A World of Trouble (8 page)

“Hinkle the quick-comeback kid. Who'd have thunk it?” He holds out a fist. “I'd give you ten demerits, but your current lead doesn't need them.”

I bump his fist with mine. He yawns, stretches, and goes inside. More classmates arrive. I say hi, wave. Most return the greeting without hesitating. This is different from the end of last semester, when they were still wary of their killer classmate. It makes me hopeful that a new start really is possible.

Thirty seconds before class begins, I scan the empty hallway. Listen for footsteps. And finally enter the room.

I find a seat near the windows. As I remove a notebook and pen from my backpack, I try not to stare at the chair next to mine. Because for the first time since I started taking this class a few months ago, it's empty. And I know it's silly, but I'm afraid if I look too closely or give it too much attention, it might stay that way.

“Behold!” Houdini lifts one leg, lets his heel drop onto the desk at the front of the room, and sweeps one hand toward his foot. “Your challenge this semester.”

“Ugly shoes?” Abe guesses. He's sitting a few chairs away in the middle of the room.

“Bad personal hygiene?” a girl named Jill adds, eyeing Houdini's stained sock.

“Cement blocks,” he says. “Granted, these are filled with cotton, but you get the idea.”

It takes some stretching of the imagination, but soon I see that his slippers are shaped like gray concrete cubes.

“To pass last semester,” he continues, “you had to ‘get' each one of your teachers with the skills they taught. To get me, you
had to steal something of mine without my knowing. At the time, that probably seemed impossible.”

A few kids nod. No one disagrees.

“It was actually a walk in the park.” He lifts his other leg, crosses his ankles on top of the desk. “And get ready to run. Because now we're coming after you.”

“What does that mean?” Gabby asks.

“In order to pass this semester, you must avoid attacks by all of your teachers. Just like you stole my stuff, I'm going to steal yours.”

“You did that last semester,” Lemon says. “When you took my favorite lighter.”

“And my stuffed unicorn,” Gabby says.

And my robot cuff links.

“I did that to teach you how to do it yourselves. And I gave everything back. This semester, no such luck. If I steal it, I keep it.”

“And we fail?” Abe asks. “Like, automatically?”

“You get three shots. If you avoid the first attempt, you're done. You earn a hundred demerits and are free to focus on normal class assignments. If you fail the first attempt, you earn a hundred gold stars and have to earn a second chance.”

“How?” a kid named Austin asks.

“By getting one of your classmates.”

“So in order to get another chance with you,” Abe says slowly, “I'd have to steal something of, say, Hinkle's?”

“Without him knowing,” Houdini says. “Exactly.”

“That sounds complicated,” Jill says.

“It is. Successful Troublemakers don't just make trouble. They thwart it. That's how they stay sharp and keep their edge. It's hard to be bad when you're constantly looking over one shoulder.” Houdini wiggles his slippers. “Hence the running. In concrete. With what feels like the weight of the world dragging you down.”

Some kids exchange looks. Others move their backpacks from the floor to their laps, then scoot forward so their stuff is safely locked in place between their legs and desks.

I open my notebook and start writing.

“Questions?” Houdini asks.

I raise my hand.

“Shout it out, Seamus,” he says.

“Could you please go over the demerits again?” My hand moves faster across the page as he does. After he's done, I ask, “Will there be opportunities for extra credit?”

“Why would you need extra credit?”

“Like if we get a late start. And need to catch up.” My hand stops as I realize how this sounds to everyone in the room. We're all here, so we're all starting at the same time. “Or if we want to buy something really expensive at the Kommissary.”

“If you want to buy something really expensive at the Kommissary, don't blow your credits on cheap—” Houdini pauses. When he speaks again, I hear a smile in his voice. “Oh. I get it. You're taking notes for little miss—”

He's cut off again, this time by a sharp buzzing. Feeling the burn of twenty-eight curious gazes, I keep mine fixed on the page before me. A long minute later, Houdini continues.

“Save the ink, Hinkle. Your entire class is present and accounted for.”

I raise my eyes. Slowly. He's holding up his K-Pak, which apparently just received a new message. I don't have to read it to know what it says.

My heart sinks as my eyes shift left, to the empty chair. Which is going to stay that way.

Because Elinor's not coming back.

DEMERITS: 230

GOLD STARS: 40

A
rmpit toots,” Gabby says.

“Armpit farts,” Abe says.

“Toots.”

“Farts.”

“I'm a girl. We toot. Only when absolutely necessary, and in total privacy. What you Neanderthals do is very different.” Gabby leans forward and looks past him. “Just thinking about it makes Seamus turn red.”

She says this fondly, like me blushing is as cute as a kitten
purring. I'd change the subject, but we're talking about our real-world combat missions as we walk back from dinner, and I'm curious to know the outcome of hers.

“So you were at the convenience store,” I prompt.

“At the
gas
station,” Abe reminds us with a chuckle.

“And the employee was cleaning the slushie machine,” I say.

“Right.” Gabby nods. “He was taking forever because he kept sneaking sips of Arctic Berry Blast and Turbo Choco when his boss wasn't looking. I was in the next aisle, pretending to check out the gum. Hiding in full view, just like Samara said.”

Samara's our biology teacher. She takes her job more seriously than Houdini does, so I'm happy to hear her instructions were the same as his.

“I watched him for a minute or two, waiting for my moment,” Gabby continues. “Then, when his face disappeared into a plastic cup, I let one rip. From my pit. Which is kind of hard to do underneath a turtleneck and down coat.”

“What happened?” Lemon asks.

