A World of Trouble

by T. R. Burns

  “That’s why you wanted us to wear black,” Lemon says. “So we blend in with the dark.”

  “What do you—?” Abe stops. “Oh no. I can’t . . . I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  He’s just realized we’re shooting above campus in a glass chute. And we’ve just realized our resident tough guy has a severe fear of heights. As he gasps for breath, buries his face in his hands, and leans against a clear wall, Gabby puts one arm around his shoulders and smiles at the scenery below.

  Soon the elevator stops. The doors open. I force the lump in my throat back toward my chest. Step onto the glass platform.

  And run for the helicopter.

  Afraid of losing my balance to the whipping wind and toppling to the ground, I don’t look back until I reach the other side. Lemon’s right behind me. Gabby’s a few feet behind him. Abe’s on his hands and knees by the elevator.

  “Wait here!” I call out over the whirring helicopter blades.

  I keep my eyes locked on Abe as I sprint down the platform. It takes some gentle prodding, but he finally moves away from the elevator. He doesn’t get up from his hands and knees, and halfway across he actually lowers to his belly and slides like a slug, but it doesn’t matter. We reach the other side just as the helicopter begins to lift off.

  “Step as lightly as you can!” I instruct as quietly as I can, which isn’t very quietly at all. “Bobbing’s okay. Full tilting isn’t!”

  Lemon and Gabby nod. Abe looks up and clutches his stomach. I grab the silver door handle and pull. The door opens easily. The gap between the platform and the helicopter’s legs widens as Gabby, then Lemon, then Abe climb inside. By the time it’s my turn, the chopper’s so far off the ground I have to grab one leg and lift myself up.

  Lemon helps hoist me into the cabin. I close the door right before the helicopter lunges left. Abe drops onto one of the leather couches. I motion for Lemon and Gabby to do the same, then tiptoe toward the front of the aircraft.

  The silver curtain dividing the cockpit from the cabin is pulled tight. Hooking my pointer finger around one side, I tug until I can see GS George. He’s sitting in the pilot’s seat and looking straight ahead. His Cornish rex travel mug is in one cup holder, his K-Pak in the other. Show tunes blare from small speakers attached to the top of the windshield; GS George sings along and taps his fingers on top of the steering lever. A computer screen in the center of the console displays a map of the United States. A crooked white line marks our route. Tucked in the bottom right corner of the screen is a photo of Ms. Marla and Rodolfo. Its edges are worn, like it’s been pocketed and unpocketed many times before.

  Satisfied, I release the curtain and join Lemon on the couch. Abe and Gabby sit on the other couch, facing us.

  “What now?” Gabby asks after a moment.

  “Now,” I say, “we wait.”

  The Kilter Kopter travels at warp speed, but still. Arizona’s two thousand miles away. I have no idea how long the trip will take, but we must have some time to kill.

  I expect more questions, but either my alliance-mates are confident that my plan extends beyond this flight, which would be a generous assumption, or they’re too nervous (Abe), excited (Gabby), or ambivalent (Lemon) for small talk. Abe keeps his head between his knees for a while but eventually sits up, takes a drawing pad from his messenger bag, and starts sketching. Gabby takes a pair of binoculars from her backpack and examines the artwork displayed around the cabin’s interior. Lemon shifts down the couch, stretches out, and closes his eyes.

  I remove my K-Pak from my backpack and hold my breath as my K-Mail loads. When there are no new messages, I exhale. I open old messages and stare at them without reading. Then I put aside my K-Pak and sort through the supplies I brought. After a while I open my notebook and try to sort out my thoughts on what we’ve done and what’s to come. When an hour passes and the only thing on the page is a bunch of doodles that would look like random circles to the naked eye but that I know are pennies, I pick up my K-Pak again. Open an old message. Press reply. And start typing.

  TO: parsippany@cloudviewschools.net

  FROM: shinkle@kilteracademy.org

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

  Dear Miss Parsippany,

  Thanks so much for your last note. I’m really sorry your mother nags you about your posture. That’s actually one thing my mom’s never commented on. Probably because I’m so short I look the same standing up straight as I do stooping forward. Maybe try lying down whenever she comes into the room? If she can’t see your spine, she can’t judge it, right?

