A World of Trouble (5 page)

DEMERITS: 200

GOLD STARS: 40

A
re you sure you have
everything?” Dad asks.

“I think so,” I say.

“Toothbrush? Underwear? Anti-fungal foot spray?”

I look at him.

“Fungus is a fact of life. You don't want to be caught unprepared. Whenever we go away, your mother always packs an economy-size can of . . .”

His voice fades. My gaze turns up and away, toward the chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side is
an ice-covered lawn. A large gray building with no windows. My home for the next five months.

“She wanted to be here,” Dad says quietly.

Given my discovery three days ago, this is an understatement. “I know.”

“It's just so hard to keep your foot elevated in a car for eight hours.”

It's actually pretty easy if you stretch out in the backseat. But this, of course, isn't really the issue. Mom's ankle swelled to the size of a small watermelon after she tripped chasing me across the attic, prompting her to wrap it in ice packs and gauze, lie on the couch with her foot on a pile of pillows, and moan for days. But before sunrise this morning, on my way to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, I caught her doing jumping jacks to her favorite workout video.

Her ankle's fine. She was just trying—and failing—to win sympathy points. And she definitely would've come to Kilter if I'd let her. But after recovering from the initial shock of finding her in the attic, and telling myself I would've appreciated the opportunity to explain my bad behavior a few months ago, I gave Mom a chance to do exactly that. It was after dinner the next
day. We were alone in the kitchen, washing the dishes. I asked her about the weapons. She said they just started arriving one day, and she assumed they were some kind of test as part of Kilter's unconventional yet highly successful reformation program. Like they were sent to me so that, as a recovering bad kid, I could practice resisting temptation.

I might've believed her. But as she spoke, her voice shook. Her hands trembled. She dropped not one, not two, but
three
plates. Plus two forks and a butter knife. After we cleaned up the mess, she excused herself to take a hot bath. And went to the attic instead.

There was no way I could sit in the car with her for eight hours and not demand to know what was really going on. But Dad was obviously clueless about what his wife was up to, and I didn't want him to think anything was any more wrong than usual. So this morning, I told Mom she should probably stay home to take care of her foot. Her eyes bugged and her chin dropped at the request, cracking her wrinkle-cream mask, but she didn't argue. Probably because that was easier than trying to dodge the questions she knew would follow. By the time Dad came downstairs for coffee, her ankle was wrapped and elevated. And when she asked him to drive me to Kilter himself, she moaned for good measure.

“Ready?” I ask now.

Dad takes a deep breath. Squares his shoulders. Nods once.

I lift the gate's latch. The metal's so cold I feel it through my gloves. The bottom of the gate is frozen to the ground, and it takes both of us yanking to crack the ice. When we finally do, the entrance shrieks open. We fly backward. I grab Dad's arm to steady him on the slick sidewalk.

“Check-in lasts all morning.” His voice is shaky, like his legs. “We passed a diner a few miles back. Maybe we should grab a bite to eat before—”

“It's okay,” I say. “This is a great opportunity, remember?”

He doesn't look half as convinced as he sounded when he told me the same thing on New Year's Eve, but he follows me anyway. As we start up the slippery front path, I think about the last time we made this trip. Mom had practically sprinted toward the building, leaving me in her dust and Dad straggling even farther behind. Minutes later, she couldn't seem to leave fast enough. I'd assumed then it was because she wanted my reformation to begin ASAP.

In a way, I guess I was right.

“Waiting for spring?” a low voice explodes from hidden speakers.

I quicken my pace, glance over my shoulder to make sure Dad's not flat on his back.

“If you think it's treacherous out there, just wait till you see what's in
here
.”

We reach the front steps. The thick steel door inches open, howling like an injured animal. I take Dad's arm again, and this time, I don't let go.

A figure appears. From previous experience—and only from previous experience—I know it's female. She wears dark green pants and tall black boots. A shiny, dark green coat that puffs out not from feathers, but from bulbous biceps and ripped abs. A black wool scarf wound tightly around her neck and past her chin. A bomber hat with furry ear and forehead flaps. Aviator sunglasses, even though it's overcast—and she's indoors. In the glasses' mirrored lenses I see my unblinking eyes, Dad's open mouth.

“Hello, Ms. Kilter.” My breath forms a dense white cloud.

“Seamus.” Her head turns ever so slightly to the left. “Mr. Hinkle.”

“Hi,” Dad says. Then, apparently remembering he's the temporary parental leader, he stands up straighter and looks Annika square in the sunglasses. “Good morning. It's so nice to see you again.”

“Nice?” The corners of Annika's lips twitch. “Good one. No Mrs. Hinkle today?”

“No.” Dad pulls me closer. “Seamus's mother wanted to come but was detained by an injury. Nothing too serious, mind you. She'll make a full—”

He's cut off by crackling. As Annika adjusts the volume on the walkie-talkie attached to her belt, the hem of her coat lifts, revealing a loaded gun holster. Handcuffs. Pepper spray.

“Know what I say about injuries?” she asks.

In her mirrored lenses, I see Dad's Adam's apple rise and fall.

“They're the body's way of saying we need to take it easy?” he guesses.

The corners of her mouth lift higher. “We should book you for the entertainment portion of Parents' Weekend.” The corners drop. “But no. Injuries are physical manifestations of mental weakness. And nothing irritates me more.”

I picture Elinor lying on the snow-covered ground, her skin red and blistered.

“Shall we?” Annika looks at me.

I look at Dad. He hesitates, then grabs me in a hug. His belly trembles against my cheek, and I know he's fighting tears.

“I'll be okay,” I whisper, doing the same. “Promise.”

“Still haven't shaken that word, huh?”

