The Terrible Two

by Mac Barnett

  Now Miles had returned, and walked past a picnic table overflowing with food—brownies, chips, dip, cookies frosted pink and white with little sugar sprinkles on them; past three, no, make that four coolers full of soda and ice cream sandwiches; past his red wagon, now filled with a tall stack of presents in colorful wrapping paper. There were red presents and blue presents and presents with balloons on the paper, which to be honest were a little babyish for Cody Burr-Tyler. Some boxes were flat. Some were round. One was pretty clearly a telescope. A telescope!

  “I brought THAT ONE,” Stuart said, pointing with both hands toward a small gift that seemed to be crawling away. “AW, MAN!” Stuart said, running after the box. “STAY!”

  Miles made a mental note to leave Stuart’s present in a pasture somewhere. He placed his gift—an empty shoe box in silver paper—on the wagon and grabbed a slice of cake. Two seventh-grade boys were standing by a platter of chimichangas.

  “Have you said hi to Cody Burr-Tyler yet?” said the one wearing the red hat.

  “Yeah,” said the one not wearing any hat because he worried he didn’t look good in hats. “I waved to him when I got here. I don’t know if he saw me—a bunch of guys were playing three flies up and Cody Burr-Tyler was permanent flier.”

  “Oh, that’s cool. When I saw him he was telling this really funny joke about pizza. We did our secret handshake, and he said he’d talk to me later.”

  “Cool. You know, I think he did see me when I waved.”

  Miles grinned. Secret handshakes. Three flies up. They were doing his work for him.

  Holly Rash was leaning against a tree. Miles walked up to her.

  “Hey,” said Miles.

  “Hey,” said Holly. “Look out for that cake. It’s really dry.”

  “What!” said Miles. “I think it tastes good!”

  “You’re crazy. That cake is terrible.”

  “Maybe you just got a bad piece. Here, have a bite of mine.”

  “Never again,” Holly said. “This is probably the worst cake I’ve ever eaten. And did you see that lettering? It looked like it said ‘bird day.’”

  “It says ‘birthday’!”

  “That cake is an embarrassment.”

  “Forget about the cake,” said Miles. “What do you think of this party? Pretty great, right?”

  “Eh, it’s all right. To be honest, I was expecting more from Cody Burr-Tyler. I mean, I’ve never heard of the guy. But everybody talks about him like he’s Cary Grant meets Marlon Brando meets Paul Newman.”

  “Who are they?” Miles asked.

  Holly sighed. “Old movie stars.”

  “And . . . they all met?” said Miles.

  Holly sighed again.

  “What’s a BIRD day?” Stuart shouted from over by the picnic table.

  “This party really needs something to liven it up,” said Holly.

  “Hi, buddy, and hi, Holly!” A pair of tiny legs was the only thing visible behind a gigantic box that was waddling toward them. “It’s me, Niles!”

  “We know,” said Miles and Holly at the same time.

  “Oh! I wasn’t sure you could see me behind this box.”

  They couldn’t.

  “That’s some gift there, Niles,” said Holly.

  “Thanks! I hope I didn’t go overboard. To be honest, it’s not entirely safe. I can’t really see when I’m carrying it, so I planned a route to the park that didn’t involve crossing any streets. That’s why I’m late!”

  “What did you bring, Holly?” Miles asked.

  “I brought myself,” Holly said. “I’m not going to give a present to a guy I don’t even know.”

  “What!” Niles’s voice came from behind the present. “I went all out! I wanted to celebrate Cody Burr-Tyler for being born, and also thank him for recognizing that I was one of the cool kids by inviting me to this exclusive party.”

  Niles put down his box and for the first time saw the crowd that had taken over the town square. “Oh,” he said. “Looks like someone shared the invitation.”

  Niles shrugged. “Oh well. More gifts for Cody Burr-Tyler, I guess!” He adjusted his sash, which today said PARTY HELPER, and picked up his box. “I’m going to drop this off and then, cake time!”

  Miles checked his watch: 1:26. Almost time for the big moment. He excused himself and set off looking for a quiet place to prepare. On his way to an empty playground, he passed two girls he’d never even seen before.

