Troublemakers #1 (9781442440319)

by Burns, T. R.

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Seamus Hinkle, Parental Communication Attempt!”

  Click.

  I wait another minute. Dial again.

  “Hoodlum Hotline, how may I— Wait. Is this Seamus Hinkle?”

  “Yes?”

  “You do realize you rack up gold stars each time we talk, right?”

  I do. That’s the point. But I don’t want her to know that.

  “This is the last time,” I say. “For something I just can’t let slide. Call me old-fashioned.”

  “All righty, old-fashioned. Let’s hear it.”

  “Brian Benson programmed every TV in the first-year dorm to Rocky and Bullwinkle. We can’t change the channel.”

  She stops typing. “And?”

  I pause. “Have you seen Rocky and Bullwinkle? The news would be more entertaining.”

  The typing resumes. “It’s called a classic, but I suppose that’s beside the point. Anything else I can help you with today?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure? You’re not going to call me again in five seconds? Because we can bang out all your reports right now. Save me the trouble of answering the phone—and stopping my word searches midsearch.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okeydoke. Seamus Hinkle, tattling in the fourth degree!”

  Click.

  I put down the phone and pick up my K-Pak, which buzzes with a new message.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: kommissary@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Don’t Stop Now!

  Congratulations, Seamus! You recently earned hundreds of demerits—and credits—for getting a bunch of teachers, unleashing the wrath of the Kilter Painter 1000, and completing assignments. And you know what that means. Shopping spree at the Kommissary!

  If you want to really load up, though, you might want to disconnect your phone. Two minutes ago, with 750 demerits, 60 gold stars, and only one previous purchase (the Kilter Pocket Extinguisher, cost: 20 credits), you had 670 credits and could’ve bought the stainless steel Kilter Mug Guard (650 credits), which every serious Sniper Squad member should eventually call his own.

  I click on the flashing camera. A shiny silver face shield, which looks like something an ice-hockey goalie would wear, appears.

  But after your latest phone activity, you can now only afford the plastic Kilter Mug Guard (600 credits), which is fine for ordinary Troublemakers—but not extraordinary ones. You should be as protected as possible!

  Maybe you fell asleep with your nose pressed to the redial button? If so . . . WAKE UP!

  At Your Service,

  The Kommissary Krew

  I exit my e-mail and load the Kilter Report Kard. When it updates, I see I’ve just earned sixty gold stars. That’s barely a dent in all the demerits I’ve accumulated, but it’s a start.

  Because here’s the thing. I can’t change the fact that Annika and the teachers think I’m some sort of natural-born Troublemaker, because I can’t change the fact that I killed Miss Parsippany. Plus, considering how much trouble I’ve made since arriving here, intentional or not, they might be onto something. But as far as I can tell, the verdict’s still out with my fellow Troublemakers. Which means that if I can just earn enough gold stars to balance out the demerits, maybe they’ll eventually decide I’m no different from any of them. Right now our demerits and gold stars aren’t public knowledge, but that could change at any point. And who knows? This is a school for professional Troublemakers. If someone wants to know how well a classmate is doing, I’m sure they can find out. At the very least, I won’t raise suspicions by checking into the Kommissary with a million credits.

  I feel pretty good about my progress until my eyes fall to the bottom of the list. Then blood drains from my face like sand through the hourglass in the opening of Mom’s favorite soap opera.

  CURRENT CLASS RANKING: 4 OUT OF 31

  Fourth. I’ve had a month less to make trouble . . . and I’m fourth. That means I’m ahead of 75 percent of my class. It also means I have, like, a million more gold stars to earn.

  I debate calling the Hoodlum Hotline again with another Parental Communication Attempt. Before I can decide, I hear a door open and close, and people talking in our room.

  I’d told Lemon I was going into the closet to watch a movie on my K-Pak in total darkness. So I toss the phone in my sweatshirt hood, where I’d hidden it before telling that little white lie, and open the closet door.

  “Dude, I’m serious. It’s the only way. If we all—”

  Abe’s back is to me. He stops talking when Lemon looks past him, and then turns around. Seeing me, he frowns.

