Troublemakers #1 (9781442440319)

by Burns, T. R.

  He doesn’t stop, but he does slow down. I catch up and together we leave the dorms and walk through the main courtyard. We don’t talk, and that’s fine by me, because I’m taking advantage of this time I didn’t think I’d have to breathe the fresh air, listen to the birds, admire the fall colors. Were leaves always so pretty? I’ll have to ask Mom the next time we speak.

  “Have you talked to your parents since you got here?” I ask Lemon as we enter another building. This one has three floors. With its sleek, wooden exterior and shiny windows, it looks like some sort of futuristic ski lodge.

  “Nope.”

  That’s all we have time for before he shuffles into a classroom. I follow. When he passes the rows of desks in favor of a couch at the back of the room, I find an empty desk in the second row. I’d sit in the first row to make a good impression, but no one else is, and I don’t want to stand out.

  More kids enter the classroom. Most appear to be around my age, a few a year or two younger. They take their seats and unpack notebooks and pens. I wonder where they’re from, what they did to get here.

  According to the schedule, class should begin at nine a.m. I watch the second hand go around the clock hanging above the door. At 8:59 my pulse quickens. At 8:59 and thirty seconds, my face warms. At 8:59 and fifty-five seconds, I wipe my forehead with my T-shirt sleeve.

  As the second hand nears twelve, I brace for the shrill ringing of a bell and a stern adult throwing open the door and striding into the room. That’s how Mr. Carlton, my homeroom teacher back at Cloudview, starts the day, and he’s in charge of a class of normal, fairly well-behaved students. Who knows how serious a teacher of troubled youth will be? What if he yells? Or gives us eight hours of homework a night? Or—

  The door opens. I hold my breath, but there’s no bell. There’s no stern, angry adult either. There’s only a tall teenager who looks like he just woke up.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I think he’ll take a seat with the rest of us, but instead he goes to the desk at the front of the room, plops into the chair, and yawns. I recognize him from Annika’s introductions last night; I think his name is Harold. He’s wearing faded jeans, an orange T-shirt with a white outline of two crossed, shackled fists, and aviator sunglasses. His dark blond hair hangs to his shoulders; it’s tangled and knotted, like he hasn’t brushed it in days.

  Still wearing his sunglasses, he puts a duffel bag on the desk and reaches inside. When he pulls out a stuffed unicorn, a groan comes from the back of the room.

  “How did you do that?” a girl asks. “I hid it so well after last class.”

  “Not well enough, I guess.” Harold pulls his arm back and launches the unicorn forward. It lands in front of a girl with short blond hair. “Ten demerits for Houdini, zero for the Gabster.”

  Next he pulls out a comic book.

  “Betty and Veronica Double Digest? I don’t even know if I should give this back.” But with one flick of the wrist, he sends it flying through the air. It lands on the desk of a kid with spiky black hair, who picks it up and smacks his forehead with it. “Another ten demerits for the master magician. Zilch for Abe.”

  He pulls an iPod, key chain, and sweater from the bag. A Frisbee, Slinky, and jump rope. A long lighter shaped like a matchstick goes to Lemon. Kids smile and frown, happy to have their things back but annoyed they lost them in the first place. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on when Harold, who apparently likes to be called Houdini, pulls out a green satin ribbon. He pinches one end of the ribbon between his pointer finger and thumb and holds it in front of him.

  “Elinor, Elinor.”

  He shakes his head. I turn in my chair to watch the girl with the red hair and warm copper eyes walk to the front of the room.

  “Not nearly as challenging as I’d hoped,” Houdini says when she reaches him.

  She takes the ribbon and starts back for her seat. As she nears my row I offer a small, encouraging smile, but she doesn’t see it. She simply looks straight ahead and ties back her hair in a perfect green bow.

  Houdini claps his hands together. I jump. Turning back, I see that he’s pushed his sunglasses on top of his head . . . and is looking straight at me.

  “Hola, Hinkle,” he says with a grin.

  I look behind me, like I really do have a clone following my every move.

  “New kid’s confused. Anyone care to explain what just happened?”

