famous. I mean really, really famous…for a heartbeat or two. Now look at ’em.”

What Buddy couldn’t seem to grasp was that Roger and Mom had each sacrificed, or at least delayed, lucrative music careers to raise us.

“I’ve been on tour before,” Mom told Buddy. “I got off the road because of Quest. I didn’t want to raise him in that toxic atmosphere. Roger and I are going to do this tour our own way. We’ve taken them out of school for a year to see the United States and arranged for them to continue their school-work through the Internet. We’re going to travel and act like the normal family we are. If we can’t find a way to do this as a family we’ll cancel the tour.”

“Yeah?” Buddy said. “What about the record company? What about your contract?”

“If they dump us,” Roger said, “so be it. I don’t care if I’m playing in front of ten or ten thousand people. I’m not in this for the money or fame. I just want to write and play my music and I can do that in San Francisco just as well as I can do it on tour.”

Buddy had laughed at this comment. “You’ll change your tune once you get out on the road and feel those fans. If I could find a way to bottle and sell the high you’re going to get on tour I’d be the richest man on earth.”

Roger and Mom had gotten so fed up with Buddy they went to the record company to see what could be done to get rid of him. The president of the company was a woman named Heather Hughes who had known Mom for years and was a good friend. Long before Roger came into the picture she and Mom had jogged together three times a week. She was tall, blond, athletic, and very direct.

“I wouldn’t get rid of Buddy if I were you,” she advised. “Every band and solo artist hooked up with Buddy has come in here demanding the exact same thing. Here’s what you need to know about Buddy. When you asked me for the name of a good PM, I didn’t choose Buddy, he chose you. In the past two years I’ve begged him to manage a dozen different artists. He’s turned me down flat every single time. He called me and asked for this job. He likes your music, and believe it or not, he likes you and your kids. I know he’s a little rough around the edges, but when this is all over you’re going to consider him a part of your family. Everyone else he’s managed has. You will love him in the end.”

That was hard for me to believe as I watched Buddy march up with a scowl on his face and grunt: “Time to go.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Mom and Roger are supposed to sing before we leave.”

“They’re going to sing,” Buddy answered. “But you and Angela won’t be here to hear it. They’re doing a short set. A couple of songs, max, then they’re outta here. I need you on the bus ready to go. It’s a long trip from here to Philly.”

“Why can’t we just ride over to the bus with them after they finish?” Angela asked.

“Photo op,” Buddy said. “The wedding’s going to be part of their music video. It hits the air in a couple of days. You’re not included in the video per your parents’ request. Enough chitchat.” He nodded at the two security men. “These two will drive you over.”

The Bus

It was more like a rocket ship than a bus.

I sat down in the white leather driver’s seat and stared at the rows of buttons and switches. I picked one and pushed it. A forty-two-inch plasma screen TV flipped open in front of the windshield.

“Whoa!” I swiveled the chair around and smiled at Angela.

“It’s a lot nicer than I thought it would be,” she said, running her hand along the back of one of the six leather chairs tucked under the polished rosewood dining table.

I jumped up from the driver’s seat. “Let’s check out the bedrooms!”

We walked to the back of the bus, passing a washer and dryer, stainless steel refrigerator, range, oven, microwave, dishwasher, a good-sized bathroom with a shower and tub, and arriving at a rosewood pocket door that swooshed open with the push of yet another button. Behind the door was a huge bedroom with a closet (filled with clothes), a vanity, another plasma TV, a second bathroom, and one king-sized bed.

“This must be my bedroom,” I said. “I wonder where you and the folks are going to sleep?”

Angela gave me a concerned smile.

“I’m sure our bedrooms are around here somewhere,” I assured her.

“We can see everywhere from where we’re standing,” Angela said.

I didn’t point out the fact that the bus was actually ten feet longer than the sailboat I was raised on. Instead, I stepped out of the bedroom, found a set of blue curtains along the wall across from the main bathroom, and pulled them open.

“Ta-da!” I said. “Bedrooms.”

“Bunk beds,” Angela corrected.

“On the boat we call them berths.”

“They look more like coffins.”

I hit two more buttons and lights came on above the beds. I flipped another switch and two small plasma TVs flipped down, one above each bed. “Coffins don’t have reading lights or TVs,” I pointed out. “And look…” I picked up the laptop computer on the lower bunk. “Dead people don’t need computers.”

There was an identical laptop on the top bunk. The computers would be our classroom for the next year.

“Do you want the top bunk or the bottom bunk?” I asked.

Angela spent a moment thinking about it. “Bottom, I guess.”

