A World of Trouble (16 page)

Blankets rustle as he rolls onto his side. “Why? What happened?”

“Nothing. At least not that I know of. But I've sent her a few e-mails since Christmas vacation, and except for her last message, which came really fast, it's taken her forever to write back. And her notes have been off, too. I mean, I guess I don't really have anything to compare them to since we never e-mailed before break, but still. I can tell. They're short. And kind of cold.”

“They do call her the Ice Queen,” he reminds me.

“But she's only distant to keep from hurting people. By lying to them.” Lying is Elinor's troublemaking talent. She told me that on our way to Annika's Apex last semester. “And she wasn't like that with me.”

“Would you rather she wrote about all the fun she's having wherever she is? Then you'd have to wonder whether she was telling the truth or trying to hide something.”

Interesting point. And one I'm not sure I find reassuring.

“She said she had a family emergency,” I add, “but didn't say what kind. Could that be a lie too?”

“It's definitely vague. And people usually shoot for that when they want to skip the details and not seem rude.”

Again, not very reassuring.

“But there could be a million reasons why she didn't say more,” Lemon says. “And not one of them has to be because she's hurt or mad or sad.”

Or in some kind of danger. Which, after going to Mystery's cottage, hearing the little girl crying (who sounded a little like Elinor but who I don't think was Elinor), and seeing all those green satin ribbons (just like the kind Elinor wears in her hair), is what I'm afraid of.

“For example,” Lemon continues, “no one—not my parents, little brother, friends, Annika, or anyone else—knows why I first started playing with fire. Whenever I'm asked, I just say because it was fun, and pull out matches for proof. That usually prevents more questions.”

“Vague,” I say.

“Very. But I don't keep the truth to myself because I'm hurt,
mad, or sad. I keep it to myself because . . . I'm embarrassed.”

Embarrassed? Lemon?

There's a soft click of a lighter. The room fills with a warm, gold glow. “When I was really little, do you know what I wanted to be?”

Despite his current interests, I'm guessing not a professional arsonist. “A veterinarian?” Because who doesn't want to help hurt animals feel better?

“A firefighter.”

I crane my neck to look back. “What happened?”

“I was kicked off my old school's Scrabble team.”

“Scrabble? As in the board game?”

“I know I don't use them much, but I kind of have a thing for words. I like them. How they sound. The way you can twist them around. The fact that they can say one thing but mean something totally different.”

Did Houdini steal my roommate and replace him with a Lemon look-alike? Because this definitely doesn't sound like the same kid I've been sleeping (or not sleeping) near for the past four months.

“Unfortunately, I'm pretty bad at forming words from seven
random letters. Especially when I have to build them on other words. And worry about points. All in ninety seconds or less, which is how long it takes the sand to get from one end of the timer to the other.”

“That's a lot to think about,” I agree.

“Too much. Anyway, two years ago our team made it to the regional Wordsmith Wars—no thanks to me. And the first round in, our team lost the regional Wordsmith Wars—thanks to me.”

“Bummer.”

“It wouldn't have been such a big deal if I didn't like words so much—or if I hadn't been kicked off six other teams that semester. Baseball, soccer, Mathletes, the debate squad, Latin club, bowling. None of them wanted me.” Before I can offer sympathy, he adds, “Not that I blame them. The first requirement of any organized school group is showing up. The next is practicing the skills needed to participate. And my afternoon naps usually got in the way of both those things.”

Now
this
sounds like the Lemon I know and love.

“But for the Scrabble team,” he continues, “I showed up. I practiced. Until they told me I couldn't anymore.”

He stops speaking. I wait for him to connect the dots for me.
He doesn't, so I say, “I'm sorry that happened . . . but I don't get it. How did getting kicked off the Scrabble team make you not want to be a firefighter?”

He releases a long, slow breath. “I have to warn you. This wasn't my best behavior.”

“Understood.”

“The bad news came a few days after the Wordsmith Wars loss. I was in the middle of a rehearsal round and didn't see it coming. I was surprised. Disappointed. Mad. So mad, I grabbed a bunch of tiles from the board and threw them on the floor. My anger must've given me some sort of superhuman strength, because when the tiles hit concrete—we were playing outside on a patio—they sparked. Like miniature fireworks.”

I try to picture this emotional outburst but can't. Lemon's usually mellow to the point of comatose.

“And I felt a rush. An excitement that I had created something as powerful as fire with a couple of tiny wooden squares. I couldn't form seven-letter words for three hundred points in a minute and a half . . . but I could do
that
.”

An image of Mrs. Lubbard of Hoyt, Kentucky, pops into my head. I have to admit, I experienced a similar feeling when I fired
beauty products so successfully she spun and fell off her velvet stool.

“Anyway, I started playing with fire because I stunk at Scrabble and then acted like a brat. Nothing to brag about. So I don't.” On the ceiling, his shadow shrugs. “And maybe that's what's going on with Elinor. Maybe she did something she's not proud of, annoyed her parents so much they kept her home, and feels silly talking about it. But no matter what, I wouldn't stress. I'm sure she'll tell you the truth eventually.”

Eventually. By then it may be too late.

My K-Pak buzzes.

Lemon's lighter clicks off. “Go ahead.”

Hoping Elinor wrote again, I check my messages.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Breakfast

Hi, Seamus!

