A World of Trouble (2 page)

Mr. Lubbard, of course, is no prize himself. But he hides out mostly to get away from the missus, so if we fix her, there's a good chance we fix him, too.

“ML and IV en route to Q4.”

Houdini sounds even more serious now. Once I translate, I know why.

Quadrant 4 is the basement.

“Copy,” I say. And then I run.

I reach the back door outside just as Mrs. Lubbard and Molly reach the basement door inside. Mrs. Lubbard flings open the entrance to her daughter's worst nightmare. Molly's back hits the opposite wall. Her head shakes back and forth.

I reach into the purse.

Two shots. One to break the door's small window, and one to teach this mother a lesson she'll never forget. That's all it'll take.

My fingers find what feels like a thick rubber band. They keep digging until they hit the purse's hardest, heaviest item, which turns out to be a jar of lime-green goop. On the way out, they snag something long and prickly.

An elastic hair tie. Pauline's Pear Pomade. A metal comb. These are my weapons.

“IV WW about to commence,” Houdini says.

Waterworks. Molly's about to cry.

I slip the hair tie around the jar. Hook my left thumb on the elastic and pull back the jar with my right hand. Raise both arms. Close one eye. Aim.

“
ML
WW about to commence?”

Mrs. Lubbard's about to cry?

I lower my weapon and lean toward the door. Houdini's right. Our target's face crumples as she holds out one hand, examines her fingers, and fans her eyes. Molly steps toward her, concerned.

“Now, Hinkle,” Houdini urges. “Her defenses are down. Take your shot.”

I start to aim again—and then stop. Because what am I doing? Who am I to try to teach anyone—but especially an adult I've never even met—anything? What do I really know about this family? I know what I saw on video, but what about everything our cameras didn't catch? What if Molly was a total terror last week? What if all that we've seen the past three days, all the yelling and fighting and demanding, is simply one desperate mother's way of dealing with her out-of-control daughter?

Parent-kid relationships can be complicated. I get that. I've
lived
that. And I don't want to make this one any worse.

“Start the scooter,” I tell Houdini, already running. “It's not happening.”

“What do you mean it's not—?” He pauses. “You've got to be kidding.”

“Nope. Sorry. I tried to tell you I wasn't cut out for—”

“Fingernails.”

My earpiece must be malfunctioning. I tap the side of my helmet. “What?”

“ML's fingernails. She pretended to give a flashlight to IV, and when she yanked it away, her nails brushed against the wall. Her manicure's ruined. That's why she's crying.”

Houdini's voice sounds different. Not just serious. Nervous, too. It makes my feet slow beneath me.

“Now she's yelling,” he continues. “She's got IV by the elbow. She's pushing her toward the stairs.”

My feet come to a stop. I stand there and listen—to Houdini's play-by-play. Molly's whimpers. Soon a door slams. The deck shakes.

Molly falls silent.

“She's in the basement,” I say.

“Yes,” Houdini confirms.

“Where she can't reach the overhead light.”

“Correct.”

“And she's so scared of the dark she needs three lamps on just to fall asleep at night.”

“Right.”

I take a deep breath. “Get her out through the storm door. I'll take care of Mom.”

When Houdini informed me earlier that I'd be the one teaching Mrs. Lubbard the ultimate lesson, and I asked how I was supposed to do that, all he said was that I'd know once the moment was right. I didn't believe him.

Until now.

For the next ninety seconds, I don't think about what I'm doing. I just do it. I follow along the side of the house, peeking in windows to monitor ML's progress. By the time she reaches the marble vanity in the bathroom, I'm in position, locked and loaded. As she sits on the velvet-cushioned stool, I slide open the window and take aim.

The elastic hair tie makes for a stellar slingshot. I use it to fire everything Houdini swiped from the salon, including Pauline's Pear Pomade. Nail files. Curlers. Cans of hair spray. Combs. Brushes. I'm careful not to hit my target directly, but I don't mind when the weapons fly around Mrs. Lubbard so fast she twists and turns and falls off the stool. And while she's not struck, the same can't be said about her precious beauty supplies. Jars of lotion break. Perfume bottles shatter. Tubs of powder shoot up and fall back down, releasing thick white clouds. I discover a
clump of bobby pins near the bottom of the purse and fire them at the small lightbulbs framing the mirror. I break all but one so that Mrs. Lubbard can see what happens next.

A bottle of nail polish slams into the middle of the mirror. Red liquid drips down the cracked glass. A note, scribbled in lipstick on a piece of hair foil, stays in place with fake-eyelash glue.

Mrs. Lubbard is curled in a ball on the floor. Her arms cover her head. Her shoulders tremble. She stays like that for a few seconds, then gets up slowly, tiptoes to the mirror, and leans forward to read the message.

It's pretty good, if I do say so myself.

Think you pay a price to look nice?

Not BEING nice can put you in the poorhouse.

Make it up to Molly. Or lose everything.

Mrs. Lubbard stands up straight. Presses the fingers of one hand to her lips. Looks around.

By the time her gaze turns toward the window, I'm gone.

DEMERITS: 200

GOLD STARS: 0

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Très chic! Magnifique!

Bonjour
, Monsieur Seamus!

Once upon a time, Beauty and the Beast met, fell in love, and lived happily ever after.

That was then. This is now. And you, Seamus Hinkle, are a million times scarier than the oversize
fur ball that held Belle captive. The only thing your Beauty—otherwise known as one Mrs. Lubbard of Hoyt, Kentucky—could ever love about you is the fact that you're gone. Way to go!

