A World of Trouble

by T. R. Burns

  “What do you mean, the phone—wait. Seamus Hinkle? Is that you?”

  This sounds like a trick question. “Yes?”

  “Well, I’m guessing the only thing you do more often than call me is brush your teeth. You probably picked up the phone without even realizing it.”

  “No, I really didn’t. I was just sitting here, on the couch, waiting for Annika’s golf—”

  Oops.

  “Annika’s golf cart?” Ms. Marla asks, not sounding particularly surprised. “The sun’s not even up. Where are you and our illustrious Kilter queen off to so early?”

  I think fast. “Did I say Annika? I meant Ike. My tutor. He likes practicing when everyone else is asleep and we have the whole campus to ourselves.”

  “Sure. Right. Interesting.” There’s a soft yap in the background. Ms. Marla shushes Rodolfo. “Anyhoo, since I have you on the phone, what do you think the chances are that you’ll see George today?”

  “George?” I ask. “The Good Samaritan?”

  “Could there be another?”

  I don’t know how to answer that. “Do you want, like, a percentage?”

  Ms. Marla chuckles like I’ve made a joke. Then there’s a shrill ringing on her end of the phone, and she sighs.

  “Shucks,” she says. “That’s the other line. Listen, if you do see George, would you do me an enormous favor and tell him I said the silly bear ducks at dusk? Pretty please? He’ll know what it means. Thanks for calling the Hoodlum Hotline!”

  “Wait, I don’t get gold stars since you’re the one who—”

  I stop when I hear the dial tone. I hang up and look at the phone again, like it might contain clues as to what just happened, then turn to put it back on the coffee table.

  “Morning.”

  I jump. Drop the phone. Snatch it from the floor and press the off button before I accidentally call the Hotline for real. I sit back and hope I look pleasantly surprised to see Abe sitting in the armchair across from me.

  “Hi.” I smile. “You’re up early. How’d you sleep?”

  “Adequately.” His eyes narrow, like now I’m the one asking trick questions. “So. Pre-dawn tutor session, huh?”

  “What? Oh—yup.”

  “Didn’t you just train with Ike yesterday?”

  It seems so long ago I have to think about it. “I did.”

  “I meet with my tutor once a week. So do most other Troublemakers.”

  I’m not sure what Abe’s getting at but figure it boils down to the same basic theory: As a murderer, and, therefore, star student, I’m getting special treatment. When I’m supposed to be one equal part of an alliance.

  “He has some projects coming up that may interfere with our training schedule. So he’s trying to get in as many sessions as he can while he can.”

  It’s a funny thing about lying: The more you do it, the easier it gets. I tell myself this particular lie is for the greater good of everyone, since I can’t be any kind of alliance member if I’m found out and expelled from Kilter—and only hope that doesn’t turn out to be yet another stretch of the imagination.

  “Whatever.” Abe stands up. “We’re meeting behind the Kanteen delivery truck at seven forty-five. Try to wrap up your little game of catch by then.”

  I stand too. “Seven forty-five? This morning? What for?”

  His back to me, Abe’s head falls forward, then shakes slowly. “Hinkle, Hinkle. Don’t you check your K-Mail?”

  Yes. About eleven times a minute since becoming such a popular pen pal. Even when I don’t hear my K-Pak buzz, just in case it does and I miss it. I checked right before the phone rang, and now go to check again.

  “Music Man Meltdown, take two,” he continues before I press the digital envelope. “Devin always runs through his scales after breakfast, inside the Kanteen delivery truck. Something about the acoustics.”

  I don’t know how long I’ll be. Or where. Or whether I’ll make it at all.

  I mean to say these things out loud, but the words get stuck somewhere between my chest and mouth. Then Abe leaves the room, and I hear the soft hum of a golf cart engine grow louder. Not wanting him to see my transportation and grow even more suspicious, I run out the front door and down the walkway. As the golf cart zips away from the curb, I glance back at the house. The door remains closed, the windows empty. Temporarily relieved, I turn forward. The cart picks up speed, and I use all my strength to keep my K-Pak raised without letting it slam into my face.

