The Tiny Mansion Read online

  “Why does your family live way out here?” I asked as we walked through the gate. “It seems like you would live in San Francisco or something, where most of the rich people live.”

  “My dad says all the best ideas come from nature.”

  “Even though his inventions have to do with technology?”

  “He says tech people can learn from the natural world because everything is connected. Plants and animals communicate better than we can with email and texting. Did you know some kinds of grasses tell microbes in the soil when they need more nutrients?”

  I shook my head, even though I was behind him and he couldn’t see me. I had no idea how that could possibly work.

  “If he’s so into being connected and communicating, it seems weird that he barely talks to his brother and sister,” I said.

  Blake said something I couldn’t quite hear. It sounded like, “My family is so messed up. I wish someone would do something.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Race you to that tree,” he said.

  It took a while to figure out which tree he meant, because we were surrounded by trees, but once we agreed on the tree and the starting line, I said, “Ready . . . set . . . go!” and started running.

  I’m pretty sure Blake started running between “set” and “go,” but it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I couldn’t run very fast because the forest floor had so many obstacles that I had to concentrate on not tripping. We reached the tree in this order: Alpha, Beta, Blake, me.

  “I win again,” said Blake.

  “Alpha won,” I pointed out.

  He looked annoyed. “Dogs have four legs. Of course they beat humans. But I’m the human winner.”

  And then, as he turned and walked deeper into the forest, I realized something: Blake was trying to make friends. For him, it was like each dare or challenge was a test to see if I was good enough. Which was a stupid way to do it, but Blake was a boy, and sometimes boys can be dumb like that.

  He was probably just waiting for me to beat him—he obviously didn’t count what happened at the mall—and then he’d think we were equals. So what I needed to do was win one of his challenges.

  The problem was that I had been trying my hardest, because I don’t exactly like losing, either.

  “Are you good at climbing trees?” he asked.

  Looking around at the massive redwoods, with no branches to climb up and trunks too big to get my arms around, I had no idea how either one of us would pull it off.

  “I’m better at fences, fire escapes, ladders, and lampposts.”

  “How about throwing things?”

  “Pretty good.”

  So we had a throwing contest: sticks, which we threw like javelins; rocks, which we threw like baseballs; giant pine cones, which we threw like footballs; and moss, which didn’t throw well at all and basically just cracked us up.

  I almost beat him on rocks.

  “Dare you to arm wrestle,” I said.

  “Challenge accepted.”

  We found a big, old stump that was flat across the top because some long-ago logger had actually cut down one of these beautiful trees. It was so big we couldn’t be on opposite sides from each other, so when we faced off, we just used a little part where it stuck out.

  Putting our elbows down, we laced the fingers of our right hands together and then gripped left hands so we couldn’t use them for extra leverage. By now I knew that Blake liked to start a split second early to get an advantage, so this time I started pushing between “set” and “go”—the result being that we both started at the exact same time.

  He pushed my arm back, but before it went very far, I recovered and pushed his arm back, getting it halfway down. Frowning, he gritted his teeth and regained control, and it took all my strength to keep him from slamming my arm down on the stump.

  We pushed back and forth, back and forth, until my muscles started to feel rubbery and I could see sweat forming on his forehead.

  Then, giving it everything I had, I smoothly pushed his arm down to the stump with a SMACK!

  “I WON!” I said, really loud because I was so surprised.

  But Blake wasn’t just a sore winner—he was a sore loser, too. Giving me an angry stare, he called Alpha and Beta to him before turning around and disappearing into the forest.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Not Lumberjack

  Blake was better than me at lots of things, especially being a complete and total jerk. What kind of moron can’t stand losing just once after winning every other game all day? Maybe the kind of moron who can’t accept that he’s been beaten by a girl.

  I would have loved to give him a tour of my turf back home, sneaking through a drainage ditch, shimmying under a fence, and climbing to the roof of an abandoned factory. He wouldn’t have been so smug when he heard someone else’s scary dogs start barking. But there was zero chance of that happening.

  It was another scorching hot day. Even in the forest, where tall trees intercepted most of the sunlight before it hit the ground, it felt as hot and airless as an oven. There hadn’t been a cloud, a raindrop, or a breath of cooling wind for as long as I could remember. If I’d been back at the compound, I wouldn’t have moved from my shady reading spot until evening. Here, not moving wasn’t an option.

  But which direction? I had been following Blake, and he hadn’t been following a path. I looked up, trying to find the sun, but the endless tree trunks made me feel dizzy and even more disoriented.

  “BLAKE, YOU MORON! I DARE YOU TO COME FIND ME!” I yelled.

  It was worth a try.

  But nothing happened.

  Then I remembered there were cameras in the trees and Vladimir was supposed to be keeping an eye on us. Waving my arms, I turned in a slow circle and yelled, “HEY, VLADIMIR! COME GET ME! I’M LOST!”

