“Three-two-one GO!” the pilot shouted, pushing George out of the plane.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” George screamed as he free-fell toward solid ground, but then he remembered to deploy his parachute, and he began to glide.
It was peaceful, floating downward. He watched the plane fly out of sight with a strange lump in his throat. He knew that he had done the right thing, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t miss his best friend.
Don’t forget about our new mission, he thought, and he instantly felt better.
He landed in a garden, crushing begonias under his bum. After he was shooed away by a cranky little man, George began marching toward home.
Of course, he didn’t exactly know where home was from the cranky little man’s garden, so he spent a good half hour getting completely lost. But, by the time the sun had set, he was finally walking into his house.
But he paused for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. He’d been so homesick for so long, and all he wanted to do now was fold up into his family’s hugs. But it was also scary to be back home. The last time he was here, he was a completely different person. He’d changed so much in three months at Pilfer. What would they think of him now?
He opened the door.
Shoes clopped his way, and his mother rounded the corner.
Her jaw dropped when she saw him. “George!” his mother gasped. “JERRY! COME QUICK! KIDS! GEORGE IS HOME!”
Footsteps pounded across the house, and faces popped up from all around—his father came running from his office, Colby from upstairs, Gunther from the kitchen, Corman from the basement, and Rosie ran from the family room and tackled him round the middle.
After everyone had gotten at least five hugs in, they all settled in the family room. George’s mom grabbed some cookies from the jar on the kitchen counter, arranged them on a platter, and served them to the family. And everyone kept firing questions at George so fast that his head was spinning.
“What’s your favorite class?”
“What are your friends like?”
“How are your grades?”
“Do you like the food?”
“We’ve enjoyed your letters, George, honey.”
At this, George furrowed his brow. “My what?”
“Your letters! The ones you’ve sent every week. Though your writing has been a bit . . . atrocious. I hope they’re working on improving your writing skills?”
“Can I see one?” George asked.
“Of course! This one just arrived today—I wish you had warned us you were coming home, though—we have a lot of stuff on your side of the bedroom.” His mother handed him a letter. It was written in chicken scratch that looked similar to his own, but he knew his own handwriting well enough to know that it wasn’t his. He read the contents:
Dear Family,
I’m joying the very especial school. Thanks for sending me to Champeaux Institute for the Extra Ordinary Gifted and Talented Future Leaders of the World. And on scholarship, too!
This week, I’m meeting some of the a bassidors and ristorcats for supper and high tea. I love rumpets with preservatives—it’s my most favoritist snack. Got to go meet some friends for homework—we have many essays to write about the constifusion of the United Steaks of America.
Love,
George Bucket
George smiled. This had Ballyrag written all over it.
“Sorry, Mom,” he said. “I was just in a rush.”
“So tell us all about your school!” his dad said, biting into a cookie. “How much harder is it than public school?”
George thought about all the obstacle courses and the ridiculous tasks and the classes where he had to stand still for sixty minutes. “It was very difficult,” he said. “And very different.”
“Hey, isn’t it a little early for winter break?” his big sister Colby asked. “It’s only the first of November!”
“Oh, yeah, the school’s no longer running anymore.”
“No longer running?”
“George!” his mother said. “Y-you didn’t get expelled or something, did you?”
His father spit out his last bit of cookie, mid-chew. “Expelled?”
“I didn’t! I swear!”
His mother breathed a sigh of relief.
George thought of Tabitha, and how they’d worked together to do the right thing. How he did good, even when he was being taught to do the opposite, even when every adult had expected him to be a criminal.
George laughed. “I swear, I haven’t been naughty. In fact,” he added, beaming with pride, “I’ve actually been very, very good.”
Doing Good
“Are we there yet?” George asked for the twentieth time in the last five minutes.
“No,” his brother Derek said. “For the last time, we are not there yet.”
George waited a moment. “Okay, how about now?”
“How about I turn this car around?” Derek grumbled.
George bounced in his seat; he could hardly wait. Ever since Derek arrived home from college for winter break, George had begged Derek to take him on a road trip. He could tell that his manipulation skills had gotten better at thief school because it only took Derek four days to cave—instead of his usual three weeks.
“Are we there yet?”
“Not. There. Yet.” Derek rubbed his temples, like he had a really bad headache coming on. “What’s so important to you about this trip? It’s an awfully random town.”
“There’s just something I have to do, okay?”
“Something that involves . . . a teddy bear,” Derek teased.
“Yes,” George said, holding the teddy bear in his lap a little bit tighter. “It’s important.”
