Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again by Lisa Lutz Page A

afternoon, when she began phoning relatives in a quest to find allies in her camp-avoidance campaign. She even threatened to contact Child Services.
    Of course she turned to me at one point. My response was, “David went to sleepaway camp. I went to sleepaway camp. Why shouldn’t you?” Then she turned on me, pointing out that I went to camp because it was ordered by the court. 1
    My mother sent Rae to her bedroom with a box of Cocoa Puffs and suggested she take some time to digest the shocking news. Then Mom sent me to the store to buy more sugared goods to bribe her younger daughter. While I was debating whether to purchase the generic or name-brand Nutter Butters, my cell phone rang.
    “Hello?”
    “Izzy, it’s Milo at the Philosopher’s Club.”
    “Is everything all right?”
    “No emergencies. But your sister is in my bar and I can’t get her to leave. Could you come and pick her up?”
    “My sister?”
    “Yeah. Rae, right?”
    “I’ll be right there.”
    I arrived at Milo’s twenty minutes later, stopping in the foyer to overhear the continuation of my sister’s hopeless appeals.
    “I have a B-minus average. And that’s not, like, an A in PE and a C in math. That’s a B-minus across the board. I said I was willing to negotiate. I said I’d be flexible with my negotiations. I even suggested we go to a mediator to work this out. But nothing. Nothing. They wouldn’t budge an inch.”
    I tapped Rae on the shoulder. “Come on. Time to go.”
    “I’m not done with my drink yet,” she coldly replied. I looked down at the amber-hued beverage and turned to Milo.
    “Ginger ale,” he said, reading my mind.
    I finished Rae’s drink for her.
    “Now you’re done. Let’s go.” I grabbed her by the back of her shirt and yanked her off the barstool.
    In the car, Rae was suddenly silent—hopelessly and pathetically silent.
    “I’m going to camp, aren’t I?”
    “Yes.”
    “And there’s nothing I can do about it?”
    “Nothing.”
    Rae calmly and suspiciously accepted her fate. She did not utter another word of protest for the rest of the week. She made casual small talk during the two-hour drive through the wine country and up the gravelly dirt road to Camp Winnemancha. My mother always taught Rae to choose her battles and her opponents wisely. It would take some time to realize, but Rae had learned this lesson all too well.

    It began with phone calls—hourly messages, uncalculated and desperate. “Get me out of here or you’ll blow my college fund on mental health care.” “I’m serious, if you know what’s good for you, you won’t make me spend another day in this pit of hell.” Then Rae’s emergency cell phone was confiscated, which gave her some time to regroup and develop new tactics.
    The letter-writing campaign was next. In the evening my dad would unwind while drinking a beer and reading aloud from Rae’s epistolary pleas:
    My Dearest Family,
    In theory, I’m sure that camp is an excellent idea. But frankly, I don’t think it is right for me. Why don’t we cut our losses and call it a day?
    I look forward to seeing you when you pick me up tomorrow.
    I love you all very much,
Rae
    Rae’s second letter arrived on the same day as her first:
    My Dearest Family,
    I have skillfully negotiated with the camp director, Mr. Dutton, who assures me that if you pick me up from camp tomorrow, he will refund half of your investment. If you are still more concerned with the money than my mental well-being, I am willing to repay the remainder by working the rest of the summer for free. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow when you come get me out of here.
    Love always,
Rae
    P.S. I’ve enclosed a map and a $20 bill (gas money).
    A second wave of phone messages began with a decidedly different flavor. Tuesday, 5:45 A.M .:
    Hi, it’s me again. Thanks for the candy, but I’m on a hunger strike, so it’s useless to me. If you get this message in the next ten minutes, call me at…
    My father