The Joke's on Us

by Gordon Korman

  It seemed as though the world stood still, presenting this frozen diorama: Bruno and Boots huddled under the trees; Cathy and Diane pointing in horror; Mr. Sturgeon staring in slack-jawed wonder; and Miss Scrimmage, still clutching her shotgun, swinging upside down like a pendulum.

  Cathy was the first to find her voice. “Well, what do you know?” she said in awe. “The book was right. It does work!”

  * * *

  Tyrannosaurus Rex was having a lazy evening. He had polished off a truly astonishing amount of rice pudding, snuck out to him one bowl at a time by his admirers — the girls. He knew perfect contentment. His old attack-dog job could never compare with the comfortable life of a pampered pet.

  It was time for a nap — only, who could sleep with all that commotion coming from the orchard?

  He trotted around the back of the school. There he came upon Elmer Drimsdale, still trussed up like a turkey, with the basketball in his lap.

  Elmer was petrified. “Aaagh! Don’t eat me! Help!”

  Rex wagged his tail. Obviously, this friendly person wanted to play. He reached out a big sloppy tongue and licked Elmer from chin to hairline.

  “Aaagh!” In terror, Elmer rolled away onto his back.

  And, looking straight up, he saw it. The lights were on in a single second-floor room. There, framed by the window, was the face of Marylou Beakman. He felt a great surge of emotion. She looked twenty times more ravishing than he remembered from the Summer Science Fair. He watched as she opened the window and leaned out. He half expected her to say, “Elmer, Elmer, wherefore art thou, Elmer?”

  But this blissful vision was shattered as he watched a visitor climb out of her window onto the TV antenna mast. Elmer couldn’t make out the person’s face as the figure descended to the ground. But one thing was certain — the visitor was male.

  All the fears and shocks and disasters of tonight were replaced by a much deeper tragedy.

  Marylou Beakman already had a boyfriend!

  Chapter 12

  Living on the Edge

  When Mr. Sturgeon limped home for lunch on Saturday, he found his wife staked out on the porch of their small cottage.

  “Well?” she asked anxiously.

  The Headmaster smiled serenely. “I had a brisk and busy morning, thank you. What’s for lunch?”

  “That’s not what I mean,” said Mrs. Sturgeon, annoyed. “I want you to tell me that you weren’t too hard on those poor boys.”

  The Headmaster breezed past her, dropped his cane in the umbrella stand and settled himself at the kitchen table. “I dispensed punishment, which, as you will recall, is my job.”

  “But don’t you think the boys have suffered enough?” she pleaded. “They were trapped in holes, tangled in nets, tied up like criminals. They were filthy and shivering with cold and fear. Poor Elmer Drimsdale was almost in tears.”

  “If they had stayed in their beds,” said her husband implacably, “none of that suffering would have taken place. Our rule book does not state, ‘Lights-out is at ten; you might consider going to sleep if you have absolutely nothing better to do.’”

  His wife frowned. “Well, I certainly hope you’re not picking on the boys because you can’t seem to catch up with this Phantom of yours.”

  “The Phantom is another matter entirely. I will catch him soon enough. And when I do, you will know the true meaning of punishment.”

  “You’re awful.” Mrs. Sturgeon placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of him. “And you were certainly awful to poor Miss Scrimmage last night. How could you leave her in the tree for almost an hour?”

  The Headmaster set his jaw. “My students were still in booby traps set out by her barbarians. Until our boys were safe, it made no difference to me if she were hanging by the neck!”

  “What on earth might have possessed the girls to do it?”

  Mr. Sturgeon shrugged. “Perhaps the traps were meant for that horrible dog. Or maybe they thought it might protect them from their voodoo curse. I have given up trying to understand those so-called young ladies from across the road. They are all as mentally stable as their Headmistress.”

  “Well, I’ve just spoken with her,” said Mrs. Sturgeon coldly. “She says that she has been phoning your office and that you will not respond to her calls.”

  “That is untrue,” the Headmaster defended himself. “I dispatched a memo by third-class mail asking if I had the honour of addressing the right-side-up Miss Scrimmage or the upside-down Miss Scrimmage.”

