by Burns, T. R.
Abe’s head snaps toward me. “What about it?”
“It’s at the base of the mountain.”
“And?”
“And it needs a driver.” My eyes meet Lemon’s. “You think we can get Mystery down there, after the helicopter lands.”
Lemon’s lips lift in the slightest hint of a smile. “I think we can try.”
“Right,” Abe says, like he was thinking this all along. “Of course. We’ll need to book it, though, if we’re going to beat everyone else to the punch.”
He starts to shimmy down the branch. Gabby looks from Lemon to him and back to Lemon. Lemon stays put, so I do too.
“Hello?” Abe says when he reaches the trunk. “What are you waiting for?”
“You to share your plan,” Lemon says. “For what we’ll do when we’re back down the mountain. You have one, right?”
Abe’s cheeks darken from fuchsia to maroon. “Sure. We’ll just . . . I think we should . . . we can definitely get him by . . .” His voice trails off as he searches the ground for clues.
“We need to stop them,” I say, my pulse quickening. “The other Troublemakers. If we’re all down there at the same time, Mystery will probably expect someone to try something and be on the lookout.”
“Yes.” Lemon sits up. “How?”
I can’t tell if he asks because he doesn’t know, or because he does and just wants us to figure it out for ourselves. He is first in the class, after all. He might’ve had this thought out before we even started climbing the mountain.
“Too bad we don’t have another prize,” Gabby says. “Something bigger and better than the scooter that we could lure them away with.”
“That is too bad,” Lemon says thoughtfully. “But then . . . they don’t know that we don’t.”
He takes his K-Pak from his parka pocket and types quickly. When he’s done, he holds it out so we can see the screen.
ATTENTION, TROUBLEMAKERS! Today’s challenge consists of two parts. You know the first. Here’s the second:
Three gold rings are hidden throughout the carousel in Annika’s Apex. The first students to return to the top of the mountain and find them win a Kilter Series 9000 scooter with attached sidecar AND 500 demerits. This is your chance to leave your mark on Kilter’s illustrious legacy—and win some fabulous prizes in the process!
Regards,
Mr. Tempest
“What would a Kilter Series 9000 scooter do that a 7000 doesn’t?” Gabby asks. “Turn into a submarine underwater?”
“If we’re lucky, that’s what they’ll want to find out,” Lemon says.
“You’re going to send that to everyone?” I ask. “What if they don’t check their K-Paks in time?”
“I can’t actually send it, because they’ll see it came from my K-Mail address—not Mystery’s.”
“Then how are they going to get the message?” There’s a twinge of satisfaction in Abe’s voice, like he’s pleased Lemon’s plan won’t work. We may be in an alliance, but he clearly wants to be leader.
“You all have your K-Paks?” Lemon asks.
We nod.
“I think you should copy this note so you each have it. Then we’ll split up, run down the trails, and show it to our classmates. We’ll need to make it seem like we just got it and wanted to make sure everyone else did too.”
“Never going to work,” Abe says.
“It will if you make the challenge—and the prize—sound like the most exciting one we’ve ever had,” Lemon says. “Think you can do that, Hansen?”
Abe frowns. He doesn’t want Lemon to be right, but he also doesn’t want to be the one to mess up the plan if there’s a chance it might succeed.
“I can do it,” Gabby says.
“Awesome.” Lemon looks at me. “Seamus?”
“I’m in.” Which is different from saying I can.
Lemon shifts his gaze to Abe. After a few more seconds of pouting, Abe sighs, sits up, and takes out his K-Pak.
“Fine,” he says. “But if this doesn’t work—”
“It’s not your fault,” Lemon finishes. “Understood.”
Gabby and I take out our K-Paks. As we all copy Lemon’s note, he talks us through the rest of the plan.
“Once everyone else starts back up, we’ll continue down. If you get lost, just look for the silver triangles hanging from tree branches—they were all along the paths we took to the Apex and should make it easy to find the base.”
