A World of Trouble (3 page)

They're not in their usual spot in the ceramic utensil jar. Thinking she might've misplaced them after a tiring clipping session, I check Mom's coupon drawer. They're there—but I have to dig through more than coupons to find them.

“Hey, sport!” Dad exclaims. “Your pops really did a number on this box. You might want to bring a knife, too!”

I don't bring a knife. I don't bring scissors either.

I bring something I was obviously never supposed to see.

“You knew?”

Mom's stuffing ripped wrapping paper into a garbage bag. Dad's fiddling with the label maker box. Both stop and look at me when I speak.

I hold up my discovery. “Why didn't you say anything?”

Dad's bushy brows lower. His narrowed eyes shift from me, to Mom, and back to me. “What are you talking about, son? What do you have there?”

“The
Cloudview Chronicle
.”

“But it's Christmas,” Dad says. “The paper doesn't come today.”

“It didn't.” I look at Mom, who's stuffing the garbage bag again. “It's from October.”

“October!” Dad claps his hands to his thighs and tilts back in his chair. “And I'm usually so on top of the recycling.”

“Mom put it in a place no one but her ever checks.”

“The coupon drawer?” Dad asks. “But that's only for—”

“Coupons. Right.” Mom bends down and yanks a shiny green ball from the floor. “The paper had a special section that day. Lots of deals with no expiration dates. So rather than clip each one, I decided to—”

She's cut off by the sharp smack of the
Chronicle
hitting the coffee table. The newspaper's folded in thirds. One article's circled in red marker. Two red exclamation points follow the headline.

“ ‘Local Substitute Breaks Up Brawl, Praised for Bravery,' ” Dad reads. He leans forward and squints at the photo. “Huh. She looks familiar.”

“She should,” I say. “She's Miss Parsippany.”

Dad's eyes meet mine. He waits for me to correct myself. When I don't, he presses his palms to the sides of his head, like he wants to keep his brain intact. He skims the article, flips to the front page, and returns to the circled story. I watch Mom, who's now sorting through albums by the record player.

“Bing?” she asks. “Frank? What do you think?”

“I think I'd like to know what's going on,” I say.

It takes Mom a long time to answer. First she examines the back of each record cover. Then she puts Crosby in the cabinet, slides Sinatra from the paper sleeve, and dusts the vinyl with the hem of her bathrobe. After that she places the record on the turntable, lowers the needle to the spinning disc, and sways side to side as “I'll Be Home for Christmas” fills the room. It's only when Sinatra starts repeating the same note that she seems to snap out of her trance. She adjusts the needle and finally turns around.

“It's no biggie,” she says.

“But Miss Parsippany's alive. And she shouldn't be. That's why you sent me away, because I . . .” My voice fades. It's still so hard to say, even though I've had five days to wrap my head around the truth. I try again, forcing the words from my mouth
before they can shoot back down my throat. “Because I supposedly killed her.”

Mom crosses the room and sits in the armchair by the fireplace. “Principal Gubbins called the night of the cafeteria incident to tell us that Miss Parsippany was still unconscious. Chances of her waking up were slim. Annika was making a special, rare exception in accepting a student after the semester had already started, and she needed a decision right away. I didn't want you to miss the chance to attend the best reform school in the country, so I enrolled you without waiting to hear that your substitute teacher had officially passed.”

If Kilter's a reform school, I'm Frosty the Snowman. But unlike this one, that conversation can wait.

“But once you knew she was okay,” I say, “why didn't you come get me?”

Mom shrugs. “Because you threw the apple.”

“Because I saw Miss Parsippany heading for the fight. She was small. The kids were big. I wanted to break it up before anyone got hurt.”

“You could've run for other teachers.”

“There was no time.”

“You could've yelled across the cafeteria.”

“It was too noisy.”

Sinatra starts hiccupping again. As Dad jumps up and hurries to the record player, I consider what Mom's implying. She knows I didn't kill anyone, but she doesn't know everything I did at Kilter—intentionally or otherwise. Which means . . .

“You think I'm a bad kid. Still.”

Her head tilts to one side. The corners of her eyes soften. “I think no one's perfect. And a little self-improvement, whatever its motivation, is never a bad thing.”

“What about Parents' Day?”

“What about it?”

I take a deep breath. Here it comes: the question I've been struggling to guess the answer to for weeks. It's a million times more perplexing now.

“Why did you tell everyone I was a murderer?”

She sips her coffee. Rolls it around her mouth. Swallows. “I didn't know you hadn't told your classmates.”

“Still. Parents' Day was in November. You knew then that it wasn't true, and you said it anyway.”

“I was nervous. Excited. It just came out.”

She says this lightly, easily, like it was a silly joke people laughed at, then forgot. But they didn't forget. Lemon, Abe, Gabby, Elinor . . . They didn't talk to me after that. They barely looked at me.

Mom stands up. She comes over to me, puts her arms around my shoulders, and kisses the top of my head. “I'm sorry. It was an accident.”

An accident. I can relate, can't I?

I'm still trying to decide, when the doorbell rings. Down the hall, the front door opens and closes. Heavy footsteps thump toward us. A low voice calls out, “Ho, ho, ho!”

And my worst nightmare comes to life. Again.

“Bartholomew John?”

He freezes just outside the living room, his face hidden behind the bright red petals of the poinsettia plant he's holding.

“What are you doing here?” I look up at Mom. “What is he doing here?”

Her face is white. Still around my shoulders, her arm is tense.

“BJ works part-time at Cloudview Cards and Carnations.” Dad hurries past us. “He meets all our houseplant needs—at half price.”

