Troublemakers #1 (9781442440319)

by Burns, T. R.

  We stand there a second, listening. The school’s surrounded by woods, but they don’t make a sound. Leaves don’t rustle, birds don’t sing, the air doesn’t stir. No other cars drive up next to ours. I’m about to ask if we made a mistake, if maybe there’s another Kilter Academy for Troubled Youth, one closer to a mall and gas stations and other signs of life, when the front gate screams open.

  Still on top of my head, Dad’s hand twitches.

  “It’s okay,” I lie. “I’ll be okay.”

  Mom’s already halfway down the front path, so I start jogging to catch up. I look around as I go, taking in the yellow grass, patches of mud, and white sky. I rub my arms, not sure whether the goose bumps are from nerves or the cold. Back home, it was sixty degrees and sunny, a typical fall day. Here, it looks and feels like late winter, when the ground’s just beginning to thaw but a sudden snowstorm could still pack another icy punch. It’s almost uncomfortable enough to make me want to go inside.

  Almost.

  “Remember,” Mom says when I reach her, “this place is the best. You will do what they say. Are we clear?”

  “Yes,” I say, still jogging to keep her pace. “I promise I’ll—”

  “Promise?” a voice booms overhead.

  Mom stops short. I’m following close behind and swerve to the side to avoid a collision.

  “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

  I look up at the closed gray doors, then over my shoulder. Whoever’s speaking sounds near enough to yell in our ears . . . but there’s no one there.

  “At the Kilter Academy for Troubled Youth,” the voice continues, “we see and hear everything. You might want to keep that in mind.”

  “Security cameras.” Mom nods to a small black box above the doorway. “Of course.”

  She waves to the camera and hurries up the stairs. I start after her, but my feet are heavier, slower now. I’ve moved only two steps when the gray doors open and a woman appears.

  At least, I think a woman appears. From the neck down she looks more like a man than every woman—and most men—I’ve met. She’s wearing dark green pants, a matching long-sleeve shirt that buttons all the way up her neck, and black leather boots laced so tightly my calves pulsate in sympathy. Of course, her calves are probably fine; they’re big and sharp, just like her quads, biceps, shoulders, and even her wrists. There must be spandex in her uniform, because if there wasn’t, her muscles would rip it to shreds the second she stepped away from her closet. I wouldn’t be surprised if underneath her clothes, her skin’s green too.

  “If you’re waiting for a written invitation, you’re going to be waiting a very long time.” The voice, which belongs to her, also sounds more manly than not.

  “This is Ms. Kilter,” Mom says when I reach the top step.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I mumble just as Dad comes up behind us. He’s moving slowly, dragging my duffel bag behind him. When he reaches the top step, he wipes his wet forehead and takes a deep breath.

  “What a lovely facility,” he says, like the gray building is an old Victorian and Ms. Kilter’s clipboard is a tray of blueberry muffins.

  Too nervous to move, I wait until Dad’s close enough, then hold out one hand to take the duffel bag.

  We head inside, single-file. The lobby reminds me of my orthodontist’s lobby, except that it doesn’t have plants, magazines, or a fish tank. It doesn’t have any couches or chairs, either; the only furniture is a small wooden desk in the middle of the room and an empty coatrack.

  A closed, unmarked door is on the far wall. Bad things—braces, retainers, all kinds of torture—happen behind doors like that.

  “Personal effects,” Ms. Kilter barks.

  I look down. The beam of sunlight coming from the front door, which is still open, disappears under a metal bin.

  “Your stuff,” Mom prompts. “It needs to be screened.”

  Screened. For knives, guns, bombs. Because that’s what criminals carry, just like other people carry cell phones and breath mints.

  I place my backpack and duffel bag in the bin. I want to ask if I’ll get them back, but don’t.

  Ms. Kilter lifts the bin with one hand and tosses it on her shoulder like it’s filled with feathers. She crosses the room, slides a long drawer out from the far wall, and drops in the bin. A few seconds later, there’s a loud clang.

