Troublemakers #1 (9781442440319)

by Burns, T. R.

An electronic message has never taken longer to load. Still, I can’t stop smiling as I stare at the small screen.

  Until the words appear.

  ERROR!

  The message you just sent, subject: “HI!!!!,” to TAXMANNUMEROUNO@TAXMANNUMEROUNO.COM, is UNDELIVERABLE. Recipient’s address is invalid. Please note: K-Mail is an intracampus messaging system ONLY. Messages will not reach external e-mail systems.

  Please also note: This is an automated response.

  All replies will remain unread in an unattended in-box.

  Thank you for using K-Mail!

  —Your Kilter IT Department

  I flop back on the bed. Pull the blanket over my head. Try to tell myself that if not talking to my parents for a few weeks is my worst punishment, then I’m the luckiest murderer who’s ever lived to experience the consequences of his actions.

  This might be true. But it doesn’t stop my eyes from watering.

  I lie like this for 127 of Lemon’s snores, which I listen to in hopes that they become shorter, maybe even stop. Lemon and I aren’t exactly best friends, but right now it’d be nice to have someone to talk to—about anything. When the snores only grow longer, I feel more alone than I have since coming to Kilter.

  Then I remember something Annika said at dinner last night. I still don’t think I’m the diary-keeping type . . . but maybe there’s something to writing down the things you’d say to a friend if you had one. Deciding it can’t hurt, I slide one hand out from under the blanket and feel around the mattress for my K-Pak. When my fingers curl around the cool plastic, I slide it under the covers, turn it on, and start typing.

  TO: parsippany@cloudviewschools.net

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Sorry

  Dear Miss Parsippany,

  I did something today I didn’t want to do. Something I swore I’d never do again after that day in the Cloudview cafeteria.

  I hit a teacher. Not once, twice, or even three times. FOUR times. To be accurate, four rubber balls hit her, but still. I launched the attack, so it might as well have been my fists that knocked her down.

  After what I did to you, I never wanted to do anything bad again. I told myself that if I just happened to do something bad again, or at least something I might get grounded for, there was no way it was going to involve another teacher. And if, for some reason, I ended up doing something bad that involved another teacher, I definitely wasn’t going to do it so soon after the Unfortunate Apple Incident. That’s not just bad manners; it’s evil.

  Well, guess what? I did something bad. To a teacher. Less than two weeks after the UAI. When I’m supposed to be at the best reform school in the country, learning how to act like a good kid.

  I’d apologize to the teacher I hit, but something tells me she wouldn’t want to hear it. I’d apologize to my parents for misbehaving once again, but I can’t reach them. So I’m apologizing to you. After all, you deserve to hear “I’m sorry” more than anyone. And I know it’s way too little, way too late . . . but that’s still better than nothing, right?

  In any case, I AM sorry, Miss Parsippany. For everything.

  Sincerely,

  Seamus Hinkle

  Chapter 8

  DEMERITS: 100

  GOLD STARS: 35

  It takes me a long time to fall asleep. My mind races like our TiVo back home does at seven o’clock each night, when Mom catches up on her recorded soap operas by skipping ahead to the yelling, crying, and kissing parts. Only instead of actors yelling, crying, and kissing, I see Houdini yawning. Balls flying. Fern beaming. Eventually, my mind jumps to an image of Elinor staring out the window in math class, and lingers there.

  That’s the last thing I remember before I’m wakened by screams.

  “Stop!”

  I shoot up in bed.

  “Drop!”

  Rub my eyes.

  “Roll!”

  Start choking.

  I can just make out Lemon through the thick gray smoke. He’s standing over an open suitcase filled with ash and flames.

  “Stop!” he shouts again.

  I hit the floor and roll before he can tell me to. Each rotation brings a sight even scarier than the one before, like Lemon closing his eyes, rocking back and forth, lighting and dropping another match. The fire grows bigger, blocking my route to the watercooler on the other side. Smoke scalds my nose and throat, but I manage to hold my breath until I reach the phone.

  “Hoodlum Hotline, how—”

  “Fire,” I gasp. “Flames. Big ones.”

