Pilfer Academy

by Lauren Magaziner

  By the time he arrived back in the dorms after dinner, George’s feet were sore and he was so exhausted he could collapse. He was panting when he reached the top of the penthouse, but when he opened the door to his room, he was breathless for a different reason.

  His mattress, blankets, and pillows were nowhere to be seen. Where a full bed should have been, there was only the wooden bed frame. He walked over and found a note on the headboard:

  Don’t even think about that key, new kid.

  Sleep tight.

  George instantly whipped around to Milo—but Milo was either fast asleep or pretending to be. He couldn’t even believe how nasty Milo was being to him. They were roommates, which meant they were supposed to get along, or—at the very least—be able to live in the same room in peace. George had shared a room all his life, and Milo was making his wrestle-mania, headlock-loving brother, Gunther, look like a saint.

  George trudged to the rooftop garden terrace and leaned against the balcony, watching the stars blink. It was a beautiful night—the air was warm and the valley stretched out below in the shadow of the moon—but he was completely miserable.

  What in the world was he going to do? He couldn’t stay here. He clearly didn’t belong. But escape didn’t even seem possible with that enormous wall surrounding all the gardens and courtyard. Like a prison wall.

  You just have to get used to living here, George told himself. You don’t have a choice. But that didn’t make him feel any better.

  There was a shuffling sound, and George whipped around. Tabitha was behind him.

  “What’s wrong?” Tabitha asked curiously.

  George folded his arms. He didn’t want her to know how upset he felt, but he couldn’t keep it in. He took a deep breath and said, “My mattress and pillow were stolen.”

  “Of course they were,” Tabitha said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a thieving school. What did you expect?”

  George frowned. Couldn’t she at least pretend to feel bad for him? He irritably crumpled the note he’d found on his headboard.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” Tabitha said, looking down at his hands.

  He handed her the crinkly paper. “What’s a key?” he asked.

  Tabitha peered at the paper and shook her head. When she finally spoke, her voice was surprisingly soft. “The top five students in each class get a key to the Robin Hood Room. The teachers are always tweaking the rankings, so people lose and gain access to the lounge every few weeks.”

  “And what’s a hurly curl? Burly girl? Wergy lurl?”

  “The whirlyblerg. It’s Dean Dean Deanbugle’s signature punishment.”

  “What is it?”

  “You think I’d know? I’ve never gotten in trouble!” Tabitha looked out over the terrace thoughtfully. “But to be honest, I don’t think anyone really knows what it is. People who go there usually don’t come back.”

  George leaned against the balcony and sighed. All he wanted was to go home—to where he never had to think about horrible roommates or keys or Robin Hood Rooms or whirly-whatevers ever again.

  “Tabitha, how long does it take to get used to this place?”

  “You’ll like it here eventually—everyone does. I promise.”

  BRRRRRRRRING! came the sound of a bell.

  “Oh, that’s the curfew alarm! Don’t stay out here too late, or you might get in trouble.” She walked over to the exit. “Good night, George,” she said, and she shut the door behind her.

  Nothing Is Beneath a Thief

  The next evening, George stole Milo’s bedding—his mattress, sheets, comforter, and pillow. The plan was to be fast asleep by the time Milo returned, so that it would be impossible to covertly steal the bedding back while George was wrapped up in it. George had to go to bed at 7:00 p.m. to pull this off, but it was worth it. The next morning his own bedding had mysteriously returned, and Milo looked steamed. George counted that as his first victory.

  The two weeks after that passed surprisingly quickly. Classes kept him very busy. After they mastered ransom-note writing in Thieving Theory, George and his classmates moved on to different types of get-rich-quick schemes. Ballyrag taught them all about online phishing (which Ballyrag kept confusing with real-live, boat-in-the-water fishing), in which you’d e-mail someone pretending that their credit card accounts were about to be deactivated and ask for all of their personal, private information.

