A World of Trouble (13 page)

“Right now?” Gabby asks.

I nod.

“What's the rush?” Abe asks.

I shrug.

“Go,” Lemon says. “We'll fill you in later.”

“Oooh, our first group performance! I can't wait. Guys, you don't even know how much fun you're about to have. Let's warm up by taking our lips between our pointer fingers and thumbs and . . .”

Her voice fades as I leave and head down the hallway. I get my coat from the hall closet and hurry to the front door. I wave to Lemon as I pass the living room, but his eyes are closed again.

Outside, I spot the snow-cone truck right away. It's silver with frosty windows and an attendant who hands out paper cups to waiting Troublemakers. I find the golf cart right behind it. It's empty, just like last time. I climb in, wait for the seat belt, and brace for takeoff. I don't know where the helipad is so have no clue how long the ride will last, but I'm hoping less than twelve minutes. According to my K-Pak clock, which I manage to glimpse before the cart moves and the world blurs, that's how much time I have before Annika's fifteen-minute window closes.

For better or worse, the golf cart stops four minutes later. At first I think this is for better, since I have eleven minutes to kill—maybe by writing Elinor back. I still haven't done that yet, since I'm still trying to figure out what to say. She didn't exactly give
me much to go on, and her note also gave me a strange feeling. I know it can be hard to tell what kind of mood someone was in when they wrote their e-mail (unless that someone's Gabby), but there wasn't a single exclamation point in Elinor's message. That has to mean something. . . . Doesn't it?

Unfortunately, the note will have to wait. Because when I get out of the golf cart, which has stopped in front of the Kommissary, Annika's already there.

“Good afternoon, Seamus!”

I follow the voice by looking up—and up and up and up—until my neck feels like it's bent back at a ninety-degree angle.

She's standing at the edge of the Kommissary roof. Her stride's wide, her fists are at her hips, and her long, ice-blue coat flaps around her like a cape.

“Shall we?” a male voice asks.

My chin lowers, bringing my head with it. A few feet away, GS George opens the Kommissary door.

I follow him inside. In addition to watching ballet, he must practice it himself, because he moves quickly, lightly, through the aisles. We reach the back of the store in no time. He leads me through an unmarked steel door, down one staircase, up another,
and into a glass elevator. The door closes, GS George presses the
UP
button, and we shoot skyward.

This elevator ride's longer than any I've ever taken. Not one for being trapped inside a moving box, I try to distract myself with conversation.

“Ms. Marla was just asking about you,” I say.

GS George doesn't look away from the silver lightning bolt moving in a wide arc above the elevator door, but he does smile.

“She wondered if I'd—”

I don't finish the sentence. I can't. Because we've left the building, literally, and are now rising high above the Kommissary roof. We're surrounded by blue sky. Fluffy white clouds swoop toward us. On the lawn far below, Troublemakers point and stare.

“Glass elevator chute,” GS George says when we finally stop and the doors open. “Nifty, huh?”

He hops out onto what seems to be a large glass platform and jogs to the waiting black helicopter. I stand there, back and hands pressed to the clear elevator wall. I might stand there all day, frozen by a fear of heights I didn't know I had until this very second, but then I catch a flash of blue near one of the helicopter's windows.

Annika's already inside. Waiting for me.

I take a deep breath. Fix my eyes straight ahead. And step out of the elevator—just as the helicopter's blades start spinning. My fear of heights is nothing compared to my fear of being blown off the platform and falling ten stories, so I lower my head and pick up the pace.

When I climb into the helicopter, I freeze again. Mom hates to fly, so we never travel anywhere we can't drive to, which means I've never set foot in any gravity-defying vehicle—unless you count the Kilter golf cart. But I've watched enough movies to expect a few seats squished close together in a tiny tin bubble. What I find instead are two long, gray leather sofas. Plush white carpet. Black-and-white nature photos lining the curved walls. A small kitchen with real stainless steel appliances—and a server, preparing snacks.

Annika's typing on her K-Pak. She nods to the couch across from hers, so I sit. GS George hands me a set of white leather headphones, then disappears behind a sparkly silver curtain. I can't hear anything with the headphones on, so I don't know we're moving until I look out the window and see the tiny Troublemakers disappear completely.

The flight is so smooth it feels like we're floating. I relax enough to watch the trees, fields, and mountains down below. Soon the helicopter picks up speed and the ground blurs. Eventually, my headphones beep. Annika's voice breaks the silence.

“Welcome aboard, Seamus.”

I turn around. “Thank you.”

She accepts a cup of tea from the server. “So. Tell me. What's happened since your last note?”

“Did you have a chance to read it?” I ask. It was a doozy, and she didn't write back, so I've been wondering.

“Of course. I'm very busy, but this is a priority.”

“Well, that was the strangest thing I saw all week. Mr. Tempest . . . with the ax.” I watch her sip her tea, wait for the shock to cross her face. But it doesn't.

“Did you follow him? And see where he went with it?”

“I tried.” My eyes fall to my lap. I force them back up. “But no.”

She shrugs. “He's an old man. He gets cold easily. He probably wanted to chop some wood for the faculty fireplace.”

“But he stole the ax,” I remind her. “He didn't buy it.”

“He's not allowed to shop at the Kommissary. And he enjoys inviting suspicion—and freaking me out. As long as I know
what he's really up to, I refuse to give him the satisfaction.” Her K-Pak buzzes. She checks her messages. “What was he doing today?”

