by Burns, T. R.
“You don’t.”
“But Houdini said we could.”
“And you believed him?” she says with a snort. “You’ll see your folks in a few weeks, on Parents’ Day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the switchboard’s lighting up like a carnival. Thanks for calling Hoodlum Hotline!”
The line goes dead.
I’m about to turn around and head back inside when a noise stops me. It’s a soft whine that sounds a little like wind whistling through trees . . . except the air’s still. As I listen, the whine grows to a moan, then a wail. It seems to come from the other side of the courtyard. My brain says it’s none of my business, but my feet lead away from the dorm anyway. When the noise gets louder, they move faster.
It doesn’t take long to locate the noise’s source: Carter Montgomery. Next to me, he’s the shortest Troublemaker in our class. And he’s standing in the small spotlights of a stone fountain, crying.
I hold my breath and watch from behind a tree several feet away. He’s not bleeding. He doesn’t appear to be under attack by other Troublemakers. So do I ask if he’s okay? Offer to help? Call the Hoodlum Hotline and report a Troublemaker in distress?
As I debate, Carter’s knees fold. He sinks to the grass, lowers his head forward, and pounds the ground with both fists. The wailing gives way to hiccups and shoulder shudders.
“Bravo!”
I jump. Carter sits up. Annika emerges from the shadows, clapping. Mr. Tempest follows close behind, head down and shoulders slumped.
“Impressive performance,” she says.
Carter stands and wipes the tears from his face.
“You might want to tone down the volume and delay the collapse, but still. Very convincing.” She turns to Carter’s tutor, who stands nearby with three other members of the Dramatists group. “Nice work, Mark.”
Mark takes a slight bow. Carter beams. I think this is a very strange display . . . but for some reason, it also makes me wish Annika had seen me hit my targets in the field earlier today.
“Homesick?”
I spin toward the voice. Elinor, the pretty redhead, sits cross-legged on a bench behind me. In the light of a tall lamppost, I can see an open book balanced on her knees.
“It’s okay if you are,” she says.
I glance back at the fountain, where another Troublemaker is trying to cry fake tears as Annika and the others watch. I hurry toward Elinor before they hear her—or notice me.
“I’m not,” I say when I reach her. “Why do you think I am?”
Her eyes lower to my hand. I look down, surprised to see I’m still holding the black phone. In the commotion, I’d forgotten all about it.
She closes her book and stands. “Want to walk?”
I watch her start down the sidewalk. Does she expect me to follow her? Do I want to follow her?
Two older Troublemakers play laser tag in the grass behind the bench. In between blasts, they joke and chuckle.
“Mommy, I miss you,” one calls out.
“Daddy, please come get me! I need my binky and ba-ba and—”
I shoot down the sidewalk. My hecklers, who had obviously overheard my phone call, fall silent.
“I’m Elinor,” she says when I catch up.
“I know.” Then, feeling my cheeks warm under her curious glance, I add, “From the tutor assignment ceremony today. And class the other day.”
“Oh.” She looks away. One hand travels behind her back, brushes the green satin ribbon tied at the end of her braid.
“Houdini got my robot cuff links,” I say sympathetically. “I still don’t know how he did it—they were pinned to my sleeves. How did he unscrew them? And pull them out? While I was wearing them?”
She smiles, which makes me smile too.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You looked like you were about to laugh.”
She stops walking and faces me. “You’re talking fast.”
“So?”
“So you seem nervous.” She pauses. “Are you?”
Nervous? Me? I’m enrolled in a top secret professional trouble-making camp. I killed my substitute teacher. My roommate’s an arsonist. I’m following a girl who did who-knows-what to who-knows-who, whom I know nothing about, and it’s getting darker with each passing second. Why would I be nervous?
Elinor keeps walking. “Are you close to them?”
I hurry to keep up. “Who?”
“Your parents.”
“Oh. Yes. Very.”
