by T. R. Burns
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Training Session?
Hey, Seamus!
Any interest in a quick prebreakfast lesson today?
—Ike
I press reply and start typing.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: Training Session
Hi, Ike!
I’m always interested in hanging out with you, but I kind of have plans this morning. Big ones. I’ll tell you all about them ASAP!
Also, I wanted to thank you for getting back to me the other day. I’m really sorry to hear that your Kilter career hasn’t gone the way you wanted it to. Whoever you hoped to help is really missing out. I know if I were in trouble, you’d be the first guy I called.
And thanks for the warning about Annika. She’s been a hard one to figure out, so I definitely appreciate the feedback. I’ll proceed with caution and tell my friends to do the same!
Can we meet later today? Let me know!
—Seamus
I send that note, then remember I owe another.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Spots
Dear Miss Parsippany,
Thanks for your e-mail. I’ve thought a lot about what you said about leopards not changing their spots. Mostly I’ve thought about if I think that’s true. Or if I want it to be.
Take me, for example. For years, I was a really good kid. Then, on the day of the Unfortunate Apple Incident, I suddenly became a bad kid. It was like a switch flipped from off to on. I’ve been getting into trouble ever since.
My parents are other examples. For the longest time, Dad was nice and Mom was . . . well, Mom. Not mean, but definitely not warm and caring like Dad. But recently their switches flipped too. Now Mom’s nice and Dad’s not. I never could have imagined them acting the way they’ve been acting lately if I hadn’t actually witnessed the weirdness with my own eyes.
So if a leopard CAN change his spots, then I can be a good kid again. And my parents can go back to normal. But if a leopard CAN’T change his spots, then maybe I was never really a bad kid, and Mom and Dad’s new behavior is just a strange phase. BUT, what if a leopard can do both? Like, change his spots once, and then never again? What if my parents and I are stuck in these new roles forever? Is that good? Bad?
I don’t know . . . but I might be about to find out.
Will keep you posted!
Sincerely,
Seamus
P.S. There’s no question about Bartholomew John. When it comes to him, once a bad leopard, always a bad leopard!
I send the note. Then I finish gathering my stuff. A half an hour later, Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and I meet at the elevator.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Absolutely!” Gabby sings into her megamicrophone.
Abe winces. “Always.”
“If I have to be,” Lemon says.
We head aboveground. Once outside, I’m struck by how normal everything seems. The sun shines. The turquoise lake sparkles. Our classmates talk and laugh as they head for their boats. It’s a morning just like any other we’ve experienced since arriving at Kamp Kilter.
Until, a few minutes later, it isn’t.
My friends and I still climb into our boat. Lemon still pulls us while swimming. The boat still leaks. Abe, Gabby, and I still fill plastic cups with water to keep from sinking. All across the lake, our fellow Troublemakers do the same.
But then, when we reach the other side of the lake, something changes.
Instead of sprinting down the beach, my classmates stop. At first I think something’s wrong, or that they’ve changed their minds about the plan. After all, we told them we’re surprising our parents in the cafeteria. I assumed they’d run right there.
But then I step out of the boat. And I realize they’ve stopped . . . because they’re waiting for me.
Chapter 29
DEMERITS: 5200
GOLD STARS: 3050
My last name starts with an H. That’s the eighth letter in the alphabet. Whenever my class back at Cloudview Middle School traveled the halls together, there were always nine people ahead of me. I was never a line leader. I was never any kind of leader.
“Seamus?” Gabby whispers.
“Hinkle?” Abe hisses.
“If we’re hanging out awhile,” Lemon says, “I’m going to grab a nap on that beach chair over—”
“No.” The word pops from my mouth. I stand up a little straighter, speak a little louder as I address the group. “We left early. The Good Samaritans and our teachers are probably on their way. We need to get off the beach before they see us.”
“Our teachers teach us how to make trouble,” Alison points out. “If they knew what we were about to do, why would they stop us?”
