The Terrible Two

by Mac Barnett

  “What do you mean ‘almost-pranks’?”

  “This wasn’t a prank.”

  “Of course it was a prank!”

  “No. This was just ratting me out for a prank I committed. That’s not a prank. It’s just a jerk move. And a violation of the Prankster’s Oath.”

  “I’ve never heard of any Prankster’s Oath.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” said Niles. “But if you join the Terrible Two—”

  “Nope! No way. I’m not going to join your dumb club just to learn some phony oath you probably made up. I’m a born prankster! Prankster blood pumps through my prankster heart!”

  Niles sighed. “So the war is still on?”

  “The war is still on.”

  “OK.” Niles held the envelope out in front of him. “Take a closer look.”

  “What!”

  Miles grasped at the envelope, but Niles pulled it back.

  “I took care of the inside too. Look.”

  “This could come in handy in the prank war,” said Niles. “A signed confession, written in your own handwriting.”

  “That is not my handwriting!” Miles said. In fact, Miles had been very careful to disguise his handwriting—he’d closed his eyes while writing the note.

  “It looks a lot more like yours than mine.”

  “How do you know?” Miles asked.

  “The Third-Week Check-In I had you fill out,” said Niles. He produced another piece of paper.

  Looking at the evidence in front of him, Miles had to admit that the handwriting in the confession did look like a messier version of his own.

  “Plus, I don’t write with a blue Bic Velocity 1.6-millimeter ballpoint pen,” Niles said. “But you do. In fact, you may remember that I borrowed yours in science. I used it to change the ‘n’s to ‘m’s.”

  Miles had to admit the kid had a knack for planning.

  Niles put the confession back in the envelope, licked the flap, and sealed it shut. “I think I’ll hold on to this,” he said. “Just in case I need to put it back in Barkin’s mailbox.”

  Miles gave Niles his best sneer. “Wouldn’t that be ratting?” he asked. “Isn’t that a violation of the Prankster’s Oath?”

  Niles smiled. “It would only be ratting if you’d figured out how to put Barkin’s car at the top of a flight of steps,” he said. “But you didn’t dream up that stunning and masterful prank.” He leaned in close. “I did.”

  Niles turned and walked away. Coach O. and Coach B. were still blowing their whistles when the bell rang.

  Chapter

  21

  MS. SHANDY STOOD IN FRONT of the class wearing a long skirt and red sneakers. “Would anyone like to be the first to share their report?” she asked.

  Niles Sparks raised his hand and kept it aloft, his elbow forming an almost perfect right angle—just like Miles knew he would.

  Ms. Shandy paused to see whether any other students would volunteer.

  Nobody did—just like Miles knew they wouldn’t.

  “OK, Niles, come on up.”

  Niles strode to the front of the room, carrying a black shoe box under his arm.

  It was all going according to plan.

  One thing Miles Murphy had reluctantly acknowledged after the Forged Confession Fiasco was this: If he wanted to out-prank Niles, he was going to have to get better at planning. Handwriting, pen varieties, the mail-sorting responsibilities of the School Helper—Miles hadn’t looked into any of these things. Miles admitted that, yes, he could learn from Niles Sparks. (It made him a little queasy to admit it.) And so he had embraced new tactics. He would be more alert, more patient, and above all, more prepared.

  A couple of weeks after Niles had confronted him in P.E., Miles began brewing his next prank.

  The scheme started to take shape in Ms. Shandy’s social studies class. She’d assigned a one-page oral report on an ancient civilization. Niles had taken a quick look at the grading rubric before raising his hand.

  “Ms. Shandy, may we use visual aids to enhance our presentations?”

  “Sure, Niles, but I’m not giving extra credit.”

  “But we could use a visual aid if we simply thought it might supplement our own learning and the learning of the class?”

  “Yep. That’s fine.”

  “Yessssssssss,” Niles whispered loudly.

  “Let me guess,” said Holly. “Diorama.”

  Niles didn’t say anything, but he’d already begun sketching a rectangle on the back of his rubric.

