A World of Trouble (15 page)

I also wanted to give you an update. I'm fine, but things are still a little crazy at home. I really want to return to Kilter, but I'm not sure when I'll get there.

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I'd love to know what I'm missing.

Sincerely,

Elinor

She'd love to know what she's missing. She wrote again because I never wrote back. Does that mean she's missing . . . me?

I had stopped walking when I had realized who the note was from. Now a sudden noise makes me look up—and dart behind a tree.

Mystery's stopped walking too. He stands before a small cabin made of crooked logs and crumbling stone. He removes his sneakers, places them by the front door, and goes inside. A light turns on. Smoke spirals out of a crooked, crumbling chimney. Classical music streams through cracks in the thin glass windows.

What is this place? Does Mystery live here? If so, why is he so far away from the rest of the faculty? Does Annika know? If not, can I just tell her about it so she can send the Good Samaritans to check it out?

This last question, at least, I can answer myself. Keeping my K-Pak in hand in case I need immediate emergency assistance, I step out from behind the tree. I crouch down and stay low to the ground as I make my way toward the cabin. I grab some rocks and shove them into my coat pocket. When I near the house, I dash the remaining few feet, round the side of the building, and duck beneath another small window.

“Whoa.” The word escapes from my mouth before I can swallow it.

Because while the house's exterior looks like the kind of place Jason, Freddy, or some other horror-movie psycho might call home, its interior looks like the kind of place Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, or some other princess might hang up her tiara. The walls are pink. The checkered curtains are frilly. The pink-and-white floor tiles are arranged in intricate floral patterns. A small crystal chandelier hangs over a pink dining table. And everywhere—sitting on the pink sofa, perched on shelves, crammed between cabinets and countertops—are stuffed animals and porcelain dolls.

Porcelain dolls, especially old ones like these, with their loose, bobbing eyes and missing lashes, are enough to send me running in the opposite direction. But three more things seal the deal.

1: Green satin ribbons. Looking more closely, I see they're everywhere. Tied around the dolls' necks. Hanging from the chandelier. Looped across the ceiling like birthday party streamers.

2: The sound of a little girl crying.

3: Mystery himself. He emerges from a darkened doorway, nostrils flared and eyes wide but unfocused. His arms are raised overhead. It takes only a split second to realize two more things.

He's holding the ax.

And he's coming right at me.

DEMERITS: 385

GOLD STARS: 300

S
top!”

I sit up.

“Drop!”

Jump to my feet.

“Roll!”

Grab Lemon's fist and pry it open. His grip is so tight that the book of matches has folded in half. I yank it out before his fingers snap closed again, then return to my sleeping bag and add it to the growing pile by my pillow. I don't know where he's hiding
these fire starters, but I've taken away more than a dozen of them since we went to bed two hours ago.

“Again?” Lemon, now awake, asks.

I pause. “Yes.”

“How long?”

I check my K-Pak clock. “Eleven minutes.”

He sighs. “You should go.”

I look back. “Where?”

“To your room. You'll never get any sleep in here.”

After what I saw this afternoon, I may not get any sleep anywhere ever again. But I can't say this out loud.

“I'll get just as much if I leave and there's a fire. No offense.”

“No problem.”

He sounds sad. I think he might elaborate, but he doesn't. I wait for his breaths to lengthen, which usually happens the instant his eyes shut, but they don't. Not wanting him to stress, I try to change the subject.

“I'm sorry again. For before.”

“Seamus.”

“I know you said it wasn't a big deal, but it totally was. You guys waited for me. I never came. That's not right.”

“You were with Ike. You couldn't get away. It happens.”

I rest my K-Pak on my chest, screen side down, so he can't see me frown. I've never liked lying—but I hate lying to Lemon. “Still. I wish you'd gone after Devin anyway. I would've made up the demerits another time, on my own.”

“I told you. We were gotten together, and we'll get him back together. That's how an alliance works. All for one or not at all.”

“Well, I don't know how much longer Capital T will be in business. Abe was so annoyed he'll probably leave our group and form a new one. And Gabby cut back my yodel part from ten beats to one. Like she thinks that's all I can handle.”

I expect Lemon to tell me to chill. That's what he told me earlier when I finally found Capital T in the Kanteen after fleeing Mystery. Of course, he could've meant the instruction more literally, since fear and physical exertion made me overheat until buckets of sweat ran down my face and soaked my clothes.

Although our history teacher might have several decades on his Kilter-centered lessons, thanks to his regular fitness routine the dude can move. By the time he reached the door of the cottage in the woods, I was halfway across the yard. By the time
he
was halfway across the yard, I'd gained only a few feet. In seconds
he was able to grab the hood of my coat. It took all my strength to bolt left—and leap over a shallow ditch. With his eyes apparently glued to where the ax blade was about to meet my neck, Mystery didn't notice the hole and fell right in, twisting his knee in the process. As he howled and stumbled, I took advantage of the delay and sprinted the rest of the way to the Kanteen, barely breathing and never looking back.

