by T. R. Burns
Dear Seamus,
Thank you for writing. It was nice to hear from you.
I know you’re back at school and wondering where I am. My family had an emergency, so I’m still home. I hope to return to Kilter as soon as possible.
Talk soon.
Elinor
I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the message. What I do know is that by the time I look up from the K-Pak screen, the mess in aisle eight has been cleaned up . . .
. . . and Mystery’s nowhere to be found.
Chapter 11
DEMERITS: 275
GOLD STARS: 60
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: In Your Expert Opinion
Dear Miss Parsippany,
Hi! How are you? Did you kick your doughnut-for-breakfast habit yet? If not, I highly recommend dipping your fried sugar ring in warm cinnamon milk tomorrow morning. The cafeteria here served that for dessert recently, and it was AMAZING.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said about starting over each day. It’s a great idea. Because whenever I do something I’m not proud of, I usually just feel bad and wish it had never happened. Sometimes I pretend like it never happened, unless it’s so awful that pretending is impossible. So I love the idea of using the unfortunate incident as an opportunity to turn things around. And I’m going to try really hard to do that from now on.
Which brings me to a question—and a favor. You definitely don’t owe me anything, especially not after what I did (even if what I did didn’t kill you), but right now, I think you’re the only one who might be able to help.
As a teacher, you know kids. You know parents, too. This must give you some great inside perspective.
So my question is: What do parents want? Like, REALLY want? Because up until a few weeks ago I thought they wanted their kids to make their beds, get good grades, be polite, respect adults, and generally stay out of trouble. But now? I’m not so sure. And any insight would be greatly appreciated.
As for school, it’s going well. My classmates don’t run in the opposite direction when they see me, so that’s an improvement. And Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and I are tighter than ever. I haven’t seen Elinor yet because she’s—
A sudden boom explodes near my ear. It’s followed by a long, loud wail that sounds like a cross between a foghorn and a police car siren. It makes me drop my K-Pak, fall off the couch, and lunge for the coffee table—and phone.
“Hoodlum Hotline, how may I direct your call?”
That’s what I hope Marla’s saying on the other end, anyway, because I can’t hear anything over the emergency drone.
“Bomb!” I gasp, trying to look out the windows and crawl under the coffee table at the same time. “Attack!”
“Crumb. Gobsmack.”
I pause. That didn’t sound like Marla.
The front door slams. I peer through the wooden legs of my fallout shelter. In the foyer, Abe shakes his head as he stoops down and picks up scattered papers from the floor.
“Mr. Hinkle? Would you mind repeating that?”
Now that was definitely Marla. I start to do as she asks when I realize I can hear again. The noise ended as abruptly as it began. The walls and ceiling are still intact. So are Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and, judging by a quick body scan, me.
“Sorry,” I say. “False alarm.”
“All righty then.” There’s a light clacking as Marla types her entry. “That’ll be forty new additions to your starry sky.”
I shoot up, smacking my head on the table. “What happened to twenty?”
“This semester, the more you call, the more you get.”
Great.
“I’ll add those to the hundred you just got for being gotten.”
“What?” I ask, thinking the earsplitting noise must have compromised my hearing.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Lemon says.
“That’s not fair!” Gabby declares.
“It’s definitely a pickle,” Abe says.
My alliance-mates are all looking at their K-Paks. Spotting mine where it landed three feet away, I shimmy out from under the table on my stomach.
“Oh, by the way,” Marla says casually, “have you seen Good Samaritan George lately?”
I stop mid-shimmy and look around the room again, like I should see the ballet-loving Gumby fan somewhere. Maybe hiding behind a houseplant, monitoring us.
“Nope,” I say.
“Okay.” Marla sounds different. Almost disappointed. “I’ve updated your record. Thanks for calling the Hoodlum Hotline!”
I hang up, reach for my K-Pak, and climb to my feet.
