Troublemakers #1 (9781442440319)

by Burns, T. R.

  And for the next forty-five minutes, I try. I really do. I take deep breaths. Stick out my tongue. Think about Dr Pepper and Mountain Dew. But every time I’m about to blow, someone else does, shattering the silence—and my concentration. It takes several minutes to work up to each attempt; before long, class is over, and time’s up.

  Feeling both relieved and disappointed, I climb out of the chair and start across the library. Up ahead, Lemon walks and whispers with Gabby and Abe. I start jogging to catch up.

  And then I stop. My belly, still full of burrito, turns. I hold my breath and stand perfectly still, but it only turns faster. Then it twists. Cramps. Growls. My face burns as I clamp both hands over the noise’s source. Frantic, I scan the library for a bathroom, but there are only two doors: one for the cleaning closet and another marked ARCHIVES. I noticed a bathroom when I came into the building, but it’s three hallways from here. And I don’t have that kind of time.

  A dozen older students remain in the library. They don’t look up as I pass, but I try to smile anyway. The below-belt growling grows louder, and if they hear it, I want to reassure them everything’s fine.

  Even though it is so not. My stomach’s on the brink of explosion, and it takes every bit of strength I have to walk—not sprint—to the Archives room. Reaching the door, I fling it open and dart inside. The small room’s filled with metal shelves lined with books and binders. Desperate to get as far away from the rest of the library as possible, I dash down the nearest aisle and into a corner.

  Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart! The more you eat, the more you—

  My body finishes the chorus right on cue. The noise is loud, the force strong. I think the concrete wall I lean against shakes, though I’m also trembling from fear and exertion, so it’s hard to be sure.

  But then it’s over. And I feel like a new man.

  I wait a few seconds to make sure there’s not a second wave. When my stomach remains calm, I sigh in relief and head for the door.

  Which is now blocked. By Samara, who stands with her hands over her nose and mouth and her legs spread and glued to the wood behind her. A messenger bag lies open on one side of her feet, and a cup of coffee is splattered on the other. Her eyes are wide, her breathing heavy.

  “Congratulations, Seamus Hinkle,” she half gasps, half whispers. “Maybe Annika’s right about you after all.”

  Chapter 12

  DEMERITS: 250

  GOLD STARS: 60

  TO: parsippany@cloudviewschools.net

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Another One Bites the Dust

  Dear Miss Parsippany,

  Well, I did it again. The other day, after biology class, I did something bad to another teacher. It was so bad, she froze and blushed and practically cried. I can’t really tell you HOW I did this (trust me, you don’t want to know), but I CAN say that it’s a week later, and I still feel terrible.

  Like the apple hitting you and the balls hitting Fern, what happened with Samara was an accident. I’ve tried to make up for it anyway, by being the best student I can be . . . but classes here are weird. What we learn is weird too.

  Take music. At Cloudview, this class is for listening to Beethoven and counting beats and playing “Greensleeves” on Mr. O’Mally’s keyboard. But here? Music is for whistling without moving your lips. That’s what we did the other day. For two hours.

  The other classes are just as strange. In gym we did wind sprints through campus while older students disguised as adults chased us. In language arts we brushed up on pig Latin and learned pig French, which is similar to pig Latin but adds an extra “ay” to the end of every word. In art we drew pictures so scary they’d give parents nightmares for weeks—which was the point.

  I still don’t get what I’m supposed to do with these skills out in the real world, but I’m playing along. Because it makes my teachers happy. And because eventually, the semester will end. I’ll go home. My parents will think I’m reformed, and I’ll do everything I can to convince them that’s true. And Kilter will just be this weird place near the North Pole where I once spent a few weeks.

  At least, that’s what I’m hoping.

  Sincerely,

  Seamus Hinkle

  “Love letter?”

  I jump. The K-Pak slips from my grip. Ike swoops in and catches it before it hits the ground.

  “Ladies dig a guy with a romantic side.” He grins and holds out the K-Pak. “Who is she?”

