by T. R. Burns
“I have a theory.”
I turn back. Abe’s standing so close I can see the small pimple just under his nose.
“About why he didn’t resist,” he whispers. “Once he realized what we were doing. And saw who we were. Want to hear?”
“Not really,” I say, since I’m pretty sure this theory has something to do with Elinor’s traitor ways. “But I would like to know what you think we should do with him. Now that we have him.”
Abe eyes his catch. “I think we turn him over to Annika. She might give us a million demerits each for capturing such an important target.” He glances at me. “You probably won’t get any. Since you didn’t help. Sorry.”
He doesn’t sound apologetic, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care about demerits. I do, however, care about pleasing Annika. That’s still the best way to keep her from suspecting I don’t belong at Kilter—and never did. And staying here, at Kamp Kilter, is still the best way to find out what’s wrong with my parents.
Which is why I say, “No.” Then I walk away from him and toward our captive. “It’s okay, Gabby. You can blink.”
“But now we’re inside Sassy Threads.” Gabby’s eyes are as wide as Frisbees. “And there’s a gorgeous bag with glittery pockets! And—”
“Oops!” Elinor pats Gabby’s shoulder. “The mall’s closing. We have to go.”
Gabby’s face falls. “Really? Already? But what about—”
“Wow. Is that my favorite song?” Abe’s apparently referring to the muffled music filtering into the shed from the party. “If only I had someone to dance with.”
Gabby blinks. Then jumps up from the inner tube she’s been sitting on and bounds over to Abe.
I look at Elinor. “Thanks for that.”
“No problem.”
“You okay?”
She nods. “You?”
I nod.
“Do you have a plan?” she asks quietly, her eyes flicking toward Shepherd Bull.
I don’t. Not a well thought-out one, anyway. But I tell Elinor I do. She gives my arm a light squeeze, then retreats to the front of the shed, where Gabby’s trying to twirl around Abe, who seems to no longer hear his favorite song as he watches me.
He’s just a kid, I tell myself as I slowly lower onto the edge of an inner tube. A really tall, really big kid . . . but a kid all the same. Just talk to him the way you’d talk to anyone your own age.
“Hey!” The word sounds like a firecracker in a metal bucket. I take it down a notch. “I mean . . . hey.”
Shepherd Bull’s eyes are partially hidden by the greasy, stringy hair hanging down his forehead. I know he’s looking at me, but I don’t know how. Is he mad? Sad? Bored? He’s definitely not feeling chatty, because he doesn’t say anything.
Of course, that might be because he can’t.
I glance behind me. “Abe? Would you mind . . . ?”
My alliance-mate wriggles away from Gabby, jogs toward me, and slips behind Shepherd Bull. He raises one hand, eyes his target, and makes a face. Then he stoops down, grabs an extra beach towel from the floor, and wraps it around his hand. He gives the back of Shepherd Bull’s head a swift smack. Shepherd Bull’s head juts forward. The tennis ball pops out of his mouth and bounces across the floor. Abe drops the dirty towel and returns to the front of the shed.
“How’s it going?” I ask Shepherd Bull.
Nothing.
“How are the towels? Too tight?”
Nothing.
“Are you thirsty? Can we get you a glass of water?”
Nothing.
I might as well get to the point.
“What are you doing here?”
Behind his shaggy hair, Shepherd Bull’s eyes narrow.
I swallow, try again. “What do you want?”
His fat, chapped lips turn down.
“Did you come after us because we came to IncrimiNation? And left with Elinor?”
His fingers curl toward his palms.
“Just talk to me,” I say, trying to keep my cool. “Maybe we can reach some kind of understanding.”
His fists begin to shake.
“Ogres don’t understand English,” Abe calls out. “Try grunting.”
“He understands English,” Gabby says. “When we were at their school we heard him—” She gasps. “Elinor, look! Are those s’mores?”
Abe groans. “Gabby, can you focus? For once? Please? Who cares what our classmates are doing out—”
“Abe,” I say, shushing him. “Hang on.”
Shepherd Bull cares what our classmates are doing. At least it looks like he does. After being motionless for minutes on end, he suddenly flings back his head, clearing the greasy hair from his eyes. His ankles and wrists push and pull against the restraints. A weird sound comes from his mouth. It’s not a word—not one I’ve heard before, anyway. It’s not a grunt either. It’s more like a whine. Or a growl. Or a whine-growl.
“Is he going to explode?” Abe asks.
“He might,” I say as our captive begins bouncing up and down on his stack of inner tubes.
“Mmm . . . lll . . . oooooo,” Shepherd Bull whine-growls, bouncing faster. “Mmm . . . lll . . . OOOOO!”
“M-L-O?” Gabby asks. “Is that some kind of code?”
“Mellow?” Elinor guesses. “Is that what he wants to be—and we’re getting in his way?”
“Milo?” Abe tries. “Is he yelling for one of his friends to come rescue him?”
“MMM . . . LLL . . . OOOOO! MMM . . . LLL . . . OOOOOOO!”
Afraid he’s about to charge, I look around for the tennis ball and debate popping it back into his mouth. As I do, I notice that Shepherd Bull’s looking around too. But not for the tennis ball.
