A World of Trouble (20 page)

“Sometimes,” he says.

He retreats into the gazebo. I follow.

“It's a lot of pressure,” I say. “Going to classes. Completing assignments. Learning new skills. Trying to get in as much trouble as possible without hurting anyone. Especially when not
doing any of those things well enough can get you sent home.”

“It can be.” Ike leans against a gazebo post, gazes out toward the mountains.

“Want to know what my biggest fear is?” I lean against the post next to his.

“Going to sleep Seamus and waking up a pile of gray ash?”

“Surprisingly, no.” I smile at the Lemon reference. “It's disappointing people. Teachers. Parents.” I pause. “Annika.”

I'm actually not sure where this falls on my lengthy list of fears, but giving it the top spot now has the desired effect. The invisible dark cloud hanging over Ike's face expands. I continue.

“I have an idea. A way to get ahead.”

He looks up from his boots. “Aren't you already ahead? You just earned a ton of demerits in two minutes.”

“I'm not sure.” Demerits-wise, this is the truth. “But if I pull off what I want to, I don't think I'll ever have to worry about disappointing anyone again.”

This is a stretch, but it makes Ike's eyebrows lift.

“It's complicated, though,” I say.

“What is it?”

Now I look at my boots. “I can't say.”

“Oh.”

I look up again. “But I could still use your help.”

He shifts so his shoulder presses against the gazebo post and he faces me. “I'm listening.”

I glance behind me. Past him. Outside the gazebo. Besides the Biohazards, who are still wriggling against the trees, we're the only ones out this early.

I lean toward Ike and lower my voice anyway. “To do what I need to, I have to leave campus. Tonight.”

“For how long?”

“That's the thing. I'm not sure. It could be a few hours. It could be a few days.”

“You want me to cover for you.”

After asking about his post-Kilter plans seemed to stress him out, I'd assumed Ike was uncertain about his future. Based on my real-world mission with Houdini and my helicopter ride with Annika, I'd also assumed there were Kilter-related opportunities he hadn't yet been chosen to participate in. And that he was feeling rusty, out of it, and not quite good enough as a result. But given how quickly he got where I was going, I, for one, am impressed.

“Yes,” I say. “Please. If it's not too much trouble.”

He gazes toward the mountains again. “Maybe it'll be just enough.”

In that case, “Can you cover for Lemon, Abe, and Gabby, too?” I'd assured them we wouldn't be gone long, so we hadn't discussed whether they should talk to their tutors. But it doesn't hurt to overprepare.

Ike thinks about it, then says, “Okay.”

There's a soft crunching sound behind us. I look over my shoulder and see a tall, thin figure hurrying across the frozen lawn. His hands are in the pockets of his black wool coat. He's stooped forward against the cold and doesn't seem to notice the pom-pom of his black knit hat bopping his forehead with every other step. He keeps his eyes to the ground as he makes his way toward the Kanteen.

I turn back. “One more thing.”

“Shoot,” Ike says.

“Could you keep an eye on the instructors? And let me know if any of them act any stranger than usual?”

“Sure. But why?”

Because one of them is an ax-wielding, stuffed-animal-stealing
Kilter history buff who may be trying to go down in world history as the scariest teacher ever by hiding children in a secret cottage in the woods. Which is something I'll have to deal with the second I get back.

I shrug. “Just 'cause.”

“You're keeping a lot of secrets.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. That's what real Troublemakers do.” He claps me on the back. “Good luck. Be in touch.”

With that, he crosses the gazebo, jumps over the steps to the ground, and jogs across the lawn.

“Morning.”

I spin around. GS George is standing on the other side of the gazebo railing, walkie-talkie in one hand,
MY CORNISH REX THINKS I'M THE CAT'S PAJAMAS
travel mug in the other.

“Hi,” I say. “What's a Cornish rex?”

His eyes light up. He rests his walkie-talkie and coffee on the railing, takes his K-Pak from his fanny pack, and holds it up so I can see the screen.

“The picture on the mug doesn't do it justice. This one's much better.”

According to the picture that's GS George's K-Pak's backdrop, a Cornish rex is a long, skinny, ratlike kitty. Some might even call it the feline equivalent of a hairless Chihuahua.

If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.

“What's the word?” GS George swaps his K-Pak for the travel mug. Nods to the Biohazards still stuck to trees like magnets to a refrigerator.

“Not sure,” I say casually. “Some human glue experiment, I think. They were like that when I got here.”

He looks at me. Arches one eyebrow. I want to minimize the lies as much as possible, so rather than offering up another that may or may not convince him I had nothing to do with the spectacle across the yard, I try to distract him with a more important one.

“The hairless Chihuahua wants a snuggle buddy.”

GS George's other eyebrow shoots skyward.

“I talked to Ms. Marla this morning. She asked me to tell you that.”

Both eyebrows drop. He scratches his head with one mittened hand.

“That one's not code. There's another hairless Chihuahua. A girl, named Rosita. Ms. Marla found her on a website for needy
pets. She said it's high time Rodolfo had a friend.”

“
Everyone
should have a friend,” GS George agrees.

“Right.” I take a deep breath. Continue. “Anyway, I was thinking . . . Valentine's Day's coming up.”

He sips. Grins. Wiggles his hips, which wiggles his shoulders. “Don't I know it.”

Now my eyebrows drop. Do all adults possess this capacity for corny?

“I don't have a girlfriend.” Images of Elinor fill my head before I've even finished the sentence. “But if I did, I bet she'd love a new puppy more than flowers or chocolates.”

“Really? What about those coconut-filled ones?”

I look at him. He looks at me.

“Oh! You think I should get a friend for Rodolfo. For Ms. Marla. For Valentine's Day.” He raises his K-Pak, starts typing. “That's a great idea. I bet there's a shelter around here that—”

“I think you should get her the friend she already picked out. Online.”