  A giggle escaped Mrs. Sturgeon, but her expression remained severe. “I’d like to see you display this type of humour where your sore toe is concerned.”

  A boyish grin broke through the Headmaster’s stern exterior. “Mildred, the sight of Miss Scrimmage whipping through the air in that booby trap was the most stupendous thing I have ever witnessed. If my sore toe were to spread up my leg, through my torso and into my brain and kill me, I would die a happy man for having seen it!”

  * * *

  Boots O’Neal stepped out of the back entrance of the Faculty Building carrying an armload of chalk erasers. He picked up two and began to pound them until his whole body was enveloped in a cloud of yellow dust. He backed away, snorting and sneezing.

  “Gesundheit,” called Sidney, who was picking up litter with a pointed stick. “Ow!” he added, missing a gum wrapper and jamming the sharp spike into his foot.

  “Hey,” called Boots, “how about we swap? I’ll go on garbage and you guys can do the erasers.”

  “In your dreams,” came a low grumble from Wilbur, who was sweeping leaves from the steps. “I have to preserve my nose. Taste is ninety percent smell, you know.”

  “Ah, there you are.” Edward O’Neal breezed up to his brother, waving a piece of paper. “I just got a letter from Mom. She’s pretty worried about you being in trouble all the time.”

  Boots stiffened. “She doesn’t know anything about this.”

  “She says,” Edward pretended to read, “Melvin has gone astray —”

  “That’s not a real letter!” Boots exploded. “That’s the flier from Schmidt’s Fertilizers!”

  Edward smiled sweetly. “I still think it’s pretty weird that I’m the one Mom said to watch, and you’re the one who’s pounding erasers.”

  “Hey, you’re not off the hook yet!” Boots challenged. “What’s your math grade? And what are you doing over at Scrimmage’s? And how would you like a knuckle sandwich?”

  “Math is cruising along, no problem,” Edward replied serenely. “I’ve got everything under control — which is a lot more than I can say for you.” He turned on his heel and strolled away. Boots bounced a chalk eraser off his back.

  “I guess you guys aren’t very close,” commented Wilbur dryly.

  “Sure we are,” said Boots. “Close to killing each other.”

  Bruno stepped out of the Faculty Building, struggling under the weight of a large bucket. “That’s it,” he gasped. “All the blackboards are washed. I’ve got a broken back, but, hey, it’s a small price to pay.” With a groan of effort, he dumped out the bucket in the nearest clump of bushes. “Who’s that guy?”

  A slim figure in a grey sweatsuit was chugging toward them at a slow but relentless pace. There was something very non-athletic about the jogger. He held his neck stiffly, and his arms didn’t move at all. His thick glasses were completely steamed up by his panting breath. Perspiration coated his crew cut, giving his head the look of a prickly glazed doughnut.

  Boots made the identification first. “Elmer?”

  Elmer stopped. He lifted up his fogged glasses and peered at them, owl eyed. “Oh, hello.”

  “Elm,” said Bruno, “what are you doing?”

  “I am becoming physically fit,” replied Elmer with determination. “Marylou Beakman’s boyfriend climbed an entire antenna tower as easily as one factors a polynomial. I must be ready to compete.”

  “But you’re supposed to be on punishment with us,” Boots pointed out. “
Quick, grab a rake before The Fish sees you!”

  Elmer dismissed this with a snort. “If Mr. Sturgeon wants the leaves raked — he’s got arms.”

  The boys gaped. Timid little Elmer usually lived in terror of anything that might land him in trouble.

  Bruno found his voice first. “Elmer, are you okay? This could land you up to your nostrils in the soup!”

  Elmer shrugged. “All my life I’ve worked hard and obeyed every rule, and what has it gotten me? Rejected. Well, this is the new Elmer.”

  “The new Elmer is going to get expelled,” warned Boots.

  “The new Elmer lives on the edge,” the school genius insisted. “I’m taking kick-boxing lessons, and I’m saving up for a motorcycle. I’ve changed my career ambition from paleobotanist to lion tamer, and I start bungee jumping as soon as my mother returns the permission form. And in spite of all warnings, I have sent in my application to join the Music-by-Mail Record Club!”

