Trouble Makers

I'm Alex, and up until recently, my life was pretty straightforward. Same routine, same friends, same passions—art, music, school. It was simple, and I liked it that way. Life felt like a playlist I’d heard a thousand times—no surprises, no sudden key changes. You don’t get blindsided if you already know the next song.

Then Sam transferred in.

I didn't know much about her, but the moment she walked into this school, everything shifted. Not in the usual "new kid" way. She wasn't loud, didn't try to make friends right away, and wasn't like anyone I'd ever met. She was quiet, reserved, always keeping to herself. And for some reason, it changed the way I saw things.

It was almost annoying—like she had just walked into my neatly organized mental playlist and hit “shuffle.” I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t ignore it either.

Before that, I'd always been the type to do my own thing—drawing, playing music, or whatever else keeps my mind busy. It's how I process things, how I make sense of the world around me, even if it means being a little different. I guess it's no surprise that I express myself through my art.

Some people talk things out, some bottle them up—me? I turn mine into lines on paper until they make sense.

I'm the "artsy" guy—messy brown hair that always falls in my face, which I constantly have to push out of my eyes when I’m thinking—though it's usually back there a second later, always scribbling in a notebook, guitar slung over my shoulder. My green eyes are probably the most noticeable thing about me, but I swear they look more intense when I'm lost in thought, sketching, or playing music, or so I've been told.

I wear glasses. Just enough to give me that "I'm smart, but not trying too hard" vibe. They slide down my nose constantly, so I end up pushing them back up whenever I get distracted, which is pretty often. It’s a small, repetitive motion—one of those habits you don’t notice until someone points it out, and then suddenly you feel like you’re doing it all the time.

People probably don't expect that, but I'm also smart. Straight A's, top of my class. I'm the kind of person who works hard for those grades—especially since I'm a senior now, and graduation's just around the corner. I really want to go to a top college, even if it's not what people expect from the guy who's always sketching or playing. I guess I’m just too stubborn to pick one lane.

I've got my friends—Tom, Andrew, and Ash. My bandmates. We've been a team for years. Making music. Making memories. They've always had my back.

Tom leans across the table, grinning like he’s about to say something deeply stupid.

“Alex, if I told you I just figured out how to explode a locker without hurting anyone, you wouldn’t judge me, right?”

I stare at him. “Why would you even—?”

“Hypothetically,” he says, dead serious.

Tom is the class clown. He’s our drummer and the first one I really clicked with. He's an Asian guy with black, straight hair that he's constantly running his hand through—like he's fixing it even though it's already perfect. It's one of those quirks that make Tom, well, Tom.

It was the first week of seventh grade, right after I transferred to school. I was sitting alone in the cafeteria, sketching random doodles in my sketchbook. My table was a little island in a sea of noise—forks clinking, kids shouting across tables, the smell of pizza breadsticks in the air. But Tom, who was sitting across the room with his friends, scanned the cafeteria like he was looking for something—or someone—and then, for some reason, walked over to me.

I remember thinking, ‘Great. Either he’s about to make fun of me or ask to copy my homework.’

"Hey, you're Alex, right?" He asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I looked up, confused. "Uh, yeah?"

"I'm Tom. I sit behind you in English. You've got a lot of pencils. You like to draw, huh?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I do."

"Sweet. You think you could draw me a tattoo design?" He asked, grinning like it was the simplest thing ever.

I raised an eyebrow. "You want me to draw a tattoo design for you?"

"Why not?" He shrugged.

I was really confused. "Because… you’re twelve?"

He laughed hard. "Do you think any tattoo place would even let me in? It's just for fun. Come on, you're the only person I know who can draw a 'skull with a crown' without it looking dumb. So, what do you say?"

I couldn't help but laugh. It was so random, so unlike any interaction I’d had since moving here. I grabbed my pencil, started sketching, and just like that, we became inseparable.

It was one of those moments that didn’t feel like the start of a friendship at the time—more like a weird blip in my day—but looking back, it was probably one of the most important ones.

Tom's always the one cracking jokes, even when it's totally inappropriate. Like last week in chemistry class, when he was struggling to mix chemicals, he slid a note across the table that said, "If someone mixes the wrong chemicals, will they get mutated? Asking for a friend." I nearly choked on my water, trying not to laugh. That’s the thing about Tom…he never just lightens the mood—he sets it on fire and hands out marshmallows. He has this way of making even the most boring classes feel lighter, and I guess that's why I've stuck around.