  That’s all I get out before the smoke hits my lungs. I start coughing and can’t stop. Lemon’s only a few feet away and I want to reach forward, to grab him and shake him awake, but my arms won’t move. Neither will my legs. It’s so hot my skin must be melting, drooping, melding me to the floor. I realize I’m still clutching the phone and force the mouthpiece before my burning lips.

  “Please,” I whisper. “My parents. Tell them I—”

  The door swings open. Three men in matching khaki pants, plaid shirts, and red fanny packs enter the room. They move purposefully but not particularly quickly, like they’ve done this before. The first man takes a skinny silver tank that hangs from one of his belt loops and aims it at the fire; there’s a blast of white foam, and the flames disappear. The second takes a silver box from his fanny pack, presses a button, and holds the box in one palm as it sucks up the smoke. The third opens the windows, then flicks Lemon’s ear, snapping the would-be arsonist out of his slumber.

  For a second, it’s silent. And I’m not sure if I’m alive or dead.

  “Still there?” the operator barks from the receiver on my chest.

  “I think so,” I croak, not bothering to lift the phone.

  “Seamus Hinkle, tattling in the second degree!”

  I don’t realize she’s hung up until the receiver starts beeping and the men turn toward me. I’m trying to still my shaking hands long enough to turn off the phone when a mask clamps over my mouth.

  “Hey! What—”

  “Stop talking,” a low voice commands. “Breathe normally.”

  I don’t argue. I can’t. Not only are my lips locked in place, one of our rescuers presses one hand on my head to keep me from moving. He’s surprisingly strong for a guy who looks like his idea of living on the edge is wearing penny loafers without socks.

  I force myself to inhale and exhale. Lemon, now fully awake, also wears a mask and takes deep breaths. Seconds later, the burning in my lungs, nose, and throat fades, and Mister Rogers releases my head and mouth.

  “Anyone care to share what just happened here?” the first man asks. He removes a K-Pak from his fanny pack. GS 7 runs along the miniature computer’s side like a digital marquee.

  I glance at Lemon. He’s still standing by the smoldering suitcase, staring at the embers like he’s not sure how they got there.

  “We were sleeping,” I explain, thinking we’re about to get into big trouble. “Lemon—he was totally out. He didn’t know what he was doing.” When GS 7 continues to look at me without blinking, I add, “It was an accident.”

  GS 7 waits, like he’s giving me the chance to take back what I just said. I look at Lemon. He looks at me, then turns to GS 7.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” he says. “Sleepwalking fire-starting. It’s still in the testing phase.”

  GS 7 lets out a low whistle. “Impressive. You’ll definitely get a few demerits for that one.”

  “But we have to dock you two days of troublemaking,” one of the other men adds.

  “Fair enough,” Lemon says.

  With that, the men leave. Lemon goes into the bathroom and closes the door. A second later the shower turns on. The room’s still light without the fire burning, and I realize it’s morning. According to my K-Pak, it’s 8:20—and we have a special assembly in ten minutes.

  There’s a common restroom down the hall. I go there to wash up and get dressed. By the time I’m back, Lemon’s ou
t of the shower and sitting on his bed. I have a million questions—like who are the GS? What do they do besides put out fires? Why was Lemon docked two days of troublemaking? Why was this announced like it’s a bad thing?

  And the biggest puzzle of all: Why did Lemon say the fire wasn’t an accident? Why did he lie?

  But my roommate’s not in the mood for conversation. He looks straight ahead when I come in. Water drips from his wet hair and slides down his nose. I offer him a dry towel; he ignores it.

  He must be mad that I panicked and called the Hoodlum Hotline. I open my mouth to apologize, but before I can get out the first word, he speaks.

  “How are you?”

  My mouth closes. No one’s asked me that since before the Unfortunate Apple Incident, when how I was became instantly and forever irrelevant. The question’s so unexpected I don’t know how to respond.

  “Are you okay?” He still looks straight ahead, but his fingers tighten around his knees. “The fire. Did it—are you . . . ?”

