The Limit

THE
LIMIT

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

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First Aladdin hardcover edition September 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Kristen Landon

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The text of this book was set in Janson Text.

Manufactured in the United States of America 0710 OFF

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Landon, Kristen, 1966–

The limit / Kristen Landon. — 1st Aladdin hardcover ed.

p. cm.

Summary: When his family exceeds its legal debt limit, thirteen-year-old Matt is sent
to the Federal Debt Rehabilitation Agency workhouse, where he discovers illicit activities
are being carried out using the children who have been placed there.

ISBN 978-1-4424-0271-3 (hardcover)

[1. Conspiracies—Fiction. 2. Science fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.L2317348Li 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2010012707

ISBN 978-1-4424-0273-7 (eBook)

For Von.
You would make the top floor for sure!

and

In loving memory, to one of my biggest cheerleaders,
Jenny Landon.
I miss you, my sister and friend.

A huge thank-you has to go to my agent, Steven Chudney, for being the first to believe in this book and in me. You did a fabulous job pushing me to take this book to a higher level.

I also must thank my writing pals: Karlene Browning, Chris Minch, Sheila Nielson, Melissa Ochsenhirt, and Andy Spackman. Your help and insight is always superb. Many thanks also go to Deborah Halverson for her ideas, which vastly improved this book.

Also to JoAnne and Zach Colemere, and Von and Carter Landon for reading early drafts.

To all other members of my family and to my many friends for their support, interest, and positive energy—with a special thank-you to the group who double checked my math.

And, finally, to my fabulous editor, Liesa Abrams, for her incredible editorial skill, humor, and enthusiasm.

THE
LIMIT

AN EIGHTH-GRADE GIRL WAS TAKEN
today.

Whispers and text messages flew through Grover Middle School.
They slapped handcuffs on her and shoved her into the back of a van. They shot her with a tranquilizer dart in the middle of the lunchroom. She escaped and she’s hiding in the library—right now—texting her friends.

The girl went to Lakeview Middle School. My cousin goes to Lakeview. He said they called her out of first period and she never came back. An eighth grader! Nobody could believe it. Up until now they’d only taken high school students.

Up until now we thought we were off-limits.

Bam-swish. Bounce, bounce. Bam-swish.

My hand—with the follow-through fingers bent—hung high in the air. “Yeah, baby, who’s the free-throw king?”

“Four in a row. Big deal.” Brennan stretched those long arms of his toward the basketball and me. “Give it here.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m gonna show you up.”

“No way. I’m in the middle of a streak. Besides, you couldn’t make two free throws in a row if your perfect GPA depended on it.”

“Well, it doesn’t, Mr. 3.997.”

Ouch. Just because he never had Ms. Tullidge for English and her
You must support your thesis statement with facts.
And
Yes, Matt, ninety-three percent is
still
an A-minus in my class.

“Taking your shooting history over the past seventeen minutes into account, the probability that you will successfully complete the next shot is only eight-point-seven percent,” said Lester, who’d been standing in the same spot since my mother kicked us off the computer and made us
go outside and process some fresh air through your lungs, boys.

Even during a basketball game Brennan and Lester processed more numbers through their brains than air through their lungs. I probably did too.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” I slammed the ball against the concrete of my driveway with every couple of words I spoke. “Anyone who gets their hands on the ball can shoot, but we’re going to score it different. We all
start with . . .” Today was March 12. “Twelve points.” A car drove by. It had two eights on its license plate. “Every time you score, you get to multiply by eight. Every time you miss, you have to divide by four.” No reason for the four. I just pulled it out of the air. “First guy to a billion wins.”

“Too easy,” said Lester. “Four, eight, and twelve? Couldn’t you have thrown in a three or a seven to make it more challenging?”

“The basket is going to be your challenge, runt.” I only had a couple of inches on Lester, but that was enough.

“I think it’s the shoes,” he said, not afraid to poke fun at himself. “If I just had a pair of JockAirs, I’d score every time—according to their commercials.”

