The Terrible Two Get Worse Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Other Books by Mac Barnett and Jory John

  About the Authors

  Copyright Page

  Chapter

  1

  WELCOME BACK TO YAWNEE VALLEY, its green hills and cows, cows, cows. The grass grows, the hills roll, the cows moo. Who cares?

  Well, these two.

  This is Miles Murphy and Niles Sparks, the only members of a two-person secret club known to themselves and only themselves as the Terrible Two. (Miles is the one in a gas mask.)

  The Terrible Two was a particular kind of secret club. The Terrible Two was a pranking club. And on this day, a Sunday, Miles and Niles were about to pull their latest prank.

  On the day before this day, a Saturday, Miles and Niles had drawn up a list of things they’d need:

  “Why would we need gas masks?” asked Niles. Miles and Niles were in their prank lab, a walk-in closet off Niles’s bedroom whose four walls and ceiling had been covered in chalkboard paint so the Terrible Two could plot out their pranks.

  Notice the maps. Notice the diagrams. Notice the crate full of black socks stuck in the corner.

  The socks aren’t important. But behind the socks was something very important. Behind the socks were fifty-eight words Miles and Niles lived by.

  (If you’re reading this book somewhere quiet, someplace alone where no one will hear you, feel free to raise your left hand—the prankster’s hand—and say those words yourself.)

  “And that’s why we need gas masks,” said Miles, who’d been talking this whole time.

  “I don’t think gas masks work like you think they work,” said Niles.

  “I think they work exactly like I think they work,” said Miles.

  “Well, yeah,” said Niles. “That’s the definition of thinking.”

  “I’m bringing a gas mask,” said Miles. “And I’ll bring one for you too. I’ll bet you want it tomorrow.”

  Which is how we got here.

  “Are you sure you don’t want one?” Miles asked.

  “Yes.”

  Niles pulled a clothespin out of his pocket and used it to clip his nostrils shut. He winced a little, because it hurt.

  “The gas mask would be way more comfortable,” said Miles.

  “OK,” said Niles.

  “Plus it looks really cool.”

  Niles took a good look at Miles.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  Miles and Niles laid the skateboards on the pavement. (Both skateboards belonged to Miles. This morning he’d ridden one over to the parking lot behind Danny’s Diner. Niles had carried the other one. He didn’t have very good balance.)

  They put on their rubber gloves.

  They pulled out their paintbrushes.

  Then Miles reached into his backpack and removed the most important thing they needed for this morning’s prank, something too important to include on their list, lest the list fall into the wrong hands, prompting questions, investigations, unmaskings, expulsions. It was the linchpin of the entire operation: a hunk of cheese wrapped tightly in plastic.

  Yawnee Valley cows ate Yawnee Valley grass from Yawnee Valley hills to make Yawnee Valley milk. Some Yawnee Valley milk became Yawnee Valley cheese, for sale to customers of the Yawnee Valley Creamery, purveyor of twenty-seven varieties including:

  If you counted, you know that’s only twenty-six kinds of cheese. But you might be interested to know that Yawnee Valley is also one of only four places outside Germany to make Limburger cheese, which Miles Murphy had purchased this morning, and which is famous for smelling like feet.

  “Aw man,” said Miles, unwrapping the cheese. “It smells like feet.”

  “That’s the whole point,” said Niles.

  “Yeah, but I can smell the feet,” Miles said, “through the gas mask.”

  Niles shrugged. “I tried to tell you. Gas masks block poison, not smells.”

  Miles lifted the gas mask off his face. “OK. You win. I’ll take a clothespin.”

  Niles smiled. “I only brought one.”

  Leave it to Niles Sparks to prank his pranking partner in the middle of a prank.

  “Good one,” said Miles.

  “Thanks,” said Niles.

  Miles looked a little queasy. He stared at the cheese. “It’s even worse than I thought.” He took a deep breath and held it.

  Miles and Niles nodded to each other.

  Then they got down on the skateboards, flat on their backs, and rolled under a yellow hatchback that belonged to their principal, whose name was Principal Barkin, and who ate lunch at Danny’s Diner at the same time every Sunday.

  A good prank required a good goat, and a good goat was someone who deserved to be pranked. Good goats were despots and tyrants, preeners and egomaniacs. Principal Barkin was a great goat, having:

  1) insisted, in speeches and on signs he pasted around the school, that his power as principal be respected by students;

  2) thrown tantrums whenever that power was called into question, his face turning purple any time he got angry (which was often);

  3) canceled this year’s theme days, citing “frivolity,” including Wacky Hair Day, Mustache Day, and Backward Day, leaving only Pajama Day (a compromise brokered by the class president, and even then Barkin had driven a tough bargain: On Pajama Day, school would start fifteen minutes early, “since students would have no need to get dressed”);

  4) committed several other heinous acts, including all the stuff from the first book.

  It took ninety-three seconds to coat the car’s undercarriage with Limburger cheese, and so in less than two minutes they were standing next to the car again.

