Troublemakers #1 (9781442440319)

by Burns, T. R.

  “That’s not a talent,” Abe says.

  “If you had more of it, maybe you wouldn’t be so quick to disagree.” Annika turns toward Lemon. “It doesn’t matter what your talent is. What matters is how you use it. Doing so intelligently and effectively requires knowing risks, outcomes, and potential consequences. Knowing those requires patience.”

  I consider this as I eat my fish sticks—which, not for nothing, are even moister and sweeter than the ones in the Kanteen. Before I can assess my own patience level, Abe raises his hand.

  “Go ahead,” Annika says.

  “You said we could ask about other Troublemakers, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Good. Because there’s one question I’ve been dying to know the answer to for weeks.”

  This is followed by a pause. It lasts so long I look up . . . and see Abe grinning at me.

  “If Kilter’s so competitive,” he says, still grinning, “and if you only accept a certain number of kids each year . . . why’d you take Hinkle a month into the semester?”

  I jump up. The back of my chair hits the chest of my waiter, who stumbles backward.

  “Sorry,” I say. Then, “Bathroom?”

  “Allow me,” my waiter says.

  “That’s okay. I’ll find it.”

  I dash around the table and through the door before anyone can say anything else. Between the water and cider I do have to use the bathroom, but more importantly, I don’t want to hear Annika answer Abe’s question. To put as much space between them and me as possible, as if that will make a difference, I follow the hallway we took to one we didn’t, take that to a wide staircase, charge to the second floor, and dart into the first room I come to.

  Inside, I shut my eyes and rest my forehead on the closed door. When my breathing slows, I turn around and see I didn’t find a bathroom after all. I found a bedroom. With white furniture. Flowered wallpaper. A pink bedspread and purple pillows. Dozens of stuffed animals. It’d be a typical girl’s room if the windows weren’t covered in sheets, blocking out the light . . . and if everything in it wasn’t covered in a thick layer of dust.

  Temporarily forgetting why I’m there, I go over to the dresser. It’s covered with small porcelain dolls and picture frames. The latter are the only things not caked in a gray film. In the photos, a young Annika rides horses, smiles with friends, and poses with her family.

  At least, I assume it’s her family. There’s Annika, another girl whose face is partially hidden by a baseball cap, a pretty woman . . . and a decapitated man. His arms are around the girls, but his head has been ripped from the picture.

  Stuck in the corner of the frame is a newspaper clipping. I lean in closer for a better look.

  Following a long illness, Lucelia Kilter, 38, passed away at her family’s home in Mount Collins, New York. She is survived by her husband, Maximus, and two daughters: Annika, 12, and Nadia, 10.

  “You missed.”

  I spin around. My waiter stands in the open doorway.

  “The bathroom’s one door down.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  I hurry into the hallway, find the bathroom, and take care of business. As I follow the waiter back downstairs, my mind struggles with two thoughts.

  The first is that Annika was my age when she lost her mother.

  The second is that I hope Capital T was listening when Annika said patience was the best talent a Troublemaker could have. Because I’ll need theirs if I’m going to explain my side of what she told them while I was gone.

  Reaching the dining room, I keep my head lowered as I return to my seat.

  “Everything okay?” Lemon asks quietly.

  I open my mouth to say yes, then realize what he just said. If he wants to know if I’m okay . . . does that mean he still cares? Even though he knows the truth about me?

  “Are you ready, Seamus?”

  I look from Lemon to Annika. She smiles.

  “You didn’t miss anything, if that’s what you’re wondering. I chose not to answer Abe, so now it’s your turn.”

  I sneak a quick peek across the table. Gabby eats and listens. Abe picks at his mashed potatoes. Neither looks like they’ve just learned they’re having dinner with a cold-blooded killer.

  “Seamus,” Annika says gently. “Do you have a question?”

  I turn back and give her a small smile. Partly because I’m sad for her, partly because I’m grateful, and mostly because I just learned a lot without asking anything at all.

  “Yes,” I say. “Are there any more fish sticks?”