“They work for Annika,” I say. “This wasn’t her idea. At the very least they’d hold us up while they tried to reach her and ask what was going on. Who knows how long that could take? Our parents could be gone by then.”
“My parents would wait at least a week for a million dollars,” Carter says.
“Not if Annika or our teachers got there before we did and told them they’re waiting for no reason,” I say.
“Good point,” Carter says.
“Any other questions?” I ask.
My classmates, holding backpacks and duffel bags of troublemaking supplies, are silent. A few of them look nervous. Most look anxious to get to work. I try to figure out how I feel as I press one finger to my lips, reminding everyone to be quiet, point to the woods behind the beach, and start walking.
Excited. Halfway to the cafeteria, I decide that’s how I feel. I’m nervous, too, and a little uncertain . . . but I’m mostly excited. But not because we’re about to launch a sneak attack on our parents. On Dad, who might have fun battling back. And on Mom, who deserves whatever she gets for conspiring with Bartholomew John, the son she wishes she’d gotten instead.
No. I have butterflies in my stomach and a smile on my face because my classmates listened to me. When I started across the beach, they followed. Even Abe, the most competitive Troublemaker I know. And I’m not on some sort of power trip. It’s just nice to be taken seriously by my peers. That never happened at Cloudview Middle School.
If she could see me now, Mom might even be proud.
But she won’t. Invisibility is key when it comes to troublemaking. That’s why, when we reach the large cabin housing the Kamp Kilter cafeteria, I duck down, dart to the back of the building, and wave my classmates closer.
“Okay,” I whisper. “They’re in there. Do what you can, and remember: Don’t let them see you! As soon as they do, our jobs get a lot harder. And the longer we last, the more fun we’ll have, the more impressed Annika will be—and the more credits she’ll give us!”
Eyes light up. A few girls clap quietly. A few boys exchange silent high fives.
“Ready?” I ask.
Their heads bob up and down.
“Let’s go!”
Troublemakers bolt left. Right. Around the sides of the building. In front of the building. A few even scale walls and climb onto the roof.
I stay where I am. Ike loaned me his Kilter Katcher, which folds up for easy storage. I take that from my backpack, assemble it quickly, and step onto a large rock beneath a cafeteria window.
“You sure about this?” Lemon asks.
He’s standing next to me. His hands are empty. His face is serious.
“It was partly your idea,” I remind him. “So that I might be able to stay at Kilter after telling Annika the truth.”
“I know, but now that we’re here, I’m wondering . . . what if none of us stayed at Kilter?”
I grab the wall to keep from falling off the rock. “You want to go home? Like, for good? And never see each other again?”
“We’d see each other,” he says. “Fri
ends make it work. You said that yourself.”
“ACK!”
Now I fall off the rock. Then I jump back up, stand on tiptoes, and peer inside the cafeteria. That’s where the shriek came from.
“Abe,” I report. “When his dad wasn’t looking, he turned his pancakes, eggs, and bacon into a 3-D head. Like a breakfast snowman. That looks like Abe.” I smile. “Mr. Hansen’s totally freaking.”
“Do you see my family?” Lemon asks.
I scan the large room. As predicted, no parent wanted to miss out on a million bucks, so it’s packed. Mr. and Mrs. Hansen are sitting at a table near the back. Mr. Ryan, Mrs. Ryan, and Flora are sharing a table with another family I don’t recognize. Dozens of other moms, dads, brothers, and sisters fill their plates at the long buffet, pour coffee and orange juice at the beverage stand—and hardly eat or drink as they talk and check their Kamp Kilter computers. My guess is they’re awaiting news or instructions related to this morning’s imaginary prize. They don’t seem to mind the wait, though. There’s a lot of smiling and laughing. Even by Mr. Hansen, who, after recovering from the shock, seems to think edible Abe is a sign of good things to come.
Until edible Abe explodes, sending butter, syrup, and bacon flying.
