by Burns, T. R.
Relax, dude. It’s not like we’re going to kill the guy.
I shake my head against Abe’s voice. Reaching the Kanteen, I charge up the outdoor steps that lead to the roof. My boots boom like grenades in the silence of night; the noise is so startling I stop and look around, certain it’s roused fellow Troublemakers from their beds. When the lawn remains empty, I continue—a bit more slowly, lighter on my feet. At the top of the stairs I make a sharp right and run, head lowered, to the far stone wall. There I unpack my duffel bag, carefully arranging the bow and arrows, Hydra-Bombs, and Boomaree (which Ike found and yanked from a tree trunk while I was with Elinor) on the deck. Then I sling the loaded Kilter Painter 1000 over one shoulder and assume my position.
“Orange to Capital T. Do you copy?”
I take the walkie-talkie from my coat pocket.
“Copy,” I say.
“Ditto,” Gabby says.
“Word,” Abe says.
“So far, so good? All systems go?” After we confirm that they are, Lemon adds, “Great. Stay in touch.”
Nothing happens for several minutes. I crouch behind the wall and watch the patio down below, blowing into my cupped hands every now and then to keep them warm. I practice swinging the rifle up and out. I check my watch, my heart racing more with each minute that passes.
And then, finally, at twelve o’clock on the dot, our target appears. He wears a black tracksuit, gleaming silver sneakers, and earmuffs.
“Mystery in sight,” I whisper into the walkie-talkie.
“Awesome,” Lemon whispers back.
Mr. Tempest stretches. Reaches from side to side. Twists left, then right. Bends backward, then forward. Jogs in place. All with his back to me, seemingly oblivious to what’s about to happen. If I were another kind of Troublemaker, I could take him out right now. It’d be an easy shot, most likely over and done with one paintball. But in order for us all to get credit, each alliance member has to participate in the plan. Plus, I don’t really want to be the only one responsible for whatever goes down. So I simply watch and wait.
“Mystery on the move,” I whisper when our target runs from the patio and into the garden.
“Copy,” Lemon says. “Gabby?”
“Bring it on.” Her voice is thin with excitement.
I’m pretty sure I hold my breath for the next eight minutes. Then the walkie-talkie crackles—and I’m pretty sure I jump out of my skin.
“Target approaching,” Gabby whispers. “Launching attack in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one!”
Which is an anticlimactic countdown. Because nothing happens—at least not that we can hear. The radio’s quiet for what feels like an hour. I hold it in front of my face and stare, like it’ll start transmitting live video feed.
Eventually, there’s more crackling. This is followed by silence and another short burst of static.
“Gabby,” Lemon says. “Are you there?”
Nothing. I hold the walkie-talkie to my ear. Shake it.
“I—”
My heart stops. That was her.
“I can’t—”
More crackling. Static.
“Gabby,” Lemon says, his voice serious. “What’s going on?”
A long, excruciating stretch of silence.
“I’m here,” she half whimpers, half gasps. “But something happened.”
“What?” Lemon demands.
Another pause. Then a soft moan and, “I can’t see!”
“What do you mean you—”
Lemon’s cut off by Abe. “I’ve got him. About ten yards away. Don’t worry, this Mystery will be solved in five . . . four . . . three—”
“No!” I practically shout when the radio goes dead again. I squeeze it so tightly my fingers turn white.
For better or worse, this silence doesn’t last long.
“I’m okay!” Abe declares.
My lungs relax. The air I’ve been holding whooshes through my mouth.
“But I’m stuck!”
My lungs freeze again.
“What do you mean?” Lemon asks. “How?”
“I mean I’m pinned under rocks and branches. The guy somehow snuck up behind me and trapped me in my own maze! I don’t think anything’s broken—but I can’t move.”
“Okay.” Lemon’s voice wavers slightly. “Don’t panic. I’m up next, and there’s no way he’s getting through unscathed. Abe, stay put until we come for you. You might’ve hurt something you don’t feel yet. Gabby, can you find your way to the edge of the garden?”
“I think so,” she sniffs. “My eyes don’t sting as much anymore.”
“Good. Wait for us there.” Lemon pauses. “Seamus?”
It takes my thumb a second to press the radio button. I swallow the dry knot in my throat before speaking. “I’m here.”
“Great.” Another pause. When Lemon speaks again, he sounds even more serious. “Just be ready. This could all be over way faster than we thought.”
Which isn’t the same as saying we’re all about to die, but right now, it sure sounds like it.
Heart hammering, I rest the radio on the wall, shove two Hydra-Bombs in my coat pockets for backup, and raise the Kilter Painter 1000. I scan the lawn and patio, searching for any sign of movement. Soon the wind shifts in my direction, bringing with it the distinct smell of smoke. The air fills with short, loud pops—the underground explosives going off.
I lift the rifle higher. Peer down its long, shiny barrel. Grip it tighter to keep it from shaking.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re a marksman. A trained marksman. You can do this.”
The smell of smoke grows stronger. This seems to be taking way too long, and I’m beginning to think Lemon shocked our target so much he couldn’t go any farther . . . but then a black-clad figure darts from the woods.