I looked at Tom, who’s still watching me like I’m supposed to answer. “Yes, I would judge you,” I say.

Across from me, Andrew finally speaks up. “You two are going to get detention one day and try to pretend it’s some kind of artistic statement.”

This is Andrew, the quiet genius. He's our keyboard player. A tall, reserved Black guy with deep, thoughtful eyes that always seem to be scanning the world for meaning. His short, neatly trimmed hair adds to his serious vibe. But when he speaks, it's always with purpose—like a laser cutting through fog.

I remember one time when we were working on a new song, just the four of us in the studio after school. I was stuck on the melody, and Ash was getting frustrated, but Andrew leaned back, took a deep breath, and said, "Why don't you try this?" He played a few notes on the keyboard, and just like that, it all clicked.

I first met Andrew in eighth grade. We were assigned to work on a history project together. At first, I thought I'd end up doing everything—like usual—but Andrew surprised me.

We sat in the library one afternoon, surrounded by old textbooks, not saying much. The air was thick with that awkward silence you get when you're not sure whether to make small talk or just focus. It was the kind of silence that makes you hyper-aware of every sound—pages turning, the faint hum of the air conditioner, the librarian’s pen scratching against paper. But then Andrew looked up, pointed to a line in the book, and said, "That's weird, right? How could they not know the colony was already established by then? The dates are all wrong."

I blinked. "Huh. You're right. I didn't catch that."

From there, we started talking—first about history, then music, and eventually everything else. Andrew doesn't waste words. He only speaks when it matters, but when he does, it's always exactly what we need to hear. It’s like he edits his thoughts before they even leave his mouth—something I wish I could do.

Andrew just goes back to sipping his water, like he didn’t just roast us.

“Please. If anyone’s getting detention, it’s me.” Ash smirks, leaning back in her chair. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I could get us all suspended before lunch if I really tried.”

Ashley—Ash—is the bold one. She's our lead singer. A blonde girl with a short pixie cut and eyes so blue they could stop traffic. Her hair's always artfully messy, like she's been moving nonstop and doesn't have time to fix it—not that she'd care anyway. She always wears this mischievous smile, like she knows something you don't. That's just Ash: bold, sharp, and fearless.

We met in ninth grade when I was working on a song for the school talent show. I was scribbling lyrics in a notebook, trying to make something that didn't sound cliché, when Ash—who I barely knew—walked up to me at lunch.

"Hey, Alex, right?" she asked, standing there with a tray of food. "You're the one in the band, right?"

I looked up, startled. "Uh, yeah?"

"I need your help," she said. "I'm trying to get into the talent show. But I need someone to help with the vocals. Can you give me some pointers? Or, like, coach me or whatever?"

I blinked. "You... want me to help you with singing?"

"Yeah," she said, eyes locked on mine like a challenge. "You're in a band. You know what you're doing."

It took me a second, but I said yes. Maybe it was her confidence, or maybe I was just curious what she’d sound like when she wasn’t speaking in that fearless tone. Either way, the more we worked together, the more I realized there was a lot more to her than just the girl with the cool haircut. She had this energy that made you want to do better—not because she demanded it, but because you didn’t want to look like a coward in front of her.

Ash is honest, intense, and totally unapologetic about who she is. She pushes me in ways I never expected. She says what's on her mind, and if you can't handle it, that's your problem.

But she's also the kind of person who'll hype you up when you're doubting yourself. I remember last year, right before the talent show—she was shaking backstage, nerves threatening to take over—but then she noticed Tom fidgeting with his drumsticks, his hands trembling.

Instead of letting her own fear show, she straightened up, smirked, and said, “Relax, drummer boy. We’re about to crush this.”

It wasn’t that she wasn’t scared—she definitely was—but she chose to act fearless so he wouldn’t spiral. And the crazy thing is, it worked. Tom laughed, loosened up, and by the time we went onstage, he was steady. Afterward, she was all smiles, like none of it had ever rattled her. No one would've guessed she was the most nervous one of all, and how hard she pushed through to get there.

Together, we've built something solid—something that feels unbreakable. Our music, our friendship—it's all connected. Or at least, that’s how it felt.