For his stick. When he sees it leaning on the wall by the door, he bounces so hard and so high, the top inner tube he’s been sitting on bursts.
“Wow,” Gabby says, noticing him notice the weapon. “That’d be a great tool for roasting—”
She stops, looks at Shepherd Bull. Abe, Elinor, and I look at him too.
“Marshmallow?” I ask in the brief silence between whine-growls.
Shepherd Bull’s bouncing slows. His eyes and lips turn down. Looking like he might cry, he nods.
“I’m on it.” Abe flings open the door and disappears outside. Seconds later, he bursts back inside and tosses me a bag. “That’s the biggest one I could find.”
I turn toward Shepherd Bull, holding up the plastic bag of marshmallows. He studies it for a long moment, then turns his head to one side.
“The stick,” Gabby says. “Everyone knows marshmallows taste better when you eat them off a stick!”
The three of them work together. Elinor holds the bag while Abe slides marshmallows onto one end of the stick and Gabby slides marshmallows onto the other end. When the tool’s entire length is covered in white blobs, Abe hands it to me. I hold it toward Shepherd Bull.
His head still turned to the right, his eyes shift left. One brow arches, and I think he’s going to take the bait. But then it lowers and his eyes shift right again.
“Fire,” Elinor says.
“Always handy,” Abe says, “but unfortunately, Lemon’s decided to skip this little alliance meeting too. And now’s not the time to—”
“Not to threaten him with.” Elinor grabs the stick. “To roast the marshmallows with!”
She disappears outside. Gabby dashes after her.
Abe catches my eye. I know he’s asking without asking how Elinor just happened to know that Shepherd Bull may or may not prefer his marshmallows hot and gooey. But we all should’ve known that. I can’t name one kid who prefers marshmallows any other way.
While they’re gone, I sneak glances at our captive. This close up, he doesn’t look quite as gigantic as every other time I’ve seen him.
“Here!” Elinor bursts back into the shed. She holds the sugar stick like a torch, which it kind of is because bright orange flames still flicker around the top marshmallow.
“And here!” Gabby hurries after Elinor, her arms full. “Chocolate and graham crackers. Just in case our prisoner’s in the mood for a s’more. Or in case any of his wardens are!”
Elinor gives me the spear. Gabby dumps the other s’more ingredients at my feet. They both join Abe at the front of the cabin, several feet behind me.
“Is this what you want?” I ask.
Shepherd Bull’s eye shift left. Both brows lift. His chin drops. His head swivels so fast I think it might snap off his tree trunk of a neck. His wrists still bound together, his two fists become one. He swings the mammoth knot of flesh and bone like it’s an iron bowling ball. When it nears the stick, his fingers fly forward like darts.
I yank back the stick. Shepherd Bull lurches forward and nearly topples off the two intact inner tubes he’s still sitting on.
“Not so fast,” I say. “You must like marshmallows a lot . . . right?”
He nods. Fast.
“Good.” I angle the stick toward him until the top end is six inches away from his mouth. “You may take one—and only one.”
“Gross,” Gabby whispers behind me. “Is he drooling?”
He is. And I’m glad. If he loves marshmallows that much, then we just might have a chance.
As Shepherd Bull shimmies forward on the tubes, his eyes glow in the light of the flickering flames. He takes a deep breath and extinguishes the fire in one blow. He blows again, more gently this time, then tests the marshmallow’s temperature with the tip of his tongue. Apparently satisfied, he opens his mouth and guides his top and bottom teeth over and under the marshmallow. Then he chomps down and slides the marshmallow off the stick at the same time.
I yank back the stick. “Next question. You understand English, right?”
He pauses. Nods. I angle the stick so he can take another marshmallow, then pull it back once he has.
“You speak English, right?” I ask.
He pauses. Nods. Stares at the next marshmallow.
“Sorry,” I say. “That question deserves a better answer.”
He sighs, like I’m totally putting him out.
“Gabby,” I call over my shoulder. “Would you like a delicious—”
“Okay!”
I turn back.
“Okay,” our captive says again, his gruff voice softer. “Of course I understand and speak English. I’m just not supposed to around people who might use what I say against me.”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Shepherd Bull.”
“Where are you from?”
“Currently? Black Hole, Arizona. Originally? Miami, Florida.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
Gabby snorts. “Right.”
“Why would I lie?” Shepherd Bull asks. “Do you think I like being twice as big as most kids my age?”
“Um, yes,” Gabby says.
“Maybe not,” I say. I don’t like being half as big as most kids my age, so maybe our captive feels the same way about his abnormal size. “Where do you go to school?”
“You know where.”
“Remind me,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “IncrimiNation.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What were you doing at IncrimiNation?”
“You know what. Getting Elinor. Which we did.”
“Well maybe we’re here to get her back.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Gabby?” I call back. “Our guest doesn’t seem to be hungry anymore. How’d you like all of these scrumptious—”
“Okay!” Shepherd Bull bursts. “We’re here for information.”
“About what?” I ask, then give him another marshmallow.
“You guys,” he says. “Where you go. What you do. How you do it.”
