The Perfect Prank

I swear it all started as a joke—an innocent little prank.

And the prank actually started out ten years prior as a rivalry between my cousin and I, all in fun and games of course.

We like to call ourselves twin cousins because we have the same birthday. It was at our tenth birthday party that Sam noticed me watching this dainty girl named Eliza. She had dark, dark hair and big eyes and a little smile that intrigued me.

“Bet she kisses me first,” he quirked. Being the competitive kid I was, I snorted and held out my hand to shake.

We had always tried to outdo each other, dress sharper, be smarter, be the best.

By the time we were twelve, there was money in the game. I won a twenty for making the most touchdowns at the football game. He won it back plus ten for kissing Kaitlin Petty. We constantly upped the ante.

Along with the bets, we pulled pranks on each other. Spicy jellybeans. Dye in the shampoo. Icy Hot in the toothpaste.

I had to share our history so you wouldn’t judge me for what I’m about to share.

See, Sam had this secret notebook. I would see him slip it out of his pocket, study it, write in it, and discreetly put it away.

At first, I thought it must be one of those “little black books” full of women’s names, but was he that old fashioned? And why keep numbers like that when we have technology that does it all now?

It bugged me, rubbing like a burr under my sleeve. I couldn’t ask. That would make me look curious, and let him think he knew something I didn’t—that he had something I didn’t. I couldn’t stand that thought. So I watched.

Two full years passed since I had first noticed the book when something odd happened. We were all at Mother’s for Sunday dinner with extended family. Sam had walked out under the willow tree with Shari Harkins, talked for about ten minutes, and then went off on his own. He pulled the notebook out to read it . . . and then he set it down.

Wouldn’t it be the prank to end all pranks if I stole his book??!!

I could hardly stop myself from sprinting over and snatching it up, just for a peek inside, but I knew he would surely wrestle it back as soon as I grabbed it.

Something caught Sam’s attention and he stood, leaving the notebook behind. I made my way over as casually as one can crabwalk gracefully, but he didn’t notice me whisk it away into my jacket. A few minutes later, and I was inside the house, grinning like the cat who . . . who you. Well, there I was with the notebook at long last.

I opened to page one, heart hammering . . . only to find pages and pages of diagrams with a few notes here in there in a different colored ink. Sam’s handwriting?

Flipping further, I discovered the diagrams were a section, and then a bent page corner marked a new section.

This one had lists of numbers, and again a few notes. Some looked newer than others.

The next section had more numbers and a drawing of an old chest, almost like a pirate chest.

After that was a map, marked by a folded corner, making a centerfold display.

The last section was filled with my cousin’s handwriting, at first questions and notes about the black book. Was this a puzzle he had been working on for two years?

The final section had a heading, something the others did not.

P. Buyers.

“Possible buyers?” The list was short and the first six names were crossed out. The seventh name, M. L. Larkin, was circled and next to it a note: Land of Larks. 20k.

Sam always had been meticulous about everything, to a fault as in this case. I had all the information I needed.

“Land of Larks” was a story reference. We’d lifted it from a movie for our own storytelling on a trip to Portland, Oregon when we were fourteen.

I looked out the window to see Sam frantically searching all around the bench. The moral action would be to jog out laughing and give it back, prank over.

But I finally had the upper hand in a big way, in a relationship where I had been fighting to hold my ground. I hadn’t admitted that to anyone before, especially not myself, but I felt it burn me from the inside out as I watched him.

Now that I’d seen the book, this prank was getting juicier by the second!

I turned and left the dinner in a hurry, not stopping until I’d driven all the way back into the city. It was then that I read his narrative again and found enough clues to search out the correct “M. L. Larkin” online.

And there it was: an address on the West Coast as I’d suspected. That might give me enough to track down a phone number as well.

Did I want to take this trip? If it meant besting Sam at long last, I did. I could feel the smug smile I’d give him as I called to say I had his money.

I swung by my condo, packed my travel bag, and made a few phone calls on the drive to the airport to take care of things. Then I was flying out west. Only once I was in the air did I retrieve the notebook. It felt heavy in my hands, but more from significance than actual weight. The cover was thick and soft, with a pattern.

Why had Sam kept it for two years? The pages were a little worn as if he thumbed through it often, flipping back and forth.

