Pilfer Academy

by Lauren Magaziner

  He wrapped his arms, pretzel-knot style, around the first bar and clung to it. Then, with a deep breath, he uncurled one of his arms and reached for the next one—

  SSSLLLLIIIIIPPPPPP!

  As expected, he slid straight off the monkey bars and landed with a SQUISH! in the creamed spinach.

  There was creamed spinach everywhere. In his eyes, in his ears, up his nose, under his shirt, in his socks—he felt like a spinach monster.

  Strongarm guffawed, pointing and laughing. “NOW YOU HAVE TO LICK YOURSELF OFF!” she roared.

  “HA-HA! FAILURE!” Milo shouted with glee.

  George spent the rest of the day with creamed spinach caked all over him. Which eventually hardened and formed a smelly protective shell. George was not allowed to shower until after classes were over (“THIS IS YOUR PUBLIC SHAME!” Strongarm had shouted to the people who’d failed the trial.), but the second the day ended, he spent two hours in the bathroom, scrubbing himself free.

  After five straight days of Plan Failing-on-Purpose-but-Making-It-Look-Like-an-Accident, George felt no closer to being expelled than he was a week ago. The only real difference was that he was a lot more banged and bruised.

  On Friday, he was ready to accept defeat—until Dean Dean Deanbugle walked into his Stealth Class. This is my big chance! George thought. He couldn’t mess up . . . which was to say that he had to mess up.

  The class got very stiff when the dean burst in.

  “Don’t mind me,” Dean Dean Deanbugle said, his eyebrows dancing a jig. “I’ll just observe in the back!” He sat on a table in the back of the classroom, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a cup full of linguini. He twirled the pasta around his fingers, held his hand above his mouth, and then sucked his fingers clean.

  “Right,” Browbeat said, adjusting his oversized glasses. “Like I was saying, today we are going to practice sneaking down a hallway. Dean Dean Deanbugle and I are going to sit on either end of the hall, and if we can’t hear you slinking down it, you pass.”

  They followed Browbeat to a hallway, all set up with special booby traps. There was a piano mat, bubble wrap, plastic bags, crunchy leaves from outside, and a few puddles. The hallway looked like a wreck, but a fun one.

  Milo went first and made just one sigh of relief when he narrowly avoided a collision with a coatrack. Points were deducted, but he still passed. Tabitha passed with flying colors—and record time. About five other classmates went, and then it was George’s turn.

  He started slinking along the side of the wall, thinking about how he could make the most damage—when he saw the perfect opportunity.

  He pretended to trip over his own two feet and went headfirst into a metal trash bin.

  CRASH! The trash bin rolled into a bike. CLATTER! The bike fell onto a cardboard box. CRUNCH! Inside the box was a sleeping cat. HISS! The cat ran across the piano mat. DUM DUM DUM DUMMMM!

  George froze on the spot, as Browbeat and Dean Dean Deanbugle turned around to glare at him.

  “Ooops!” George said. “I guess I’m not so great at this! Clumsy me!”

  “George,” Browbeat grumbled, wiping his glasses with his sleeve. “That’s the fifth day in a row you’ve fallen short of expectations—not just in my class, but in your other teachers’ classes.”

  Dean Dean Deanbugle wiggled his furry eyebrows. “Is this true?”

  “We’ve discussed it in the teachers’ lounge, yes,” Browbeat said. “It was our most gossipy piece of gossip.”

  “George,” Dean Dean Deanbugle said as he reached into his sleeve, pulled out one single linguini strand, and slurped it ominously, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

  George’s stomach flopped, but he had to stick to the plan. “I’m trying my hardest!”

  The dean hung over him like a gnarled umbrella. “You claim this is the best you can do? Is that your final answer?”

  “I—I—maybe I just don’t have a talent for this stuff?” George added in a small voice.

  “Then we have a huge problem.” Dean Dean Deanbugle plucked him off the ground and popped him over his shoulder. George thrashed and fought and squirmed, but Dean Dean Deanbugle carried him as easily as if he were a kitten.