  It was all a bit complicated, but George thought he had a good handle on the material. A few people were very lost and kept mixing up the players of the scheme until Ballyrag was so confused by all of their confusion that he scratched his head silently for the last fifteen minutes of class.

  Pickapocket had finally advanced them from dental floss to toothpaste, and Browbeat’s Stealth class required them to stand in one place for an hour without making a sound, which George almost passed—except for a tiny little sneeze after fifty-three minutes. The average fail time was around thirty-five minutes, and only Tabitha passed the sixty-minute mark. She had gone sixty-four minutes before she sighed a little too loudly, but hers was still the record to beat. George wasn’t sure he liked Stealth class. Standing rigidly for an hour wasn’t exactly fun.

  He did like Strongarm’s class, though, which was full of lock picking, safe opening, obstacle courses, and races. But the class would have been a lot better if he didn’t feel like he was being hazed by Milo and his friends. It seemed like they were always going out of their way to mess him up. During one drill—a tag relay race where each team had to transport a bag of fake diamonds through an obstacle course—Milo, who was on George’s team, threw the bag so far to the left that George fell into a mud pit diving for the catch.

  At first he thought it was an accident, but when Milo started snickering and high-fiving his other teammates, George realized with a sinking feeling that they were trying to sabotage him. He picked himself up, mud-soaked and dripping, and continued his mission to pass the diamond bag to Sunny, the next teammate in the relay line.

  At the end of class, Strongarm announced their scores aloud. “George, full marks for your fortitude, willingness to dive into mud, determination to save the mission, and for not fumbling the catch. Dean Dean Deanbugle was most certainly right about you!”

  “Are you kidding me?” Carrie complained loudly at the end of class. “Even when he goes off course, he still gets a perfect score.”

  George flushed. He didn’t know how to respond, but Tabitha interjected. “Why don’t you gossip a little louder?” she snarled. “There’s probably someone in the village down the hill who couldn’t hear you.” Carrie looked at Tabitha like she’d slapped her.

  George caught up to Tabitha in the hallway. “Thanks,” he said, but she folded her arms.

  “Jealousy, George.”

  “Huh?”

  “They’re just jealous because you’re the dean’s new favorite,” she said with a curt nod. “Just ignore them.”

  She hurried off, disappearing behind a crowd of second-years. George stood glued to the spot for a few minutes afterward, half confused and half stunned. Why wouldn’t Tabitha talk to him for more than a second?

  On Friday night, after spending the evening finishing up a Stealth class essay in the Butch Cassidy Wing, George headed to the dining hall for a bite of dinner. But as he turned the corner, he stumbled right into Dean Dean Deanbugle himself.

  “George, m’boy!” the dean said, holding his bowl of bow tie pasta steady. “Just the pupil I’m looking for! May I have a word?”

  George checked his silver watch—only fifteen minutes until the dining hall closed for the night. His stomach gave a violent gurgle, but he said, “Um, sure.”

  He followed Dean Dean Deanbugle to his office again, where the full-length windows showed a very hazy-looking dusk. The dean took a seat behind his desk, and George sat in a chair in front of him.<
br />
  “I just wanted to check in with you—to see how you are acclimating to your environment here. Your teachers have been giving you top marks.”

  George shrugged.

  “Well?” the dean said, his wild eyebrows dancing. “How do you like Pilfer Academy?”

  George hesitated. “It’s all right, I guess.”

  Dean Dean Deanbugle laughed so loud that he practically shook the room. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about the midterm?”

  George had. Even though it was only the beginning of August, it seemed like he couldn’t escape the whispers and rumors about the upcoming September midterm. Each “year” went on a different excursion, and every midterm was different from the one before. Neal had told him all about last semester’s attempt to steal a bunch of pets to create a private Pilfer zoo. And for the midterm last March, Becca said the first-years went on a jewel heist. And before that, they went to a theme park and stole all the mascot costumes.

  “I’ve heard rumors,” George finally said.

