I went to a school of pranksters. This is not to say that we were all pranks, all the time, but that a fair amount of pranking went on in my school days. I suspect that many of you could say the same; I attribute the passionate need for pranking to repressed adolescent hormones. Whatever the cause, sometimes we came up with quite elaborate pranks in my high school days, facilitated by being in a very small school (usually less than 50 students, all told) of close-knit people who knew everyone’s secrets.

But the acme, the pinnacle of pranking achievement, was to prank the science/mathematics teacher, whom I will call Ferdinand, on the off-chance that someone Googles him. Ferdinand has since retired, but when I was in the school, he was still gearing up for retirement, and he was crochety, and pretty much tired of dealing with snot-nosed high schoolers. He was also an excellent teacher, and I had a lot of fun in his classes, especially Field Studies in Biology, which basically involved going on field trips and eating things we found growing in the woods. And, of course, pranking each other.

What Ferdinand was famous for, however, was his inability to be pranked. He had one of the most brilliant poker faces I have ever seen, which made it impossible to get him in broad daylight, because he just wouldn’t respond, and he wouldn’t hesitate to resort to dastardly schemes to prevent himself from being pranked on overnight trips. (Once, most notably, he swapped beds with another teacher because he had heard that something was in the works, and that teacher ended up being tied up, wheelbarrowed to the main lodge, and left on the counter with an apple in his mouth. All night.)

At any rate, his unprankability was viewed by many of us as a personal challenge, with everyone hoping that they could somehow get under his defenses and win eternal fame and glory as the student who had “gotten Ferdinand.” Of course, most of us realized that it would require a group effort, and thus it was that a cluster of us got the brilliant idea of trying to get Ferdinand on a Field Studies in Biology trip to Monterey.

We were stealthy. Oh, how stealthy we were. And the plan was simple: we intended to tie/duct tape him to his bed, get photo documentation, and then run before he managed to free himself with his superhuman strength. We duly laid in supplies and practiced; I and another student were delegated for the ticklish operation at the beginning, because we were relatively strong and quiet. Or maybe because we were gullible fall guys. I’m not sure.

That night, we waited with barely concealed anticipation. Several of us actually went for a late-night walk to ensure that he would fall asleep, and to work off some excess energy. Finally, the hour of two o’clock arrived, and Ferdinand appeared to be deeply asleep. We gently tiptoed into the room, pausing periodically to gauge the safety, and then the other student and I ghosted to either side of Ferdinand’s bed with some lightweight climbing rope.

The plan, as I recall, was to gently pass our ropes to each other under the bed, and then toss them over the bed and pull, hard, thereby trapping Ferdinand long enough for the rest of the team to slip in and secure him. We even wore camouflage paint for the occasion.

The group watched breathlessly as we silently passed the rope to each other and then crouched. Tristan, one of the masterminds of the plan, made a hand signal, causing the rest of the group to tense as we started to toss the rope…

And Ferdinand sat bolt upward in the bed, like Bella Lugosi in his coffin, causing the rest of the group to skitter backwards through the door. My accomplice and I, however, were less fortunate, because Ferdinand somehow managed to tangle us in the rope, so we were trapped helplessly, scrabbling on the floor.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” said Ferdinand, flailing a very large hunting knife around.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” said my accomplice and I, trying to roll under the bed to safety. Had I not been so terrified, I probably would have peed in my pants.

And then Ferdinand collapsed back into bed as though nothing had happened, and resumed snoring, with one hand still tightly gripping the handle of the knife. My accomplice and I disentangled ourselves and fled the room, leaving trails of rope behind us. We might have considered creating an artful toilet paper streamer, but we decided against it.

The next morning, Ferdinand didn’t say anything, and in fact the incident never came up again. To this day, I’m not sure if he was just so highly attuned to our ways that he never fully woke up, and thereby didn’t realize who the culprits were, or if he just didn’t want to bother dignifying our woeful attempt with a response.

To my knowledge, Ferdinand remains unpranked.