  As for why I asked about what parents really want from their kids, let’s just say mine threw me a pretty major curveball a few weeks ago. It came so hard, so fast, I didn’t know whether to catch, duck, or run. I ended up running, but I’ll have to turn around eventually. And I’m still not sure what will happen when I do.

  I stop typing. Think. When I start writing again, I imagine not just Miss Parsippany reading this next part, but Mom and Annika, too.

  I like what you said about parents wanting their kids to be better people than they are. It’s a great theory, and in many ways, it makes a lot of sense. But it also makes me wonder something else.

  What if the person your parents want you to be . . . isn’t the person YOU want to be? What do you do then? I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, and here’s what I’ve come up with:

  Nothing. Because I have no clue.

  Anyway, thanks again for all your input. Not many adults would take the time to e-mail a kid they barely know. But I’m really glad you do.

  Have a great day!

  —Seamus

  With access to my K-Mail account, chances are good Annika really will read this. That being the case, I want the message to be perfect. So I scroll to the top to reread. I haven’t gotten past the first paragraph when the helicopter drops suddenly. The unexpected movement makes Abe gasp, Gabby squeal, Lemon roll off the couch—and me press the send icon.

  “Are we there?” Lemon asks, climbing back up on the couch.

  Turning off my K-Pak, I shift to my knees and look out the window. I don’t know what I expect to see. Maybe houses. Streets. Cars. Far away but still visible thanks to lamps and headlights. But all there is up above, down below, and all around us, is blackness.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “It hasn’t been that long. And—”

  The chopper drops again. It tilts and swerves. It swoops down, nose first, until gravity’s pull is so strong we have to grab on to the couches, coffee table, and anything else that’s bolted to the floor to keep from flying past the silver curtain and breaking through the cockpit windshield.

  “Maybe you should check on GS Georgie,” Gabby says, sounding nervous for the first time tonight, “and make sure everything’s okay.”

  I frown. I wanted to wait to reveal his stowaways until we were far enough from Kilter that turning around without going to Arizona first wouldn’t make sense. And at this point, I don’t know where we are or even how long we’ve been airborne.

  But then Lemon says, “Probably not a bad idea.” So I untangle myself from the coffee table legs and crawl toward the front of the chopper.

  I stop before the silver curtain and tug it to one side again. I can’t see much so close to the floor, but I can see the bottom half of the computer screen. The map’s still up. A red dot flashes near Blackhole, Arizona. A white arrow, which I assume is the helicopter, bounces around off-course an inch or so past our destination. The speakers have fallen silent, and I hear GS George muse softly.

  “Where on earth . . . ?”

  I climb to my knees, then my feet. Open the curtain until I can stand between it and the wall, then speak.

  “Knock-knock.”

  GS George’s hands fly from the steering lever to his chest. The chopper plummets. My alliance-mates cry out. I fall into the copilot’s seat.

  “Seamus Hinkle!” GS George stares at me, bug-eyed, like
I’m a risen Wright brother. “What are you doing here?”

  Gripping the armrests, I nod to the steering lever. His head snaps to the left, then down. It takes him a second to register the device. When he does, he grabs it with both hands and yanks back. The helicopter’s nose lifts. The aircraft straightens.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. And that you did, I guess.” He shoots me a sideways glance. “I repeat. What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you might need some help. Or want some company. Or both.”

  “And your amigos back there?”

  “They just felt like going for a ride.” This is my attempt to lighten the mood. It fails. Big time.

  “Do you have any idea how much trouble you could get in for a stunt like this?” GS George demands, the words shooting from his mouth like frozen daggers from the Icickler. “Never mind you. What about me? Do you know how much trouble I could get in? Not just for stealing the fancy school helicopter, but for doing so with four students on board? I could get fired. Fired. Then where would I be? Back home. In New Jersey. Hundreds of miles from the lovely Ms. Marla, who I’d never see again and who’d immediately be courted by an army of handsome Good Samaritans who’d go to any lengths necessary to win her heart. While I’m at the Paramus Park Mall. Staring at the puppies through the pet shop window. Drowning my sorrows in enormous sugar-covered pretzels.”