  My classmates turn and check me out. I slide down in my chair.

  “Nobody wants to take the gold star hit, huh?” Houdini asks. “Fair enough. I’ll—”

  “Houdini stole our stuff.”

  I look behind me again. This time, Elinor’s looking back.

  “For class,” she says. “Every week he tries to take something of ours without us knowing. When he succeeds, he gets demerits. When he doesn’t, we do.”

  New kid’s even more confused now.

  “But I thought this was math,” I say.

  “It is,” Elinor says. “At Kilter, math is the addition and subtraction of personal belongings.”

  “Heads up.”

  I look at Houdini just in time to see him chuck two small, shiny objects my way.

  “Kilter Academy Rule Number One,” he says. “Don’t dress to impress. You have more important things to worry about than whether your socks match your shoes—or your cuff links match your stuffy button-down shirt, as the case may be.”

  Heart racing, I grab the gold robots and shove them into my jeans pocket.

  “Who wants to share Rule Number Two?” Houdini asks.

  There’s a long pause. Then Elinor says, “Get as many demerits and as few gold stars as possible. That’s how we’re graded here. Demerits are like As and gold stars are like Fs.”

  What about Bs and Cs? Isn’t there something between demerits and gold stars? Like gray triangles?

  And in what weird academic world are demerits considered a good thing?

  “Rule Number Three?” Houdini prompts.

  “You have to go to classes,” Elinor continues. “We have six a day, Monday through Friday. Three in the morning and three in the afternoon. Every now and then we have a special history lecture, which we find out about from K-Mail. When you’re not in class, you should be completing assignments, studying, and having fun.”

  “You have thousands of complimentary items at your disposal,” Houdini adds. “TVs, movies, video games, you name it. Just press the party hat icon on your K-Pak and order from the long list of fun items that appears. And speaking of fun, Rule Number Four?”

  “You have to get all your teachers,” Elinor says.

  “Get?” I ask, heart racing. “What does that mean?”

  Houdini explains. “Kilter faculty members, including yours truly, will teach you specific skills useful in surprising, scaring, or otherwise messing with adults. In order to advance to the next training level, by the end of the semester you must use these skills to surprise, scare, or otherwise mess with your teachers. You can do so anytime, anyplace. The only restriction is that you get each instructor with the skills they teach.”

  “So to get you,” I say slowly, trying to put it together, “I’d have to steal something of yours?”

  “Without me knowing.” Houdini grins. “Good luck with that. I’m almost as tough as Mr. Tempest.”

  Mr. Tempest. He was the older teacher at Annika’s dinner table last night. “What does he do?” I ask.

  “He’s the school historian. He hardly ever leaves Annika’s side, so he’s very hard to get. In fact, he’s the only faculty member you can get by any means necessary—and who you don’t have to get in order to advance.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t try,” a kid calls out from across the room.

  “But it does mean you probably won’t succeed. If for some strange reason you do, you’ll receive extra credit—and much respect from the entire Kilter community.” Houdini nods to Elinor. “Last rule?”

  “There are no
other rules,” Elinor says.

  “Any questions?” Houdini asks.

  “Yeah,” says a kid at the back of the room. “We already know all this, and we’re supposed to learn how to swipe candy from store register racks today. Why are we wasting so much time on the new guy?”

  Houdini shoots him a look. “Because—”

  “I have a question.”

  Houdini forgets about the kid at the back of the room and grins at me. “Awesome. Give it up, Hinkle.”

  I just wanted to stop him from telling everyone what Annika told me last night—that I’m Kilter’s first murderer—and now I try to pick from the millions of questions spinning through my head.

  “Can we talk to our parents?”

  The class bursts into groans and giggles. Clearly, this was the wrong choice.

  “Sure,” Houdini says. “But who here really wants to?”

  I raise my hand. When there are more giggles, I look behind me and see that I’m the only one. So I lower it.

