Troublemakers #1 (9781442440319)

by Burns, T. R.

  Chapter 4

  At 5:45 I close the comic book I’ve been staring at for three hours. I get up from the bed and put on my shoes. I comb my hair and part it neatly to one side, the way Mom likes. Then, not wanting to go to dinner alone—as if having company will change what’s about to happen—I turn to Lemon.

  The last flame fizzled out a while ago, but he’s still sitting at his desk. He’s slumped forward, his head resting on the closed shoe box and his arms hanging slack at his sides. I’d worry the smoke had suffocated him if his back didn’t slowly lift and expand every few seconds.

  Should I wake him? What if he freaks and throws fireballs at my face? Or flicks lit matches at my hair?

  To be on the safe side, I head for the watercooler. I have two full cups in hand when my eyes land on a small table next to the cooler. On the table is a black cordless phone.

  My heart lifts. I swap the cups for the phone, glance behind me to make sure Lemon’s still out, and run to the closet. I squeeze between hanging T-shirts and sweatshirts that reek of smoke and gasoline and close the door. Unlike regular phones, this one has only one button, labeled TALK, which I press.

  “It was an accident,” I whisper as the other line rings. “A misunderstanding. I would never intentionally—”

  “Thank you for calling the Hoodlum Hotline, how may I direct your call?”

  It takes me a second to register the unfamiliar female voice. “I’m sorry. The what?”

  “Hoodlum Hotline. Would you like to report a theft?”

  “No.”

  “Stink bomb?”

  “No.”

  “Lie?”

  I pause. It’s true that I killed Miss Parsippany. It’s not true that I meant to. Is this what she means? Before I can ask, there’s a loud banging outside the closet. Beneath me, the floorboards jump.

  “I’ll call you back,” I say, and hang up.

  “It’s gonna blow!”

  I fling open the door. Lemon’s standing in the middle of the room. He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes are wide but unfocused. The chair he’d been sitting in is lying on its side. Before I can figure out what’s going on, he lunges for the watercooler and throws both arms around it.

  “Stay back!” he yells. “Just stay back and no one gets hurt!”

  The watercooler’s wide—and heavy. When he lifts the clear globe from its base, he stumbles backward under the weight, holding the globe up so the water inside doesn’t gush everywhere. He’s still struggling to remain upright when I take one of the cups I’d left on the small side table and throw its contents in his face.

  He stops. Blinks. Replaces the watercooler.

  “Dude,” he says.

  “Sorry.” I look at the empty cup I still hold, like it—and not me—is somehow responsible for the water dripping from his chin. “You seemed upset. I thought you were having a nightmare.”

  He pauses. “Was I talking?”

  “You might’ve mentioned something about everyone staying back,” I say.

  His chin, still dripping, falls toward his chest. I brace for more yelling, but he just shakes his head and tousles his damp hair. He stands up straight, slides his feet into a pair of worn suede moccasins, and starts for the door.

  I watch the door close. A second later it swings in again. It’s propped open by a blistered, scarred hand.

  I put back the phone, check my appearance once more, and scoot through the door’s narrow opening. I’m so short I can pass under his arm without ducking.

  “I’m Seamus, by the way.” I’ve never held out my hand when introducing myself to someone my own age, but I do now. Lemon’s likely the very last new person I’ll ever meet. Commemorating the occasion with a handshake only seems fitting.

  “Nice suit,” he says, without returning the gesture.

  I look down and remember that I changed my clothes. I’d thought Mom would want me to wear the navy-blue slacks and jacket since this, like the National Junior Honor Society induction she’d originally bought the uncomfortable clothes for, is a kind of momentous occasion, but now I feel silly. A dozen other kids fill the hallway on their way to dinner, and they’re all wearing jeans, T-shirts, and sweatshirts, like it’s any other day.

  I’m the only one dressed for a funeral. Probably because I’m the only one about to attend one.

  Lemon shuffles away. I stay a few paces behind, fiddling with my gold robot-shaped cuff links. They were a gift from Dad, whom I’d give anything to see right now.