Derek shrugged. “You owe me big time, squirt.”
“Thank you,” George said. “And I promise to never touch your stuff again. Maybe.”
Derek laughed.
At long last, the car slid to a stop in front of a white house, in a clustered neighborhood, in a valley beneath a hill.
“I’ll be right back,” George said, getting out of the car. He ran across the way, thankful that he had the foresight to have Derek park a few houses down.
For Derek’s benefit, George pretended to ring the doorbell. But the second Derek looked down at his phone, George dove off the porch and crawled behind the bushes until he was out of Derek’s line of sight. Then George went straight to the gutter, wrapped a sock around it, and began to use that to shimmy himself up the drainpipe. When—at last—he reached the roof, he rather ungracefully rolled himself onto the landing, crept over to the window, removed the screen, and yanked up on wood. The window slid open, just wide enough for George to wiggle inside.
There were noises coming from downstairs, and George knew he had to be extra quiet. So he tiptoed over to the crib and gently placed the stuffed bear beside the sleeping toddler.
He inched back to the window, put one foot outside, and when he turned around—the toddler was awake and blinking at him.
“Shhhhhh!” he said.
“Bear bear!” she hollered, jumping up and down in her crib. She was practically hyperventilating. “Bear bear! Bear bear!”
George squirmed the rest of himself through the window, and barely had time to shut it before her dad came bursting in.
“HONEY!” he hollered. “DID YOU FIND BEAR BEAR?”
“BEAR BEAR!” the toddler shrieked. “BEAR BEAR!”
Her mom came running into the room, and her parents celebrated the mysterious return of Bear Bear by taking turns tickling their toddler. Neither one of them even noticed George crouching outside the window, nose pressed up against the glass, a big, fat grin on his face.
To my many Partners-in-Crime:
Dean Dean Deanbugle once said that a good thief should never say thank you
. . . but phooey to that!
First and foremost, thanks to my family crime ring: Mama “Mastermind” Mags, Dad “Bigcheese” Magaziner, and Michael “Mustacheman” Magaziner. I’ll take you three in my getaway car every day!
To the Thieves of Team Dial—thanks for being my accomplices! Special thanks to Lauri “Headhoncho” Hornik and Namrata “Quickwit” Tripathi for all the cheerleading and support.
Rosanne “Safetynet” Lauer, thanks for catching all my mistakes. You’re copyediting gold! Vanessa “Prowess” Robles, thank you for all your behind-the-scenes work and for keeping this book on track.
Thank you to my lovely cover designers: Cara “Craftmaster” Petrus, Maggie “Creativeflair” Olsen, and Dana “Artchamp” Li. And hugs to my wonderful interior designer: Nancy “Visionary” Leo-Kelly. You all made Pilfer Academy wickedly fun, inside and out!
To the Thieves of Marketing, Sales, Publicity, and School & Library: may you all be blessed with never-ending supplies of pasta and Triple-dipple Ultra-deluxe Melty Creamy Creamer Rainbow Swizzle Milk Munch Ice Cream.
Tara “Sweettalker” Shanahan, publicist extraordinaire! Thanks for your enthusiasm, your savvy marketing ideas, and your superhuman pitching skills. You are one smooth criminal!
Nancy “Suckerpunch” Conescu—you suckerpunched my first few drafts in the very best way! Thanks for your editorial wisdom, for helping me grow this idea from a seedling to a manuscript, for laying the tracks in the beginning, and for shaping this book so influentially.
Brianne “Sharkeyes” Johnson, my dearest darlingest crook! Thank you for championing this book from the first time George laid eyes on a T.rex riding a fighter plane. You know what? Thank you just doesn’t seem like enough. So instead, I shall appoint you the Keeper of the Whirlyblerg (for all your dastardly whims).
Stacey “Wordwrencher” Friedberg, my clever editor and Distinguished Thief of the Highest Honor. You are the Tabitha to my George, the Strongarm to my Ballyrag, the eyebrows to my Dean Dean Deanbugle. In other words: I truly could not have done this without you. Every page, every paragraph, every sentence is a shrine to your killer editorial instincts. Thank you—THANK YOU—for believing in our thieves!
The Crowning Jewel of my thief career was the day I stole you all!
About the Author
Lauren Magaziner is originally from New Hope, Pennsylvania. Her first book, The Only Thing Worse Than Witches, was an Indie Next List Pick. Lauren lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she writes full time.
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!
Pilfer Academy Page 17