  “No!” chorused the boys.

  “Look, Elm,” said Bruno, “I know you’re upset because Marylou What’s-her-face is with this other guy. But you’ve got to pull yourself together.”

  But Elmer had started to jog in place, shadowboxing with an imaginary opponent.

  “Hey, Elmer,” put in Boots, “your thumb goes outside your fist.”

  Elmer made the adjustment and continued his “bout.” “Well, if you wish to be sheep and follow the rules, that’s your decision. Some of us, however, have lives.” And he jogged off.

  “He’s flipped out again,” Boots observed sadly.

  Larry and Pete crept by, lugging enormous green garbage bags filled with leaves.

  “Hey, wasn’t that Elmer out jogging?” asked Pete. “I thought he was on leaf-raking with us.”

  “If anybody asks, Elmer was here all day,” Bruno announced. “We’ve got to cover for him during his temporary insanity.”

  “You mean we have to rake his leaves?” complained Larry.

  Wilbur made a face. “The last time I took your advice, Bruno, I spent two hours in Scrimmage’s apple orchard tangled up like a total idiot.”

  “That was part of our Phantom investigation,” Bruno defended himself.

  “And after all we’ve been through,” Larry added sarcastically, “we sure know all there is to know about the Phantom.”

  “We know that Cathy and Diane were coming back from the Hall when they ran into The Fish,” replied Bruno. “That points to them.”

  “There’s just one problem,” said Sidney. “There was no practical joke today.”

  “Unless what we fell in last night was the joke,” put in Pete.

  “I almost hope they are the Phantom,” Boots said slowly. “At least that sort of explains the booby traps. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure we have to kill them for what they put us through.”

  “There’s another suspect we haven’t even considered,” Larry said thoughtfully. “Marylou Beakman’s boyfriend. Elmer couldn’t identify him, none of us saw him and he was smart enough not to blunder into any of those booby traps.”

  Wilbur groaned. “You know, if we’re going to get anywhere in all this, the suspect list is supposed to get smaller, not bigger.”

  “It will,” Bruno promised. “Come on, let’s finish up so we can plan the next step in our investigation.”

  * * *

  When Cathy and Diane were called in to see Miss Scrimmage, it was not to her office, but upstairs to her private quarters. The Headmistress had taken to her bed and lay with a cold cloth on her head and a hot water bottle at her feet. It was from this position that she confronted the architects of the orchard booby traps.

  “Oh, Miss Scrimmage!” Cathy exclaimed, all sympathy and remorse. “We’re so, so sorry! Never in a million years did we dream that you would be the one to get caught in our best booby trap!”

  Just talking about it brought all the horrible events of last night back to Miss Scrimmage. “But why were there any booby traps at all?” she wailed.

  Cathy looked confused. “You told us, Miss Scrimmage.”

  The Headmistress sat bolt upright, sending the cold cloth and the hot water bottle flying. “I told you to turn our school into a war zone?”

  Cathy nodded solemnly. “You said we should all take the initiative for our own security.”

  “I meant we should all try to be a little more watchful!” Miss Scrimmage was losing control. “No one said anything about booby traps!”

  Cathy elbowed Diane in the ribs. In perfect unison, both girls burst into tears.

  “We thought it would be a happy surprise for you,” Diane blubbered. “We worked so hard to make you proud of us. We had no idea that you were going to get creamed!”

  The Headmistress stared at them in shock.

  “It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been one of the holes!” Cathy bawled. “Or even the net! But the tree! Oh, the tree! You really got hung out to dry! How will we ever live with ourselves?”

  “Oh, please, girls, don’t cry!” begged Miss Scrimmage in genuine distress. “It — it wasn’t so bad —”

  “Yes, it was! It was worse!” Cathy sobbed.

  “Nonsense, Catherine. Hanging by the ankle is excellent for the circulation. And Mr. Sturgeon did cut me down — eventually.”

  “So you forgive us?” sniffled Diane.

  “Forgive you?” Miss Scrimmage bounded out of bed and began straightening her hair in the mirror. “I’m grateful to you for the initiative you’ve shown. Only,” she turned to look at them, “please try not to show quite so much initiative next time.”