  No new messages. Was Abe stretching the truth himself ?

  Guessing I have a few seconds to kill, I start my own new message.

  TO: enorris@kilteracademy.org

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

  SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hi!

  Good morning!

  Just wanted to answer your last note. Annika’s fine. She seems busier than usual, and maybe a little more stressed, but fine. I’m sure she misses you TONS and can’t wait to have you back ASAP!

  If you have other questions, or need anything else, or even just feel like saying hi again, please let me know!

  Have a great day!

  From,

  Seamus

  Elinor wrote right back when I used one smiley face. Maybe she’ll hand deliver her next note if I send two.

  I press send. I’m still scrolling through my in-box for Abe’s invisible message when the golf cart jerks to a stop in front of Annika’s house.

  “Morning, Mr. Hinkle.”

  “The angry deer runs at dawn.”

  Good Samaritan George’s head falls to one side. Sliding out of the cart, I try again.

  “The funny fox flies at midnight.”

  GS George’s lips pucker. His eyebrows arch. “The silly bear ducks at dusk?”

  “Yes!” I smile. “Ms. Marla asked me to tell you that.”

  He returns the smile as he lifts his head. Bounces his shoulders up and down. Holds open the front door. “Goody.”

  I want to ask why she couldn’t call him instead of me to relay this message, but don’t. Partially because it’s none of my business. Partially because it’s a little weird to think about GS George and Ms. Marla’s relationship, whatever its nature might be. But mostly because the second I step inside, my senses are slammed from every direction. There’s loud bluesy, jazzy music. Voices. Warmth from a lit fire in the foyer fireplace. The unmistakable scent of breaded fish frying, which is so strong—and yummy—I can taste it.

  “Faculty meeting!” George practically shouts over the din. He motions for me to follow him. “She should be done shortly!”

  We hurry down the hallway. The voices grow louder as we near the last room on the left. The door’s open. I try not to look inside, but my eyes have other ideas.

  “Morning, Seamus!”

  My feet stop so fast my torso leans forward. I look at GS George. He shrugs.

  “It’s okay!” Annika calls out. “Come say hi!”

  I do as she says and find all my teachers arranged around a large glass conference table. Well, almost all my teachers. Houdini, Wyatt, Fern, Samara, Devin, and Lizzie are sitting in clear, high-backed chairs. The chairs are angled toward Annika, who sits at the head of the table. Open laptops and half-eaten plates of food are on the table before them.

  Mystery’s sitting in a folding chair in the corner of the room, arms crossed and lips turned down. Instead of a laptop or plate of food, he holds a glass of water.

  Everyone but my history teacher smiles and calls out their greetings. I do the same, trying not to look at the digital map of the United States projected from a computer in the center of the table, which is so big it takes up an entire wall. Or at the red, blue, and silver digital dots scattered across the map, some of which blink while others shine steadily. Or at the TROUBLEMAKER TERRITORIES AND EDUCATIONAL EXPANSION header near the top of the map. But once again, my eyes seem to have minds of their own.

  “We’re just wrapping up,” Annika says. “I’ll be right with you.”

  “O
kay,” I say, forcing my eyes to meet hers. “Great.”

  I wave once more and follow George to the living room. I sit on the couch and he stands by the doorway, fiddling with his walkie-talkie. I think about last semester, when Lemon took me to a secret phone to call my parents. The phone was in a secret room in a secret basement annex of the classroom building. The room required passwords and handprints to get in. And with its map and laptops, it looked a lot like the conference room here in Annika’s house—only with a bunch of other high-tech, unidentifiable electronic equipment.

  When Annika and I talk today, I plan to stick with my original question, the one I never got to ask on the helicopter last week, about when Elinor’s coming back. But I think I already know what I’ll ask after that.

  What, exactly, is Kilter up to?

