A World of Trouble

by T. R. Burns

  DEMERITS: 310

  GOLD STARS: 200

  A week later I’m beginning to think the most mysterious thing about Mystery is Annika’s interest in him. That, and his interest in brussels sprouts, which he eats with every meal, including dessert. But I keep following him, even when he goes places I’d rather not, like the Adrenaline Pavilion. That’s where he spends an hour every afternoon, circling the outdoor track. I suppose I should be happy he no longer sprints through the gardens at midnight, the way he did last semester, but that just makes him less mysterious and me more confused.

  At least I’m getting to work on my jump shot. As someone who’s much better at throwing a digital basketball with a game controller than a real one with his own hands, that’s something I never thought I’d say.

  Now I keep my head lowered and dribble the ball as Mystery rounds the track near the court. When his footsteps continue in the opposite direction, I jog a few feet, raise my arms, and aim for the basket.

  “You might want to watch out for that—”

  I’ve just hopped. But instead of sailing through the air, my feet hit something hard. My torso shoots forward. The ball flies from my grip. I close my eyes and lower my arms, wondering as I drop toward the ground if a Kilter marksman has ever succeeded with four broken limbs.

  I land on my side with a thud. Wiggle my fingers and toes, hands and feet. Open my eyes and see that everything works thanks to the large pile of snow that broke my fall.

  I start to stand. I’m on my knees when a cold, wet blob hits my face. I fall back again, more from shock than force.

  “Twenty demerits.”

  I bring one hand to my forehead and drag it down to my chin. When I open my eyes this time, I see Ike standing over me.

  “Five for feet to waist, ten for waist to neck, twenty for neck up.” Ike grins and rests one elbow on what looks like a long silver handlebar. “You all right?”

  “I’ll live,” I say, climbing to my feet. “What’s that?”

  “The Kilter Drifter. Guaranteed to create blizzards and snowbanks—and trip up unsuspecting passersby—even on the sunniest of days.”

  I check out the Drifter. The long handlebar leads to a silver box on wheels. It reminds me of Dad’s old snowblower, except it’s smaller, shinier, and, judging by the mini mountain that wasn’t on the court seconds ago, faster.

  “It’s been pretty warm lately.” I nod to the lawn, where yellowish-green patches outnumber white ones. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get many demerits.”

  “Think again.” Ike stands up straight and pushes the Drifter, which hums as it comes to life. A thick white flume shoots out from a narrow chute at the machine’s base, turning the asphalt on his left from black to white.

  “It makes its own snow?” I ask.

  “Would you expect anything less?”

  I guess not. “But there’s no one out here.” Then, remembering why I’m here, I spin around and breathe a silent sigh of relief. Mystery’s still trotting around the track.

  Ike turns and pushes the Drifter back toward me. “If I didn’t know better, I might think someone was in a very good mood today.” Apparently seeing the confusion on my face, he adds, “As in . . . not bad.”

  Oh. He thinks I don’t want to make trouble. That’s definitely the last impression I want to be making.

  “I’m ready,” I say. “I just—”

  I’m cut off by a new blizzard. Only this one’s not made of snow; it’s made of people. Twenty Troublemakers in white sweatpants, hooded sweatshirts, and knit caps sprint across the basketball court so fast, my visibility plummets to zero.

  “Athlete hurdle practice,” Ike says when they’ve passed. “Because your tutor would never steer you wrong.”

  As we head for the track, I try to distract Ike from any lingering suspicion he might have that I’m not up to his task, while working on Annika’s at the same time.

  “How much for the man in black?” I ask quietly.

  Ike follows my nod. “Mr. Tempest?” He shrugs. “Same as everyone else.”

  “Really? Even though he’s so . . . mysterious?”

  “He’s running in circles in plain sight.”

  “Right now,” I say. “But not usually.”

  “Mr. Tempest’s not that mysterious. He’s quirky. That happens as you age.” He glances at me. “Look at our parents.”

