Troublemakers #1 (9781442440319)

by Burns, T. R.

My heart lifts. I start to say the same thing but stop. The music—rock, no less—is strange, but that’s not the only thing that doesn’t sound quite right.

  “Helloooo?”

  There are voices in the background. I barely make out Dad’s, which is muffled by several others. They’re loud too. Happy.

  “Is anyone there?”

  I press the receiver hard against my ear. Listen closely. Someone laughs—only the sound is more like a groan broken up by snorts.

  I know that laugh.

  “Oh well!” Mom’s voice softens as she starts to put down the phone. “Must be a wrong number!”

  It belongs to Bartholomew John.

  Chapter 17

  DEMERITS: 1060

  GOLD STARS: 180

  I don’t know how long I sit there with the receiver pressed to my ear. At some point, the dial tone starts beeping. At another, the door whooshes open and Lemon bursts into the room. This snaps me out of my hypnosis, and I hang up.

  “How was it?” he asks, breathless.

  “Great.” I force a smile. “Couldn’t have been better.”

  “Awesome.” He leans back through the open doorway and looks down the hall. “Ready to make like a turkey and fly?”

  “Turkeys fly?” I say.

  His head turns toward me. His furry eyebrows lift.

  “Right.” I stand up, push in the chair. “Not important.”

  I follow him out of the room. We take a different route from the one we took earlier and leave from an emergency exit on the side of the building. The air’s chilly and smells like smoke.

  “Dumpster,” Lemon says, seeing me look around. “Self-contained but big enough to occupy all on-duty Good Samaritans.”

  “Nice.”

  We walk away from the building quickly—but not too quickly. We don’t want to invite attention by fleeing the scene of the crime. At first I worry Lemon will ask more questions about my phone call, but he doesn’t. Not even when we’re far enough away from the fire that I no longer smell it, and his shoulders slump forward as he relaxes.

  This gives me time to process what just happened. Or try to, anyway. If I had weeks instead of minutes, I still wouldn’t figure it out.

  Because what was that? Our Thanksgivings are always nice and quiet. Dad cleans, Mom cooks, and I set the table. We sit down, talk about how grateful we are for good health and family, and eat. Sometimes Dad puts on one of his old, mellow hippie records, but most times there’s no music; the pop the sparkling cider bottle makes as it’s opened is as rowdy as it gets. And never, not once in my twelve years on earth, have we ever had company.

  Do they hate me that much that they invited my arch-nemesis over for a rip-roaring party? To show me, in case I happened to call or stop by, how angry they are? That they’re so upset they’ve already forgotten me and moved on?

  And if that’s the case, how could they sound so happy about it?

  “Don’t sweat it,” Lemon says.

  Which makes me realize my eyes are watering. He must have noticed and now thinks talking to my parents made me miss them even more than I did before. Not wanting him to worry—or regret giving me such a thoughtful gift—I blink back the tears. When new ones form, I press my sleeve to my eyes and leave it there a second, letting the fleece absorb the moisture.

  My vision clearer, I see that while I was stressing, we walked all the way to the Kanteen. The dining hall’s been transformed since lunch and is decorated with balloons, streamers, and fresh flowers. The bright overhead lights are dimmed, and tall, lit candles have been placed on every table, creating a warm glow throughout the room. Before each place setting is a pile of gifts wrapped in shiny silver paper.

  “I guess this comes with being valedictorian.” Lemon stands before the tallest stack in the first-year dining section. “You’re more than welcome to all nonflammable items.”

  “Thanks,” Abe says, joining us. “I’ll be sure to take you up on that.”

  “Me too,” Gabby says, coming up behind Abe. They both grin.

  “Actually, no one will be taking Lemon up on that.”

  I stand up straighter as Annika approaches. So do my alliance-mates.

  “It’s okay,” Lemon says. “There are so many, I don’t mind sharing.”

  Annika stops. Smiles. She must be wearing special makeup tonight, because her face glitters in the candlelight.