  “How does it smell?” Niles asked.

  “Terrible,” Miles said.

  They grinned. Miles held up two fingers. Niles did too. They touched their fingertips together. It was the secret handshake of the Terrible Two, perfect for celebrating a prank well done.

  “Let’s go,” said Miles.

  But Niles wasn’t finished.

  “Hold on.”

  He checked to be sure nobody was looking, then smeared a layer of cheese on the vents right below the car’s windshield.

  It was the masterstroke.

  Chapter

  2

  MEANWHILE, in Danny’s Diner, two Barkins, Principal and Josh, were wrapping up Father-Son Brunch Time, part of Father-Son Sunday. Principal Barkin had implemented Father-Son Sunday to address ongoing concerns about Josh’s behavior. The principal believed his son to be a prankster, and to correct this deviance, he’d settled on a carrot-and-stick approach. The “carrot” in this case was Father-Son Sunday, twelve hours set aside for father-son hikes, father-son games, and father-son brunches. Josh hated Father-Son Sunday. (He also hated carrots.) The “stick” in Principal Barkin’s plan had been sending Josh to a military-themed summer camp, which would hopefully terrify him into obedience. Josh had loved it. (He also loved sticks—he’d spent all summer throwing them at people’s heads.)

  Principal Barkin unzipped his Principal Pack and pulled out a set o
f father-son flash cards on which he’d written questions designed to spark lively conversation between parents and adolescents.

  “What is one goal you’d like to accomplish in your lifetime?” Principal Barkin asked.

  “I want to be a school principal,” said Josh.

  They were off to a great start!

  “Mount Rushmore honors four presidents: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, and Theodore Roosevelt. If you could add a fifth face to the monument, whose would you choose?”

  “Mine.”

  What robust self-esteem!

  “If you could teleport to anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  “That empty booth over there.”

  “Josh.”

  Josh stared out the window at a tree and thought about punching it.

  “If you’re not going to take this seriously,” said Principal Barkin, “we can leave.”

  “Great,” said Josh.

  What had gone wrong, Principal Barkin wondered, gazing forlornly at his son, who was gazing malevolently at his father. Where had things gone awry between them? Was there a moment their relationship had spun off course? No! Of course not. You could not reduce something as complicated as the strain between a parent and child to a single moment, a particular event. Yet things had certainly taken a turn for the worse last spring, after Principal Barkin had both grounded and suspended Josh for various lies and misdeeds, forcing the boy to forfeit his position as class president. Then again, maybe it was just hormones!

  “Hormones,” Principal Barkin said aloud, befuddling his son. “Yes.”

  Josh had always been such a sweet boy by nature. Principal Barkin often thought fondly of those long-ago days when he would read little Josh a bedtime story, and Josh would call all the characters in the book nimbuses. Somewhere that sweetness must still flow through his veins, along with all those hormones.

  But those days were long gone. The two Barkins rose and approached the cashier. Principal Barkin counted out exact change.

  “Nice fanny pack,” said the cashier.

  Principal Barkin straightened, and his face turned the color of boysenberry jam. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Donna,” said the woman, pointing to her name tag, which said DONNA.

  “Well,” said Principal Barkin, “Donna, I will have you know that this is not a ‘fanny pack.’ It’s a Principal Pack.”

  “A principal pack?” Donna asked, then regretted asking.

  “Yes. A Principal Pack. That’s capital P, capital P—when you just said it now it sounded like lowercase. A Principal Pack is a pack, like this one, worn by a school principal, like me, containing everything necessary to successfully wield power in a school.”

  “Well, we’re in a diner,” said Donna.

  “Donna,” said Principal Barkin, “a principal does not stop being a principal when he leaves his school. A principal is a principal always. Even in a diner. Even on a Sunday.”

  “OK,” said Donna, who did not really understand how she had gotten into this conversation, or why it was still happening. “Well, then nice Principal Pack.”

  “Thank you,” said Principal Barkin.

  Victory. He was glad Josh had seen that. It was the kind of role-modeling that Father-Son Sunday was all about.

  Exercising authority put Principal Barkin in high spirits as he crossed the parking lot with his son. When Barkin was in high spirits, he sang, and today he sang his “Sunday Song,” which was a new song he’d just made up about Sundays.

  “I’m very glad it’s Sunday

  Because tomorrow it is Monday

  And Monday is the best day

  To start another school day.”

  He was on the second verse, which was the same as the first verse, when they got into his car and Barkin noticed the smell of feet.

  This particular area of the parking lot smells a bit like feet, Barkin thought before firing up his hatchback and setting to work on his new song’s bridge.

  “Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, Sunday,” he sang.

  But the smell was still there when he pulled out of the parking lot, and when he reached the stoplight at the intersection of Main and 3rd, Principal Barkin had to acknowledge the possibility that the smell was coming from the car.

  “Something stinks,” said Josh.

  They rolled down their windows.

