A World of Trouble
Page 3
Chapter 3
DEMERITS: 200
GOLD STARS: 0
You know those lists Santa Claus has? That separate naughty kids from nice ones so there’s no confusion about who gets what when December 25 rolls around? Well, I think the big guy finally went digital and experienced a major computer malfunction that jumbled everything up. Because, given all the trouble I’ve made, there’s no question which list I should be on—or that I don’t even deserve the lump of coal normal bad kids get. Yet somehow, the presents keep coming.
First there’s the Icickler. Then there’s the Flake Kompressor, a large contraption that can pack an entire snowdrift into a single snowball. Next comes a set of Kringle Stars, which look like they belong on top of Christmas trees but have tips sharp enough to pin heavy stockings to marble fireplace mantels. After that are K-Puffs, marshmallows that morph into pellets suitable for BB gun or slingshot use when dunked in hot liquid. Every day a new package wrapped in plain brown paper appears by my bedroom door. And every day I shove another tempting troublemaking item under my bed or into my closet. I don’t mention them and neither do my parents, which makes how they arrive just as puzzling as who they’re from.
This goes on for a week. Then, on New Year’s Eve, I run out of hiding spots.
“Come on,” I mumble, leaning all my weight into the latest delivery.
But it’s no use. The package is too big. My closet’s too full. Giving up, I flop on my bed, take my K-Pak from the nightstand, and start a new message.
TO: ike@kilteracademy.org
FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: Thanks, and . . .
Hi, Ike!
I don’t want to interrupt your vacation, but I just had to thank you for all the sniper supplies you’ve been sending. They’re awesome!
I also wanted to ask a favor. I don’t know if you plan to send anything else, but if you do, would it be too much trouble to ship it to school instead of my house? Kilter’s cover will definitely be blown if my mom finds any of this stuff, and that’s a real possibility because her preferred hobbies are cleaning and organizing.
Thanks again!
From,
Seamus
I send the message. Almost instantly, my K-Pak buzzes with a response.
TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org
FROM: ike@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: RE: Thanks, and . . .
Hey, Seamus!
Sounds like someone has a secret Santa! Would love to take credit, but I’ve been skiing with the fam and haven’t thought about Kilter since we left. (No offense.)
BTW, can’t wait to hear about the mission. I expect details our first day back!
—Ike
Huh. The packages have been unmarked, with no addresses or other hints of origin. I’d assumed that Ike, who introduced me to bows and arrows, paintball rifles, and the Boomaree back at Kilter, was sending them in hopes that I’d get a jumpstart on next semester. Apparently I was wrong.
I try again.
TO: houdini@kilteracademy.org
FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: Rewards?
Hi, Houdini!
Thanks again for taking me on my first combat mission. It was awesome!
Along those lines, do we get, like, prizes for completing missions? Just wondering because I’ve gotten a ton of troublemaking stuff since I’ve been home. If so, and if you have anything to do with it, thank you!! Also, is it possible to change the shipping address? My room’s getting pretty crowded.
Happy New Year!
Seamus
I hit send. My K-Pak buzzes.
TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org
FROM: houdini@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: RE: Rewards?
If we got prizes, I’d quit the teaching gig and only go on missions. Then I’d start a black market, hock supplies to the highest bidders, and buy a tropical island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
—H
Okay. I guess that’s a no.
Next I try my friends.
TO: loliver@kilteracademy.org;
ahansen@kilteracademy.org;
gryan@kilteracademy.org
FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: Quick Question
Hi, guys!
Have you been getting mysterious brown packages? Filled with the kind of stuff the Kommissary sells?
Just wondering!
—Seamus
They must carry their K-Paks everywhere because I get replies immediately.
TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org
FROM: loliver@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: RE: Quick Question
S—
Negative.
—L
TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org;
loliver@kilteracademy.org;
gryan@kilteracademy.org
FROM: ahansen@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
You’ve gotten mysterious brown packages? How many? When? What do they look like? What’s inside?
This sounds serious. Also unfair.
—Abe
TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org;
loliver@kilteracademy.org;
ahansen@kilteracademy.org
FROM: gryan@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: RE: Quick Question
OMG!!! Seamus, it’s sooooo great to hear from you! How are you?? How was the mission??
I miss you all—yes, Abe, even you—sooooo much and can’t WAIT for school to start! Three short days to go, yay!!
xoxo,
Gabby
It’s just me. Again. There’s only one person who’s singled me out like this before, but after what she did—or didn’t do—on my last day at Kilter, I’m not really in the mood to send that note.
But thinking of her does inspire me to send another.
TO: enorris@kilteracademy.org
FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org
SUBJECT: Hi!
Dear Elinor,
How are you? Are you having a nice vacation?
I just wanted to say hi. Also, I’ve been thinking about you all break and—
I stop typing. Delete the last sentence. Start again.
Also, I’ve been wondering if you’re okay. You were pretty badly hurt the last time I saw you, so I just want to make sure you’re all better now.
I hope you are! See you soon.
From,
Seamus
I reread the note and consider deleting “See you soon.” I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep, and I’m still not sure about this one. But then I leave it and hit send. Because no matter what or where, I hope I do see Elinor. And sooner would be better than later.