  “Yes, Miss Scrimmage,” chorused the girls.

  “You have nothing to blame yourselves for,” the Headmistress went on. “I never should have placed our security upon your slender shoulders. You know, hanging upside down allows one to think with remarkable clarity. I now realize that these matters must be left to the professionals.”

  Cathy turned pale. “Professionals?” she repeated.

  The Headmistress smiled, her eyes alight with determination. “Our school has just placed an order for the finest and most up-to-date electronic security system in the world — the SectorWatch Fortress Ultra-Deluxe with the patented Banshee II alarm siren.”

  Chapter 13

  The Smoking Gun

  Boots O’Neal rolled over and opened his eyes, shivering. The window was wide open, letting in a sharp, cold breeze. He glanced over to Bruno’s bed. It was empty. He looked around the room and discovered that he was alone.

  He jumped out of bed and struggled into a pair of jeans and a sweater. Making straight for the window, he silently eased himself over the sill. He jumped to the ground and paused, surveying the deserted campus. Bruno was his best friend, but he could be wildly unpredictable. Boots wondered where he should look first.

  Keeping close to the cover of the bushes, he crept around the corner of the building. There he could make out the other two dormitories. No lights were on; all seemed quiet.

  He and Bruno had once had a secret whistle to call to each other. But that had been back during their first year at Macdonald Hall. Did he even remember what the whistle was? Would Bruno recognize it if he heard it?

  “Hey!”

  A dark figure dropped from the roof, bowling Boots over and knocking the wind out of him. The two rolled on the ground, wrestling. Boots got a hand in his attacker’s face and pushed hard to try to break free. But the assailant was too strong. Boots felt himself being rolled over onto his stomach. Two knees pressed into the small of his back. His face in the mud, his struggles useless, Boots wondered if he had been jumped by the Phantom himself.

  “You’re busted, pal!”

  Wait a minute! That voice sounded familiar. He was hauled to his feet and came face to face with —

  “Bruno!”

  “Boots, what are you doing here? I thought you were the Phantom!”

  “I was looking for you!” Boots hissed, wiping a smear of mud from his face. “Thanks for the broken ba
ck!”

  “Well, this is just great!” complained Bruno. “You get all my hopes up and I think I’ve caught the Phantom and it turns out to be just dumb old you.”

  Boots’s eyes blazed. “I thought we agreed that it was impossible to stake out the whole campus for the Phantom.”

  “I know,” Bruno admitted sheepishly. “But I couldn’t sleep. I can’t get it out of my head that the Phantom hasn’t done anything in two whole days. He’s bound to be up to something tonight.”

  “And did you see anything — besides me?”

  Bruno shook his head glumly. “Not so much as a firefly. Three cars on the highway. Other than that, nothing. It’s even quiet at Scrimmage’s.”

  Boots put a sympathetic arm around his roommate’s shoulder. “You said it yourself — there’s too much campus to watch, too many suspects and too many hours in a night. If we couldn’t do it with a whole bunch of guys, how are you supposed to manage it all by yourself? Face it; if you saw anything, it would be by pure fluke.”

  And then the shadows moved.

  Bruno and Boots both saw it at the same time. On the front lawn of the school, behind the old War of 1812 cannon, a lone figure emerged from the thicket.

  “Let’s go!” exclaimed Bruno. He set off at a gallop, Boots hot on his heels. The two boys descended like avenging angels on the front lawn of the school. They were about halfway to the cannon when the black-clad figure saw them coming. The silhouette bolted, running away from the lights of the Faculty Building and melting into the surrounding darkness.

  “After him!” shouted Bruno. “Don’t let him get away!”

  Boots turned on the jets. He shot past Bruno and disappeared into the gloom after the fleeing figure. When Bruno caught up with him a few seconds later, Boots was doubled over, gasping.

  “We lost him!” Boots panted.

  Bruno squinted into the darkness. “He could have gone in any one of fifteen directions. We’ll never find him now.”

  “But what was he doing at the cannon?” Boots wheezed.

  The boys jogged back to the thicket at the centre of the lawn. They stopped and stared.