Lemon didn't seem too upset when I finally found him, Abe, and Gabby, so I figured he didn't think I should be either. But he doesn't tell me to chill now. He doesn't say anything. And unlike my yodel part, his breaths grow longer.

Realizing I've bored him back to sleep, I close my eyes too.

Mystery lunges toward me, ax raised.

Determined to think happy thoughts, which Dad says is the only way to combat terrifying ones every time he goes to the dentist, I open my eyes again, pick up my K-Pak, and start a new message.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Hi!

Dear Elinor,

It's so great to hear from you. I'm sorry I didn't write sooner, but I actually wasn't sure if I should. It sounds like you have a lot going on right now, and I didn't want to bother you. Whatever IS going on, I hope it works out soon. More importantly, I hope you're okay.

As for what you're missing at Kilter? For starters, the milkiest, most mouthwatering hot chocolate EVER! I don't know what they put in there, but it's a million times better than the best I've had anywhere else. And the crazy sugar high lasts about twelve hours, so if you have a cup at breakfast, you can barely blink until the crash strikes right before bedtime. Which is pretty useful when you're going to classes, completing assignments, training, and fending off teacher attacks.

I stop typing. Is the smiley face too much? Not enough? Deciding to trust my gut, I leave it and continue.

Everything else is great. Capital T got hit pretty hard by Devin, but we're planning a stellar comeback. I'd tell you all about it, but it'll probably make more sense when you can hear the digital recording Gabby plans to make and sell in the Kommissary.

Classes have been really fun—and pretty interesting, too. For example, did you know that honey mustard has the perfect consistency for finger painting “I'M WATCHING YOU” and other strange messages that'll stick without dripping on kitchen walls? I didn't, at least not until Wyatt demonstrated it for us in art the other day.

And my one-on-one lessons are lots of fun. Ike's a really good guy. We don't talk about much besides weapons and demerits, but I can tell. I don't have an older brother, but if I did, I'd want him to be just like my troublemaking tutor.

Anyway, there's tons more, but I don't want to take up too much of your time. Because the sooner you
take care of whatever's going on, the sooner you can come here—and the sooner I get to tell you the rest in person!

From,

Seamus

I reread the note. I'm tempted to mention Mystery without referring to Annika's top-secret task or what I saw in the woods today. But I don't want to taint my happy message. Depending on what's going on, that could scare her off and keep her from writing back. And if she doesn't write back, how will I know she's still okay enough to hold her K-Pak and type?

I hit send.

My K-Pak buzzes.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Parents, a.k.a. Life's Great Mysteries

Dear Seamus,

Thank you for your note. I'm happy to hear school's going well and that your friends have come
around. They make all the difference, don't they? I've found that no matter how fast and furious the curveballs sometimes come at us, hits are always best made with loved ones nearby.

Speaking of curveballs, I've given a lot of thought to your question about parents and what they want. First, I must say you're right to be confused. I'm a grown woman, but my parents still puzzle me more than my childhood Rubik's Cube ever did. One day my mother tells me to stand up straight lest I grow a permanent hunchback, and the next day she tells me to relax my shoulders because living people don't take kindly to corpses.

Ouch. I guess my mom's not the only one with issues.

In any case, mixed messages and disconcerting delivery aside, I think parents want one thing above and beyond anything else. And that's for their kids to be better people than they are. They want them to be happier. Healthier. Smarter. Stronger. They
don't always go about it the right way, but that only makes the goal more worthwhile.

She left out sneakier. Trickier. More dangerous. If her theory is correct, that's what Mom wants for me.

I keep reading.

I'm guessing this curiosity didn't come totally out of left field. Did something happen with your parents to prompt the question?

I'm all ears—or eyes, as the case may be.

With kind regards,

Miss Parsippany

Wanting to read the message again, I scroll up. I'm still watching text blur down when my K-Pak buzzes again.

This is a lot of late-night communication. Maybe I'm not the only one Mystery terrified into a permanent waking state today.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: Hi!

Dear Seamus,

Thanks for writing.

You didn't say anything about Annika. How is she?

Sincerely,

Elinor

“Stop!”

I scroll up.

“Drop!”

Read.

“Roll!”

Scroll again.

The smell of sulfur tickles my nose. Snapped out of my technological trance, I leap to my feet, grab the water bottle from Lemon's nightstand, and dump its contents on the lit match he holds.

“How long?” he asks.

I return to my K-Pak. “Seven minutes.”

He gives his wet hand a single shake, then drapes his arm across his forehead.

I slide back into my sleeping bag and lie down. “Something's wrong.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I can't fall asleep without worrying about the waking nightmare I might create for everyone around me. That's not right.”

Oh. “We'll work on that. But I was actually talking about Elinor.”