  We go outside, cross the garden, and enter the Kanteen. Kilter’s dining hall is a large building with cathedral ceilings and a wall of windows that look out onto rolling lawns and distant snow-capped mountains.

  “Welcome, welcome!” a familiar voice declares.

  I spot Annika weaving through the crowd of kids. She’s smiling, but my stomach turns anyway. As the crowd shifts right, toward a wall lined with what look like take-out windows, I turn left and follow Annika to her table. It’s longer than the others and sits in the middle of the room.

  “Hi,” I say when I reach her.

  “Seamus!” She beams. “How are you? Is everything to your liking?”

  “Everything’s great,” I say, thinking she’s kind to still care. “I was just—”

  “Wait.” The guy sitting next to her puts one hand on her arm. “Is this him?”

  “Seamus Hinkle?” the young woman sitting on the other side of the guy says.

  “The Seamus Hinkle?” the guy repeats, like I might be a clone.

  The other adults at the table stop eating and talking. They exchange knowing looks. Some smile. Others seem to study me, probably searching for hints of a decent human being buried somewhere inside my criminal body.

  I look down, my face burning hotter than Lady Lorraine’s deep fryer. They know what I did. This shouldn’t be surprising, but I was kind of hoping my deep, dark secret could stay between Annika and me. At least until I was no longer around to hear the gossip it started.

  “Everyone,” Annika says, “I’m very pleased to introduce the Seamus Hinkle. Our newest and most promising student.”

  My head snaps up.

  “Seamus, I’d like you to meet your teachers. This is Harold, Fern, Wyatt, Samara, Devin, Lizzie, and Mr. Tempest.”

  Mr. Tempest is the only one not called by his first name. He’s also the only one who seems more interested in dinner than in me. He gives me a quick once-over before returning to his cheeseburger.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say. I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know Mom would want me to mind my manners until the bitter end.

  “The pleasure’s ours,” Wyatt says. “Trust us.”

  “Don’t mind them,” Annika says. “They’re a little excited.”

  “A little?” Fern chimes in.

  “This is a very special occasion,” Annika explains. “Normally we stop accepting applications six months before the school year starts and make our final admissions decisions three months after that. No exceptions. Yet here we are, one month into the semester . . . and we’ve accepted you.”

  “At the drop of a hat,” Devin says.

  “Or the throw of an apple,” Lizzie adds.

  They grin. I squeeze my hands into fists at my sides to keep from fanning my face. A single word forms at the base of my throat. When it reaches my mouth, my lips press tightly together as if the last meal before my real last meal is about to come shooting out.

  I force my eyes to Annika’s. They glitter in the candlelight.

  “Why?” I manage.

  “Because we finally had reason to make an exception.” She leans toward me, lowering her voice so only I can hear. “You, Seamus Hinkle . . . are Kilter Academy’s very first murderer.”

  For just a second, everything goes white. The room falls silent. I think I must be dead already—maybe from some superfast chemical injection Annika just stuck me with, or from a heart attack so strong it killed me before I felt it—but then color slowly retu
rns. Conversations resume.

  My body was only reacting to that terrible word.

  “Breakfast?” I whisper.

  Annika cocks her head. Cups one hand to her ear. “What’s that?”

  I swallow. Try again. “Is there breakfast? Tomorrow? For me?”

  Annika laughs. The teachers laugh. The only ones who don’t laugh are me—and Mr. Tempest.

  “Of course,” she says. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Dessert, midnight snacks. You may have whatever you want tomorrow, the next day, and every day after that.”

  I should be relieved. From the sounds of it, I’m not dying anytime soon. But I’m still reeling from the M word and the fact that these adults aren’t.

  Annika reaches over and squeezes my arm. “You’ve had a long day. Have some dinner and relax tonight. Everything will become clearer tomorrow.”

  “Right,” I say, turning around. “Okay.”

  “Oh, and Seamus?”