  This is a very vivid, very sad scenario. He needs to snap out of it, or we’re all doomed.

  “There’s no Rosita.”

  He looks at me.

  “I made her up.”

  He blinks.

  “My friends and I really need to get to Arizona. Like, right away. Scooters and golf carts are too slow. We would’ve been caught before we even reached the state line. Flying was the only option—but none of us knows how to operate an aircraft.”

  He swallows. “So the hairless Chihuahua wants a snuggle buddy. . . . That was just some story? Some lie?”

  I look at my lap. I knew I’d feel terrible whenever he found this out, but the burning in my stomach hurts even more than I imagined. I tell myself he’ll understand once he knows the whole truth, that he’ll even be proud to have been a part of the adventure. And if he’s not, I’ll make it up to him somehow.

  Then I add fuel to the fire.

  “It was an emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency?” he asks.

  “I can’t say. Not yet.” I sit up, turn toward him. “But please. We’re so close. If you just take us there and bring us back, it’ll all make sense.”

  He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I think he’s actually considering it. But then he faces forward. Keeps one hand on the steering lever and reaches for his K-Pak with the other.

  “Uh-uh. Not a chance, mister. I have too much on the line. I’m e-mailing Annika, we’re turning this ship around, and we’re going back to Kilter. Where I may or may not still have a job, and you’ll be docked more troublemaking days than any Troublemaker before. That is, if you’re not expel—”

  Expelled. That’s what GS George would’ve said if the helicopter didn’t suddenly hit a rough patch of air, making him lose his grip on the steering lever. The chopper bounces around like a plastic ball in one of Dad’s old Bingo cages. Soon it tips forward, forms a ninety-degree angle to the Earth, and plunges straight down.

  In my head, I see Elinor.

  Through the windshield, I see blackness.

  Then cactus.

  Then dirt.

  Chapter 19

  DEMERITS: 465

  GOLD STARS: 300

  Dear Mom. I’m sorry I wasn’t the son you wanted. I’m sorry I wasn’t more like Bartholomew John. I’m sorry we didn’t have more time together to try to work things out. But please know I love—

  The mental e-mail vanishes. I assume this is because my head has disconnected from the rest of my body, a result of the helicopter slamming into Earth like a misguided meteor. But then I realize I’m thinking about why the mental e-mail has vanished, which means my head must be okay.

  “Awesome!” a female voice exclaims.

  “Is this a dream?” a male voice wonders aloud.

  “I think I’m going to hurl,” a second male voice grumbles.

  I open my eyes, one at a time. The first thing that comes into focus is a terrifying creature with an arched back, fangs, and long, skinny tail that could double as a whip. I start to scream—but then notice the black liquid sliding down the animal’s side.

  “Seamus? Are you okay?”

  I sit up straight. Retrieve the Cornish rex travel mug from the floor, and replace it in the cup holder. Look at GS George, who leans toward me and puts one hand on my arm.

  “I think so,” I say. “What just happened?”

  “Unplanned landing.”

  My head, definitely still on top of my neck, turns. The view through the windshield, which somehow survived impact without a single crack, is illuminated by the helicopter’s front light. I see brown land. Black sky. Swirling dust. Rolling balls of twigs.

  Is this what the Earth’s core looks like? Because after our supersonic, ninety-degree descent, that’s where we should be.

  “The chopper switched into emergency autopilot,” GS George explains, apparently seeing the confusion on my face. “My guess is it leveled off half a second away from turning night into day with a big red fireball.”

  “Wow,” I say, still staring through the dirty windshield.

  “Indubitably,” GS George agrees.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, turning back.

  “Fit as a fiddle. Why don’t you go check on our passengers in the back while I reboot the system? We should be flying again in no time.”

  I nod and climb out of the seat, too rattled to argue immediate departure. Once upright I give my legs a second to steady, then push through the silver curtain and enter the cabin.