  “Short movie?” Lemon asks.

  “Bad movie,” I say. Since I was only in the closet for fifteen minutes.

  “Bummer,” he says.

  I stand there, not sure what to do. Abe’s blocking my desk chair. Gabby’s sitting on my bed. I could go into the bathroom, but I’ve already showered and don’t want them to think I’m doing anything else in there that takes longer than thirty seconds to finish. As far as I know, word hasn’t gotten out about my post-burrito library performance, but I’m not adding any more fuel to that fire, just in case.

  “Abe wants to form an alliance.”

  “Dude.” Abe throws his hands in the air.

  Lemon ignores him and flops on his bed. “He thinks it’s the only way to get Mystery.”

  “Mystery?” I say.

  “Mr. History,” Gabby says. “Also known as Mr. Tempest.”

  “I thought Houdini said we didn’t have to get him,” I say.

  “Average Troublemakers don’t,” Abe says. “I do. I want that extra credit, whatever it is.”

  “Abe just launched an epic spray-paint attack on him,” Gabby adds.

  “And was defeated before the first drops hit their target,” Lemon says.

  “Really?” Abe puts his hands on his hips. “You really want to involve the new kid?”

  “Relax,” Lemon says. “Hinkle’s cool.”

  “Hinkle started late. Hinkle gets special treatment. Hinkle is so loved by Annika and our teachers, he’s practically one of them.” Abe looks at Lemon. “How do you know he can be trusted?”

  Lemon looks at me. “I just do.”

  This is followed by a long, awkward pause.

  “That’s it?” Abe asks.

  “That’s it,” Lemon says.

  Abe half sighs, half groans. “Fine. Whatever. But even if he can be trusted—which I doubt—he’s still a month behind. You and I aren’t exactly buddies, but I came to you because I know you’re at the top of the class. I know this because I’m second and Gabby’s third, and you’re the only other Troublemaker who’s gotten every other teacher.”

  I watch Lemon’s expression. It doesn’t change.

  “If we work together,” Abe says, “I know we can beat Mystery. Probably faster and easier than any Troublemaker before.”

  “Don’t you want to be the best?” Gabby asks. “I mean, look at everything we’ve gotten just by being here. Imagine what we might get by being better than the rest.”

  “Like rewards?” Lemon asks. “Prizes?”

  “The Kilter Smoke Detector with Automatic Flame Eliminator?” Abe says.

  Lemon sits up. Fast.

  “Three Troublemakers can make three times as much trouble—and get what they want three times as fast.” Abe lifts his chin toward the smoke-stained ceiling. “That kind of speed might come in handy.”

  Lemon’s furry eyebrows lower. He eyes the trash can in the middle of the floor. We took turns scrubbing it after last night’s fire, but no amount of cleaning will turn the blackened metal silver again.

  “Fine,” Lemon finally says, sitting back.

  Abe whoops. Gabby squeals.

  “On one condition,” Lemon adds.

  “Name it.” Abe smiles.

  “Hinkle’s in too.”

  Abe’s smile falls. “What? No way.”


  “That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I mean, thanks, Lemon. That’s really nice of you, but—”

  “Hinkle’s in, or I’m out.” Lemon’s voice is firm. “And you’re right. I’m first in the class. I have been for weeks, even after being docked four days of troublemaking by the Good Samaritans. If you’re serious about beating Mystery, you’ll accept these terms. If you’re not, I’m sure I can get him on my own.”

  Abe steps toward Lemon and lowers his voice like I’m not standing three feet away. “But he’s a month behind,” he says. “He’ll be deadweight.”

  Deadweight. I almost laugh.

  “He probably hasn’t gotten any teachers besides Fern yet,” Abe continues, practically whispering.

  “Hinkle,” Lemon says, “how many teachers have you taken down so far?”

  I swallow, embarrassed to admit it even though I know it’ll be considered a good thing. “Five.”

  Abe spins around. Gabby gasps.

  “Five?” she says.

  “Which ones?” Abe asks, suspicious.