Trail markers. Definitely missed those on the way up. Given that Abe and Gabby look up when Lemon relays this information, most of our classmates probably did too. They must’ve been what Mr. Tempest was referring to when he talked about the importance of attention to detail earlier.
“Now,” Lemon continues, “Annika and Mystery will be watching from above, so I’ll create a distraction that’ll keep them from seeing who’s headed where.”
“A distraction?” Abe asks. “As in a fire?”
“In a forest?” Gabby adds.
“Don’t worry.” Lemon answers them but looks at me. “It’ll be completely contained.”
They seem skeptical but keep typing.
“That should give us enough time to reach the base and get situated. Abe, can you do something that gets Mystery’s attention right when they land?”
“Like tag the side of the golf cart?”
“Perfect. Gabby, would you mind standing guard and staring down any Troublemaker who comes down the main trail before our mission’s complete?”
“It’d be my pleasure.”
“Great. As you guys are doing that, we’ll be hiding on the cart.”
That’s it? No special assignment for me? Could I be so lucky?
“Seamus,” Lemon says, “while Mystery’s distracted by Abe, you’ll deliver the final blow.”
Guess not.
I don’t panic, though. At least, not right away. Lemon’s plan is ambitious—and complicated. I wouldn’t say so out loud, but I doubt we’ll be able to pull it off. I’m so doubtful, in fact, I play my role as best I can. I hurry down trails (making sure to avoid Elinor’s, since I don’t want to lie to her) and share the fake challenge with such excitement Troublemakers barely hear the whole thing before sprinting toward the Apex. I find the silver triangles easily and follow them to the base. When the smell of smoke fills the air, I turn, note the individual gray plumes reaching for the sky, and keep walking. At the bottom of the mountain, I climb into the stretch golf cart, which Abe’s already working on, and wait.
Lemon boards next. Through the window, I see Gabby hiding behind a pine tree near the head of the main trail. Lemon motions for me to duck behind a seat, which I do.
And then I panic. What will I throw? How? Should I miss, the way I meant to with Fern in the Kommissary? But can I intentionally foil the plan when the other alliance members did their parts? Won’t they hate me? Will I survive the rest of the semester with no friends and more enemies than I’ve ever had?
Despite the cold, I’m suddenly hot. I’m breathing so fast my lungs strain to keep up. I think I might pass out, or worse, have a heart attack. Maybe I’ll die right here, right now. That would be some mark to leave on Kilter’s illustrious legacy . . . but at least it would get me out of doing what I’m supposed to do.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I hold my breath. That was Lemon. And he didn’t bother whispering.
I come out of my crouch and peer over the seat back. He’s sitting a few rows up, looking down and shaking his head. I move slowly, carefully toward him, like the golf cart’s wired and could blow any second.
“He did it. How did he do it?”
“Who?” I ask, coming up behind them. “What?”
Lemon raises his K-Pak so I can see the screen. A video plays. It takes me a second to figure out what I’m watching, but then I see Troublemakers. The carousel. Three gold rings.
And a gleaming silver scooter . . . with attached sidecar.
“Myster
y. He got us.”
Chapter 16
DEMERITS: 1060
GOLD STARS: 180
It’s too bad the Kommissary doesn’t sell faculty-tracking devices. According to the Krew’s last e-mail, trying to get Mystery earned me three hundred demerits. Subtracting all the gold stars I’ve gotten for calling the Hoodlum Hotline, and the cost of my only purchase, I now have eight hundred and sixty credits. And I’d spend every single one of those on something that might help us understand exactly what happened on that mountain.
We still don’t get how Mr. Tempest did it. How did he know what Lemon’s fake note said, or that the other Troublemakers were at the top of the mountain while we waited at the base? Even more puzzling, how was he able to get a Kilter Series 9000 scooter with attached sidecar, neither of which we knew existed and both of which went to Jillian, whose long legs helped her beat our classmates up and down the mountain—delivered to Annika’s Apex in minutes? Does he have an entire secret army of Troublemakers following us as they spy for him? Does Annika? Even so, wouldn’t we have seen them? Or if they were that well hidden, wouldn’t they have been smoked out by Lemon’s stone-pit fires? With all those questions, we’ve come up with only one answer, and that’s that Mystery’s nickname suits him.