“Oh.” He lowers the K-Pak slightly, then raises it again. “Okeydoke. You can get anything online these days, can't you? My good buddy, GS Carl? He bought a jar of mayonnaise once
owned by the guy who played Batman on TV nearly fifty years ago. It was on some auction site. Can you imagine?”

Finding a fifty-year-old jar of mayo online? Yes. Actually buying it? Not so much.

“There's just one problem,” I say.

“What's that?”

“Someone else wants the same dog. If you don't get her as soon as possible, you might not get her at all.” My pulse grows louder in my ears. I hurry up with the rest before I lose my nerve. “And you have to go there in person. To meet Rosita. And the company owners. They need to make sure you're a good fit. If I were you, I'd leave after work today.”

GS George stands up straight. Puffs out his chest. “I'll do it. I'll go tonight.”

I exhale. Smile. “Awesome. She's going to be so excited, you have no idea.”

“And if Ms. Marla's excited, I'm—” He stops. “Wait a minute. Where am I going?”

My lips, still reaching toward my ears, freeze. When I answer, GS George shakes his head.

“What's that?” he asks.

I bite my bottom lip. Try again.

“Arizona.”

“Arizona? As in next stop, California?”

I nod.

His face falls. “Well, thanks for the tip, but Rosita will have to be some other pup's pal. There's simply no way I can get all the way there and all the way back in time for my six o'clock shift tomorrow morning.”

Frowning, he puts his K-Pak in his fanny pack. When he reaches for his travel mug, I put one hand on his arm.

“Of course there is.”

DEMERITS: 465

GOLD STARS: 300

W
ELCOME
,
SEAMUS HINKLE! YOU HAVE
0 credits!

I stare at the flashing print pad. I emptied my credit account when I bought supplies earlier, but the zero's still weird to see. Telling myself I'll easily earn more, I remove my hand and push through the turnstile. Lemon, Abe, and Gabby do the same. We split up inside the Kommissary. I head for the marksman aisle and pretend to browse. Two minutes later, there's a loud pop at the front of the store. Over the shrieks and groans that follow, I can barely make out Gabby's voice.

“Oh my goodness! I'm
so
sorry! I'll get some paper towels!”

Footsteps dash down the aisle to my right. Two more pairs clomp down the one to my left. I replace the darts I'd picked up and run. I meet up with Capital T at the back of the store and lead them to the unmarked door.

“Spitball?” Abe asks as we enter the stairwell.

“Booger Bomb,” Gabby says. It's too dark to see the twinkle in her eyes, but I can hear it in her voice. “Right in the face. Poor Martin might want to be more careful when putting certain items on display. After that faulty firing, he'll be blinded by slime for at least ten minutes.”

Ten minutes. It's not much time, but it'll have to be enough.

We start down the stairs. I can't find a light switch, so we use our K-Paks to illuminate the way. No one speaks. The only sound is the tapping of our shoes climbing concrete steps—and the thumping of my heart, which is so loud I'm sure they hear it too. I'm relieved when they don't ask where we're going or if I know how to get there. I didn't tell them anything about our transportation in the likely event it didn't pan out, and answering those questions now will only make them worry. And I want them to think happy thoughts until other thoughts make that impossible.

After three wrong turns that lead to dead ends, we find the elevator and file inside. I press the
UP
button. We watch the silver lightning bolt move above the door.

“That's why you wanted us to wear black,” Lemon says. “So we blend in with the dark.”

“What do you—?” Abe stops. “Oh no. I can't . . . I don't . . . I can't . . .”

He's just realized we're shooting above campus in a glass chute. And we've just realized our resident tough guy has a severe fear of heights. As he gasps for breath, buries his face in his hands, and leans against a clear wall, Gabby puts one arm around his shoulders and smiles at the scenery below.

Soon the elevator stops. The doors open. I force the lump in my throat back toward my chest. Step onto the glass platform.

And run for the helicopter.

Afraid of losing my balance to the whipping wind and toppling to the ground, I don't look back until I reach the other side. Lemon's right behind me. Gabby's a few feet behind him. Abe's on his hands and knees by the elevator.

“Wait here!” I call out over the whirring helicopter blades.

I keep my eyes locked on Abe as I sprint down the platform.
It takes some gentle prodding, but he finally moves away from the elevator. He doesn't get up from his hands and knees, and halfway across he actually lowers to his belly and slides like a slug, but it doesn't matter. We reach the other side just as the helicopter begins to lift off.

“Step as lightly as you can!” I instruct as quietly as I can, which isn't very quietly at all. “Bobbing's okay. Full tilting isn't!”

Lemon and Gabby nod. Abe looks up and clutches his stomach. I grab the silver door handle and pull. The door opens easily. The gap between the platform and the helicopter's legs widens as Gabby, then Lemon, then Abe climb inside. By the time it's my turn, the chopper's so far off the ground I have to grab one leg and lift myself up.

Lemon helps hoist me into the cabin. I close the door right before the helicopter lunges left. Abe drops onto one of the leather couches. I motion for Lemon and Gabby to do the same, then tiptoe toward the front of the aircraft.

The silver curtain dividing the cockpit from the cabin is pulled tight. Hooking my pointer finger around one side, I tug until I can see GS George. He's sitting in the pilot's seat and looking straight ahead. His Cornish rex travel mug is in one cup holder, his K-Pak
in the other. Show tunes blare from small speakers attached to the top of the windshield; GS George sings along and taps his fingers on top of the steering lever. A computer screen in the center of the console displays a map of the United States. A crooked white line marks our route. Tucked in the bottom right corner of the screen is a photo of Ms. Marla and Rodolfo. Its edges are worn, like it's been pocketed and unpocketed many times before.