by T. R. Burns
I pull the phone away and look at Mom. When did she dye her hair orange? And why do her fingernails look like purple claws?
“Mr. Hinkle?”
I blink. The scene before me changes. The kitchen table’s replaced by a bed. The stove by a dresser made of twigs. The refrigerator by a state-of-the-art portable ventilation system, retail price five thousand credits—or free if you swipe it from the Good Samaritan storage shed.
“Ms. Marla?” I ask.
“The one and only.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. Now fully awake, I close my eyes and pull the pillow over my head.
“Are you calling to report an identity theft?”
“No,” I mumble.
“Good to hear. If you were my son, Rodolfo would have some explaining to do.”
Rodolfo. Her three-legged hairless Chihuahua.
“Would you like to report something else?”
I sigh. “No, ma’am.”
“You know you get twenty gold stars just for picking up the phone, yes?”
I shove the pillow aside. “I thought it was ten.”
“New semester, new stakes.”
Of course. “Okay,” I say. “Sorry to bother you. Have a nice night.”
“Back atcha. Thanks for calling the Hoodlum Hotline!”
I hang up and toss the phone to the foot of my sleeping bag. I’ve been keeping it close by at night, in case of an emergency, and now I want it as far away as possible.
“Stop . . . drop . . . rollshhhhh . . .”
I crane my neck to look behind me. Lemon flops over onto his stomach, dangles one arm down the side of the bed, and resumes snoring. I take my K-Pak from the floor and check the time.
Four o’clock. And so far, only three minor incidents involving sleepwalking, hidden matches, and flammable furniture. This is a significant improvement over the first two nights I spent here. Because while some people dream of sugarplums, and while I apparently dream of Bartholomew John, Lemon dreams of flames—and then tries to bring them to life. I’ve been forfeiting sleep and using everything at my disposal—the Smoke Detector with Automatic Flame Eliminator, the Pocket Extinguisher, the portable ventilation system—to keep the situations under control, and successfully, too. Because I haven’t had to call the Hoodlum Hotline for help.
Until tonight. When I called not because I needed to, but because Bartholomew John made me.
I try to go back to sleep, but like a nightmare you can’t shake long after you’ve woken from it, I can’t forget the image of Mom at the kitchen table talking and laughing with the son she wished she had. Eager for distraction, I turn on my K-Pak again and start a new K-Mail message.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Me again!
Dear Elinor,
Hi! How are you?
I hope it’s okay that I’m writing again. I know the general rule is to wait for an answer to your (my) first e-mail before sending another, but then I remembered this one time my dad entered a contest held by our local radio station.
The prize was a year’s supply of No. 2 pencils donated by our local office supply store. To enter you had to submit an essay about what you’d do with the prize if you won. Dad spent hours on his, talking all about how he’d use the pencils for good, and donate half of them to writers in need, and spread the word about the importance of sometimes staying old-school in our super high-tech world. Then after he e-mailed the essay, he checked his account every five minutes for a response.
Only it never came. He thought it was because his essay wasn’t good enough, but I knew better. Partially because it was amazing, but mostly because he had to be, like, one of two people who entered the contest. So after a few days, I asked if I could see his original note.
I found the problem right away. He was supposed to send the essay to [email protected]. Instead he sent it to [email protected]. DJ Rusty. Not Dusty. We sent it again, but by then it was too late. The winner was announced the next morning, and the other entrant won. Dad was so disappointed he used pens all year.
Anyway, I checked my last e-mail to you, and I got the address right. But computer glitches happen all the time. So I thought maybe it somehow vaporized in cyberspace instead of hitting your in-box. And just in case, I’d better try again.
Especially because Houdini said you weren’t coming back to Kilter this semester. And I wanted to make sure everything is okay . . . ?
I hope it is. And that you are too.
From,
Seamus
P.S. If you did get my other note, sorry for this one! And no pressure to write back right away. I’m sure you’re really busy. Anytime’s fine. Really.
I reread the message and send it before I can chicken out. The digital envelope is still swishing when my K-Pak buzzes.
Seeing the new e-mail at the top of my in-box, I bolt upright.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Clean Slate
Dear Seamus,
Thank you for writing. It was so nice to hear from you. I had a lovely vacation and hope you did too.
I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions either, mostly because I don’t do well under pressure. (Case in point: trying—and failing, miserably—to break up a fight in the school cafeteria in hopes of making a good impression on my new employer.) Plus, the disappointment I feel when I don’t meet whatever goal I set for myself twelve months after setting it is way worse than the general disappointment I feel for not achieving simple goals, like organizing my closet or vacuuming under the couch. Why invite such discomfort when you don’t have to?
However, I’m with you on starting over. In fact, that’s how I try to approach every day. Each morning I wake up and think about ways in which I can improve on the day before. For example, yesterday I had a chocolate doughnut for breakfast. Fried sugar rings aren’t exactly nutritious get-up-and-go fuel, and I was reminded of that fact with a killer stomachache that lasted all day. So today I had a banana . . . and half a chocolate doughnut. It was a small improvement, but an improvement all the same.
How about you? Is there something you did today that you’d like to do differently tomorrow? If so, I’d love to hear about it.
