A World of Trouble (9 page)

I sit back down. “Why don't we find a teacher instead? Dinner's still being served. Some of them must be in the Kanteen. We can hide outside, wait for them to leave, and make them lose whatever they just ate.”

Ike takes his baseball cap and spins it around so the brim's at the back of his head. “Seamus.”

I pause. “Ike.”

“Don't go soft on me.”

“I'm not going soft. I want to go after a teacher. That's way harder.”

He holds out one hand, palm up. I look at it, then him.

“Give it back,” he says. “You're not ready. Your body's here, but your head's still on vacation.”

I start to do as I'm told, which is what I always used to do before coming here. But then my eyes catch a flash of red on the other side of the gazebo. It looks like a flower petal, kind of like the ones on the poinsettia plant Bartholomew John hand-delivered Christmas morning.

I raise the Direworks baton. Press the buttons. Twist and hit the knob.

A laser beam shoots straight through the doorway, then up. It forms a fat white cloud. The cloud opens up, releasing a digital hailstorm so fast and furious I can't see the happy couple when I stand up. I can hear them, though. The girl cries out. The guy shouts her name. They try to run. Stumble. Fall. Even though they don't really feel a thing.

Ninety seconds later, the computerized ice chunks disappear. The couple's gone—most likely to the nearest building to wait out the weather. Ike smiles and holds up one hand.

“Ten demerits,” he declares as I smack his palm with mine. “A good start—and a drop in the bucket of thousands you'll earn this semester.”

I smile, then frown. I'm happy to earn more demerits, but hearing that girl cry out makes me think of Elinor getting hurt last semester. And what I learned in math class earlier.

“Ike, can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away.”

“Is it weird when a kid doesn't come back to Kilter?”

“You mean after being home?”

I nod.

He shrugs. “Not really. Sometimes parents change their minds
about their kid being here. Sometimes Annika does. It happens.”

“Has anyone ever not come back for a different reason?”

“Like what? Being bored to death while waiting for the next semester to start?”

He chuckles. I don't. I've come up with lots of potential reasons for Elinor's absence, but anytime I picture her blistered skin and my thoughts head in the
D
direction, I think about
Lord of the Rings
, fish sticks, even Abe. Anything to keep the terrible idea out of my head. But Ike's joke brings it right back.

“Howdy-do, folks,” a low voice says.

I leap to my feet. The Direworks baton falls from my lap. It rolls across the floor and stops before a gleaming brown penny loafer. Ike lunges for the device—but not fast enough.

“What do we have here?” The man stoops down. Picks up the baton. Shakes it by his ear. “George?”

A second man steps into the gazebo. He's older and rounder than the first, but they still look like twins. In addition to the same shoes, they're wearing identical khaki pants, red sweaters with embroidered snowflakes running down the sleeves, red earmuffs, and red fanny packs.

Because that's how the Good Samaritans roll.

“Huh.” GS George takes the Direworks baton and holds it out at arm's length. “I can't say I've seen this one before.”

“It's a conducting baton,” Ike says. “For music class.”

“Interesting.” GS George gasps, turns to the first Good Samaritan, and taps him on the shoulder with the baton. “That reminds me. Know how I was dying to see the
Nutcracker
back home over break? Well you'll
never
guess what—”

“Um, excuse me?”

The Good Samaritans have already turned and started back down the gazebo steps. At the sound of Ike's voice, they stop and look over their shoulders.

“The baton?” Ike says. “We kind of need it for homework.”

“Oh!” George's eyes widen as he holds the baton in front of his face, like he's surprised to see it still in his hand. “Of course. Good luck.”

Ike takes the device. I join him in the gazebo doorway and watch the Good Samaritans hop on their two-person bicycle. They pedal off, rattling on about understudies, poor sound quality, and the perils of third-mezzanine seating.

“Do you think they saw the digital downpour?” I ask. “And came to check it out?”

“No.”

“No?” I look at him, then follow his gaze to the sidewalk . . . where three more two-person bicycles, carrying six more Good Samaritans, roll by. Those in the front seats don't take their eyes off the pavement, but those in the back narrow theirs as they peer our way.

“I think they saw the digital downpour”—Ike claps me on the shoulder—“and came to check
you
out.”

DEMERITS: 245

GOLD STARS: 40

I
see Mom. She's sitting
at the kitchen table. The cordless phone's pressed to her ear. She talks, then laughs, the force throwing her head so far back I think it might snap off her neck. I smile, happy she's so happy, and walk toward her. Coming closer I notice a newspaper open on the table before her. There's a pair of scissors, too. And dozens of clippings. I scan them, hoping some of the coupons are for free fish sticks. . . . But they're not coupons. They're articles. About the Cloudview Cards and Carnations employee of the year. Cloudview Middle School's star
student. Cloudview Nursing Home's most popular volunteer.

I stop next to Mom. Her head lifts. She looks at me and through me at the same time as she sings.

“You're the best son a mother could ever wish for . . . Bartholomew John!”

“
I'm
your son!” I grab the phone, bring the mouthpiece to my lips. “Do you hear me?”

“I think my great-great-great-grandfather heard you. And he choked and croaked on a chicken bone a hundred years ago.”

I pull the phone away and look at Mom. When did she dye her hair orange? And why do her fingernails look like purple claws?

“Mr. Hinkle?”

