by Burns, T. R.
I turn over the silver disc. The box is so small I wouldn’t have seen it if Ike hadn’t pointed it out. “So the goal is to mess with the target rather than hit it?”
“Exactly. Though if you do make contact, it’s not the worst thing in the world. You won’t drive someone crazy when he can clearly see what hit him—but you’ll still annoy him.” Ike jogs backward. “The steel’s even faster. I’d recommend a few practice shots to get the hang of it.”
I take the shots. The first few are way off; some fly several feet over and past Ike’s head, others crash to the ground between us. Bringing the disc back is also harder than it looks. The timing has to be exactly right—ideally, when the target’s spinning in confusion—or the disc will be seen and your cover blown.
But I’m focused. Just like I’ve been since Thanksgiving. And after a dozen or so tries, Ike thinks I’m ready to try out my newest weapon on the mailbox maulers.
“Ten demerits per rotation,” he whispers once we’re looking out from behind the storage shed again.
The closest Troublemaker is a kid named Greg Pearlman. He’s tall, skinny, and clumsy with a bat. That might be because it weighs about as much as he does. I wait for his eyes to lock on the mailbox as he pulls the bat behind him before flicking the Boomaree.
It zips just over his right shoulder. He does a half spin. Holding the box in my fist, I squeeze once. The disc zips back, nearly grazing his left shoulder and propelling him into another half spin. As he stumbles and looks around, I open my other hand. The disc’s cool edge smacks into my palm.
“Ten,” Ike whispers.
“Nice,” a familiar female voice whispers.
I spin around. Annika leans out of her golf cart, toward me.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Thank you,” Annika says with a wink. Then she brings two fingers to her forehead, gives Ike a mini salute, and keeps driving. She stops again near the mailbox maulers to offer a few tips on form and speed before continuing on and disappearing over a small hill.
“Ready?” Ike asks.
Bolstered by Annika’s praise, I eye the row of Troublemakers for a more challenging target, finally settling on Elias Montero. He’s the same height as Greg but wider, more muscular. Probably because when we’re all lying on couches in the TV lounge, he’s doing push-ups and sit-ups in the corner of the room. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d freak out over a few strange noises.
But looks can be deceiving. Because ten seconds later, after the Boomaree’s made a triple loop and is back in my hand, he’s still spinning.
“Thirty,” Ike whispers. Grins. “Imagine how freaked out your parents will be when you try this at home.”
He says this just as I’m releasing the Boomaree on my third target. I lose focus for a split second—and the silver disc zooms over the line of Troublemakers and disappears on the other side of the hill.
“That’s okay,” Ike says. “Just bring it back and try again.”
I tighten my fist. Watch the top of the hill. When the disc doesn’t appear, I squeeze harder, longer. That doesn’t work, so I switch hands, place the box on my open palm, and hold down the red button with one finger.
Nothing.
“Could it be out of range?” I ask.
Ike shakes his head. “Not that fast. It must’ve hit something.”
I feel bad instantly. He was nice enough to let me start with the stainless steel Boomaree, and now I’ve lost it. Maybe even broken it. Not wanting to disappoint him further, I pocket the sensor and start jogging.
“Be right back!” I call over my shoulder.
I run across the field, dodging flailing limbs and swinging bats as I cut through the line of Troublemakers. As I run I wonder how much a Boomaree goes for in the Kommissary. I earned a hundred demerits for getting Devin and some more for completing class assignments, bringing my last total to twelve hundred and sixty. And I’ve stopped calling the Hoodlum Hotline, so my gold star tally is holding steady at a hundred and eighty. After subtracting the only twenty I’ve spent (on the Kilter Pocket Extinguisher), I have one thousand and sixty credits left. That has to be enough to buy at least one stainless steel Boomaree.
At the top of the hill I pause and scan the garden on the other side. I’m about to run down for a closer look when I hear a familiar voice.
“Who does she think she is? Where does she think she is? And when did it become okay to show absolutely zero respect to the people who are trying to help you? The ones who take you in when no one else wants you?”