Away from my friends, I get along with most people. I don't go out of my way to be everyone's best friend, but I'm friendly. I say hi in the halls and ask how people are doing. Nothing fancy—just small talk. It’s the kind of autopilot socializing you do without thinking—half out of habit, half because it keeps life smooth.

In high school, smooth is gold. One wrong conversation and you can accidentally make an enemy for life—or worse, get roped into a group project with someone who thinks “teamwork” means watching you work.

Take Jenny from history class. She always asks for help with homework, even though she knows I don't do assignments for anyone.

"Hey, Alex," she says. "Can you explain that last chapter to me? I'm a little lost."

I smile. "You're going to need to start reading ahead, Jenny."

She laughs, and I move on, heading to my locker.

But some people are really good. We even have some fans, like Brian from the soccer team, always asking about our next show. "When's your band playing next?" he asks.

"First week of April," I tell him. "Make sure the team gets their tickets early."

That’s the vibe. Friendly, casual, low effort. Just casual conversations. Nothing crazy. It's easy to be friendly when people are cool with you.

But then... there's Carlos.

"Yo, how's it going, nerd?" He calls out, his voice thick with that smug arrogance that always gets under my skin.

Carlos. The basketball captain. The guy who thinks he's untouchable.

He's a Latino guy with black, curly hair and a fit, athletic body. Always wearing those tight gym shorts, like he's proud of his muscles or something, always with a different girl; it's like he doesn't even care who he's with—just another accessory to his perfect image. Some days it's Sarah; other days it's Rachel, Amber, or someone else entirely. It’s like a revolving door of “love interests” with zero emotional investment. He acts like his charm is what draws them in, but I know better. It's just who he is—always playing the part of the school's golden boy.

We met way back; it was my first day at this school. Carlos just decided to pull one of those classic middle school pranks on me—filling my locker with glitter and confetti so when I opened it, it exploded everywhere. The whole school saw it. Everyone laughed.

I wasn't mad. Just a little embarrassed. Okay, maybe more than a little—there’s something about glitter sticking to your skin for days that makes you feel like a walking humiliation exhibit. But fine. I could take a hit.

But I wasn't about to let him get away with it. The next day, I swapped out his gym shorts with a pair that was way too small. He wasn't laughing that time.

And that's how it all started—the prank war. Back and forth, year after year. I'd pull a stunt, he'd get me back. It became this ridiculous competition. It wasn’t even about winning anymore—it was about making sure the other person never had a peaceful day.

One time, I showed up at school, and I saw his car right there. The parking lot was still empty and quiet, and I knew I had the perfect opportunity. Armed with a pack of sticky notes, I went to work.

I covered every inch of his car—every window, the doors, even the wheels. Each note was a little jab, a message to his inflated ego: "King of the Parking Lot." "I'm Not Just a Car, I'm a Lifestyle," and my personal favorite, "Bow Before the Almighty Ride."

When Carlos finally went to the parking lot, you should have seen the look on his face. I stood behind the corner of the building, barely containing my laughter. I watched as his eyes flicked to his car, confusion spreading across his face.

He took a few steps closer, looking from note to note, then froze. There was no mistaking the horror on his face as he realized what had happened. The look was priceless. I was this close to bursting out laughing, but I held it in.

He turned in a slow circle, taking in the full extent of the mess, his face turning beet-red. It was like the universe had dealt him the perfect dose of humility—and I had served it up on a rainbow of sticky notes.

Of course, Carlos wasn't one to take defeat lying down. No, he had a way of getting even, and when he wanted to, he could be just as creative as me.

The next day, when I opened my locker, I was met with a sight—and not the good kind. My textbooks were scattered all over the place, my guitar pick had been stuck to the metal wall with chewing gum, and my notes were practically a victim of some sick prank-war science experiment.

Then I saw it. On the back wall of my locker, in thick black marker, was the message:

"Are cars the only thing you know how to cover?"

I stood there for a second, trying to process what had just happened. Seriously, who has this kind of time? I could already picture the smirk on his face, the satisfaction of knowing he'd one-upped me.

I ran my fingers through my hair, a mixture of frustration and respect bubbling up inside me. It was infuriating how good he was at this.

There was also that time when I saw his phone sitting unattended on the table. He was talking to someone, completely distracted. I took a moment to assess the situation, and, without hesitation, I grabbed his phone.