  He has a point, although I was hoping for some inside information from an older Troublemaker that I might somehow use to impress Annika. Before I can remind him that Mr. Tempest was the only teacher we didn’t have to get last semester in order to advance, because he’s supposedly so hard to get, and that Capital T succeeded in bringing him down only after thwarting his attacks on us, the Athletes take their positions.

  “What’s that bicycle doing there? And that garbage pail?” The track, which was totally clear a moment ago, is now covered in random items. “They’re going to trip and fall before we’ve even started.”

  My questions are answered as soon as the Athletes take off. Because while normal track stars leap over hollow wooden squares, Kilter track stars leap over items you might find around your neighborhood.

  “Start pushing,” Ike says.

  The first cluster races in our direction. I grip the Drifter’s handlebar, turn, and walk. Snow flies from the chute. Unfortunately, it sails over the runners’ heads and floats to the ground on the other side of the track. They sail over their next hurdle, a lawn chair, without breaking stride.

  Hearing the next group coming up behind me, I look over my shoulder. I’m trying to pick a target when my right foot lands in a shallow hole. I squeeze the handlebar for balance, and freeze when it buzzes in my hands. Turning back, I see words scrolling across the silver metal. I touch ANGLE, then DOWN. The snow chute lowers.

  The handlebar is a control panel. After some quick fiddling, I discover that in addition to its angle, I can adjust the snow’s trajectory, speed, and volume. As the next group passes me, I focus on an easy target: the broad back of a large male Athlete. A wall of slush fires from the chute, makes a smooth arc six feet in the air, and slams between his shoulder blades. The force tips him forward and slows him down. Heart racing, I turn around as he scans his surroundings.

  “Ten demerits,” Ike says when I reach him. “Nice.”

  “Won’t he know it’s me?” I ask.

  “Probably. But part of his training is learning how to avoid you. And if he tried to interfere with your lesson, he’d be slammed with gold stars—which would hurt way more than what you just did.”

  “Why not just use snowballs?” I ask as we wait for another group to approach.

  “If a guy’s hit with a snowball in the real world, he knows he’s being attacked and will retaliate accordingly. If he’s caught in snowblower crossfire, he’ll likely assume it was an accident and go about his business. That’s a million times more effective, especially when dealing with adults.”

  I want to point out that Dad’s snowblower does what it says and nothing more. It doesn’t create snow. Or control where it goes, or how fast it gets there. Practical application’s nice, but you can’t get fancy Kilter weapons in the real world.

  Unless, of course, you’re Mom.

  I turn and walk. When the first cluster of runners comes around again, I aim for another male Troublemaker. I get both legs at once, making him stumble.

  “Another five,” Ike says. “Keep it up.”

  As the runners dash and hop along the far side of the track, I check on Mystery, who’s still jogging in the outermost lane. Then I ask Ike something I’ve been wondering, especially since seeing Kilter Academy’s potential second campus the other day.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Ike looks up from his K-Pak. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a fourth-year. This is your last semester. What will you do when you graduate?”

  In other words, will he be going to regular college . . . or Kilter Kollege?
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  Something crosses Ike’s face. His eyes darken. His mouth turns down. It’s like a large cloud has formed directly above him. I’m tempted to look up and see if this is actually the case—but then the shadow lifts. And Ike looks past me.

  “Now, that’s a little strange,” he says.

  I follow his gaze to a group of runners. They’re still running and jumping, so I’m not sure what he means. But then I glimpse a flash of black amid all the white.

  Mystery’s left his lane and joined the Athletes. He keeps pace in the middle of the group, which is packed so tightly together it’s hard to see him. When they reach the southern end of the track a few seconds later, he scoots out between two Troublemakers, runs off the track, and keeps going across the lawn. His legs pump faster. Every few feet he glances behind him, like he’s worried someone might follow.

  I turn back. “Fern gave us a special assignment for gym class. I just remembered that I forgot to do it.”