  I turn back. The teachers talk among themselves as Annika waves me closer. I step toward her, and she holds what looks like an oversize cell phone toward me. The small screen’s filled with words. She scrolls too quickly for me to see what they say, but I can tell there are a lot of them.

  “Have you ever kept a diary?” she asks quietly.

  “What? No.” Everyone knows diaries are for girls.

  “They’re very handy. If you’re ever sad, or confused, or worried, and feel like you have no one to talk to, it can help to write about what you’re feeling and why. At least, it always helps me.”

  Two questions come to mind right away. One, what makes Annika, who can double as a military sergeant, sad or confused or worried? And two, why is she telling me this? Before I can decide whether to ask either question, she reaches for her fork.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” she says with a smile.

  I’m still confused, but we’re clearly done. So I turn around and start across the crowded dining room. The teachers’ voices fade as I near the take-out windows.

  “Hello there,” the man behind the glass says when I reach the counter. He wears a bright red Kilter Kanteen T-shirt and baseball cap. A silver name tag reads HUGH. “Dig the threads.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Got a name?”

  I pause. “Seamus Hinkle.”

  If news of Kilter’s most promising new student has reached Hugh, he doesn’t show it. His expression doesn’t change as he taps the thin computer screen before him. “Fish sticks. Extra crispy. Sides of mayo and honey mustard. Yes?”

  I open my mouth to say yes just as the counter before me drops away. It flips upside down and rises back up with a gleaming silver tray. The tray’s domed lid is so shiny I can see the beads of sweat above my shirt collar.

  “Enjoy,” Hugh says.

  I thank him, take the tray, and scan the room for an empty seat. I spot Lemon slurping from a bowl of cereal, his eyes glued to the South Park episode playing on the small flat-screen attached to the back of his tray. I’d consider joining him, but all the chairs near his are taken. In fact, the only chairs that aren’t taken are in the far right corner of the room. This isn’t surprising, considering they’re the only ones surrounded by bookshelves instead of TVs. Deciding a little time to myself might be nice to process everything that just happened, I head that way.

  Once seated, I rest the tray on my lap and lift the lid.

  “Wow,” I say. I can’t help it. The fish sticks are huge—five of Lady Lorraine’s would equal one of these. They’re golden instead of orange. And when I tap them with a fork, the crunchy coating cracks, but they don’t instantly snap in half.

  Impressed but still skeptical, since I’ve never had better than Lady Lorraine’s, I break off a piece, dip it first into the mayo, then the honey mustard, and pop it into my mouth.

  “Wow,” I say again, though with my mouth full it sounds more like “Wha.”

  They’re so delicious I manage to temporarily forget why I’m here. As I clear my plate, my eyes fall on a silver button in the bottom right corner of my tray. Carved in intricate script along the base is SECONDS.

  I look up and around, like someone might be watching and waiting for me to make a wrong move, to give in to temptation and ask for more than I deserve.

  As it turns out, someone is watching. There was no one here when I sat down, but now a girl sits two chairs away. She has fair skin, a pink nose, and auburn hair that hangs down one shoulder in a loose braid. She’s wearing those pants that are too short to be real pants and too long to be shorts, a baggy green sweater, and Converse sneakers. Like me, she’s sitting by herself.

  “What did you want?” she asks.

  At least that’s what I think she says. I’m too distracted by her eyes, which are reddish brown. Kind of like worn pennies.

  “Sorry?” I say.

  “From Annika. You went up to ask her something, right? And she started talking before you could?”

  My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

  “I didn’t hear what she said, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  That’s exactly what I’m worried about. And why should I believe this girl? What if she heard everything and plans to broadcast it to the whole school? But if she did hear everything, would she really be sitting here right now? Wouldn’t she want to stay as far away from me as she could get?

  She’s still waiting for an answer. I look down and trace the SECONDS script with one finger as I try to come up with one.

  “Laundry,” I finally say. “I was going to ask if we do it ourselves, or if—”

  I stop when I look up.

  Because the girl’s gone.

  My entire body burns in embarrassment. As I reach for my water glass, my eyes fall to my jacket sleeves.

