A World of Trouble

by T. R. Burns

  “Whoa.” The word escapes from my mouth before I can swallow it.

  Because while the house’s exterior looks like the kind of place Jason, Freddy, or some other horror-movie psycho might call home, its interior looks like the kind of place Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, or some other princess might hang up her tiara. The walls are pink. The checkered curtains are frilly. The pink-and-white floor tiles are arranged in intricate floral patterns. A small crystal chandelier hangs over a pink dining table. And everywhere—sitting on the pink sofa, perched on shelves, crammed between cabinets and countertops—are stuffed animals and porcelain dolls.

  Porcelain dolls, especially old ones like these, with their loose, bobbing eyes and missing lashes, are enough to send me running in the opposite direction. But three more things seal the deal.

  1: Green satin ribbons. Looking more closely, I see they’re everywhere. Tied around the dolls’ necks. Hanging from the chandelier. Looped across the ceiling like birthday party streamers.

  2: The sound of a little girl crying.

  3: Mystery himself. He emerges from a darkened doorway, nostrils flared and eyes wide but unfocused. His arms are raised overhead. It takes only a split second to realize two more things.

  He’s holding the ax.

  And he’s coming right at me.

  Chapter 13

  DEMERITS: 385

  GOLD STARS: 300

  Stop!”

  I sit up.

  “Drop!”

  Jump to my feet.

  “Roll!”

  Grab Lemon’s fist and pry it open. His grip is so tight that the book of matches has folded in half. I yank it out before his fingers snap closed again, then return to my sleeping bag and add it to the growing pile by my pillow. I don’t know where he’s hiding these fire starters, but I’ve taken away more than a dozen of them since we went to bed two hours ago.

  “Again?” Lemon, now awake, asks.

  I pause. “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  I check my K-Pak clock. “Eleven minutes.”

  He sighs. “You should go.”

  I look back. “Where?”

  “To your room. You’ll never get any sleep in here.”

  After what I saw this afternoon, I may not get any sleep anywhere ever again. But I can’t say this out loud.

  “I’ll get just as much if I leave and there’s a fire. No offense.”

  “No problem.”

  He sounds sad. I think he might elaborate, but he doesn’t. I wait for his breaths to lengthen, which usually happens the instant his eyes shut, but they don’t. Not wanting him to stress, I try to change the subject.

  “I’m sorry again. For before.”

  “Seamus.”

  “I know you said it wasn’t a big deal, but it totally was. You guys waited for me. I never came. That’s not right.”

  “You were with Ike. You couldn’t get away. It happens.”

  I rest my K-Pak on my chest, screen side down, so he can’t see me frown. I’ve never liked lying—but I hate lying to Lemon. “Still. I wish you’d gone after Devin anyway. I would’ve made up the demerits another time, on my own.”

  “I told you. We were gotten together, and we’ll get him back together. That’s how an alliance works. All for one or not at all.”

  “Well, I don’t know how much longer Capital T will be in business. Abe was so annoyed he’ll probably leave our group and form a new one. And Gabby cut back my yodel part from ten beats to one. Like she thinks that’s all I can handle.”

  I expect Lemon to tell me to chill. That’s what he told me earlier when I finally found Capital T in the Kanteen after fleeing Mystery. Of course, he could’ve meant the instruction more literally, since fear and physical exertion made me overheat until buckets of sweat ran down my face and soaked my clothes.

  Although our history teacher might have several decades on his Kilter-centered lessons, thanks to his regular fitness routine the dude can move. By the time he reached the door of the cottage in the woods, I was halfway across the yard. By the time he was halfway across the yard, I’d gained only a few feet. In seconds he was able to grab the hood of my coat. It took all my strength to bolt left—and leap over a shallow ditch. With his eyes apparently glued to where the ax blade was about to meet my neck, Mystery didn’t notice the hole and fell right in, twisting his knee in the process. As he howled and stumbled, I took advantage of the delay and sprinted the rest of the way to the Kanteen, barely breathing and never looking back.