Annika. She barks into a walkie-talkie as she storms down the steps of a nearby gazebo and climbs into her golf cart. It takes off with a jerk in the opposite direction.
Thinking the display strange but none of my business, I start down the hill. As I do, the wind shifts, and I stop again to listen.
Tree branches creak. In the distance, kids talk and laugh. Deciding I must be imagining things, I take another step.
But there it is again—a soft, light noise that sounds a little like someone singing. Only the noise wavers. It’s interrupted by sniffles and nose blowing.
And it seems to come from the direction Annika just left.
Forgetting about the Boomaree, I continue down the hill, slower now, and head for the gazebo. My chest tightens when I glimpse a long, red braid through the structure’s wooden slats. It’s still none of my business . . . but my feet move faster anyway. Before my brain can talk my body out of it, I’m charging up the steps and standing in the doorway.
“Are you okay?”
Elinor gasps. Looks up. Scrambles to gather the photos that surround her. There are dozens of them; some are in color, many are in black and white. Tears fall from her eyes, blurring some of the images before I can make out what they are. She takes them by the handful and shoves them between the pages of an open book. When she’s done, she closes the book, puts both hands on the cover, and presses down—like if she can only apply enough pressure, the photos will disintegrate and she’ll never have to see them again.
Eventually, she removes her hands. The book cover springs up. She sits back, unties the green satin ribbon from her braid, and uses it to wipe her eyes. I wait for her to demand to know what I’m doing there, to yell at me to go away and leave her alone, but she doesn’t.
To be honest, part of me wishes she would. Then I wouldn’t have to stand there awkwardly, wanting to help but having no idea how.
“If you’re looking for Mr. Tempest,” she finally says, her voice even, “you won’t find him here.”
I pause. “Mr. Tempest?”
She looks up. “Isn’t that what you and your friends have been doing all week? Following him around to figure out when and where you might surprise him?”
Three responses come to mind immediately. The first is that with the exception of Lemon, the alliance members aren’t my friends. The second is that we’re not as sneaky as we think we are if Elinor knows what we’ve been up to. The third is the one I go with.
“I wasn’t looking for him.” I step into the gazebo. “I was looking for you.”
I’m aware as I say the words that they sound like ones some cheesy guy would say in some cheesy romance movie. But I’m also aware that they’re true . . . and that Elinor’s face softens slightly when she hears them.
Afraid she might bolt if I come any closer, I lower myself to the ground. As we sit quietly, I look around. Outside, the gazebo’s rimmed in tall bushes; their branches are bare now, but there are enough of them that the gazebo still feels enclosed, protected inside. Small white lights are strung from the roof, making the space glow against the gray dusk. It’s quiet. Cozy. The kind of place a cheesy guy would love to be with a pretty girl.
“She’s mad at me,” Elinor says, bringing me back to the reason we’re here.
“Who?”
“Annika. She thinks I’m not doing enough. That I don’t want to be here.”
“Do you want to be here?”
Sh
e shrugs. “There are worse places.”
I’m curious to know what qualifies as worse but guess there are better times to ask.
“She said I need to work harder or face the consequences.”
“Like what?” I ask. “Being kicked out?”
Elinor nods. I think about some of the other times I’ve seen her since coming to Kilter. Sitting across from me that first night at dinner. Staring out the window in math class. Reading on the bench in the garden. Standing in the doorway of the Performance Pavilion viewing box. Lagging behind on the hike to Annika’s Apex. Sitting, without presents, in the Kanteen at Thanksgiving. Always quiet. Usually alone.
“Do you want to go home?” I ask.
She brings the book to her chest, rests her chin on its top. “I want a home to go back to.”
At least, that’s what I think she says. The words are so soft, so fast, the breeze sweeps them away the instant they’re spoken.
“Maybe I can talk to Annika,” I say.
She looks at me. “About what?”
“About, I don’t know . . . your situation. Maybe I can ask her to go easy on you, to cut you some slack.”
Her copper eyes, which were so warm a second ago, cool. “And what makes you think she’d care about what one first-year student says about another first-year student?”
Because I’m Kilter’s first murderer. A natural-born Troublemaker. And now that I’m actually embracing my training, I’m probably meeting Annika’s high expectations.