  “That’ll do it.” She bumps the drawer closed with her hip. “Do you need directions back to the highway?”

  “That’s it?”

  Ms. Kilter turns to me, eyebrows raised.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, only slightly aware of the blood leaving my face. “It’s just, we’ve been here five minutes and—”

  What about the tour? Orientation? Lunch? Or at the very least, paperwork?

  “This isn’t summer camp,” Mom reminds me. “If you wanted to be treated like a good kid, maybe you should’ve acted like one.”

  She’s said this before, like when I lost TV privileges for forgetting to make my bed three days in a row. Or when she hid my video games after one too many late-night sessions made me fall asleep at breakfast. But it sounds different now. It feels different—kind of like a fist to my stomach. Which is why I look down and focus on breathing.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hinkle. By the time we’re done with him, your son will be so well behaved you’ll wonder if he’s the same one you left here today.”

  As if to prove her point, Ms. Kilter pats her waist—where handcuffs and a black holster hang from a thick leather belt.

  “I’m not worried,” Mom says with a small smile. “Not anymore.”

  She faces me. I try to make my eyes meet hers, but can’t. Staring at the floor, I see the tips of her shoes near the toes of my sneakers, and my heart lifts. She’s going to hug me. Yes, she’s mad, and sad, and disappointed. Yes, she’s going to leave me here, all alone, for the next three months. But she still loves me. She’s not giving up on me. We’re going to get through this and be a family again—maybe even a better one than we were before.

  She leans toward me—so close I can smell this morning’s coffee on her breath. When she speaks, her voice is barely a whisper.

  “Make me proud, Seamus,” she says, then grabs me in a quick, tight hug.

  I open my mouth to promise I’ll try, but she’s out the door before I can find the words.

  “Stay strong, sport.” Dad throws his arms around me and pulls me close. His belly jiggles against my chest, and I know he’s fighting tears. “And remember what I always say. If someone’s not being nice . . .”

  His voice fades, and now I’m fighting tears too. Because what Dad always says, what he always said, was, If someone’s not being nice, kill them with kindness. But he can’t say that anymore.

  Somewhere outside, Mom calls for him. He presses his face into my hair, kisses the top of my head, and releases me.

  I watch him leave, a blur of khaki and yellow plaid. He pulls the front doors closed behind him, careful not to look at me again.

  The doors click. Sunlight vanishes. A moment later, a car starts.

  It was an accident.

  Of course it was. I see it all perfectly now—fists flying, lunch trays sliding, Miss Parsippany falling, clutching her head with both hands. It was a terrible, tragic accident that everyone will understand once I explain. That they’ll forgive, once I apologize.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Beneath me, my feet begin moving.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, louder.

  My feet move faster. Soon I’m running, sprinting, flinging the door open.

  “I’m sorry!”

  The car’s already pulling away from the curb. My breath catches when the taillights flicker red. I start to step through the doorway—and am instantly yanked back.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Ms. Kilter says quietly near my ear.

  It’s good advice.

  Especially since she’s holding a gun to my neck.<
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  Chapter 3

  Please—don’t shoot. I’ll do whatever you say, I promise.”

  “There’s that word again.” She digs the gun in deeper. “Wave.”

  “What?”

  “Your parents. They won’t leave unless they know everything’s under control. Let them know it is.”

  I don’t feel good lying on top of everything else, but I don’t have much of a choice. I try to keep my chin from trembling as I raise one hand. My fingers aren’t even fully extended when the taillights dim and the car continues down the driveway.

  “Good.” She lowers the gun and releases my arm. “Thirsty?”

  Her voice sounds different now, lighter. I turn around slowly, terrified that it’s a ploy to lower my defenses and better her aim. The terror increases when she smiles at me—and then points the gun at her open mouth.

  “Don’t!”

  I lunge for the weapon just as she pulls the trigger. A stream of water flies from the barrel and lands at the back of her throat.