I unlocked it—Carlos never changes his password. I knew he was obsessed with his Instagram. He posted everything—his workouts, his car, the occasional "candid" selfie with a random girl.

But here's the thing: he was way too proud of those posts. And that was my opening. So I opened Instagram. I didn't waste a second. I photoshopped a photo of him looking like a disaster—his hair a mess, eyes barely open, wearing a hoodie that didn't even match his sweatpants. The kind of image that would physically hurt him to look at. Perfect.

And the captions? Oh, it was pure gold:

"King of the Gram #WokeUpLikeThis #NoFilter #LivingMyBestLife."

I hit post, deleted his latest pic, and made sure mine was the first thing he'd see when he checked his phone. Then I sat across the room, trying not to laugh too hard as I waited for him to notice. Every second felt like waiting for a bomb to go off.

It didn't take long. Carlos pulled out his phone, swiping through, and I watched his expression change from casual to pure panic. His eyes went wide as he saw the post, and I could see him visibly scramble to delete it, but the damage had been done.

I had won this round. But I knew—he wasn't going to let it slide. In fact, that smile he flashed me later in the hallway? That wasn’t a smile. That was a declaration of war.

The next day, I walked into school with the usual confidence—until I turned the corner and froze.

The hallway had become a gallery of horror.

Taped to the lockers, the walls, and even the vending machine, there were dozens of photos of me. Not the good ones. Oh no. Carlos had gone full supervillain.

Mid-sneeze. Mouth half open. One where I looked like I was sneezing, laughing, and dying all at once during band practice. Photos I didn't even know existed. Where did he even get these?! Did he have a secret camera crew? A drone? Was he somehow hacking my soul?

Each photo had a new, cursed caption:

"Master of the Messy Look"

"When #NoFilter Goes Too Far"

"Mood: Confused squirrel at tax season"

And smack in the middle of the chaos—dead center of the main hallway wall—was a huge mirror propped up like it was part of an art exhibit. Taped to it was a neon sticky note that read:

"You think you're a #King? I think you need a reality check."

As I stood there, mortified, students passed by, laughing, taking pictures; one even said, "Wow, modern art."

And somewhere nearby, I knew Carlos was watching. Probably grinning like the evil little genius he was. I could almost feel his eyes on me, waiting to see if I’d explode or crumble. I did neither.

I could barely hold it together, though. I stood there, staring at myself in the mirror, surrounded by the unflattering evidence of my most embarrassing moments.

I had no choice but to laugh. I'd been thoroughly out-pranked. And that laughter wasn’t surrender—it was the sound of me loading the next shot.

Carlos wasn't the only one who could think outside the box. I knew I had to raise the stakes.

Carlos's hair—his perfectly styled hair—was his crown jewel. If there was one thing he took more seriously than his car, it was his hair. So I decided it was time for a little intervention.

One morning, I snuck into the locker room, found his shampoo bottle, and swapped it with—wait for it—mayonnaise. I switched the labels to make it look just like his usual shampoo. I knew the second he used it, he wouldn't be able to ignore the slick, greasy texture.

That day, I watched him in the cafeteria, casually running his fingers through his hair. Then, I saw the grimace. I nearly choked on my lunch as he pulled his hand away, his fingers covered in goo.

He looked at his hands in disbelief, muttering, "What the hell...?"

It was a masterpiece in haircare sabotage. I did everything I could not to burst out laughing. Even now, I think I might frame the mental image.

But of course, Carlos wasn't about to let that slide. The next day, when I opened my lunch bag, something felt... wrong. He'd clearly outdone himself.

My sandwich was gone. But it wasn’t just the missing food that got to me. When I opened the second compartment of my lunch bag, I found my draft sketchbook.

And when I flipped it open, I saw that every single page—every single drawing—was covered in mayonnaise.

I froze. The pages, the margins, the drawings—they were ruined, smeared with the sticky, disgusting stuff. And there, at the very end of the book, written in big, bold letters, was the message:

"Art is a messy business."

I could barely process it. My stomach sank as I flipped through the ruined pages. I mean, they were just drafts, but still. Carlos had taken it to a whole new level.

I could feel the heat rising in my face, but there was something else, too—a grudging admiration.

The prank war had officially reached new heights. And we both knew it was far from over.

Not every prank was a masterpiece, though.

There was this one time I decided to fill Carlos’s backpack with packing peanuts.

