by Burns, T. R.
An image of Miss Parsippany falling to the floor flashes before my eyes. I shake my head. It goes away.
“You heard Houdini,” he says. “You have to at some point. And you get a hundred demerits for each one, so if you want to make up for lost time, you should start big.”
“What if I can’t get them? Or earn any demerits, for that matter?” Because before the Unfortunate Apple Incident, I didn’t get into trouble. And I’m pretty sure I’ll fail every assignment here.
“Then—”
“Lemonade!”
Lemon steps away from the wall. Turns. Slides his hands into his jeans pockets. “Abraham.”
The kid with the spiky black hair saunters up. He has a case of spray paint under one arm and a lollipop in his mouth. “What’s cooking? Or maybe the better question is—what’s not cooking?”
Lemon doesn’t answer. I feel like I should defend him from something, but I’m not sure what.
“Still fantasizing about the Kilter Smoke Detector with Automatic Flame Eliminator?” Abe slurps on his lollipop. “Too bad demerits don’t come with coupons.”
“Heads up,” Gabby, the unicorn girl says, joining us. “Fern’s here—and she’s in rubber-ball oblivion.”
Gabby lifts her chin. We follow it to a pyramid of rubber balls. They come in every color of the rainbow and are arranged by size. The kind you can sit and bounce around on are at the base, their handles pointed down. The kind you can get for a quarter from those old gumball machines are at the top. In between are soccer balls, basketballs, and other balls I’ve never seen before.
Next to the pyramid is a young woman with dark curly hair that stands around her head like she just stuck her fingers in an electrical outlet. She wears white glasses that point up at the corners. I recognize her from Annika’s introductions last night. As we watch, she takes a ball from the top of the display, holds it near her ear, and shakes it.
Lemon nudges me. “Now’s your chance.”
“For what?”
“Getting out of the red. Make her laugh, cry, pass out, whatever.”
“How?” I ask.
“Fern’s the gym teacher,” Gabby explains. “Dodgeball’s her specialty. Which means—”
“I have to throw balls at her?” I finish.
“Exactly.” Gabby smiles, like this is her idea of a good time.
“No way,” I say. “Not going to happen.”
“Awesome.” Abe snorts, then moves the lollipop to one side of his mouth until his left cheek bulges. “Stand your ground. You’ll really get ahead that way.”
Lemon shoots him a look before stepping toward me. “This is as easy as it gets. She’s distracted. The place is crawling with kids. There’s no way she’ll know who did it.”
Maybe she won’t. But I will.
“If it’s such an easy shot, why don’t you guys take it?” I ask. “You’ve been here longer. You deserve it more than I do.”
“I got her last week,” Gabby says.
“Two weeks ago,” Lemon says.
“Our first day,” Abe says, then cracks the lollipop between his teeth.
I try to think of another excuse but can’t. Fern does seem much more interested in the rubber pyramid than in anyone around it . . . but what if she’s just pretending to be distracted so that some naive Troublemaker makes a move? And is immediately caught?
“What’s the matter?” Abe asks. “Never messed with someone twice your size before?”
A series of images flashes through my head: Bartholomew John’s crooked grin. Fish sticks doused in milk. Apples flying through the air. Miss Parsippany falling to the ground.
I look at Abe, then nod at Lemon. “Be right back.”
They huddle together as I make my way toward the rubber pyramid. When Fern replaces one ball and circles the display for another, I duck behind a shelf of microwavable tar and feathers. She looks up once, and I think our eyes meet—which makes my pulse hammer so loudly in my ears I can’t hear anything else—but then she simply takes a softball from the pyramid and gives it a squeeze.
My heart still racing, I scan my surroundings for something to throw. Tar and feathers are out of the question. So are pocket flashlights and night-vision goggles. Only one other display is within arm’s reach: Hydra-Bombs. They’re made of rubber, and the samples, which are filled with water, resemble balls more than they do balloons . . . but I’m still not sure they’ll count. I could check the rest of the store for the real deal, but I know I’ll chicken out as soon as the rubber pyramid’s out of sight. And if I try to snatch one from the pyramid itself, I risk being seen by Fern.
Hydra-Bombs it is.
There are three on a glass shelf. I take the smallest one, which is the size of a tennis ball. The rubber’s somehow soft and firm at the same time. According to the illustration below the shelf, even the smallest model is powerful enough to shatter a glass window from twenty feet away.
But I won’t shatter anything. Not this time.
Still behind the tar-and-feathers display, I face forward and watch Fern. She might be the slowest shopper I’ve ever seen. She taps, squeezes, and shakes each option. Holds one ball in each hand and lifts and lowers both. Shines them on her jacket and inspects the result. Mom tests fruit the same way at the grocery store, but in about a tenth of the time.
She takes so long I start to lose my nerve. Who cares if I stay in the red? So what if I never earn another demerit? Is making a good impression here more important than making sure what happened to Miss Parsippany never happens again?
It’s not. So I turn back. Reach forward to replace the Hydra-Bomb.
“Chicken,” Abe scoffs nearby. “I could tell just by looking at him.”
