A World of Trouble (7 page)

“Paint!” Abe wipes his lips as colorful streaks run down his face.

“Good Samaritans!” Gabby rummages through her open suitcase.

“Don't!” Lemon spins around.

I turn back to the sink. Yank both knobs to the right and left. Not one drop of water falls from the faucet, so I check the wall for some sort of power switch. Maybe everything in the kitchen was turned off for vacation and just needs to be turned back on.

And then I see it. Not a power switch. A digital silver arrow. It's sparkly but faint and pulsates weakly, like an old neon sign. It starts where the countertop meets the wall, right behind the faucet, and aims up, toward the top of the upper cabinets—and a glass cookie jar. The jar glows softly with the light of a digital silver bull's-eye.

I run to the other side of the room, dodging my frantic friends and slipping across the slick tile floor. I rip the goggles back over my head and start spinning them around one finger like a lasso.
I've barely turned back around when I let them fly. Holding my breath, I watch them soar through the air.

“Duck!” I shout when they near the cookie jar, shielding my face with my arms.

Only shards of glass don't rain down on us. The goggles hit the bull's-eye, but the jar doesn't break. It simply tilts back, then pops forward, like a carnival game target. Guessing I didn't hit it hard enough, I look around for something else to throw—just as the sink explodes.

“On it!” Gabby yells. She empties the contents of her suitcase onto the table and runs to the sink, which is actually intact despite the water bursting from the faucet with the force of a fire hose.

“Move!” I call out to Lemon and Abe as I slip and slide across the room again.

The flames grow taller. Paint falls faster. By the time the four of us carry the heavy suitcase to the drawer, heave it up, and dump out the water, I think the chances are good that we'll still need backup.

But I'm wrong. It works. The fire fizzles out immediately. The sprinkler system shuts down. Ceiling and floor tiles shift like puzzle pieces, sucking out smoke and draining paint.

The drawer opens.

Gabby squeals and claps. She reaches into the drawer, removes a pair of scissors, and skips to the kitchen table.

“That's it?” Abe scoffs, shoving wet hair from his forehead. “That's what was so important?”

Unfazed, Gabby takes a ball of fabric from the mountain on the table and wrings it out over the sink. “You'll thank me every time you see these pretty gingham curtains hanging in our living room.”

“No, I definitely will
not
—” Abe stops. Looks at her. “What did you just say?”

Gabby grins. Lemon leans against the counter. I retrieve the Kilter Knight-Vision Goggles from the floor.

“She said
our
living room,” I say.

“As in ours . . .
and
hers?” Abe shakes his head.

I nod.

“But she's a girl.”

“She's also one of us.” I hold the goggles toward him. After he takes them, confused, I remind him of our alliance. “And we're a team. With a Capital
T
.”

DEMERITS: 230

GOLD STARS: 40

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Happy New Year!

Dear Miss Parsippany,

Hi! How are you? Did you have a nice vacation? How are you feeling?

Thank you very much for answering my e-mail. Given what happened, I would've understood if
you'd deleted my message without ever opening it. And I know I've said it before, but I really am sorry about all that. (Note to self: If you're going to throw an apple at a moving target . . . STOP. Eat apple instead.)

I'm also sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you. I got your note during finals last semester, and then I went home, and you know how crazy the holidays are. Besides being busy, I also wasn't sure if you really wanted me to write back. I know you said I could in your note, but the fact that you answered mine shows how nice you are. And I didn't know if you were just being extra nice by inviting me to write again.

But it's a new year. I'm not big on resolutions, but I do like the idea of starting over. With a clean slate. And I thought maybe that's what we could do. So I decided to take you up on the offer and see what happens. If you want to write back, I'd love to hear from you. If you don't, I totally understand. Either way, I'm really, really happy you're okay. And I
hope your new year blows the old one out of the water.

Sincerely,

Seamus Hinkle

I reread the note twice, then hit send and watch the digital envelope swish around the K-Pak screen. When the envelope disappears, I wait for an error message to pop up and remind me that Kilter e-mails can't be delivered to non-Kilter addresses. That's what happened when I tried writing Dad last semester. And this school's so big on keeping its secret I wouldn't be surprised if the IT department blocked Miss Parsippany's external e-mail address after discovering our accidental exchange.

But the screen stays blank. So I get up, even though I still have an hour before class, and head to the bathroom to get ready.

As cool as it is to have our own house, Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and I learned last night that nothing in it works the way it should. Just like the faucet stayed dry until I hit the cookie jar, the TV didn't turn on until Abe made a wall mural using fireplace ash. Gabby's bedroom door only opened when she did three cartwheels down the hallway. We played foosball when the game
table's knobs finally unlocked after Lemon raced around the living room, lighting a dozen tall candles with the flame of a much smaller one before the smaller one melted away. And I couldn't pull back the blankets on my bed until I first hit every glowing star in the constellation of stickers on my ceiling with a pair of balled-up socks.

It's fun, but time-consuming. Fortunately, the bathroom isn't too complicated this morning. The showerhead turns on with one flick of my towel. Toothpaste dispenses when I toss my pajamas into the hamper. Moisture automatically evaporates from the mirror over the sink after I fire five Q-tips into the trash can under the counter.