  At lunch, Miles got the scoop from Holly.

  “He does a diorama for everything. Last year he made like nine dioramas. In English we had to do book reports and he made a diorama of Lord of the Flies. It had a jungle with real moss and a light-up boar’s head with little red eyes that flashed. In math we did a unit on three-dimensional shapes, and he brought in a rectangular solid that doubled as a diorama of the personal library of René Descartes. In science we had to do earthquake dioramas, and he did a diorama of a thrust fault plus a second diorama that was a making-of diorama of the original diorama.”

  “He really likes dioramas,” Miles said.

  “You think?” said Holly.

  “Hey, Holly?” said Miles. This had been bugging him for a while. “Have you ever seen someone look cool in a turtleneck?”

  “Sure. Steve McQueen. Richard Roundtree.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Old movie stars.” Holly sighed. “Hey, can I have your fruit snacks?”

  Miles loved fruit snacks, but Holly had earned them today. Or at least half of them. This was good information.

  “Hi, Holly. Hi, nimbus.” Josh Barkin had sidled up to their table.

  “Hi, Josh,” said Holly.

  Josh pulled out a chair and sat in it. “Holly, let’s talk.” He gave Holly the same smile he gave teachers. “As winter break approaches, I know we’re all considering our political futures. I hope you’re not planning on running for class president when we come back.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, I admire your optimism, Holly, I really do. But given that you’ve lost the last two years, I thought I’d offer you a place on my ticket. How would you like to be vice president of our class?”

  “We don’t have class vice presidents, Josh.”

  “I could talk to my dad about creating the position.”

  “I’m running for president, Josh.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Josh frowned. “And while of course I’d never beat up a girl, I will beat up your nimbus friend here if you run.”

  Holly shrugged. “Go for it.”

  Miles gave Holly a look like, This is just a tactic, right?

  Holly gave Miles no look whatsoever.

  Josh stood up, made sure nobody was watching, and kicked over the chair. “You guys are both nimbuses.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Miles after Josh was gone.

  “He’s already after you anyway,” said Holly. “At least now you’re a political hero.”

  She had a point.

  “Welcome to the resistance,” said Holly. “Here, have some fruit snacks.”

  Miles wanted to remind her that the fruit snacks were already his, but he figured she knew that.

  The reports were due in two weeks. Never before had Miles’s pranking journal been so full of diagrams, outlines, and questions.

  By Friday he had the prank figured out.

  Step one: Research. While changing for P.E., Miles had snuck a peek at Niles’s school shoes. Shiny black wingtips: size 7. Write that down.

  Step two: Lay the foundation. Step two began as soon as his mom picked him up from school.

  “I need new school shoes,” said Miles.

  “You just got new shoes,” said Judy Murphy.

  “Not like these shoes. Nice shoes.”

  “Those are nice shoes.”

  “Nice shoes.”

  “Those are nice shoes.”

  “Nice nice shoes.”
<
br />   “Those are nice nice shoes.”

  This wasn’t working. Change tack.

  “Mom, it’s just that . . . never mind.”

  “What?”

  “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Miles, you can tell me.”

  “Well, it’s just that kids are making fun of these shoes.”

  “Bullies? Are they bullying you?”

  “No, it’s not like that—”

  “Is there bullying going on at your school? Because I just watched an hour-long show about bullying and—”

  “No, no. It’s just—”

  “Because you should not change who you are because of a bully. Look at me, Miles. Do not change you. Or your shoes. Now, if you want me to talk to Principal Barkin about setting up a zero-tolerance zone—”

  This was going all wrong.

  “Mom! I’m not being bullied. That’s not even the main reason I wanted new shoes.”

  Come on, Miles.

  “The main reason I wanted new shoes is . . . I think I need to stop dressing all sloppy. It’s like you said when we were school shopping—it wouldn’t hurt me to start dressing more like a young man sometimes.”

  By 4:22 P.M. Miles owned a pair of black wingtips just like Niles’s. He hated them. But he was pretty excited about the box.