  I open my mouth to explain, but then stop. Do I really want to tell my troublemaking tutor that I write e-mails I can never send to my dead substitute teacher? Won’t that remind him that I’m a murderer, which is the one thing I wish everyone would forget?

  “Elinor,” I say. Hers is the first name I think of.

  “The ice queen?” Ike shivers. “Better bundle up.”

  “What’s that?” I nod to the long silver sheath hanging at his side. Whatever it is, I’d rather talk about it than any feelings I may or may not have for my prettiest classmate.

  Ike removes the sheath and holds it toward me. “A gift.”

  I smile. “What for?”

  “For just being you.”

  This doesn’t seem like a very good reason, but I don’t want to be rude. So I take the sheath and undo the Velcro running down its center. When I see the skinny shaft, the comma-shaped trigger, my reflected face turning white in the gleaming steel, I squeeze both ends of the gift to keep from shoving it back at Ike.

  “A gun?” I say.

  “Not quite.” Ike drops to his knees next to me. “A Kilter Painter 1000. The best introductory paintball rifle credits can buy.”

  A paintball rifle. My fingers relax slightly. “What happened to the bow? And suction-cup arrows?”

  “Back in the toy chest. You’ve outgrown them.”

  “After one session?”

  “That was all you needed. Plus, the arsenal of every great marksman consists of a variety of weapons. If we stuck with bows and arrows, you’d be an archer. Which, as we know, isn’t your calling.”

  Ike sounds as excited as Dad does on Christmas morning, when he gives me the single gift he picked out without Mom’s help. Because Dad’s an accountant, those gifts are usually office supplies; I don’t have much use for economy-size packs of staples and rubber bands, but he loves giving them, so I love getting them.

  This is what I think of as I pat the rifle and say, “Awesome. Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. See what it can do first.”

  “Here?” My fingers tighten again. “Now?”

  “Can you think of a better place and time?”

  Yes. The huge field of mannequins. My empty dorm room. The Kanteen dining hall, which is likely vacant since it’s two in the afternoon and in between meal times. Anywhere at midnight tonight, when kids and staff members are sound asleep and out of firing range.

  Just not here, at the Performance Pavilion. Or now, when my fellow first-year Troublemakers are meeting with their respective troublemaking groups.

  “I don’t know . . . they seem pretty serious down there.”

  We’re in the staff viewing box, where Ike told me to meet him. He leans forward and peers through the window that overlooks the stage.

  “Yammering. That’s all they’re doing. Older TMs are bragging about their troublemaking conquests to younger TMs.” He turns back. “Big heads are notorious side effects of a Kilter education. Do yourself a favor and keep the ego in check.”

  That won’t be a problem.

  “Is that why you’re up here instead of down there?” I ask. “Because you don’t want to get caught up in that?”

  I’ve wondered about Ike’s separation from older Troublemakers before. He participated in the tutor assignment performance but didn’t hang around for the end of the ceremony. He wears a black ski parka instead of the silver one other Troublemakers wear. A patch is sewn on the left sleeve, but it’s blank; there’s no “KA” or group emb
lem. And while my classmates all received parkas at the ceremony, I didn’t. Not that I’m complaining—I don’t deserve any of the benefits I’ve received so far. But I do wonder why.

  “I’m up here instead of down there because I’m not like them.” He pauses. “And neither are you.”

  My eyes widen. Does that mean he . . . ? Like me, did he . . . ?

  “Technically, we’re members of the Sniper Squad,” he says. “That’s the group of TMs who use physical weapons to make trouble. Each member is master of one specific weapon—except me. I’m master of them all. And by the time we’re done, you will be too.”

  That answers that. Unless Ike’s used his skills to do something Annika doesn’t know about, I’m still Kilter’s only murderer.

  “Shall we get started?” he asks.