  “No worries, Hinkle. I get it. Your parents think they’ve signed you up for a kick-butt reform school, and you think they should know that’s not the case. But I guarantee that if you give Kilter some time, you’ll have no desire to share our little secret. And if ever you’re tempted to spill the beans, just remember whose idea it was for you to come here.” Houdini tilts back in his chair, rests his feet on the desk. “Who are your parents going to believe? The adults they’ve entrusted to mold you into a model citizen? Or the terrible kid they’re so desperate to control?”

  He gives this a moment to sink in. Knowing it’ll take much longer than that, I quickly ask my next question.

  “But if this isn’t a reform school . . . what is it?”

  Houdini’s feet drop to the floor. He leans forward. Holds my eyes with his. “A world-renowned, top secret training facility.”

  I want to look away but can’t.

  “Kilter Academy for Troubled Youth doesn’t accept just anyone,” Houdini continues. “Each semester, the admissions board receives thousands of applications and fills only thirty slots. Acceptance is based on a number of criteria, the most important being a student’s natural talent for bad behavior.”

  “Like the kind we get grounded for?” I ask.

  “Exactly.”

  “But we’re not here to learn good behavior?”

  “Nope.”

  I try to solve this puzzle on my own, but it makes no sense. “Then what exactly are we training for?”

  Houdini’s grin takes up his whole face and makes him look even younger than he is.

  “You’re training,” he says, “to become professional Troublemakers.”

  Chapter 6

  After class, Houdini asks for volunteers to show me something called the Kommissary. When no one jumps at the chance, I volunteer to show myself. After all, the more time I spend alone, the fewer questions I’ll have to answer. But then Houdini throws a piece of chalk at Lemon, snapping him out of a midsnooze snore, and says that unless Lemon wants to die alone in a blaze of nonglory, he’ll do everything he can to be the best roommate anyone’s ever had.

  Personally, I think being a good roommate includes making conversation, but Lemon doesn’t seem to agree. We walk silently until I finally ask the question I’ve been thinking since Houdini told me what we’re training to become.

  “So, what’s a professional Troublemaker, anyway?”

  Lemon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink.

  “I mean, I know what a normal troublemaker is,” I say, thinking of Bartholomew John. “At least, I think I do. But what’s the difference between that and a professional? Do we get paid or something?”

  “Does it really matter? Making trouble’s fun. Just go with it.”

  Just go with it. Right. No problem.

  “By the way,” Lemon says a moment later, “you’re the thirteenth.”

  “The thirteenth what?” I ask.

  “Roommate.”

  “Cool.” Then, “But you’ve only been here a month, right?”

  Silence.

  “So that would be, what? Three roommates a week?” I ask.

  “One week, twelve roommates. Nine first-year Troublemakers like us, and one second-year, one third-year, and one fourth-year. They couldn’t deal with my little fire hobby, and the housing department couldn’t find anyone else to bunk with me. Until yesterday, I’d been by myself for twenty-one days.”

  My heart sinks. “Sorry. Having your own room must’ve been nice.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll have it again soon. Unless they’re right about you.”

  “What do you mean?” I struggle to keep my voice casual.

  “I mean, I don’t know what your deal is.” He stops before a glass door. Faces me. Lifts one furry eyebrow. “But I do know they wouldn’t have paired you with me if they didn’t think you could handle the heat.”

  He goes inside. I wait for the feeling to return to my feet before following him.

  “Welcome to the Kommissary! Please place one hand on the print pad.”

  There’s a silver turnstile just inside the entrance. Next to it is a clear podium topped with a thin, clear box. A long counter is to the right of the podium, behind which an older Kilter employee smiles at me. According to the tag on his red shirt, his name’s Martin.

  “The print pad?” Martin repeats. “Can’t get in without it?”

  My eyes follow his nod to the clear box. My chest tightens. I don’t want to leave and annoy Lemon by wasting his time, but I also don’t want to set off alarms, alert security—or, worst of all, prompt confetti to fall from the ceiling and a marching band to escort me inside. Given Annika’s high opinion of murderers, this type of celebration is a real possibility.

  “Because wasting an hour of valuable class time wasn’t enough?”

  I spin around. The kid with spiky black hair is behind me. The girl whose stuffed unicorn Houdini stole is behind him. Four older Troublemakers are behind her. They all look at me expectantly.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’ve never been here before.”