The Hansens squeal, leap from their seats, and wipe the goo from their faces. In his hiding spot under their table, Abe grins.
“Silent, happy niiiight . . . holy birthday briiiight . . .”
“Gabby,” I announce.
“I hear her,” Lemon says.
Thanks to her special microphone, so does everyone else. As our musical alliance-mate belts out “Silent Night” mixed with “Happy Birthday” in a country twang, Mr. Ryan clamps his hands over his ears. Flora stuffs napkins into hers. Mrs. Ryan looks all around the room, searching for the song’s source.
“She’s behind a Kilter cook,” I say. “Moving when he does so no one sees her.”
“She’s not bad,” Lemon says. “I wonder why her family doesn’t like her singing?”
“Maybe too much of a good thing?” I guess.
“Maybe. How about my parents? And Finn?”
I scan the rest of the room. “They’re here. Having muffins and tea.”
“Are they okay?”
“I think they’re better than that. Your mom’s dancing in her seat while she eats. She must like Gabby’s entertainment.”
“Can you watch them while I’m out here? And make sure Troublemakers leave them alone?”
“You got it,” I say.
“Thanks. Keep your K-Pak on. I’ll let you know if—”
Lemon’s cut off by a long, loud whistle. It comes from Carter Montgomery, who’s just launched a Kilter Kanary at his parents’ table. That’s a remote-controlled robot bird that releases an ear-piercing warble each time it zings past its target. Peering through the window I see Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery jump up and swat at the small metal creature swooping down and around their heads. I also see Carter off to the side, wearing the same gray shorts, shirt, and apron the cafeteria employees wear. He must’ve found an extra outfit somewhere. And it’s working; he’s standing ten feet away from his parents, in broad view, but he blends in so well no one gives him a second glance.
“Nice. Do you want to—”
Have a look? That’s what I’m about to ask Lemon, but when I glance down, he’s gone.
Assuming he’s manning his station near the cafeteria entrance, I look through the window again. I have to give my classmates credit—they’re not wasting time. Abe, Gabby, and Carter aren’t the only ones already acting up. Alison bounds from one trash can to the next, hiding behind each as she sprays waffle whipped cream at her parents. Reed balances on the blades of a ceiling fan, hangs down a rope with a hook attached to one end, and, whenever his parents turn around or return to the buffet, rearranges their plates and utensils. I don’t see her do it so have no idea how she does it, but when her family goes up for seconds, Natalie places four live chickens on their table. By the time her parents and little brothers get back, their new breakfast guests are clucking and pecking at the crumbs they left behind.
For the first few minutes, the scene remains fairly calm. Adults are definitely confused, but they seem to think these surprises are related to the ultimate one—a million dollars—that got them out of bed. So puzzled looks and head scratching are followed by smiles and laughter.
Eventually I think of Annika—and Ike’s warning. And for a second, I’m torn. From what I know and from what my tutor has said, it’s obvious our director’s up to something. That makes me not want to try very hard to make her happy. But after what I learned at my parents’ cabin last night, I need to be able to stay at Kilter now more than ever. As much as I’d miss Dad—and already do—I can’t imagine living with Mom again, or seeing Bartholomew John at school every day.
But I can’t keep lying about Miss Parsippany. I must tell the truth.
And that means I need to keep Annika happy.
I take out my K-Pak and fire off a quick e-mail.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Crank it up!
Hi, guys! Great job so far! Your parents are TOTALLY surprised.
But what do you say we kick it up a notch? And show them what trouble REALLY looks like?
You know you want to! (And that Annika would want you to too!)
—Seamus
I press send, then peer through the window again. I can’t see every Troublemaker because many of them have really good hiding spots, but the ones I can see whip out their K-Paks and read my message.