  Chapter 21

  DEMERITS: 1950

  GOLD STARS: 180

  Dude,” Lemon says. “Looking sharp.”

  I stand before the full-length mirror and tighten my tie. My reflection shoots him a quick smile. “You too.”

  It’s Parents’ Day. I’m wearing my navy-blue suit. He’s wearing jeans, a tucked-in, button-down shirt, and real shoes with laces. For Lemon, this is formal attire.

  “Nervous?” he asks.

  “A little. You?”

  “Terrified.” He takes a lighter from the desk, puts it down, and picks it up again. Fortunately, there’s a knock on the door, giving him something to do.

  Figuring it’s Gabby and Abe stopping by so we can walk together, I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth for the third time since breakfast. I’m just about to spit when Lemon appears in the doorway with two packages. One’s open, the other’s not.

  “More presents, and Christmas is still three weeks away.” He holds up the open package. Inside are gray flannel pants and a matching short-sleeved shirt wrapped in a shiny silver ribbon. “There’s a card, too.” He holds it up and reads. “‘Dear Trouble-makers. Enclosed please find your required outfit for today’s events. It’s not fancy, but it’s super comfortable—and will help reassure your parents that you’re here for the right reasons. Thank you in advance for your cooperation. See you soon. xoxo, Annika.’”

  I spit and rinse.

  “What do you think?” Lemon asks. “Skip the pajamas and stick with street threads? Maybe earn a few extra demerits?”

  “It’s probably not a good day for defying authority,” I say. “We don’t want our parents to think Kilter’s not working and take us out, do we?”

  “Good point.” He leaves my box on the counter and returns to the bedroom.

  As I change, I think about what I just said. For a long time, all I wanted was to talk to my parents, to hear their voices. Now I’m excited to see them . . . but I’m scared, too. A lot’s happened since my call home on Thanksgiving, but after replaying the one-sided conversation in my head a million times, I can still hear every word, laugh, and musical note like it took place yesterday. And despite my recent troublemaking accomplishments, that memory and old questions rushed back as soon as my alarm went off this morning.

  Like, what if they’re still mad at me? What if they’re so mad, they don’t even come? Worse, what if they’re so mad they do come—but bring Bartholomew John with them? To try to get me to feel as bad as they do?

  Only one scenario would be worse than that, and that’s if they’re not here because they’ve already forgotten about their criminal son and moved on. This would confirm what that phone call suggested.

  I try not to think about it as I finish getting ready and Lemon and I head to the Kilter Arena, which is a fancy name for the tent, bleachers, and planks of wood Kilter maintenance set up far away from the rest of campus for today’s festivities. I feel okay until we reach the main gate, and then I suddenly can’t feel my legs. I stop before the entrance and stand there, paralyzed.

  “Seamus?” Lemon stops next to me.

  “I’m okay. I just need a minute.”

  He gives me that plus several seconds. Then he tries again. “You’re a good friend.”

  I look at him. “What?”

  His shoulders lift. “You put up with my weird fire obsession. You worry about me when I sleepwalk. You stay calm when Abe
and Gabby freak out. You totally rocked it with Mystery.” His shoulders drop. “You’re a good friend. I wanted you to know that before we went in there.”

  Now, I have friends back home. Not many, and not the kind you have sleepovers with, but two or three of the kind you could sit next to on the bus, or talk to in the softball outfield during gym. But I’ve never been through anything with them like what I’ve been through with Lemon. After all, it’s not every day that you attack your teacher, are attacked by your teacher, potentially endanger the lives of your classmates . . . and then earn praise and prizes for your efforts.

  At Kilter, this is the stuff friendships are built on.

  “Thanks,” I say. “So are you.”

  This exchange gives us both enough strength to enter the arena. The presentation hasn’t started yet, and our classmates and their families are scattered throughout the bleachers. I spot Abe sitting with his parents; he talks nonstop to his mother, who separates him from his stepfather, who’s staring at the stage. Gabby sits between her parents two bleachers up. Her mother’s doing the talking in their family, pausing every few seconds to brush her hair or check her appearance in a compact mirror. When Gabby tries to speak, her mother pats her knee and talks over her, and her dad’s arm tightens around her.

