The senior class at my high school is notorious for
executing a senior prank. It is usually harmless,

just a bunch of rabble-rousing kids eager for one last
hurrah. My class, in particular, is famous for taking everything

too far. We always play with the toy until it breaks. It’s the shock
value- who wouldn’t want to be voted Biggest Daredevil?

We pitch ideas like baseballs. We could switch schools with our
neighboring town. Toss up glitter at the pep assembly. Flush

every toilet at once to see if the whole building explodes. We
could all dress like the blues brothers, or hijack the morning

announcements. It is all fun and games until one boy, the one
with grease caked on the backs of his grubby hands from autos

class, suggests gasoline, lots of explosives, sixty yards of
rope. He asks for the help of seniors who are willing to take

risks. Says he’s been planning this for over two years,
now. Says he could use our help, but if you snitch, that’s it.

No one wants to report this. One-fourth of this school
knows someone has a draft for destruction, but we won’t
tell. The first elementary lesson we learned: everyone
hates a tattletale. Another boy, a nice boy, suggests we

swarm-rape our principal for the senior prank. To punish him,
the principal makes him call his mother and read what he wrote

to her. Imagine: a woman making it to the top, only to have a
teenager remind her that she is only a woman. Only a pawn in the

game. A different boy, an all-star basketball boy, proposes we all
kill ourselves at 9:11 on May 15th. The ultimate joke. Legendary.

I picture us all hanging like light fixtures, graduation caps still
on our heads, laughs tangled in tassel cords.