  “Want a hit?” she asks.

  Stepping back, I look at the gun, then at her. “No, thank you.” I hardly hear the words over my heart, which pounds in my ears.

  “Polite.” She nods. “Just like your father said.”

  She turns and heads inside, leaving me in the open doorway. It’s clear I’m supposed to follow, but why didn’t she close and lock the door first? She’s already halfway across the room and not even looking back. It would be easy to make a break for it.

  But the front yard must be booby-trapped. The second I step outside, a hidden grenade will detonate, taking my feet with it. And a hundred security guards are probably watching nearby, just waiting for me to make a wrong move so they can attack. That has to be how Mom was able to keep me out of juvenile detention, by promising to lock me up somewhere worse.

  “Shall we?”

  I pull the heavy doors closed and turn around. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the low light coming from the small desk lamp. When they do, I think I see Ms. Kilter standing by the door on the far wall, and then need another second to decide if it’s really her. The military-like uniform has been replaced with white leggings and a long, gray top that’s not quite a dress and not quite a shirt. Instead of black boots she wears shiny silver flats. Her dark brown hair, which had been pulled back in a tight knot, hangs loose past her shoulders.

  “Yes, Ms. Kilter,” I say carefully, just to make sure.

  She smiles. “That sounds so formal, doesn’t it? Why don’t you call me by my first name?”

  Isn’t that one of the main things adults really like about being adults? The right to be addressed respectfully, as “Mr.,” “Mrs.,” or “Ms.,” followed by their last names? This must be another trick designed to make me relax enough to fall into other Kilter traps.

  “It’s okay, Seamus.” She walks to the middle of the room and holds out one hand. “I’m Annika. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I scan the room without moving my head, expecting someone—someone big, strong, and armed with something far more dangerous than a water gun—to jump out from the shadows and yell, “Gotcha!”

  But no one does. So I shuffle to the middle of the room and take her hand. It’s warm and soft.

  “Would you like to see your room?” Annika asks. Not waiting for an answer, she returns to the door on the far wall and stands next to it as I pass through.

  I step outside and stop short. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”

  “Actually,” Annika says, “you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

  She must have me confused with someone else. I should be someplace like the Kilter Academy lobby, only smaller, darker, with no furniture or exits. But on the other side of the door, there’s lush green grass. Flowers. Fountains and statues. A stone path that weaves toward another building, partially hidden by blooming vines.

  “Is it to remind me of what I’ll be missing once I’m locked up?” I ask.

  She smiles. “Your father said you were polite. He didn’t mention you were funny.” And then she starts down the path.

  I hurry after her, my fear eased slightly by curiosity. The path is long, and the building it leads to farther away than it initially appeared. There’s plenty of time to notice other differences between this outdoor area and the front yard, like the warmer air and birds flitting overhead. I wonder if Mom skipped this part in the Kilter Academy promotional video. If she’d seen it, she’d never have signed me up.

  We cut through the garden and enter a second, newer building with floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, Annika leads me down a hallway. “There’s the Adrenaline Pavilion,” she says.

  I follow her nod to the windows and another outdoor area. This one has an in-ground pool, basketball courts, volleyball courts, a baseball diamond, a track, and an enormous wooden jungle gym. All are empty.

  “There’s the media room.”

  I slow down as we pass a large room with glass walls. Inside are tall shelves lined with DVDs, the biggest flat-screen TV I’ve ever seen . . . and my fellow criminals, sprawled across couches and armchairs. They stare silently at the TV, clearly mesmerized by the six-foot-tall Frodo running on-screen.

  “You’ll meet everyone at dinner,” Annika calls back.

  My stomach flip-flops. It’s nice to know I’m not alone, but I don’t really need to make friends. Who knows why these kids are here?

  “Speaking of dinner,” Annika says when I reach her. “Fish sticks?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Fish sticks.” She stops in front of a light green door. “Crunchy on the outside, flaky on the inside. With an aftertaste that lasts for days. Your favorite, right?”