“Never mind.” Elinor jumps up. Hugs the book. Hurries across the gazebo. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Wait.” I jump up too. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I just wanted to help.”
She stops in the doorway. For a second I think she’ll turn around and thank me for my concern. But she doesn’t. She stands with her back to me and says, “He runs.”
Again, I’m stumped. “Who?”
“Mr. Tempest. At midnight, when everyone else is asleep. He does a three-mile loop through the main garden, starting and ending at the Kanteen.”
“How do you—”
Know? That’s what I’d ask if Elinor hung around long enough to hear the question. Instead she leaves.
And I’m alone in the gazebo.
I’m tempted to go after her, but I know she doesn’t want to be followed. To give her space before I return to Ike, who might be gone by now, I sit back down and take my K-Pak from my backpack. I’m about to check my K-Mail when the breeze parts the branches, letting in a sliver of sunlight. The light glints off a piece of paper I hadn’t noticed near my foot, and I reach forward to pick it up.
It’s not just a piece of paper—it’s a picture. Of two young girls riding horses on a beach. One has long, dark hair and looks familiar; after squinting and examining closely, I decide this is Annika as a teenager. The other appears to be a few years younger. She has darker hair and also looks familiar, but I can’t place her. Is she another Kilter staff member? A teacher?
When I finally figure out why she looks familiar, I’m glad the gazebo wall’s there to fall back on.
It’s her eyes. They’re warm. Soft. Reddish brown.
Just like worn pennies.
Chapter 19
DEMERITS: 1390
GOLD STARS: 180
I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” I say.
“I am,” Abe says.
“But it’s so complicated. Dangerous, even.”
“Only if something goes wrong,” Gabby says. “Which it won’t.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“We don’t.” Lemon hands me a walkie-talkie. “But we’re as prepared as we can be.”
I sit back on the bed and watch them get ready. It’s been a week since my run-in with Elinor, six days of which have been spent planning and strategizing for Mr. Tempest’s takedown. I didn’t tell the alliance about what happened in the gazebo, but I did mention to Lemon that I thought I overheard an older Troublemaker say at breakfast that our history teacher is a late-night track star. Lemon confirmed this hours later by ducking and hiding behind rocks, bushes, and trash cans as he trailed Mr. Tempest through the darkness. An emergency alliance meeting was called the next morning, and we’ve been plotting ever since.
Or they’ve been plotting. I’ve been listening. And thinking about Elinor. Who hasn’t spoken to me since fleeing the gazebo.
“Would it help if we went over the plan of attack one more time?” Lemon asks.
Probably not, but I nod anyway. Maybe hearing it again will convince one of them we’re in over our heads.
“Okay. So.” Lemon points his walkie-talkie antenna at the campus map taped to our closet doors. Mr. Tempest’s route is marked in yellow highlighter and broken up by a series of silver star stickers. “There are three miles and four of us. Gabby’s up first, at the one-mile mark. As soon as she hears Mystery coming closer, she’ll jump out and hypnotize him with her weird alien eyes.”
At this, the overhead light goes out. A pair of glowing green eyes appear. They rise and fall, bobbing silently throughout the room as Gabby moves.
“Totally creepy,” Abe says. “He’s going to freak.”
The lights come on. Gabby winks.
“Glow-in-the-dark contact lenses,” she says. “Thank you, Kommissary.”
“We hope he does freak, at least a little. That way he’ll already be rattled by the time he reaches the second-mile marker.” Lemon’s radio antenna taps the next sticker on the map.
“Abe Henge,” Abe says proudly. “Like Stonehenge but scarier. Here Mystery will lose his way in a maze of clay and wood sculptures.”
“If and when he gets out,” Lemon says, “but most likely when, because this is Mystery we’re talking about, he’ll have a half mile to recover before entering Firebomb Boulevard, a dizzying stretch of pyrotechnics guaranteed to send him running directly to the Kanteen patio . . . where Seamus will take advantage of his lowered defenses to do him in, once and for all.”
“Awesome,” Abe says.
“Brilliant,” Gabby says.
