by Burns, T. R.
“Don’t you want to open it?”
He’s still for several more seconds. I’m thinking I should’ve saved the receipt, when he slowly reaches forward and picks it up. He keeps his back to me as he unties the silver shoelace I used for a ribbon and opens the spare trash-can liner I used for wrapping paper.
I hold my breath. Brace for his response.
“Dude,” he says with a sigh.
“It’s the Kilter Smoke Detector with Automatic Flame Eliminator.” The words fly from my mouth.
“I know what it is.” He turns around. “I just don’t know why you bought it.”
“Because you wanted it.”
“Yes, but—”
“And because I’m sorry.” I step toward him, heart racing. “I’m so sorry, Lemon, for not telling you the truth. I was just so scared of what you’d think of me if you knew what I did, I couldn’t tell you. I could barely tell myself. But you’re my roommate. My friend. You deserved to know, and I should’ve told you.”
His eyes lower to the gift. The rest of him lowers to the edge of his bed. “It’s not just that. I understand why you didn’t want to tell me.”
I pause. “Then what is it?”
He frowns. “Seamus, what I do, what other Troublemakers here do . . . it’s not like what you do.”
“What I did. One time. By accident.”
“Even so.” His eyes meet mine. “You’re in a totally different league.”
I shake my head, take another step toward him. “Can I at least explain what happened that day? So you know exactly why I did what I did? And that I didn’t mean to hurt anyone?”
“Will the story end the same way?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again. “Well, yes. I can’t change the past.”
“Then I don’t think you can change the future, either.”
He sounds sorry as he says this, and I almost expect him to take it back, to give me a small smile and ask me to explain away . . . but he doesn’t. He stands. Places the gift on his bed. Takes some clothes from his dresser and puts them in his backpack. And shuffles toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
He stops with one hand on the doorknob. “I’m crashing at Abe’s tonight. We’ve got some work to do, so . . .”
“Can I come?” I’d cringe at the desperation in my voice if I weren’t so desperate. “I know what you want to do to Annika’s Apex. I can help.”
He pauses. When he speaks again, there’s a slight edge to his voice. “If you want to help, see if you can convince the Kommissary to break its no-returns rule and take back the smoke detector. We could use the credits to buy supplies.”
Now I cringe. The rejection of my peace offering stings. It almost makes me miss the rest of what he just said.
“What happened to your credits?” I don’t remember exact numbers, but we were all fairly loaded after taking down Mr. Tempest.
“Gone. We thought we were done after Mystery, so we blew them on scooters. Now we have no choice but to beg, borrow, and steal equipment for the Ultimate Troublemaking Task.”
And with that, he opens the door and leaves.
I stand there, numb. Then I run after him.
“Lemon! Wait!”
But I’m too late. He’s already gone. The only people in the hallway are two Good Samaritans; they tip invisible hats at me and continue to the exit. As they head outside, the second Good Samaritan’s red fanny pack catches on the door. He does a little wiggle to release it . . . and I get an idea.
The Good Samaritans’ job is to stop trouble, no matter how big or how small. Two months ago, when they stormed our room to put out Lemon’s fire, they were armed with extinguishers, smoke vacuums, and other equipment. And if they use that much equipment to take care of one minor dorm-room emergency . . . what do they use for something more serious?
According to the Kommissary Krew’s last e-mail, which they sent while I was in math class learning about the Ultimate Troublemaking Task, I have one credit left. So if I want more weapons, I’m going to have to get them another way.
I bolt into my room, grab my boots and jacket, and throw them on as I dash down the hall.
There are no friends at the top.
You can’t change the future.
Determined to prove both Annika and Lemon wrong, I move faster. Outside, I catch up with the Good Samaritans quickly and then follow them at a safe distance.
For the next hour, I run, hide behind bushes and trees, and listen to some really boring conversations about lawn care and car maintenance. Eventually, the Good Samaritans head for a part of campus I’ve never seen before. They stop at a bike rack to pick up an electric, two-person bicycle, and zoom into the woods. I follow on foot. Moonlight illuminates the tire tracks, which I use as my guide.
