A World of Trouble

by T. R. Burns

  Unfortunately, not one of these responses makes it from my head to my mouth. Fortunately, Lemon answers on my behalf.

  “Two things.” He leans back against the door, slides his hands into his jeans pockets. “First, it’s way too early to start power-tripping. And second, Houdini probably gave Seamus the goggles on his mission, for his mission.”

  “Three things,” Abe retorts. “First, this isn’t about me. It’s about playing fair. Second, the so-called real-world combat missions were like normal assignments done at home. All I got from Wyatt for completing mine was a box of watercolors. And third, Seamus is a big boy. He can speak for himself.”

  Abe looks at me. Lemon looks at the floor. Gabby, apparently convinced that no matter what, the goggles aren’t for her, picks up her suitcase and heads down the hall.

  I didn’t do it.

  Suddenly this is the most tempting response. Abe’s been suspicious of me from my very first day at Kilter, which came several weeks after everyone else’s, and that feeling was multiplied by millions when Mom announced my crime on Parents’ Day. He seemed to come around a bit after the Ultimate Troublemaking Task, when we all worked—and succeeded—together, but his reservations clearly run deep. If I tell him the truth, that it was all a big misunderstanding because I didn’t actually kill Miss Parsippany, so I can’t be the supertalented Troublemaker every Kilter faculty and staff member thinks I am, maybe he’ll back off. Maybe we can even be friends.

  “Help!”

  I’m so focused I don’t know if Gabby actually cries out or if I’m still suffering from an acute case of damsel-in-distress savior syndrome.

  “Somebody? Anybody?”

  I glance at Lemon. “You put out the fire, right?”

  His lips settle into a straight line as he steps, then sprints, down the hall. Abe and I follow close behind. We find Gabby in the kitchen. She faces a long wall of stainless steel cabinets, her back to us.

  “Where is it?” Lemon asks.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Are you kidding?” Abe asks.

  Gabby groans. Her body rocks back and forth. A quick scan of the room shows it’s free of flames, and besides the stuff spewing from the open suitcase on the kitchen table, nothing seems out of place.

  And then a thought occurs to me. Our class is divided into six groups by troublemaking talent. I’m in the Sniper Squad. Lemon’s in the Fire Starters. Abe’s in Les Artistes. Gabby’s in the Biohazards, which uses both real and fake bodily functions to startle unsuspecting targets. Is this some kind of trick? To give her a head start while the rest of us waste time arguing?

  If it is, she’s just warming up. Because she raises her shoulders sharply, lets them drop, and spins around with a sigh before one of us gets too close to spook.

  “It’s broken,” she announces.

  “What is?” Lemon asks.

  “This drawer. And this drawer and this drawer and this drawer.” She taps the glistening silver counter as she walks alongside it. “None of them open.”

  Abe strides across the room. He grabs the handle of the first drawer with one hand and pulls. When it doesn’t give, he takes the handles with both hands and tries again. The third time he plants his feet before the bottom cabinet and leans back until his arms straighten and his body stands at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “Yup.” He pulls himself up, releases the handle. “Broken.”

  “Maybe they’re locked,” I offer.

  “There are no keyholes,” Lemon says, investigating.

  “Maybe they’re computer-controlled,” I say. “Or voice-operated.”

  Lemon steps back. Lowers his head. Thinks. Several seconds later he reaches into his sweatshirt pocket and returns to the drawer. He crouches down and bends forward. His torso blocks my view, but I know what he’s doing as soon as I hear the soft, familiar click . . . of his lighter.

  “Know what?” Gabby says. “It’s okay. I’m sure Kilter has a fabulous handyman. I’ll just shoot him an e-mail.”

  Lemon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move, either. Soon thin, gray wisps appear. They float toward the ceiling.