  Lemon didn’t seem too upset when I finally found him, Abe, and Gabby, so I figured he didn’t think I should be either. But he doesn’t tell me to chill now. He doesn’t say anything. And unlike my yodel part, his breaths grow longer.

  Realizing I’ve bored him back to sleep, I close my eyes too.

  Mystery lunges toward me, ax raised.

  Determined to think happy thoughts, which Dad says is the only way to combat terrifying ones every time he goes to the dentist, I open my eyes again, pick up my K-Pak, and start a new message.

  TO: enorris@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Hi!

  Dear Elinor,

  It’s so great to hear from you. I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner, but I actually wasn’t sure if I should. It sounds like you have a lot going on right now, and I didn’t want to bother you. Whatever IS going on, I hope it works out soon. More importantly, I hope you’re okay.

  As for what you’re missing at Kilter? For starters, the milkiest, most mouthwatering hot chocolate EVER! I don’t know what they put in there, but it’s a million times better than the best I’ve had anywhere else. And the crazy sugar high lasts about twelve hours, so if you have a cup at breakfast, you can barely blink until the crash strikes right before bedtime. Which is pretty useful when you’re going to classes, completing assignments, training, and fending off teacher attacks.

  I stop typing. Is the smiley face too much? Not enough? Deciding to trust my gut, I leave it and continue.

  Everything else is great. Capital T got hit pretty hard by Devin, but we’re planning a stellar comeback. I’d tell you all about it, but it’ll probably make more sense when you can hear the digital recording Gabby plans to make and sell in the Kommissary.

  Classes have been really fun—and pretty interesting, too. For example, did you know that honey mustard has the perfect consistency for finger painting “I’M WATCHING YOU” and other strange messages that’ll stick without dripping on kitchen walls? I didn’t, at least not until Wyatt demonstrated it for us in art the other day.

  And my one-on-one lessons are lots of fun. Ike’s a really good guy. We don’t talk about much besides weapons and demerits, but I can tell. I don’t have an older brother, but if I did, I’d want him to be just like my troublemaking tutor.

  Anyway, there’s tons more, but I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Because the sooner you take care of whatever’s going on, the sooner you can come here—and the sooner I get to tell you the rest in person!

  From,

  Seamus

  I reread the note. I’m tempted to mention Mystery without referring to Annika’s top-secret task or what I saw in the woods today. But I don’t want to taint my happy message. Depending on what’s going on, that could scare her off and keep her from writing back. And if she doesn’t write back, how will I know she’s still okay enough to hold her K-Pak and type?

  I hit send.

  My K-Pak buzzes.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: parsippany@cloudviewschools.net

  SUBJECT: Parents, a.k.a. Life’s Great Mysteries

  Dear Seamus,

  Thank you for your note. I’m happy to hear school’s going well and that your friends have come around. They make all the difference, don’t they? I’ve found that no matter how fast and furious the curveballs sometimes come at us, hits are always best made with loved ones nearby.

  Speaking of curveballs
, I’ve given a lot of thought to your question about parents and what they want. First, I must say you’re right to be confused. I’m a grown woman, but my parents still puzzle me more than my childhood Rubik’s Cube ever did. One day my mother tells me to stand up straight lest I grow a permanent hunchback, and the next day she tells me to relax my shoulders because living people don’t take kindly to corpses.

  Ouch. I guess my mom’s not the only one with issues.

  In any case, mixed messages and disconcerting delivery aside, I think parents want one thing above and beyond anything else. And that’s for their kids to be better people than they are. They want them to be happier. Healthier. Smarter. Stronger. They don’t always go about it the right way, but that only makes the goal more worthwhile.

  She left out sneakier. Trickier. More dangerous. If her theory is correct, that’s what Mom wants for me.

  I keep reading.

  I’m guessing this curiosity didn’t come totally out of left field. Did something happen with your parents to prompt the question?