“That was Devin?” I ask, reading my new K-Mail message. The note from our music teacher is blank, but the attached photo shows the mouth of a shiny brass instrument aimed toward our open living room window—and every single member of Capital T midair, hovering over furniture. It looks like a deleted scene from Mission: Impossible.
“And his merry music maker,” Abe says. “I just saw him hot-trotting across the front expanse of grass, reaching said music maker toward the heavens like a triumphant pied piper.”
“Can you please stop talking like my great-grandmother?” Gabby groans.
“Pardon me.” Abe holds up both hands. “But if I’d like to acquire the most demerits for this week’s Language Arts assignment by learning how to converse granny-style—and astound mumsie and daddy dearest in the future—that’s my pejorative.”
“Prerogative,” I say.
“Huh?” Abe says.
“Never mind.” I turn to Lemon. “Our music teacher snuck up on the house, opened a window, and wailed on his trumpet. To scare the you-know-what out of us.”
“So it seems.” Lemon slides down in the armchair. Clasps his hands loosely on his stomach. Closes his eyes. “And it worked. Unfortunately.”
“Now we have to get a Troublemaker the same way,” Gabby says. “For another chance not to be gotten by Devin. Which we need if we want to participate in the Ultimate Troublemaking Task, which I totally do.”
“As do I. It is, as they say, a cannonplum.”
“Conundrum,” I say.
“Whatever.” Abe flops onto the couch. “Let’s flip the script.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean we should get Devin. And all our other teachers.”
“That’s what we did last semester,” Gabby says.
“And we should do it again this semester. At the very least, we should go after whoever gets us. Bigger and better than ever before.”
“But that’s not what Houdini said we needed to—”
“I know,” Abe says, interrupting Gabby. “But we are Capital T. And we go above and beyond the call of duty. That’s what sets us apart from ordinary Troublemakers.”
“So you want us to do what Houdini said . . . and get our teachers, too?” I ask.
“Exactly,” Abe says.
I look at Lemon. His eyelids slide up slowly, indicating some interest.
“I can yodel,” Gabby offers. “It’s kind of a hidden talent. In fact, I’ve been the Washington State Fair Junior Warbler champion five years running.”
“Congratulations!” Abe claps exaggeratedly.
“Thanks! I can teach you guys how to do it too. It’s not on Devin’s curriculum. He won’t see—or hear—it coming.”
Lemon’s eyelids slide down. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” I say. Because with all these gold stars I’m earning, I’ll need more demerits if I’m going to keep Annika convinced that I want to be here.
“Fine,” Abe says. “But let’s start now. I don’t want to waste time.”
“Yay!” Gabby jumps up from her chair and dashes across the room. “I’ll get my sheet music!”
I take her seat and return to my K-Mail. I finish my note to Miss Parsippany, check for typos, and send it. I’ve just clicked on Elinor’s note for the bazillionth time
since receiving it a few days ago when my K-Pak buzzes. I reluctantly close Elinor’s message and open the new one.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Q&A
Dear Seamus,
You owe me an update and I owe you your first reward. Meet me at the helipad in fifteen minutes. A golf cart’s waiting behind the snow-cone truck.
And remember: Don’t. Tell. ANYONE.
Hugs!
Annika
The helipad? Snow-cone truck? Fifteen minutes? Hugs? Despite the reward, none of this sounds very appealing—and Gabby returns to the room with sheet music in hand before I can guess what it means. She drops to her knees on the other side of the coffee table and spreads out the pages.
“Okay, so, like most people, you’ve probably always thought the trick to a great yodel is in the throat.”
“No, I haven’t,” Abe says. “Because like most people, I’ve never thought about yodeling. Ever.”
Gabby doesn’t bat an eye. “But really, it’s in the stomach. Allow me to demonstrate.”
She opens her mouth. I scoot forward.
“Wait,” I say.
She closes her mouth.
