Troublemakers Read online

  “I’m glad humiliation isn’t a problem for you.”

  “Oh, I’m the lusional, baby.”

  Tina approached, looking sheepish. We gave her the stank eye.

  “Hey, guys,” she said.

  “What do you want, Benedict Cumberbatch?” asked Byron.

  “Look,” she said, “I know I screwed up, and I just want to say, I’m sorry. My friendship with you two means a lot to me, and I don’t want to lose it over something dumb like this.

  “I enjoyed hanging with the water polo girls, but that’s not me. I made a promise to you guys that I’d help you with the test, and I want to follow through on my word because I care so much about our bond. You’re my best friends. I love you guys.”

  “Yeah, nice try,” I said. “The whole school already heard about what happened at the sleepover.”

  About that….

  __________

  The Sleepover Story

  So, here’s what happened, according to several reliable sources: on Saturday night, the water polo team (minus new member Byron) had a sleepover at Melissa Marquez’s house. During this sleepover, amidst the eating of pizza and watching of movies and talking about how cute Carlos is (I assume), Tina somehow ended up in a heated fart contest with the team’s goalkeeper, Dynamite Dani Driver, who is a legend in the world of farts. They traded braaps as the other girls cheered them on, seeking the glory that comes from farting longer and louder than anyone else in the room.

  Ever the competitive type, Tina refused to quit, attempting to go toot-for-toot with the bulkiest girl at school, even after she was out of fuel, pumping those butt fissures as they wavered, unable to sustain the force.

  I don’t know if you know this, but it’s sometimes possible to try and fart so hard that you end up pooping your pants. And if you’re wearing pajama shorts, it’s possible for that poop to fly out and end up on a family’s white carpet. And if that happens, it’s possible for the host family to ask you to leave a sleepover at two in the morning. I submit Tina as proof that these things are possible.

  The point is, Tina had managed to succeed where we’d failed: she’d ruined her reputation with the water polo girls and made things so awkward that she was now desperate to quit. Tina was back in.

  “I’ll keep going to practice until Thursday, so I can get the test,” she said.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Version C, back in effect.”

  “How are we gonna have her copy the test and get it out of the room?” asked Byron. “They’re gonna make everybody put their stuff in their lockers. No Trapper Keepers allowed.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We need something really clever….”

  “Let me stop you right there,” said Tina. “Let’s not make this too complicated. I’ll handle it.”

  On Thursday, the water polo team gathered in the health room for periods five through seven. All books and supplies were taken away from students except for graphing calculators and #2 pencils. But Tina had a secret weapon stashed in her sneaker: an old geography test.

  About eight minutes in, when everyone was quiet and concentrating, she made her move, standing up on her chair.

  “This sucks!” she screamed. “I’m not taking this stupid test! Gaaaaaahhhhhh!!!”

  She ripped the papers to tiny shreds and threw them in the air like confetti. She was immediately ushered to in-school suspension, with no one realizing she had the real test carefully concealed in her armpit. We were lucky the staff never asked why she was walking around with her arms pinned to her sides. We had secured a copy of the test, and Tina was now forbidden from going to the water polo meet, and would have to re-take the test with us the next day. The plan was in motion.

  __________

  The Work Begins

  We had the test, but we still had to figure out the correct answers. After a quick trip to the copy store, we had three identical tests ready to go. We divided up the questions, each of us taking a third, and set out to look up every answer that night. I had to do it while confined to my room because I was still grounded from when I cashed out my mom’s IRA to invest in cryptocurrency, but time is gonna tell on that one. A lot of it wasn’t so hard – I could do the math with a calculator, and it turns out the social studies book contains quite a bit of knowledge useful for passing a test. Who knew?

  Then came the dreaded essay question. The directions themselves were a full paragraph, and we’d be given 40 minutes to write an answer. There was no simple solution, but I’m a wordsmith, so I took on the challenge. Initially, I tried to plot out an intelligent response and write it myself. After two minutes of that, I gave up and snuck into the living room to quietly use the computer while my mom was asleep.