  “It’s a generous offer . . . but your gifts are here.” She places her hand on the chair to the left of the one Lemon claimed. That stack’s nothing to sneeze at, but it’s definitely a few inches shorter than the other.

  “But I just checked my rank this morning,” Lemon says. “I’m still first in the class.”

  “Indeed you are. And we’re very proud of all you’ve accomplished. But these gifts”—Annika’s hand lifts and floats to the chair Lemon still stands behind—“are for Seamus.”

  “Hinkle?” Abe says.

  “Why?” Gabby asks. Then, “No offense, Seamus.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, heart racing. “It’s probably just because I started late. And Annika and our teachers are so nice they wanted to really go out of their way to make me feel at home today. Right?”

  I look at Annika. Her eyelashes are so sparkly, I almost miss them lowering and lifting as she winks.

  “Right. And also because we got an unbelievable deal on some supercool, limited-edition movie memorabilia.” She opens her arms. “Today, on Thanksgiving, we want each and every one of you to know how grateful we are that you’re here. These gifts are just small tokens of our great appreciation for your hard work and cooperation. We hope you enjoy them.”

  And then, one by one, she gives us hugs. She holds on to me a split second longer than everyone else, but it’s such a small difference I don’t think anyone will notice. Plus, I’m not sure if she extends the embrace . . . or if I do. Because hugging Annika makes me think of Mom hugging me before bed each night. And that makes me not want to let go.

  But I do. And Annika moves down the table and on to the next group of Troublemakers. Abe discovers small silver name cards by our water glasses, and he and Gabby go off in search of theirs. Lemon and I sit, and I quickly turn my tall stack into two shorter stacks.

  “Brr,” Lemon says. “Ice queen’s getting the cold shoulder.”

  I lean forward and peer between him and his gifts. At the very end of the table, Elinor sits with Marcus, who’s talking with Annika. As I watch, Annika gives him the same smile and hug she gave everyone else, and then walks past Elinor without so much as a glance.

  “Where are her presents?” I ask. All that’s on the table before Elinor is a plate and silverware.

  “Who knows?” Gabby says.

  “Who cares?” Abe says. After circling the entire table, they return and find their seats to the right of mine.

  I care. It’s Thanksgiving. No one should feel excluded—especially not here, so far from friends and family.

  “The Ventriloquist Vampire Collector’s Set!” Abe declares, holding up a box of graphic novels. “Awesome!”

  He’s already plowing through his gifts. So is Gabby. Lemon’s not exactly tearing through wrapping paper, but he does hold one box to his ear and give it a small shake.

  Personally, the last thing I want to do is open presents, even if they’re supercool, limited-edition Lord of the Rings memorabilia, which, given the ring I now notice tied to a ribbon, is a good possibility. It doesn’t feel right. I don’t deserve them. On top of which, Thanksgiving at Kilter is like Christmas anywhere else, and thinking of Christmas makes me think of our quiet, festive mornings back home. What—or who—will I hear in the background if I call again December 25? Santa Claus himself? For three years I’ve doubted Santa showing up, but a visit from him was always a million times more likely than one from Bartholomew John.

  At least, it was until today.

  “Hey.” Wearing a new Kilter baseball cap, Abe leans toward me and motions for Lemon to come closer. “Ch
eck it out. Think we should bring down the big guy tonight? Maybe spike his apple cider and then get him while his senses are dulled?”

  We follow his nod to Mr. Tempest, who sits alone at the faculty dining table while his coworkers mingle with older Troublemakers.

  “No,” Lemon says. “It’s a holiday. Let him have the night off.”

  Abe pouts but doesn’t protest. “Then can we at least come up with a name?”

  “A name?” Lemon repeats.

  Abe looks around, then leans so far over I can smell the root beer on his breath. “For the ance-illay,” he whispers. “The lanceilnay. The—”

  “The alliance?” Lemon says.

  Abe’s chin drops just as Gabby wedges herself between him and the table.

  “Hey.” She bites into a chocolate turkey that’s as big as her head. “I know I’m a girl, but I’m just as much a part of this allian—”

  Abe’s hand flies over her mouth. Her eyes widen, then almost immediately narrow and lock on his. No match for her expert stare, he removes his hand.

