A World of Trouble (12 page)

There's another grunt. Quick footsteps, like the Troublemaker
who addressed our mysterious history teacher can't get away fast enough. More tapping.

Holding my breath, I replace the Koiffurator on the shelf. Tiptoe down the aisle. Round a display of steel snow sleds that double as protective body armor. Pick up a sled, hold it in front of my face, and peer over the top, careful to keep the rest of me behind the display.

He's halfway down the aisle, wearing a typical Mystery ensemble: corduroy pants, a turtleneck, a long wool coat, leather gloves, and a knit hat topped with a single pom-pom. All black, which makes his crinkled white skin practically glow. He looks up and around, like invisible hawks circle overhead, then back down at a glass box on the shelf before him. He leans forward, removes something from his coat pocket, holds it up to the case, and taps. He does this twice more, tapping a little harder each time.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Mystery jumps. As he does, I see a male Kommissary employee standing behind him.

“If I want help, I'll ask for it,” Mystery grumbles. Then, perhaps recalling his New Year's resolution to be less cranky, he adds quickly, “Thank you for the offer.”

The employee spins around and hurries back down the aisle. Mystery waits for him to disappear before looking up and around again. He waits a few more seconds, then returns his attention to the case.

Still holding the shield, I take one large step across the aisle for a better view and duck behind a display of assorted stink bombs. They come in a variety of shapes, sizes, and scents, like rotten egg, spoiled milk, and boiled cauliflower. Accidentally catching a whiff of the moldy cheese sample, I clamp one hand over my nose and mouth to keep from choking. The effort to stay quiet combined with the stench makes my eyes water—and me miss Mystery headed my way.

He brushes past in a black flash. Blinking back tears, I see glass shards on the floor where he just stood.

“Cleanup in aisle eight!” a voice declares from the store's speaker system.

There's a light whirring overhead. I look up and see a tiny silver orb with a square lens attached to the wall near the ceiling. It rotates toward aisle eight.

Security cameras. That's what Mystery was watching. Which means the glass on the floor was definitely no accident.

Not wanting to be mistaken for the thief, I step just close enough to read the display case's sign.

AX AND YE SHALL RECEIVE . . . THE SMALLEST, SHARPEST SLICER IN KILTER HISTORY! PRICE: 5,000 CREDITS.

An ax? Mystery's a history teacher. What does he need an ax for? And why couldn't he just buy it? Why go to the trouble of stealing it?

My pulse quickens as I picture Annika. Wait until she hears about this. Witnessing a Mystery crime—especially one involving a razor-sharp blade—has to earn me some sneaky-spy respect.

I start toward the front of the store, hoping Lemon's still there. I can tell him about this, right? Since anyone in the store could've seen what I just saw Mystery do?

Then it hits me. And I stop short.

Mystery
stole
an
ax
. Not borrowed or bought. Not a water balloon or battery pack. And then he fled like his life depended on it.

My heart thumps faster and sinks simultaneously. I turn and flee too, my feet moving like I'm the one being chased. I'm nearing the back door when my K-Pak buzzes inside my book bag. Thinking it might be Annika checking in after hearing
about what just happened, I slow down to yank out the device.

And then I stop again.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Hi

Dear Seamus,

Thank you for writing. It was nice to hear from you.

I know you're back at school and wondering where I am. My family had an emergency, so I'm still home. I hope to return to Kilter as soon as possible.

Talk soon.

Elinor

I don't know how long I stand there, staring at the message. What I do know is that by the time I look up from the K-Pak screen, the mess in aisle eight has been cleaned up . . .

. . . and Mystery's nowhere to be found.

DEMERITS: 275

GOLD STARS: 60

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
In Your Expert Opinion

Dear Miss Parsippany,

Hi! How are you? Did you kick your doughnut-for-breakfast habit yet? If not, I highly recommend dipping your fried sugar ring in warm cinnamon milk tomorrow morning. The cafeteria here served that for dessert recently, and it was AMAZING.

I've been thinking a lot about what you said about starting over each day. It's a great idea. Because whenever I do something I'm not proud of, I usually just feel bad and wish it had never happened. Sometimes I pretend like it never happened, unless it's so awful that pretending is impossible. So I love the idea of using the unfortunate incident as an opportunity to turn things around. And I'm going to try really hard to do that from now on.

Which brings me to a question—and a favor. You definitely don't owe me anything, especially not after what I did (even if what I did didn't kill you), but right now, I think you're the only one who might be able to help.

As a teacher, you know kids. You know parents, too. This must give you some great inside perspective.

So my question is: What do parents want? Like, REALLY want? Because up until a few weeks ago I thought they wanted their kids to make their beds, get good grades, be polite, respect adults, and generally stay out of trouble. But now? I'm not so sure.
And any insight would be greatly appreciated.

As for school, it's going well. My classmates don't run in the opposite direction when they see me, so that's an improvement. And Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and I are tighter than ever. I haven't seen Elinor yet because she's—

A sudden boom explodes near my ear. It's followed by a long, loud wail that sounds like a cross between a foghorn and a police car siren. It makes me drop my K-Pak, fall off the couch, and lunge for the coffee table—and phone.

“Hoodlum Hotline, how may I direct your call?”

That's what I hope Marla's saying on the other end, anyway, because I can't hear anything over the emergency drone.

“Bomb!” I gasp, trying to look out the windows and crawl under the coffee table at the same time. “Attack!”

“Crumb. Gobsmack.”

I pause. That didn't sound like Marla.