“You mean how we make trouble?” I ask, letting him take another reward.
He nods and chews. The white blob sticks to his teeth and lips.
“Why?” I ask.
“Don’t know and didn’t ask. I just follow Nadia’s orders.”
My chest tightens. But if Elinor has any kind of reaction to hearing her mother’s name, she keeps it to herself. The group behind me remains silent.
Shepherd Bull continues. “She said we had to come here and investigate. So I gathered the group, and here we are. Nice digs, by the way. A little clean for my taste, but I can see why a certain type would like them.”
“A certain type?” I ask.
“People who color in the lines. Think inside the box. Follow the rules.”
“We don’t—”
I hold up one hand, quieting Abe.
“You follow rules,” I point out. “You just said so. Nadia told you to come here, and you did.”
“She’s the only adult I listen to. Because I don’t really think of her as an adult. She’s too cool. Plus, after what you guys did, I couldn’t pass up the chance to check you out. Mess with you a little.”
“By making us see stars?” Gabby asks.
“And turning our hands blue?” Abe asks.
“And attacking us with ping-pong balls?” I ask.
Shepherd Bull’s eyes narrow more with each question and statement. But when we’re done, he doesn’t speak. I let him take another marshmallow.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says when he’s done eating.
I study his face. His expression’s blank. His eyes don’t twinkle. His lips don’t tremble, like he’s trying not to smile. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s trying to hide something. Of course, not looking like he’s hiding something when he really is could be part of his Incriminator training. It sounds like a skill the Kilter Dramatists might have.
Deciding I need more time to read him, I recount the events that led my friends, other Troublemakers, and I to the camp infirmary the other day. Every now and then he looks genuinely surprised. A few times, maybe even impressed. But not once does he look proud or like he’s about to laugh, the way he should if he and his classmates were behind the attacks.
“Wow,” he says when I’m done. “Someone really has it out for you guys. But it’s not me. Or any other Incriminator.”
“That’s not how it looked in the Performance Pavilion a few nights ago,” I say.
“You saw that?” Shepherd Bull shrugs. “IncrimiNation kids don’t listen very well. That was the third time I told them who we were looking for. We were wasting time, so I turned the lesson into a big thing to get them to pay more attention. It looked worse than anything we actually planned to do.”
I try to process this. “So you’re saying that you really came here just to gather intel about us—and not to get back at us for breaking into IncrimiNation and kidnapping Elinor?”
He looks at me. I angle the stick toward him. He takes two marshmallows.
“Yup,” he says around the white mush. “Elinor’s barely a blip on our radar. We have bigger fish to fry.”
“Like what kind?” I ask.
“No idea. Nadia hasn’t shared specifics.”
“But if we’re not the fish, and if you didn’t want to hurt us . . . what’d you mean when you said you thought it’d be fun to mess with us?”
“Just that if we snuck around enough and let you catch us spying every once in a while, you’d get nervous. Start to freak out. Get sloppy. Show your weaknesses.” His eyes meet mine. “As Annika’s star you must know that knowing someone’s weakness is way more important than knowing his strength.”
“I’m not—” I stop myself. He’s just trying to take the upper hand by putting me on the defensive. I won’t fall for it.
“Still don’t believe me?” Shepherd Bull asks. “Just ask Nadia. She told us that, no matter what, we couldn’t attack you guys in any way. We could follow and watch you, but that was it. She said we’d mess up the mission if we did anything else.”
“And if you didn’t listen?” I ask. “And hu
rled a million ping-pong balls at one of us just because you felt like it?”
His expression turns serious. “Then we’d be kicked out of IncrimiNation. Forever.”
Shepherd Bull says this like it’s the very worst punishment an Incriminator could receive—and would try to avoid at any cost. And maybe I’m being naive, but I believe him. Enough that I let him take all of the remaining marshmallows from the stick.
As he gobbles and swallows, I turn toward my friends.
“You know what this means,” I say.
Abe nods grimly. So does Gabby. And Elinor. We’re all thinking the same thing, but it’s so hard to believe I say it out loud anyway.
“If the Incriminators aren’t after us . . . that means our parents are.”
Chapter 23
DEMERITS: 2475
GOLD STARS: 1550
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Bartholomew John
Dear Miss Parsippany,
Thanks for your last note! That was weird about your e-mail address, but I’m glad you figured out what happened and got a new one.
And thanks for everything you said about honesty and editing the truth. It made a lot of sense. Just so you know, I DID cringe when you said your mom looked like a piñata in her party dress . . . but I DON’T think you’re a terrible person. You were just trying to protect her feelings. How’s that a bad thing?
Along those lines, I haven’t come clean to Annika about what I did or didn’t do. There’s been a lot going on here so I haven’t really had a chance to think about whether I should mention anything. And like you said, sometimes a harmless edited version of the truth is better for everyone. So for now, I’m sticking with that.
By the way, how’s your new job? And what is it again?
Oh, and I did hear something about Bartholomew John. I don’t have all the details, but my source said she saw him bullying kids on the playground back home. Supposedly there was shoving. And crying. At least one little boy ran to his mom and bawled like a baby. I guess some things—and people—never change, huh?