Trollhunters (27 page)

Eighty-eight percent chance that Dad had lost what was left of his mind.

I’d left Dad and Jack in the living room. Dad’s unconscious body had been transported to the sofa before I threw myself in the shower for a quick rinse. By the time I emerged with a
fresh set of clothes, Dad was awake but hunched on the edge of the sofa, facing away from Jack and whispering to himself that he was being tricked, someone was trying to trick him. Jack, looking
young and innocent in my baggy hand-me-downs, gave me a distraught look. Would Dad call Sergeant Gulager? Principal Cole? Would he find some way to prevent me from trollhunting just a single
day’s time before the Killaheed’s completion?

Jack wanted me to blow off school and help him with this brother situation—it was well outside of his comfort zone of hunting and killing. But I found the reunion of long-lost siblings too
intense, too personal. At least at school I could lose myself in the Steve-Smacking clamor of kids with nothing on their minds beyond the game the next night. I grabbed my backpack and didn’t
look back until I’d caught the bus.

With Pinkton’s 88 percent ringing in my ears, I made a pit stop at my locker for my math book. I found myself longing to trash-compact myself, just so I could take advantage of the privacy
for a nap. It was while I weighed the pros and cons of this plan that I heard a cruel laughter down the hall. It wasn’t enough to convince me to move. Even the smacking of a basketball failed
to incite my interest. What did it were the snatches of words in that cool, finely articulated voice.

“Ten dollars is the new price,” I heard. “Inflation.”

Just down the hall, Tub’s head was wrenched beneath the arm of Steve Jorgensen-Warner. It was a reprise of the scene in the Trophy Cave, but with the fun added bonus of a fare increase
that Tub would never be able to satisfy with his grandma’s pitiful allowance. I was heading toward them before I knew what I was doing, pushing aside rubberneckers. I wasn’t the same
guy that I had been a week before, not even close.

With both hands I shoved Steve in the chest. Until that moment I’d never realized the extent of his muscle density: he didn’t budge an inch. But the action garnered the desired
effect. He pitched Tub to the side to regard this newer, more interesting victim. A cymbal clash announced Tub’s head-on collision with a locker, but I kept my eyes trained on the enemy and
his bouncing ball.

SMACK, SMACK!

“Jim, thanks for reminding me,” Steve said. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d be willing to participate in our daily toll. It’s a great program with lots of
keen benefits.”

“Lay off Tub.”

SMACK, SMACK!

“I’ll take that as a yes. Why don’t we start right away?”

“Lay off everyone. Everyone’s sick of your crap.”

SMACK, SMACK!

“Are they? I hadn’t noticed. Seemed to me it was the opposite.”

“They’re just scared of you. I’m not.”

SMACK, SMACK!

“Scared? Why should anyone be scared? I’m the guy who’s going to score the winning touchdown tomorrow. I’m the guy who’s going to do a quick costume change and
perform some play in the middle of the field. All night it’s going to be me up there on the jumbotron. I don’t do it for personal glory, Jim. I do it for the school! People appreciate
that. They’re only too happy to give a few bucks here and there for the cause.”

SMACK, SMACK!

“That’s my role,” I growled.

“You did look cute in your skirt and tights, I’ll give you that. Tough break. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to give your Juliet a big, wet kiss from the both of
us.”

“Why are you so interested in Claire all of a sudden?”

“Why?” Steve repeated. “Why
not
?”

He laughed. In comparison, I realized that my voice had become wheedling. The dull weight that had heavied my fists seconds before was gone. Weakness snowballed. Onlookers were chuckling and it
hurt like it used to. I hung my head and turned to find my books where I’d tossed them aside. My only successes came in the dark of night; I should have known better than to try to take on
Steve in the light of day.

“You’re a dobber, Mr. Jorgensen-Warner.”