  “Sorry,” he says. “But can we please be a little less obvious? I’d like to use our advantage before we lose it.”

  “So you’d like to name our . . . salad fork?” Lemon takes the utensil from the table and holds it up.

  Abe starts to shake his head. Lemon tilts his.

  “Oh! Yes.” Abe tries to appear casual as he glances across the table and over both shoulders. “Yes, I’d love to name our salad fork. Because it’s a Kilter salad fork and is so very different from ordinary salad forks.”

  Gabby takes another bite, decapitating the turkey. “Slick, A-Man.”

  “Ooh.” Abe turns back. Lowers his voice. “How about A-Team? Too much?”

  They start discussing possibilities. I start to tune out—just as something hits the back of my head. I look down and see a small rubber pilgrim next to my sneaker. When I pick it up, the pressure from my fingers make its eyes balloon like it was just attacked by an enemy’s arrow. I turn it over and find a folded piece of paper taped to its back.

  Seamus,

  If you’re not careful, you’ll freeze to death in the New World.

  Thanks for making my job easy. Fun, too.

  Ike

  P.S. It’s a good thing the Brits didn’t go DOWN UNDER for their religious freedom. If they had, who knows where we’d be?

  I look behind me and scan the crowd. Not surprisingly, my tutor’s nowhere in sight. I reread the note, then peer under the tablecloth. Finding nothing but discarded ribbons and wrapping, I check under my chair.

  And there it is. A lumpy, brown grocery bag. There’s nothing shiny or fancy about the packaging; as I pull it out, I see dark splatters near the bottom, like it once held fried chicken. And maybe it still holds fried chicken. I don’t really deserve that, either, but judging by other kids’ gifts, it’s definitely more appropriate than whatever’s in my stacks of unopened boxes.

  Only it’s not fried chicken. It’s not fried anything. It’s a brand-new, tags-on, down winter parka.

  Black. Just like Ike’s.

  “Nice.”

  I look up to find Lemon looking at me. He sits back in his chair, apparently waiting for Abe and Gabby to stop arguing over whether “Abraham’s Army” works as an alliance name.

  “Weird that it’s not silver,” he adds, “but nice.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m going to try it out.”

  He nods. I stand up. Gabby drops into my empty seat without asking why I’m leaving.

  I try to smile as I hurry through the main dining room. I still can’t see Ike, but that doesn’t mean he can’t see me, and I want him to know I appreciate the gift. I even go outside so it seems like I’m doing what I told Lemon I would. By the entrance, I step to the left of the glass doors and count to thirty. To be on the safe side, I re-enter the building at the back of a pack of Troublemakers.

  And then I bolt for the nearest restroom.

  There’s a kid washing his hands when I burst through the door. Not wanting to invite suspicion—or even curiosity—I give him a casual wave before slipping into a stall. As I wait for him to finish, I think about what I’ll tell Ike when I’m not wearing the parka at our next training session. I lost it? Someone stole it? Lemon accidentally set it on fire?

  The running water stops. The door opens and closes. I unlock and step out of the stall—and immediately step back in when I see Devin, my music teacher and only remaining faculty target besides Mr. Tempest. He must’ve come in as the other Troublemaker was leaving.

  I hold my breath and peer through the narrow space between the stall door and frame. Devin would have to walk past me to get to the urinals . . . but he doesn’t. He stays by the sinks. Takes a small white box from the pocket of his jeans. And starts flossing.

  I think this can’t last long, but it does. He spends more time on one tooth than I do on my entire mouth—and Mom’s big on dental hygiene, so I’m no slouch. I’d leave and do what I came to do later, but I haven’t made a sound since he entered the room. He doesn’t know I’m here. If I go now, he might wonder what I’ve been doing, why I’ve been so quiet. At the very least, my sudden, unexpected presence will definitely freak him out. So much so I might even be able to cross him off my list.