With kind regards,
Miss Parsippany
P.S. How’s your new school so far this semester? Are you enjoying yourself ? Have Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and Elinor come around? I hope so!
Whoa. How does she know about . . . ?
Oh. Right. I e-mailed her when I didn’t think she was alive to get the message, and told her all about Parents’ Day, and Mom spilling the beans about what I did to get into Kilter, and my friends turning against me. For someone I met only once, she sure knows a lot about me.
I hit reply. Before I can start typing, my K-Pak buzzes with another message. I close Miss Parsippany’s and read the new one.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Today
Dear Seamus,
I hope you’re enjoying your first week back at Kilter.
I also hope you can join me for breakfast before first period this morning. I’ll send a golf cart. Say around seven?
See you soon.
Annika
I look over my shoulder. Lemon’s K-Pak is on his nightstand. I hold my breath and wait for it to buzz. . . . But it doesn’t.
I’m being singled out. Again.
I don’t want to be distracted when I write Miss Parsippany back, so I save her note for later. And there’s no use trying to go back to sleep now since my head will only spin with thoughts of Mom and Bartholomew John, Annika and Elinor, so I stand, roll up my sleeping bag, and cross the room. I listen at the door before cracking it open, make sure Gabby and Abe are nowhere in sight, and tiptoe into the hallway. Leaving the door ajar in case there’s another predawn bonfire, I hea
d for my room.
As I shower and get dressed, I try to figure out why Annika wants to meet with me. The last time we ate a meal together, Lemon, Abe, and Gabby were there too. Dinner with Annika was our reward for getting Mr. Tempest, our notoriously hard-to-get history teacher. And though I’ve earned quite a few demerits already, I don’t think I’ve earned enough to warrant high praise and some quality one-on-one time with the school director.
I’m brushing my teeth when it occurs to me.
Maybe this isn’t a good meeting. Maybe it’s a bad one. Like a warning. After all, Annika’s note came right after I called the Hoodlum Hotline. And in the administration building the other day, she said the reason she met me was because she wanted to see for herself if I really wanted to be here.
Is it possible I’m not making enough trouble?
Or, worse . . . did Annika find out I never made the trouble that got me into Kilter in the first place?
I’m still stressing about this two hours later when a horn honks outside. I jump up from the couch, grab my stuff, and run from the house. Annika’s golf cart’s parked at the end of our walkway, but it’s empty.
Guessing Annika’s talking to the Troublemakers next door, I hop into the passenger seat to wait. A clear seat belt zips across my torso and waist, yanking me in place. The gleaming white dashboard glows. A digital campus map appears. I have just enough time to make out the dotted line pulsating between a small square labeled FRESHMAN FARM 1 and a big one labeled A. KILTER HOME when the cart jolts forward. It picks up speed, shoots off the pavement, and zooms toward a fat tree trunk.
“Oh no.” I try to reach for the computer screen, but my arms won’t move. I try to close my eyes, but my lids are stuck. Locked in place by wind and gravity, I have no choice but to sit back and wait for collision.
The tree comes closer. My heart beats faster.
Dear Miss Parsippany. Yes, I did do something today that I’d like to do differently tomorrow. I got into an unmanned, malfunctioning death trap on wheels that—
The golf cart beeps and pulls back slightly. For a second, everything stills while I float forward, feeling like one of the bubbles in Dad’s old lava lamp. A squirrel in the tree watches me. We’re so close I can see its tiny nostrils flare and freeze.
The golf cart jerks right. Shoots forward again.
I have no idea how long the ride to Annika’s lasts. It feels like hours, but given the way the entire campus passes by in a single fuzzy pink line, it’s probably closer to seconds. What I do know is that once the cart finally stops, it takes great effort to pull myself out of the Seamus-shaped impression my body made in the seat.
Also, I can’t feel my legs.
“Steady there, Gumbo.”
I turn toward the house—or, more accurately, the wilderness palace Queen Kilter calls home. It has three floors. Five chimneys. Walls made of windows and held together by logs. A wide stone porch with matching pillars. Privacy bordering on invisibility, thanks to a sprawling forest of towering evergreen trees.
And standing before a tall arched door, Good Samaritan George.
Chapter 9
DEMERITS: 245
GOLD STARS: 60
Gumbo?” I ask.
“Weird green guy. Made of rubber. Slanted head. Talks like a girl.”
Sometimes, when Mom goes to bed early and doesn’t know how late we stay up, Dad and I watch the ancient-cartoons channel on TV. Because of this, I think I know who—or what, since that’s unclear—GS George is talking about.
“You mean Gumby?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Carrot, carr-oat.”
“You mean tomato, to-mah-toe?”
“Nope. I don’t.” He raises his palms and waves them from side to side. He steps one foot forward, lifts the toe of his penny loafer, brings his foot back, and repeats the mini kick on the other side. His shoulders bounce up and down as he smiles and sings some song about correct produce pronunciation.
The feeling begins to return to my legs. Before I can regain full function, GS George’s K-Pak buzzes. He stops dancing, yanks the device from his fanny-pack belt, and reads.
“Come with me,” he says, his voice flat and his face straight.