  “Do you want the rest of my cake?” asked one girl.

  “No,” said the other. “I had some earlier and it was terrible.”

  “Do you think Cody is going to play his guitar today?”

  “I hope so! Did you know Cody Burr-Tyler can crush a root beer can on his head?”

  “Really?”

  “Yep! With the root beer IN it.”

  “Whoa.”

  Miles loved it. This prank had taken on a life of its own.

  And it was about to get better.

  Miles made his way to a creaky swing set and pulled a crumpled paper from his jacket’s inside pocket. It was his speech, which he’d written last night when he couldn’t sleep.

  The alarm on Miles’s watch beeped. A cow mooed. Showtime.

  Chapter

  14

  MILES STOOD NEXT TO THE WAGON full of gifts. This was going to be good. He grabbed a fork and a glass and dinged them together until he had the crowd’s attention. Everybody turned to look at him.

  “HEY, it’s the NEW KID,” Stuart said. “He’s DINGING that GLASS. Why is he DINGING a GLASS?”

  With everybody’s eyes on him, Miles ascended the gazebo’s five short steps. He took the speech from his pocket, cleared his throat, and began:

  “Hello, everybody! My name is Miles Murphy, and I’m the new kid here in Yawnee Valley. I’d love to take this opportunity to say happy birthday to Cody Burr-Tyler.”

  That’s as far as he got before a yellow hatchback careened into the parking lot, honking its horn. The driver’s door flew open and Principal Barkin spilled out. Purple faced and huffing, Barkin hustled across the grass, waving his arms. “Stop everything!” he shouted. “Stop that kid!”

  An uncomfortable murmur ran through the crowd.

  “Miles Murphy!” said Barkin, arriving at the gazebo. “Stop this right now. You are done. Stand over there.”

  Miles walked down the gazebo’s five short steps. The crowd gaped. Holly smirked. Niles nervously adjusted his sash. Barkin took the stage. “Students,” he said. Principal Barkin stood in silence, waiting for everybody to stop talking.

  When you are planning a prank it is important to plan for any contingency, and Miles had planned for this. In his pranking notebook, under the heading “POSSIBLE DISASTERS,” Miles had listed “Thunderstorm,” “Squirrel Attack,” and “Busted by Grown-Ups.” Miles knew, when Principal Barkin had confiscated his invitation, that there was a chance, however slim, that his prank would be compromised. And that’s why he had an action plan for this moment: Sneak away with the presents. Miles gripped the wagon’s handle.

  “Students,” said Principal Barkin. He removed a piece of paper from his pocket. What was it? A behavior report? An expulsion form? A warrant for the arrest of Miles Murphy?

  No. It had guitars and footballs and lightning bolts. It was the invitation Principal Barkin had taken on Thursday. Barkin held it in the air.

  “Students,” said Barkin, “when Cody Burr-Tyler personally invited me to his birthday party, I was stunned. Although I probably shouldn’t have been. Cody has always been the kind of upstanding lad who respects his elders. And although I am not even his principal—my understanding is that Cody goes to St. Perpetua, where he is a star on the field and in the classroom, not to mention his band, which, although I am not a big fan of contemporary music, well, even I can plainly see that Cody Burr-Tyler really rocks the house . . .”

  As Barkin made a strumming motion with his hands, Miles began to realize something: He wasn’t in tr
ouble. The prank was still on. Miles stopped his retreat. He’d only made it a yard or so. He took his first breath in thirty seconds and looked at his principal.

  “As I was saying, I assume Cody invited me because I am a pillar of Yawnee Valley. And that is why I’m here. To honor Cody and make sure that he is given a birthday speech by a pillar of the community, and not by some kid who just got here and is known to have some behavioral issues, like probably parking my car at the top of some steps.”

  Something hissed loudly.

  “Sorry!” said Stuart. “That was my PRESENT!”