“I’m so sorry. But I kind of have to go.” Feeling my face warm, I hold my K-Pak in front of it. “Ike just wrote. He got some new weapon he wants me to try.”
“Right now?” Gabby asks.
I nod.
“What’s the rush?” Abe asks.
I shrug.
“Go,” Lemon says. “We’ll fill you in later.”
“Oooh, our first group performance! I can’t wait. Guys, you don’t even know how much fun you’re about to have. Let’s warm up by taking our lips between our pointer fingers and thumbs and . . .”
Her voice fades as I leave and head down the hallway. I get my coat from the hall closet and hurry to the front door. I wave to Lemon as I pass the living room, but his eyes are closed again.
Outside, I spot the snow-cone truck right away. It’s silver with frosty windows and an attendant who hands out paper cups to waiting Troublemakers. I find the golf cart right behind it. It’s empty, just like last time. I climb in, wait for the seat belt, and brace for takeoff. I don’t know where the helipad is so have no clue how long the ride will last, but I’m hoping less than twelve minutes. According to my K-Pak clock, which I manage to glimpse before the cart moves and the world blurs, that’s how much time I have before Annika’s fifteen-minute window closes.
For better or worse, the golf cart stops four minutes later. At first I think this is for better, since I have eleven minutes to kill—maybe by writing Elinor back. I still haven’t done that yet, since I’m still trying to figure out what to say. She didn’t exactly give me much to go on, and her note also gave me a strange feeling. I know it can be hard to tell what kind of mood someone was in when they wrote their e-mail (unless that someone’s Gabby), but there wasn’t a single exclamation point in Elinor’s message. That has to mean something. . . . Doesn’t it?
Unfortunately, the note will have to wait. Because when I get out of the golf cart, which has stopped in front of the Kommissary, Annika’s already there.
“Good afternoon, Seamus!”
I follow the voice by looking up—and up and up and up—until my neck feels like it’s bent back at a ninety-degree angle.
She’s standing at the edge of the Kommissary roof. Her stride’s wide, her fists are at her hips, and her long, ice-blue coat flaps around her like a cape.
“Shall we?” a male voice asks.
My chin lowers, bringing my head with it. A few feet away, GS George opens the Kommissary door.
I follow him inside. In addition to watching ballet, he must practice it himself, because he moves quickly, lightly, through the aisles. We reach the back of the store in no time. He leads me through an unmarked steel door, down one staircase, up another, and into a glass elevator. The door closes, GS George presses the UP button, and we shoot skyward.
This elevator ride’s longer than any I’ve ever taken. Not one for being trapped inside a moving box, I try to distract myself with conversation.
“Ms. Marla was just asking about you,” I say.
GS George doesn’t look away from the silver lightning bolt moving in a wide arc above the elevator door, but he does smile.
“She wondered if I’d—”
I don’t finish the sentence. I can’t. Because we’ve left the building, literally, and are now rising high above the Kommissary roof. We’re surrounded by blue sky. Fluffy white clouds swoop toward us. On the lawn far below, Troublemakers point and stare.
“Glass elevator chute,” GS George says when we finally stop and the doors open. “Nifty, huh?”
He hops out onto what seems to be a large glass platform and jogs to the waiting black helicopter. I stand there, back and hands pressed to the clear elevator wall. I might stand there all day, frozen by a fear of heights I didn’t know I had until this very second, but then I catch a flash of blue near one of the helicopter’s windows.
Annika’s already inside. Waiting for me.
I take a deep breath. Fix my eyes straight ahead. And step out of the elevator—just as the helicopter’s blades start spinning. My fear of heights is nothing compared to my fear of being blown off the platform and falling ten stories, so I lower my head and pick up the pace.
When I climb into the helicopter, I freeze again. Mom hates to fly, so we never travel anywhere we can’t drive to, which means I’ve never set foot in any gravity-defying vehicle—unless you count the Kilter golf cart. But I’ve watched enough movies to expect a few seats squished close together in a tiny tin bubble. What I find instead are two long, gray leather sofas. Plush white carpet. Black-and-white nature photos lining the curved walls. A small kitchen with real stainless steel appliances—and a server, preparing snacks.
