A World of Trouble Read Online Free

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 mouthbefore 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.
    â€œBut once you knew she was okay,” I say, “why didn’t you come get me?”
    Mom shrugs. “Because you threw the apple.”
    â€œBecause 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.”
    â€œYou could’ve run for other teachers.”
    â€œThere was no time.”
    â€œYou could’ve yelled across the cafeteria.”
    â€œIt 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 . . .
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œWhat about Parents’ Day?”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œWhy 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.”
    â€œStill. Parents’ Day was in November. You knew then that it wasn’t true, and you said it anyway.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œBartholomew John?”
    He freezes just outside the living room, his face hidden behind the bright red petals of the poinsettia plant he’s holding.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œBJ 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’tfeel 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.
    â€œBut it’s Christmas,” I say, fighting to keep my