  And I see that my robot cuff links are gone too.

  Chapter 5

  I don’t want to answer any more uncomfortable questions, so I spend the rest of the night reading comic books in my room. The next thing I know, sunlight’s streaming through the blinds. Drool’s sliding down my chin. Lemon’s standing by his desk, holding a frying pan over a flaming trash can.

  Instantly awake, I sit up. Scoot back. Keep both eyes on the fire.

  “Relax,” Lemon says. “This one’s under control.”

  This one? As opposed to all the others that weren’t?

  “Class starts in ten minutes,” he adds.

  “What class?” I manage.

  “The schedule’s on your K-Pak. Your K-Pak’s on the desk.”

  I watch the fire for another second, then slide out of bed and take what looks like an oversize iPhone from the desk. It resembles the device Annika had at dinner last night. It turns on immediately, and the screen fills with six pulsating blue words.

  SEAMUS HINKLE, YEAR ONE, SEMESTER ONE

  “It can ID you by any part of your body,” Lemon says.

  “Like fingerprinting?” I ask, watching the blue letters fade.

  He slides his K-Pak from the pocket of his jeans. He holds it out so I can see the dark screen, then places it on the floor and presses on it with one bare big toe. The surface illuminates with a glowing imprint and six pulsating blue words.

  LEMON OLIVER, YEAR ONE, SEMESTER ONE

  “Is Lemon your real name?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer. He bends down, snatches up the device, and returns to the flaming trash can, which does appear to be under control. A bag of bread and a carton of eggs, both opened, sit on his desk.

  While he cooks, I play with the mini computer. I touch a rotating envelope labeled K-MAIL, and the screen fills with a dozen or so unread messages. I open the one titled “Hinkle, S., Schedule.”

  “Biology?” I read. “Math? Art?” These courses don’t sound any different from the ones I’d been taking at Cloudview Middle School.

  As fast as my heart fell, it lifts again. Does this mean I’ll be going back to Cloudview Middle School? And that these courses are only to make sure I don’t fall too far b
ehind?

  The thought’s so encouraging that I find clean jeans and a T-shirt in my duffel bag and change my clothes. I even hang up the suit in my closet to keep it from wrinkling further, just in case there’s another reason to wear it later.

  I’m straightening the white button-down shirt on a hanger when I remember the robot cuff links. They’re still missing. I’d asked members of the Kanteen cleaning crew if they’d happened to come across them, but they hadn’t. I don’t know how I could’ve lost them either, since I’d been fiddling with them only minutes before they’d disappeared, and I’d barely moved in my chair.

  Done cooking, Lemon takes the trash can to the bathroom and turns on the water. I hurry across the room, grab the phone, and hit talk.

  “Hoodlum Hotline,” a woman says. She sounds like the same one as yesterday.

  “Hi, I’m calling to report a . . .” My voice trails off. What am I calling to report? “Um, I have—I had—these cuff links. They were a gift from my dad, and I was wearing them at dinner last night, but then they disappeared.”

  “Disappeared.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were looking at them one minute and then in the next—poof! They were gone? Right before your eyes?”

  Realizing how this sounds, I pause. “Pretty much.”

  “So you think someone stole them?”

  “What? No, I—”

  “You’re reporting a theft?”

  The bathroom’s silent now. Worrying that Lemon’s listening, I bring the receiver closer to my mouth, cup my hand around it, and lower my voice. “I’m not sure that’s what happened, I just—”

  “Seamus Hinkle,” the woman says loudly, as if dictating to someone else in the room with her. “Tattling in the first degree!”

  There’s a click, and the line goes dead.

  Lemon comes back into the room with the smoking trash can. He tosses his empty paper plate on top of its black, wet contents, grabs his backpack from the desk chair, and steps into his moccasins on his way to the door. “Later.”

  “Wait.” I drop the phone to its base and dart around the room, gathering my sneakers and K-Pak, a notebook and pen. By the time I close and lock the door, Lemon’s already rounding a corner down the hall. “I’m coming!”