  “There are Ziggy and Babs.” Lemon nods to a couple sitting on the lawn next to the bleachers. His dad looks just like him but with a beard and lower slouch. His mom’s about two feet shorter and has long, dark hair—and a very round belly.

  “She’s having a baby?” I ask.

  “Any second now.” Lemon bumps my arm with his fist. “Good luck. I’ll find you later.”

  I watch him join them. His mom climbs to her knees and embraces him in a huge hug. As she squeezes, his dad shakes his hand and pats his head. They’re clearly happy to see him, which encourages me to look for my own parents.

  I do a lap around the arena. Not spotting them, I do a second. I’m nearing the entrance for the third time and worrying they didn’t come when I hear a familiar voice.

  Heart thumping, I follow the voice to the wide aisle that separates the two sets of bleachers and leads to the stage. I take one step forward and then stop.

  Because I see her. My mother. But instead of sitting in the bleachers like everyone else’s parents, she’s on the stage with the Kilter faculty, talking to Annika . . . and laughing.

  “Sport!”

  Two arms fly around my shoulders and squeeze so tightly my feet lift off the ground.

  “It’s great to see you! Have you gotten taller? You look taller!”

  I look away from the stage and pat the chubby hands clamped on my triceps. When they let go, I turn around and throw my arms around Dad. My eyes water as we hug. I wait for them to dry again before pulling away.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hey, kiddo.” As he tousles my hair, I see his eyes water too. “You look good. Are you good?”

  “I’m fine.” Which, now that I know he’s happy to see me, has never been truer. “How are you?”

  “Great!” He claps his hands to his belly. “And five pounds lighter, thanks to your mom’s new—”

  “Hello, Seamus.”

  I’m pretty sure my heart stops, but somehow I manage to turn around. “Mom. Hi.”

  She’s standing in the aisle, wearing a pretty red coat and matching heels. Her hair has been cut and lightened. She wears lipstick, which I notice because she never wears makeup—and also because her lips are set in a thin, straight line.

  She’s mad. Disappointed. Furious. She might’ve just been laughing with Annika, but she’s still upset that her son could do something as terrible as what I did to Miss Parsippany.

  “I’ve missed you,” she says.

  Her lips curve in a wide smile, and she pulls me into a big hug. Dad throws his arms around both of us. We stand there like a Hinkle sandwich until Annika asks everyone to take their seats.

  “I hear you’re doing a wonderful job,” Mom whispers as we sit down. “That makes me very happy.”

  She’s not mad. She’s not sad or disappointed. She’s happy. I can’t remember the last time I did something that made her feel that way. It’s so nice to hear, I decide to put off asking about Bartholomew John.

  The presentation, which has been carefully crafted for parental viewing, begins. The Kilter faculty and staff are dressed in military-green pantsuits and tall boots like the ones Annika wore the first time we met. She’s wearing them too. They all sit in metal folding chairs behind a podium. Upperclassmen speak about all the bad things they did before Kilter and all the wonderful things they’ve done since beginning Kilter. Houdini, Fern, Wyatt, and our other teachers talk about the importance of structure and discipline and respect for one’s elders. They’re all serious, solemn. I’m sure there’s not a parent in the arena who’d guess that Fern has a high-tech whoopee cushion strapped to her calf.

  I only half listen to the presentation. I’m too busy sneaking glances at Mom, who holds my hand and smiles at the stage like it’s filled with dancing clowns instead of reform-school personnel, and at Dad, who only lifts his arm from around my shoulders to pat my head whenever someone refers to “your well-behaved child.” And I’m thinking maybe, just maybe, this will all turn out okay. I’ll do what I have to here, spend some more QT with my good friend Lemon, and smooth things over with Elinor. Then I’ll go home, where Mom, Dad, and I will talk more and be closer than we ever were.