I close one eye for better aim and press my pointer finger to the trigger. “Bingo.”
“ABORT!”
My eyes snap open and shift to the radio still on the wall.
“Do you copy?” Lemon shouts. “Abort mission!”
“Why?” Abe yells. “What’s going on?”
“Mystery set my supplies on fire! My extinguishers exploded! I’m going for help before it spreads!”
Something slams behind me. I jump—and drop my rifle. It hits the wall, then falls over the other side, clattering to the cold stone twenty feet below. I spin around to grab my other weapons . . . but they’re gone. All of them. The bow and arrows. The Boomaree. The remaining Hydra-Bombs. Nothing’s left but my empty duffel bag.
“Um, guys?” Gabby says through the radio. “I don’t want to freak anyone out . . . but it’s karaoke night, remember? What if the Good Samaritans aren’t prepared to help?”
I snatch the radio and start running. “I’m coming for you both. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
I fly down the stairs and across the patio. I’m just about to sprint across the lawn when I glimpse a flash of light from the corner of my eye. It’s soft, dull . . . and comes from inside the Kanteen.
I don’t know exactly what happens next. What I do know is that one minute I’m outside and about to run for Capital T . . . and then, all of a sudden, I’m inside the main dining room, staring at the back of Mr. Tempest’s head.
He’s sitting at the faculty table—in Annika’s chair. His legs rest where her dinner plate would be. His ankles are crossed, and his silver sneakers gleam even brighter in the glow of a lit fireplace. In one hand he holds a clear glass goblet filled with ice water; in the other, a cigar. My weapons litter the floor by his chair. Every few seconds he puffs on the cigar and chuckles softly.
Without taking my eyes from his head, I slowly reach into my coat pockets. I’m so focused it takes a second to realize that my fingers come out cold and wet. The Hydra-Bombs must’ve popped while I was running.
There’s no way I can reach my other weapons without him noticing. I don’t want to waste time or risk being caught by leav
ing and looking for more. From where I stand by the trash can, this leaves only one option.
A single red apple.
It’s on the floor behind the bin, apparently missed by whoever tossed it and by the cleaning crew. It’s half eaten . . . but if used correctly, still effective.
I pick it up. Then, thinking only of Lemon, Elinor, Abe, Gabby, and me—and not Mom, Dad, or even Miss Parsippany—I bring back my right arm, concentrate on the silver K on Mr. Tempest’s jacket, and bring my arm forward.
The apple hits the K’s center. Mr. Tempest gasps and jerks forward. The glass goblet falls to the floor and shatters. The cigar drops to the other side and fizzles out in the spreading water.
Bull’s-eye.
At first Mr. Tempest doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Did I do it again? Only this time, because I meant to?
I take a step toward him just as his torso lifts. His back straightens slowly, one vertebra at a time. Without turning around, he takes in a long breath, releases it, and speaks.
“Congratulations, Mr. Hinkle,” he says quietly, evenly. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
And for the first time in a long time, I am.
Chapter 20
DEMERITS: 1910
GOLD STARS: 180
A few days later, just before dinner, Lemon and I are working on drawings for art class when someone knocks on our door. I answer it—and almost swing the door shut when a Good Samaritan’s standing there.
“We were just doing homework.” I hold up my picture. It’s a cat with daggerlike claws and razor-sharp teeth. Not my preferred subject, but Wyatt had asked us to draw something that’d freak out our parents if we hung it on the fridge at home.
The Good Samaritan leans forward to examine it. “Nice lines. Good shading.”
I lower the picture. He stands upright.
“Come with me,” he says to us. “Please.”
“Is there a problem?” Lemon asks, coming up behind me.
“Not yet,” the GS says. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t keep Annika waiting.”
I look at Lemon. He shrugs. We put on our shoes, grab our coats, and follow the GS outside to a waiting golf cart.
“Any idea what this is about?” Abe asks. He’s already in the golf cart. So is Gabby.
“Nope,” Lemon says. “But I guess we’re about to find out.”
We get in. There are still a few empty seats, and I think we’ll be picking up other Troublemakers, but then the cart shoots forward. It flies through the courtyard, past the Kanteen and Kommissary, and into the woods. Ten minutes later it stops in front of a building I’ve never seen before.
“Is this another school?” Gabby asks.
It’s a good guess. The building’s three stories tall. It’s made of stone and wood and surrounded by towering evergreen trees. The front door is arched and wide, like a castle drawbridge. Whatever’s on the other side must be important. Official.
Just like Annika.
“Hello, Troublemakers!” she sings as the door slowly opens. “Welcome to my home.”
In the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind her, I see the chin of every Capital T member drop at the same time.
“You live here?” Gabby asks.
“Like, for real?” Abe asks.
“I do. For real.” Annika smiles and steps aside. “Won’t you come in?”
My feet aren’t the only ones stuck to the ground. Nobody moves until the Good Samaritan nudges Lemon, who half steps, half stumbles forward. Once he regains his balance and heads inside, we manage to walk after him.