  Hormones. Principal Barkin glanced at his son. Hormones! They caused moods. They caused rifts between fathers and sons. And they caused smells. Principal Barkin grew certain that hormones were the cause of all today’s woes, including this particular woe, the foot smell, which was growing worse as the drive went on. In fact, it seemed that the stench was even stronger now that they had opened the windows, a fact Principal Barkin blamed on cross-ventilation. Cross-ventilation and hormones: the twin villains of this Father-Son Sunday.

  Here was a delicate situation. As a school principal, Principal Barkin was an expert on adolescents, and he knew he needed to broach the issue of hygiene with sensitivity, lest he make his son ashamed of his body.

  “Josh,” said Principal Barkin, “I would like to say a few words about the importance of baths. Namely, do you take baths?”

  “What? Yes!”

  “Of course,” said Principal Barkin. “Of course you do. And when you do, do you use soap?”

  “Stop! Yes!”

  “Wonderful,” said Principal Barkin. “Terrific. And do you use soap on your feet?”

  “You’re blaming my feet?”

  “Well,” said Principal Barkin, “I am blaming feet. Somebody’s feet. Your feet. Maybe blame is a strong word. But yes.”

  “What about your feet?”

  “Josh,” said Principal Barkin, “I have been with my feet for many years. I know my feet. And my feet have never smelled like this. Nevertheless! This is nothing to be ashamed of. As you grow from a boy to a man, your feet, naturally, are changing, growing larger, gaining hair, and yes, making new smells.”

  “Dad!”

  “OK, OK, we don’t need to talk about it. We will just drive home, and as soon as we get there, you will take a long bath and wash your feet. Please. Thank you.”

  Principal Barkin turned up the radio. As a courtesy to his son, he would pretend that the smell in the car was not unbearable, though it was. Principal Barkin attempted to arrange his face into a pleasant smile, and when that failed, into an expression of only mild disgust.

  “Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, Sunday,” he sang to the tune of the song on the radio.

  Casually, Principal Barkin reached for the button to open the car’s vents and hopefully blast out the smell once and for all.

  Alas, the car filled with air tainted with the cheese Niles had smeared below the windshield.

  Principal Barkin gagged. Wheels squealed as he pulled the car over in front of a pet store.

  “All right! Out of the car. Foot check!”

  “What?”

  “Sit! Off with your shoes and socks!”

  Muttering, Josh sat on the sidewalk and took off his shoes and socks.

  Principal Barkin removed a bar of soap and a tiny water bottle from his Principal Pack.

  “This is so weird,” Josh said.

  “I’m doing you a favor here, Josh. You will thank me for this one day!”

  Principal Barkin took his son’s right foot in his hand and bent down, soap in hand.

  As he got close to the foot, he noticed something strange: It did not smell.

  He got closer and sniffed deeply.

  “Interesting,” said Principal Barkin. “Very interesting.”

  • • •

  Down the block, Miles and Niles stood, skateboards under their arms, jaws ajar.

  “Well this one turned out great,” said Miles. “Strange, but great.”

  Niles nodded. “Most definitely.”

  Chapter

  3
r />   THAT FATEFUL AUTUMN found nearly every day punctuated by some prank perpetrated by the Terrible Two. September 30: The Big Chirp. October 15: The Cafeteria Calamity. But let’s look closely at that parade of practical joking that was November 10, better known at Yawnee Valley Science and Letters Academy as school picture day.

  School picture day is strange. You probably have your photo taken all the time, with cameras and phones, by family and friends. Still, once a year, you will be asked to carefully choose an outfit (“solid colors, in medium to dark shades for that timeless look”), put too much product in your hair (“schedule a haircut two weeks before your portrait”), and pick one of four backgrounds: Harvest Sunset (brown), Pacific Breeze (blue), Candy Apple (red), and Forest Trail (green). All four backgrounds will have a hazy white spiral running through them, so your picture will look like it was taken inside a wizard’s cauldron. You will have the option of paying extra for a fifth background, Executive Gray (just regular gray), and you will wonder what kind of person spends ten bucks to get gray. You will line up in the gym, clutching your order form—eight wallet size, four desk size, two 8 × 10s. You will file to the front of the line, where a huge camera flashes every few seconds. A bored man with a big beard will tell you a bad joke and snap a photo that will be given to grandparents and go up on your fridge. If your family loves it, they might put the photo on mugs or mouse pads or—worst of all—cell phone cases, so you will have to look at your school picture when your mom uses her phone to take pictures of you.

  The best pictures capture who we truly are. School pictures capture who we are at school, on school picture day. Now sit down and smile. And don’t blink! You don’t want your school picture to turn out like this:

  “Aw MAN!” said Stuart. (The kid in the picture is Stuart.) “I think I BLINKED!”

  Mr. Yeager scratched his beard and looked at the camera. “Yes,” he said. “You blinked.”

  “That ALWAYS happens to me,” said Stuart. “I get FREAKED OUT about the FLASH!”

  “Let’s try this again,” said Mr. Yeager. “Say ‘Muenster.’”