  Not wanting to be spotted, I’ve been sitting with my back to the low wall since arriving twenty minutes ago. Now I climb to my knees and turn around so that I’m facing the window. I rise up just enough to see through the glass. The groups are spread across the stage; the younger Troublemakers listen attentively to the older Troublemakers. Every now and then there’s laughter and clapping.

  Ike nudges me. Motions for me to hold out my hand. I do, and he drops five silver beads into my open palm.

  “These don’t look like paintballs,” I whisper. They’re small and heavy and resemble bullets.

  “Metal casing,” Ike whispers back. “For speed. It disintegrates upon firing. The actual ball’s made of foam.”

  I must look skeptical, because he sits back on his heels. Unzips his parka. Pats his chest.

  “Go ahead. Give me your best shot.”

  My eyes lift to his. “What?”

  “You don’t believe the balls are made of foam. You’re worried you’ll hurt someone. And I’m going to prove that you won’t.”

  “But you’re two feet away.”

  “Exactly. If I don’t bleed, no one down there will.”

  This makes sense but still seems like a bad idea. “Can’t I shoot your foot? Or maybe your—”

  “All or nothing, Seamus. Anything in between is pointless.”

  He sounds so confident I take the gun from the sheath and drop the five beads into the slot labeled AMMO. I lift the gun, aim for his chest, and close my eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  There’s a dull thwat. I open my eyes—and almost fall over.

  Because Ike was wrong. He’s bleeding. The bullet hit his chest and now dark red liquid spreads across his T-shirt.

  “It’s paint,” he reminds me as I start to reach for him. He nods to the floor, where jagged silver chunks lie between us.

  I stop reaching, and frown. “You couldn’t have picked a different color?”

  “This one’s easy to see. And it freaks people out before they realize it’s not blood.” He returns to his knees next to me. “Each body part’s worth a different number of demerits. Arms and legs are five, hands and feet ten, chest and back fifteen. Head’s twenty. Your total goal’s a hundred. Got it?”

  “Yes. But what about the window?”

  I don’t know how he couldn’t have thought of this, but I’m hopeful anyway. It’s kind of hard to hit any target with any weapon when there’s a plate of glass in the way.

  My hope is short-lived. Because Ike presses a button on the low wall. And the window slides into the concrete.

  “Anything else?” he asks.

  There isn’t—at least not that will get me out of this situation.

  “Good,” Ike says. “Now let’s have some fun.”

  Taking a deep breath, I lift the gun. Close one eye. Press my pointer finger to the trigger. And pull.

  Thwat.

  The paintball hits the back of Chris Fisher, a fellow first-year in the Dramatists group. He shoots forward from the force and twists in his seat to try to see where he was struck. But the angle’s too awkward. He doesn’t see the red paint splattered across his coat. The paintball bounces silently under his chair, out of sight. A moment later he faces forward, puzzled but clearly not hurt.

  I grin. Ike pats my shoulder.

  “Fifteen demerits,” he says. “Eighty-five to go.”

  I raise the gun and choose another target. The girls make me think of Miss Parsippany, so they’re off-limits. That leaves the guys, who are far enough away that I can pretend they’re Bartholomew John and Alex Ortiz.

  I pick one of the Biohazards. The older Troublemakers in that group are having some sort of burping-contest reenactment, which has the younger Troublemakers in hysterics. Hoping he’s so distracted he won’t feel a thing, I point and shoot at a kid in the back row.

  Thwat.

  The ball skims his shoulder. As the red paint spreads, he doesn’t even blink.

  “Awesome,” I whisper.

  “Twenty,” Ike whispers. “Eighty to go.”

  I keep shooting. At first I worry only about making contact, not about aiming for specific body parts. I miss a few times, but soon I’m getting hit after hit. Ike gives me more ammo, and I reload. Feeling more comfortable, I focus on the leg of my next target. The hand of the one after that. To keep alarm at a minimum, I don’t hit the same group twice in a row. I also concentrate on the younger Troublemakers, figuring they’re less likely to speak up and interrupt the older ones they want to impress.

  Before I know it, I’m out of ammo again. I smile at Ike and hold out one hand.