I blink. The scene before me changes. The kitchen table's replaced by a bed. The stove by a dresser made of twigs. The refrigerator by a state-of-the-art portable ventilation system, retail price five thousand credits—or free if you swipe it from the Good Samaritan storage shed.

“Ms. Marla?” I ask.

“The one and only.”

My fingers tighten around the phone. Now fully awake, I close my eyes and pull the pillow over my head.

“Are you calling to report an identity theft?”

“No,” I mumble.

“Good to hear. If you were my son, Rodolfo would have some explaining to do.”

Rodolfo. Her three-legged hairless Chihuahua.

“Would you like to report something else?”

I sigh. “No, ma'am.”

“You know you get twenty gold stars just for picking up the phone, yes?”

I shove the pillow aside. “I thought it was ten.”

“New semester, new stakes.”

Of course. “Okay,” I say. “Sorry to bother you. Have a nice night.”

“Back atcha. Thanks for calling the Hoodlum Hotline!”

I hang up and toss the phone to the foot of my sleeping bag. I've been keeping it close by at night, in case of an emergency, and now I want it as far away as possible.

“Stop . . . drop . . . rollshhhhh . . .”

I crane my neck to look behind me. Lemon flops over onto his stomach, dangles one arm down the side of the bed, and resumes snoring. I take my K-Pak from the floor and check the time.

Four o'clock. And so far, only three minor incidents involving sleepwalking, hidden matches, and flammable furniture. This is a significant improvement over the first two nights I spent here. Because while some people dream of sugarplums, and while I apparently dream of Bartholomew John, Lemon dreams of flames—and then tries to bring them to life. I've been forfeiting sleep and using everything at my disposal—the Smoke Detector with Automatic Flame Eliminator, the Pocket Extinguisher, the portable ventilation system—to keep the situations under control, and successfully, too. Because I haven't had to call the Hoodlum Hotline for help.

Until tonight. When I called not because I needed to, but because Bartholomew John made me.

I try to go back to sleep, but like a nightmare you can't shake long after you've woken from it, I can't forget the image of Mom at the kitchen table talking and laughing with the son she wished she had. Eager for distraction, I turn on my K-Pak again and start a new K-Mail message.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Me again!

Dear Elinor,

Hi! How are you?

I hope it's okay that I'm writing again. I know the general rule is to wait for an answer to your (my) first e-mail before sending another, but then I remembered this one time my dad entered a contest held by our local radio station.

The prize was a year's supply of No. 2 pencils donated by our local office supply store. To enter you had to submit an essay about what you'd do with the prize if you won. Dad spent hours on his, talking all about how he'd use the pencils for good, and donate half of them to writers in need, and spread the word about the importance of sometimes staying old-school in our super high-tech world. Then after he e-mailed the essay, he checked his account every five minutes for a response.

Only it never came. He thought it was because his essay wasn't good enough, but I knew better. Partially because it was amazing, but mostly because he had to be, like, one of two people who entered
the contest. So after a few days, I asked if I could see his original note.

I found the problem right away. He was supposed to send the essay to [email protected] Instead he sent it to [email protected] DJ Rusty. Not Dusty. We sent it again, but by then it was too late. The winner was announced the next morning, and the other entrant won. Dad was so disappointed he used pens all year.

Anyway, I checked my last e-mail to you, and I got the address right. But computer glitches happen all the time. So I thought maybe it somehow vaporized in cyberspace instead of hitting your in-box. And just in case, I'd better try again.

Especially because Houdini said you weren't coming back to Kilter this semester. And I wanted to make sure everything is okay . . . ?

I hope it is. And that you are too.

From,

Seamus

P.S. If you did get my other note, sorry for this
one! And no pressure to write back right away. I'm sure you're really busy. Anytime's fine. Really.

I reread the message and send it before I can chicken out. The digital envelope is still swishing when my K-Pak buzzes.

Seeing the new e-mail at the top of my in-box, I bolt upright.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Clean Slate

Dear Seamus,

Thank you for writing. It was so nice to hear from you. I had a lovely vacation and hope you did too.

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions either, mostly because I don't do well under pressure. (Case in point: trying—and failing, miserably—to break up a fight in the school cafeteria in hopes of making a good impression on my new employer.) Plus, the disappointment I feel when I don't meet whatever goal I set for myself twelve months after setting it
is way worse than the general disappointment I feel for not achieving simple goals, like organizing my closet or vacuuming under the couch. Why invite such discomfort when you don't have to?

However, I'm with you on starting over. In fact, that's how I try to approach every day. Each morning I wake up and think about ways in which I can improve on the day before. For example, yesterday I had a chocolate doughnut for breakfast. Fried sugar rings aren't exactly nutritious get-up-and-go fuel, and I was reminded of that fact with a killer stomachache that lasted all day. So today I had a banana . . . and half a chocolate doughnut. It was a small improvement, but an improvement all the same.

How about you? Is there something you did today that you'd like to do differently tomorrow? If so, I'd love to hear about it.

With kind regards,

Miss Parsippany

P.S. How's your new school so far this semester? Are you enjoying yourself ? Have Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and Elinor come around? I hope so!

Whoa. How does she know about . . . ?

Oh. Right. I e-mailed her when I didn't think she was alive to get the message, and told her all about Parents' Day, and Mom spilling the beans about what I did to get into Kilter, and my friends turning against me. For someone I met only once, she sure knows a lot about me.