  “No problem. As soon as you get fifty demerits, you’re free to go.”

  I fight the urge to look back at Mystery. This effort makes fighting the urge to lie impossible. “It was due this morning. We get gold stars every hour we’re late.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Ike looks around. “Get five of them, from here, and you’re a free man.”

  When I follow his gaze this time, I find it directed at a frozen pond a quarter mile away. Ten Troublemakers zip and spin in a heated game of ice hockey. Hitting five twirling targets at this distance seems like an impossible task, but the longer I try to talk my way out of it, the farther away Mystery gets.

  So I stand up straight. Square my shoulders. Squeeze the Drifter handle. And aim.

  My first shot misses. So does my second. And third and fourth. The snow reaches the makeshift rink, but by the time it does, the Troublemaker’s skated away and is nowhere near where he was when I first fired.

  A quick check to the lawn shows Mystery approaching the far tree line. Heart thumping, I return to my task. As the skaters zigzag toward the net at one end of the pond, I have an idea.

  I shift position, point, and shoot. The snowy stream makes a huge, rainbow-like arc toward the pond. Picking up speed as it descends, it nails the goalie’s left shoulder. The goalie, who’s three times bigger than every other player thanks to enormous silver padding, wipes out. He falls down and spins, face-first and spread-eagled, across the ice. Between his size and his hockey stick, which he still holds, he accidentally strikes one foot after the next until both teams are skating on their bottoms instead.

  I turn around. Ike holds up one palm. I slap it with mine.

  “Good luck with gym,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I dart around the bench he’s sitting on. “Where’s my backpack?”

  “Right where you left—” He stops when he sees that the bench next to him, where I put my stuff before starting the task, is empty. “Well, that’s too bad.”

  I’m on the verge of total panic paralysis when I hear something. Music. It’s soft, but I can still make out the song, which is familiar. It plays during the Return of the King credits—and whenever I feel like listening to it on my K-Pak.

  And then I see him. Houdini. Strolling toward the Adrenaline Pavilion gate—with my backpack hooked on one shoulder. My K-Pak, which he must’ve turned on, pokes out of the bag’s front pocket.

  I say good-bye to Ike, then run like I’ve never run before. Unfortunately, that’s not fast enough. Houdini doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, but his head start is so big I won’t be able to catch up without losing sight of Mystery. I could grab a bunch of tennis balls from the indoor courts I’m about to pass, but throwing things would only stall him briefly before prompting him to book it across campus. I could just let him go . . . but he has my K-Pak. Which has my e-mail. No one’s ever discussed Kilter’s online personal privacy, but something tells me that, at a school for Troublemakers, if you can access another student’s messages, you’re a star and he had it coming.

  So I do what I have to do. I swing by the ice rink, swipe a skateboard one of the hockey players left nearby, and silently vow to return it to the exact same place when I’m done so its owner can find it again.

  And then I roll—and swish. Because this skateboard, like the Kilter Drifter, does things its normal counterpart can’t. Like automatically shift from wheels to blades every time I hit a patch of snow or ice. And travel twice as fast with half the effort.

  My foot’s only hit the ground three times when I catch up to Houdini. I yank my backpack off his shoulder without slowing down.

  “Way to hustle, Hinkle!” he shouts after me.

  I throw the bag over my shoulder, change direction, and zoom across the lawn just as Mystery slips between two trees. I shoot into the woods thirty seconds later—and the skateboard immediately snags on dead leaves and fallen branches. I hop off, cram it into my backpack, and continue on foot.

  Dear Miss Parsippany, I think. Today I did another thing I probably should’ve done differently. I ventured into a dark forest, by myself, and trailed an ax-wielding loner to—

  My K-Pak buzzes inside my backpack. I pull it out and read while I walk.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: kommissary@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Sizzling Cold Weather Accessories

  Hi, Seamus!