I wait one minute. Two. Five. Unlike my other Kilter contacts, she must not be attached to her K-Pak. Or maybe she thinks it’s weird that I wrote to her. Or that I waited so long to check in. In any case, my in-box stays silent.
At the seven-minute mark, I consider continuing Miss Parsippany’s note, which I still haven’t finished, for distraction. Before I can, there’s a knock on my door.
“Dinner’s almost ready!” Mom calls out.
“Be right there!” I call back.
Her footsteps head down the hall. I get up, retrieve my latest gift, a K-Plow, from the floor, and survey the room for a good hiding spot. I’m about to rearrange the weapons under my bed when my thumb hits a button on the K-Plow’s handle. The large metal scoop, which looks exactly like the one at the end of Dad’s snow shovel, shoots out and up. I fly back from the force.
“Whoa,” I whisper.
I’ve been on my best behavior at home, so haven’t tried out any of the Kilter gifts. Even though part of me has wanted to. But what harm can one little experiment do? Especially in my room with nobody around?
I dart to the door and crack it open. The hallway’s empty. I can barely hear my parents’ muffled voices. Satisfied, I close the door, dart to my bed, and grab a pillow. I stand in the midd
le of the room, place the pillow in the metal scoop, and dig my heels into the floor. Gripping the handle with both hands, I hold my breath and press the launch button.
I’m prepared this time, so the force only nudges back. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the ceiling—which the feather-filled ammunition breaks through. Plaster flakes rain down. The pillow stays up.
In the dresser mirror, my reflection smiles.
Mom yells that dinner’s on the table. I toss the K-Plow on my bed and cover it with blankets. I check my K-Pak once more and try not to care when there are no new messages.
And then I go downstairs. Where my disappointment is replaced with confusion.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
Dad winks at Mom. She winks back. They’re in the living room, which is decorated with balloons and streamers. The coffee table is set with plates and silverware. The fireplace and Christmas tree are lit. The television screen glows blue.
“Hinkles’ Rockin’ New Year’s Eve!” my parents declare.
I blink. “What?”
“Like on TV,” Dad explains. “With Times Square and the falling ball.”
“You mean the show we tape and watch the next day because it’s on too late?”
“Exactly,” Mom says.
“I don’t get it,” I say.
“There’s nothing to get.” Mom takes a tray from the armchair ottoman. “We just thought it’d be fun to switch things up.”
But what about tofu-and-broccoli casserole? Old Maid? One cup each of hot apple cider? All of which we enjoy in the dining room before going to bed at a reasonable hour, the way we do the last night of every year?
“Are those fish sticks?” I forget those questions as my eyes lock on the platter of orange rectangles.
“You like, yes?” Mom asks.
“Um, yes.”
I drop to the floor by the coffee table. Dad sits across from me and Mom sits on the couch. Dad holds up silver party hats and noisemakers.
“Essential party wear,” he says.
“And entertainment,” Mom adds, reaching for the TV remote.
I look over my shoulder. Gasp.
“Lord of the Rings?” I ask.
“The Two Towers,” Mom clarifies.
“But you think these movies glorify silly, violent fantasy worlds that give good kids bad ideas.”
She shrugs. Smiles. “So?”
So nothing, I guess. If it’s all right with her, I’m not about to complain.
For the next three hours, we eat, cheer on Frodo, and blow our noisemakers whenever Gollum hisses “my precious.” It’s fun. Probably the most fun my parents and I have ever had together. Which is why I don’t wait for the end of the movie to stop the DVD.
“Bathroom break?” The question bursts from Dad’s lips like he’s been holding his breath. “Thank goodness!”
“Wait,” I say as he starts to stand. “Please.”
He perches on the edge of the couch. Mom leans forward. They look at me, a combination of curious and concerned.
“I want to stay,” I say.
“It’s late,” Mom says. “No one’s going anywhere.”
“No, I mean . . . in three days. When school starts again. I want to stay here and go back to Cloudview.”
Dad starts to smile. Then he glances at Mom, whose lips press so tightly together they practically disappear, and stops. I understand the mixed reactions. We haven’t talked about school since Christmas morning. They didn’t know I was having second thoughts—or any thoughts, for that matter.
“But you did so well at Kilter,” Mom says.
“I did well at Cloudview, too.”
“You said you liked your new classes and teachers.”
“My old ones were fine.”
“I already told Annika you’d be back.”
“I’ll tell her I changed my mind.”
“Your friends will miss you.”
A sharp pain pierces my chest. I almost look down to check for a Kringle Star.
“I’ll miss them, too,” I say.
Mom frowns. Dad crosses his arms over his lower abdomen. I try to explain.
“Kilter was great. Really. But the thing is, I was never supposed to go there. Since I didn’t really kill Miss Parsippany.” I smile and let that sink in. “And I’m not a bad kid. Sometimes I forget to put away my clean clothes or roll down the cereal bag inside the box. . . . But that doesn’t make me bad. It just makes me a kid. Right?”
“Right.” Dad nods.
I look at Mom. When her eyes stay lowered to her lap, I add one last thing.