It's a good thing Mom has me in a vise grip, because I can't
feel my legs. My head swirls with images. I barely make out soggy fish sticks. A mouthful of braces behind a lopsided sneer. Fists flailing and apples flying.

“But it's Christmas,” I say, fighting to keep my voice—and legs—steady.

“Cards and Carnations is open three hundred and sixty-five days a year.” Dad's voice is bright. Happy. Without the slightest hint of surprise or confusion.

“Is that why he was here on Thanksgiving?”

Mom's arm falls from my shoulders. She steps back. “How do you—?”

“I heard him. In the background. When I called.”

“You called on Thanksgiving?” Now Dad sounds confused. He looks at Mom. “I thought Kilter didn't permit phone privileges.”

“They made an exception for the holiday,” I lie. Considering the situation, it seems necessary. “But service is pretty bad up there. You probably couldn't hear me before I got cut off completely.”

This is followed by a long pause. Even the record player, in between songs, is silent.

“I'm sorry.”

I really am sleeping. That has to be it. I'm sleeping, and all of this—the newspaper, Mom leaving me at Kilter for no reason, my arch-nemesis standing in our living room—is a dream. It's the only possible explanation.

“That's why I came over on Thanksgiving,” Bartholomew John continues. “I know that apple was meant for me, not Miss Parsippany. I shouldn't have been fighting with those other kids, and you were just trying to stop us.”

He hands the poinsettia to Dad, revealing his face. It looks different. Longer. Straighter. Maybe because it's not laughing or scowling. He clasps his hands behind his back, and for a split second, seems to peer past me. I glance over my shoulder and wonder if Mom really nods at him, or if I imagine that, too.

“It's my fault you were sent away,” Bartholomew John says as I turn back. “And I wanted to apologize to your parents in person. And now I want to apologize to you.”

My arms hang at my sides. Moving slowly, carefully, so no one notices, I press one palm to one leg. I take a small piece of flesh between the tips of my thumb and pointer finger, and squeeze.

It hurts.

“How'd you know I'd be home today?” I ask.

“I didn't. I just stopped by to deliver the plant. But I figured you'd come home eventually, and whenever you did, I'd tell you how sorry I am.”

“Have you been here since Thanksgiving? And before today?”

“A few times. Your parents are good customers.”

“Do you always let yourself in?”

“He rang the bell,” Mom offers. “But he probably thought we didn't hear it over the music. So rather than let our pretty poinsettia freeze to death on the front stoop, he tried the door himself. Isn't that right, Bartholomew John?”

She smiles. He smiles.

“Best customer service in town,” Dad says, placing the plant on the coffee table.

“I'm going to make breakfast.” Mom heads for the kitchen. “Why don't you boys sit? You have a lot to chat about over the next ten days.”

The next ten days? If our visit has a time limit . . . that means Mom thinks we'll be parting ways when school starts again.

Ignoring Bartholomew John, who snatches a candy cane from the Christmas tree before flopping onto the couch, I look at Dad. His eyes are lowered to the newspaper next to the poinsettia. I
hope he'll say that nothing's set in stone. That since I didn't kill anyone I shouldn't have been sent away in the first place and so definitely don't need to be sent away again.

But he doesn't say this. He doesn't say anything.

“Be right back,” I say. “Just want to take a shower.”

As I start upstairs, I think about my parents. Bartholomew John. Lemon, Abe, and Gabby. Annika, Ike, and Houdini. Elinor. I'm so distracted, when I reach my bedroom door I almost trip over the brown package on the floor.

My palm hits the wall for balance. I bend down for a closer look. A small card rests on top of the package. My name's on it. I look up and down the hallway, like a mischievous elf is hiding nearby waiting to see my reaction. Not spotting any pointy ears or shoes, I take the card and read it.

Dear Seamus,

Please accept this as a small token of our great appreciation. We can't wait to see what you achieve next semester!

Fondly,

Your Kilter Family

The handwriting's familiar, but I can't place it. I slide the card into my bathrobe pocket, bring the package into my room, and close the door.

The token, I soon find out, isn't small at all. It's the Kilter Icickler, a long, skinny device that turns water into frozen daggers with the push of one button and launches them with the push of another. I picked up a display model in the Kommissary once and put it right back when I saw that it cost two thousand credits.

If weapons can be considered gifts, this one's great. Part of me is even tempted to try it out in the backyard. Maybe with Bartholomew John as my target.

But I don't. I put the Icickler back in the box, slide the box under my bed, and head for the shower.

DEMERITS: 200

GOLD STARS: 0

Y
ou know those lists Santa
Claus has? That separate naughty kids from nice ones so there's no confusion about who gets what when December 25 rolls around? Well, I think the big guy finally went digital and experienced a major computer malfunction that jumbled everything up. Because, given all the trouble I've made, there's no question which list I should be on—or that I don't even deserve the lump of coal normal bad kids get. Yet somehow, the presents keep coming.

First there's the Icickler. Then there's the Flake Kompressor, a large contraption that can pack an entire snowdrift into a single
snowball. Next comes a set of Kringle Stars, which look like they belong on top of Christmas trees but have tips sharp enough to pin heavy stockings to marble fireplace mantels. After that are K-Puffs, marshmallows that morph into pellets suitable for BB gun or slingshot use when dunked in hot liquid. Every day a new package wrapped in plain brown paper appears by my bedroom door. And every day I shove another tempting troublemaking item under my bed or into my closet. I don't mention them and neither do my parents, which makes how they arrive just as puzzling as who they're from.

This goes on for a week. Then, on New Year's Eve, I run out of hiding spots.