  I’m all ears—or eyes, as the case may be.

  With kind regards,

  Miss Parsippany

  Wanting to read the message again, I scroll up. I’m still watching text blur down when my K-Pak buzzes again.

  This is a lot of late-night communication. Maybe I’m not the only one Mystery terrified into a permanent waking state today.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: enorris@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: Hi!

  Dear Seamus,

  Thanks for writing.

  You didn’t say anything about Annika. How is she?

  Sincerely,

  Elinor

  “Stop!”

  I scroll up.

  “Drop!”

  Read.

  “Roll!”

  Scroll again.

  The smell of sulfur tickles my nose. Snapped out of my technological trance, I leap to my feet, grab the water bottle from Lemon’s nightstand, and dump its contents on the lit match he holds.

  “How long?” he asks.

  I return to my K-Pak. “Seven minutes.”

  He gives his wet hand a single shake, then drapes his arm across his forehead.

  I slide back into my sleeping bag and lie down. “Something’s wrong.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I can’t fall asleep without worrying about the waking nightmare I might create for everyone around me. That’s not right.”

  Oh. “We’ll work on that. But I was actually talking about Elinor.”

  Blankets rustle as he rolls onto his side. “Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing. At least not that I know of. But I’ve sent her a few e-mails since Christmas vacation, and except for her last message, which came really fast, it’s taken her forever to write back. And her notes have been off, too. I mean, I guess I don’t really have anything to compare them to since we never e-mailed before break, but still. I can tell. They’re short. And kind of cold.”

  “They do call her the Ice Queen,” he reminds me.

  “But she’s only distant to keep from hurting people. By lying to them.” Lying is Elinor’s troublemaking talent. She told me that on our way to Annika’s Apex last semester. “And she wasn’t like that with me.”

  “Would you rather she wrote about all the fun she’s having wherever she is? Then you’d have to wonder whether she was telling the truth or trying to hide something.”

  Interesting point. And one I’m not sure I find reassuring.

  “She said she had a family emergency,” I add, “but didn’t say what kind. Could that be a lie too?”

  “It’s definitely vague. And people usually shoot for that when they want to skip the details and not seem rude.”

  Again, not very reassuring.

  “But there could be a million reasons why she didn’t say more,” Lemon says. “And not one of them has to be because she’s hurt or mad or sad.”

  Or in some kind of danger. Which, after going to Mystery’s cottage, hearing the little girl crying (who sounded a little like Elinor but who I don’t think was Elinor), and seeing all those green satin ribbons (just like the kind Elinor wears in her hair), is what I’m afraid of.

  “For example,” Lemon continues, “no one—not my parents, little brother, friends, Annika, or anyone else—knows why I first started playing with fire. Whenever I’m asked, I just say because it was fun, and pull out matches for proof. That usually prevents more questions.”

  “Vague,” I say.

  “Very. But I don’t keep the truth to myself because I’m hurt, mad, or sad. I keep it to myself because . . . I’m embarrassed.”

  Embarrassed? Lemon?

  There’s a soft click of a lighter. The room fills with a warm, gold glow. “When I was really little, do you know what I wanted to be?”

  Despite his current interests, I’m guessing not a professional arsonist. “A veterinarian?” Because who doesn’t want to help hurt animals feel better?

  “A firefighter.”

  I crane my neck to look back. “What happened?”

  “I was kicked off my old school’s Scrabble team.”

  “Scrabble? As in the board game?”

  “I know I don’t use them much, but I kind of have a thing for words. I like them. How they sound. The way you can twist them around. The fact that they can say one thing but mean something totally different.”

  Did Houdini steal my roommate and replace him with a Lemon look-alike? Because this definitely doesn’t sound like the same kid I’ve been sleeping (or not sleeping) near for the past four months.

  “Unfortunately, I’m pretty bad at forming words from seven random letters. Especially when I have to build them on other words. And worry about points. All in ninety seconds or less, which is how long it takes the sand to get from one end of the timer to the other.”

