It was the end of the 6th grade school year, the first year we had a substantial class trip. Overnight, and several days long, it was finally time to go to Nature's Classroom. Looking back, that sounds not only lame but educational. However, it was a big deal to is 12-year-olds, and I'll admit, even the scheduled activities during the day turned out to be a lot of fun. But I'm not here to talk about the day. I'm going to tell you about what happened after hours- when the wolves howled, the hockey players left, and the real pranksters came out of the woodwork.
I'll go ahead and use different last names. This is the internet, after all.
On our left, Mr. Pachter, our art teacher at the time, and Mr. Golden, our Math teacher. On our right, Mrs. O'Cooper, teaching History and English. There were other chaperones, but they don't matter.
On multiple occasions, feeble attempts were made by not only Mrs. O'Cooper, but her female minions as well, to prank the guy cabin. Such attempts included tying our shoes together and throwing them in the shower, and, my personal favorite, asking a couple guys to plant a rubber frog in Mr. Golden's bed, assuming the would defect and become double agents. Of course, they showed our math teacher the frog, and informed him of the attempt on his bed. It was at that moment, looking at Mr. Golden, I could see the cogs beginning to turn. Majestic, mischievous cogs.
At lunch that day, both our art and math teachers were nowhere to be seen. They went out to lunch, or so they said. It was our final day at Nature's Classroom, and needless to say, we were antsy. We had no clue that Golden and Pachter hadn't just gone out for a burger; the thought that they would be the masterminds behind the greatest prank of 6th grade evidently never crossed our minds. How naïve we were.
It wasn't until that night that the ball started to roll...although our bros Mac and Jonny left to go to a hockey tryout, and missed the festivities. Yet, soon after they took off, our teacher chaperones unveiled three fateful white bags. In 2 of them, XXXL, whitey-tightie brand whitey-tighties. In the 3rd? At least a dozen Hershey's chocolate bars. Use your imagination.
We spent the next 20 minutes, each with our very own pair, artfully, tastefully, and with the utmost care, skid marking them. Yes, with the chocolate bars. The next 10-15 minutes were devoted to planning our attack- this was no run n' gun sudicide mission. This was a well-thought-out tactical strike, with precision rivaling that of a heist spearheaded by Danny Ocean. There were two levels, connected only by an outdoor staircase, strategically perfect for undie-throwing. We split into two task forces, synchronized our watches, and all 14 of us silently snuck out of our cabin and up the camp hill.
When we got to the girls accommodations, Pachter and Delta Squad headed up the stairs. Golden, Alpha Squad and I lined up in front of the ground floor door, shortest to tallest for optimal firing position. After we counted to 10, we opened the door with a war cry at the same time Delta did on the 2nd floor, and all Hell broke loose. Underwear rained upon the opposing gender in a its soiled glory. Some used the slingshot technique, stretching the waistband with the thumb and flinging them as high-speed cotton projectiles. As Tim later recalled; "Hasn't Captain Underpants taught us anything?" I myself went with a cannonball effect, throwing my pair balled up. The last thing I saw before power-walking back to our base was opening up like a parachute and landing gently and peacefully on someone's face.
The rest of the night went predictably, mostly consisting of us being nervous, expecting retaliation. This manifested itself in our setting up booby traps in and around the stairwell to alert us of an attack. You can imagine our fear and near-pants-wettedness when we heard brooms and ironing boards being carelessly knocked over, closer and closer to our position, as well as our relief as Mac and Jonny triumphantly returned from hockey. The next morning at breakfast the girls presented to Mr. Golden a very pink, very decorated pair of the very same underwear used against them last night. Their creative-but-weak comeback further cemented our legacy- we had got 'em. We had got 'em good.
-Will
"Swimmers go out! The waves go up, not down!"