  “Fern, Samara, Wyatt, Lizzie, and Houdini.” All accidentally—including Houdini, who didn’t notice when his sunglasses fell off his head and into my backpack after math last week. And Lizzie, our language arts teacher, who was caught off guard and had no idea what I was saying when I tried talking to her with a mouthful of fish sticks at lunch the other day. But I leave that part out.

  “That leaves Devin—”

  “And Mystery,” Lemon finishes, cutting Abe off.

  Abe stares at me, then shakes his head and turns back to Lemon. “Still. He’s a month behind on classes and assignments. We know things he doesn’t. There’s no way he’ll be able to keep up.”

  “Hinkle,” Lemon says, “how many demerits do you have right now?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty.” Less the sixty gold stars I already had and the sixty I just earned in the closet, but I leave that out also.

  Abe’s mouth drops open. So does Gabby’s. And for just a second, I’m proud.

  “What about Annika?” he tries next, his voice thin with frustration. “And the rest of the staff? For whatever reason, they love him—and will probably be paying close attention to him. If he’s in the alliance, they’ll pay close attention to us. It’ll be way harder to take down Mystery if they’re watching our every move.”

  “They already watch our every move.” Lemon sits up. Leans toward Abe. “And have you stopped to consider why Annika and the staff love him?”

  Abe starts to speak—then stops.

  “They let him start late,” Lemon says patiently, like he’s talking to a five-year-old. “He’s already almost caught up. This is a school for Troublemakers.” He pauses. “Think about it.”

  As Abe thinks, my heart races. My breath quickens. I lean against the dresser just in case they ask me something that makes my knees give out.

  “How about a compromise?” Gabby asks a minute later.

  Lemon leans to the side and peers around Abe. “What kind?”

  “A test. If Seamus passes, he’s in. If he doesn’t, he’s not.”

  “That sounds fair.” Abe releases a sigh of relief, apparently confident that whatever the test is, I won’t pass.

  Lemon nods slowly, then looks at me. “What do you think?”

  “Let’s do it,” I say.

  They huddle together. I sit at the foot of my bed and wait, as certain of the outcome as Abe seems to be. It was great of Lemon to fight for me, but I don’t need to be in the alliance. I don’t need to get Mystery. I just need to get through the semester so I can go home. Abe reminds me a little of Bartholomew John, but proving him wrong isn’t more important than sliding by—as under the radar as possible.

  Three minutes later, the huddle breaks.

  “Okay,” Gabby says, rubbing her palms together. “Prepare to stare.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “What?”

  “A staring contest,” Lemon says. “You versus Gabby.”

  “In the interest of full disclosure—and fairness—you should know I’m good.” Gabby brings over a desk chair, places it in front of me, and sits. “Really good.”

  This doesn’t seem like a very serious challenge to me, but it’s immediately clear that to Gabby, it’s as serious as challenges get. She rubs her eyes. Opens them. Closes them. Three times slowly, then five times fast. Without moving her head, she looks all the way to the right, then all the way to the left. Up, then down. She places her thumbs just below her bottom lashes and her pointer fingers above her top lashes, and stretches her skin until her blue eyes look like they’ll fall out of their sockets.

  And then she cracks her knuckles.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Five seconds,” Abe announces. “Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . go!”

  Her eyes lock on mine. They’re intense. I almost expect laser beams to shoot out from her pupils.

  Her focus is so uncomfortable I’m ready to forfeit ten seconds in. And I would . . . but then Abe sneezes. Once. Twice. Three times. The last is followed by a soft thump, which I’m pretty sure is Lemon’s fist connecting with Abe’s shoulder, since the sneezes stop after that.

  I know instantly that he’s trying to rattle me. Just like Bartholomew John on Fish Stick Tuesdays. So I open my eyes wider. Pretend Gabby’s are on a TV screen, that I’m playing a video game and this is the last, most difficult level.

  Three minutes and eleven seconds later, Gabby blinks.

  I win.

  And Abe reluctantly accepts me into the alliance.

  “Impressive,” Lemon says after they’ve left. He hands me a wet washcloth. “Beating the master starer at her own game.”

  I thank him and press the washcloth to my closed, dry eyes. I’m glad I can’t see his face when I speak again.