  As he was being carted away, George saw his classmates gawking and Milo grinning, but all too soon George and the dean rounded a corner.

  Then George was alone.

  And in deep trouble.

  The Whirlyblerg

  “Where are you taking me?” George asked, trying to keep his voice from wobbling.

  The dean continued to carry him over his shoulder. George rode down the hall, through a door, and down some very winding stairs.

  “I’m doing this for your own good, George.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You had talent last week, now this week you don’t. We only have the best of the best here at Pilfer, so . . .”

  George’s heart leaped. This was the part where Dean Dean Deanbugle was going to tell him that he was expelled. That they were going to give up on him.

  “So,” the dean said, “we just have to shake the talent back in to you.”

  George hung like a wet noodle over the dean’s shoulder. “Shake?” he whispered.

  “THE WHIRLYBLERG!” Dean Dean Deanbugle confirmed.

  George felt like he was going to be sick. He began to thrash again, but Dean Dean Deanbugle said, “Oh no you don’t! I’ve wrestled students twice your size into the whirlyblerg and students half your size—which are a lot trickier as there’s less of them to hold on to. Slippery little things.”

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong!” George said. “HELP HELP HELP!!!”

  But he knew his screaming wouldn’t help, as Dean Dean Deanbugle was dragging him through a dark, drippy hallway. They must have been underground—that was the only thing that would explain the lack of windows and lights. The only lights came from the rotted Jack-o-lanterns that lined the hall.

  George sniffed, and instantly regretted it. “UGH! What’s that smell?”

  “We keep meaning to replace the pumpkins . . .” Dean Dean Deanbugle said. “They were carved about seven years ago. It’s just that we so rarely come down here that we keep forgetting.”

  “The candles inside haven’t blown out?”

  “They’re battery oper—”

  “HELPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!” George shouted, figuring it was worth another try. He pounded his hands on Dean Dean Deanbugle’s back. “HELPPPPPPPPP HEEEEEELLLLPPPP!! SOMEBODY HELP ME, PLEASEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!”

  His words echoed around the empty hallway.

  Dean Dean Deanbugle gripped him tighter. “You see why I have to do this, George. I’m punishing you because I care.”

  For a moment, George thought how utterly twisted that was, but then he lost that thought—and his breath—as they approached a big door. Fear gripped his chest; on the door, there was a sign that read:

  DANGER ZONE:

  THIS WAY FOR TORTURE FUN FUN FUN!

  Dean Dean Deanbugle kicked open the door, and they were inside. The room was bright and big—with rainbow-painted walls and happy music blaring from the speakers.

  And smack dab in the middle of the room was a carnival ride with kids and adults of all ages strapped in.

  It was a music express—one of those rides that spins around and around and around, in an endless circle. George used to go on something like it with his older brother Gunther whenever they went to an amusement park. Gunther always took the inside seat, and when the ride would start spinning, George always got smushed.

  “Oh thank goodness!” a pimply teenager called out. “Now you can get me off here!”

  “No, me! Get me off!” a sallow-faced woman cried. “It’s my turn!”

  “But I was only supposed to be on here for an hour!” a bony girl shouted.

  �
�I have to go to the bathroom!” said a stringy man with an unkempt beard.

  “SILENCE!” the dean shouted, and they all clammed up.

  “What’s that ride doing here?” George asked as Dean Dean Deanbugle finally put him down.

  “That’s the whirlyblerg.”

  George almost laughed. The whirlyblerg was an amusement park ride? He’d thought it was going to be some sort of horrible torture chamber.

  “I can see the fear in your eyes. Good, good,” Dean Dean Deanbugle said.

  George tried to hide his sigh of relief by pretending he was quaking in his boots.

  “Go on—I want you to ride with Lionel.” The dean dragged him across the room and strapped George into a car with the man who had shouted that he had to go to the bathroom.

  The restraining belt clicked into place.

