REVENGE IS SWEET (AND WET)

There were all kinds of reasons not to do this. I couldn’t afford to get in trouble. Mom would kill me if she found out. I didn’t even know if I could trust this kid.

But I did like that word—revenge.

The kid didn’t wait around for an answer either. He went straight through the bathroom door and kept going while I stood there trying to figure out what to do.

Then I decided it wasn’t against the rules to follow someone out of a bathroom. So I kept going.

The kid was waiting for me across the hall, near a door to some stairs.

“Where are you going?” I asked. That whole school is like a big maze. I was still figuring it out.

“Up,” he said.

When we got to the top, there were two more doors. One had a fire alarm on it, but the other opened right up. Inside was a big janitor’s closet, with a window looking out onto the roof of the school. There was a metal grate over the window, with a lock, but the lock was already broken. And I was pretty sure I knew who had broken it.

The kid opened the grate, slid the window up, and climbed out onto the roof.

“Uh… I don’t think we’re supposed to go out there,” I said.

“Uh… I don’t think I see a sign,” he said. “You coming?”

I’ll tell you this much right now: If you could have turned around and gone back down those stairs, you’re a better person than I am.

We stayed low all the way to the far side of the roof, where we ducked behind the wall at the edge. It was like we were part of a high-stakes war… or at least an intense game of paintball.

The kid held up two fingers and pointed over the wall for me to take a look. Sure enough, Zeke and Kenny were right there, sitting at the top of the bleachers like they were on their own personal throne.

My heart was beating out a major drum solo by now, but I gave the kid a thumbs-up anyway.

He opened his backpack and handed me two of those rubber-glove balloons. Then he took out two more for himself. I saw that he’d drawn bloodshot eyes right onto them, with red and black permanent markers. He’d even signed his own work with what I guessed were his initials—MTF.

What I didn’t know yet was that this kid had the world’s most perfect nickname. Everyone at Cathedral called him Matty the Freak. Nice to meet you, Mr. Freak.

Next, he took out a little piece of wire and poked a tiny hole in each glove. “So they’ll break and not just bounce,” he said.

That was basically the point of no return, like lighting a fuse. The next thing I knew, Matty the Freak was tossing his two water bombs over the edge.

And the next thing I knew, so was I.

I didn’t get to see what happened, but I heard it anyway—four big splashes and a whole lot of yelling. We were already tearing back across the roof, through that janitor’s closet window, and onto the stairs so we could laugh our butts off in private.

“That was amazing,” I said.

“Hey,” the kid told me, “it’s the stuff of art, right?”

He didn’t even know how right he was.

Operation: Get a Life had just officially begun.