“And as much as I’ll miss my friends, I’d miss you guys more.”
Mom smooths her skirt. Picks an invisible piece of lint from her sweater. Straightens the plastic HAPPY NEW YEAR! tiara on her head and says, “It’s almost midnight. I better get the confetti ready.”
She stands and goes to the kitchen. Dad slides down the couch and leans toward me.
“It’s nine o’clock,” I say.
“Your mother doesn’t like going back on her word,” he says.
“She’d rather not see me for five months?”
“I’m sure there will be more Parents’ Days.”
The corners of my mouth grow heavy. My chin puckers.
“Now, now.” Dad pats my shoulder. “Kilter has a sterling reputation. Its alumni have gone on to the country’s best universities. They’ve become doctors and lawyers and CEOs. You were a great kid when you got in, but who knows what you might become when you get out?”
I know. After all, Kilter trains every student to become one thing and one thing only.
And just like that, I know what I have to do.
“How about that bathroom break?” I ask. “Meet back here in five?”
I don’t wait for his answer. I jump up and dash to the kitchen. It’s empty, so I try the dining room and den. They’re also empty, so I charge upstairs and down the hallway, glancing into every room I pass.
Mom’s not in any of them. After following a series of mysterious thuds and thumps, I finally find her in the attic. Crouched in a crawl space. Hidden behind a mountain of dusty trunks and boxes. This seems like a pretty strange place to store confetti, but then, I don’t really get her love of Brillo pads and color-coded sweater stacks, either.
A thick curtain of cobwebs hangs across the entrance. I push them aside with an abandoned clothes hanger.
“Mom, there’s something I need to—”
Tell you. That’s what I planned to say. Then I would’ve revealed all Kilter’s best-kept secrets in hopes of making her see that it’s not the place she thinks it is, that I really don’t belong there.
But I don’t say anything. I look around instead. At the scissors and tape. The rolls of brown wrapping paper. The dozens of unopened cartons all bearing the familiar silver KA logo.
Mom, kneeling before a pair of superstealth Kilter Knight-Vision Goggles, retail price: ten thousand credits.
“Seamus.” She climbs to her feet, hits her head against the low slanted ceiling. “I can explain.”
Maybe so. But I can run.
Which I do. And in a move that’d make Houdini proud, I take the goggles with me.
Chapter 4
DEMERITS: 200
GOLD STARS: 40
Are you sure you have everything?” Dad asks.
“I think so,” I say.
“Toothbrush? Underwear? Anti-fungal foot spray?”
I look at him.
“Fungus is a fact of life. You don’t want to be caught unprepared. Whenever we go away, your mother always packs an economy-size can of . . .”
His voice fades. My gaze turns up and away, toward the chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side is an ice-covered lawn. A large gray building with no windows. My home for the next five months.
“She wanted to be here,” Dad says quietly.
Given my discovery three days ago, this is an understatement. “I know.”
“It’s just so hard to keep your foot elevated in a car for eight hours.”
It’s actually pretty easy if you stretch out in the backseat. But this, of course, isn’t really the issue. Mom’s ankle swelled to the size of a small watermelon after she tripped chasing me across the attic, prompting her to wrap it in ice packs and gauze, lie on the couch with her foot on a pile of pillows, and moan for days. But before sunrise this morning, on my way to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, I caught her doing jumping jacks to her favorite workout video.
Her ankle’s fine. She was just trying—and failing—to win sympathy points. And she definitely would’ve come to Kilter if I’d let her. But after recovering from the initial shock of finding her in the attic, and telling myself I would’ve appreciated the opportunity to explain my bad behavior a few months ago, I gave Mom a chance to do exactly that. It was after dinner the next day. We were alone in the kitchen, washing the dishes. I asked her about the weapons. She said they just started arriving one day, and she assumed they were some kind of test as part of Kilter’s unconventional yet highly successful reformation program. Like they were sent to me so that, as a recovering bad kid, I could practice resisting temptation.
I might’ve believed her. But as she spoke, her voice shook. Her hands trembled. She dropped not one, not two, but three plates. Plus two forks and a butter knife. After we cleaned up the mess, she excused herself to take a hot bath. And went to the attic instead.
There was no way I could sit in the car with her for eight hours and not demand to know what was really going on. But Dad was obviously clueless about what his wife was up to, and I didn’t want him to think anything was any more wrong than usual. So this morning, I told Mom she should probably stay home to take care of her foot. Her eyes bugged and her chin dropped at the request, cracking her wrinkle-cream mask, but she didn’t argue. Probably because that was easier than trying to dodge the questions she knew would follow. By the time Dad came downstairs for coffee, her ankle was wrapped and elevated. And when she asked him to drive me to Kilter himself, she moaned for good measure.
“Ready?” I ask now.
Dad takes a deep breath. Squares his shoulders. Nods once.
I lift the gate’s latch. The metal’s so cold I feel it through my gloves. The bottom of the gate is frozen to the ground, and it takes both of us yanking to crack the ice. When we finally do, the entrance shrieks open. We fly backward. I grab Dad’s arm to steady him on the slick sidewalk.