  I think about this. Do I want to cross him off? I got every other teacher accidentally, but this would be intentional. If I succeeded, I’d be a real Troublemaker—not just a kid who stumbles into trouble more often than most regular kids. How could I go home after that? Knowing I intentionally did something my parents wouldn’t approve of, after everything else I’ve done?

  But then I remember how happy Mom sounded on the phone. And how happy Lemon looked when he presented me with the phone.

  And I pucker my lips and whistle.

  It’s high-pitched. Short. Out in the crowded dining room the sound would be lost, but in here it bounces and reverberates off tiles and porcelain. And it has the desired effect.

  Devin drops the box of floss. Grabs his chest with one hand. Spins around.

  “Who’s there?” he demands.

  I bite back a smile. Whistle again. Louder this time, so he thinks I’m closer than I am.

  He lunges for the first stall and pushes open the door. When it’s empty, he tries the next one, and the one after that. I move too, placing the black parka on the floor so it muffles my knees and sneakers as I shimmy under stall dividers. I whistle every few seconds, which makes him stop and try to gauge where the noise is coming from.

  But he can’t figure it out. And eventually, he throws up his hands, grabs the floss from the floor, and leaves.

  “Congratulations,” he shoots over his shoulder before the door closes behind him.

  I wait a few seconds, then step out of the stall. I go to the trash can and ball up the coat. My automatic instinct when I opened Ike’s gift was to get rid of it. His black parka stands out from the silver parkas and is a glaring reminder that he’s different from other Troublemakers. Since coming to Kilter I’ve worked hard to blend in, to not be any more different than I already was.

  But something changed today. I changed today.

  So I don’t throw away the coat. I shake it out. Brush it off.

  And put it on.

  Chapter 18

  DEMERITS: 1260

  GOLD STARS: 180

  Plastic or stainless steel?”

  I check out the two discs Ike holds up. One looks like a regular Frisbee, the other like something a lumberjack might use to buzz down a small tree.

  “Stainless steel,” I say.

  “Really?” His smile dips. “I was kind of kidding. We always start you on the beginner model.”

  “What can I say? I’m feeling adventurous today.”

  “All righty then.” He moves to hand me the silver disc, then seems to think better of it and pulls back. “Everything’s okay, right? No trouble in paradise?”

  “Paradise?”

  “With Ice Queen Elinor?
”

  The closest Elinor and I have come to paradise is a late-night sprint across campus that ended with me face-first in the river. Before I can explain that there’s no trouble for this very reason, Ike continues.

  “The Boomaree, so named for being part boomerang, part Frisbee, is a powerful weapon. Heightened emotions can lead to reckless—and potentially dangerous—use.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I say. “I’m just in the mood to have fun and bank some demerits.”

  This seems to satisfy him. He nods and hands me the silver disc. I take it and peer out from behind the storage shed. Fifty feet away, members of the Sniper Squad swing bats at seemingly indestructible mailboxes.

  “Am I aiming for the kids or the mailboxes?” I ask.

  “Neither. This type of aerial assault is infinitely more effective without physical contact.” Ike waits for me to look at him, then nods toward a bench across the lawn and away from the squad. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

  I jog to the bench. I haven’t even turned around when there’s a sharp buzz by my right ear. I swat at the noise reflexively, thinking mosquitoes must’ve adapted to the cold this far north . . . but then I hear it again. By my left ear this time. I swat. Spin. Search the air for winged insects. Swat and spin some more when the buzz sounds so close to my right ear I worry the bug’s flown inside. When the buzz moves to my left ear, I tilt my head to the side and hop, like the source will fall out the way water does after an underwater swim.

  I’m still hopping when Ike taps me on the shoulder. I stop and realize the buzzing has too.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  It takes a second for Ike to stop chuckling. “Ants in your pants?”

  “Actually, I think they were—” My eyes fall to the Frisbee he taps against his leg. “Wow. How’d you do that?”

  “It’s all in the wrist. Well, that and this handy sensor.” He holds up a small black box with a red button. “There’s one on the bottom of your disc. Remove the box before you throw, hit the button when you’re ready, and the disc will loop right back to you. Good for the environment—and creating maximum confusion.”