Then I think about it. Am I close to them? I mean, they’re always around . . . but they’re my parents. That’s where they’re supposed to be. And though Dad and I sometimes kick back and watch movies, or talk about the Yankees and Giants, Mom and I don’t really spend a lot of quality time together. Unless you count the time she spends overseeing my chores-and-homework progress, and expressing her disapproval, which I guess I do. And as for talking, our conversations are usually fairly one-sided, with her firing off question after question about school while giving me two seconds to respond to each one. But that’s normal, isn’t it? After all, parents and kids aren’t supposed to be best friends.
“Are you?” I ask Elinor. “Close to yours?”
Instead of answering, she grabs my arm and yanks me through a thick curtain of drooping branches.
“Hey!” I try to pull away. “What are you—”
She clamps one hand over my mouth. I might bite her fingers to make her let go, except I’m instantly distracted by the fact that they smell like raspberries.
“Don’t move,” she whispers.
She holds her eyes to mine. Then, apparently deciding I’m not about to run screaming from the trees, she lowers her hand and leans toward the branches. I peer over her shoulder and through a narrow opening. Four Good Samaritans circle a nearby pond; two jump in, fanny packs and all, and the others remove tanks and hoses from behind a bush.
“Let’s go,” Elinor says. “While they’re busy.”
She gets up and starts for the other side of the leafy canopy. I watch the drenched Good Samaritans emerge from the water with a dripping Troublemaker. The Troublemaker wears a wet suit, mask, and snorkel. The hoses wrapped around his body lead to the tank onshore, which makes me believe the Good Samaritans have just stopped him from draining the pond.
“I thought you wanted to talk to your parents,” Elinor says. She stands next to me again.
“I did,” I say. “I do.”
“There’s a secret phone. A real one, with twelve buttons. I know where it is.”
I jump up. “How?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead she smiles, then slips through the curtain of leaves.
Heart thumping, I race after her. I fly across grass and burst through branches. Weave through trees and hurdle rocks. As we run, Elinor pulls farther and farther ahead. Eventually, she blends in with the descending darkness.
I catch up with her only once, at a river she doesn’t immediately know how to cross. Seeing me behind her, she bends her knees and leaps, landing lightly on a rock no bigger than my hand. She continues across the remaining rapids that way, hopping from one small rock to the next as easily as if they were hopscotch squares and the water was pavement. She doesn’t look back again, which is good, since my leap lands me face-first in river silt.
“I’ll be right there!” I yell, wiping mud from my eyes.
“Go left on the other side!” she shouts. Each word is softer, more distant than the one before. “When you reach the field of sunflowers, turn right and look for the bunker!”
It takes a while—and eight additional spills—but eventually I cross the river and follow the rest of my instructions.
Unfortunately, I don’t find sunflowers, a bunker, or a phone.
Worst of all, I don’t find Elinor.
Chapter 11
DEMERITS: 130
GOLD STARS: 60
Stop!”
I shoot up in bed.
�
��Drop!”
Grab the cup and canister from my nightstand.
“R—”
And fire.
Lemon stumbles back. Blinks the sleep from his eyes. Shakes the water from his hair.
“Again?” he says with a sigh.
“Again.” I stand up for a better shot at the burning trash can. The remaining flames fizzle out under the white foam. “But look. All we lost this time is some used tissues and candy wrappers. No big deal.”
He flops on his bed. Puts his elbows on his knees, his forehead in his hands. “Dude. I’m so going to kill you.”
For a second I think he’s mad that I intervened, but then I realize he’s seriously concerned.
“The Kilter Pocket Extinguisher has a ten-foot range,” I say. “I can reach every corner of the room without getting out of bed. As long as you keep yelling in your sleep so I wake up, we’re good.”
His head slowly lifts. Water droplets slide down his forehead, off his nose. “The what?”
“Kilter Pocket Extinguisher.” I hand him the small silver canister. “For your on-the-go blaze-blanketing needs.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“The Kommissary. They’d just gotten a new shipment when I stopped there last night.”
“And you bought it for me?”