The plan was simple: he’d unzip it in class, and whoosh—a glorious avalanche of squeaky white chaos spilling everywhere. People would laugh, the teacher would yell, and I’d bask in my own genius. Genius in theory, anyway. In reality, I had no idea I was about to lose a battle to an inanimate object.

It turns out packing peanuts are really sticky. Like, stick-to-your-soul sticky.

By the time I stuffed the last handful in, half of them were clinging to my arms, shirt, and hair. I tried to shake them off, but they just spread—onto the lockers, the floor, this poor freshman’s hoodie. It looked like a cheap snowstorm had passed through.

When Carlos finally unzipped his backpack, instead of a dramatic explosion, maybe six peanuts fell out. The rest were stuck to his notebooks, his hoodie, and his face—basically turning him into the world’s saddest snowman. Not the villain origin story I had envisioned.

He just looked at me, completely deadpan, and said, “You need help.”

It was less ‘evil mastermind’ and more ‘guy who lost a fight with a shipping warehouse.’

Of course, Carlos had his own disasters, too.

Like the time he tried to fill my locker with live crickets.

In theory, not bad. Gross, creepy, guaranteed chaos. In practice? He didn’t think about the fact that crickets… jump. To be fair, I wouldn’t have either. My mental image of them was always them politely staying put until the big reveal.

By the time he got to my locker that morning, half of them had already escaped into the hallway. Kids were screaming, teachers were trying to stop them, and the janitor just stood there, muttering something about quitting.

When Carlos finally opened my locker to reveal his “masterpiece,” there were exactly three crickets left inside—huddled together in the corner like they’d made a bad life decision.

He tried to play it off, but the only thing anyone remembered from that day was Mr. Harris chasing one down the hall with a broom.

Honestly, our prank war was the most exciting thing in school. Not just for me—everyone at school was invested too, keeping score of who had the best prank. The rivalry was almost expected. It wasn’t just “Alex vs. Carlos”—it was a school-sponsored sport without the trophies. It was part of the school's routine.

I was just walking through the hallway when I heard—

"What's the score now?" someone asked, leaning against a locker.

"54–55," came the reply. "Alex pulled ahead after he switched all the labels on Carlos' locker—made it look like it belonged to Mr. Denton."

"What happened?"

"Carlos spent half of second period arguing with the guy. Ended up opening the locker to prove it was his—and it was stuffed full of toddler toys. Like, packed. Rubber ducks, plastic dinosaurs, a talking Elmo, the whole deal."

"No way."

"Oh yeah. Elmo started singing when he opened the door. Loud."

I didn’t even have to be there to know the look on Carlos’s face. Pure humiliation mixed with “I’m going to kill you later.” It was my Mona Lisa. My Sistine Chapel. And all it took was a trip to the dollar store.

A wave of laughter spread through the hallway. Even people who hadn't seen it live had already heard the story. That was the thing—our pranks traveled faster than actual school announcements.

Then in the cafeteria, I was halfway through a sandwich when I overheard the conversation at the next table.

"Carlos got him back this morning," she said, grinning.

"With what?"

"He hacked the projector during Alex's group presentation and looped that video of Alex crying during Finding Nemo in third grade. The whole class saw it."

"No way."

"It's 80–82 now. Carlos is leading."

Someone two tables over shouted, "Emotional damage bonus—add three more points!"

I nearly choked on my sandwich at that one. Three bonus points? Apparently public humiliation counted for extra credit now.

But I didn't hate the prank war. In fact, I kinda respected it. It was our thing, our weird, twisted language that no one else seemed to understand.

Maybe it was childish, but I couldn’t help admiring the sheer audacity of it all. It kept things interesting and made life feel a little less predictable, and maybe that's what made it so fun.

So, yeah. I loved it.

That was until—

Okay but HELLOOO??? Alex vs. Carlos prank war is officially certified CHAOS 💥🎨🏀. Glitter, mayo shampoo, and packing peanuts?? ICONIC. You survived round one, besties—you’re honorary referees now 👀🤡.

So tell me: what’s the WORST prank someone ever pulled on you (or that you pulled 👀)? Would you have picked Team Alex 🎸🎨 or Team Carlos 💪🔥? Drop it in the comments because I need receipts. And don't forget to tell me your opinions because your enjoyment is my goal.

💌 Thanks for reading, you legends. Buckle up, cuz the war is far from over…