  The voices are broken up by laughter. Soon both grow louder as the meeting moves from the conference room to the enormous back patio, passing through the living room on the way. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows I watch Annika point toward the distant horizon. I can’t hear what she’s saying and wonder if it has anything to do with Annika’s Apex, the dilapidated amusement park that, once upon a time, was a fun, happy amusement park. Her father presented it to Annika as a gift for her sixth birthday, but was so busy he only took her there once. It’s been falling apart and rusting away ever since—and was partially destroyed by Capital T last semester, as part of the Ultimate Troublemaking Task to make Annika cry. What’s left sits on top of a tall, distant mountain, but even from the couch I can see the steep loops of the roller-coaster track.

  Remembering the Apex makes me remember my first visit there last semester. Our entire class went for a history lesson led by the Mystery man himself.

  Speaking of, I should be keeping better tabs on him here. Especially since the rest of the faculty’s outside . . . and he’s not.

  “Bathroom.”

  GS George looks up. “Is that another secret message from the exquisite Ms. Marla?”

  Okay, definitely no more undercover Cupid for me.

  “Sorry, no. I just need to go. To the bathroom.”

  He hooks his walkie-talkie on his belt and starts toward the hallway.

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I know where it is.”

  “George?” Annika opens a sliding glass door and pokes her head inside. “Would you please join us for a sec? Some of our faculty members have security questions related to . . . you know.”

  He looks at me. I nod. Apparently reassured, he goes outside. I wait for the sliding glass door to close before darting down the hallway. I peek into the conference room. The library, den, and first-floor restroom. I peer out the front windows and am glad when the yard is empty and the golf cart is still there.

  I’m about to open what looks like a coat closet when there’s a thump overhead. From my end of the hallway I can see all the way to the living room windows at the opposite end. Annika, George, and the faculty are still outside. So I head for the wide white staircase.

  I’m halfway up when I hear another series of thumps. Remembering Mystery’s ax and picturing heads rolling, I run back down to the foyer. A round marble table is in the middle of the room. A glass vase holding white flowers is in the middle of the table. Instead of water, the vase is filled with small silver beads. I reach into the vase and grab a handful. The beads are heavier than they look and remind me of BB gun pellets. I shove them into my jeans pocket, then remove the silver ribbon tied around the vase’s base and loop it around my wrist. It’s not very stretchy, but if necessary I can still use it to launch beads lacrosse-style.

  Sufficiently armed, I run upstairs.

  The doors lining both sides of the second-floor hallway are closed, but it still takes all of five seconds to pinpoint Mystery’s location. Three for him to drop something else, two for me to reach the door I think muffled the noise, and one to confirm this guess when a thin cloud of dust shoots out from the crack between the door and the floor, turning my brown boots gray.

  It takes ten times as long to work up the nerve to turn the knob. When I finally do, words burst from my mouth before I can stop them.

  “What are you doing?”

  Chapter 15

  DEMERITS: 385

  GOLD STARS: 300

  Of course, this is the wrong question. Because I can see what Mystery’s doing—he’s taking all Annika’s old dolls, teddy bears, and other stuffed animals from her bed, bookcase, and toy chest, where they’ve sat long enough to collect inches of dust, and shoving them into a black trash bag.

  What’s not as clear is why.

  “Those are Annika’s things,” I say. “From when she was a little girl.”

  Mystery turns toward me, the sudden movement creating a swirling gray funnel cloud. “How do you know that?”

  I don’t know that. Not for sure, anyway. I put two and two together the first and only other time I was in here, when Capital T was invited over for a celebratory dinner. I accidentally came upon the bedroom while trying to hide out—and avoid Annika’s official announcement of my secret criminal past, or so I thought. The room looked then as it does now, minus the ransacking, and like the young girl who called it home hadn’t done so in a very long time. The purple wallpaper was yellowing. The furniture was covered in sheets, sunlight blocked by thick curtains. The only sign anyone besides me had set foot in the room in years was the top of the dresser, which was covered in pictures. The photos of young Annika and her family, as well as a newspaper clipping about Annika’s mother passing away when Annika was my age, were clean and clear, like someone had just polished their frames.