The diagrams and numbers made me feel like a code breaker, and I halfway wished that I and not Sam had been working through this mystery, whatever it was. Maybe I was like a spy now.

A few hours into the flight, I began fantasizing about what I’d do with the twenty grand. It wasn’t a huge sum, but I could invest it all, grow it . . . brag to Sam about how much I made on it. He wouldn’t try to take it away from me, take it back. No, that wasn’t how our relationship worked. If I bested him, and beat him to this money that he’d been chasing for two years, it would be mine.

And the loss would burn in his chest, the way I’d burned with anger and frustration when he did indeed kiss Eliza first, and when he won class president, and then home coming king.

Upon landing, I found six voicemails from Sam. I was too smart to call him back in the airport, and instead waited until I could call from a hotel room.

“What book?” I asked, concerned. “No, I didn’t see one . . . Oh, I left early with that nice blond I saw you checking out. We’ve been . . .busy and I just got your messages. Do you want me to come help you look?” I knew he wouldn’t want my help. That would be weak.

“No, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’ll turn up. Are we on for Brandon’s tomorrow?”

We had plans for a group dinner at our favorite restaurant. I hadn’t forgotten. “Yes, sir, I’ll see you there.” I would make up a last minute excuse so he wouldn’t know anything was up.

The next order of business was contacting this doctor. I called with the plan to pretend to be Sam, but he never asked my name, only if I had the book. We set up a meeting first thing in the morning.

After a night of hardly sleeping, I dressed meticulously in a crisp suit and headed out to a nearby park, where I walked along the riverfront. As indicated, I found a small royal blue scared tied to the metal handrail, so I perked an elbow on the railing and waited.

Because I was watching both directions—as casually as I could—I caught sight of a flash of shiny black hair, crispy parted on the side and combed to perfection.

It couldn’t be.

Was Sam here? Impossible! We spoke yesterday on the phone . . . I wanted to slap myself. He could have called from anywhere. I kept an even closer eye in that direction, heart thumping painfully, even though I wasn’t sure why I felt so scared he’d catch me.

“Such a beautiful morning, isn’t it?” said a voice behind me—the secret greeting. I turned to find an elderly gentleman standing by the rail beside me.

“It is indeed.”

I beat him to it! I wanted to smirk, feeling like James Bond, but I kept my cool behind my Oakleys.

To keep things moving as quickly as possible, I sat on the bench and set the notebook next to my thigh. He joined me and sat an even larger leather notebook on top. I waited an irritating minute before casually lifting it to my lap, unzipping the cover and sneaking a look inside. There were stacks of cash lining the sides, much like a folder from the bank with check books.

I gave the man a nod and strode off, picking up the pace faster and faster, knowing it would draw attention but unable to stop myself.

Once half a block away, I turned enough to check behind me. Within the mess of heads, I spotted a black-haired man. It might not be Sam, but then again, it might be. I made a zigzag path back to my hotel, telling myself I was simply playing my James Bond game.

Still, sweat pricked my forehead and underarms. I reached a corner and used the foot traffic to slip onto the side street, instantaneously breaking into a sprint and realizing it was an ally. Was that footsteps running behind me? Or the pounding in my ears?

I couldn’t risk looking as I jumped over boxes and around bins. The end was in sight but so very far away. I pushed myself harder, faster, and shot out the other side, nearly running into the traffic. Cars honed and screeched but I made it across the street.

There, I stood behind a food truck and peeked around the corner. Sam wasn’t in sight, nor anyone else following me or running in the area. I tried to catch my breath, lungs burning, but I didn’t allow myself too much time.

Instead I used a roundabout way back to my hotel, which I only entered after satisfying myself that no one had followed me.

Was Sam here, after me, after the money?

Only once I was inside my room did I fully open the folder to reveal the packs of five hundred dollar bills. That’s when I noticed the lined paper, folded into thirds, and taped over one pack. I unfolded it to find a note.

Dear Walton—

(That was Sam’s nickname for me . . .)

I know these last few years have been hard on you, losing so many bets. And I know you need some seed money for that business with the James fellow. So I decided to create a little adventure for you.

My Best . . . always the best!

Of course . . . Of course it was another prank—on me. He’d bested me once more with an exquisitely planned and executed prank, and I swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.