Dad and I pull apart. Annika stands with her back to the open door, one arm extended toward the lobby.

“Don't worry,” she says. “If we do nothing else this semester, we'll make sure your son learns to stop making guarantees he doesn't know he can keep.”

I feel Dad's eyes on me. I avoid them as I adjust my duffel bag strap on my shoulder and step inside.

“We'll be back!” Dad cries after me. “For Parents' Weekend! Never forget that your mother and I love—”

The door slams shut. My heart shoots toward my throat.

Annika's boots clomp against the floor as she crosses the room. It takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they do, I see that the room looks just as it did the first and only other time I was here. Besides a small wooden desk and an empty coat hanger, it's empty. The walls are bare. Maybe nothing changes at Kilter—except for its fearless leader.

Just like my last first day last semester, Annika ditches her military-esque uniform as soon as Dad leaves. She must wear real clothes under the fake ones, because in the time it took
my eyes to get used to the room's dim lighting, her pants, coat, scarf, and boots have been replaced with jeans, a long white sweater covered in silver flowers, and shiny gray shoes that look like a cross between ballet and bedroom slippers. She's still wearing the bomber hat and sunglasses, although the hat's flaps are now folded up and the sunglasses are perched on top of her head. The weapons are gone from her waist; a K-Pak is in their place.

“Am I late?” I ask.

“You're right on time.” Even her voice is different. Lighter. Sweeter.

“Am I the last one?”

“Not even close.”

“But you changed your clothes. Don't you need to wear the uniform for the other families?”

“I'm not very big on small talk. The faculty and staff handle most of the meet-and-greets.”

I look around the empty room without moving my head.

Annika explains.

“All new students enter Kilter for the first time through his building. When they arrive, they have no idea what to expect.
They're scared. Confused. Some of them cling to their parents and bawl like babies.”

My cheeks warm. This part is familiar.

“I introduce myself to them and their parents, as I did with you and yours, so that everyone understands the severity of the situation. I make sure to leave an unforgettable impression so that I don't have to remind them on drop-off days of subsequent semesters. It helps that parents like to believe that the director of the best reform school in the country is too busy devising ways to turn their bad kids into good ones to waste time with idle chitchat. Plus, the faculty members really dig the chance to don fake threads—and up the intimidation factor. They're excellent Kilter representatives.”

“But if I'm not late or the last one here . . . ?”

“Where are these excellent representatives?” She shrugs. “In a barren field. A deep ditch. The middle of a frozen lake. New students are terrified to come to Kilter, but returning students are always thrilled. On the first day of each semester, in order to keep the school's true purpose a secret from parents, who would at the very least remove their kids and at most blow our cover for good, returning students must feel the same kind of trepidation they felt on their first day ever.”

“So you have them dropped off in the middle of nowhere?”

“Sometimes. Wherever it is has to be completely different from wherever they were left the time before so as to keep them guessing—and nervous. This makes their parents nervous and reassures them that Kilter's doing what it should.”

Anywhere else, this would make absolutely no sense. Here, it seems perfectly logical. Still, “This is my second semester. How come I wasn't dropped off in the middle of a frozen lake? How come you met me, and not Houdini or Wyatt or Fern?”

She pauses. Her blue eyes narrow slightly. Her lips press together. “Because I couldn't tell.”

“Couldn't tell . . . what?”

“Whether you wanted to come back.”

“Of course I wanted to come back. I went on the real-world combat mission. I e-mailed my friends. I even tried to get here—”

“Early. I know.”

I frown. “Ike and Houdini told you I tried to hitch a ride?”

“No. The Kommissary Krew did when you earned forty gold stars before the semester had even started.” She clucks her tongue. “Regardless of intention, soliciting your tutor and instructor for
advance arrival is akin to brownnosing. And no one gets a head start at Kilter—unless he steals it.”

I open my mouth to explain that I wasn't trying to get a head start, at least not on troublemaking, but before I can, Annika spins around.

“In any case, based on other observations and sources, I wanted to be the one to greet you today. You've had great success up until now, but the past is pointless without the present. I wanted to see for myself if you came here committed. Focused. Ready to do whatever it takes to continue down the right path.”

I've been at Kilter five minutes, tops, so I don't know how she could tell anything besides the fact that I'm still here. But something must've satisfied her because she opens the door, turns toward me, and beams.

I peer past her, through the door. Even from ten feet away I can see green grass. Flowers. Blue sky.

“Still think you're in the wrong place?” Annika asks.

My heart pounds as I force my eyes to hers. “No, ma'am.”

She winks. “Good boy.”

I start to follow through the doorway, then stop and spin around. I dart down the length of one wall, then another and
another. I scan the base of each, looking for a large gray box.

“See a mouse?”

“I'm looking for the bin,” I say. “To put my stuff in for screening.”

Annika laughs. “Did you think we really checked your bags last time?”

I did. But then, why would they? Belongings that might be confiscated from a normal bad kid, like matches, scissors, and nail clippers, are as useful in the Kilter classroom as pencils, erasers, and rulers are in non-Kilter classrooms.

Which means I taped the Kilter Knight-Vision Goggles to my torso for no good reason.

“You've been given a new room this semester,” Annika says. “Why don't we check it out?”

As I hoist my duffel bag onto my shoulder and follow her outside, I feel a little foolish—and nervous. Between checking for the bin and earning forty gold stars, I'm not off to a good start. And since being here keeps me far away from home, where I can't be while I try to figure out why Mom did what she did, I need to stay on Annika's good side. I need her to believe I'm a real Troublemaker. Especially since, as far as I can tell, she doesn't
know the one thing that would get me immediate and permanent expulsion.