All heads, including mine, turned toward an accented voice that sounded considerably less adorable when it was crackling with fury. Claire had dodged through the crowd and stood there in her
familiar grays and greens, her beret tipped at a wartime angle. The only things pink about her this time were her cheeks, inflamed with rage.

Steve’s laugh was uncertain.

“I’m a what?”

Claire came within striking range.

“I’d soon as kiss a chanty wrassler like you as I’d shag a goat in a rot outhouse.”

“Shag a…?”

“You try and give me a nookie badge and you’ll find yourself with a keeker, you daft muppet. Jim is twice your Romeo. Say otherwise and I’ll play fisty cuffs with your hooter
and kick you in your baw bag.”

“You’ll play
what
…? With my
hooter
…?”

“Look at you, you’re right gliffed, ya bas. What, you think I’m a quine? More like a radge! I’ll dance the slosh on your napper and do a number on both your wallies
and
your walloper. Then you’ll be crying to your ma, you will.”

“Wallies? Walloper?”

Pent-up slang from her homeland, long boxed up, came pouring out in a stream as incredible as it was indecipherable. You could intuit some meaning—kicking him in assorted sensitive areas
seemed to be the basic gist—but mostly it was violent emotion delivered by a girl whose easygoing attitude had always been her most notable trait.

She was right up in Steve’s face when she lashed out with a foot and kicked the basketball all the way down the hall. His eyes went wide and his right hand formed into a fist. We all saw
it. Claire pointed at it—her bravado knew no bounds!—and laughed as if it were a child’s pinwheel.

“Aw, yer maw cares, you shite-tongued zoomer! Best remember my way with the sword before you go waving your puny knuckle pouch.”

Chiding laughter, so fickle in high school hallways, now tottered in Steve’s direction. He’d never been the target of ridicule and was baffled. He looked at each chuckling face as if
it were a personal betrayal. His handsomeness separated into ugly pieces of panic: beady eyes narrowed to stony glints, sharp teeth bared in a defensive sneer, and his thick body compacted as if
bracing for a tackle. Then he made the wisest choice he could. He sucked down his anger and turned tail. He might rule again, but that day was lost. He took off after his basketball and looked
pretty childish while doing it.

The rubberneckers dispersed, repeating snippets of Claire’s tirade guaranteed to be incorporated into local vernacular. I let out a giant held breath and turned to help up Tub. There was a
dent in the closest locker, but he was gone. I was disappointed, though I couldn’t blame a guy for wanting to flee a monster. I was familiar with the instinct.

Claire, though, was there, and when the bell rang she wasn’t startled. She gave me a level consideration.

“Mr. Sturges,” she said.

“Ms. Fontaine?” I tried.

She nodded sagely as if judging my response adequate.

“You seem a bit different, Mr. Sturges.”

“So do you,” I said.

“Oh, that?” She rolled her eyes. “You should hear me when I bump my knee.”

“I’ll never bump your knee. That’s a promise.”

“I heard Ms. Pinkton today. About your troubles. About the eighty—”

“Eighty-eight percent,” I finished. “Yeah.”

“I’m not half-bad at numbers, Mr. Sturges.”

“I know. It’s very impressive.”

She rolled her eyes again.

“I mean, I can help you, you scaffy skenker.”

“No, please.” I held up a hand. “None of those words. I can’t take it.”

Her smile was glorious and her laugh as loud as ever.

“Let’s meet tonight. Eighty-eight is nothing. I can get you to ninety.”

“You…you want me to come over?”

Her smile faltered.

“I’m sorry. You misunderstood. You can’t come over.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Uh. Well. Great. Thanks?”

“Relax, Mr. Sturges. It’s not you. My house just isn’t a good place to visit. In general. But I could come over to your place. I’ve told Mum that tonight is the final
rehearsal, and I know she can convince Da that it’s going to be a late one. You and I can walk together after the final run-through, set up at your house, and get right to the numbers. I know
a few tricks that’ll kablooey your brain.”

