Pilfer Academy

by Lauren Magaziner

  “George.”

  “Your full name?”

  “George Beckett.”

  “Your full full name?”

  “George Gilbert Beckett.”

  “What is your ultimate thieving goal?”

  “To . . . uh . . . steal the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Do you enjoy Pilfer Academy of Filching Arts (We Steal Things)?”

  George’s heart did a little kick. “Yes, of course,” he lied.

  “Now complete this sentence: Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled . . .”

  “Pickles?”

  “Peppers.”

  “Peppers?”

  “A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.”

  George scratched his head. “Uh . . . What are we talking about, sir?”

  The dean smiled. “This is a human lie detector test.”

  “But . . . but you haven’t put any wires on me. And you’re not even holding my wrists to feel a pulse.”

  “Oh, I can determine the truth with my brain alone.”

  “Well . . . what’s this all about?”

  “You’ll never guess what happened to me just two days ago,” Dean Dean Deanbugle said. “Go on. Guess.”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Guess!”

  “I really have no idea—”

  “Guessssssssss!” the dean whined.

  “You stole something?”

  “Wrong! I ate a plate of the most delicious macaroni I’ve ever had. But you’ll never guess what happened yesterday.”

  “You had another plate of macaroni?”

  “No! Well, yes! Yes, I did. But also, a student told me yesterday that you wished to leave Pilfer, George . . . so I decided to find out whether there was any truth to this matter, or whether this was a normal bout of academic envy.”

  “But . . . who?”

  “Someone very close to you,” Dean Dean Deanbugle said, slurping up some stroganoff. He got gravy all over his chin, but he did absolutely nothing to wipe it up. “In fact, you might even say that you and this person are . . . thick as thieves!” The dean paused to slap his knee. “Get it? Get it?”

  George smiled weakly, but a stab of betrayal hit him in the gut. It had to be Tabitha—she was the only one who knew what he was really feeling. But how could she double-cross him like that?

  “But I’ve determined that there is nothing to this rumor. You’ve passed the lie detector test.”

  “That’s . . . that’s great,” George hesitated.

  But Dean Dean Deanbugle didn’t notice—as he stood up and bent over, his back arched like a wishbone. He stuck his face close to the plate, pointed his long tongue, and began licking the plate clean like a cat. Finally, when there was nothing but saliva left, the dean stood up, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and said, “Deeeeeelicious. But next time, do bring that tray. Or I’ll send you to the whirlyblerg!”

  George winced.

  “Don’t worry, George,” the dean continued. “This false, malicious rumor didn’t taint my opinion of you. You are still my protégé, my favorite student, the crème de la crème of this institution. You know who you remind me of?”

  “You, sir?”

  “No! Of course not! I’m the only me special enough to remind me of me! But you, George, remind me of Sir Nicolas Hurtsalot, my very first favorite pupil. Very accomplished thief, never been caught. Very famous among the thieving world for stealing the president’s underpants. During a live speech, no less.” Dean Dean Deanbugle took a deep breath. “I’m so glad that there’s no truth to this most disgraceful rumor. You have a good day now, George.”

  George stood up and made his way to the door, trying to ignore Dean Dean Deanbugle chanting behind him:

  “Whirlyblerg spin!

  Whirlyblerg fly!

  Just throw them in the whirlyblerg

  And say good-bye!”

  Friendship Over

  As soon as he was back in the grand marble hall, George lost his cool.

  He raged through the school. It had to be Tabitha. She was the only person he told. Was this why she was so cold lately? Did she feel so guilty that she couldn’t face him? Could they go from being best friends one moment to nothing the next? Maybe he was just deluding himself into thinking they were really friends after all.

  He rounded a corner and ran smack into Milo.

  “OW!” they both said together, rubbing their shoulders where they’d collided.

  “GEORGE!” Milo snarled. “You—you’re trying to break my leg aren’t you?” Milo’s eyes widened, and then he began kicking and smashing his leg against the wall.

  “What are you doing?!” George cried.

  “HELP! TEACHERS! COME QUICK! GEORGE IS BREAKING MY LEG!”

  “What! No I’m not! You’re breaking your own leg!”

  Milo grinned wickedly. “Now I got you! COME QUICK! SOMEONE!” he yelled again, now punching his leg with his fists.

  “I—I don’t have time for this!” George said, brushing past him and sprinting away from the scene of the bizarre self-inflicted crime.

  George went back to searching for Tabitha, and he knew exactly where Tabitha would be after 8:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. He stormed into the library and, sure enough, she was in her usual study chair beneath a sign that read:

  SHHHH! THIS IS A LIBRARY!

  IF I HEAR YOU TALKING, I’LL SNATCH YOUR BAG. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT I DO.

  —Bagsnatcher

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he said quietly.

  Tabitha looked up, startled.

  “Find out what?” she said, quieter than quietly.

  “That you went to Dean Dean Deanbugle?” he said, quieter than quieter than quietly.

  “I did what?” she breathed.

  “You—you went to him—making up rumors about me. Lying to him about . . . about stuff,” he muttered.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” she uttered, retreating back behind her book.

  George pulled the book out of her hands. “You said we were friends,” he sighed.