  Kids who don’t know how to cheat always get caught because they just Google the question and use the first link they find, resulting in those memes where some kid plagiarizes Shakespeare or claims the Cuban Missile Crisis was averted by Professor X and Magneto. I’m way past those methods – I go straight to the source and get my answers from the teachers themselves.

  A couple years ago, LAUSD set up a message board where teachers from different schools could communicate with one another, sharing instructional techniques and discussing their issues with blah blah blah et cetera. It required a login, but of course Miss Consalvi used her dog’s name as her password, so I could get on there any time I wanted.

  Predictably, there was a new topic posted that week, with lots of teachers fretting over how to grade the essay question on the placement exam, asking one another for guidance about how to score it on a one-to-ten scale. I scrolled through the posts until I hit the jackpot: lead test proctor JaneMarsh78 supplied a gem of a post:

  “We realize there is some concern among teachers as to how the essay section should be graded. Due to the wide variety of possible responses, a lot will be left up to your discretion. However, please refer to these updated guidelines, which will now be included with your grader’s packet….”

  After that was two full paragraphs of exactly what we were supposed to write. I copied it down three times in different handwriting (a useful skill that I’m pretty much a master at) and got to bed around three. We exchanged our sections in the morning, and when the hour came to take the test, each of us suffered an unfortunate coughing fit at predetermined times so the others could switch out their papers without the rustling being too audible.

  Hopefully they wouldn’t notice that our three exams all had folds and wrinkles in them, but just to make sure, I crumpled up everyone else’s in my row as we handed them in. The job was done, and all we had to do was wait for the results so we could be put in Track 1 where we belonged.

  __________

  The Plan Goes Off Without A Hitch

  So anyway, first thing Monday, we got called to the principal’s office.

  “I have the results of your placement tests,” said Principal Caldwell.

  “Oh, really?” I said, feigning ignorance. “Can you inform us as to how we did? I am ever so curious.”

  “Let’s see,” she said. “On the first two thirds of the multiple choice, you all got one hundred percent of the questions correct.”

  “Whaaaa?” said Tina. “You’re kidding! Oh my! Father will be so proud!”

  The principal glared at us.

  “Then, for some reason, on the final third, you all got only forty percent correct.”

  We looked at Byron.

  “It was too much work, so I just guessed,” he said with a shrug. “Forty percent’s not bad for guessing.”

  “And then there’s the essay question,” said Principal Caldwell, “to which you all had the exact same response.”

  Here she cleared her throat for dramatic effect before reading.

  “‘The student should be able to write a clear introductory sentence that outlines a main idea. Each subsequent sentence should have proper spelling and grammar, and follow logically from that main idea….’”

  She stopped and stared at me. I felt
a little proud that she could tell I was running this show.

  “This would have been a great response, if the prompt had asked you to write down word-for-word exactly what it says in the teacher’s grading guidelines. I’m really impressed you were able to find a way to cheat on this test after all the care we took to prevent it. You’ve exposed some holes in our process that will now be fixed.”

  “That was our plan all along,” I said. “We just want to be of service. Perhaps a reward is in order for our diligence.”

  “Your reward will be detention, every day for the next month – before school, not after. You will show up at seven in the morning, helping out with clean-up, starting with the soda stains that are still causing a sticky mess in the hall.”

  “That sounds great, and I’m so terribly sorry, but I can’t,” said Tina. “I’ve got water polo practice, and the team really needs me.”

  “You are officially kicked off the team,” said Principal Caldwell.

  “Buggler,” said Tina.

  “Am I still on the team?” said Byron.

  “You’re now forbidden from every team, and you can feel free to tell that to your ‘father’ here,” she said, pointing at me.

  “I’m still proud of you, boy,” I said.

  “I hope you three have learned your lesson,” she said.