Calcium. It helps you grow.
And turn around again.
I’ll miss. I’ll throw . . . and I’ll miss. Looking like I tried has to be worth something.
On the wall behind Fern is a poster of a smiling kid wearing head-to-toe Kilter attire: a gray baseball hat, sweatshirt, and sweatpants, all bearing the silver KA logo. He has blond hair and chubby cheeks, and if I don’t look too closely, he resembles Bartholomew John. His face will make a perfect target.
I hold my breath. Pull back my arm. Imagine the high, invisible arc the Hydra-Bomb will make as it sails near—but over—Fern’s head. I start to bring my arm forward and open my fingers—
—just as someone rams into me. The Hydra-Bomb flies from my hand, and I fall to the ground.
But not before I see the water balloon hit a basketball in the center of the rubber pyramid. The pyramid explodes. Dozens of balls shoot through the air. Four of them hit Fern—in her shoulder, chest, stomach, and rear end, rotating her like a machine gun does a soldier on a video-game battlefield. As she falls to the floor, her lips form a perfect, surprised O.
“Sorry, man!”
My eyes are closed. I open them to see an older Troublemaker standing over me. He tucks a remote-control airplane under his arm and holds out one hand.
“New model. Kind of got away from me. You all right?”
I take his hand and sit up. Through the legs of the tar-and-feathers display table, I see Fern climb to her knees, rub her eyes, and sift through the bouncing balls for her glasses. I’m debating whether to crawl over and help her look when she finds them and puts them on.
This time, our eyes really do meet.
“Seamus!” She beams, slaps her palms to her thighs. “I should’ve known.”
It was an accident. I open my mouth to explain, but before I can, my book bag buzzes on my back. I slide it around, open it, and take out my K-Pak. Its screen glows red as a new K-Mail message loads.
CONGRATULATIONS, SEAMUS HINKLE! AFTER DEFEATING FERN NOOGAN, YOU’RE 100 DEMERITS CLOSER TO BEING A PROFESSIONAL TROUBLEMAKER!
Chapter 7
DEMERITS: 100
GOLD STARS: 20
Whenever Dad’s confused, like when Mom disguises tofu as chicken for dinner, or when our DVD player spits ou
t discs in the middle of movies, or when we change the clocks for daylight savings, he always says the same thing: “I don’t know whether to add or subtract!” This is like other people saying they don’t know which way’s up or down, but Dad’s an accountant, so his compass is math. Adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing are his north, south, east, and west.
In our room later that night, I don’t know whether to add or subtract. On the one hand, in addition to a hundred demerits, successfully attacking Fern seemed to earn me cautious acceptance from my fellow first-year Troublemakers. When I rejoined them, Lemon actually smiled, Gabby patted me on the back, and Abe didn’t roll his eyes once. Since I don’t want to make a bad situation worse by having enemies, this is a positive development.
On the other hand, I hit a teacher. Knocked her straight to the ground. I know students are expected to do things like that here, but after what I did to Miss Parsippany, it just feels wrong.
Which raises a very important question.
“Why?”
Lemon lies in bed with his back to me, making shadow puppets on the wall with one hand and a butane lighter. My question is followed by a click. The small flame goes out.
“Why what?”
I’ve been staring at the same page in my comic book for an hour. Now I sit up and toss it to the end of the bed.
“Why are we here?”
“Because we did bad things at home? And our parents didn’t know what else to do with us?”
That part I get. “But why a school for Troublemakers? What are we supposed to do with our new skills when we leave? What’s the point?”
Lemon doesn’t answer. I’m worrying I asked too many questions when he rolls over. Slowly. His left leg slides off his right leg and falls to the mattress. His body tilts, inch by inch, until gravity takes over and his back hits the bed. He recovers from the exertion for a second, then inhales deeply and rises up on his left side.
“Hamlet,” he says.
Not wanting to press my luck, I try to crack this code on my own. But I can’t.
“Sorry?” I say.
“The play. About the prince who goes after his uncle for killing his dad. By that famous dead guy.”
“Shakespeare. I know, I’ve read it. I just don’t get what that has to do with this.”
“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” Lemon says. “‘To thine own self be true.’”
I remember those lines . . . but I still don’t get it.
“The thing was written, like, a million years ago,” Lemon continues. “It uses words no one has in centuries. But we still have to read it.”
“So?”
“So what are we supposed to do with our new translation skills after we’ve finished it? What’s the point in reading a story that has nothing to do with anything today?”
I open my mouth to explain that despite the archaic language, the play’s themes of love and revenge are universal, eternal (or so my English teacher said last year), but then I close it. Because I think I understand.
“Our regular schools teach us stuff that’s not exactly useful in the real world,” I say. “Right?”
“Right. At least here we can do what we want when we want. I don’t know about you, but back home I was on permanent lockdown. No friends, no movies, no fun. Compared to that, this is vacation.”
I think about this. The only vacation my family ever took was to Niagara Falls, where Mom caught a bad cold after getting drenched on a boat ride and we spent the rest of the week watching Wheel of Fortune reruns in our tiny motel room. Even compared to that, having unlimited fish sticks, 3-D movies, and no curfew doesn’t seem so bad.