  The calendar might say it’s winter, but it sure doesn’t feel like it . . . because you’re on FIRE! You just earned 75 demerits for tripping up the Athletes, swiping a fellow Troublemaker’s skateboard, and stealing Houdini’s backpack—which was yours first, of course, but became his the second he took it. That brings your total demerit count to 385. Take away the 300 gold stars you’ve earned for calling the Hoodlum Hotline, jumping at the sound of Devin’s horn, and letting Houdini swipe your stuff, and that gives you 85 credits!

  We realize things are probably just starting to heat up, but you’ll still want to blend in. This in mind, we highly recommend the Kilter Knit Set!

  I press the flashing camera icon. A photo of a teenager wearing gray earmuffs and a gray scarf appears. That photo blinks, so I press it, too. A second image loads. In this one, the kid flings the earmuffs like nunchucks and the scarf like a lasso.

  I return to the message.

  Capable of reaching maximum speeds of 300 rpm (rotations per minute), this isn’t your grandmother’s handiwork! And while her priceless arts and crafts can take years to complete, the Kilter Knit Set can be yours today for 75 credits.

  Your classmates have no idea how much trouble a former ball of yarn can make. Stop by and start showing them!

  See you soon!

  At Your Service,

  The Kommissary Krew

  Closing that message, I see a few more I missed while I skim them quickly.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org;

  loliver@kilteracademy.org;

  gryan@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: ahansen@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Music Man Meltdown

  Hey,

  Was just at Kanteen. So was Devin. Overheard him talking to Wyatt. They were getting snacks to go watch a movie in the classroom building faculty lounge.

  Now’s our chance. Meet by the first-floor water fountain in ten?

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org;

  gryan@kilteracademy.org;

  ahansen@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: loliver@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: Music Man Meltdown

  On my way.

  —L

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org;

  loliver@kilteracademy.org;

  ahansen@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: gryan@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: Music Man Meltdown

  YAYAYAY!!!! That’s PERFECT! Now remember, we have to

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org;

  loliver@kilteracademy.org;

  ahansen@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: gryan@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: Mu
sic Man Meltdown

  Oops! Sorry, I was so excited I hit send before I was done! We’ll do a quick run-through when we get there. See you in a few!!!!!!!

  I check Abe’s message again, then my K-Pak clock. He wrote twenty minutes ago. Which means the rest of Capital T is currently in the classroom building. Waiting for me.

  I stop walking and listen. Hearing Mystery’s footsteps crunching to my right, I change direction and keep going. I’m about to write Lemon back to apologize and let him know I’ll be there as soon as I can when a new message pops up.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: enorris@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Hi

  Dear Seamus,

  Hi. How are you? You never wrote back, so I just want to make sure everything is okay. How’s school? Capital T? Annika?

  I also wanted to give you an update. I’m fine, but things are still a little crazy at home. I really want to return to Kilter, but I’m not sure when I’ll get there.

  I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I’d love to know what I’m missing.

  Sincerely,

  Elinor

  She’d love to know what she’s missing. She wrote again because I never wrote back. Does that mean she’s missing . . . me?

  I had stopped walking when I had realized who the note was from. Now a sudden noise makes me look up—and dart behind a tree.

  Mystery’s stopped walking too. He stands before a small cabin made of crooked logs and crumbling stone. He removes his sneakers, places them by the front door, and goes inside. A light turns on. Smoke spirals out of a crooked, crumbling chimney. Classical music streams through cracks in the thin glass windows.

  What is this place? Does Mystery live here? If so, why is he so far away from the rest of the faculty? Does Annika know? If not, can I just tell her about it so she can send the Good Samaritans to check it out?

  This last question, at least, I can answer myself. Keeping my K-Pak in hand in case I need immediate emergency assistance, I step out from behind the tree. I crouch down and stay low to the ground as I make my way toward the cabin. I grab some rocks and shove them into my coat pocket. When I near the house, I dash the remaining few feet, round the side of the building, and duck beneath another small window.