  “Nah,” said Tina. “We don’t really do that.”

  I’ve never heard a door slam quite like hers did after we left. We hate school, but trust me, it doesn’t like us either. Once we’d passed through the silent office and made it back out to the hall, Byron turned to me, a little confused.

  “Is it bad that I’m still not sure what we did wrong?” he asked.

  “I am going to punch both of you so many times that I’ll need surgery to get extra hands installed to aid in all the punching,” said Tina.

  In the end, we did not get put in Track 1. However, we didn’t get put in Track 2, either. We were placed in the heretofore unknown Track 3, only for extremely bad kids and those with behavioral conditions backed up by a doctor’s note. Instead of Music & Art or P.E. & Health, we had supervised homework time in a back room I’d never seen before, where we had to work in complete silence.

  We didn’t get to play floor hockey, but we also didn’t have to sing or paint. So really, we beat the system. No homework, kind of. Put that one in the win column. Plus, on days where we didn’t have too many assignments, the supervised homework period gave me plenty of time to cook up new business ideas. I’ve got one that’s projected to earn a million bucks within four months. It’s guaranteed to work.

  Armando’s Trampoline

  A lot of people don’t believe me when I say this, but our school is run by a shadow organization. That’s the only explanation for why I wasn’t elected to student government: the powers that be are scared of my ideas. My dad said it was because I threatened everyone in my speech, but I think it’s important to say exactly what I think at all times; it’s everyone else’s fault for having feelings that get hurt so easily. I don’t take crap. Carlos and Byron do, which is why I’m the leader of our posse.

  Also, I’m really smart, I just don’t do well on tests in a school environment. My open mind needs to take in a variety of media as I come to my own independent conclusions. Ms. Souther told me I couldn’t quote ConspiracyDump in my papers anymore because it’s not a legitimate source, but she’s just mad because I exposed how soy milk is a plot to eliminate cows from the Earth. Or I would have, if I hadn’t gotten kicked off the school paper for stealing double-sided tape. But this isn’t about me, or all the cover-ups I’ve un-covered-up. This is about Armando, and how unfair life is.

  My dad works the night shift, so I have evenings to myself. I often fall asleep on the couch, and then he wakes me up around seven when he gets home, and we eat breakfast for me/dinner for him. Then he watches ESPN and passes out on the couch until I get home from school. Very little sleeping is done in our actual beds. That morning, I had to shake him awake right after he fell asleep.

  “Hey,” I said. “I need you to sign this test because… just sign it.”

  He opened his eyes enough to see it and scribbled a signature as I held it taut, but he pushed so hard, the pen stabbed straight through the paper and left a huge gash. Then he kicked off his shoes and laid his head back.

  “Also, I need money for lunch again,” I said.

  “Nice try,” he said without moving. “I gave you a check for ten days’ worth, and it’s only been eight school days.”

  Dang. He’s good.

  That was the day it started, a Tuesday after a long weekend. As soon as we got into homeroom, we saw a crowd of kids surrounding a stout, pudgy, clean-shirted muffin of a boy in the front row. The news drifted back to us: Armando had gotten a trampoline.

  “Oh, my gorbles,” said Byron. “That rat-faced rat-butted rat.”

  “It had to be him,” I said, shaking my head. “Of course it did.”

  Armando twisted his bloodhound face into fake surprise, smugly pretending to be shocked by the attention.

  “Oh, my gosh, you guys! It’s just a trampoline! But yeah, it was an early birthday present. It’s so much fun! I can’t believe I never asked for one sooner!”

  You may be reading this in the year 3000, when everyone lives on spaceships and has pet genius gorillas, so let me explain: in 2019, the coolest thing a human being could have was a trampoline in their yard. It allowed mere mortals to jump into the heavens like you do when you’re on your spacewalks. They were also super dangerous, unless you had one of those safety nets that nobody had. Only the biggest jerks in the world had parents who let them get a trampoline, and now Armando had one, which meant we had to befriend him, because nothing was gonna stop me from jumping on that trampoline.