“I’m—” The concept of turning down any offer from Claire Fontaine was a difficult one. But the truth was the truth: I needed sleep, even if it was just two or three
hours, because when the sun went down, the final hunt was on. We had only one night to find the Gumm-Gumms before the Killaheed reached its completion. I sighed and continued. “I’m not
coming to rehearsal.”

Her disappointment was evident. I appreciated it. If I was bailing on
RoJu
that night, there was no hope of my salvaging the role. She’d have to act opposite Steve, the guy she
just humiliated in front of the entire school. For a moment I wondered if she might walk away from the whole deal. But then her expression sharpened. That’s the kind of girl she
was—she’d decided to
relish
acting opposite Steve. It was a challenge, and if she delivered her lines just right, maybe she could show him who was boss more than once.

“All righty,” she said. “Six o’clock. Sturges household. What do you say?”

The simple question was riddled with risk. Nobody but Tub had ever visited the steel-plated, camera-protected stronghold of my home. An eight-eyed creature was hiding in my bedroom closet. My
dad was on the precipice of total breakdown upon the arrival of a supposedly dead older brother who’d not aged a single day. And once it was dark enough, a band of sword-wielding weirdoes
would come together in my living room to track down the infamous villain who’d taken at least a dozen kids in the past week, who knew my name and wanted me as well.

There were a million reasons to say no to Claire except one:

I’d been waiting all my life to say yes.

Claire Fontaine knocked at my door twenty minutes late, rosy-cheeked and complaining about all the “festival rubbish” that was making the whole town look like a
little kid’s birthday party. I went “heh-heh-heh,” a laugh so forced that I creeped myself out. Thankfully, she came inside anyway. I closed the door behind her and reached for
the first of the ten locks, ready to whip through the repertoire of
click, rattle, zing, rattle, clack-clack-clack, thunk, crunch, whisk, rattle-rattle, thud
before stopping myself. Not
with her watching I wouldn’t. I was braver than that now.

I left the door unlocked.

Claire missed nothing. Within seconds, she’d zeroed in on the metal shutters, the three security consoles, and the dangling wires of the kitchen ceiling fan, which still hadn’t been
replaced. She asked after Dad and I had to plead ignorance. He was gone and this was not normal. Dad spent no more time at San Bernardino Electronics than was required. Again I offered my
“heh-heh-heh” and again she overlooked it. She bounded through the kitchen and flung her pink backpack upon the dining room table, and moments later we were pulling out textbooks and
strategically arranging pencils and paper.

The first hour was useless. I kept smelling her and feeling the heat from her body and repeating in my head that I had a girl at my house. Not just a girl, but
the
girl. So it came as a
surprise when numbers, correct ones, started imprinting themselves on paper as if my pencil were possessed. After another hour of Claire’s arithmetical trickery, insight was slashing through
my brain as swiftly as the first blades of morning light through Troll City. Maybe I’d surprise Pinkton after all.

“Your da’s going to be upset? Is that it?”

My face was so close to the page I could smell the pencil lead. I looked up into a bag of chips, which Claire pushed aside so she could see me.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’ve been checking the front door all night.”

“Have I?”

“Like you’re expecting him to come busting in with a tire iron and bash in our heads.”

“Sorry,” I said. “He wouldn’t use a tire iron.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh? What would he use, then? A cricket bat?”

“No, no, no. He’s not going to use anything, period. He’s not going to attack us. I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. Dad works in
electronics
. He mows
lawns
. No one’s getting their head bashed in. I’m just—it’s weird, because he normally doesn’t work late. He’ll probably
just be surprised to see you when he gets here, that’s all, because I don’t, you know, have a lot of people over.”

“Yes, I noticed the defenses. Terrifically imposing. Are we expecting an invasion?”

I shrugged. “There’s always something. That’s what Dad would say.”

“Is there? Always something, I mean? Is America all that dangerous?”

“Depends on where you go.” I pictured the space beneath my bed. “There are bad areas.”