  “Again, as I was saying, we are here for Cody Burr-Tyler’s birthday. A very special birthday. His”—Barkin looked down at the invitation—“thirteenth. Wow. That’s a big one. And that’s why I pass on best birthday wishes from the whole Barkin family. My son, Josh, sends his regrets. He couldn’t be here, because it’s his mother’s birthday. My wife also sends her regrets. She couldn’t be here because it’s her birthday. A lot of birthdays today! But I wasn’t going to miss this party, which is of course the biggest of the year! And look at that cake! Can somebody grab me a piece?”

  Niles rushed up to the gazebo with a giant corner slice.

  “To Cody Burr-Tyler!” said Principal Barkin, his fork aloft.

  “To Cody Burr-Tyler!” said the crowd.

  “Happy birthday!” said Barkin through a mouth full of cake.

  “Happy birthday!” said the crowd.

  Principal Barkin smacked his lips a few times. “I’m sorry. This cake is a little dry. Could someone bring me a juice or something so I can give the rest of my speech?”

  The crowd, tired of hearing Barkin speak, began chanting. “Cody! Cody! Cody! Cody!”

  Barkin, overcome by the spirit of the crowd, his mouth still full of cake, joined in.

  “CODY! CODY! CODY! CODY!”

  Barkin clapped his hands and stepped down from the gazebo.

  “CODY! CODY! CODY! CODY!”

  All eyes were directed at the empty stage.

  Miles smoothed the front of his shirt. The prank was back on. This was the moment. This was his moment. It was perfect. He walked back toward the gazebo.

  The kids chanted.

  The sun shone.

  An electric-guitar riff blasted through the park.

  The crowd parted, and from its midst arose a tall boy wearing a football helmet and jersey. He bounded past Miles and took the gazebo’s five steps in a single leap. The boy had an electric guitar slung around his shoulder. The number on the back of his jersey was “1.” The name was BURR-TYLER.

  Chapter

  15

  HELLLLOOOOOOOOOOOO, Yawnee Valllllleeeyyyyy!” the kid said. “Happy birthday to me!”

  The electric-guitar riff sounded again.

  Miles swayed slightly as his brain tried to process what was unfolding before him. Cody Burr-Tyler, a kid who didn’t exist, a kid who Miles made up, was standing in front of him. And he was cool.

  Although Miles’s pranking notebook contained contingency plans for “Tornado,” “Bird Attack,” and “Food Poisoning,” there was nothing in there for “Your Fictional Character Magically Becomes Real, Pulls a Green Pail Out from Behind the Gazebo, and Throws Footballs into the Crowd,” which is what was happening right now.

  The students made a frenzied scramble for the footballs, which Cody had autographed. Principal Barkin, being a good two feet taller than everyone else in the crowd, was catching most of the balls. He looked absolutely giddy.

  “I’m open! I’m open!” he shouted.

  Cody Burr-Tyler held the bucket upside down to show it was empty. The kids groaned and settled down.

  “Hey! All right! That was a lot of fun! But if I could get serious for a moment—” Cody’s voice got quiet. “I just want to thank you for making my birthday party exactly what I wanted it to be: the party of the year. Principal Barkin, thanks for that moving speech. I wish you were my principal.”

  Barkin applauded, alone.

  “And to all of you, I just have one thing to say: Party down, live large, and thanks for all the presents.”

  The electric guitar started up again. Where was the guitar even coming from? Cody hadn’t played the one on his back this whole time.

  Cody Burr-Tyler gave a massive thumbs-up to the crowd. They roared. He jumped the banister and landed on the grass. Everybody roared again.

  “Peace out, everybody!”

  Cody Burr-Tyler took the wagon’s handle from Miles. “Thanks for keeping this warm for me, little guy,” he said.

  Miles watched as Cody Burr-Tyler sauntered off with the gifts and loaded them into the trunk of a stretch limo, which apparently had pulled up during his speech. “Keep the party going without me, everybody,” he said. “I gotta run. There’s another party for me at my house.”

  Then Cody Burr-Tyler got into the backseat, still wearing his helmet, and the limo drove away.

  Chapter

  16

  WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

  Miles was now sitting on the bottom step of the gazebo.

  Seriously: What just happened?