Thanks for your latest update. I hope Mr. Tempest didn't scare you too much in the woods. I'm sure there's a logical explanation for what you
saw, and I'd love to figure it out together. Let's chat over breakfast tomorrow (or today, depending on when you get this). I'll send a cart at six thirty.

Sweet dreams!

Annika

Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.

Those are failing me right now, so I put down my K-Pak and return to my conversation with Lemon instead.

“Thanks for telling me all that. I really appreciate it, and I promise I won't tell anyone else.” I pause. “So what do you think Elinor could've done that she'd feel silly talking about?”

His silence is punctuated by a long, deep inhale and a long, deep exhale. The response is surprising, though not entirely unexpected.

Because in the ten seconds it took to read Annika's message, Lemon fell asleep.

DEMERITS: 385

GOLD STARS: 300

H
oodlum Hotline, how may I
direct your call?”

I pull the phone away from my ear. Look at it.

“Helloooo?” Ms. Marla calls from her end.

“Sorry.” I bring back the phone. “But I didn't call you.”

“We're talking, aren't we?”

“We are, but I didn't dial. The phone rang. I answered it.”

“What do you mean, the phone—wait. Seamus Hinkle? Is that you?”

This sounds like a trick question. “Yes?”

“Well, I'm guessing the only thing you do more often than call me is brush your teeth. You probably picked up the phone without even realizing it.”

“No, I really didn't. I was just sitting here, on the couch, waiting for Annika's golf—”

Oops.

“Annika's golf cart?” Ms. Marla asks, not sounding particularly surprised. “The sun's not even up. Where are you and our illustrious Kilter queen off to so early?”

I think fast. “Did I say Annika? I meant Ike. My tutor. He likes practicing when everyone else is asleep and we have the whole campus to ourselves.”

“Sure. Right. Interesting.” There's a soft yap in the background. Ms. Marla shushes Rodolfo. “Anyhoo, since I have you on the phone, what do you think the chances are that you'll see George today?”

“George?” I ask. “The Good Samaritan?”

“Could there be another?”

I don't know how to answer that. “Do you want, like, a percentage?”

Ms. Marla chuckles like I've made a joke. Then there's a shrill ringing on her end of the phone, and she sighs.

“Shucks,” she says. “That's the other line. Listen, if you do
see George, would you do me an enormous favor and tell him I said the silly bear ducks at dusk? Pretty please? He'll know what it means. Thanks for calling the Hoodlum Hotline!”

“Wait, I don't get gold stars since you're the one who—”

I stop when I hear the dial tone. I hang up and look at the phone again, like it might contain clues as to what just happened, then turn to put it back on the coffee table.

“Morning.”

I jump. Drop the phone. Snatch it from the floor and press the off button before I accidentally call the Hotline for real. I sit back and hope I look pleasantly surprised to see Abe sitting in the armchair across from me.

“Hi.” I smile. “You're up early. How'd you sleep?”

“Adequately.” His eyes narrow, like now I'm the one asking trick questions. “So. Pre-dawn tutor session, huh?”

“What? Oh—yup.”

“Didn't you just train with Ike yesterday?”

It seems so long ago I have to think about it. “I did.”

“I meet with my tutor once a week. So do most other Troublemakers.”

I'm not sure what Abe's getting at but figure it boils down to the same basic theory: As a murderer, and, therefore, star student,
I'm getting special treatment. When I'm supposed to be one equal part of an alliance.

“He has some projects coming up that may interfere with our training schedule. So he's trying to get in as many sessions as he can while he can.”

It's a funny thing about lying: The more you do it, the easier it gets. I tell myself this particular lie is for the greater good of everyone, since I can't be any kind of alliance member if I'm found out and expelled from Kilter—and only hope that doesn't turn out to be yet another stretch of the imagination.

“Whatever.” Abe stands up. “We're meeting behind the Kanteen delivery truck at seven forty-five. Try to wrap up your little game of catch by then.”

I stand too. “Seven forty-five? This morning? What for?”

His back to me, Abe's head falls forward, then shakes slowly. “Hinkle, Hinkle. Don't you check your K-Mail?”

Yes. About eleven times a minute since becoming such a popular pen pal. Even when I don't hear my K-Pak buzz, just in case it does and I miss it. I checked right before the phone rang, and now go to check again.

“Music Man Meltdown, take two,” he continues before I
press the digital envelope. “Devin always runs through his scales after breakfast, inside the Kanteen delivery truck. Something about the acoustics.”

I don't know how long I'll be. Or where. Or whether I'll make it at all.

I mean to say these things out loud, but the words get stuck somewhere between my chest and mouth. Then Abe leaves the room, and I hear the soft hum of a golf cart engine grow louder. Not wanting him to see my transportation and grow even more suspicious, I run out the front door and down the walkway. As the golf cart zips away from the curb, I glance back at the house. The door remains closed, the windows empty. Temporarily relieved, I turn forward. The cart picks up speed, and I use all my strength to keep my K-Pak raised without letting it slam into my face.

No new messages. Was Abe stretching the truth himself ?

Guessing I have a few seconds to kill, I start my own new message.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: RE: Hi!

Good morning!

Just wanted to answer your last note. Annika's fine. She seems busier than usual, and maybe a little more stressed, but fine. I'm sure she misses you TONS and can't wait to have you back ASAP!

If you have other questions, or need anything else, or even just feel like saying hi again, please let me know!

Have a great day!

From,

Seamus