After that, the chaos starts. Abe makes bigger breakfast sculptures, faster. Their explosions are stronger and send food flying higher. I didn’t think Gabby could sing any louder, but thanks to her megamicrophone, she can. As the volume goes up, so does the number of singers; there must be a special setting that multiplies her voice so it sounds like an entire Gabby chorus has entered the room. At the same time, whipped cream streams by. Plates and utensils zip through the air. A dozen chickens appear out of nowhere. They’re soon joined by a pig and a goat. So much happens so fast, the scene begins to blur. Like I’m inside a speeding car, and the other Troublemakers and their families are acting crazy on the side of the road.
But two things are crystal clear.
The first is that it’s getting to be too much. Parents are starting to lose it. Adults aren’t laughing anymore. A few of the younger siblings, uncomfortable in the noise and confusion, are whimpering.
The second . . . is Mom.
She’s standing at the far end of the room. Her back and spread-eagled limbs cling to the wall like fabric softener sheets to flannel. She’s watching the commotion like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. But, hello—she knowingly sent me to a school for professional Troublemakers—how is any of this a surprise?
Dad stands next to her. His fists are raised, as if he plans to give a quick one-two to any whipped cream or robot bird that comes his way.
The noise is getting louder. It’s only a matter of time before Good Samaritans hear the ruckus—and our teachers realize we’re not coming for our cleaning assignments. Then they’ll investigate, and they’ll stop us.
Now’s my chance. I raise the Kilter Katcher to the open window. Use the reel to zero in on Mom. Aim for the belt buckle at her waist.
And fire.
The hook releases. Watching the Katcher’s screen and jerking its lever, I guide the hook through the labyrinth of Troublemakers, parents, and other moving obstacles. Fortunately, Mom’s so stunned that she stays as still as a statue. After clearing the crowd, the hook zips toward her. The plan is to snag her belt buckle, then harmlessly tug her around the room until she resembles a Cloudview Community Center modern dancer. When she’s as dizzy as I’ve often felt from everything that’s happened since last October, I’ll let go and watch her spin.
“Um, Seamus?” Lemon’s voice comes from my K-Pak
, which is in my shorts pocket. “We have company.”
“Okay!” I call out, still guiding the Kilter Katcher. “Hang on. I’m about to—”
“LOSE?”
I turn toward the loud, low voice—just in time to see a man in white bolt inside the cafeteria’s side entrance.
Mystery.
A smaller version of our cranky history teacher, also decked out in white, races after him.
Harrison. His assistant.
Before I can figure out what’s happening, it’s already happened.
Mystery and his sidekick charge into the cafeteria. Holding two enormous sacks each, they jump onto a table in the middle of the room, scattering chickens and sending feathers flying. Mystery brings two fingers to his mouth and whistles for the adults’ attention. Once he has it, he and Harrison reach into their bags and start chucking things into the crowd. Like brooms. Mops. Garden hoses. Fly swatters. Watering cans. Pots and pans. Other various household items that, outside of Kamp Kilter, only parents use.
And because they’ve had years of practice, our parents know what to do with them now. When they see Mystery, they must realize the chaos isn’t related to the imaginary million dollars they’re waiting for—and they switch into battle mode. They catch the items easily, then start defending themselves. The broom diverts whipped-cream streams to the floor. Garden hoses are hooked up and water sprayed toward the ceiling, where several Troublemakers hide in eaves. Wooden spoons clang pots and pans, drowning out Gabby’s singing.
I snatch my K-Pak from my pocket, connect to my entire class, and shout into the speaker.
“Troublemakers! Stay focused! Don’t panic! Hold your ground! Remember: These are your parents! You’ve fought this battle before. The only difference now is that you’re better prepared!”
Anxious to get in there and help, I jump off the rock—and fall to the ground. When I try to get up, I can’t.
The Kilter Katcher. I forgot about it in all the excitement and never caught what I meant to. So instead of grabbing Mom’s belt, the unguided line flew back toward the reel. And because I didn’t wind it back up, it tangled around my arms and legs.