  Miles sat and wondered. Kids laughed, music played, and Miles just sat. Stuart still seemed to be chasing something. Miles sat. Cars pulled up, parents waved to kids, and kids got into cars. The cars drove away, leaving behind clouds of dust. Miles sat. The stragglers took the last of the food—hot dogs and brownies, but not cake. There was still plenty of cake. Miles sat. Holly and Niles came over and talked to Miles. Miles talked back. But when they left, Miles could not remember what they’d said. It was all just noise. Everybody else left the park, but Miles still sat. Somewhere in the distance, a cow mooed. Miles sat. The sun set and the park lights blazed, the sprinklers came on, and Miles just sat.

  About an hour after dusk Miles decided that was enough sitting. He stood up.

  Miles felt like he had entered a new world. Now that a fake kid had become real, anything was possible. Maybe the gazebo would launch into space and Miles would colonize the Horsehead Nebula. Maybe lightning would strike that oak over there, crack it open, and gold coins would pour forth. Maybe a volcano would rise up from the field and lava would devour Yawnee Valley, but the eruption’s blast would also propel Miles safely back to his old apartment in a pink building that was close to the ocean, with maps on the walls and on the ceiling, back to his old town where he was a master prankster and everyone knew it. Miles waited a few seconds for something to happen.

  Nothing happened.

  All that was left of Cody Burr-Tyler’s party was a field full of trash and a platter full of cake. Miles grabbed a garbage bag. He ate a fingerful of frosting and then dumped the cake in the bag. He picked up paper plates and candy wrappers, soda bottles and cans, pizza crusts and stray potato chips. Miles was supposed to leave the park with a wagon’s worth of presents, but all he had was a big bag of trash. He didn’t even have the wagon anymore.

  He’d had that wagon since he was six! Despite what everybody said, Miles was starting to think Cody Burr-Tyler wasn’t that cool at all. Take away the football helmet and the electric guitar, and all you had was a wagon thief.

  The trash bag slung over his shoulder, Miles took one last look at the park. Underneath the picnic table was something he’d somehow missed.

  It was a present.

  Miles dropped the trash bag and ran for the table. He got on all fours. The wet grass soaked his knees. Miles crawled under the table and picked up the gift. He looked around for Cody Burr-Tyler, who might at any moment pull up in his limo and claim this last present. But no—Miles was alone. There, under the table, he held the present in his lap. It was the size of a shoe box and its silver paper shimmered in the moonlight. Miles bit through the ribbon and ripped off the wrapping. It was a shoe box! The lid was taped on. Miles worked his index finger under the tape. He popped off the lid. Tissue paper! He peeled back the paper and peered inside.

  There, in the box, lying as lifeless as a real dead chicken, was
a rubber chicken. This was apparently someone’s idea of a joke. He grabbed the chicken by the legs, walked back to his trash bag, and tossed it in. The chicken landed belly-up on top of some hot wings.

  There was a message written on the chicken’s belly.

  Miles reached into the bag and pulled out the chicken. The words were written in big block letters.

  Who would give this to Cody Burr-Tyler? Miles dropped the chicken and ran back to the table. He rummaged through the wrapping and pulled out a tiny gold gift tag. The words were written in delicate cursive.

  Chapter

  17

  SUNDAY. SUNSET.

  Miles clutched the chicken in his right hand, his grip firm. He transferred it to his left hand. Both palms were sweaty. So was the chicken.

  Behind Miles was the sound of a breaking stick.

  Miles whipped around.

  It was Niles. Except Niles didn’t look like Niles. It was hard to say what was different about him. He wasn’t wearing his sash, but it was more than that. It was more than his mussed hair, more than his steely expression, more than his tan jacket and navy-blue turtleneck. Well, maybe it had something to do with the turtleneck. It was that Niles looked cool in the turtleneck, and Miles had never seen anybody look cool in a turtleneck. And Miles had never seen Niles look cool at all. But he did tonight. He looked taller. He looked . . . in control.

  “Why did you bring the chicken?” asked Niles.

  Miles looked down at the chicken, then back up at Niles.

  “Um . . . I thought we might need it.”

  “For what?”

  “Like, maybe this meeting had something to do with the chicken,” said Miles.