  A girl in the car ahead of him turned around. “Please!” she said, her eyes wild beneath her tangled hair. “Please don’t let him pull the lever! NOT THE LEVER!”

  “What lev—” George said, but then was jerked forward as the whirlyblerg began to move. George looked to his right and saw the dean, waving good-bye next to a lever that came up from the ground. But then George’s car whipped around the corner, and when it came back around, the dean was gone.

  Around and around and around. George slid on top of Lionel, and Lionel smushed him back, and the two of them were like tumbled laundry, like scrambled eggs, like whipped cake batter, like tussling puppies.

  “Sorry in advance, kid, but I get motion sickness. But they don’t call it the whirly—BLERGGGGG!” Lionel leaned over the side of the ride and threw up. After a few more spins around the room, he wiped his mouth and said, “Like I was saying, they don’t call it the whirlyblerg for nothing.”

  George winced and looked away as Lionel retched again.

  “Can’t Dean Dean Deanbugle give you a barf bag?” George said.

  “You think he’d get me a barf bag?”

  “Maybe,” George said. “If you asked.” A draft of wind slapped him in the face, and it seemed like the ride was starting to go—if possible—even faster. “How long have you been on this thing, anyway?”

  “I have no idea!” Lionel said. “Sometimes Dean Dean Deanbugle will come down here and throw water bottles and food at us. Whatever we can catch is ours to eat.”

  George’s head was spinning. Partially from the information, but mostly from the ride. “He throws food at you?”

  Lionel nodded.

  “If he’s in a good mood, he’ll throw solid food, like bread and cheese and pasta. If he’s in a rotten mood, he’ll throw us mushy food, like mashed potatoes, porridge, pudding, soup—things that are nearly impossible to catch.”

  George felt like he was going to be sick. He covered his mouth with his hands.

  “I know that look,” Lionel said as the ride jerked again. “If your last meal is coming back up, just let it.”

  George gripped the side of the car for a second—or a minute—or an hour—or a day—he wasn’t quite sure. Finally he said, “I think I’m okay now.”

  “What did you do, kid?” Lionel said.

  “I didn’t perform well enough on a class assignment,” George said. “What about you?”

  “I went through a teenage rebellion phase, where I didn’t want to listen to authority. But hey, I’d listen to authority now, I swear!”

  A cry came from somewhere across the ride.

  “And Hannah in front of you stole a plate of Dean Dean Deanbugle’s pasta.”

  “Not worth it!” she groaned.

  George was so dizzy he couldn’t even see straight anymore. The rainbow walls swirled together. The happy music sounded like blended mush. And the ride kept going, faster and faster and faster.

  “Why isn’t the ride stopping?”

  Hannah whipped around, her hair flailing. “It’s broken, of course!”

  “Broken! Broken how?”

  “It never stops on its own. Someone needs to pull the lever, or it will keep going forever.”

  “And no one’s ever escaped?”

  “How could you?” she said. “Even if you could get the restraining belt off, you’d be flattened by the spinning cars! The only way to stop it is with the lever, but you’ll never reach it from here. It’s all the way across the room.”

  George was beginning to feel nauseous again. The ride flipped him like a burger, flopped him like pancake, and tossed him like a salad. Even with his eyes shut, George could feel his brain spin around and around and around like a pizza crust on a chef’s finger.

  He tried to distract himself by thinking of something else, but his thoughts came up as a jumble of incomprehensible words. How could he get off the whirlyblerg? Surely someone had escaped it. Who had he ever known that was on this thing?

  “Reuben!” George blurted aloud. “Reuben Odell—was he ever here?”

  “How do you know Reuben?”

  “Is he here? Or did he escape?” George asked. If Reuben escaped, maybe it was possible to get off the whirlyblerg. Maybe it was possible to make it out of the school alive without graduating! “Please tell me he escaped!”

  “Reuben was here for a while, but then Dean Dean Deanbugle plucked him off the ride. We don’t know what happened to him after that.”

  No no no no no! A dead end! George suddenly felt like crying, but he was so dehydrated that he didn’t have any tears inside him.