I look over one shoulder as I start up the wide stone steps. Not only is there no sign of the Kilter campus, there’s no sign of a road or path that leads anywhere away from here. I can’t even make out tire tracks in the snow or dirt. Does the golf cart actually take flight when it reaches a certain speed? Maybe it—
The door closes. The outside world disappears.
“This way,” GS George says.
We walk down a long hallway, passing a conference room. Library. Den. Gym. I feel a little guilty peeking but tell myself that if there were something I wasn’t supposed to see, I wouldn’t see it. So there can’t be, because all these doors are open.
All of them, that is, but one.
I stop by the last room on the left. The door’s closed. Muffled voices talk on the other side. Whoever’s speaking sounds hurried. Agitated. The white light shining out from the thin space between door and floor goes dark every other second, as if pacing feet keep passing by. As I listen, one voice grows louder. The feet stop. Annika yells.
“I don’t care where, when, or how! We will bury that place. And be done with her, once and for all!”
“What place?” I whisper to GS George. “Who?”
“Gun it, Gumbo,” he whispers back, taking me by the elbow.
My unofficial tour ends at the living room. There’s an L-shaped couch. A coffee table. Bookshelves. The furniture’s white, as are the floor and ceiling. The only color comes from the silver frames around the black-and-white nature photos on the walls and the ice-blue throw pillows on the oversize sectional. Everything, even the white logs in the fireplace, gleams.
If Annika ever kicks back and watches the ancient-cartoon channel with a bucket of greasy popcorn, she doesn’t do so in here.
GS George motions to a white velvet armchair. I sit. He stands behind me, his hands on his hips. We face a wall of windows overlooking a turquoise lake and snow-capped mountains.
“What’s that round thing?” I ask, squinting. “Is that Annika’s A—?”
“Hello, Seamus.”
I start to jump up just as GS George spins the velvet chair. When it stops, I’m facing the rest of the living room.
“Hello, Ms.—” I catch myself. “Hello, Annika.”
She’s sitting on the edge of the couch wearing dark jeans, an ivory turtleneck, and a fluffy vest made of silver peacock feathers. Her hair’s pulled back in a tight ponytail.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Hot chocolate?”
Without waiting for a response, she motions behind her. An older woman in a white skirt suit enters the room with a glass tray. On the tray a huge chunk of chocolate sits above a large candle with a hundred lit wicks. The heat melts the chocolate. The chocolate flows into a pitcher. The older woman stirs in milk and serves.
“Thank you,” I say when she hands me mine.
“Still so polite.” Annika sips from her mug, licks her lips. “You’ll have to get over that.”
A few months ago, I would’ve automatically apologized. But now I know Annika doesn’t like that, either.
“I spoke with Houdini yesterday. He told me all about your real-world combat mission.” She sits back. Folds her arms over her chest. “He was quite pleased with your performance. He said he’s never seen a first-year student act with such . . . commitment.”
I smile before I can wonder whether I should.
“And that pleased me,” Annika says. “Did you enjoy yourself ?”
“Totally.” I nod. “I mean—yes. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“You needn’t thank others for what you’ve rightfully earned.”
My mouth itches to apologize. I fill it with hot chocolate so it can’t.
“Are you ready for another mission?”
I force the liquid down my throat. “
What?”
She leans forward, rests her elbows on her knees. “Are. You. Ready. For. Another. Mission?”
I heard her, but, “We just got here. The Ultimate Troublemaking Task is still months away.”
“True. And if you successfully complete the UTT, you’ll receive another real-world assignment. In the meantime, I’m offering you an assignment to do here. On campus.”
A sudden flash of light calls my attention to the other side of the room.
“Recognize him?” Annika asks.
I watch the moving image projected from her K-Pak onto the far wall. It’s an elderly man staring, bug-eyed, into the camera. His eyes widen even more as the camera zooms closer. Then, when the lens is inches away, the man opens his mouth until I can see the silver filling his molars, and screams. That’s what it looks like, anyway. Because this film’s silent. It’s short, too. As soon as the man yells, the footage rewinds and starts over.
“Of course,” I say. “That’s Mys—Mr. Tempest. Our history teacher.”
“Correct.” Annika shudders as the shriveled face zooms in, out, and in again. “Have you seen him lately?”
“No.”
“Me neither. At least, not as often as I should.”
I nod, remembering last semester. Wherever Annika was—at dinner, watching the Dramatists rehearse, trekking up mountains—Mystery was never far behind.
The image freezes. Mystery stares at us, his dried lips driven apart by a gaping black hole.
“As you can imagine,” Annika continues, facing me, “as director of the country’s most prestigious private academy, I’m very busy. Mr. Tempest is an asset to our educational community, but he is, shall we say, a bit of loose cannon.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Annika smiles. “Unlike most of us, Kilter’s moody history teacher is known to run off, disappear, and ignore e-mails and phone calls for days on end. He needs to be monitored. Closely. Unfortunately, he’s been even harder to keep track of than usual this semester, and I’m even busier than usual. I need someone to help me keep tabs on him. Someone talented. Trustworthy. Committed.”
I look back at GS George. He looks straight ahead.