Troublemakers

by Gregg Maxwell Parker

  Contents

  Title Page

  The Good Track

  Armando’s Trampoline

  The Old Chips

  A Note From The Author’s B-hole

  Troublemakers

  By Gregg Maxwell Parker

  Copyright © 2019 Gregg Maxwell Parker

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781690881711

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Cover image by Tina Hays.

  You can find more of her work at emeraldripple.com.

  After you finish this book, please check out the information in the back regarding the Troublemakers mailing list and how you can support this and other projects by a brilliant, athletic, gifted, and handsome author (me).

  For Eriko

  Troublemakers

  The Good Track

  Middle school is a pretty great scam, when you get down to it. Think about it: you’re old enough to stay home alone after school without having to go to the Readers program in the library, yet you still don’t have any real responsibilities. That leaves several hours between when seventh period lets out and when your parents get home that you can fill with absolute mayhem. You ever have an egg fight? It’s like a water balloon fight, but you’re whipping raw eggs at each other. My cousin taught it to me in Palm Desert, where you can leave old eggs on the ground for vultures or whatever because it’s the middle of nowhere, but you can also just do it inside the grocery store; that way some dumb 17-year-old has to clean it up, and you don’t even have to pay for the eggs. “We’re 12! We didn’t know any better!” Suckers.

  Middle school is the perfect place for enterprising young minds like myself and my associates, Tina and Byron, to make fat stacks of cash. My name is Carlos. You’ve probably heard of me. I’m the top entrepreneur at Carver Middle School.

  Kids are getting big allowances now. They’ve got money, and they need someone to help them spend it, which is what I’m good at. My friends and I provide what kids don’t realize they need at low, low prices, until the administration finds out. Toys, candy, pens with bikini ladies on them – I’ve got a backpack full of items to sell at all times.

  Some small-minded individuals like my mom think our time should be spent learning, but I’m too much of a disruptor for that. Many famous innovators like Bill Gates, Magic Johnson, and Ryan Seacrest dropped out of college, so I see no reason not to do them one better and stop right now so I can concentrate on becoming a titan of industry.

  Another thing that makes middle school great is that the teachers are easy to take advantage of. We live in South Central Los Angeles, and half the teachers at our school are bungholes from the suburbs who wouldn’t set foot in this neighborhood if they weren’t getting paid and think we’re all packing heat. Make up some story about how you witnessed a murder, and they’ll let you turn in a project like three weeks late.

  Also, most teachers are too lazy to change their quizzes from year to year. All you have to do is collect every paper you find in the trash, keep ‘em in a file, and dig them out when necessary. And even if you do fail a test, you’ll probably be fine. In fact, if everyone fails the test, the teacher will assume it was too hard and erase it from the grade book. Of course, there’s always one goody-goody who screws up that plan, so you have to figure out who it is and lock them in a closet.

  Plus, did you know you can’t actually get expelled from middle school? People argue with me on this, but I’m pretty sure I’m right. It’s a public school; LAUSD has to educate you by law. Believe me, if they could kick anyone out, it would be the three of us, but they aren’t allowed. We’re invincible.

  We take advantage of middle school to do what we were born to do: start businesses and get rich. Most of our ideas are pretty brilliant, and this one was no exception.

  We started out at my house at around seven in the morning, right after my mom left for work. She’s a nurse, which means she works four 10-hour shifts per week. As long as it’s a Monday, Wednesday, Friday, or Saturday, I can do whatever I want. The rest of the time, I tell a lot of lies for the good of our relationship.

  Byron was standing on the coffee table, and Tina and I were sewing like mad to get his jacket ready. We did his first because he’s the smallest. I consider myself to be the leader of the group, but I don’t say that out loud because I try to minimize how often I’m punched in the face. Byron had his big black coat on, and we were attaching the bags to the inside, checking after each one to make sure they weren’t visible from the exterior.

  “Ow!” shouted Byron. “You keep poking me with the needles!”

  “I could slice you across the cheek with a bread knife,” offered Tina. “Then the needles will hurt less by comparison.”

  Tina is the muscle. She was raised by her dad, so she’s lacking in… let’s say “feminine charm.” It’s best not to make her mad.

  “I guess we could have done this before you put it on,” I said. “Oh, well.”

  Byron had a winter coat already. I had to get mine from Goodwill. Tina just stole one from her dad, which was great because it went all the way to the floor, so more space for bags.

  “I feel hot,” said Byron, rolling his head around. “I might pass out before we get to school.”

  “You want some ice down your pants?” I asked.

  He thought for a moment.

  “I’m not sure,” he said.

  That’s Byron, full name Lord Byron Kensington Lancelot Huang. Byron’s mom is Chinese, but I guess she didn’t like China very much, because she decided to raise him British. She forces him to eat black pudding and drink tea, he’s only allowed TV on Sunday afternoons, and for his birthday, he gets old copies of Shakespeare plays. On someone else it might have had an effect; however, Byron has the intelligence of an underachieving seashell, so he’s snobby without a lot to back it up.