  Figuring out what he’s trying to ask, I quickly reassure him. “I’m fine. My throat’s a little dry from the smoke, but besides that, I’m totally fine.”

  His head drops. His fingers relax.

  “Want to go see what’s so special about this special assembly?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He releases a deep breath. “I’d like that.”

  We don’t talk as we walk to the Performance Pavilion. I don’t mind the silence, because it gives me time to process what just happened. In fact, I’m so busy replaying the events and guessing at the answers to my own questions that I don’t realize we’ve reached the pavilion until someone thrusts a bucket of popcorn at me.

  “Butter? Salt? Caramel sauce?”

  Hugh, the older employee from the Kanteen, smiles and holds up a pitcher of steaming yellow liquid. Next to him is a silver cart covered in bowls of caramel and hot fudge, and jars of salt, pepper, and other seasonings. Behind him is a five-foot-tall popper filled with swirling kernels.

  “No thanks,” I say.

  “All of the above,” Lemon says.

  As Hugh douses Lemon’s popcorn, I look around. We’re standing on a silver carpet that leads to a gleaming steel-and-glass stadium rimmed in silver Kilter Academy flags. Besides the popcorn stand there’s an ice cream hut, a hot dog station, and a candy bar featuring, among other treats, M&M’s in every color of the rainbow—if rainbows had a hundred stripes instead of six and featured shades Crayola hadn’t even imagined. Both sides of the carpet are lined with bunches of silver balloons. Lit sparklers are stuck in the ground between the balloon bunches, making the carpet glitter.

  Dozens of kids mill about, but I recognize only a few of them from classes. The others are older and talk and laugh with the kind of ease that suggests they’ve been here before. They wear shiny silver ski parkas that are identical except for the KA patches on their sleeves; these are different colors and feature a variety of emblems, like a hand grenade, an outline of the human body, or smiling and frowning drama masks.

  “Please take your seats!” a male voice booms from overhead speakers. “The program’s about to begin!”

  Kids abandon food stands and shuffle toward the entrance. I wait for Lemon to grab napkins and a soda, and then we join the crowd.

  “Returning students, report to your assigned sections,” the overhead voice declares. “New students, come forward!”

  “Front-row seats,” Lemon says. “Nice.”

  Mom’s big on culture and has dragged Dad and me to many string-quartet performances and dance recitals at the Cloudview Community Center, so I know that to some people, mostly those with gray hair and failing vision and/or hearing, front-row seats are the best. They’re the ones you pay more for or show up hours early to get. But personally? I’m not a fan. Mostly because it’s a lot harder to doze off when the performers are three feet away and can see when your eyes are closed.

  The pavilion, which has an enormous stage but fewer seats than the community center, pulsates with rock music and strobe lights, so my chances of falling asleep during this performance are probably slim. But given the WELCOME, NEW TROUBLEMAKER TRAINEES! banner hanging above the front row, and the front row’s close proximity to the stage, becoming part of the performance isn’t out of the question. And that would be way worse.

  Lemon doesn’t seem to share my concern. He heads right for our section, chomping on popcorn and slurping soda. I’m checking the last row for empty seats when there’s a tap on my shoulder.

  I turn around. Mr. Tempest, the quiet teacher who sat at Annika’s table at dinner the other night, stands behind me. He wears a black wool coat buttoned to his chin and holds two ice-cream cones—strawberry in his left hand and vanilla in his right. His mouth moves, but the music’s so loud I can’t hear what he says.

  “Sorry?” I shout.

  His lips press together. His nostrils widen. “Have you stepped in gum?”

  “What?!” I yell.

  “Did the soles of your shoes come into contact with a previously chewed, unnatural, sticky substance that has since solidified, permanently locking your feet in their current positions?”

  I look down. Lift one heel, then the other.

  “Oh, never mind.” Mr. Tempest pushes past me. “Some boy wonder.”

  For some reason, his disappointment’s reassuring. I hurry toward the stage and join Lemon in the front row. Abe and Gabby are already there. Elinor arrives a few seconds later and takes the last empty seat, on the aisle. She comes alone and looks straight ahead without talking to anyone.