  “Friends?” she grumbled. “Oh, like you’ve been a good one of those lately.”

  “Well, I guess we’re not friends anymore,” George hushed.

  Tabitha stood up, tears in her eyes. “Fine,” she hissed.

  “Fine,” he whispered.

  “Fine,” she mouthed.

  George was determined to get the last murmur, but the librarian, Bagsnatcher, waddled over to their table. “I daresay, can you fight a little louder?”

  Tabitha’s eyebrows knit together. “But this is a library!”

  “Of course,” Bagsnatcher said. “Which means that everyone’s doing lots of boring work, studying very hard, and having absolutely no fun. We could all use a good distraction.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a plastic bag full of popcorn, and began munching loudly, watching them with interest.

  Nothing breaks up a private fight like a public audience, and so George turned on his heels and marched into the hall, to the boos and hisses of his classmates who were hoping to witness a brawl.

  George replayed their fight over and over in his head, and he kept feeling sicker and sicker about it as the day wore on. Could their friendship really be over?

  At night, he lay on his bed for hours. He had a miserable sleep, twisting and turning under his covers, unable to shut off his brain. He was thankful when dawn broke, so he could put on his slippers and take a stroll around the mansion.

  Room by room, he ambled around, looking at the plaques that detailed what each exhibit was, who it was taken from, and when it was taken. He knew the mansion was big, but it was the first time he realized how enormous it really was—and how many generations’ worth of things had been stolen in the name of Pilfer
Academy.

  He was alone in his wanderings until he hit the first floor. Crossing in front of the Robin Hood Room was Robin Gold in her pajamas.

  “Early morning stroll?” George said.

  She smiled brightly. “Actually,” she said, looking around to make sure no one else was in the hall, “I just woke up on a foam pit. I guess I sleepwalked into the Robin Hood Room last night. . . .”

  “Lucky you didn’t get caught!” George said.

  “Even my sleepwalks are sneaky! Why are you out here? Are you okay? I haven’t seen anyone this glum since my great-aunt Gertrude choked on a finger sandwich.”

  George sighed.

  “I wish you two would stop fighting already,” Robin said. “Tabitha is really upset. She keeps crying at night. She thinks I don’t hear her, but I do.”

  He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

  “You know how much your friendship means to her, right?”

  George wasn’t sure it meant anything to her. He folded his arms stubbornly.

  “Anyway, you should just go talk to her,” Robin insisted, and she scurried away.

  • • •

  All day, George tried not to look at Tabitha in class, but he found that he couldn’t stop glancing at her. And the more he glanced at her, the more he thought about how mad he was. How hurt he was. How betrayed he felt.

  How their friendship was over.

  But there was one good thing that came out of this: Their fight was the final push he needed. Because now that he’d lost Tabitha, there was nothing keeping him at Pilfer anymore.

  Failures for All!

  George spent the next two weeks coming up with different escape plans in his head. (He didn’t dare write anything down, just in case someone stole the incriminating evidence.) By the end of the second week, he had many options:

  1. Dig a tunnel under the wall

  2. Climb the wall

  3. Steal Dean Dean Deanbugle’s key to the school

  4. Get a fourth-year to let him out, using one of their special swipe cards at the secret exit

  5. Swipe the fighter plane from the lobby, find some gas, and fly it out of here

  6. Steal the trampoline from the Robin Hood Room and use it to jump over the wall

  7. Find where they’re keeping the ice-cream trucks and drive home

  8. Let the exotic bugs exhibit loose inside the school, and escape as the exterminator is let in

  He had a zillion other plans, too, but the problem with all these ideas was that he had no idea where Pilfer was—or what to do once he escaped. How would he get home? And what would stop his teachers from coming after him? They had been watching him for a long time before they kidnapped him, so they knew where he lived, who his family was, and how to find him. They could just drag him back by his toes and toss him in the whirlyblerg for trying to escape, and there would be nothing he could do about it.

  So he pondered and pondered and pondered some more. After his last class that Friday, George sat down on a couch in the Blackbeard Wing to mull over his options again with a decoy schoolbook on his lap.

  What sort of escape plot would let him go home permanently? How could he avoid being forced to participate in this school? Or worse, sent to the whirlyblerg?

  He stared at the pages, thinking.

  “Homework on a Friday afternoon?” said a voice behind him. George whipped around to find Strongarm beaming. “I fought for your admission, you know. Some of the other teachers wanted to choose this gymnast girl because of her double-back-handspring-back-tuck. Impressive, indeed, but you are much more sneakerific.”

  “Sneakerific?”

  “It’s Ballyrag’s new word for when someone is sneaktastic. Or maybe he was talking about his collection of sneakers . . . it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

  George nodded. It’s funny, he thought, that Strongarm thinks I’m working so hard on my homework. If only she knew I was plotting my escape!

  “Don’t expect too much from my next homework assignment,” George said. “I’m . . . erm . . . having a tough time with this new material.”

  “Do you need extra tutoring? Where’s your partner in crime—Miss Tabitha Crawford? Maybe she could help you. We wouldn’t want you to fail out now, would we?”

