Pilfer Academy

by Lauren Magaziner

  “You did great!” Tabitha hissed to him as Ballyrag proceeded to reprimand Tosh and Carrie on nearly getting caught. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” George said quietly.

  He couldn’t concentrate all day long—he tripped into a pile of mice while running drills during Strongarm’s class. In Browbeat’s class, he bungled his Irish accent so badly that he sounded like he was from Brooklyn. And when Pickapocket asked what a thief could do with a blanket, George answered, “Take a nap.” Pickapocket spent the remaining ten minutes of class shrieking at him, to Milo’s obvious delight.

  After class, he told Tabitha that he’d meet her in the Robin Hood Room after he changed—but that was a lie. The Robin Hood Room had lost its charm.

  He wandered the hall, his stomach growling. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, and now everyone he passed looked like a walking, talking chicken nugget. He stood against the wall, watching the giant chicken nuggets talk to one another.

  “Yum, yum, yum! I am delicious!” said a third-year chicken nugget.

  “Food is so tasty! Sooooo tastyyyyyy,” replied a year-two chicken nugget.

  “Uh, George?” Beth said as she passed by him. She smelled like chicken nuggets. “You’ve got a little drool on your . . . well, everywhere.”

  He blushed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he ran to the dining hall to find some chicken nuggets. As much as he hated eating stolen food, he couldn’t go on starving himself any longer.

  George ate so much that he felt like he was going to burst. Then he spent the rest of the night prowling around corners, avoiding everyone before finally falling asleep ridiculously early.

  For days, he wandered the hallways, wishing his stomach didn’t feel like it was worming its way through a ropes course. The more he thought about the midterm, the more flushed he became—until he was so certain he was developing a fever that he paced outside the infirmary. The only reason he was able to talk himself out of going in was because Nurse Embezzle loved to poke people with her knee plexor—not just in the knees but all over the body to test reaction times. Being repeatedly whacked in the gut sounded like the opposite of what George needed right now.

  He was more irritable than he’d ever been at Pilfer, and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. After the fourth day in a row of dashing away from Tabitha the moment she suggested they do anything, he found himself on the rooftop terrace, watching the twilight sun brighten the autumn leaves in a blanket of solid gold. It was the only type of gold he was certain Pilfer Academy wouldn’t try to steal.

  Maybe.

  A gust of wind smacked him in the face, and he peeled away from the wall, only to find Tabitha standing right behind him.

  “Why are you avoiding me?”

  “I’m not avoiding you.”

  Tabitha shook her head. “I know Browbeat’s stealth tactics when I see them.” She walked over to the balcony and leaned out. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to guess?”

  George sighed and stared pointedly at the ground.

  “What’s wrong, George?” Tabitha insisted.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “George,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’re best friends—you can talk to me. Maybe I can help.”

  George squinted. Setting sunlight shined on Pilfer’s exterior vents, and the glare was getting in his eyes. “Fine . . . It’s about the midterm. I stole a toddler’s teddy bear, and I—I feel really bad about it.”

  Tabitha scrunched her nose. “George, if Browbeat doesn’t feel bad about stealing his grandfather’s gold tooth, then you shouldn’t feel bad about stealing a dumb teddy bear. You can’t break down every time you steal something.”

  “Maybe it’s a sign that I shouldn’t be stealing things.”

  Tabitha’s dark eyes bulged until they were practically popping out of her head.

  “Maybe,” George whispered, “I’m not cut out for this.”

  Now that the sun was fully gone and there was not much left to see anymore, George wandered over to a bench in the middle of the terrace and sat down. But Tabitha continued to lean against the balcony as she stared disbelievingly at him.

  “What, do you want to leave Pilfer or something, George?” she joked.

  “I—I don’t know. Maybe,” he said, looking down at his feet. “Yes,” he added softly.

  Tabitha looked like she was going to faint. Or explode. Or both. “WHAT?” she shrilled. “But what? Why? George, you’re good at stealing! And this is the best school for thieves! You’re ranked number two! You have a key! And teachers who believe in you, and lessons that teach you the most amazing things . . .” She continued to chatter about the benefits of a Pilfer education, but George was barely listening.

  Once he’d said the truth out loud, George knew there was no taking it back: He didn’t want to be here anymore. He was no thief. He didn’t belong at Pilfer Academy.

  The Woeful Tale of Reuben Odell

  Saturdays were usually lazy days. With no classes to attend, the hallways were deserted in the mornings, and students didn’t usually roll out of bed until 1:00 p.m., at least. This morning was no different. George shuffled around from room to room, wandering aimlessly.

  He felt bad that he had been avoiding Tabitha, and felt even worse when she’d begged him to stay at Pilfer. And even worse still when, after she didn’t change his mind, she stormed off in a huff.

  He wasn’t sure why Tabitha didn’t understand how he felt. The more he went over what happened, the more he remembered what she’d said: What, do you want to leave Pilfer or something, George?

  It was a thought.

  A fascinating thought.

