Believe me, Journal, when I say there is nothing worse than having a successful-prank celebration cut short by a massive 16-year-old middle-schooler standing in the doorway to your bedroom. Unless of course he happened to be one of the people pranked. That is much, much worse.
Kevin, Suzanne and I stared up at the beast, paralyzed. The terror stared back at us, his bulk filling the room. I’m pretty sure I would have run, but, well, did I mention what was in the doorway? Instead of attacking, though, the facial-haired brute instead pulled a letter from his pocket and squinted at us, as if trying to figure out who was who. Rather than asking, he stuck out his still-raw tongue and pointed at the red patch where the lollipop had been superglued to it.
Before I could react, both Kevin and Suzane pointed at me, stepping back. The next moment, the letter was shoved into my chest, leaving a dent, and the Dull Droll Troll had vanished back into the dark hall.
“Is it the black spot!?” cried Kevin, breathlessly.
I unfolded the note with trembling fingers. “It looks like an invitation… at midnight tomorrow… to a meeting with the Dull Droll Trolls.”
Suzanne squinted skeptically. “What sort of meeting?”
“A truce meeting!” They both stared at me, dumbfounded, as a grin spread over my face. “Don’t you get it? They’re so afraid now they’ve called us to a truce meeting. We’ve won!”
***
“You call this winning?” hissed Suzanne, shivering in the cold the next night. After sneaking out and across town, we huddled together in front of an old, ghostly house, alone in the moonlight.
I coughed, glancing up at the teeth-like eaves as Kevin whimpered. “Winning might be a stretch.”
Just then, the door of the house creaked open to reveal a figure behind it, candle in hand. We froze, our breaths catching as one. Silently, the shadow beckoned. Feeling both Suzanne and Kevin move behind me, I gulped, straightening slowly. “Well… what’s the worst that could happen?”
“Maiming and death.”
“Thanks, Kevin.”
Hesitantly, I led the way into the belly of the beast, a shiver running down my spine as the candle-bearer creaked the door closed behind us. Our breaths held, we followed him through the hall and up a ladder to the attic. It was a long space, but the ceiling was short enough even Suzanne had to hunch, and lit with the eerie glow of candles. It was only when my eyes adjusted that I saw the Dull Troll Trolls sitting in a circle with the candles, surrounding us. Just as I met the leader’s gaze, the trap door clicked shut.
“Maiming and death,” wheezed Kevin.
“Both tempting options,” replied the massive leader, his gaze unnervingly crafty in the midst of the buffoons. “But not very fitting for a truce.”
“T-truce?” I fumbled, lowering myself uncertainly to sit in front of him. “I mean, right, truce, of course.”
The brute’s smile widened. “We underestimated you, Costen. We thought you and your friends would take our attacks lying down, but… it seems we were wrong.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of several of the others rubbing their sore tongues in agreement. “So…” he continued, pulling out a piece of typed paper and handing it over, his bird-like eyes fixed on me, “to keep from any more… incidents, we’d like to offer you a contract.”
“What sort of contract?” asked Suzanne, squinting in suspicion.
“A way to settle things once and for all,” he replied, leaning back.
“In order to end the conflict,” I read, squinting at it, “and settle disputes once and for all, the fate of both sides shall be decided by a race at the school track on May 1st, at 6:00 o’clock, between Brady Costen and… his shadow?”
“A fair contest,” replied the leader, smirking.
I continued, “Should Brady successfully beat his shadow across the finish line, his rivals shall eat nothing but Tuesday’s Mystery Meat until the end of school. However, should he fail, he instead must eat Tuesday’s Mystery Meat for… an entire year?”
“That was Mrs. Grapeswrath’s idea,” replied the brute, smirking. “Apparently lunch ladies don’t like it much when someone adds chili powder to their food. She will personally be there as a judge.”
I paused, considering. I had hoped the night might turn out well, but I hadn’t imagined it would be this easy. Last year I used to run around the track after school to prepare for my future Olympic career before I realized my calling as a world dictator. This time of year at six, the sun would cast my shadow way back behind me on the way to the finish line. It wasn’t even a contest… Right?
“Don’t do it, Brady,” whispered Suzanne, leaning over to me. “It’s got to be a trick.”
Kevin grabbed my arm. “Whatever you do, don’t take us down with you!”
I glanced up from the contract to the leader again, and his cold, shifty gaze sent shivers down my spine. “If I sign…” I began slowly, “no matter what, I’d be the only one to suffer?”
“Just you.”
I stared back down at the paper, feeling the stares of the others boring into me. Suzanne was probably right. There was no way it could really be so easy, but then, all at once, I thought about her stained purple dress, and the way Kevin hid when the Dull Droll Trolls passed by, and something like a holy rage welled inside of me. Someone was going to have to end this war, and that someone might as well be me. Raising my head, I met the brute’s gaze. “Hand me a pen.”
By the time I stopped by the auto shop to talk to Randy later that day, after having slept in late from the night’s ordeals, I was feeling far more optimistic about my chances.
“Let me get this straight,” said Randy once I had finished, rubbing his forehead with a grease-covered hand. “You made a contract with some trolls… to race… your shadow…”
“Yep,” I replied, grinning as I handed him the paper. “We even stamped it with a postage stamp to make it legal. You can come watch the race too, if you like. It will be fun to see their faces when they realize the finish line faces the sunset.”
“That won’t help much.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
He pointed at the contract. “This paper says the race is at 8 pm, the sun will be down already.”
The color drained from my face as I snatched the paper back and stared down at the time. There, where I had read 6:00 o’clock in the dim candlelight the night before, an almost light gray one changed the number to 16:00. “It’s not possible,” I choked, gripping the document for dear life. “Why didn’t they correct me?” Then, all at once, I noticed the date typed in the upper right-hand corner of the page. “Oh no…” I, Brady Costen, future dictator of the world, had officially been… April Fooled!
To be continued…
Photo Credit: Sabina Boyer