  And eventually, when we look back at the cafeteria incident, maybe we won’t just remember it as a terrible, horrible event that ruined our lives. Maybe we’ll remember it as a terrible, horrible event that changed our lives—for the better.

  The thought leaves me so hopeful I practically skip along the tour that follows the presentation. This is really saying something, because Annika doesn’t lead us through the gardens and sleek, shiny buildings I’ve come to know so well. Instead she takes us down a dark, underground tunnel that leads from a patch of grass near the arena to a patch of dirt a half mile away. When we climb out, we’re in the grassless front yard of an old building I’ve never seen before. It resembles the administrative building we entered that first day, except it’s bigger and scarier. Outside, barbed wire crisscrosses the yard like garland on a Christmas tree. Iron bars block clouded windows. Gray dogs with big muscles and sharp teeth growl at us from behind a chain-link fence.

  Inside, there’s no natural light. The small common areas contain minimal furniture and no TVs or entertainment of any kind. The classrooms have wooden desks and chairs and chalkboards filled with lessons on discipline and respect. The sleeping wing has two large rooms, one for boys and one for girls, with mattresses covering the floors. The mattresses are made up with gray sheets and flat pillows to give the appearance that people actually sleep there.

  Most parents, disturbed by the fake living conditions, pull their kids closer as we walk. Dad tries the same with me, but I assure him I’m fine and smile to prove it.

  The tour ends in a large room, where card tables and metal folding chairs are arranged around two indoor grills. A windowless door that leads outside is open for ventilation. The tables are covered in red-checkered tablecloths and decorated with vases holding a single daisy each. Devin and Houdini cook, and the rest of the faculty and staff excuse themselves, presumably to give the families some time alone.

  “Seamus, over here!”

  I spot Lemon and his parents across the room. He’s dragging two card tables to a third to make one long one. Gabby and Abe are dragging chairs.

  “Want to meet my friends?” I ask Mom and Dad.

  “Friends?” Mom beams. “Nothing would make us happier.”

  There it is again. Happiness. Who knew a thing like that would come from a place like this?

  Introductions are made. Everyone sits. Small talk ensues. Oldies music streams from a radio Devin sets up on the floor. Soon the lunch feels almost festive, and people relax enough to joke and laugh.


  “Seamus,” Mom says at one point, “will you please find me some more ketchup?”

  “You got it.” I jump up. “Anyone need anything else?”

  No one does. As I hurry away, I hear Babs, Lemon’s mom, comment on what a polite son Mom and Dad have.

  Devin tells me extra ketchup’s in the fake kitchen. I run down a long, dark hall, trying to remember where the room was on the tour. Reaching a dead end, I turn around—and stop short to keep from running into Elinor.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” she says.

  I think she’ll run away again, but she doesn’t. She holds up her book and offers a small smile.

  “I was just looking for a quiet place to read.”

  “Oh. Did your parents have to leave early?” I ask, remembering the photo Elinor left in the gazebo. This is the first time we’ve talked since then, so I haven’t had a chance to ask what she was doing with the picture—or who the young woman with copper eyes is. Is she Elinor’s mother? And if so, what was she doing with Annika? Were they childhood friends? Are they still friends? Is that why Annika expects more from Elinor?

  “Yes,” Elinor says after a pause. “My dad had to work.”

  I’ve been having such a nice day with my parents that this makes me feel even worse for her than I normally would. I instantly forget all my other questions.

  “But I’m fine,” she says. “Totally. This just gives me more time to catch up on my reading.”

  “Okay.” I debate whether to say what I’m about to say, then decide I have nothing to lose. “I’m here, you know.”

  Her eyes meet mine. “I know. I see you.”

  “No, I mean . . . I’m here. Like, as a friend. If you ever want to hang out, or talk, or not talk, or whatever. You can take me up on it now, later, or never. But I wanted you to know.”

  She studies me, maybe to see if I’m serious. “Okay,” she finally says. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I smile. She steps aside so I can pass. I’m halfway down the hall when she calls after me.