  “Fail out?” he wheezed, thinking only of the miserable expression on every single waiter’s face. “But—I—how—”

  “Oh, dear boy, I’m just kidding!” Strongarm cackled. “You won’t fail out! Of that, I am certain.”

  George breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Everyone at this school is the best of the best,” Strongarm reminded him. “And if someone’s not good at theory or stealth, you can bet they’ll be good at some specialty. Why, just before you got here, we moved up a boy from second to third year. He was failing every class—but he is the best pickpocket this school has ever seen!”

  George hesitated. They were tap-dancing around the topic—right on a razor’s edge of the truth—and he knew this was his chance to get some real information, if he just asked the right things. “So . . .” he said cautiously. “What about the waitstaff? Weren’t they once the best of the best, too?”

  Strongarm sucked in a sharp breath. “I don’t believe this conversation is appropriate, George. You won’t fail out, I assure you—”

  “Please,” George said, and he sniveled into a tissue for dramatic effect, which was a manipulation trick he’d picked up from Ballyrag’s class. “A third-year told me that I’ll become part of the waitstaff if I don’t have a good prank for Mischief Night,” he lied. “I’m so very scared!”

  “Poppycock! Codswallop! Twaddle! Claptrap! Drivel! Rubbish! Tosh! Tripe! Baloney! Bunkum!”

  “Are . . . are you okay?” George interrupted.

  “Here’s the truth of the matter, George, and don’t you go telling anyone I told you this.” She looked around frantically and dropped her voice to a very loud whisper. “The people who fail here fail because they want to fail.”

  “Huh?”

  “If you give up, you fail. If you don’t want to try, you fail. If your heart’s not in it . . .”

  George’s stomach walloped.

  “But,” Strongarm said, “if you try, try, try, then you’ll move up to the next level in anywhere from a few months to about seven years.” She cleared her throat. “Ah, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you’ll think this school’s too easy.”

  “I don’t think it’s easy at all,” George said quietly, but Strongarm didn’t hear him as she began shouting, “FAILURES FOR ALL! YOU FAIL AND YOU FAIL AND YOU FAIL! EVERYONE FAILS!”

  She ran down the hallway, and for minutes after, George could hear her shouting, “FAILURE!” at students.

  Now he knew: He had to prove to them that he still wanted to be here. But somehow make them not want him. And there was only one way to do that.

  He had to get expelled.

  My Best Work . . . Honest!

  George got to work right away by completing his homework entirely, 100 percent wrong.

  But the real work began once the weekend was over. On Monday morning, he had an exam in Thieving Theory.

  “G’luck,” Ballyrag said, plopping the test paper in front of George.

  Question 1: How would you break into a building with heavy security?

  I would walk right in. If any guards tried to stop me, I would sing to distract them. Once inside, I would bribe everyone with string cheese to keep quiet about all this. Also, I must introduce myself, so that I become the most FAMOUS SUPER THIEF IN ALL THE WORLD.

  George smiled to himself. That would surely get him an F.

  Question 2: What is the acronym you must remember for when a situation gets out of hand?

  George knew the real answer was RASH: Run And Stay Hidden. But instead he wrote:


  STATE

  Stay

  There

  And

  Tickle

  Everyone

  By the end of the test, George was sure that he had failed just enough to make it seem like he wasn’t cut out for thievery.

  When the bell rang, George handed in his exam, and followed his classmates toward Practical Applications of Breaking and Entering—when someone patted him on the shoulder.

  “How’d you do, George?” Neal asked.

  “Oh, um, all right I think.”

  “I thought the test went awesomely. I think I’m a shoe-in for a key next time rankings come out.”

  “I’m sure you are,” George said sincerely, thinking that Neal would probably have his key.

  “Yeah, I’ve been struggling with Thieving Theory, but luckily Robin has been tutoring me. We studied like crazy this weekend. I must have aced—”

  They walked into the big ballroom, to find a set of extra tall monkey bars set up. Beneath the monkey bars was an inflatable pool, filled to the brim with creamed spinach. Strongarm stood next to the monkey bars, wiggling her arms excitedly as she waited for them all to file in.

  “What’s this?” Adam called out.

  “THE MONKEY BARS OF DOOM!” Strongarm shouted gleefully. “You have to get across all the monkey bars to pass. If you fall into the spinach, it’s an automatic delicious snack. Now who would like to try their luck?”

  George raised his hand quickly . . . even quicker than Tabitha.

  “George!” Strongarm said. “I saw you first! Come on up!”

  George walked up to the ladder and climbed up. Everyone was silent except for Strongarm, who was giggling madly.

  When he got to the top, George put his hand on the first bar to start traveling across, but his hand slid right off. “What the—” He tried again, but it slipped again. There was no way to grip the monkey bars.

  “I’VE BUTTERED THEM!” Strongarm cackled. “AND OILED THEM! Why, I’ve OTTERED—NO, NO! I’VE BOILED THEM! That’s the combination between buttered and oiled, you know.”

  George was hardly paying attention to her.

  If he were doing this obstacle course for real, then he’d climb up on top of the monkey bars—so that they were below him—and crawl across. But he had to make himself try and fail.