  “I don’t expect you’ll have any problems, but I do think—should you want a hint—I could give it to you.”

  “But Dean Dean Deanbugle—isn’t that cheating?” George said.

  “Cheating, schmeating,” the dean said, waggling his eyebrows. “What’s the number one rule of thieving?”

  “Finders keepers, losers weepers?” George guessed.

  “No. Well, yes. Well, that is a top rule of thieving. But the number one rule is that nothing is off limits. Nothing is beneath a thief.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing,” said the dean, stroking his chin. “Except maybe the ground. That’s pretty much always beneath a thief.”

  George paused. Extra help would be nice, and the dean was offering . . . but then again, he was already getting too much attention from Dean Dean Deanbugle. If he took extra help from the dean, he’d create a lot more enemies. And the last thing he needed was more enemies.

  “No thanks,” George said. “I want to prove that I can make it on my own. I don’t need any extra help.”

  “I daresay you don’t!” said the dean. “Well, you’ll know where to find me if you change your mind. I’ll just be in my office . . . or on the grounds . . . or in my bedroom tower . . . or in the dining hall . . . or in a classroom . . . or wandering the halls . . . or in the library . . . or in the gardens . . . or in another teacher’s office . . . or hiding in a nook or cranny . . . or out on an important thieving mission . . . or tending the whirlyblerg . . . or eating gnocchi . . .”

  “Thank you,” George interrupted, because he was still soooooo hungry, and it didn’t seem like the dean was going to stop talking any time soon. “That’s good to know.”

  The dean licked his finger and brushed his hairy eyebrows with his thumb. He stared at George pensively for a moment, and his smile fell from his face. “Get out of my office.”

  “What?”

  “Get out,” the dean said firmly.

  George stammered. “B-but what—why—”

  “We are done here. NOW LEAVEEEEEEE,” the dean howled.

  George scrambled out of the dean’s office. As he swiveled out from around the moving bookcase, he tumbled smack into Milo. They both went sprawling on the ground, and a drinking glass went rolling across the floor and into the hall.

  “Milo! What are you doing here?”

  Milo glared. He wore a sour expression, like someone was wafting a poo popsicle beneath his nose. “You like being the new favorite, Beckett?”

  “What are you talking about?” George asked. But Milo just glared at him.

  George rolled his eyes and began to walk away.

  “You won’t be his pet for long!” Milo blurted. “The teachers always move on to the newest, freshest student. So don’t feel special or anything. He’ll never offer you help on a midterm again!”

  How would Milo know what the dean just said? George thought. Unless . . .

  He gasped. “You were holding that glass against the door, weren’t you? Trying to listen in on my meeting with Dean Dean Deanbugle!”

  “So what if I was?” Milo said, puffing up like an angry cat. “You think you’re so much better than me? Well, you’re not. I’m better than you . . . and everyone else in this place. You’ll see!”

  “I don’t think I’m better than you! I never said that!” George protested. Then his stomach growled, and he skirted around Milo. “I’m way too hungry to deal with you right now.”

  He bolted, leaving Milo clenching his fists. George ran as fast as he could back to the dining hall, only to find the doors locked.

  “Nooooooooooooooo!” George cried.

  He banged, bashed, beat, battered, pounded, thudded, hammered on the doors until his fists were red raw and aching.

  He finally slumped against the doors in defeat. “Let me in! Please!”

  “I-I’m very sorry, but dining hours are over,” said a small voice from the other side of the closed door.

  A waitress! George perked up. “Please pleaseeeeee make one exception! I swear I won’t tell anyone you let me in—I haven’t eaten since noon! And we were running laps in Strongarm’s class today!”

  “I—I’m really, really sorry. I can’t. We’ll all get in a lot of trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Whirly—” she cut off, then cleared her throat stiffly. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so the dining hall opens at ten. Come back then.”

  From the other side of the door, he could hear her scuttle away.