About a mile in, the tracks end at the bicycle itself. It’s parked in a small, empty clearing. There are no buildings. There are also no Good Samaritans. Certain it’s a trap with a hidden lasso that’s about to grab my ankle and turn me upside down, I back up slowly.
I’m at the edge of the clearing when the ground begins to shake. The tall pine trees sway. The red bicycle bounces like it’s flying down a rocky mountain trail.
And a wide, silver cylinder rises up from the dirt.
I dart behind a cluster of rocks and drop to my knees. Holding my breath, I watch the cylinder rotate, then stop. A door slides open, and three Good Samaritans step out. Two climb on the red bicycle, and the third unfolds a standing scooter he’s brought with him from wherever they were. They shoot off in the same direction—away from me—just as the cylinder door starts to slide shut.
I fly from my hiding spot and toward that cylinder like the Good Samaritans are chasing me. And maybe they are. I’m not about to waste one second looking behind me to find out.
I reach the cylinder and squeeze through the remaining narrow space. The door slides closed. There’s a loud beeping, like the sound a garbage truck makes backing up, and then a steady hum as the steel elevator begins its descent.
I hardly hear the noises over my thundering heart.
“You were taking a walk and got lost,” I whisper. “You were looking for some upper-level Troublemakers you followed into the woods and found this instead. You had a really good idea for controlling pesky weeds and—”
“Hoodlum Hotline, how may I direct your call?”
The steel door slides open. A middle-aged woman with bright orange hair and long fake nails appears. A three-legged Chihuahua sleeps in a bed on her desk. She’s talking and typing and doesn’t look up from the computer screen as I step out of the cylinder and fly around the corner.
If we were aboveground, I’d stop and say hello to Ms. Marla. But here, I don’t want to push my luck—which, for perhaps the first time ever, is on my side.
Because it’s seven o’clock. And in the Good Samaritan secret bunker, that’s dinnertime.
They’re gathered around a table filled with Crock-Pots and casserole dishes in a large dining room. I tiptoe past the open doorway, though they’re so busy loading their plates I could knock and they wouldn’t notice. I hurry down the long white hallway and stop by a door labeled GS LOCKER ROOM ONE. When I don’t hear anything, I open the door and step inside.
It looks a lot like the boys’ locker room at Cloudview. The walls are lined with regular metal lockers. Benches sit before the lockers. There’s a water fountain. A bathroom with stalls and showers.
There’s just one thing this locker room has that Cloudview’s doesn’t: an enormous closet filled with khaki pants, checkered shirts, sports coats, and penny loafers.
I run in, grab the smallest size of each, and shove them into my backpack. Returning to the main room, I lunge for the door—and stop with one hand on the knob.
As it happens, there are actually two things this locker room has that Cloudview’s doesn’t. The first is the closet.
The second is a “WANTED” poster.
It hangs on the w
all by the door and contains twelve color photos. Eleven are of kids I don’t recall seeing at Kilter; they’re wanted for things like blackmail and armed robbery.
The twelfth photo is of a woman. She appears to be in her early thirties and has reddish hair and brownish eyes. She’s not smiling, but even so, she looks like an older version of the girl in the picture with Annika—the one Elinor dropped in the gazebo a few weeks ago.
Which reminds me. If I really want to repair our friendship, I should probably return that.
I step closer to read the name beneath the photo.
Nadia Kilter.
I step back. The woman with copper eyes isn’t just Annika’s friend; she’s Annika’s sister. And if I’m right, if the woman is also Elinor’s mother . . . that means Annika is Elinor’s aunt.
This realization is so startling it takes me a second to wonder what Nadia did to make it onto that poster.
“Those were the best Swedish meatballs I’ve ever had.”
“How about the chicken parm? Finger-lickin’ heaven!”