  Step three: Commence construction. In the mornings, as soon as his mom’s car was out of the parking lot, Miles un-tucked his shirt and changed into his sneakers. After school, he straightened his clothes and put the wingtips back on. And every night, he worked on his diorama.

  First things first: Miles wore a 9. A little Wite-Out and a permanent marker fixed that quickly.

  The rest of the diorama took a lot longer. Miles spent all week cutting, drawing, gluing, sculpting. The work lasted through the weekend. Late Sunday night, he finished. Miles was too tired to admire his handiwork. Well past midnight, he dashed off a page about the Egyptian pharaohs and went to sleep.

  On Monday morning Niles walked into Ms. Shandy’s classroom carrying a black shoe box that, on the outside at least, looked just like the one in Miles’s backpack. Niles took a seat and tucked the box neatly beneath his chair.

  Inside, Miles was wild, sweaty, jittery. Outside, Miles was boring, normal, like a shoe box.

  The bell rang, like it always did.

  Ms. Shandy took roll, like she always did.

  Niles got up and hung the attendance sheet on a hook outside the classroom door, like he always did.

  And that’s when Miles dropped his pen on the floor and, in one smooth motion, bent down, switched the two boxes, and retrieved his blue Bic Velocity 1.6-millimeter ballpoint.

  Niles returned to his desk. He hadn’t noticed a thing.

  Miles stared down at his report and smiled as he pictured the mayhem that would ensue.

  Because Niles had made a diorama of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

  And Miles had switched it with a diorama of Principal Barkin taking a bubble bath.

  Ms. Shandy stood in front of the class wearing a long skirt and red sneakers. “Would anyone like to be the first to share their report?” she asked.

  Niles Sparks raised his hand and kept it aloft, his elbow forming an almost perfect right angle—just like Miles knew he would.

  Ms. Shandy paused to see whether any other students would volunteer.

  Nobody did—just like Miles knew they wouldn’t.

  “OK, Niles, come on up.”

  Niles strode to the front of the room, carrying a black shoe box under his arm.

  He placed the shoe box on Ms. Shandy’s desk. The top was still on. Niles loved a big reveal.

  “I am here to show you one of the most beautiful sights in the world,” Niles said.

  Miles covered his mouth with a folder.

  “A magnificent vision that, until today, has been obscured by the mists of history.”

  It was almost too perfect.

  “Prepare yourselves. For we are journeying to a forbidden sanctuary that will surely amaze you.”

  Niles reached for the top of the shoe box.

  “Behold!”

  With a flourish, Niles Sparks removed the top and revealed a stunning replica of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

  “Even I have to admit that’s a pretty good diorama,” Holly said.

  “Ancient scholars attribute this wonderful Wonder of the Ancient World to King Nebuchadnezzar II,” Niles went on, “although some historians believe the Hanging Gardens of Babylon weren’t in Babylon at all, but belonged to the Assyrian king Sennacherib.”

  Impossible.

  This was impossible.

  Miles had switched the boxes. Hadn’t he? He had. Right? Yes. But maybe he should double-check? He should double-check. Because if Niles still had the Babylon diorama, what was in his backpack?

  Miles ducked under his desk. He opened the shoe box and released two thousand crickets into the classroom.

  Chapter

  22

  CRICKETS?” SAID PRINCIPAL BARKIN. He was leaning so far over his desk that his purple head hovered uncomfortably in what Miles considered his Personal Zone. “CRICKETS?”

  “Yes,” said Ms. Shandy, who was seated in a big chair next to Miles’s big chair. “Crickets.”

  “Ms. Shandy, I was addressing Miles.” Principal Barkin hovered. “CRICKETS?”

  “Yes,” said Miles. “Crickets.”

  “Miles Murphy, is this your idea”—Barkin’s nose wrinkled and his tongue rested against his two front teeth—“of a prank?”

  “No, sir.”