“Let’s take a look outside,” I said.

“Why?” Angela asked.

“Storage,” I said. “Mechanical stuff. The guts. Let’s see what’s stowed below deck and how this thing works.”

The bus was parked in a parking lot on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge off of highway 101 outside of San Rafael (Buddy’s idea to trick the fans so we could get a “clean getaway” as he put it).

I started opening the compartments under the bus. The first two were filled with neatly arranged clear plastic storage containers. The containers were exactly the same size. Written on each in careful lettering was a detailed list of what was inside.

“Wow,” I said. “Who did this?” I knew it wasn’t Mom and I didn’t think it was Roger’s work either. He seemed pretty relaxed, except when it came to vegetables.

“It was me,” Angela admitted. “I’m kind of an organization freak.”

“I can see that,” I said, wondering how she was going to get along with Mom who was the most disorganized human on earth. I closed the compartments, not sharing my concerns.

“It’s really like a sailboat on wheels,” I told Angela as I opened another compartment. “This is the generator. These are the house batteries. We don’t have to be plugged into electricity for everything to work as long as the batteries are charged. I bet we could stay in this thing for a month without having to plug it in.”

I opened the final compartment. “These are the holding tanks,” I explained. “Gray water. Black water. Fresh water…”

“I know what fresh water is,” Angela said. “Do I want to know what gray and black water are?”

“Probably not,” I admitted. “But I’m going to tell you anyway. Gray water is water from the sinks and shower. Black water comes from the toilets.”

“That’s what I thought,” Angela said. “Whose job is it to empty the tanks?”

“Your dad’s,” I said, hoping I was right.

Hooked to the back of the bus with a tow-bar was a brand new Range Rover, cherry red. Hanging on the back of the Rover were two mountain bikes, also red (the color no doubt picked by my mother, who had worn something red every single day of my life).

“Does your dad ride a bike?” I asked.

Angela shook her head. “How about your mom?”

“No way. They’ve either decided to take up biking, or the bikes are for us.”

The Assignment

Back inside, I hit a few more buttons on the dash, then went over to the refrigerator to check out the contents, which looked nothing like the food on the sailboat.

Angela had retrieved her laptop and was sitting at the dining table booting up. She said something I didn’t quite catch because I was wondering how a refrigerator could be completely full and still have nothing edible inside—at least anything I wanted to eat.

“What?” I asked.

“Maybe we should talk about our school assignment,” Angela said.

I closed the refrigerator. “Now?”

She took off her sunglasses. “Why not?”

Angela was a straight-A student. So was I in the subjects I was interested in like math and writing. (I would have gotten As in Magic too if they taught it in school).

“We’ll have plenty of time later,” I said. “It’s not like we get to drive the bus. We’ll just be sitting here watching the country pass by.”

“It might be a good idea at least to get organized,” Angela persisted. “We have to start working on this Web page. Figure out who’s doing which part of the assignment.”

I thought about the neatly stacked boxes in the storage compartments. This could be a very long year.

“What’s the hurry?” I asked. “We just got here.”

“Your mom told me you were a whiz in school,” Angela said. “She said that your nickname was IQ.”

Blabbermouth, I thought. I would have to talk to Mom about that.

“Do you want my theory on schoolwork?” Angela asked.

I didn’t, but said, “Sure.”

“If you get it out of the way, it leaves time for more interesting things,” Angela said. “If you don’t get it out of the way, then you feel distracted and a little guilty and the interesting things aren’t nearly as interesting because you’re worrying about what you should be doing rather than what you are doing.”

I had wondered if and when she was going to pull the big sister thing on me. It hadn’t taken long. “What do you mean by interesting things?” I asked.

“Things that you’re really interested in besides schoolwork.”

That was just about everything for me. “I’m going to change out of these clothes.”

I pulled out a pair of baggy cargo pants from the drawer beneath the bunks and stepped into the bathroom. (I always wear cargoes because I have a lot of things to carry).

I was thrilled about getting out of school for a year until I found out I wasn’t really getting out of school for a year. I’d been transferred to Angela’s school and was going to work with her teacher, Mr. Pallotta, even though Angela was two grades ahead of me. Mr. Pallotta was a nice guy, but a little too enthusiastic about the school thing for my taste. In addition to our regular schoolwork, Mr. Pallotta wanted us to put together a Web page of our tour. “It’ll be fun!” he had said excitedly. But it sounded like a lot of extra work to me.

I came out of the bathroom and joined Angela at the table with a deck of cards (that’s one of the things I carry in my pockets), which I started manipulating.

