Free No More Pranks by Monique Polak Page A

me!”
    â€œUh-huh, I see,” and then Dr. Dingle took a short pause, as if he needed to gather his thoughts. “Well, the first thing you need to know, Joseph, is that foot fetishes are surprisingly common and relatively harmless,” Dr. Dingle said. “But for a man in your, uh, position, it might be wise if you put someone else in charge of measuring footwear at your school. You are, shall we say—vulnerable. You don’t mention a wife, Joseph, and I’m wondering whether you are married or have a girlfriend. Perhaps she might be willing to let you caress her feet. How does that sound, Joseph?”
    That’s when I slammed down the phone. I had to—because I was about to crack up.
    My biggest mistake was taping the call.Okay, maybe it was my second biggest. The biggest was letting Jordan borrow the tape.
    Everyone was whispering when I walked into homeroom on Monday. They were asking each other if they’d heard
Pillow Talk
the night before. Even Elizabeth was giggling. Then I remembered how, earlier in the year, she’d gotten into trouble for breaking the two-inch platform rule, so maybe even Elizabeth the goody-goody had something against Mr. Quincy.
    â€œI’ll bet it was you, right?” Jordan called out when I grabbed a seat near his. The other kids turned around to watch my reaction. I could have said it wasn’t me, but I guess I was proud. I know it sounds kind of weird, but I felt like an artist or something. Like it was my creation and I wanted credit for it. I never could understand those guys who write poems and sign them “Anonymous.” I mean, why go to all that trouble finding just the right words for what you’re trying to say?
    â€œYup,” I said, “it was me.” And just for fun, I took a bow, bending over like I was on stage or something.
    â€œGee, am I ever sorry I missed it!” Jordan said. “We were out for dinner. But I heard all about it. ‘An uncontrollable urge to brush your private parts…’ Jeez, Larkin, how do you come up with that kind of stuff?” he said, clapping me on the shoulder.
    I’ve known Jordan forever—which in our case is since we were both born—fifteen-and-a-half years ago. Our moms met in some prenatal yoga class. Unlike me (I’m just over five feet), Jordan’s real tall. It’s weird how much a guy’s life is affected by his height. Jordan’s into basketball. I’ve made a name for myself by pulling pranks.
    â€œYou can always listen to the tape,” I told Jordan.
    â€œYou
taped
it?” Jordan sounded impressed.
    â€œUh-huh,” I said, pulling the cassette out of my back pocket.
    Jordan swears he had nothing to do with Mr. Quincy finding out, though he did admit he made two copies of the tape andlent them to some guys on the basketball team.
    Mr. Quincy sure can’t take a joke. When he called me into his office, his face looked like a purple balloon about to explode. “You have defamed my character. And I want you OUT OUT OUT!” I swear he said the word “out” three times. Not only am I suspended for five days, but I’ve actually got to switch high schools.
    You can imagine how flipped out my parents are. Quincy met with them on Friday afternoon and my mom hasn’t spoken to me since. Even my dad, who’s usually pretty understanding when I get into trouble, is upset. “We’re still reeling from all this,” he told me yesterday when he passed me on the staircase at home. “This time, Pete, you’ve crossed the line.”
    No wonder I prefer to lie here and think of what last week was like. Before I crossed the line, that is.
    My mom and dad don’t argue much, but hey, they’re arguing now. I can hear them all the way from the kitchen; they’re makingso much noise the floor in my bedroom is vibrating. “He’s going—and that’s that,” my mom is