  “This just might be the coolest present I’ve ever gotten,” I say.

  “I know.” He smiles back and drops more paintballs in my open palm.

  Unfortunately, my good aim—or luck—doesn’t last. I’ve just fired my seventh shot when my target sneezes. His head falls forward . . . and the paintball hits the chest of his group leader.

  “Another fifteen,” Ike hisses. “Good job. Now run!”

  He leaps to his feet. Down below, the older Troublemaker I hit looks at the paint on his chest. The startling image silences his group—but only briefly. They follow their leader’s lead and are soon on their feet, scanning the pavilion. Troublemakers in other groups notice the commotion. It doesn’t take long for my formerly silent targets to speak up and for every person in the arena to scatter in search of the culprit.

  I spin around to ask Ike what we do now, but he’s already gone. Still holding the gun, I scramble to my feet and lunge for the extra ammunition, Ike’s duffel bag, my backpack. It’s a lot to carry, and my palms are slick with sweat. I try to readjust as I start for the steps leading to the viewing-box door, but it’s too much. The gun slips from my grasp. A paintball fires straight up, ricochets off an overhead lamp, and disappears on the other side of the low wall.

  A second later, there’s a scream.

  I freeze.

  “Didn’t see that one coming!” a familiar voice calls out from below.

  I force my feet to move, then peer over the wall. Only one person remains on the pavilion stage: Wyatt. Our art teacher. He wasn’t part of the tutor-trainee gathering and carries an easel and paint box, like he just came to do some work.

  A beet-red splotch spreads across his abdomen. He gives the entire arena a thumbs-up, then proceeds to arrange his easel and materials like nothing happened.

  I step back, relieved he’s okay but worried I’ve just wasted valuable time. Troublemakers are on the move. They’ll be up here any second. If I flee now, chances are slim I’ll make it out without running into them—and I’m too nervous to lie about where I’ve been. I could stay and hide under the seats . . . but if they find me, won’t that be worse than if I just came clean?

  “GS Four en route.”

  I stop and listen to the noises coming from the hallway. There’s muffled static as the Good Samaritan uses his walkie-talkie.

  “On first mezzanine. No sign of subject—yet.”

  His voice is louder. He’s coming closer.

  “Open up!”

  Loud, sharp pounding shakes the viewing-box walls. I brace for the door to
fly open . . . but it doesn’t. There’s a slam and more muffled static as the Good Samaritan enters another room down the hall.

  Without thinking, I grab the gun from the floor. Turn it around so the barrel’s aimed at me. And fire.

  Once. Twice. Three times.

  Paintballs hit my foot. My shin. My thigh.

  “Not bad.”

  I jump. The viewing-box door’s wide open. And I’m not alone.

  “Shooting yourself so you look like a victim and not the attacker. Annika would be proud.”

  I open my mouth to try to explain, apologize, say anything that will make this seem better than it is.

  But before I can find the words, Elinor’s eyes lock on mine.

  And then she leaves.

  Chapter 13

  DEMERITS: 750

  GOLD STARS: 60

  Hoodlum Hotline, how may I direct your call?”

  “I’d like to report a theft, please.”

  “Proceed.”

  I scoot farther back in the closet, behind Lemon’s ski parka. “Aaron Potts stole a bag of pretzels from Matilda Jackson. Today, outside the Kanteen.”

  The clicking on the other end of the line stops. “A bag of pretzels?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think this is worth reporting because . . . ?”

  “Matilda Jackson loves pretzels,” I say. “They’re all she eats.”

  I actually have no idea how Matilda Jackson feels about pretzels, but this gets the operator typing again.

  “Did you witness this theft firsthand?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Seamus Hinkle, tattling in the third degree!”

  The line goes dead. I wait a minute, then dial again.

  “Hoodlum Hotline, how may I direct your call?”

  “I’d like to call my parents, please.”

  “Sorry, no family phone calls. You can tell them how much fun you’re having on Parents’ Day.”