“Good Samaritans,” I say.
Lemon’s eyebrows lift. “What about them?”
“What if they catch us? This is so serious we’d probably be docked an entire month of troublemaking privileges.” I shoot Abe a look. “That’s plenty of time for our classmates to knock us to the bottom of the rankings.”
“It’s Friday night,” Lemon says as Abe frowns. “The ones who aren’t sleeping will be singing it up at the weekly staff karaoke party—which Mystery never attends. According to my tutor, the GS love getting their groove on . . . so we should be fine.”
“How do we know he’ll stick to his regular route once things start going down?” I ask. “Couldn’t he just veer off, or turn around?”
Lemon puts down the walkie-talkie, picks up a plastic box, and faces the closet doors. Twenty seconds later Mr. Tempest’s running route is surrounded by two dozen red pushpins.
“I’ve planted small yet effective subterranean explosives that’ll go off under one hundred sixty pounds of pressure. My guess is Mystery weighs in at one sixty-five, one-seventy. The second he steps on one, he’ll get a dent in his sneaker—and a push in the right direction.” Lemon faces us again. “Any other questions?”
“Yeah. Can we get this show on the road already?” Abe jumps up from my desk chair and claps me on the back. “Relax, dude. It’s not like we’re going to kill the guy.”
In the mirror over Lemon’s dresser, I see my face freeze.
“And just think of all the awesome stuff we can buy with all the credits we’re about to earn.” Gabby half walks, half bounces as she follows Abe out the door.
“You all right?” Lemon asks when they’re gone.
I jump up. Put on my coat. “Yup.”
“You seemed fine with the plan all week. Did something happen to make you worry now?”
“No.” I choose my words carefully. “It’s just trou
ble. Serious trouble. Like, with a capital T.”
His eyes widen. I don’t want him to think I’m unhappy with him for being the plan’s main mastermind, so I open my mouth to try to explain.
“That’s perfect,” he says.
My lower lip hits my upper lip.
He takes a marker from the desk and writes “CAPITAL T” in big black letters across the top of the map. He surveys it a second, then turns and looks at me.
“What do you think?” he asks. “For an alliance name?”
I think an alliance name, which we’d never agreed on after shooting down dozens of suggestions, is currently the least of my concerns. But I also think he’s right. As far as names go, Capital T would be hard to beat.
“It’s good,” I say. “Really good.”
He grins. Makes a fist and holds it toward me. I make one too, and bump his with mine.
“Just remember.” His expression turns somber again. “This is as serious as it gets. Mystery’s the last obstacle. Once we’re over him, the rest is cake.”
This is surprisingly reassuring. So when Lemon takes his shoe box of fire-starting supplies from his desk, I take my ammo-packed duffel bag from the floor. And then we join Abe and Gabby outside.
It’s eleven thirty. The sky is pitch-black, the campus silent. After Lemon quietly shares our new alliance name with the others, who cover their mouths with their hands to muffle their loud excitement, we walk together without speaking until we’re on the other side of the creek’s footbridge. Then we stop and stand, shoulder to shoulder, and look out over the darkened garden. I listen for last-minute instructions, some final words of wisdom . . . but they don’t come.
“See you on the other side,” Lemon says.
And we break.
I’m stationed on the Kanteen rooftop deck. As I head that way, I think about Lemon’s concern—and my reason for suddenly hesitating. Part of it was probably because I wasn’t convinced we’d actually get to this point, so I didn’t consider all the potential consequences. But a bigger part was Elinor. Between my phone call home on Thanksgiving and finding Elinor crying in the gazebo, I made trouble without worrying about who it affected and how. But seeing her like that, so sad and alone, reminded me of Miss Parsippany. Because I imagine that’s how my substitute teacher must’ve felt in the cafeteria that day, when she didn’t know anyone and only wanted to do her job well—and put herself in harm’s way because of it. And thinking of Miss Parsippany made me think of Mr. Tempest. He’s no newbie teacher, but the way he keeps to himself, he might as well be. We’re about to make his life very difficult, and for what? A few extra demerits? A Kommissary shopping spree?