  I hoped I would hear his voice telling me he was on his way, but all I heard was a fly buzzing around my head.

  I imagined my image on the screens in Blake’s dad’s office, a tiny little figure jumping up and down in a tiny little picture. Yelling was probably a waste of time, because most security cameras don’t have audio, and Vladimir might have been checking his phone instead of watching the screens. And maybe there weren’t any cameras near me, anyway—they couldn’t possibly have them in every part of the woods.

  I started walking. The forest wasn’t that big, I reasoned, so if I kept going straight, eventually I would come to a fence, which I could follow until I found a gate.

  But keeping a straight line wasn’t easy. Sometimes I had to detour around a pile of rocks, a fallen tree, or a clump of bushes that might have had poison oak in it. The ground was hilly and uneven. And even though every tree is technically unique, let’s face it: after a while, they all start to look the same.

  Eventually, I found what might have been a path. I started along it, but I couldn’t make up my mind about whether it was really a path or just looked like one. Either way, it was easier to walk on than the rest of the forest floor, so I kept going. By that time, I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings.

  Which is probably why I stepped in the trap.

  I heard a sound like a whip, and then something tightened around my ankles. There was a loud BOING, and then suddenly I was flipped upside down and yanked into the air like I’d been strapped to a rocket.

  A second later, I was dangling ten feet above the path.

  I twisted and turned and tried to force my feet apart so I could slip out of the noose that held them together. I tried to do extreme sit-ups so I could reach the knotted rope. But it was no use. I was utterly helpless.

  UTTERLY: carried to the utmost point or the highest degree.

  At first, I wondered how long I could survive without food or water. But after only a few more minutes, I wondered how long I could su
rvive hanging upside down. The blood pooling in my cranium was downright uncomfortable, and just as bad, my ankles were itching and there was nothing I could do about it. Maybe I would die of itchy ankles.

  Then I heard heavy footsteps crunching through the underbrush. Wiggling my whole body like a porpoise, I turned around and watched as an upside-down man made his way toward me. I recognized him right away. Wearing heavy brown boots, worn blue jeans, and a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, with a bushy beard that would have made a nice nest for a family of birds, it was Blake’s uncle, the lumberjack I’d seen arguing with Blake’s dad in the forest. But he wasn’t carrying an axe—so maybe he wasn’t a lumberjack, after all.

  As he approached, I thought the look on his face went from sad to happy, but then I realized he was upside down, so it was actually the opposite: happy to sad. I guessed he hadn’t caught the person he was hoping to.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Blake’s friend,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “I didn’t think Blake had any friends,” he said, ignoring my question.

  “Now that you mention it, we’re ex-friends. We were almost friends until Blake acted like a jerk for the hundredth time. So I suppose you could say we’re frenemies . . . or maybe even just regular enemies.”

  “Sounds complicated,” said the Not Lumberjack.

  “Let me down now!” I told him.

  There was a snick sound as he pulled a long, shiny knife out of a sheath on his belt. I tried to gulp, but I was upside down and my mouth was dry, so it didn’t work very well. Fortunately, he walked away from me to where the other end of the rope was tied around a peg driven deep into the ground. Grabbing the taut rope with his free hand so I wouldn’t hit the ground like a pile driver, he sliced cleanly through the line.

  He lowered me slowly until my hair just brushed the ground. Then, while I stood on my head, he walked over and loosened the rope around my ankles so I could somersault back to my feet.

  As I dusted myself off, he slipped the big knife back in its sheath, stuck out his hand, and said, “I’m Lyndon.”

  “I’m Dagmar,” I said, shaking his hand. It was rough and callused from hard work, more than Trent’s, even, and Trent had the hardest hands I’d ever touched.

  “Look, I’m sorry about catching you in that trap,” said Lyndon. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Even though my ankles were bruised and sore with rope burn, I didn’t want him to think I was a wimp. “Why are there so many traps around here? Is everyone in your family paranoid?”

  He squinted off into the distance, like he was really giving it some thought. “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. The traps aren’t what you think.”

  I had no idea what he thought I thought, so I asked, “Did you make them?”

  He nodded. “Would you like a glass of iced tea?”

  “Sure, I guess. And then can you show me how to get out of here?”

  “Of course.”

  He turned and headed off in a direction that seemed to go even deeper into the forest. But I was so turned around, I had no idea where we were going.

  Lyndon moved confidently, always putting each foot in exactly the right place, like he belonged in the woods. I tried to follow along and put my feet where he put his, but he was a lot taller than me, and it didn’t work very well. So I scrambled along as best I could.

  When we passed under a tall rock outcropping that was mossy and damp with seeping water, Lyndon paused to wet his hand and then wiped the moisture on his forehead. I did the same thing, and it felt cool and refreshing. We wound through tightly spaced trees, ducked under an enormous fallen trunk that hadn’t quite reached the ground, and sidestepped down a short slope.