  “We heard.” The kid—Abe, I think Houdini called him—rolls his eyes. “It’s not rocket science. Put your hand on the pad and wait for the turnstile to beep.”

  I consider letting him go first and trying to scoot through the turnstile as he passes through, but Martin’s watching us. And Troublemaker after Troublemaker joins the line until it’s out the door. With no time to figure out how to buy more time, I turn back, close my eyes . . . and place my right palm on the clear box.

  The box moves. My eyes snap open. I try to move my hand, but a force keeps my fingers attached, as if they’re magnets and the box is a refrigerator. The box, which I now see is a computer screen, tilts to a forty-five-degree angle and stops. Words scroll across the screen just above my fingertips.

  WELCOME, SEAMUS HINKLE! YOU HAVE . . . -20 CREDITS!

  Abe snorts. Unicorn girl giggles. Martin says, “Everyone starts somewhere. And if rumors are right, soon you’ll be buying the Kilter Über-Airkraft.”

  The snorts and giggles stop.

  “The Kilter Über-Airkraft costs fifty thousand credits,” Abe says. “It’s the most expensive thing the Kommissary sells.”

  “I know,” Martin says, and winks at me.

  The turnstile beeps. I burst through, nearly taking down the display of drinking straws and spitball glue on the other side.

  Eager to get away from my classmates, I dart down the first aisle I come to. It’s filled with every kind of ammunition a Troublemaker could want, like BB guns and paintball rifles. Bows and arrows. Water Uzis and ice-pellet pistols. Balloons that look like ones you’d blow up for a birthday party, but whose name—Hydra-Bomb—suggests a much more sinister purpose.

  My weapon was nothing like these, but they still make me think of Miss Parsippany. I look straight ahead until I’m past the section.

  After checking the other aisles, I finally find Lemon at the back of the store. He sta
nds before a wall of supplies labeled A FIREFIGHTER’S WORST NIGHTMARE. As I get closer I see that this nightmare consists of matchbooks and lighters. Packs of kindling and shredded newspaper. Aerosol gasoline cans. Heatproof masks and bodysuits.

  And the thing that Lemon’s staring at like it’s a swinging pendulum: the Kilter Smoke Detector with Automatic Flame Eliminator. The perforated silver disc is in a glass case at the top of the wall, near the ceiling.

  “Are you going to buy that?” I ask.

  “It’s two thousand credits,” he says.

  “How many do you have?”

  His head turns toward me. His eyes narrow.

  “I have negative twenty,” I offer.

  He doesn’t smile, but his eyes return to their normal half-lidded position.

  “How do I get more?” I ask, not wanting him to think I’m some sort of nosy busybody.

  He looks up again. “You automatically get ten a week. Like an allowance, only you don’t have to make your bed for it. The rest you get by making trouble, either through completing assignments or on your own, and earning demerits. One demerit gets you one credit.”

  “Do gold stars get you anything?”

  “Yes. Credits taken away.” His eyes shift toward me. “You must’ve done something really right—as in wrong—in the short time you’ve been here to be in the red zone. Like maybe calling the Hoodlum Hotline?”

  My heart stops. “That gets you gold stars?”

  “And alerts Kilter security. That’s why Troublemakers sometimes take the hit. Ratting out the competition can lead to the competition being stopped, which is worth losing a few credits every now and then.”

  I’m still trying to process this as Lemon’s eyes shift back and he continues.

  “Your K-Pak has something called the Kilter Report Kard, which updates your demerit and gold star totals every hour. The icon’s on the main screen. It’s a red apple.”

  Of course it is.

  “Do you lose demerits as you use credits?” I ask.

  “No. Annika doesn’t want your shopping habits to make you forget how much trouble you’re actually making. So the number of demerits and gold stars will only go up the longer you’re here. Your credits, though, will go up and down. To check them, press the dollar-sign icon on your K-Pak.” He reaches forward and takes a book of matches from the wall. “If you want to catch up fast, go after our teachers, like, now.”