Only bad is what I deserve. And this, I realize, is my bigger problem. After what I did, I’m lucky just to be alive. It’s not right to have any fun on top of that.
But I can’t talk about this to Lemon. At least not so directly.
“What about your parents?” I ask. “Don’t you feel guilty that they think you’re here to learn how to behave?”
His sad brown eyes meet mine, then droop shut. His body tilts toward the wall. Gravity takes over. He lies on his back, unmoving.
Now I’ve definitely asked too many questions.
By my pillow, my K-Pak buzzes. I reach over and open the new K-Mail message.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Kudos!
Dear Seamus,
Just a quick note to say hello and congratulate you on your successful performance in the Kommissary today. I’ve never seen Fern caught so off guard.
Your Kilter career is off to an impressive start. I can’t wait to see where it goes from here.
Warmly,
Annika
P.S. If you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask!
Add or subtract? Subtract or add? Once again, I’m confused. I don’t know whether to be happy that Annika’s pleased, or sad about what I did to make her feel that way.
I’m about to reread the note, just in case it contains clues I’m somehow missing, when my K-Pak buzzes with a new message.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: You Got a Teacher. . . . Now Get Shopping!
Hey, Seamus!
Way to go! You earned 100 demerits for making Fern Noogan’s head spin. After deducting 20 gold stars, which you got for calling the Hoodlum Hotline, that leaves you with . . . 80 credits!
The good news? You can now do a lot of damage at the Kommissary. The bad news? You’ll have to hurry—at least if you want to snag one of our newest, hottest items. The supercool, limited edition K-Shot, called “the best introductory weapon of its kind . . . EVER” by Trouble ’n’ More magazine, won’t last long!
This is followed by an image of a small flashing camera. I press it, and a photo of a kid holding a slingshot appears. At least, I think it’s a slingshot. It’s shaped like a K instead of a Y, and the kid holds it horizontally instead of vertically, but the rubber band and small ball look like others I’ve seen in movies.
The K-Shot can be yours for the bargain price of 75 credits. So don’t wait! Pick yours up today!
At Your Service,
The Kommissary Krew
I start to delete the e-mail. I don’t know what the Kommissary sells that I’d actually want to buy, but I do know that a weapon—a real one, unlike the one I used in the Cloudview cafeteria—isn’t it. But just as I’m about to press the digital trash can, I have an idea. It might be the best one I’ve ever had, mostly because I know it’ll help me feel better. If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed by not dying, going to class, and making trouble, I would’ve thought of it sooner.
Kilter K-Mail looks just like my e-mail at home. There’s an in-box, a sent box, and a spam box. When you start a new message, there are empty bars to type in the recipient’s e-mail address and the subject. Below those is a big white square for your message.
Mom never checks her e-mail, but Dad’s on his all the time for work.
I start typing.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: HI!!!!
Dear Dad,
Hi! How are you?? How’s Mom?? Did you guys make it home okay? What’s new? How’s my room?
Everything’s great here! The food’s amazing, and the kids are nice. I had my first few classes today. One of them was math, which made me think of you.
I stop typing. I’m tempted to explain how math here isn’t like regular math, but then I remember what Houdini said about telling our parents the truth about Kilter. Dad might believe me, but I know he’d talk to Mom before writing me back. And since it was her idea to send me away, I’m not so sure she’d believe me. If I try to convince her that Kilter’s a top secret troublemaking training camp, she’ll probably think I’m lying just so they feel bad, come pick me up, and take me home. And while mur
der is definitely the worst thing a kid can do, in Mom’s opinion, lying isn’t far behind.
No, it’s best to keep it simple. At least for now.
I continue typing.
Anyway, I have lots of homework I should get to. But I just wanted to say hi and let you know that you can e-mail me here ANYTIME. Every student gets a handheld computer that buzzes whenever a new message comes in. So the second your note reaches me, I’ll know and write you back! Cool, huh?
I stop typing again. Now I’m tempted to apologize for what I did because, at the very least, I don’t want my parents to think I’ve forgotten. But they know that, don’t they? Wouldn’t they rather read a cheery, upbeat note that suggests I’m adjusting well here? So that they’ll be certain I’m all reformed and ready to leave when the time comes?
Deciding that yes, they would, I end the message as happily as I started it.
Miss you! Love you! Hugs to Mom!
Seamus
I check the note for typos, then hit send. I feel better immediately. After all, in the long run, it won’t matter whether I add or subtract now. What will matter is whether my parents eventually forgive me and love me as much as they did before I became a criminal. Staying in touch while we’re separated can only bring us closer to that goal.
I look over at Lemon. He couldn’t have been too mad that I asked about his parents—because he fell asleep while I was writing Dad. As he snores, I retrieve my comic book from the foot of the bed. I’ve just turned the cover when the mattress vibrates beneath me.
I drop the comic book and lunge for my K-Pak.
Dad must be working late. He’s working late, had his e-mail up, and was so happy to hear from me he wrote back right away.