The male voices come from the hallway. They get louder, then softer. Forgetting the poster for now, I crack open the door to make sure they’re heading toward the Hoodlum Hotline desk, and then I slip out and run in the opposite direction.
I’m pretty sure pressing my luck will guarantee losing it, so I follow the hallway all the way to the end and duck into an unmarked room to wait out dessert. After their visit to our room, Lemon did some investigating on the Good Samaritans and learned that they work on two shifts: day and night. Once the night shift starts and the place clears out, I’ll make my exit.
This room’s dark. Cold. Heart racing, I feel along the concrete wall with both hands for a light switch. Not finding one, I yank my K-Pak from my backpack and turn it on.
The screen light’s not bright, but it still illuminates electric bicycles. Scooters. Skateboards. Face masks. Wet suits. Paint remover. Oxygen tanks. Garden hoses. Wire spools. Rope balls. Duct tape. Flashlights. Helium tanks. Pool nets. Fire extinguishers. Smoke vacuums.
And every other imaginable supply a Troublemaker could need.
“Bingo,” I say.
“Indeed,” a Good Samaritan says.
Chapter 24
DEMERITS: 3000
GOLD STARS: 820
Thank you for calling the Hoodlum Hotline, how may I—”
“Hi, Ms. Marla.”
There’s a pause. “Hello, Seamus.”
“Have you found it?”
Another pause. “What?”
“‘Ornery.’ In your word search. You were having a hard time finding it the last time we talked.”
“Not yet. But if you keep calling like this, I might find it in real life.”
I try to laugh. Ms. Marla doesn’t.
“Sorry,” I say. “There’s just no one here to talk to. And the GS don’t come with lunch for another three hours.”
“Well, they don’t call it solitary confinement for nothing.”
I look around the room that’s been home for the past four days. “No, I suppose not.”
“Why don’t you throw some footballs? Shoot some hoops? Punch out some guards?”
“Excuse me?”
“Video games. I took a tour of the holding cell once. I know you’ve got more to play with than a Toys ‘R’ Us.”
She’s right. There’s a lot to do here, like play video games. Watch movies. Read. Swim against the current in a mini lap pool. Make sundaes at the superstocked ice cream bar.
There’s just one problem.
I don’t feel like doing any of it.
“I have to run,” Ms. Marla says. “Personal phone calls aren’t really in my job description, if you know what I mean. But chin up. There are only two days left in the semester. After that you’re home free.”
I thank her, and we hang up. Then, immediately restless, I stand and make the bed, which is twice the size of my dorm-room bed and ten times more comfortable. I take a bath in the marble tub and try to watch the cartoon playing on the flat-screen hanging on the marble wall. I get dressed and comb my hair. I flop on the soft leather couch and consider starting a movie, but then stare at the ceiling instead.
I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Staring at the ceiling. Mentally replaying what happened after I was busted in the Good Samaritan supply closet.
There was a lot of confusion. Apparently, I was the very first Troublemaker to break into GS headquarters, and they didn’t know what to do with me. They left me with Ms. Marla, who gave me Crock-Pot leftovers and my own word-search book, while they holed up in a conference room to figure it out. Two Good Samaritans eventually returned, grim-faced, and said that they’d discussed my punishment with Annika. Because of the seriousness of my crime, they couldn’t simply dock my troublemaking privileges the way they usually did. I couldn’t be trusted not to ignore that punishment and make trouble anyway. No, I had to be completely restricted and removed from all temptation.
In solitary confinement. Which, at Kilter, is like the most luxurious hotel suite you can imagine—and never leave.
My K-Pak’s on the coffee table. I was surprised the GS didn’t confiscate it—at least, until I saw where I’d be staying. And I’ve been happy to have it. No one sends me direct messages, but I still get the ones all students do, about Kommissary sales and Kanteen menu updates and end-of-semester logistics. They help me feel connected to the rest of the world.