“Total freak-out. The guy jumped so high I checked the ceiling for dents. And not only did he drop the cup, sending slushie flying everywhere, he bumped into the machine levers.
By the time he realized the machine was on, the counter and floor were covered in blue and brown liquid.” Gabby talks fast, her voice excited. “His hands shook as he cleaned up. I think he thought the sound came from him.”

“What'd you do after that?” I ask.

“I bought some Bubble Tape like nothing happened. And I got out of there.”

“No, I mean later. Where did you and Samara go next?”

She shoots me a look. “What do you mean?”

I start to rephrase the question, then consider why she might be confused. I must take too long to answer because Abe takes over.

“I made my mom's knees give out. My dad had to catch her so she wouldn't hit the floor. That's how good my living room redesign was.”

“Your what?” Lemon asks.

“Living room redesign. Wyatt said I had to use ‘non-habitual' art skills to shock my parents. That ruled out spray-painting walls, appliances, and hardwood floors, so I had to think outside the box. While my parents were getting ready for bed one night, I reupholstered and rearranged the living room furniture, hung up new curtains, and added unique accents throughout the room.”

“So your real-world combat mission . . . was to redecorate?” Gabby asks.

“Redesign,” Abe corrects.

“And your parents didn't think you had anything to do with it?” I ask.

“I'd left hours earlier to spend the night at a friend's house. Or so they thought. Plus, it was a lot of heavy stuff for one kid to move in five minutes.” He stands up straighter, lifts his head. “And it really was pretty.”

I'm about to ask if his mission consisted of anything else when we come upon a group of older Troublemakers. They're crowded around the gazebo in the campus's main garden, clapping and bobbing in place. Every few seconds one of them whoops and cheers, and the others laugh.

“Must be a concert,” Lemon says.

“Let's check it out,” Gabby says.

I don't hear any music, but we head for the gazebo anyway. I'm shorter than the next-shortest student by five inches and can't see inside, so I try to sneak peeks whenever shoulders separate. It's still quiet except for the applauding and cheering, which grow louder every second. I expect to catch a glimpse of a sword
swallower, human pretzel, or some other silent circus performer.

But the structure's empty.

“Look.” I nudge Lemon and nod at the older Troublemaker standing before me. Like everyone else (except me), she's wearing a silver ski parka. On her shoulder is a square patch. Two masquerade masks are sewn onto the patch. One's happy, the other sad.

“Ah,” Lemon says.

These Troublemakers are Dramatists. They're the performers, and this fake appreciation for invisible entertainment is probably a homework assignment.

I'm about to alert Abe and Gabby to the fact so we can move on, when a loud pop sounds behind us. It's followed by a fizzle that seems to pass overhead. A few students break character to look up—and the rest follow when another pop sounds above the gazebo. A small dark cloud forms and rains shiny black drops. There's another mini explosion. And another and another. They seem to grow louder, come closer. More dark clouds appear, releasing a glittery downpour.

“Run!” someone shouts.

The group breaks. Troublemakers yank up their hoods, shield
their heads. They zigzag through the garden, trying to dodge drops. Soon Lemon and I are alone by the gazebo.

“It's dry.” He lifts his arm. His jacket is untouched.

“Mine too.”

He lowers his arm. “Home?”

“Meet you there?”

Not for the first time, I'm glad Lemon doesn't press. He slides his hands in his coat pockets and strolls away without another word.

I stay where I am, watching the outline of a dark red apple shimmer in the sky.

“I haven't seen hustle like that since the famous Kilter Painter incident last fall.”

The red apple fades. I turn around.

“Hi, Ike.”

I smile as my instructor steps out from behind a tree. His face is hidden by the brim of a Kilter Academy baseball cap, but I know it's him. And not just because of the impressive aerial call to attention he just launched.

Because he's wearing a black ski parka. Just like me.

“I usually see fireworks on the Fourth of July,” I say as he comes closer. “Not the fourth of January.”

“You didn't see fireworks.” He stands before me and holds up a skinny silver baton. It looks like a magic wand, but with three buttons, a tiny screen, and a knob at its base. “You saw Direworks. Guaranteed to make those around you think the sky is falling and the apocalypse near.”

“Cool. Where's the fuse?”

“No fuse. No fire. It's all electric.”

“But the embers,” I say. “That fell and fizzled out. They—”

“Weren't really there. The sparks, the smoke, the clouds. All digital images.”

I must look skeptical because he presses buttons, spins the knob, and points the baton at the ground.

“Wait.” I step back. “Maybe we should—”

The earth explodes between our feet. Or at least, it looks like it does. When the glowing fireball extinguishes and the dust settles, the small crater that just formed disappears. I bend down for a closer look and see blades of grass peeking through the thin layer of snow. They're standing upright, just like they were before Ike took aim.

“Want to try?” he asks.

I do. He steps into the gazebo. I follow. We crouch down
so those passing by can't see us behind the bushes encircling the gazebo's base.

“The buttons control the image,” Ike explains. “You can set the type, color, and duration. The knob adjusts the direction. To fire, press down on the knob like you would a computer mouse.”

He hands me the baton. I'm still trying to figure out which button does what when I hear voices approaching. One's male, the other female. They're quiet. Like they don't want to be heard by anyone else.

“Hand-holders at twelve o'clock.” Ike stands on his knees to peer over the gazebo railing, then settles back down. “It's way too early for that. They deserve what's coming.”

“Hand-holders?” I stand on my knees too. “You mean like a . . .”

Couple? That's what I try to say, but my mouth suddenly can't complete the question. Because as the older Troublemakers come closer, fingers entwined, heads tilted together, clearly en route to the romantic, dimly lit destination Ike and I are currently occupying, I remember the last time I was in said romantic destination. And who I was with. And how, even though we didn't exactly have the best time, since the time ended with one of
us storming out in a huff, I still didn't want it to end.