  “Dude,” Abe says. “Melting the thing isn’t going to—”

  There’s a sharp pop, like a firecracker going off. Gabby cries out. Abe bolts for the kitchen door. I leap up and lunge for the sink. Lemon steps back. The gray wisps floating before him thicken, darken to black. Red flames shoot up from the drawer. Before I can figure out what just happened—or how to work the faucet—ice-cold water sprays down from the ceiling. I smile, relieved that our somewhat faulty state-of-the-art house is equipped with a perfectly functioning sprinkler system. . . . But then I realize the liquid doesn’t look like water. It’s not clear. It’s not white, either, like the foam from a fire extinguisher. It’s pink. Blue. Yellow. Purple. Green. It smells funny too. Kind of like Mrs. Lubbard’s bathroom. And rather than put out the fire, it makes it grow.

  “Paint!” Abe wipes his lips as colorful streaks run down his face.

  “Good Samaritans!” Gabby rummages through her open suitcase.

  “Don’t!” Lemon spins around.

  I turn back to the sink. Yank both knobs to the right and left. Not one drop of water falls from the faucet, so I check the wall for some sort of power switch. Maybe everything in the kitchen was turned off for vacation and just needs to be turned back on.

  And then I see it. Not a power switch. A digital silver arrow. It’s sparkly but faint and pulsates weakly, like an old neon sign. It starts where the countertop meets the wall, right behind the faucet, and aims up, toward the top of the upper cabinets—and a glass cookie jar. The jar glows softly with the light of a digital silver bull’s-eye.

  I run to the other side of the room, dodging my frantic friends and slipping across the slick tile floor. I rip the goggles back over my head and start spinning them around one finger like a lasso. I’ve barely turned back around when I let them fly. Holding my breath, I watch them soar through the air.

  “Duck!” I shout when they near the cookie jar, shielding my face with my arms.

  Only shards of glass don’t rain down on us. The goggles hit the bull’s-eye, but the jar doesn’t break. It simply tilts back, then pops forward, like a carnival game target. Guessing I didn’t hit it hard enough, I look around for something else to throw—just as the sink explodes.

  “On it!” Gabby yells. She empties the contents of her suitcase onto the table and runs to the sink, which is actually intact despite the water bursting from the faucet with the force of a fire hose.

  “Move!” I call out to Lemon and Abe as I slip and slide across the room again.

  The flames grow taller. Paint falls faster. By the time the four of us carry the heavy suitcase to the drawer, heave it up, and dump out the water, I think the chances are good that we’ll still need backup.

  But I’m wrong. It works. The fire fizzles out immediately. The sprinkler system shuts down. Ceiling and floor tiles shift like puzzle pieces, sucking out smoke and draining paint.

  The drawer opens.

  Gabby squeals and claps. She reaches into the drawer, removes a pair of scissors, and skips to the kitchen table.

  “That’s it?” Abe scoffs, shoving wet hair from his forehead. “That’s what was so important?”

  Unfazed, Gabby takes a ball of fabric from the mountain on the table and wrings it out over the sink. “You’ll thank me every time you see these pretty gingham curtains hanging in our living room.”

  “No, I definitely will not—” Abe stops. Looks at her. “What did you just say?”

  Gabby grins. Lemon leans against the counter. I retrieve the Kilter Knight-Vision Goggles from the floor.

  “She said our living room,” I say.

  “As in ours . . . and hers?” Abe shakes his head.

  I nod.

  “But she’s a girl.”

  “She’s also one of us.” I hold the goggles toward him. After he takes them, confused, I remind him of our all
iance. “And we’re a team. With a Capital T.”

  Chapter 6

  DEMERITS: 230

  GOLD STARS: 40

  TO: parsippany@cloudviewschools.net

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Happy New Year!

  Dear Miss Parsippany,

  Hi! How are you? Did you have a nice vacation? How are you feeling?

  Thank you very much for answering my e-mail. Given what happened, I would’ve understood if you’d deleted my message without ever opening it. And I know I’ve said it before, but I really am sorry about all that. (Note to self: If you’re going to throw an apple at a moving target . . . STOP. Eat apple instead.)

  I’m also sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. I got your note during finals last semester, and then I went home, and you know how crazy the holidays are. Besides being busy, I also wasn’t sure if you really wanted me to write back. I know you said I could in your note, but the fact that you answered mine shows how nice you are. And I didn’t know if you were just being extra nice by inviting me to write again.

