“Ms. Eccles tells me that it took her team the entirety of their morning practice to get the piglets into a cage so that Mr. Redd could come pick them up,” Mr. Campbell tells us, pausing the video just as one of the Taylor football players slips and takes a tumble. He’s suspended in midair with his arms outstretched on the paused computer screen.

I bite my lip and try to think of every sad thing that’s ever happened in order to keep from laughing, but Bucky can’t contain it anymore.

He throws his head back and lets out the loudest whoop I’ve ever heard. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mr. Campbell, but that was just the best prank we’ve ever managed to pull off,” he says, gasping for breath. “Throw me in detention or suspend me or whatever, but you can’t deny that that”—he points at the paused screen—“is one of the funniest things you’ll see today. This week. This year!”

Mr. Campbell lowers his head, and I think I see him fighting to keep his quivering lips from smiling. He clears his throat and looks up at us again. “I understand that this prank war with Taylor started long before you were born and it’s a tradition that both schools have had a hand in perpetuating,” he says. “But someone could have gotten hurt out there trying to catch these greased pigs. In fact, one of the maintenance staff did slip in some pig excrement while attempting to catch one of these little guys.”

All of us lower our heads, not so much in shame but so no one can see us laughing.

“Brian Redd, we know you were involved because you so thoughtfully left a sign for your family farm, instructing the Taylor Titans on where to return the piglets,” Campbell says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “We’ve also got a picture of your license plate as you drove away from the scene.”

“I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t mean any harm,” Bucky says next to me, but I know he’s proud of himself. This prank will probably be talked about in his family for the next seventeen generations.

“Elijah Vance, the maintenance man managed to snap a picture of you as you were climbing the fence to get into Mr. Redd’s car,” Campbell says, bringing up a blurry picture of the back of someone’s head on his computer screen.

My heart leaps into my throat. “That’s not Elijah,” I say quickly, swallowing hard and pointing to the screen. “That’s me.”

Elijah turns his head and looks hard at me. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head ever so slightly.

“Julian,” Coach Marcus says, uncrossing his arms from his chest. “We’re pretty sure—”