“Before we begin,” I said. “I’d like to point out that school doesn’t officially start until the day after tomorrow.”

“We’re not really starting,” Angela said. “We’re just planning how we’re going to proceed. And what’s with the cards?”

“Nervous hands,” I said, cutting the deck with one hand. “That’s what Mom calls it. I do my best thinking when my hands are busy.”

“Well, this shouldn’t take too much thinking,” Angela said. “I don’t know the exact route we’re taking to Pennsylvania.” She pulled up a map on her computer screen. “But I’m guessing we’re passing through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio before we get there. Nine states. Maybe more if we take side trips. I think we should include a few facts about each state even if we’re just passing through it.”

“I’ll tell you right up front that I’m not very good at geography,” I admitted. “Now, give me a math problem or a word puzzle. I can help you out with those.”

“I guess the geography will be one of my responsibilities, then,” Angela said. “We can create a map of our route as we go along, with facts about the different states, perhaps write a little bit about the places we stop, post photos, and maybe even upload video clips.”

“I’ll do the photos and video,” I offered. Mom had given me a tiny digital camera for my birthday that did stills and video. I put the cards down and pulled the camera out of my pocket. “In fact I’ve already gotten started.” I showed her some of the photos I’d taken at the wedding.

“Wait a second!” Angela said. She pointed to a photo of her eating broccoli. “I didn’t see you take that of me.”

“Yeah…well maybe I shouldn’t have taken it so close-up.”

“That’s not the point,” Angela said. “How did you take it without my knowing?”

“A lot of practice,” I said. “I like candid photos. And I didn’t have any choice at the wedding and the reception. Buddy made it clear that the only people allowed to take photos were the professional photographers hired by the record company.”

“Okay, you’re our official photographer,” Angela said. “But I get veto power over what we use and what we don’t use. Agreed?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Now erase the one with me and the broccoli.”

“Fine.” I erased it. “What about the one of Buddy stomping up to us with the security guards.”

“No,” Angela said, smiling. “I like that one.” She closed her laptop.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“It’s a start,” Angela said. She looked out the window for a moment then looked back at me. “One more thing.”

I thought she was going to say something more about our assignment, but she had something very different on her mind.

“This all depends on us,” she said quietly.

Mr. Pallotta told us that the Web page would count toward half our grades, which meant that Angela was depending on me for half of her grade. And Mom had made it clear that I was not to screw up Angela’s grade point average.

“I’ll do my part,” I insisted.

“I’m not talking about the schoolwork now,” Angela said. “I’m talking about the concert tour, the marriage…everything.”

“You lost me,” I said.

“This is a huge break for your mom and my dad,” Angela said. “The album, the tour… Second chances like this don’t come along very often. If we mess up they’ll cancel the tour and lose their record contract.”

She was right. There wouldn’t be another big chance like this for my mom and her dad. They’d give it all up in a heartbeat if they thought the tour wasn’t working out for me and Angela.

“So, we can’t mess up,” I said.

“We can’t let them know when we mess up,” Angela clarified, with a sly smile.

. . . . . .

“It’s not a bus,” Buddy told me as soon as he barged in. “It’s called a motor coach. You could buy ten buses for the price of this rig!”

Mom and Roger and the entourage didn’t show up until midnight. Three encores held them up. There would have been a fourth, but according to Mom and Heather Hughes, Buddy literally pushed them off the stage.

“Wedding’s over,” Buddy had shouted into the microphone. “Go home.” (Which I’m sure endeared him to everyone there).

Among the people wedged into the coach were Heather and my parents’ agent (he books the concerts), their business manager (he handles the money), their lawyer (she negotiates the contracts), their producer (he makes the recordings), and their personal manager (that’s Buddy)—he does everything else. That’s the Match “team.” And they all get paid by my parents. Some of them get a percentage of what my parents make. Others get an outright fee for their services. So, they all have a vested interest in how this tour goes—in other words, how much money the tour makes and how many albums it sells.

As everyone was ready to file out of the coach, Buddy gave the driver thing one last try.

“You sure you won’t change your mind about a driver?” he shouted. “I can have one here in a hour.”

Surprisingly, the entire team appeared to agree with Buddy, including Heather.

Some of their comments:

“With a driver you and Blaze could spend more time with your kids.”

“Driving takes a lot out of you.”

“You’re not professional drivers and this thing is a beast.”

“You could spend that time rehearsing, writing new material, fine-tuning your performance.”

“We’ve already been over that,” Mom said.

“A dozen times,” Roger added. “Forget it, Buddy.”

And with that we were off.