I’m still trying to figure it out a week later when Lemon throws open the door and bursts into our room.
“Happy Thanksgiving!”
In bed, I close the comic book I’ve been pretending to read and sit up. “It’s Thanksgiving?”
“Yup.” He crosses the room and opens our closet.
I grab my K-Pak from my desk and open the calendar. I’ve been too busy to keep track of days, but Lemon’s right. I love stuffing, which Mom only makes on Thanksgiving, so I learned long ago that the holiday always falls on the fourth Thursday in November. And that’s what today is.
“We have an hour before dinner,” Lemon says. “Not much time, but enough.”
He hands me my fleece. Puts my sneakers by my feet.
“Enough time for what?” I ask.
He stands up straight, slides his hands into his parka pockets . . . and smiles. And not just sort of smiles, with one corner of his mouth kind of higher than the other. For the first time, both corners of Lemon’s mouth lift at the same time. I didn’t know it was physically possible.
This is so nice to see that I put on my jacket and sneakers. I follow him without questioning where we’re going or why. His smile grows as we walk, so I hardly notice when we duck behind a bush just outside the main classroom building as two Good Samaritans pass. Or when he uses a silver key card only faculty and staff members carry to unlock the entrance. Or when he leads me down a dark, narrow stairwell I’ve never climbed before, through a bright, wide tunnel that reminds me of a hospital corridor, and to an unmarked steel door.
It’s only when he takes a deep breath and says, “Let’s hope this works,” that the fish sticks I ate at lunch begin to swim in my belly.
“Lemon,” I whisper, glancing down the hallway. “Where are we? What are we—”
He holds up one hand. Nods to a flashing silver pad to the right of the door. Takes off his backpack and carefully pulls out a small plastic bag. Inside the bag is a sparkly silver glove.
“That’s Annika’s.” I know this because you can’t miss her when she wears them; sunlight glints off the sequins and blinds all who pass. “Where did you—? How did you—?”
“Swiped it from her breakfast tray this morning. It was almost too easy. You’d think the director of a school for Troublemakers would be more cautious.”
He pulls at the top of the bag, and the plastic snaps open. Then, careful not to touch the material directly, he turns both the glove and bag inside out. When he’s done, the glove lies on the flattened plastic, palm side up. He holds this in one raised hand, like it’s a plate of spaghetti and he’s a waiter, and uses his other hand to slide the silver key card through the slot above the flashing pad.
HELLO, ANNIKA KILTER
The digital letters flash before me.
“You took her card, too?” I ask.
“That was trickier. I had to hide under the faculty table and snoop through her purse.”
I’m impressed and stunned at the same time. Stealing things from our teachers is one thing—and encouraged. But from Annika? Isn’t that going too far?
PLEASE PROCEED WITH PRINT IDENTIFICATION
Lemon tilts his hand so the glove stands at an almost ninety-degree angle. As he nears the pad, I hold my breath and check both ends of the hallway again.
“Done,” Lemon says as the print pad beeps. “We’re in.”
The steel door whirrs, then slides into the wall.
“In where?” I ask.
It looks like some sort of control room. There are workstations with computers. Radio receivers. A bunch of other electronic equipment I don’t recognize. As we step inside, I see that large television screens fill three walls. A digital map of the United States, labeled TROUBLEMAKER TERRITORIES and covered in silver and black dots, takes up the fourth. A long, clear conference table lined with clear, high-backed chairs sits in the middle of the room. A silver laptop is placed before each chair, and a glittery “KA” statue stands tall on the center of the table.
“I don’t know,” Lemon says. “Not exactly, anyway.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
He steps farther into the room, faces me.