  I lean toward Lemon. “What’s her story?”

  He follows my nod to Elinor. Shakes his head. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Think about it. Unless you’re into being the lowly servant of Kilter’s reigning ice queen.”

  Ice queen? As in cold? Unapproachable? Our interaction’s been brief, but still. Elinor didn’t strike me as either of those things.

  Before I can press him further, the lights go out. The music stops. The audience falls silent. And then slowly, the stage is illuminated. It glows a shimmery blue, reminding me of a skating rink. The back of the stage descends and then rises up—with four Troublemakers playing electric guitar, drums, and piano. Unlike the loud rock that shook the pavilion moments ago, the music now is quieter, serious. The beats are steady, the notes low. It’s like the music you hear in a movie, when the bad guy follows the good guy close behind without the good guy knowing. You know something major’s about to go down, but you don’t know exactly what.

  A long, thin section of center stage descends. It reappears holding ten Troublemakers. They wear jeans, silver sneakers, shimmery gray sweatshirts, and sunglasses—even though we’re indoors. They stand with their feet spread and hands behind their backs, and look straight ahead.

  The music continues, low and steady, while the stage rises. Once the stage is in place, it stops. For a few seconds, the audience members are silent, the Troublemakers before us as still as statues.

  And then: chaos.

  The band explodes. Strobe lights pulsate. Spotlights follow the Troublemakers, who scatter across the stage. One races to the far end, climbs a twenty-foot ladder, and takes a gleaming bow and arrow from a sheath on his back. On the opposite end, a second Troublemaker steps onto a swinging platform that looks like a clock pendulum—only it lifts and spins. As the music grows louder, faster, the swinging Troublemaker holds up a silver disc. The spotlights shift to the other Troublemaker, who raises his loaded bow and arrow.

  “No way!” Lemon shouts over the squealing bass and pounding drums.

  I agree. The archer aims for the silver disc. It’s a moving, impossible shot.

  The archer pulls back, releases the arrow. Spotlights follow the long silver dart as it slices through the air . . . and hits the spinning disc’s center.

  An enormous, rotating globe lowers from the domed ceiling. It looks like a disco ball at first, but then the tiny mi
rrored squares, which must be digital, are replaced with words:

  BULL’S-EYE!

  And the crowd goes wild.

  More demonstrations follow. There’s a fire starter who blankets the stage in flames. An acrobat who tumbles and soars past a series of blockades set up in a makeshift house. A painter who sketches the audience onto concrete walls that rise up around the stage’s edge. There are also a few I don’t understand, like one Troublemaker who belches into a microphone as the overhead globe turns into a clock and counts to sixty seconds, and another who removes her sunglasses and simply stares at the crowd without blinking.

  The whole thing is a cross between a rock concert and a circus. I don’t get it . . . but that doesn’t mean I’m not entertained.

  Eventually, the music lowers to non-earsplitting decibels. The performers return to their original positions. Every spotlight but one goes out.

  And Annika takes the stage. She wears dark jeans, a glittery gray sweater-coat that falls to her ankles, and silver high-heeled boots. She smiles and waves as the audience claps and cheers.

  “Welcome!” she declares. “Enjoy the show?”

  Cheers turn to screams. I cover my ears.

  “I’d like to say that your peers prepared long and hard for this performance, but the truth is, they have this much fun every single day.” Still smiling, Annika looks at our section. “And soon, Kilter Academy’s newest students will too.”

  There’s more applause. I release my ears and lean over to Lemon.

  “What’s she talking about?” I yell.

  “No idea!”

  “So without further ado,” Annika continues, “let the eighteenth annual Troublemaker Tutor Assignments commence!”

  The pavilion lights dim. Soon all I can see is the rotating ball suspended from the ceiling. It drops several feet, then stops.

  “You’re about to join one of Kilter’s six illustrious groups.” Annika’s voice cuts through the darkness. “In no particular order, they are the Dramatists . . . the Biohazards . . . Les Artistes . . .”

  Glowing logos appear on the ball, which seems to be some sort of screen. There are drama masks. An outline of the human torso. An easel and canvas bearing a human skull.