  But it’s a new year. I’m not big on resolutions, but I do like the idea of starting over. With a clean slate. And I thought maybe that’s what we could do. So I decided to take you up on the offer and see what happens. If you want to write back, I’d love to hear from you. If you don’t, I totally understand. Either way, I’m really, really happy you’re okay. And I hope your new year blows the old one out of the water.

  Sincerely,

  Seamus Hinkle

  I reread the note twice, then hit send and watch the digital envelope swish around the K-Pak screen. When the envelope disappears, I wait for an error message to pop up and remind me that Kilter e-mails can’t be delivered to non-Kilter addresses. That’s what happened when I tried writing Dad last semester. And this school’s so big on keeping its secret I wouldn’t be surprised if the IT department blocked Miss Parsippany’s external e-mail address after discovering our accidental exchange.

  But the screen stays blank. So I get up, even though I still have an hour before class, and head to the bathroom to get ready.

  As cool as it is to have our own house, Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and I learned last night that nothing in it works the way it should. Just like the faucet stayed dry until I hit the cookie jar, the TV didn’t turn on until Abe made a wall mural using fireplace ash. Gabby’s bedroom door only opened when she did three cartwheels down the hallway. We played foosball when the game table’s knobs finally unlocked after Lemon raced around the living room, lighting a dozen tall candles with the flame of a much smaller one before the smaller one melted away. And I couldn’t pull back the blankets on my bed until I first hit every glowing star in the constellation of stickers on my ceiling with a pair of balled-up socks.

  It’s fun, but time-consuming. Fortunately, the bathroom isn’t too complicated this morning. The showerhead turns on with one flick of my towel. Toothpaste dispenses when I toss my pajamas into the hamper. Moisture automatically evaporates from the mirror over the sink after I fire five Q-tips into the trash can under the counter.

  I dress quickly and check my K-Pak for new messages. There aren’t any. I consider e-mailing Dad again, just in case the no-outside-e-mail policy changed, but decide against it. I’ve been meaning to write Miss Parsippany for a while, but part of the reason I finally did this morning was because I started feeling homesick. Mom always makes a big production on the first day of each new semester, complete with pancakes and pictures, and despite everything, I wouldn’t mind the fuss. Miss Parsippany’s not my mother, but she’s still an adult. Who seems to care. I thought if she wrote back right away, that might help fill the emptiness in my stomach.

  But she didn’t. And if my e-mail reaches Dad, he’ll tell Mom, who will probably think I miss them. Which, even if that’s true—especially if it’s true—she doesn’t really need to know.

  So I fill my stomach with breakfast instead.

  “Holy home fries,” I say when I reach the kitchen.

  Lemon’s sitting at the table. He looks up from a magazine, then back down again. “Our resident artist works in many mediums,” he says.

  Including food. Potatoes, waffles, and scrambled eggs have been arranged in a towering “KA” sculpture. Melon, berries, and banana slices circle the structure’s base. Juice waits to be sipped from cups made of braided orange peels.

  “Did Abe have to make all this in order to eat?” I ask.

  “Don’t know. He and Gabby were gone by the time I got up.”

  “Are we sure he did it? Maybe the Kanteen made a special first-day delivery.”

  Lemon’s eyes stay fixed on the magazine as his head, then chin, tilt forward.

  “Got it,” I say, seeing the A. HANSEN CREATIONS signature scrawled in maple syrup on the glass platter. I take a plate from the stack next to the sculpture, serve myself a helping of each breakfast item, and sit across from him.

  We don’t speak for several minutes. Lemon’s not exactly a chatterbox, but still. We haven’t seen each other in weeks and were never alone to catch up last night. I want to know how his real-world mission was, what else he did over vacation, if he’s happy to be back. I’ve learned it’s best not to ask too much too soon, though, so I start carefully.

  “Your eggs are way better.”

  “My room’s a death trap.”

  I stop chewing. “Sorry?”