  My heart shoots toward my throat. Of course. It all makes sense. Getting out of juvie. Mom and Dad leaving so quickly. The beautiful gardens, elaborate playground, larger-than-life-size Lord of the Rings. Fish sticks.

  There’s only one reason a place like this cooks a murderer his favorite meal.

  Because it’s his last.

  “Oh, good,” Annika says cheerfully. “Lemon’s up.”

  She knocks on the light green door. When it opens, I realize the pounding bass that’s making the floor vibrate beneath my feet isn’t coming from my chest. It’s coming from two small orbs inside the room.

  “Welcome home!”

  At least, I think that’s what Annika says. The music—if that’s what you can call the banging drums and screaming synthesizer—is so loud I have to read her lips.

  She keeps talking, but I stop reading to look around. The room is twice the size of my real bedroom, with walls the same color as the door and a wood floor covered by a round ivory area rug. Tall windows look out onto a rolling field. There are two beds, dressers, and desks. A kid sits at one of the desks with his back to us.

  Lemon, Annika mouths, and points.

  His head is lowered, like he’s reading or writing and deep in concentration. He doesn’t acknowledge us. He might not even know we’re here, since the speakers are pumping right next to his left elbow. Annika goes over to him, looks at whatever he’s working on, and gives him an approving smile. She points at me and says my name, which makes his head tilt up . . . but then it drops again.

  Her smile doesn’t falter as she comes back to me. She brings an imaginary fork to her mouth and mimes eating, then holds up six fingers.

  Apparently, my last dinner is at six o’clock.

  I’m not sure what to do when she leaves. My duffel bag and backpack are on one of the beds, but what’s the point in unpacking? The Fellowship of the Ring is my favorite movie, but what’s the point in watching? The only thing I’d like to do is talk to my parents, to tell them I’m sorry one last time, but they probably don’t want to hear from me.

  The room grows hazy. I think I’m on the verge of passing out from stress and start for the bed . . . but then I smell something.

  Smoke.

  It’s coming from Lemon’s desk. It
drifts to the ceiling in white wisps, and quickly turns gray, then black.

  His head stays lowered, but his shoulders rise and fall.

  Did he fall asleep? Dad likes to do the Sunday crossword puzzle with a single candle lit for ambience. Was Lemon writing by a lit candle that he accidentally knocked over when—

  “What are you doing?” I yell.

  Now by his desk, I know what he’s not doing: sleeping. He’s blowing on the small fire in front of him, which grows taller with every puff.

  There’s a watercooler in the corner of the room. I bolt toward it, fill two cups, and return to the desk. The sizzle of extinguishing flames can be heard between drumbeats.

  Lemon sits back. He stares at the wet, black pile in front of him, and then slowly looks up.

  He’s about my age, with shaggy brown hair and a cluster of pimples on the tip of his nose. If he’s angry, it’s hard to tell; the corners of his eyes and mouth seem to droop naturally, making him look sad more than anything.

  “Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure why.

  He doesn’t respond. Instead he takes a silver lighter from a shoe box filled with other assorted fire starters—matchbooks, butane, twigs—and flicks it open. A small flame appears, which he holds millimeters above an unblemished spot on the piece of paper on the desk in front of him. After a few seconds, the paper bubbles toward the flame, then pops, releasing a shower of tiny orange embers.

  I run for the door. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be so quick to tattle—or maybe I would; it’s hard to know now. In any case, these aren’t normal circumstances. And just because I’m going to die tonight doesn’t mean everyone else should.

  “Annika!”

  She’s in the hallway, one fist raised to knock. In her other hand is a glass ashtray.

  “Will you please give this to Lemon?” she yells, still smiling.

  “But—”

  “Thanks!” She thrusts the ashtray at me and hurries down the hall. “See you at dinner!”

  Dumbfounded, I stand there and watch her leave.

  Kilter Academy’s other residents better be in the mood for barbecue.