  But I can’t tell Mystery this. So instead I tell him, “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  He smirks and reaches toward the floor. I yank the ribbon from my wrist and reach into my jeans pocket.

  Annika will be grateful I stopped him. She’ll let me stay at Kilter as long as I want. Maybe she’ll ask me to teach a class.

  Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.

  I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Mystery stands up holding not an ax, but a stuffed monkey. He kisses the toy’s cheek. Gives it a squeeze. Takes its tiny hands in his and does a mini spin.

  There are tons of things I should be thinking right now, mostly about getting out of there as fast as possible, but the only thing that comes to mind is that the poor primate’s already missing one eye and would probably like to keep the other.

  Then, as if the silent waltz in his head came to an abrupt end, Mystery stops dancing. Thrusts the monkey under one arm. Snatches the trash bag of toys from the bed and strides toward the door.

  Somehow, my feet stand firm. I don’t move, even when he stops two inches before me and lowers his face toward mine. When he speaks, his breath smells like black licorice.

  “Despite what this school teaches you,” he hisses, “there exist in this world things to which children are not entitled.”

  My eyes burn from not blinking, but I keep them raised to his. Inside my jeans pocket, my fingers tighten around two silver beads.

  “My business is mine and mine alone. Do you understand, Mr. Hinkle?”

  I swallow. Nod.

  “Good boy.” He pats my head with his free hand, then brushes past me. Halfway down the hall, he stops and turns around. “Oh, by the way. The next time you decide to stroll through the woods, you might want to better prepare. The K-Pak’s an impressive instrument, but it rips like paper under the force of a razor-sharp blade.”

  He tips an invisible hat toward me and continues on. I finally blink, and the heat in my eyes spreads to the rest of my body. My legs ache to run to Annika so I can tell her everything that just happened . . . but should I really do that right now? After what Mystery said? And with him still on the premises? If he knew I immediately ratted him out, wouldn’t that throw a huge wrench into Annika’s and my top-secret project? Since he’d probably go to even greater lengths to keep his bizarre behavior under
wraps? But isn’t this exactly what our top-secret project is for? To discover crazy, creepy, made-for-TV-movie kind of stuff about Kilter’s history teacher?

  TV movies. That reminds me of the last one Mom watched, and that I saw part of while spying from the top of the staircase, since they’re supposedly for audiences more mature than me. It was about a kid trapped in a tree house by his crazy uncle, who apparently had him confused with a very tall house pet, for ten years.

  I picture Mystery’s cottage in the woods. All the kids’ stuff inside. The green ribbons. It’s so terrible I can barely think about it. . . . But could that be what he’s doing? Hiding kids away? Hiding Elinor away? As some sort of punishment? Is that what he’ll do with me if I get in his way?

  I haven’t moved an inch when I hear footsteps again. They’re coming back up the stairs. Guessing Mystery’s returning for another bag of toys, I lunge toward the closed door across the hall from Annika’s childhood bedroom. The knob turns easily. I shoot inside and close the door.

  I stand there. Not breathing. Just listening.

  The footsteps grow louder, come closer. They seem to stop by Annika’s childhood bedroom, then continue.

  He’s looking for me. He won’t stop until he finds me. I lock the door slowly, carefully, even though he can chop his way in if he’s come back with the ax. I tell myself to never go anywhere without my K-Pak ever again, since it’s not doing me any good in my backpack in the living room, where I left it. Then I spin and sprint as fast as my tiptoes will allow.

  My destination is the wall of windows overlooking the backyard. So I can jump and wave until I get Annika’s attention. That or, fingers crossed, land on a fat, soft bush after leaping two stories to my freedom.

  But I take only two steps. Then I see the large, round bed covered in silver satin. The glass desk. The white leather chair with a sparkly AK—not KA, which is usually how the letters are arranged on buildings, sculptures, and ski parkas throughout campus—embroidered across the back. A flat-screen computer monitor.

  Guessing this is Annika’s grown-up room, I should be even more inclined to reach the windows and find a way out. But then my eyes catch two familiar words on the computer screen. And I go to the desk instead.