The Prank

The Prank

“Hey, Bob, you hear the rumor?” I say.

Bob is tall, lanky, and lugging four heavy books under his arm – what a nerd. He pushes his thick, Coke-bottle glasses up the bridge of his nose and regards me calmly.

“About what?” he says.

“That missing kid from Piedmont High?”

“What? No, I hadn't heard. When did he go missing?”

“A couple days ago, on Saturday afternoon. Listen, his parents passed out flyers at church, so I’m handing some out at school.”

I hold out a sheet of paper, still warm from the school secretary’s Xerox machine. The top half of the page shows the black and white photo of a chubby, wimpy-looking kid in a striped jersey. His face is expressionless, his eyes squinting from between fatty folds of flesh. Yesterday, Dennis and I snipped this photo of a missing kid from a twenty-year-old newspaper we found in his granddad’s basement. Then we carefully penned in MISSING: Hank Forgash, along with a physical description.

Age 15. Junior at Piedmont High School. Height – 5 foot 4 inches. Weight – 170 pounds. Last seen near Dank’s strip mall wearing blue jeans and a red and white striped shirt. If you see him, please call 911.

Bob takes the page, studies it.

“That’s awful,” he says. “His parents must be going crazy.”

I hand him six more flyers to pass out to his nerd pals. As our hands brush past each other, I feel his strange clamminess. Man, he gives me the creeps. Bob Kitchin isn't just a nerd - he's also the weirdest kid I've ever met. Ever since he and his mom moved here, over four years ago, people have accused him of all manner of mischief - none of it ever proven.

Before we part company, he points at my chest.

“Hey, you lost a patch,” he says, then turns and walks away.

I glance down at my blue "club" jacket and realize my Ardmore Bowling Club patch is missing. What the hell? A few frayed yellow threads show around the edges where the patch used to be. This old jacket is my favorite - festooned with a dozen sewn-on patches from all the clubs I’m in – and the missing patch irks me.

Then I notice something else – a tear in the fabric just below the missing patch.

After third period, I meet Dennis in the hallway. We huddle in the corner near his locker and laugh our asses off. We fooled some of the teachers, too. They’re making their own copies and passing them out to more students and teachers.

I’ve always wanted to play a prank like this – a hoax that gets the whole school, maybe the whole town, in an uproar. By April of my senior year, I decided it was now or never. Dennis was game from the start – my partner in petty crime.

During fourth period – we have only a half day of school today – and just a few minutes before the bell, Mr. Simon comes on the speaker.

“Everyone, before we leave for the weekend, I’m sure most of you have heard about Hank Forgash, an eleventh grader at Piedmont who has gone missing. If any of you know Hank or his family - all of you are in our prayers. Let’s hope that Hank is found safe and sound, and that he’ll be home soon with his family.”

I look across the aisle at Dennis, and we both fight back grins. Our teacher, Mister Zimmerman, is standing with his back to his desk, his arms crossed, his face solemn.

“To help with the search effort, I’m asking any of you who can to join me and others at the ball field near the Danks strip mall, this afternoon at one o’clock. We plan to search the surrounding woods to see if Hank might be there. Thanks, and God bless all of you. Stay safe.”

By the time I get home, at a quarter past twelve, my mom is laying out lunch. Leftover meatloaf sandwiches. My dad gets home early, too. As the three of us sit down, dad asks me to say grace. I feel a pang of guilt – praying as I think about our prank, our lie.

Halfway through lunch, at quarter ‘til one, there’s a loud knock at the door. When I answer it, I’m surprised to see my friend Glen standing there.

“Luke, you ready to head to the ball field?”

I try to close the door behind myself, so my folks won’t hear what we say, but my dad appears over my shoulder.

“Hi, Glen,” my dad says. “What are you two up to?”

Glen and I step back inside, and he tells my parents about the missing kid and the search, and both mom and dad stare at me in shock.