“I bought it for us,” I say. “So we can both sleep a little easier.”
He turns the canister over and rubs his thumb across the shiny surface. “You should be saving your credits for fancy bows and arrows.”
“What good are fancy bows and arrows if I’m not alive to use them?”
I mean this as a joke. Thankfully, Lemon seems to take it that way. The corner of his mouth lifts as he stands and hands me the fire extinguisher.
“Let me make it up to you.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.” He opens his closet and slides out a white Styrofoam cooler. “I make a mean breakfast burrito. What do you say?”
I start to say no thanks, but stop. Because I’m not sure . . . but I think Lemon and I might be bonding.
“That sounds great. Thanks.”
Lemon starts a new, controlled fire. While he cooks, I check my e-mail and find a new message.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Credits to Burn?
Hiya, Seamus!
Thanks for swinging by the Kommissary and picking up a Kilter Pocket Extinguisher. We hope it helps you make tons of trouble! And if you want a little assistance with starting fires to put out, we totally recommend the Kilter Super Sparker. It can turn up the temperature anywhere, anytime!
I click on the flashing camera and a video begins. A smiling kid holds what look like two tiny tin cups up to the camera. He puts one on the tip of his thumb and the other on the tip of his middle finger, and snaps. A silver spark pops from his hand. Wondering if Lemon knows about this, I stop the video and keep reading.
Between your weekly allowance and completed homework assignments, you’ve earned a few more demerits. Unfortunately, you’ve also contacted the Hoodlum Hotline and earned a few more gold stars. But no worries! You’re still in the game. Our records show that you currently have 130 demerits and 60 gold stars, which gives you 70 credits. You dropped 20 credits on the Kilter Pocket Extinguisher, so you have 50 credits left. That’s more than enough to buy the Kilter Super Sparker, which is a sizzling steal at 30 credits!
See you soon? We hope so!
At Your Service,
The Kommissary Krew
I close the e-mail. Lemon’s still cooking, so I make a mental note to tell him about the Super Sparker, and then I take a shower and get dressed. By the time I come out of the bathroom, the sun’s up and breakfast’s ready.
And he wasn’t kidding: The burrito’s mean. It’s stuffed with eggs and cheese and three types of beans. It’s so good, when I clean my plate and he offers to make me another one, I accept.
“Do you cook a lot at home?” I ask as he cracks two eggs at once.
He nods. “We have an old gas stove. You need matches to light it. Cooking is the one way I can play with fire inside the house without my parents freaking out.”
This reminds me of my conversation with Elinor last night. “Are you close?” I ask. “You and your parents?”
“Depends what you mean by close.” He lifts the frying pan, flips the eggs.
“After you’re done cooking, do you sit down and eat together? And, like, talk?”
“Yes. All the time. Then when we’re done eating, we talk some more. And some more after that.” He dumps a can of beans into the pan. “My parents are big on communicating. They never stop.”
I wonder if that’s why Lemon doesn’t say much here. Maybe he likes not being forced to make constant conversation. Just in case, I don’t ask any more questions now. I simply watch him cook, and thank him when he hands me another burrito.
I’ve just finished the second helping when he checks his K-Pak.
“Uh-oh,” he says. “Bio’s meeting early in the library today.”
“Why’s that bad?” I ask, licking my fingers.
“The library’s across campus. And we were supposed to be there ten minutes ago.” He tosses his K-Pak on the bed. “We better haul.”
So we do. Or more accurately, Lemon hauls, and I, weighed down by the five pounds of burrito now in my stomach, huff and puff and lag behind. By the time I reach the library entrance, he’s already seated inside.
I stop to catch my breath and peer through the double glass doors. My classmates are scattered throughout the large room; some sit at tables, others on couches and chairs. Their heads are bent as they read and write. Several older students are also working, but no one stands out as a librarian or potential teacher. I’m thinking they’re very well behaved for bad kids without chaperones when I see the digital sign flashing just inside the entrance.