  What if he could leave Pilfer? Escape was not an option, right? Or was it? Could he steal Dean Dean Deanbugle’s big brass key, the one that he used to unlock the front door during their midterm exam? Or there were the fourth-years, who were almost always off campus, completing their thesis projects. They had special keys that led to a secret exit . . . perhaps he could steal one of those.

  These thoughts ran through his head constantly, filling him with hope. And despite everything, there was just one person he wanted to share that feeling with. After a half hour of wandering Pilfer, George found Tabitha in a study room in the Sundance Kid Wing.

  “There you are!” George said, shutting the door behind him. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Yes?” she said stiffly.

  “I’m sorry,” George said. He didn’t know what he was sorry for, but he felt like that’s what Tabitha wanted him to say.

  She kicked out a chair for him, and he took it.

  “I’m just brainstorming for our disguise project for Browbeat,” she said. “Do you think I could pull off fake sideburns? Have you started yours yet?”

  “No. I’ve been thinking more.”

  “About?”

  “Tabitha—what if I escaped?”

  She looked down at her homework and scribbled. “You can’t escape,” she said, keeping her voice low. She tiptoed to the window of the study room and looked out in the hall.

  George looked, too, but he couldn’t see anyone lurking—or even passing by. He closed the blinds, just to be safe. “Sure I can,” he continued in a whisper. “I could steal Dean Dean Deanbugle’s key. Or climb the wall outside. Or dig a hole underneath—”

  “No, I mean, you won’t escape.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  Her eyes darted to the study room window again, but there wasn’t anything to see with the blinds down. “Have you ever heard of Reuben Odell?”

  “Reuben O Who?”

  “Reuben Odell. He’s practically a Pilfer legend.”

  George shrugged, and Tabitha continued.

  “Reuben was a fourth-year many years ago, and while he was
off campus for his thesis project, he called the police on Pilfer.”

  “Called the police? What—why—how? What happened?”

  “Well, at first the police just laughed at him, but eventually he got them to check it out. So they came to Pilfer—”

  “Did they get inside?”

  “Dean Dean Deanbugle greeted them at the door, and he ended up convincing them that it was a prank from a student who was very homesick. And the police believed him.”

  “Because Reuben’s story was too ridiculous?”

  “That,” Tabitha nodded, “but also because Dean Dean Deanbugle knows how to manipulate the police. I mean, there’s that third-year class How to Manipulate the Police.”

  George looked up at Tabitha, who stared back at him with a grim expression. He’d come into the study room so hopeful and happy—now he only felt nauseous. “So what happened?” he finally asked, unsure whether he actually wanted to hear the rest of the story.

  “Dean Dean Deanbugle had to move the school. I mean, just think of how suspicious it would have looked if the police received just one more phone call. So they moved the mansion to a different town, across the country.”

  “Ha-ha, very funny. No, really, what happened?”

  Tabitha blinked. “Were you not listening? They had to move the school.”

  “Move the school?” George said. “But how? That’s . . . that’s impossible! How do you move a whole building?”

  “Pilfer’s easily movable—you’ve seen the metal vents on the side of the building, right?”

  George nodded. “Yeah—Strongarm told me they were a last resort.”

  “Well, I don’t know how it works exactly, but I overheard some other students talking about it once, and I think that’s part of how it moves. Pilfer has a perfect getaway if we need it, but it’s much less hassle to stay put. They’ll do whatever they can to keep their students’—and former students’—lips sealed.”

  “And Reuben?” George was almost afraid to ask.

  “Whirlyblerg,” Tabitha said grimly.

  “And after that?”

  “I don’t think you understand—there is no after when it comes to the whirlyblerg. No one’s heard from Reuben since.”

  “Since when?”

  “I don’t know.” Tabitha twirled one of her braids between her fingers and sighed. “The point is—you can’t tell anyone about Pilfer, and you can’t escape. If they think you’re a threat to the school, then you’re in big trouble.”

  George let out a shaky, nervous chuckle. “Are you sure this is even a real story? It sounds made up to me.”

  “I swear it’s true,” Tabitha said firmly. “Every word. If you don’t believe me, ask the fourth-years. Some of them were here when it happened. Or ask the waitstaff—I bet they’ll remember.”

  “I will,” George said. “Right now.”

  And with his mission in mind, he marched to the dining hall. Many of the waitstaff were pretty old—teenagers, or maybe just a bit older than that. And a few were really, really dinosaurically old, like his parents’ age.

  He caught eyes with a balding waiter.

  George waved him over, and the waiter came running. “Can I get you something, young sir?” the waiter said to him. “A glass of orange juice perhaps?”

  “No, thank you,” George said. “But can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, young master.”

  “Have you ever heard of Reuben Odell?”

  The man jumped. “I—I—this is most indecent to discuss, sir!” he squeaked. “Good day!”

  The man bolted toward the staff door.

  “Wait!” George shouted, throwing his chair behind him. “Come back!”

  The waiter scurried to the left, then to the right, hopping about like a jackrabbit.

