At a little after eight o’clock at night, I tiptoed from my bedroom and crept as silently as I could down the stairs. Three steps from the bottom, I tripped over a stack of laundry—and fell headfirst the rest of the way.

I landed hard on my elbows and knees, but I didn’t make a sound. I’m used to falling. I do it all the time.

I jumped quickly to my feet and peeked into the front hallway. Had Mom and Dad heard me?

They had the TV on in the den. They were watching the Weather Channel. They can watch the Weather Channel for hours.

What’s so interesting about the weather?

I could hear the woman on TV talking about the wind chill in Nova Scotia. I pulled on my blue down parka and made my way silently to the front door.

A few seconds later, I was outside, jogging along the sidewalk. I kept in the shadows, ducked my head low—and headed for school.

Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t usually sneak out of the house at night. I’m not a problem child or anything. In fact, my parents are always telling me to be braver, to be more adventurous.

I never go out without telling my parents where I’m going. But tonight was a special night. Tonight I had a special mission.

The mission was spelled r-e-v-e-n-g-e.

I slipped as I reached the corner and had to grab a lamppost to keep myself from falling. Most of the snow from the weekend had melted. But there were still slick patches of ice on the sidewalk.

I hadn’t bothered to zip up my parka. The wind blew it behind me as I jogged across the street and past the small houses on the next block. The air felt cold against my warm cheeks, and wet, as if it might snow again.

Hey—enough about the weather!

Ricky Beamer—that’s me—had more important things on his mind tonight. Tonight I planned to do a little spying. And then a little nasty mischief.

A few minutes later, I made my way across the deserted playground next to the school. Harding Middle School. That’s what the sign beside the bare flagpole read. Except that someone had spray-painted over all the first letters. So the sign actually read: ARDING IDDLE CHOOL.

We have a lot of school pride here at Harding.

Actually, most kids like the school. It’s really new and everything is modern and clean.

I’d like our school too—if the kids would give me a break. If they’d all get out of my face and stop calling me Ricky Rat and Sicky Ricky, I’d be a real happy guy.

Maybe you think I sound a little bitter.

Maybe you’re right!

But all the kids think I’m a nerd. They make fun of me every chance they get.

I stared at the school building. It’s kind of low and flat and curves around like a snake. The elementary school is at one end, and the middle school is at the other. I’m in sixth grade, so my classroom is right in the middle.

A spotlight shone down on the bare flagpole in front of the building. Behind it, most of the classrooms were dark. I saw lighted windows at the eighth-grade end—and that’s where I headed.

A car rumbled past slowly. Its headlights washed over the front of the building. I ducked behind a tall evergreen bush. I didn’t want to be seen.

In my rush to hide, I stumbled into the bush. A clump of cold, wet snow plopped onto my head. With a shiver, I shook my wavy black hair to toss it off.

When the car had passed, I crept up to the lighted classroom window. My sneakers made squishing sounds in the soft ground. I glanced down. I had stepped into a deep, muddy rut.

Ignoring the mud, I leaned against the low window ledge and pressed my face to the glass. Were the lights on because the night janitor was cleaning in there? Or was Tasha McClain hard at work?

Tasha McClain. Just saying her name made my teeth itch!

The windowpane was steamed up. I squinted through the glass. Yes! Tasha sat at the desk against the wall. She leaned over her computer, typing away. Her long, curly red hair fell over the keyboard as she typed with two fingers.

Ms. Richards, the newspaper advisor, stood beside her, one hand on the back of Tasha’s chair. Ms. Richards is young and very pretty. She had her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. In her baggy gray sweatshirt and faded jeans, she looked more like a student than a teacher.

Ms. Richards was nice to me last September when I signed up for the school newspaper staff. But she’s been pretty mean lately. I think Tasha turned her against me.

Tasha is an eighth-grader, so she thinks she’s hot stuff. Sixth-graders are nothing at Harding. Believe me. We’re nothing. Maybe even less.

I knew Tasha and Ms. Richards would be working late on the Harding Herald tonight. Because tomorrow is Tuesday, the day the paper comes out.

Ms. Richards leaned over Tasha and pointed to something on the computer monitor. I squinted harder to see the screen. I could see a headline with a photo beneath it.

Tasha was laying out the Herald front page.

Once she had the front page finished, she would save it on a disk. Then Ms. Richards would take the disk to the laser printer in the main office and print out two hundred copies.

Ms. Richards turned suddenly to the window. I dropped to the ground.

Had she seen me?

I waited a few seconds, then pulled myself up. Tasha was typing away. She stopped every few seconds to click the mouse and move things around on the screen.

Ms. Richards walked out of the room.

I shivered. The wind swirled, fluttering my parka hood. I hadn’t brushed all the snow from my hair. Cold water dripped down the back of my neck. I heard a dog howling sadly in the distance.

Please get up! I silently urged Tasha.

Please leave the room too—so I can play my little joke.

On the street behind me, another car rumbled past. I pressed myself against the dark wall, trying to make myself invisible.

When I moved back to the window, the classroom stood empty. Tasha had also left the room.

“Yesss!” I cheered softly.

My heart pounded with excitement. I raised both hands to the windowsill. I struggled to push up the window so that I could climb inside.

I knew I had to be quick. Tasha probably had gone down the hall to the juice machine. I had only a few seconds to get in the room—do my damage—and get out of there.

I pushed and strained. The window didn’t budge.

At first I thought it might be frozen shut. But finally, on the fourth try, it started to slide up. I pushed with all my strength—and opened the window just enough to squeeze through.

My wet sneakers slid on the linoleum floor. I was leaving a trail of muddy footprints, but I didn’t care.

I crept across the room and hunched down in front of the computer. My hand shook as I grabbed the mouse and moved to the bottom of the newspaper page.

I heard voices. Tasha and Ms. Richards talking out in the hall.

Taking a deep breath, I frantically studied the page.

Then I typed a few words—in tiny, tiny type—at the bottom of the front page. Giggling softly to myself, I wrote:

Calling All Creeps. Calling All Creeps. If you’re a real Creep, call Tasha at 555-6709 after midnight.

Why did I add this little message to the front page of my school newspaper?

Why did I sneak in at night and risk getting caught?

Why did I desperately need to get revenge against Tasha?

Well… it’s sort of a long story….