YOU’RE ENTERING KILTER’S ONLY NOISE-FREE ZONE.
PLEASE RESPECT YOUR FELLOW TROUBLEMAKERS!
Once I can breathe normally, I go inside. Lemon’s already slouched in an armchair on the other side of the room with his eyes closed, so I tiptoe to my nearest classmate: Abraham Hansen, Aerosol Assaulter.
I tap his shoulder. “Excuse me? Do you think you could—”
“Shh!”
I glance up. A girl at the next table looks at me and shakes her head.
Sorry, I mouth.
She returns to her book. I return to Abe. He holds up a notepad. It’s filled with boxed-in drawings, like a comic strip. In the first box, three stick figures sit at a table, reading. In the second, a shorter stick figure enters the room. His mouth is a thin line that tilts up on one side, like he’s smirking. In the third box, the shorter stick figure, now on top of the table, pounds his stick arms to his stick chest and raises his chin. Above his open mouth, “BURRRRPPPPPP!!!!!” is written around a dark, swirling cloud. In the next box, the stick figures flee the table, horrified.
Abe lowers the notepad. Writes “5 Demerits” above the toxic cloud. Holds it up again.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “So we’re supposed to—”
“Shh!”
Abe turns the page to another series of drawings. This one looks a lot like the first, except instead of the cloud bursting from the stick figure’s mouth, it shoots out from where his rear end would be if he had one. Next to that cloud Abe writes “10 Demerits.”
Then, as if the universe could sense my confusion, the room’s silence is shattered by a bang—no, a roar. I jump. Abe covers his ears. The girl at the next table winces like she’s been punched in the gut. The noise doesn’t last more than five seconds, but it feels like days.
When it’s over, there are giggles. Whispers. I look around for the culprit, and so does everyone else.
Except for Samara, our biology teacher. She stands by a tall bookshelf labeled FAMOUS RABBLE-ROUSERS THROUGHOUT HISTORY. When our eyes meet, sh
e nods to a door behind her, then disappears through it.
I don’t know what she wants, but I follow her into the custodial closet anyway. Bodily noises make me uncomfortable, and any excuse to get away from them is a good one.
“You’re late,” she says when I close the door behind me.
“I know. My roommate had issues and then we had breakfast and—”
“Enough.” She holds up one hand. “Normally, I don’t tolerate tardiness—I don’t care who you are. But because you’re Annika’s golden child, I’m going to do you a huge favor and fill you in on what you’ve missed.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to dwell on the “golden child” reference.
She hikes up the left leg of her jeans. Taped to the skin below her knee is a round silver pouch. She lifts her right foot and taps the pouch with her heel.
The custodial closet fills with a shorter, softer version of what we just heard in the library.
“A whoopee cushion?” I say. “That’s what made that noise?”
She drops her cuff. The cushion disappears.
“It doesn’t matter how old you are—or how mature. Bodily noises, real or phony, will get you every time. Used correctly, they’re some of the most powerful weapons in combating controlling adults. One unexpected wrong noise can strip your parents of all logic, reason, and memory ten times more effectively than any crying fit or temper tantrum.” She looks up at me. “Your task in this class is to earn twenty demerits. Burps are five demerits, far—”
“The others are ten,” I finish quickly. That word makes me even more uncomfortable than the actual act does. “I know. But I don’t have a whoopee cushion.”
“It’s a K-Pouch. And neither does anyone else out there.”
My eyes widen. “You mean we’re supposed to—I’m supposed to . . . ? In front of all those people, you want me to—”
“You don’t have to really do those things. Just make the noises. Preferably without anyone knowing it’s you.”
She reaches past me and opens the door. I shuffle backward. When the door closes again, I force myself to turn around and face the silent library.
The assignment’s embarrassing, but I’d still like to make a good impression on Samara. She is my teacher, after all, and we haven’t gotten off to the best start. So I find an empty lounge chair in one corner of the room. I turn it around until it faces the wall, climb over one arm, and slide down the seat.