  He sighs. Sits back. “My furniture’s made of twigs. My mattress is stuffed with tissues. My walls are covered in paper, not paint. And everything must be coated in kerosene or hair spray, because each time I light a match, sparks fly in every corner of the room. That’s why I almost burned the place down ten minutes after getting here yesterday. I wasn’t prepared.”

  I swallow. “But you didn’t burn the place down. Everyone’s fine. And now you know.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m good at starting fires—not putting them out.”

  “You’re great at both. Our dorm room was still standing when we moved out, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Because of the Kilter Pocket Extinguisher. And Smoke Detector with Automatic Flame Eliminator. Both of which you bought.”

  I’d disagree, but he has a point.

  “I can stay with you,” I offer. “In your room, at night. It’ll be just like last semester, except I’ll sleep on the floor—which, according to my mom’s health magazines, is great for the back. I can even wait until Gabby and Abe go to bed and then make sure I’m in my room again before they get up. They’ll never know.”

  This gets a half smile. And though he doesn’t accept the offer, he doesn’t shoot it down, either.

  “We should probably get going,” he says, standing.

  He’s right. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get from the Freshman Farm to class, and I don’t want to be late. I clear my plate, fling my fork at the dishwasher handle to open it, and quickly clean up. Then I dash to the bathroom to brush my teeth and check my appearance one last time.

  “Hey, Lemon?” I ask as he shuffles by the open doorway. “Do you think this shirt looks okay? Should I wear the blue one instead? Or maybe—”

  The front door opens and closes. Grinning, since this is normal Lemon behavior, I stick with what I’m wearing, grab my jacket and backpack, and hurry outside.

  It snowed during the night, and the ground and trees glisten. The air’s cool but the sun’s warm. Laughter and excited conversation surround us as we pass other students. The pleasant experience is a far cry from being stuck in the front of an old yellow school bus between our ancient driver, Wheezing Willy, and Bartholomew John, who always found the back of my seat a stellar sparring partner.

  It also almost makes me forget why I’m here—and that I shouldn’t be.

  According to the e-mail Annika sent last night, our schedules haven’t changed. Which means our first class is math. When we reach the classroom building twenty minutes after leaving the Farm, we’re five minutes early. Lemon shuffle
s to the couch at the back of the room and collapses like we just walked a hundred miles instead of one. I stop just outside the doorway. The front row of desks is empty, but Annika didn’t say anything about keeping the same seats. So I survey my other options.

  “Dodge the draft,” a low voice says near my ear.

  I jump. Houdini steps back.

  “It’s toasty in here.” He taps the digital thermostat on the wall next to the doorway, which is set to seventy degrees. “But by the windows? And her Royal Ice Queen? You’ll never be warm, no matter how fast your heart beats.” He places one palm to his chest. Shivers. Smiles.

  “Maybe I should’ve worn slippers instead of shoes.”

  Houdini’s eyebrows lift above the tops of his sunglasses. He glances down at his feet, which are enclosed by fluffy gray squares beneath the hems of flannel pajama pants, then up at me.

  “Hinkle the quick-comeback kid. Who’d have thunk it?” He holds out a fist. “I’d give you ten demerits, but your current lead doesn’t need them.”

  I bump his fist with mine. He yawns, stretches, and goes inside. More classmates arrive. I say hi, wave. Most return the greeting without hesitating. This is different from the end of last semester, when they were still wary of their killer classmate. It makes me hopeful that a new start really is possible.

  Thirty seconds before class begins, I scan the empty hallway. Listen for footsteps. And finally enter the room.

  I find a seat near the windows. As I remove a notebook and pen from my backpack, I try not to stare at the chair next to mine. Because for the first time since I started taking this class a few months ago, it’s empty. And I know it’s silly, but I’m afraid if I look too closely or give it too much attention, it might stay that way.

  “Behold!” Houdini lifts one leg, lets his heel drop onto the desk at the front of the room, and sweeps one hand toward his foot. “Your challenge this semester.”

  “Ugly shoes?” Abe guesses. He’s sitting a few chairs away in the middle of the room.

  “Bad personal hygiene?” a girl named Jill adds, eyeing Houdini’s stained sock.