  “That’s a lot to think about,” I agree.

  “Too much. Anyway, two years ago our team made it to the regional Wordsmith Wars—no thanks to me. And the first round in, our team lost the regional Wordsmith Wars—thanks to me.”

  “Bummer.”

  “It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if I didn’t like words so much—or if I hadn’t been kicked off six other teams that semester. Baseball, soccer, Mathletes, the debate squad, Latin club, bowling. None of them wanted me.” Before I can offer sympathy, he adds, “Not that I blame them. The first requirement of any organized school group is showing up. The next is practicing the skills needed to participate. And my afternoon naps usually got in the way of both those things.”

  Now this sounds like the Lemon I know and love.

  “But for the Scrabble team,” he continues, “I showed up. I practiced. Until they told me I couldn’t anymore.”

  He stops speaking. I wait for him to connect the dots for me. He doesn’t, so I say, “I’m sorry that happened . . . but I don’t get it. How did getting kicked off the Scrabble team make you not want to be a firefighter?”

  He releases a long, slow breath. “I have to warn you. This wasn’t my best behavior.”

  “Understood.”

  “The bad news came a few days after the Wordsmith Wars loss. I was in the middle of a rehearsal round and didn’t see it coming. I was surprised. Disappointed. Mad. So mad, I grabbed a bunch of tiles from the board and threw them on the floor. My anger must’ve given me some sort of superhuman strength, because when the tiles hit concrete—we were playing outside on a patio—they sparked. Like miniature fireworks.”

  I try to picture this emotional outburst but can’t. Lemon’s usually mellow to the point of comatose.

  “And I felt a rush. An excitement that I had created something as powerful as fire with a couple of tiny wooden squares. I couldn’t form seven-letter words for three hundred points in a minute and a half . . . but I could do that.”

  An image of Mrs. Lubbard of Hoyt, Kentucky, pops into my head. I h
ave to admit, I experienced a similar feeling when I fired beauty products so successfully she spun and fell off her velvet stool.

  “Anyway, I started playing with fire because I stunk at Scrabble and then acted like a brat. Nothing to brag about. So I don’t.” On the ceiling, his shadow shrugs. “And maybe that’s what’s going on with Elinor. Maybe she did something she’s not proud of, annoyed her parents so much they kept her home, and feels silly talking about it. But no matter what, I wouldn’t stress. I’m sure she’ll tell you the truth eventually.”

  Eventually. By then it may be too late.

  My K-Pak buzzes.

  Lemon’s lighter clicks off. “Go ahead.”

  Hoping Elinor wrote again, I check my messages.

  TO: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: annika@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: Breakfast

  Hi, Seamus!

  Thanks for your latest update. I hope Mr. Tempest didn’t scare you too much in the woods. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for what you saw, and I’d love to figure it out together. Let’s chat over breakfast tomorrow (or today, depending on when you get this). I’ll send a cart at six thirty.

  Sweet dreams!

  Annika

  Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.

  Those are failing me right now, so I put down my K-Pak and return to my conversation with Lemon instead.

  “Thanks for telling me all that. I really appreciate it, and I promise I won’t tell anyone else.” I pause. “So what do you think Elinor could’ve done that she’d feel silly talking about?”

  His silence is punctuated by a long, deep inhale and a long, deep exhale. The response is surprising, though not entirely unexpected.

  Because in the ten seconds it took to read Annika’s message, Lemon fell asleep.

  Chapter 14

  DEMERITS: 385

  GOLD STARS: 300

  Hoodlum Hotline, how may I direct your call?”

  I pull the phone away from my ear. Look at it.

  “Helloooo?” Ms. Marla calls from her end.

  “Sorry.” I bring back the phone. “But I didn’t call you.”

  “We’re talking, aren’t we?”

  “We are, but I didn’t dial. The phone rang. I answered it.”