“When I was in the Kommissary the other day,” he says, “I overhead Wyatt and Samara talking. Wyatt said he was so excited to speak to his brother that afternoon because it was his brother’s birthday. Samara was excited for him and said that while K-Mail’s great and superefficient, nothing compares to real, live conversation.”
He pauses.
“And?” I say.
“And . . .” The corners of his mouth lift higher as his feet shuffle backward. “Voilà.”
He pushes the “KA” statue aside. Behind it is another piece of electronic equipment.
Only this one I recognize.
“Is that . . . ?” I take one step. Another. “That looks like a . . .”
“A phone? A real phone, with twelve buttons that can dial real numbers?” Lemon nods. “Yup.”
I look at him. “How did you find this?”
“I trailed Wyatt. All day. At first I didn’t know if teachers were allowed personal cell phones, and if that were the case, I would’ve waited for Wyatt to call his brother before swiping his. But he didn’t use a cell phone. He came here late at night, when no one else was around. I snuck in after him and trailed him to right outside this room. The door slid shut before I could slip in, but I heard him talking and laughing. It wasn’t a long conversation, but it was definitely a conversation.”
My eyes shift from him to the phone and back to him as I process this. “And you brought me here because . . . ?”
“Because twelve Troublemakers gave up on me.” He looks down, then up again. “But you didn’t.”
If we weren’t guys, I’d totally hug him right now. Since we are, I settle for smiling back.
“Plus,” he adds, “our closet isn’t exactly Fort Knox.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, unless you like talking back to imaginary people, you don’t really go in there to watch bad movies.”
My cheeks warm. I open my mouth to offer some other explanation, but none comes out.
“It’s no big deal,” Lemon says quickly. “But you miss your parents, right? And you keep trying Marla because you think she’ll crack and call them for you?”
“Maybe,” I mumble.
“So then here you go.” He pats the phone. “A small Thanksgiving gift from me to you. Because I’m thankful you’re my roommate.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed he knows about my calling the Hoodlum Hotline, even if he doesn’t know the real reasons why, but I’m more touched that he went to all this trouble to do something nice for me. So w
hile part of me is tempted to refuse the gift—and his assumption—a bigger part still wants to hug him.
Because it’s a phone. All I have to do is press eleven numbers, and I’ll hear my parents’ voices for the first time in six weeks.
So, “Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome.” He checks his watch. Claps his hands once. “Gotta run.”
“What?” I turn as he hurries past me. “Where?”
“Annika probably knows her stuff’s missing by now. I’m sure she’ll be looking for it, so I’m creating a diversion.”
“How?”
He stops by the door, takes a lighter from his parka pocket, and flicks it open, releasing an orange flame. “The usual ways.” He snaps the lighter closed. “Don’t worry, I’ll come get you. But if you smell smoke, run.”
He leaves. The door slides shut behind him. It’s just me, a bunch of beeping, flashing electronic equipment . . . and my parents.
The reality of this hits me. I bolt toward the table, yank out a chair. Drop into the seat and pull the phone closer. I take the receiver in one hand, noting that it feels strange and familiar at the same time.
And then I think about what I’ll say.
Hi, Mom! It’s Seamus!
Mother, it’s me! Your son!
Mama! Long time, no speak. What’s shaking?
Hola, mi madre! How’s the stuffing?
Hi, Mom. How are you? Happy Thanksgiving!
That’s it. Polite yet warm. I don’t bother brainstorming what to say after that, because Mom will probably start crying right away. I hope she misses me, but even if she’s still too upset about what I did for that, she must be missing Thanksgivings past, when life was normal. Hearing my voice will remind her of those happier days and bring on the waterworks, which will give me plenty of time to figure out what to say next.
I bring the receiver to my ear. Take a deep breath. And dial.
The phone rings. Once. Twice. It’s halfway through the third ring when someone picks up—and loud music slams into my head like a Mack truck. The force drives the phone from my ear.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Mom’s singing when I bring the receiver back.