  “Wow, that’s great, Armando!” said Carlos, pushing past the horde. “Hey, do you have a partner yet for the science fair? I don’t know if our school has a science fair, but just in case, maybe I can come over and we’ll plan out a project and maybe some other stuff maybe trampoline who knows, what do you say?”

  Armando just stared at him like he was a talking toilet.

  “Yeah… class is about to start,” said Armando, pointing at the clock. The bell rang and the three of us took our normal seats in the back.

  “I already know what I’m gonna do,” said Byron. “I’m gonna start off slow, just bouncing a bit, like I don’t really care, and then after everyone else has tried their little thing, I take the center – pow! Pow! Pow! Three sick flips in a row, followed by a corkscrew backflip. Then I just chill like it’s no big deal and get surrounded by honnies.”

  “He’s not going to invite us over,” I said. “He hates us.”

  “Mostly you,” said Carlos.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  The big complication here was that we’d kinda sorta been picking on Armando for years, and he was sort of my mortal enemy. I kind of put bugs in his backpack every day of fourth grade, and I sort of a little Thunderstormed[1] him every week in fifth grade. But other than that, all I ever did was elbow him every time I saw him in the hall and mock him at every opportunity. Barely anything.

  Armando had always been super rich. I heard his parents chartered a helicopter to go to one of his soccer games. He probably knows the difference between crème brûlée and crème caramel. If you poke him in the stomach, he’ll burp up hundred-dollar bills (true story). He had every video game system, new clothes every season, and came back from Spring Break with a fresh tan from going somewhere that gets you tan. He was shy and quiet in class, but suddenly super talkative whenever he had the chance to rub his cool stuff in my face.

  I can still remember how bad Armando made me feel in second grade, showing off his noise-cancelling Bluetooth headphones when I still had the kind that plugged in like it was the 1930s. Or in third grade, when he sent invites to a party at the bowling alley using WhatsApp, meaning only people with smartphones got to go. Or in fourth grade, wh
en… okay, I can’t remember anything specific he did after that, but he made me feel bad for being poor when I was nine, so he’s a jerk forever.

  All you need to know about Armando is that he owns Kevin Durant shoes, a Notre Dame jersey, and a Patriots hat. He is trashbutt. And now he had a trampoline. And we were not gonna let life deny us the opportunity to jump on it.

  __________

  Souls For Sale

  Since Carlos had already whiffed in his initial attempt to get in Armando’s good graces, Byron and I undertook the mission. It went pretty well but not really.

  Byron chose the simple route. When everyone was taking a math quiz, he blurted out at the top of his lungs:

  “How dare you say that, Kenji! Armando is not fat! He is my friend and he is lovely, and I would never allow someone to insult him in that manner!”

  He then waited for a tearful thank-you from Armando, but instead nobody said anything. It might have worked, except the person he’d accused of fat shaming was Kenji, whose dream was to become a sumo wrestler and who had about 60 pounds on Armando. Byron tried again by accusing the lead soprano in the boys’ choir of saying Armando had a girlish voice, with similar results. Then it was my turn.

  One thing you might not know about me is that I’m super hot. I hear all the time that I’m like a cross between Zendaya and Chris Hemsworth and The Widow from Into the Badlands. I think that’s why people don’t talk to me sometimes: they’re intimidated by my looks. Pure jealousy. In fact, that’s probably why Armando was so standoffish with me. It wasn’t the fact that I kept filling his locker with garbage, it was that he was in love with me. And it was time to use my feminine wiles to get him to ask me on a trampoline date with my two male chaperones.

  Flirting is not a problem for me. I spend every Saturday watching TV with my dad, so I know what men want: they want sexy female assassins who chop people’s heads off with samurai swords. Which is perfect, because that’s basically what I am.