  “By the way, what you said to Abe about why Annika and the staff love me . . .” I take a deep breath, count my pounding heartbeats. “Do you know?”

  “How would I? You haven’t told me.”

  “I know. But I just thought . . . that maybe you heard . . . or maybe someone else said . . . ?”

  “Seamus,” Lemon says, “whatever it is, don’t sweat it. We all have our stuff. Trust me.”

  Chapter 14

  DEMERITS: 760

  GOLD STARS: 120

  For its purposes, the alliance couldn’t have formed at a better time. Because the next morning we wake to K-Pak messages instructing us to pick up bagged breakfasts and be at the front gate by nine o’clock. Lemon and I walk together and meet up with Abe and Gabby on the way. A golf cart pulls up at nine sharp; it looks like the one I rode in with Ike, except it’s as long as a school bus and has thirty seats instead of two.

  And who’s sitting behind the wheel? The Mystery man himself. Sitting next to him, so busy on her K-Pak she doesn’t look up, is Annika.

  “Good morning,” says Alison Parker, an expert knock-knock joker, as she steps on board.

  “Hello, Annika,” says Eric Fisher, a talented hide-and-seeker. “Mr. Tempest.”

  “Yo,” says Abe.

  This last greeting makes me cringe, but it gets the same response the other, more polite greetings do: a quick smile from Annika and silence from Mr. Tempest. Our history teacher, wearing a long, black wool coat, black gloves, and dark sunglasses, says nothing. Does nothing. As we fill the golf cart, he simply sits still and looks straight ahead.

  As soon as we’re seated, both Lemon’s and my K-Paks buzz.

  TO: loliver@kilteracademy.org;

  shinkle@kilteracademy.org;

  gryan@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: ahansen@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: !!!

  Amazing timing! Need to strategize, but too many ears here. Let’s brainstorm on our own now and discuss once we get wherever we’re going.

  —Abe

  He must really be concerned about eavesdroppers, because he and Gabby are sitting right in front
of us.

  My K-Pak buzzes again.

  TO: ahansen@kilteracademy.org;

  shinkle@kilteracademy.org;

  gryan@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: loliver@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Chill

  The message box is blank.

  “You might want to resend,” I tell Lemon. “The message is missing.”

  He looks at the open note on my K-Pak screen. “Nope. It’s not.”

  Okay. Lemon wants us to chill. I put away my K-Pak and sit back.

  “Have you had class with Mr. Tempest before?” I whisper.

  “Once,” Lemon says quietly. “It was the shortest lecture ever. He told us how Annika started the school twenty years ago, when she was eighteen. She was the only teacher—and chef and custodian and everything else—but she did such a good job, she was able to hire new teachers and expand the program right away. He also said that she thinks the reason Kilter’s been so successful since then is because she has really high hiring standards.”

  “Which are?”

  “Extraordinary troublemaking talent, of course, and kidlike mentality.”

  “How can she tell how kidlike someone is?” I ask.

  “By their age. Apparently, if you’re a day over twenty-five, you’re fine to flip burgers in the Kanteen . . . but you’re too old to teach.”

  “But—”

  The golf cart takes off with a jolt, stopping me from pointing out that Mr. Tempest, whose wrinkles and thin white hair suggest that twenty-five came and went a long time ago, doesn’t exactly meet those standards.

  We veer away from the main entrance. The cart travels so fast the scenery flies by in green, blue, and brown streaks, making it impossible to tell what we pass. Clear panes of glass slide up the cart’s sides like windows, blocking out potentially revealing sounds and smells. The only clues come when the cart shoots up or down or swings from side to side, which suggests we’re traveling across mountainous terrain.

  The motion makes my stomach turn, and ten minutes into the trip I have to look away. I can’t move my head because of the force pushing it back into the seat, but I can roll my eyes, so I focus on the still figures and objects inside the cart. Next to me, Lemon’s eyes are closed. In front of us, Gabby’s head is turned permanently to the right as she chatters away with—or more accurately, at—Abe, who uses both hands to keep the graphic novel he’s reading from colliding with his face.