“Holy shit, I didn’t think I was going to make it,” he says, out of breath. His long hair is a mess from the white-knuckle ride in the bed of the truck. “I think that maintenance guy got my picture, though,” he says.

“No way,” Nate says, turning around from the front seat. “It was too dark, and you were already over the fence when he snapped the picture, anyway.”

The truck is quiet for about two seconds before we all bust out laughing, relieved that it’s over and beside ourselves that we actually pulled it off without getting caught.

“Man, I wish we could have hidden out under the bleachers and watched those Taylor twits run around trying to catch a herd of greased piglets,” Darien says, and that starts a fresh round of raucous laughter.

Bucky brings us back to his house to get cleaned up before we head to school. His dad is waiting for us in the driveway, a big smile on his face.

“You got ’em good?” he asks as soon as we pull up.

“We got ’em,” Bucky tells him.

Mr. Redd raises his fists in the air. “Yes! Man, I love prank season.” He laughs. “Wait until I tell your grandpa and the word gets back to all the alumni. They’re going to love this one.”

We’re all still in high spirits as we drive toward Crenshaw, the last of the Crisco and pig smell hopefully washed off of us.

I’m daydreaming in Figg’s class when the pink slip comes.

“You’re needed in the principal’s office, Julian,” Figg says, handing me the slip.

“Oooooh,” erupts the chorus of calculus students behind me as I throw my backpack over my shoulder.

When I get there, Bucky and Elijah are already sitting in the upholstered chairs in front of Mr. Campbell’s desk. Coach Marcus comes into the office behind me.

Oh, shit.

“Thanks for coming, boys,” Mr. Campbell says to all of us as Coach Marcus leans against a bookcase next to the desk.

“I got an interesting video from Ms. Eccles over at Taylor High School this morning,” he says, clicking something on his keyboard and spinning his monitor toward us.

On the screen, the entire Taylor football team is chasing tiny piglets around their field in full pads. The squealing doesn’t drown out the laughter or the cursing as the team fumbles around with the slippery little things, trying to get them into a makeshift pen on the other side of their fence. The moment one is caught, it wiggles out of the player’s arms and flops right back down onto the field and runs away, determined not to be scooped up again.

I glance at my lap and try not to laugh. Beside me, Bucky’s shoulders are bouncing up and down, and I know he’s not going to be able to hold it in much longer.