“So when were you going to tell us about this?” my dad says. His voice simmers with anger, and I utter a silent prayer that he doesn’t suspect I’m part of any wrongdoing. Though he doesn’t yet know it’s a hoax.

“I was gonna tell you right after we ate,” I say. “I know you have a lot of stress at work, and I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Luke, that’s crazy!” my mom says. Come on – all three of us need to head over there. She glances at the mantle clock. “We still have about ten minutes before it starts.”

----

My heart sinks when I take in the crowd at the field. At least a couple hundred kids, parents, and grandparents have assembled on the grass. Mister Simon calls out for everyone’s attention, his chronically red face glowing in the afternoon sun.

“Alright. Everyone, split up into small groups, and each go on a different path into the woods. We’ll meet up on the other side. And stay together – no one should walk off alone! If you find anything suspicious, call out. Let’s go, folks!”

I try to spot Dennis in the crowd, and I finally see him up ahead. He’s alone, so I run over to him.

“Luke, Jesus Christ,” he says. “What have we done? This is way outta control! I think we should confess what we did!”

“Calm down,” I say. “Look, after an hour of walking through the woods, nobody will find anything, and then folks will figure out it’s all a hoax. Now come on and join me and my parents!”

I’m the ring leader, so Dennis falls into step beside me.

----

A half hour later, we’re pushing our way through underbrush beneath a tall canopy of oaks and maples. It’s cool here, in the shade, and the voices from other search groups echo in the distance. The patch of woods near Danks mall is only about a quarter mile by a half mile in size, so it shouldn’t take us long to cross it.

My dad leads the way for our group, my mom at his side. A rosary dangles from her right hand, and her pinched fingers move, every ten or twenty seconds, from one bead to the next.

In under ten minutes, we break through the foliage at the far edge of the forest, beside the chipped, potholed Danks mall parking lot. Other search groups are already there, standing about, talking and laughing amongst themselves. The atmosphere has gone from somber to jovial, and everyone looks relieved that nothing was found.

Then a car careens into the parking lot and screeches to a stop before the crowd. The door opens, and a wide-eyed Mister Simon leaps out.

"Listen, everyone - I'm sorry to say it but - this was all a hoax! We just got word from Piedmont that no student there matches the boy on the flyer. No students are missing here, at Piedmont, or at any other nearby school!"

There's a collective grumble of frustration from the crowd.

"I'm really sorry for bringing all of you out here for nothing. I should have contacted the Piedmont school district first. But it shows how much we care, as a community, and at least no one is missing."

Several people in the crowd lash out with invective about the unknown punk behind the hoax.

"Oh, and don't worry," Mister Simon says. "We'll eventually figure out who was behind this, and we'll punish them severely."

Then a girl screams – shrill, terrified – from somewhere in the woods, perhaps a hundred feet away. Everyone’s sense of relief shatters as we freeze in place.

“Everyone, over here!” a man shouts from the woods. “Quick, over here! Call 911!”

As we stream back in, I mutter, “oh no, oh no, please God no,” over and over. My heart pounds, cold sweat pours from my body. Dennis looks like he’s about to throw up, but he manages to hold himself together beside me.

After crashing through a thick grove of trees, we see it. Or, more correctly, we see him. One of the search party groups stands about someone lying on the ground. I see a raised belly, covered with a blood-smudged, red and white striped jersey, poking up from among trampled weeds.

I fall to my knees and burst into tears, Dennis vomits beside me. Despite my terror, I feel drawn, beyond my will, toward the body, so I struggle back to my feet.

It’s him. The kid in that old newspaper photo. Mister Simon bursts into view. He halts near the body, holds out the flyer page, glances repeatedly between the boy and the photo.

“Oh my God!” he says. “Oh my God, that poor, dear boy!”

I step closer still, drawn inexorably by some obsessive need to show myself that the boy lying there really isn’t the kid in the newspaper photo. That’s when I see bloody stab wounds on his left side. Well-defined bloody hand prints mark his neck, from where the killer choked him. The kid's eyes are wide open, staring straight up. Into nothing...