The front door slams. I peer through the wooden legs of my fallout shelter. In the foyer, Abe shakes his head as he stoops down and picks up scattered papers from the floor.

“Mr. Hinkle? Would you mind repeating that?”

Now
that
was definitely Marla. I start to do as she asks when I realize I can hear again. The noise ended as abruptly as it began. The walls and ceiling are still intact. So are Lemon, Abe, Gabby, and, judging by a quick body scan, me.

“Sorry,” I say. “False alarm.”

“All righty then.” There's a light clacking as Marla types her entry. “That'll be forty new additions to your starry sky.”

I shoot up, smacking my head on the table. “What happened to twenty?”

“This semester, the more you call, the more you get.”

Great.

“I'll add those to the hundred you just got for being gotten.”

“What?” I ask, thinking the earsplitting noise must have compromised my hearing.

“You've got to be kidding,” Lemon says.

“That's not fair!” Gabby declares.

“It's definitely a pickle,” Abe says.

My alliance-mates are all looking at their K-Paks. Spotting mine where it landed three feet away, I shimmy out from under the table on my stomach.

“Oh, by the way,” Marla says casually, “have you seen Good Samaritan George lately?”

I stop mid-shimmy and look around the room again, like I
should
see the ballet-loving Gumby fan somewhere. Maybe hiding behind a houseplant, monitoring us.

“Nope,” I say.

“Okay.” Marla sounds different. Almost disappointed. “I've updated your record. Thanks for calling the Hoodlum Hotline!”

I hang up, reach for my K-Pak, and climb to my feet.

“That was Devin?” I ask, reading my new K-Mail message. The note from our music teacher is blank, but the attached photo shows the mouth of a shiny brass instrument aimed toward our open living room window—and every single member of Capital T midair, hovering over furniture. It looks like a deleted scene from
Mission: Impossible
.

“And his merry music maker,” Abe says. “I just saw him hot-trotting across the front expanse of grass, reaching said music maker toward the heavens like a triumphant pied piper.”

“Can you
please
stop talking like my great-grandmother?” Gabby groans.

“Pardon me.” Abe holds up both hands. “But if I'd like to acquire the most demerits for this week's Language Arts assignment by learning how to converse granny-style—and astound mumsie and daddy dearest in the future—that's my pejorative.”

“Prerogative,” I say.

“Huh?” Abe says.

“Never mind.” I turn to Lemon. “Our music teacher snuck up on the house, opened a window, and wailed on his trumpet. To scare the you-know-what out of us.”

“So it seems.” Lemon slides down in the armchair. Clasps his hands loosely on his stomach. Closes his eyes. “And it worked. Unfortunately.”

“Now we have to get a Troublemaker the same way,” Gabby says. “For another chance
not
to be gotten by Devin. Which we need if we want to participate in the Ultimate Troublemaking Task, which I totally do.”

“As do I. It is, as they say, a cannonplum.”

“Conundrum,” I say.

“Whatever.” Abe flops onto the couch. “Let's flip the script.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean we should get Devin. And all our other teachers.”

“That's what we did last semester,” Gabby says.

“And we should do it again this semester. At the very least, we should go after whoever gets us. Bigger and better than ever before.”

“But that's not what Houdini said we needed to—”

“I know,” Abe says, interrupting Gabby. “But
we
are Capital T. And we go above and beyond the call of duty. That's what sets us apart from ordinary Troublemakers.”

“So you want us to do what Houdini said . . . and get our teachers, too?” I ask.

“Exactly,” Abe says.

I look at Lemon. His eyelids slide up slowly, indicating some interest.

“I can yodel,” Gabby offers. “It's kind of a hidden talent. In fact, I've been the Washington State Fair Junior Warbler champion five years running.”

“Congratulations!” Abe claps exaggeratedly.

“Thanks! I can teach you guys how to do it too. It's not on Devin's curriculum. He won't see—or hear—it coming.”

Lemon's eyelids slide down. “I'm in.”

“Me too,” I say. Because with all these gold stars I'm earning,
I'll need more demerits if I'm going to keep Annika convinced that I want to be here.

“Fine,” Abe says. “But let's start now. I don't want to waste time.”

“Yay!” Gabby jumps up from her chair and dashes across the room. “I'll get my sheet music!”

I take her seat and return to my K-Mail. I finish my note to Miss Parsippany, check for typos, and send it. I've just clicked on Elinor's note for the bazillionth time since receiving it a few days ago when my K-Pak buzzes. I reluctantly close Elinor's message and open the new one.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Q&A

Dear Seamus,

You owe me an update and I owe you your first reward. Meet me at the helipad in fifteen minutes. A golf cart's waiting behind the snow-cone truck.

And remember: Don't. Tell. ANYONE.

Hugs!

Annika

The helipad? Snow-cone truck? Fifteen minutes? Hugs? Despite the reward, none of this sounds very appealing—and Gabby returns to the room with sheet music in hand before I can guess what it means. She drops to her knees on the other side of the coffee table and spreads out the pages.

“Okay, so, like most people, you've probably always thought the trick to a great yodel is in the throat.”

“No, I haven't,” Abe says. “Because like most people, I've never thought about yodeling. Ever.”

Gabby doesn't bat an eye. “But really, it's in the stomach. Allow me to demonstrate.”

She opens her mouth. I scoot forward.

“Wait,” I say.

She closes her mouth.

“I'm so sorry. But I kind of have to go.” Feeling my face warm, I hold my K-Pak in front of it. “Ike just wrote. He got some new weapon he wants me to try.”