  All the while, the whirlyblerg spun and spun and spun and spun and spun.

  “We can’t just sit here!” George said. “We have to escape . . . or at least try.”

  “BLERGGGGGGGG!” retched Lionel.

  “Escape is impossible,” Hannah said.

  George dug into his pockets. There was nothing there, but he was wearing a belt. Can I do anything with a belt? he wondered. Lasso? Whip? Rope? Could any of these things stop the lever? Pickapocket’s voice popped into his head: Anything can be a gadget!

  George wiggled out of his belt. Since he was on the outside, he was closest to the lever. Whenever they spun near, George leaned to the side and tried to whip his belt far enough to reach the lever.

  “Are you insane, boy? Aren’t we all in enough trouble?” Lionel shouted when he realized what George was doing.

  “Lionel, we can’t just sit here and wait for the dean to come back. It might be forever!”

  Lionel shook his head, and George went back to trying to hit the lever. But after what felt like hundreds of tries, he realized he was just too far away to reach. After a while, he wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. It could have been hours or days or weeks.

  At last, the door opened, and George saw a blurry figure come into the room. But he wasn’t walking to the lever. George whipped around behind the center of the ride, and when he could see that side of the room again, the figure was throwing food.

  “CATCH!” Lionel shouted, as packages of turkey jerky, loaves of bread, fistfuls of uncooked pasta, containers of cottage cheese, bushels of bananas, cartons of strawberries, bars of candy, jugs of lemonade, and bottles of water came soaring.

  George caught three bananas, a chocolate bar, and a jug of lemonade.

  He was so thirsty. He opened the lemonade straight away and drank greedily from it, but the ride was too bumpy, and he ended up getting a lot of it on his face.

  George bent forward and stashed the food in the netting underneath the seat. To his surprise, Lionel seemed to already have a secret stash of food and drinks down there.

  When he reemerged, George was shocked to see the blurry figure still standing there. Was he—yes! The figure was starting to walk over to the lever. Suddenly, the ride slowed, but when it finally stopped, George was certain his head did a few more loops around the track before it caught up with the rest of him.

  The dean walked over to his
car, and all of the prisoners fought against their restraints.

  “George,” Dean Dean Deanbugle said, lifting his seat belt. He pulled George off, pushed the dizzy Lionel back down, and locked the metal bar again.

  “Please,” George croaked. “Let the others off the ride!”

  Dean Dean Deanbugle ignored him. “I think that’s enough for now. I expect to see you at class on Monday, and you will have talent again.”

  George slumped. “Yes, sir.”

  “And George? If I ever see you slacking again, I’ll make sure you stay on the whirlyblerg forever.”

  The Opposite of Thieving

  After Dean Dean Deanbugle let him off the whirlyblerg, George trudged back to his room and sulked there the rest of the weekend. On Monday morning, he barely had the energy to get out of bed, but he knew that one more mess up would land him back on that horrifying whirlyblerg. So he made himself go to Ballyrag’s class.

  He collapsed into his usual seat and laid his head in his arms, waiting for class to begin.

  “What happened to you over the weekend? Are you okay?” Tabitha asked. “I—I was so scared for you.”

  “I’m fine,” George said firmly, keeping his head down. He definitely did not want to talk to her.

  Moments later, Ballyrag entered the classroom, wearing two shoes around his neck. As he stood in front of the class, his mustache gave a twitch. It looked like a tiny rodent living on his face. “Now! Sit down, sit down. We’re going to learn something specially important today.”

  George pulled out a pencil.

  “Right now, we’re going to be learning about basic grieving theory. So . . . let’s start with kidnapping. What’s the number one thing you have to remember about that? You gotta remember to hold them for handsome. So when you’re holding someone for handsome, you need to send them a list of reprimands, and you got to make sure your note sounds very minister—yes, Miss Crawford?”

  The whole class turned to look at Tabitha, whose hand was high in the air. “I think you’re confused. We’ve already learned about ransom notes.”