I checked my K-Mail right before calling Ms. Marla, but now I check it again anyway. There’s only one new message.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Gold Star Galaxy
Seamus! What’s happening?
Seriously. WHAT is happening? Each time we check our records, you’ve added another constellation of gold stars to your troublemaking sky, which is already pretty full. Rumor has it you’re locked up . . . but rumor also has it that there are, like, a million and one things to do there that are a million and one times more fun than calling the Hoodlum Hotline. Was your holding cell robbed? Is that why you have Marla on speed dial?
Anyway, as you already know, you got 700 demerits for breaking into the Good Samaritans’ headquarters, 10 for your weekly allowance, and another few for completing some written class assignments. Your current total is 3000. This is an impressive number, but unfortunately, after adding your most recent Hotline call to the dozens made before it, you have 830 gold stars. Subtract gold stars from demerits, and you have 2170 credits. This is also an impressive number, except now we have to subtract the cost of your previous purchases (Kilter Pocket Extinguisher, 20 credits; Kilter Smoke Detector with Automatic Flame Eliminator, 2000 credits). Do some more math . . . and you’ve got 150 credits left.
You can still afford a few things at the Kommissary, like miniature Hydra-Bombs and Spiral Spitball Straws with Sticky Pellets, but you can’t order them online and we don’t deliver. Given your recent phone habits, you might not have any credits left by the time you can stop by in person, so we suggest popping in a few movies to keep you distracted and off the horn.
Unless, of course, you want to be an astronomer instead of a Troublemaker. In which case, dial away and watch those stars shine.
At Your Service,
The Kommissary Krew
I close the note, rest the K-Pak on my chest, and resume staring at the ceiling. A few seconds later, I lift it and start typing.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: A Prisoner’s Apology
Dear Elinor,
You know how, in movies, when the bad guy gets locked up he has a whole lot of time to think about all the terrible things he’s done? And how sorry he is for all the pain he’s caused? And how, if he had the chance to do it over again, he’d do everything differently? Well, I now know from personal experience that Hollywood didn’t make that up. When you’re behind bars, this actually hap
pens.
Of course, I thought all those things long before the Good Samaritans whisked me away. But what my sentence has taught me is that I should’ve done something about them before I couldn’t anymore. It’s like one of my mom’s favorite sayings: Why put off till tomorrow what you can get done today? She usually tosses that one out when I don’t get around to cleaning my room or taking out the garbage, but it applies to more serious situations too.
Like apologies. Elinor, when you ran away after hearing the truth on Parents’ Day, I should’ve run too. I should’ve found you and said I was sorry. Over and over and over. A million times, if that’s how much you needed to hear it before you could believe it.
Because I AM sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I really was. I’m sorry you found out the way you did. I’m sorry you thought you could trust me. I’m sorry I didn’t say I was sorry before I was locked up in solitary confinement. Now the semester’s ending and I probably won’t ever see you again . . . which is sad for a lot of reasons, one being that I’ll never get to tell you in person how sorry I am. And how glad I am that we met. And how much I would’ve liked to be friends.
But at least there’s K-Mail, right? It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.
Have a safe trip home, wherever that is.
Sincerely,
Seamus
I stop. I don’t want to mention that I’m not the only one who kept a secret; the fact that Elinor is Annika’s niece doesn’t exactly compare to the fact that I’m a murderer, and I also want to keep her focused on my apology. But there is something else I’d like to say . . . and knowing what I now do about their relationship, I’m not sure I should. But then I remember how sad Elinor looked that day in the gazebo, and I keep typing.
P.S. Random side note. By now you probably don’t care about making Annika happy, but if you want to go out with a bang and prove you’re as much a Troublemaker as anyone else here, you might want to talk to Lemon. If they haven’t already, he, Abe, and Gabby will bring down Annika’s Apex for the Ultimate Troublemaking Task. Last I heard they were out of supplies (and credits) and could use all the help they could get, so they’d probably welcome you with open arms. Just a suggestion.