Annika’s typing on her K-Pak. She nods to the couch across from hers, so I sit. GS George hands me a set of white leather headphones, then disappears behind a sparkly silver curtain. I can’t hear anything with the headphones on, so I don’t know we’re moving until I look out the window and see the tiny Troublemakers disappear completely.
The flight is so smooth it feels like we’re floating. I relax enough to watch the trees, fields, and mountains down below. Soon the helicopter picks up speed and the ground blurs. Eventually, my headphones beep. Annika’s voice breaks the silence.
“Welcome aboard, Seamus.”
I turn around. “Thank you.”
She accepts a cup of tea from the server. “So. Tell me. What’s happened since your last note?”
“Did you have a chance to read it?” I ask. It was a doozy, and she didn’t write back, so I’ve been wondering.
“Of course. I’m very busy, but this is a priority.”
“Well, that was the strangest thing I saw all week. Mr. Tempest . . . with the ax.” I watch her sip her tea, wait for the shock to cross her face. But it doesn’t.
“Did you follow him? And see where he went with it?”
“I tried.” My eyes fall to my lap. I force them back up. “But no.”
She shrugs. “He’s an old man. He gets cold easily. He probably wanted to chop some wood for the faculty fireplace.”
“But he stole the ax,” I remind her. “He didn’t buy it.”
“He’s not allowed to shop at the Kommissary. And he enjoys inviting suspicion—and freaking me out. As long as I know what he’s really up to, I refuse to give him the satisfaction.” Her K-Pak buzzes. She checks her messages. “What was he doing today?”
I review my thorough mental notes. “He had oatmeal and berries for breakfast, worked out at the Adrenaline Pavilion, and went to the library.”
“Interesting,” Annika says, although she only seems to be half listening. “Good job.”
“Thanks.” I breathe a silent sigh of relief.
“Have you thought about what you’d like to ask this week?”
>
I have. With so many questions it was hard to choose just one, but after careful consideration I decided to ask about Elinor. Now that I’ve heard from her I don’t have to ask if she’s alive, so I’ll start with whether Annika knows when she’ll be back at school. I want to ask about Mom, too, and how someone outside Kilter could get Kilter weapons, but the truth is, if I know Elinor’s returning soon, that means she’s really okay. And as long as I know she’s really okay, I can stop worrying about that and focus on everything else.
This is called not putting the cart before the horse, as Mom would say. Or the equal sign before the multiplication symbol, as Dad would say.
But before I can answer, my headphones beep again. GS George speaks.
“Destination approaching. Ten o’clock.”
If the helicopter’s a timepiece, I must be sitting at noon, because Annika jumps up, leaps over the coffee table, and lands on the couch two feet away from me. Standing on her knees, she presses both palms to the window and looks down. I shift in my seat and peer through the clouds to the Earth below.
At first I don’t know what we’re looking at. There’s a lot of flat, yellow land. A few houses lining one straight road. But then we tilt left, zoom over a beige hill, and shoot down before leveling off again. An enormous clear lake comes into view. In the center, far from the mainland, is an island. It has lots of rocks and no palm trees, but it’s definitely an island. As we come closer I see what appears to be a series of crop circles, like the kind aliens tend to make in the middle of nowhere except not as round, drawn in the dirt. It’s not until we’re hovering directly above the island that I can see the circles are actually letters. Two, specifically.
A K. And an A.
“It’s perfect,” Annika breathes.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Not much now. But if all goes according to plan . . . soon it will be another Kilter Academy campus.”
Something in her voice makes me look at her. She’s smiling, but her eyes are watering.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She doesn’t shift her gaze as she answers.
“I told you, Seamus. One week, one question. That’s all.”
Chapter 12