  Could someone really get sent to the whirlyblerg if they bent the rules a little to feed a student? George didn’t know what to think about that. Mostly, he felt bad for the waitstaff.

  An enormous groan came from his gut. Fourteen more hours until the dining hall opened again, and his stomach was already having a hissy fit.

  This was going to be the worst night ever.

  As Long as You Don’t Get Caught

  That night, George tried to go to sleep, but he woke up a few hours later, so hungry he was actually in pain. He rustled through his drawers for any remainders of food. I have to start a snack stash, he thought as his stomach became a gurgling, burbling symphony.

  At last, George quietly left his room, careful not to wake Milo, whose snores were reminiscent of a lovesick goose.

  Four flights down, he was back in the open area with the row of couches—and, of course, the big door that led into the hall. He walked out and gently closed the door behind him.

  Then he turned to face the long, shadowy hall. There was no turning back now. Unless, of course, he decided to turn back.

  George crept cautiously in the darkness. All throughout the hall, he did his best to be sneaky. He hugged the wall like a ninja. He slinked like a Slinky. He slid like a shortstop. He crouched and slunk and tiptoed and crawled and lurked and inched and slithered.

  Suddenly, someone tapped his shoulder.

  “AHHHHHHHHH!” he screamed, whipping around.

  It was Tabitha, wearing a black woolen cap and a ski mask. “Shhhhhhhhhh!” She put a hand over his mouth. “You know, you’re not as sneaky as you think you are.”

  “Mmmm mmm mmm mmmmm?” George tried to talk through her hands. She let go of his face, and he repeated himself. “What are you doing?”

  “Following you!” she whispered. “Clearly.”

  “Well, turn back.”

  She shook her head. “It’s too late now. I’m already out. Can I—can I come?”

  George sighed. He didn’t really see what choice he had. Now that Tabitha caught him, he didn’t want her running to a teacher to tattle on him. “Okay. I guess so,” he relented.

  They continued along the corridor in silence, shuffling across the Persian rug that lay atop the shiny wood floor.

  “So where are we going?�
�� Tabitha whispered.

  “The kitchen,” George said, just as his stomach gave a droning, moaning groan. “I skipped dinner.”

  “I know,” Tabitha said, creeping over to the stairs. “You were talking to the dean after he invited you to his office.”

  “How’d you—”

  “Please,” she said. “Everyone’s talking about it. Robin and Neal were convinced you were getting bumped to the next grade. But obviously that’s impossible, since no one gets moved up that fast. And Milo started this ridiculous rumor that you were getting expelled. But that’s just what he wants to happen. He’s crazy competitive.”

  “I know! He followed me to Dean Dean Deanbugle’s office and eavesdropped on us. Then he tried to fight with me about it! How does he even have the time to be so obsessed with beating me? Doesn’t he have homework or something?”

  Tabitha sighed. “When I first arrived at Pilfer, Milo, Carrie, and Adam were actually really nice to me . . .”

  “Milo? Nice?” George said incredulously. He was so surprised that he almost ran into a marble column. He artfully dodged it at the last moment.

  Tabitha chuckled. “Well, now I know better. For a few weeks, I was friends with him and his group. But in July they gave out rankings, and I was number one. Milo pretended to be really supportive, but a few days later—the night before we had a big Thieving Theory project due and a Gadgetry test—someone snuck into my room, stole all of my class binders, and ripped all of my work to shreds. I had to start the project all over again from scratch, and I stayed up all night to do it. I couldn’t finish it in time, though, and I failed the Gadgetry test because I fell asleep on question three. Milo had a big laugh about it at dinner in front of everyone.”

  George’s jaw dropped.

  “Oh, but it wasn’t just him. Other people were trying to sabotage me, too. It’s really hard to trust anyone when you’re ranked number one,” she said sadly. “I can never tell if people are being nice to me because they’re actually good people—or because they want me to let my guard down again, so they can stab me in the back.”