I stop reading. Lower my K-Pak to my chest. Look at the ceiling.

I'm a million times scarier than the Beast? A tall, terrifying monster that could rip his pretty prey to shreds if he wanted to? Really?

The thought's so confusing I want another one to push it aside. So I pick up my handheld computer and finish the note.

Every demerit and gold star you earn is recorded and stored forever in Kilter's virtual filing cabinet, but to give all students a fair shake at a fresh start, your tallies return to zero at the end of each semester. Now, with an agonizing week and a half to go before school resumes, you already have a solid lead on your classmates! For successfully completing your first real-world combat
mission—and teaching one power-hungry mother a lesson she won't soon forget—you received 200 demerits. With no gold stars to subtract, you have 200 credits.

If only all equations were this simple, right? Well, just take Marla off speed dial next semester, and they can be!

I think of Marla, Kilter's phone operator. I haven't spoken to her in days. I kind of miss her. Does she have K-Mail? Maybe I should send her a quick note.

My K-Pak screen flashes. I look down and see a small camera icon. When I press it, a photo of a hair dryer appears.

I keep reading.

Given your recent activity, we thought you might want to expand your troublemaking arsenal. Which is why we're superstoked to recommend the Kilter Koiffurator! You can load it with the ammo of your choice (we prefer peanut butter) or leave it empty and fire hot air. Either way, with an
impressive fifteen-foot range, it's guaranteed to give your target a whole new look—Seamus-style! And at 195 credits, it's practically free.

Consider it a gift. 'Tis the season, after all!

At Your Service,

The Kommissary Krew

Before I can decide whether to save or delete the e-mail, my K-Pak buzzes with a new message.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
hey

S—

My flames of combat have been successfully extinguished.

Yours?

—L

I smile as I respond.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: hey

Hi, Lemon!

How are you?? What was your mission? Where'd Fern take you? I can't wait to hear all about it!

Mine was good. Accomplished. And pretty fun, actually. I'll tell you everything when we get back to school.

Happy holidays!

—Your Favorite Roommate

I reread the note, check for typos. My eyes stop at “when we get back to school,” and stay there. This hesitation reminds me of another e-mail I've been meaning to write. So I send Lemon's and start a new one.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Hi!

Dear Miss Parsippany,

Thank you so much for writing me back. After what I did, I'd understand if you never wanted to talk to me again.

I stop typing. What I did was the worst possible thing anyone could ever do to someone else. For months I felt terrible about it. And guilty. And lonely. Now, five days after learning the truth, I'm still getting used to the fact that it's something I only
thought
I did. And that I don't have to feel terrible, guilty, or lonely anymore.

Grinning, I delete the last sentence. I'm still thinking about what to replace it with when the coffeemaker downstairs starts beeping. I look up and check the window across the darkened room. The pulled shade is glowing.

It's time.

This is one message I don't want to rush. So I save it and put my K-Pak on the nightstand. I get up and make the bed. I put on my bathrobe and swing by the dresser mirror, lingering long enough to wipe the crusties from my eyes and comb my hair.

“You can do this,” my reflection and I tell each other.

My only other option is to hide out in my room forever, so I do it. I cross the room. Open the door. Go downstairs.

And see my parents for the first time since the last time. When I wondered if I'd ever want to see them again.

“A little to the left,” Mom says.

“Got it,” Dad says.

“Too far. Back to the right.”

“Okeydoke.”

My heart thumps faster. Mom's sitting on the couch in the living room, coffee cup in hand. Dad's standing on a step stool, straightening the crocheted angel on top of the tree. The fireplace is lit. Stuffed stockings hang from the mantel. The ancient record player spins scratchy carols. Shiny presents wait to be opened.

Somehow, it looks like nothing's changed.

“For heaven's sake, Eliot.” Mom starts to stand. “Let me do it. It has to be absolutely perfect in case—”

“Merry Christmas.”

Mom falls back on the couch. Dad teeters on the step stool. “Jingle Bells” skips on the record player. I walk down the remaining stairs and into the room.

“Seamus?” Mom's eyes are wide. Her mouth is open. I'm
pretty sure she thinks I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“Son?” Dad grins and hugs the tree for balance.

“When did you . . . ?” Mom asks. “How did you . . . ?”

“Last night,” I say. “Kilter car service. It was really late and I didn't want to wake you, so I just let myself in and went to bed.”

This is followed by a long pause. I'm about to apologize for sneaking in when they both come at me like they're the twelve-year-olds and I'm the pony they've been begging Santa for. There are hugs. Kisses. Claps on the back. It's like a cheesy scene out of
It's a Wonderful Life
, one of Mom's favorite black-and-white holiday movies.

And you know something? I kind of like it.

“Would you like some hot chocolate?” Mom asks.

“Sure.”

“How about some gifts?” Dad asks.

“Okay.”

I have to admit, it feels a little weird diving into our regular Christmas morning routine without referring to where I've been, what I've been doing, and why. My parents and I have things to talk about, so much to figure out . . . But what's a few minutes more? No matter what, we have to move forward. And maybe
the best way to do that is to ignore how we got to the present. At least for a little while.

The morning's so merry I start to think this really might be true. But then I open my last gift: a fancy label maker Dad ordered from his favorite office supply website. The box flaps are sealed in five layers of tape, like he was so excited he worried he might rip them open and keep the gadget for himself. Neither of us can tear through the security shield, so I hurry to the kitchen for a pair of scissors.