“Would you like something to drink?” Annika asks as she closes the door. A second later a man wearing a white suit and silver bow tie appears. He pushes a glass cart filled with water bottles, juice boxes, and cans of soda.
We make our selections, then follow Annika down a long hallway. As we pass open doorways, I peek into rooms. There’s an office. A library. Some sort of conference room. The spaces are light and airy, which is surprising since from the outside, the house looks a hundred years old. Annika must’ve done some serious renovating before moving in.
The hallway ends at a large dining room overlooking a sprawling green lawn and turquoise lake. A long glass table in the center of the room looks like it can seat thirty, but is set for five. Behind each chair stands a white-suited, silver-bow-tied staff member. In the corner, an older woman plays a white piano.
“Where would you like them?”
I turn toward the unfamiliar voice and find yet another staff member. This one wears a camera around his neck.
“By the windows is fine,” Annika says.
The photographer ushers us to the other side of the table. He takes a series of pictures, including individual shots as well as group ones. Annika tells us to stand tall and smile wide, which we do.
The session lasts several minutes. When it’s over, the photographer leaves and the white-suited waiters pull out our chairs. As we sit, I glance at the rest of Capital T. Like me, they’re smiling. Also like me, the corners of their mouths aren’t fully lifted. We’re happy to be here . . . but we’re not sure why we’re here.
Fortunately, Annika explains.
“I don’t usually invite first-year Troublemakers to my home. That’s a privilege reserved for fourth-year students who have proven themselves over eight semesters, and who are about to begin their post-Kilter troublemaking adventures.” She motions to her waiter, who takes a glass bottle from a silver ice bucket. “I don’t often extend early invitations—and never before a single semester has been completed.” She pauses as the waiter pops the cork. “Do you know why I’ve made an exception today?”
“Because we got Mr. Tempest?” Abe guesses.
“Getting Mr. Tempest is why you got extra demerits. But you’re on the right track.”
“Because we got Mr. Tempest and no one got hurt?” Gabby tries. Considering that Lemon found and returned with the Good Samaritans in minutes, and that Abe wasn’t hurt by the rock that fell on him, and that Gabby’s eyes were totally fine after the Mace wore off, this is a good possibility.
“Still on the right track,” Annika says. “But no.”
I try to think of another reason but can’t. My fellow alliance members seem to be having trouble too, because no one speaks.
“Seamus threw the apple,” Annika finally says, which makes my face burn so hot I drain my water glass—and the next two my waiter brings me. “Technically, it was his hit that took Mr. Tempest down. But you all received extra credit because you all worked together to get to that point. You were a team.”
A team. Not an alliance. Is there a difference?
“As you know,” Annika continues, “Kilter promotes individual goals and achievements. This leads to healthy competition that encourages students to work harder and really push themselves. It’s not until much later, when students have grown on their own, that we try to foster collaborative troublemaking. Some never learn to work together. Others try but continue to put their personal interests before the group’s.”
I hold up the champagne flute by my plate as her waiter comes around. He fills the glass with sparkling apple cider.
“Your plan to get Mr. Tempest was complicated. Risky. It shouldn’t have worked, and it almost didn’t. Each of you could’ve bailed at any point . . . but you didn’t. In not doing so, you displayed skill and maturity beyond your years and experience.” Annika raises her glass of cider. “So I’d like to propose a toast.”
Lemon and I exchange excited smiles and raise our glasses too. Across the table, Abe and Gabby do the same.
“To four of the best first-year Troublemakers Kilter’s ever had. May your careers be long and successful.”
The table’s so big it takes some acrobatic maneuvering, but we all reach and stretch until every glass has been clinked together. Then we drink.
“In celebration, my chefs have prepared your favorite foods,” Annika says as our waiters bring out silver platters. “You
r photos will be displayed in the Performance Pavilion, on the Kilter Academy Wall of Fame. And most importantly, you now have the opportunity to do something first-years—and second- and third-years—normally only dream of doing.”
“Going on an all-expenses-paid Kommissary shopping spree?” Abe asks.
His question makes me think of the five hundred demerits I got for defeating Mystery. I have so many credits now, there’s not much that an all-expenses-paid shopping spree can get me that I can’t get myself.
“Even better.” Annika smiles at us, one by one by one. “You may each ask me a single question.”
The piano music seems to grow louder as we fall silent.
“What kind of question?” Lemon asks a moment later.
Annika shrugs. “Any kind. About whatever you want. Me, your teachers, other students, troublemaking in general. I reserve the right to answer as I please, but the questions are wide open.”
Gabby’s hand shoots up.
“Yes?” Annika says.
Gabby’s hand drops back to the table. “Has anyone ever been killed?”
I’ve just taken the last sip of cider; it burns as I force it down my throat. Before I can start choking, I grab my water glass and drink some more.
“You mean like a student?” Annika asks. “During training?”
Gabby nods.
“No. Next?”
That’s it? What about not during training? I’d ask, but I don’t want to waste my question.
“I have one,” Lemon says. “What do you think is the best talent a Troublemaker can have?”
Annika takes a forkful of salad and chews thoughtfully. Several seconds later she swallows and says, “Patience.”