  “Hey,” I say. “You guys all right?”

  “Yup.” Lemon sits on one couch and rubs the back of his neck.

  “Oh my goodness.” Gabby stands on her knees next to Lemon and looks out the window. Then she jumps up, hurdles the coffee table, and lands on her knees facing the window behind the other couch. “We almost crashed. We totally almost crashed! Do you think this counts as a near-death experience? I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have one of those. And now I know. It. Feels. Awesome. Wait till everyone back at school hears about this. They’re. Going. To. Die. Just like we almost did!”

  As she peers outside, I peer past her. To the figure curled up on the couch with his legs to his chest, his forehead to his knees, and his arms wrapped tightly around his shins.

  “Abe?” I start toward him. “Are you okay?”

  He says something, but the words are lost in the space between his quads and torso. I sit carefully on the edge of the coffee table facing him.

  “Abe?” I try again, gently.

  “I want to go home,” he mumbles.

  “We will,” I say. “GS George is going to have the helicopter up and running in no time. We’ll be back at Kilter before—”

  “Not Kilter.” Abe sniffs. “Home. With my parents. And my bed. And my Boppy.”

  I swivel on the table and catch Lemon’s eye. He shrugs.

  “Your Boppy?” I ask.

  “My blankie. That my nana made for me when I was a baby. It’s the only thing that helps whenever I’m sad or scared or—”

  The helicopter shakes suddenly. Like a turtle in a shell, Abe’s head lowers behind his knees. Gabby drops to her bottom and presses her palms to the couch. I can’t tell what Lemon does because I’m gripping the edge of the coffee table with both hands and am afraid to turn around. The motion lasts several seconds, then stops.

  “That was weird,” I say, exhaling. “I wonder if—”

  There’s a loud thud. It makes the table vibrate beneath me. A second, louder thud makes the cabin wobble. A thi
rd reaches sonic-boom status and sends the entire helicopter, and its contents, tilting to one side. As gravity pulls Lemon and me to the couch with Abe and Gabby, the thudding turns to a steady, deafening drumming. We watch—eyes wide, mouths open, and hands over our ears—as the opposite wall begins to crumple toward us.

  “Get out!”

  GS George stands in the cockpit doorway, gripping the thin partition to keep from falling over. Given the way his lips stretch and neck vein bulges, he must be screaming. But I hardly hear him.

  When we don’t move, he hobbles toward us. He reaches Lemon first and tugs on his jacket collar. Then he grabs Gabby’s binocular strap. The brim of Abe’s baseball hat. My ear. He pulls until we start pulling ourselves up and over the cushion’s edge. As we shuffle along the front of the couch on our hands and knees, he hobbles to the helicopter door, leans against it, and yanks the handle. The door gives. GS George, apparently anticipating working a little harder, falls through the opening.

  My heart stops. Because of me, we all almost died. No thanks to me, we survived. And now the poor man who lives for his cat and loves singing show tunes, who was just trying to do something nice for his girlfriend—

  GS George’s head pops through the open doorway.

  My heart resumes beating.

  He helps Lemon down, then Abe. Gabby has one foot out the door when she stops.

  “Wait!” she cries out over the pounding. “My stuffed unicorn! It’s in my backpack!”

  “Leave it!” GS George shouts. “There’s no time!”

  “But I see it!” Gabby tries to lift herself back in. “It’ll just take a second!”

  GS George grabs her ankle. His eyes protrude and his nostrils flare. To be honest, he looks a little crazy.

  “The chopper’s going to blow!” he screams.

  And now I understand why.

  Gabby leaps out. I do too. Once my feet hit dirt, GS George turns and starts running after the others. I’m about to follow, but then a fresh wave of drumming tilts the helicopter further. I’m still standing where I landed, so as the aircraft lowers, my head ends up back inside the cabin. Looking down the length of the interior, I see Gabby’s backpack. A white felt horn pokes through an opening in the zipper. The bag’s about five feet away, its strap caught around a fallen silver coatrack.