  A cloud of crickets erupting from a shoe box. Girls screaming. Boys screaming. Josh Barkin ducking under his desk like he was in an earthquake drill. Stuart standing on his chair and holding a leaf aloft, crying out, “It’s OK, everybody! I have an IDEA!” Crickets leaping onto faces, into hair. Crickets bouncing off the walls. Stuart waving the leaf (where had he gotten that leaf?), shouting, “It’s their FOOD!” The feeling of crickets on flesh. The noise—the collective chirping more like a constant screech, like a car spinning through an intersection. It was an amazing prank—but, no, sadly, no: It hadn’t been Miles’s idea.

  “Then why, Miles Murphy, did you release a swarm of crickets into Ms. Shandy’s classroom?”

  “It was an accident?” said Miles.

  “An accident.”

  Principal Barkin smirked the smirk of a principal who had a troublemaker cornered. “And why, Miles Murphy, were there thousands of crickets in your backpack?”

  Miles winced the wince of a cornered troublemaker. As soon as the crickets had erupted from his backpack, Miles had known he’d have to answer this question. But he hadn’t come up with an answer. What could he do, tell the truth? Of course not! Principal Barkin would never believe his own School Helper could be responsible for something like this. Niles was right: He was above suspicion. Plus, telling the truth would be ratting, and Miles wasn’t a rat. And also the truth involved confessing to making a diorama of Principal Barkin taking a bubble bath, which seemed unwise. Miles was stuck and he knew it. What could he say? Why would he have thousands of crickets in his backpack?

  “It was a visual aid,” said Miles. “To enhance my presentation.”

  The color of Barkin’s face seemed to flicker.

  “A what?”

  “Ms. Shandy said even though we wouldn’t get extra credit, we could use visual aids if we thought they might supplement our own learning and the learning of the class.”

  “Is this true, Ms. Shandy?”

  Ms. Shandy was giving Miles a strange look. “I did say that, yes.”

  “Well, in that case . . .” Barkin’s face softened and took on the hue of a nectarine before going back to eggplant. “But wait! Miles Murphy, this is ridiculous! A visual aid is a diorama or something! How is a swarm of crickets supposed to supplement the learning of your class?”

  “Well, my oral report was on the pharaohs of Egypt. These crickets were supposed to re
present the plague of locusts. You know, from the Ten Plagues? Because as I’m sure you know, scientists and historians believe that the story of the ten plagues may have actually arisen from real natural disasters—”

  “Of course I know that!” said Principal Barkin. “That’s true, isn’t it, Ms. Shandy?”

  “Yes,” said Ms. Shandy, still looking at Miles.

  “Well,” said Miles, “I wanted to show what a swarm of locusts would look like. Only, the crickets weren’t supposed to get out.” Miles put on his most sincere face and shrugged. “I guess I ended up doing a better job supplementing the class’s learning about swarms than I’d even planned to.” An innocent chuckle faded back into rueful earnestness. “I know I sure learned a lot.”

  Principal Barkin exhaled through his nose. He sat in his chair and slouched. “I don’t know. Something smells bad.”

  “Probably the crickets,” said Miles helpfully. “They kind of smelled like sweat.”

  “Not literally!” said Barkin. “Something smells bad metaphorically. And Barkins have great metaphorical noses. Something is off here, Miles Murphy. Something is wrong. This, Miles Murphy, is strike two.”

  “What was strike one?” Miles asked.

  “Strike one was parking my car at the top of the steps, which I still don’t know how you did.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Just as you say you didn’t mean to release the crickets! And in this metaphor, saying you aren’t responsible for a prank constitutes a strike! Strike three will be another prank that you deny committing, which will mean you have ‘struck out,’ which in this metaphor means that you will have actually done that prank and all the other pranks. So strike three makes the previous strikes real, in essence transforming them from denied pranks to—”

  “Principal Barkin,” said Ms. Shandy, “if that’s all, I think Miles should probably get back to the classroom and start rounding up the crickets.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Barkin. “Ms. Shandy, if you’ll remain here, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”