“Got that right.” Brennan laughed. “I’ll get a pair too and join the basketball team.”

I added in some fancy double-time dribbling. “Seriously, Lester, you could use a new pair of shoes. Look at those things on your feet. The stitching’s coming undone.”

“They’re okay. They’ll last a while longer.”

“Why should they?” I dribbled fast and close to the ground. “You know what brand is really sweet? Keetos.”

“Keetos? They cost . . . a lot.”

“Yeah? So? They’re cool.”

Whistling softly, he shook his head. “Extremely expensive.”

“What does it matter, if that’s what you really want?” My dribbling slowed. “It just goes on your family’s account.”

“It matters,” he said in almost a whisper. “
The limit.
Forget it. Can we just play?”

“Sure. Ready, set, go!” I faked a break to the right, leaving Lester off balance. As I sprinted for the basket, Brennan stretched up tall in front of me with that amazing reach of his that makes basketball coaches drool all over their sneakers—until they see him play. As I ducked and darted around my beanpole buddy, he twisted, trying to follow my move. His legs didn’t respond fast enough, and by the time I banked the ball for an easy layup, he had one hand on the ground to break his fall.

I grabbed the loose ball and headed for the back of the driveway—just to give them a chance. “Twelve times eight. Ninety-six.”

Seven more made shots with two misses thrown in got me to 12,582,912. Brennan had achieved a whopping score of 1.5. Lester hung steady at twelve.

I dribbled close to the ground, tormenting my buddies for a few more seconds. “Three more to go, boys, and there’s nothing you weenies can do to stop me.”

“Six by my calculations.” Lester crinkled his nose
under his glasses as he squinted into the sun.

The ball froze between my palms. “What kindergarten calculations would those be?”

“I told you—four, eight, and twelve are too factorially compatible. In my mind I’ve been multiplying by five instead of eight—to spice things up with a few decimal points. According to my scoring system you need six more baskets.”

“Can you believe this math geek?” I asked Brennan, shifting the ball from one hand to the other.

“I’ve been multiplying by three-point-five.” He lunged for the ball, which I easily diverted with a quick dribble behind my back. Breathing heavily, he stared down at me, his hands on his hips. “According to me, you need nine more baskets.”

“Geez, thanks for your input. Doesn’t matter. Nine, five, twenty. I’m still skunking you two.”

As I visualized the trajectory of my next shot, a car horn blasted from a few houses down the street. The honking continued every four seconds until Dad pulled into the driveway, scattering the three of us.

The guys salivated as Dad’s sleek silver machine glided by us and into the garage. They continued to stare until Dad climbed out of his car and popped the trunk.

“Hey, Matt. Hello, boys.”

“Hi, Mr. Dunston,” said Lester.

Brennan only managed a sort of grunt.

“Been slaving at the computer all day?” I asked with a joking smile. The khaki pants and gray, blue, and pink argyle sweater-vest he wore made up his official golf uniform.

“Some days I wish,” he said, shaking his head. Edging back onto the concrete, I started dribbling again. Brennan waved his long arms frantically in front of my face. Lester shuffled around under the basket. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Dad pause, his golf clubs halfway out of the trunk, to study a small piece of paper.

“No, that wasn’t right. I swear I shot a birdie on the fourth hole
and
the thirteenth.” Dad’s mumblings grew louder and more animated by the second, soon drowning out the thump of basketball against cement. “An eagle on the eighth? I don’t think so, Miller, you cheating maggot. Ha! Par on the fifteenth. More like double bogie, with that sand trap.”

My shot fell short, and Brennan easily scooped up the rebound.

“Dad? Everything okay?”

A wide, toothy grin flashed up at me. “Sure. No problems. I just let Miller cheat me out of a few th . . . ah, a few bucks.” The smile stayed frozen in place as Dad neatly folded the paper and slid it into his back pocket. In one swift movement he spun around, snatched a loose
golf ball from the trunk, and chucked it somewhere back in the garage. A clattering, crashing noise made Brennan stumble over his approach to the basket.