  Then there was a house in front of us. It was three stories tall but blended into the woods because it was made of huge, rough-cut planks the same color as the trees. Moss grew on the walls and the shingles of the roof. Everything looked just a little too big, like it was a Popsicle-stick house magically enlarged to full size.

  But it must have been solidly built, because when we stepped up on the porch, it didn’t creak once.

  “Wait here,” Lyndon said before going inside.

  I peeked in the door behind him and saw a floor made of packed dirt. Ferns and mushrooms grew in the corners. The cool, musty air reminded me of a cave, but it gave me a peaceful feeling.

  He came out carrying two tin cups. He handed one to me, and I took a sip. Although it was definitely tea, calling it iced tea was a stretch because there wasn’t any ice. It was room temperature, but at least it wasn’t hot.

  We sat down on two stumps that passed for chairs.

  “The traps aren’t designed for people like me, because they’re inside the fence,” I said.

  “No,” he agreed. “They’re not for people like you. Most people see the signs and turn back.”

  “So who are they for? Your own family? Blake said you and your siblings are fighting about something.”

  Lyndon took a deep drink of tea. Some of it dribbled out of the mug into his beard.

  “This land has been in our family since the time of the gold rush, back in the nineteenth century,” he began. “A long-ago ancestor came to California searching for gold, and when he didn’t find any, he made a fortune doing other things. He delivered supplies with a cart, then opened a general store, and eventually owned warehouses and ships that sailed from San Francisco. He bought this land but never touched it—never logged it, never did anything. It stayed in our family all this time, and after my brother, Reynold, made his first billion, he built a mansion right in the middle of it. My sister and I have the other thirds. He offered to build us mansions, too, hoping to keep us quiet. We turned him down.”

  “Quiet about what?” I asked.

  “Quiet about the fact that his inventions are based on our ideas. He’s not the only genius in the family.”

  “Modest much?” I said sarcastically.

  “Reynold went to Stanford, I went to MIT, and Penelope went to Harvard,” Lyndon said matter-of-factly. “We used to sit around the kitchen table and help Reynold brainstorm ideas for his PhD—he never would have gotten started without us. He used our breakthroughs to start the business that made him rich and famous. Now he’s planning to take the company public, selling it off to shareholders, something that will make him a hundred times richer than he is now. Penelope and I will get nothing.”

  “So that’s what you were arguing about in the woods the other day,” I said, remembering how mad the three of them were until Blake distracted them with a firecracker—which, now that I thought about it, was probably a really bad idea when everything was so dry.

  Lyndon looked at me like he was just realizing I had been there with Blake. “I built the traps to keep Reynold off my land. If he trespasses and gets hurt, I won’t cry about it. It’s not just that he used our ideas, it’s what he used them for. I wish someone could help him realize his products are doing more harm than good. He’s creating a world where everything is done for you, without realizing he’s making people helpless in the process. I renounce technology, and I renounce my brother.”

  He set his cup down on the porch with a clank.

  “It’s time for you to go.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Charades

  Blake’s family was weird. My family was weird, too, obviously. Most of my friends had divorced parents like I did, but none of them had a mom who was in Dubai and a dad who was broke and a stepmom who made really interesting art but, let’s face it, was never going to make a living tying torn sheets to tree branches. And none of my friends were rich, but at least they weren’t living in a house the size of a cargo van, without cell phone service, internet, cable, or a reliable source of electricity. But even though we argued sometimes, and my little half
brother was as annoying as an alarm clock without an off button, at least we didn’t try to hurt each other.

  Even if we did sometimes spoil each other’s food.

  After he got all upset and told me it was time to go home, Lyndon walked me back to the fence, opened the gate, and watched while I crossed the pasture. I turned around and waved when I got to the other side, but he just stared at me. He lived in a beautiful place, but he sure didn’t seem very happy about it.

  When I got back to the compound, everyone was home, but I could hear right away that the generator wasn’t running. Ignoring it would have looked suspicious, so I asked Trent what was going on, and he told me the hardware store didn’t have the right kind of spark plug and wouldn’t be able to get one until tomorrow.

  “I checked my email while I was in town,” he added. “I guess you talked to your mom?”

  “Uh-huh,” I admitted.

  He sighed and looked over at his wall, like he couldn’t wait to start lifting rocks again. “She’s pretty upset with me.”

  “What did she say?” I asked, feeling guilty for tattling but not too guilty, since I was upset with Trent.

  “I don’t want to put you in the middle of it, Dag,” he said with a small smile. “I just hope our lawyers don’t get involved.”

  I understood why: Trent’s lawyer was a guy with a ponytail who made his own organic yogurt, and Kristen’s lawyer probably wore his suit to the beach, just in case he had to sue somebody.

  “If they do, where will I live?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Trent said. “You’re not going anywhere for the time being.”

  I walked away, thinking he really had no idea what I was worried about.

  For dinner, Leya made a feast with the warm, wilted food, since most of it would spoil before Trent could get the generator running.