  There were a few students in the room, curiously watching George chase after a waiter, but he didn’t have time to think about them. He sprinted as fast as he could and jumped onto the waiter, like he was getting a free piggyback ride. “HA! GOTCHYA!” George said, wrapping his legs around him. Then dropping his voice, he hissed, “What do you know about Reuben Odell? Is it true he got sent to the whirlyblerg for trying to escape?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss.”

  “Aha! So you do know something.”

  The waiter looked furious with himself.

  “I know nothing,” the waiter said.

  George’s grip was slipping, so he slid off the waiter’s back and held on tight to his blazer. “Did Reuben really try to escape? Is he still in the whirlyblerg?”

  “I said I know nothing!” the waiter squeaked, and he wiggled out of the jacket George clung to—leaving him free to make his escape.

  The waiter scampered into the kitchen and out of sight. George tried to follow him through the door to the kitchen, but it was locked. When he turned around, all the other waitstaff seemed to have disappeared from the dining hall, and that was the end of that.

  The Lie Detector Test

  George didn’t know what to do. Tabitha was acting distant and sour. And he felt like he didn’t have much in common with Robin, Neal, Beth, and Becca anymore. All they wanted to talk about was their plans for Mischief Night, but that was the last thing George wanted to talk about. The thought of being forced to participate in any more thieving made him want to throw up.

  But he couldn’t avoid it. Now that midterms were over, the whole school was abuzz with talk of Mischief Night, just a month away. The teachers had started to make formal announcements about how curfew was canceled for the whole night and explaining the rules (there were none). And thanks to Milo, George couldn’t even escape Mischief Night in his own room: Milo had starting nicking supplies from around school and was storing them in boxes on their floor.

  All the Mischief Night mania was starting to make George feel a bit desperate . . . like he would do anything to be gone by then.

  He was so distracted by thoughts of escape that he hardly listened to Ballyrag’s lecture on fear tactics, which he called fear taxes. Before he knew it, there was going to be a quiz the next day on material George hadn’t even bothered to listen to.

  The weird thing was that he still felt like he needed to pass. If he started failing, then he might be picked to be part of the waitstaff—or worse, sent to the whirlyblerg—and then there would be no chance of leaving.

  So at dinner he vowed to learn the material from Robin, Beth, and Becca, who had very graciously offered to tutor him.

  “So what’s the whole point of fear tactics again?” he asked.

  “You can bend your victim to your will much more easily if he’s running scared,” Becca said. “You have to set the tone for intimidation . . . or something like that.”

  “And how do I intimidate?”

  “Threat and scream. That’s your power stance,” Beth said.

  “And for extra credit: punching inanimate objects,” Robin said cheerily. “That is always frightening.”

  “Mmmm,” George said, swallowing a bite of his veal Parmesan. He saw a waitress and tried to wave her over, but she squeaked and ran in the other direction. It was like that with all the waitstaff now; they refused to even look at him. It was making mealtimes very awkward.

  “Hey, George!” Robin said, snapping in front of his face. He turned his attention back to her.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “I just asked if you had any more questions.”

  George nodded. “What was Ballyrag saying about nativity again?”

  “He meant creativity,” Beth said. “At least . . . I think.”

  “The point,” Becca answered, “is that you have to get creative with your fear tactics. People have seen too many movies and read too many books. They’re not getting as frightened as they used to be, so you have to think outside the box to really s
care—”

  “Hey!” shouted someone from across the hall.

  George looked up. Neal was walking over to his table, holding a note. “Dean Dean Deanbugle wants to see you.”

  “Me?” George said.

  “Yeah,” Neal said, flicking the note to George.

  My office. Now. P.S. Bring a tray of stroganoff with you.

  “Am I in trouble?” George said.

  “Yeah.” Neal laughed, wiggling his fingers. “Beware the whirlyblerg!”

  George swallowed the lump in his throat and tried not to think of the whirlyblerg as he piled up a plate of beef stroganoff for the dean. When George headed upstairs and knocked on the dean’s bookcase, the door immediately swiveled around. The dean’s face fell when he saw the plate of stroganoff George was carrying.

  “What, just a plate? I asked for a tray!”

  “I’m sorry, Dean Dean Deanbugle! I . . . could go back and get you more if you want.”

  The dean snatched the plate from George and retreated into his office. George took a seat in one of the big plushy chairs.

  Dean Dean Deanbugle leaned over his desk. He stared at George. George stared back. He stared harder. George stared even harder than that. Neither blinked. Both squinted.

  At last, eyes burning, George blinked.

  “Ha-HA!” Dean Dean Deanbugle shouted. “I win!”

  “Oh . . . uh. . . . Congrats?”

  Dean Dean Deanbugle nodded grimly, and his eyebrows suddenly dipped so low they nearly covered his eyes—like a nice, hairy blanket. “I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you in here.”

  George nodded.

  “Well, first, I was dying for a taste of that stroganoff.” Using his hand like a ladle, Dean Dean Deanbugle scooped a fistful of noodles into his palm, brought it to his lips, and slurped. “But second, I had some questions to ask you. Ready?”

  “Sure?”

  “What’s your name?”