I dress quickly and check my K-Pak for new messages. There aren't any. I consider e-mailing Dad again, just in case the no-outside-e-mail policy changed, but decide against it. I've been meaning to write Miss Parsippany for a while, but part of the reason I finally did this morning was because I started feeling homesick. Mom always makes a big production on the first day of each new semester, complete with pancakes and pictures, and despite everything, I wouldn't mind the fuss. Miss Parsippany's not my mother, but she's still an adult. Who seems to care. I thought if she wrote
back right away, that might help fill the emptiness in my stomach.

But she didn't. And if my e-mail reaches Dad, he'll tell Mom, who will probably think I miss them. Which, even if that's true—
especially
if it's true—she doesn't really need to know.

So I fill my stomach with breakfast instead.

“Holy home fries,” I say when I reach the kitchen.

Lemon's sitting at the table. He looks up from a magazine, then back down again. “Our resident artist works in many mediums,” he says.

Including food. Potatoes, waffles, and scrambled eggs have been arranged in a towering “KA” sculpture. Melon, berries, and banana slices circle the structure's base. Juice waits to be sipped from cups made of braided orange peels.

“Did Abe have to make all this in order to eat?” I ask.

“Don't know. He and Gabby were gone by the time I got up.”

“Are we sure he did it? Maybe the Kanteen made a special first-day delivery.”

Lemon's eyes stay fixed on the magazine as his head, then chin, tilt forward.

“Got it,” I say, seeing the
A. HANSEN CREATIONS
signature scrawled in maple syrup on the glass platter. I take a plate
from the stack next to the sculpture, serve myself a helping of each breakfast item, and sit across from him.

We don't speak for several minutes. Lemon's not exactly a chatterbox, but still. We haven't seen each other in weeks and were never alone to catch up last night. I want to know how his real-world mission was, what else he did over vacation, if he's happy to be back. I've learned it's best not to ask too much too soon, though, so I start carefully.

“Your eggs are way better.”

“My room's a death trap.”

I stop chewing. “Sorry?”

He sighs. Sits back. “My furniture's made of twigs. My mattress is stuffed with tissues. My walls are covered in paper, not paint. And everything must be coated in kerosene or hair spray, because each time I light a match, sparks fly in every corner of the room. That's why I almost burned the place down ten minutes after getting here yesterday. I wasn't prepared.”

I swallow. “But you didn't burn the place down. Everyone's fine. And now you know.”

“It doesn't matter. I'm good at starting fires—not putting them out.”

“You're great at both. Our dorm room was still standing when we moved out, wasn't it?”

“Yes. Because of the Kilter Pocket Extinguisher. And Smoke Detector with Automatic Flame Eliminator. Both of which you bought.”

I'd disagree, but he has a point.

“I can stay with you,” I offer. “In your room, at night. It'll be just like last semester, except I'll sleep on the floor—which, according to my mom's health magazines, is great for the back. I can even wait until Gabby and Abe go to bed and then make sure I'm in my room again before they get up. They'll never know.”

This gets a half smile. And though he doesn't accept the offer, he doesn't shoot it down, either.

“We should probably get going,” he says, standing.

He's right. I don't know how long it'll take to get from the Freshman Farm to class, and I don't want to be late. I clear my plate, fling my fork at the dishwasher handle to open it, and quickly clean up. Then I dash to the bathroom to brush my teeth and check my appearance one last time.

“Hey, Lemon?” I ask as he shuffles by the open doorway.
“Do you think this shirt looks okay? Should I wear the blue one instead? Or maybe—”

The front door opens and closes. Grinning, since this is normal Lemon behavior, I stick with what I'm wearing, grab my jacket and backpack, and hurry outside.

It snowed during the night, and the ground and trees glisten. The air's cool but the sun's warm. Laughter and excited conversation surround us as we pass other students. The pleasant experience is a far cry from being stuck in the front of an old yellow school bus between our ancient driver, Wheezing Willy, and Bartholomew John, who always found the back of my seat a stellar sparring partner.

It also almost makes me forget why I'm here—and that I shouldn't be.

According to the e-mail Annika sent last night, our schedules haven't changed. Which means our first class is math. When we reach the classroom building twenty minutes after leaving the Farm, we're five minutes early. Lemon shuffles to the couch at the back of the room and collapses like we just walked a hundred miles instead of one. I stop just outside the doorway. The front row of desks is empty, but Annika didn't
say anything about keeping the same seats. So I survey my other options.

“Dodge the draft,” a low voice says near my ear.

I jump. Houdini steps back.

“It's toasty in here.” He taps the digital thermostat on the wall next to the doorway, which is set to seventy degrees. “But by the windows? And her Royal Ice Queen? You'll never be warm, no matter how fast your heart beats.” He places one palm to his chest. Shivers. Smiles.

“Maybe I should've worn slippers instead of shoes.”

Houdini's eyebrows lift above the tops of his sunglasses. He glances down at his feet, which are enclosed by fluffy gray squares beneath the hems of flannel pajama pants, then up at me.