----

My dad switches on the eleven o’clock news. The three of us sit like zombies in the living room, our eyes glued to the blue glow of the screen.

“Our lead story tonight – the body of a murdered boy, estimated to be fourteen or fifteen years years old, was found in the woods beside Danks strip mall in Freeport. The boy was first thought to be a student of Piedmont High, based upon flyers about a missing student that were handed out this morning at Freeport High School. Police are questioning teachers and students about who first began circulating the flyers.”

“Police Chief Nathan Smith said that the flyers were a hoax. Whoever began circulating the flyer is now their primary suspect in the murder investigation. Chief Smith said the hoax was probably an attempt to confuse and misdirect police.”

“The chief went on to say that all students, teachers, and support personnel at Freeport High should report to the gymnasium, as soon as possible, where law enforcement personnel will record everyone's fingerprints. These will be used to search for a match to the prints found on the victim.”

“Jesus Christ,” my dad says, his face flushing red with anger. “So we have a murderer at the school?"

My mom bursts into tears and rushes from the room, while I sit there, dazed, terrified, and filled with a guilt that consumes me from the inside out. Not for murdering someone, but for starting the hoax. And no matter how I slice it in my head, our hoax and that murder are no coincidence.

----

Next morning, I stand in one of five lines of people in the gym. In the line next to mine, a female cop carefully inks Dennis’ fingertips and rolls them, one by one, onto a sheet of paper. When Dennis is finished, he turns and hurries out, his gaze aimed down and never straying from the floor. We haven’t talked yet today, and I’m worried our friendship will never be the same.

Soon, it’s my turn. A young male policeman – someone from neighboring Piedmont by his uniform – presses each of my fingertips onto a cool pad of black ink. Then a careful roll, side to side, captures a clearly defined image. As he proceeds from finger to finger, hand to hand, I ask God for forgiveness. Though we didn’t kill that boy, as of yet unidentified, I know we’re part of it. Somehow, we’re part of it.

----

Sunday morning, I lay in bed, gray skylight flooding through the window. I haven’t eaten since Friday’s meatloaf sandwich. My stomach couldn’t handle food if I tried. Still no word from Dennis.

I hear mom out in the kitchen, frying up bacon and eggs. An occasional rattle of paper from the living room means my dad sits in his favorite chair, reading the Sunday morning edition. No doubt, the unsolved murder covers the front page.

The sound of a rumbling car engine moves slowly down my street, then comes to a stop. Soon, the engine cuts out, followed by the slam of several car doors. I struggle out of bed to see what’s going on when there’s a loud knock at the front door.

I hear the grumble of men’s voices, and then my father, protesting, his voice cracking as his words turn into shouts.

“Luke! Get out here!”

My head swims as I open my bedroom door and step into the living room.

“I’m sorry, Mister Gruber,” a man says. “But we need to take your son to the station for questioning. You’re welcome to come along. Is he friends with a Dennis DePaulo, another boy at his school?”

“Yes,” my dad says. The timbre of his voice quavers with fear.

‘Mister Gruber, this will come as a shock to you and your wife, but both Luke’s and Dennis’ bloody fingerprints were found on the victim's throat."

“What’s going on?” I say, my heart in my throat.

My dad spins to me, with an expression of shock, hurt, and horror I’ve never seen. My mom stands stock still at the kitchen entrance, one hand over her mouth.

“Also,” one of the cops says. “Does this look familiar to either of you?”

I glance up and see my bowling club patch, the one missing from my blue jacket, in the cop’s right hand.

“We found it lying beside the body. It might have come loose in a struggle.”

My dad grips his hair with both hands, then rushes to the coat closet, removes my blue jacket, and stares in disbelief at the spot where my mom sewed on that patch months ago.

“When did this happen?” he shouts. “Luke, who tore that patch off?”

That’s the when my whole world implodes…