  “What if some ingrate asks us why we’re wearing giant puffy coats when it’s 75 degrees out?” he asked.

  “Just tell them to shut up,” said Tina.

  We work well as a team.

  Only three months into sixth grade, we were already the premiere entrepreneurs/criminal masterminds of the school. Our ventures had gained us quite a bit of notoriety among the student body and community at large.

  __________

  Why We’re Famous

  Some of the scams we’ve pulled at our school are legendary, and will likely be admired for generations. I usually come up with the blueprints, because I have a mind for business.

  For instance, do you know how much private tutors charge? Byron’s half-brother is getting ready for the SAT, and pays sixty dollars a session for some dork who goes to USC to get him ready for the test. That’s easy money. All we had to do was ace the state achievement test; if we got perfect scores, other kids’ parents would pay us to tutor their children so they could get into private high schools and not have to go to class with kids like us.

  And, as fortune would have it, a kid with IBS had just sued the district for not letting him go to the bathroom when he needed to, so there were now unlimited bathroom breaks for all students, even on test days. So, during the test, we simply stated that we had to go to the bathroom, went to the library, and used the computer to hire a virtual assistant in India to look up the answers for us.

  He got a little mouthy, telling us we should really learn this stuff on our own, but eventually he coughed up the answers. It would have gone perfectly, but we probably shouldn’t have paid for it using a credit card w
e stole from Mrs. Middleton’s purse. But that’s what school is about: learning experiences.

  Then there was the Junior Business Achievers. That’s an after-school club for lame jamrogs who are gonna grow up to be corporate slaves because they don’t have the vision to found awesome startups. We only joined for the magazine sales.

  By the way, I’m aware that “jamrog” isn’t an actual term. But we’re in middle school, where you get in mad trouble if you swear, so we have to invent our own swears that teachers aren’t familiar with. That way, when we say them, we don’t get detention. So, when I say something like “fud” or “grumblewumbus,” just go ahead and replace it with a string of profanity so vile it causes your dog to lose respect for you.

  Anyway, JBA was selling magazines to raise money for whatever it is they do there. You got three dollars for every subscription you signed people up for (and yes, they check to make sure it’s legitimate, so we couldn’t just sign Armando up for twenty subscriptions to Women’s Health). But you got five dollars for every subscription to The Economist, which personally I find fascinating but is too advanced for most 12-year-old minds.

  So we bought a copy of The Economist, removed the cover, and then stapled it around one of the magazines Tina’s dad keeps under his bed. Dirty magazine, fake cover. Then we left it in the boys’ bathroom and waited. By the end of the day, every boy in school was coming to us asking to subscribe to The Economist. Easy money.

  Of course, we got in trouble because one kid complained to his mom once he got his first issue and there was no nudity, which you have to respect, because I can’t imagine how that conversation went. We had to give the money back, although I don’t see how we were at fault. We were encouraging reading, which should be commended. Frankly, I’d be worried about all the boys who didn’t sign up. They must not have parental filters on their phones. We don’t even have phones, but that wouldn’t be a problem as soon as we got rich off our latest grift.

  __________

  The Jackets

  Here’s the deal: kids love soda; that’s just a fact. But those do-gooders on the school board were worried about our teeth falling out, so they banned soda machines from all elementary and middle schools. That meant we could make a killing selling sodas to desperate kids in need of their daily fix. However, it wasn’t as simple as just stuffing a 12-pack into a backpack every morning before school. A 20-ounce is easy to spot, and you can’t trust young customers not to squeal about where they got their Code Red.

  Plus, with cans and bottles, there’s the dreaded “soda noise.” You know the one. Everyone’s sitting in class, and the teacher turns on Remember The Titans to teach us how football solves racism. The lights go off, the movie’s on, everyone is silent, and then: “Sssssssssttttttttt!” Some dumb-dumb ruins the soda train for everyone by opening at the wrong moment.

  Anyone could come up with the idea of selling sodas, but it takes a true visionary to beat others to the market by designing a workflow that’s both cost-effective and user-friendly.

  That’s why we developed the Camel-Puff, a coat lined with plastic bags of various sodas that could then be siphoned into individual customers’ water bottles and/or mouths at a dollar a pop. Byron calls it the Soda Jacket. I say it’s the Camel-Puff. Tina tells us to shut up.

  We were able to get fifteen bags into each coat using my mom’s sewing kit, with only a minimum of liquid displacement (soda spilled on the carpet). Byron and I were making last-minute tweaks to Tina’s coat to see if we could get some extra bags on her butt.

  “Here’s why this plan is so genius,” I said. “If we get noticed, what could even happen? ‘Hey, why are you sucking on that guy’s coat sleeve?’ They’d never suspect there’s Sprite in there.”

  “And it’s tax-free,” said Tina. “Best idea is to convert it all to gold. The government’s gonna implode any day now, and after that, only the strong survive.”