I review my thorough mental notes. “He had oatmeal and berries for breakfast, worked out at the Adrenaline Pavilion, and went to the library.”

“Interesting,” Annika says, although she only seems to be half listening. “Good job.”

“Thanks.” I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

“Have you thought about what you'd like to ask this week?”

I have. With so many questions it was hard to choose just one, but after careful consideration I decided to ask about Elinor. Now that I've heard from her I don't have to ask if she's alive, so I'll start with whether Annika knows when she'll be back at school. I want to ask about Mom, too, and how someone outside Kilter could get Kilter weapons, but the truth is, if I know Elinor's returning soon, that means she's really okay. And as long as I know she's really okay, I can stop worrying about that and focus on everything else.

This is called not putting the cart before the horse, as Mom would say. Or the equal sign before the multiplication symbol, as Dad would say.

But before I can answer, my headphones beep again. GS George speaks.

“Destination approaching. Ten o'clock.”

If the helicopter's a timepiece, I must be sitting at noon, because Annika jumps up, leaps over the coffee table, and lands on the couch two feet away from me. Standing on her knees, she presses both palms to the window and looks down. I shift in my seat and peer through the clouds to the Earth below.

At first I don't know what we're looking at. There's a lot of flat, yellow land. A few houses lining one straight road. But then we tilt left, zoom over a beige hill, and shoot down before leveling off again. An enormous clear lake comes into view. In the center, far from the mainland, is an island. It has lots of rocks and no palm trees, but it's definitely an island. As we come closer I see what appears to be a series of crop circles, like the kind aliens tend to make in the middle of nowhere except not as round, drawn in the dirt. It's not until we're hovering directly above the island that I can see the circles are actually letters. Two, specifically.

A
K
. And an
A
.

“It's perfect,” Annika breathes.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Not much now. But if all goes according to plan . . . soon it will be another Kilter Academy campus.”

Something in her voice makes me look at her. She's smiling, but her eyes are watering.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She doesn't shift her gaze as she answers.

“I told you, Seamus. One week, one question. That's all.”

DEMERITS: 310

GOLD STARS: 200

A
week later I'm beginning
to think the most mysterious thing about Mystery is Annika's interest in him. That, and his interest in brussels sprouts, which he eats with every meal, including dessert. But I keep following him, even when he goes places I'd rather not, like the Adrenaline Pavilion. That's where he spends an hour every afternoon, circling the outdoor track. I suppose I should be happy he no longer sprints through the gardens at midnight, the way he did last semester, but that just makes him less mysterious and me more confused.

At least I'm getting to work on my jump shot. As someone who's much better at throwing a digital basketball with a game controller than a real one with his own hands, that's something I never thought I'd say.

Now I keep my head lowered and dribble the ball as Mystery rounds the track near the court. When his footsteps continue in the opposite direction, I jog a few feet, raise my arms, and aim for the basket.

“You might want to watch out for that—”

I've just hopped. But instead of sailing through the air, my feet hit something hard. My torso shoots forward. The ball flies from my grip. I close my eyes and lower my arms, wondering as I drop toward the ground if a Kilter marksman has ever succeeded with four broken limbs.

I land on my side with a thud. Wiggle my fingers and toes, hands and feet. Open my eyes and see that everything works thanks to the large pile of snow that broke my fall.

I start to stand. I'm on my knees when a cold, wet blob hits my face. I fall back again, more from shock than force.

“Twenty demerits.”

I bring one hand to my forehead and drag it down to my
chin. When I open my eyes this time, I see Ike standing over me.

“Five for feet to waist, ten for waist to neck, twenty for neck up.” Ike grins and rests one elbow on what looks like a long silver handlebar. “You all right?”

“I'll live,” I say, climbing to my feet. “What's that?”

“The Kilter Drifter. Guaranteed to create blizzards and snowbanks—and trip up unsuspecting passersby—even on the sunniest of days.”

I check out the Drifter. The long handlebar leads to a silver box on wheels. It reminds me of Dad's old snowblower, except it's smaller, shinier, and, judging by the mini mountain that wasn't on the court seconds ago, faster.

“It's been pretty warm lately.” I nod to the lawn, where yellowish-green patches outnumber white ones. “I don't think I'll be able to get many demerits.”

“Think again.” Ike stands up straight and pushes the Drifter, which hums as it comes to life. A thick white flume shoots out from a narrow chute at the machine's base, turning the asphalt on his left from black to white.

“It makes its own snow?” I ask.

“Would you expect anything less?”

I guess not. “But there's no one out here.” Then, remembering
why
I'm
here, I spin around and breathe a silent sigh of relief. Mystery's still trotting around the track.

Ike turns and pushes the Drifter back toward me. “If I didn't know better, I might think someone was in a very good mood today.” Apparently seeing the confusion on my face, he adds, “As in . . . not bad.”

Oh. He thinks I don't want to make trouble. That's definitely the last impression I want to be making.

“I'm ready,” I say. “I just—”

I'm cut off by a new blizzard. Only this one's not made of snow; it's made of people. Twenty Troublemakers in white sweatpants, hooded sweatshirts, and knit caps sprint across the basketball court so fast, my visibility plummets to zero.

“Athlete hurdle practice,” Ike says when they've passed. “Because your tutor would never steer you wrong.”

As we head for the track, I try to distract Ike from any lingering suspicion he might have that I'm not up to his task, while working on Annika's at the same time.

“How much for the man in black?” I ask quietly.

Ike follows my nod. “Mr. Tempest?” He shrugs. “Same as everyone else.”