  “First thing I’m gonna buy is a top-notch security system,” said Byron. “You can’t trust the help. I want eyes on them at all times to make sure they’re not stealing my jewelry or putting my designer threads in the dryer.”

  “Ow!” screamed Tina.

  “Hold still,” said Byron.

  “Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll bite off your earlobes so you look like a freak.”

  There was essentially nothing that could go wrong. I say “essentially” because of all the stuff that then went wrong.

  Here’s what happened: we walked to school at 8:15 like normal, although we had to pick up the pace halfway there because we hadn’t accounted for the difficulties in walking or how much we’d be sweating. Tina drank a little of her neck inventory just to stay hydrated.

  As we went up the steps, Ron, the security guard, grabbed Byron.

  “Why don’t you wait here until that stops leaking,” he said.

  We turned around and looked back. Perhaps hopping a fence to save 30 seconds wasn’t a good idea. Byron hadn’t noticed that his coat had gotten caught and one of the bags had punctured. He’d left a trail of Monster Energy for the last half-mile or so.

  This was a setback, but not something we couldn’t handle. Byron’s main skill is that he’s completely unafraid to look like a weenie by crying as soon as we get in trouble. It’s very useful.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, quickening his breath. “I have accidents sometimes; my diaper is leaking. Please don’t tell the other kids!” He sobbed. Ron looked unmoved.

  “Excuse my associate,” I said, stepping in. “He’s had a rough day. But you seem like a reasonable man, so I’m sure we can take care of this without involving the authorities. Perhaps I can interest you in a baggie full of Diet Pepsi. I assume you like Diet because you’re old.”

  He did not appear swayed by my entreaties. Also, it should be noted that Ron has biceps the size of Byron’s waist.

  “All three of you wait right here,” he said, pulling out his walkie-talkie.

  “I’m not waiting around to get thrown in the slammer!” shouted Tina. She sprinted into the school.

  “Hey!” shouted Ron.

  Tina made it as far as the main hall. Several teachers were still standing outside their classroom doors, making escape seemingly impossible. Then she got an idea. She pulled a pen out of her pocket and raised it to the sky.

  “So long, suckers!” she said, stabbing the pen into several spots on her coat to let all the liquid escape. She dove to the ground, ready to ride the wave of soda far, far away. She ended up just writhing on the floor as a sticky puddle formed around her. Byron and I were glad we were too lazy to run.

  So anyway, there we were in the principal’s office. She was doing that thing where she looks down at our files, then up at us, and then back down without saying anything. Seen it before. Only scary if you pay attention to it.

  “How many times have the three of you been in my office?” she asked.

  “That you know about, or total?” I asked.

  She sighed. She sighs a lot when we’re around.

  “Every week, I have to deal with some new scheme you’ve concocted to try and extort money from your classmates when you’re supposed to be learning.”

  “That’s insulting. We do way more than one a week,” said Byron. Tina elbowed him.

  Principal Caldwell looked at me.

  “Carlos. Last month, your social studies class did a diorama project. You got a B. The day everyone was to take their dioramas home, it was raining outside. They had the option of leaving them in the classroom over the weekend, but many didn’t because you sold them ‘waterproof covers’ to keep them dry.”

  “That is correct. It was a legitimate business.”

  “They didn’t work. Everyone’s projects were ruined.”

  “I said ‘All sales are final.’ That means I can’t get in trouble.”

  “No, it doesn’t, because you’re not supposed to be selling things in school anyway,” she said, looking at the next item on her list. “Lord Byr
on… I may call you Byron?”

  “I prefer ‘Sir’ from people of your station.”

  “What television did you learn that from?” she said.

  “PBS. Masterpiece Theatre is my jam.”

  “You sold students broken ‘wireless headphones.’”

  “I didn’t say they were Bluetooth headphones,” said Byron. “I said they were wireless, which was true. There were no wires on them because I cut the wires. I never promised you could listen to music on them.”

  “Tina,” said Principal Caldwell, moving along. “On school picture day, you brought a water gun filled with Kool-Aid and demanded students give you money, or else you’d shoot them with it and ruin their nice outfits.”

  “Yeah, I did that,” she said.

  “Then after they paid, you shot them anyway.”

  Tina shrugged.

  “They deserved it.”

  She took off her glasses, which meant it was serious time.

  “You can’t just go around doing whatever you want. This is a school.”

  “Mrs. Caldwell,” I said, “we’re capitalists. We simply provide services based on what the market dictates. And the market says that homework is stupid but getting rich is awesome. That’s social science.”

  “Will you be talking back so much if I call your fathers about this?” she asked.

  “Don’t have a dad,” I said. “Better walk that one back before I get the ASPCA or whoever involved.”

  “My dad’s either a guy in prison or a star of Broadway musicals,” said Byron. “I usually tell people the convict because it plays better in this neighborhood.”

  “My dad’s pretty cool,” said Tina. “No complaints there. But he works nights, and I wouldn’t wake him up unless you want a lecture about what’s wrong with our generation. You’re never gonna believe this, but he thinks we’re soft.”