The Worst Night Ever Read online

  ALSO BY DAVE BARRY

  The Worst Class Trip Ever

  With Ridley Pearson

  Peter and the Starcatchers

  Peter and the Shadow Thieves

  Peter and the Secret of Rundoon

  Peter and the Sword of Mercy

  Bridge to Never Land

  Science Fair

  Text copyright © 2016 Dave Barry

  Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Jon Cannell

  Cover design by Marci Senders

  Cover art © 2016 Jon Cannell

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-8598-0

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Dave Barry

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  For Sophie, the Best Daughter Ever

  I still sometimes wonder what was the weirdest part.

  Riding down South Dixie Highway, wearing Dylan Schweitzer’s horse head, on a Vespa driven by a Wookiee—that was definitely weird.

  But not as weird as the night when Matt and I first saw the dragon and it came charging straight at us.

  Or what happened in the woods, when those things got loose, so many of them…

  So much weirdness. And it all happened so fast.…

  Okay, maybe I should go back to the beginning.

  My name is Wyatt Palmer. I’m fourteen, almost fifteen. I live in Miami, which can be a strange place, although usually my life is pretty normal. I say “usually” because a while back, in middle school, I was involved in this insane class trip that ended up—you might have heard about this—with me breaking the collarbone of the president of the United States. It wasn’t my fault (really) and everything turned out okay; in fact, I got treated like kind of a hero, even though, trust me, I’m not a hero. Anyway, for a while that was a very big deal. But after a few months it got to be a smaller deal, and eventually it wasn’t really much of a deal at all.

  Which was fine with me, because I’m not in middle school anymore. I’m a freshman at Coral Cove High School (Home of the Fighting Conches). And the first thing I figured out about high school was, if you’re a freshman, especially a smallish male freshman, you don’t want to draw a lot of attention to yourself or act like you think you’re a big deal. It’s better to be kind of invisible for a while. Don’t get me wrong: most of the kids at Cove are nice. But like in every school, there are some kids that you don’t want noticing you.

  At Cove, there were two kids you really didn’t want noticing you.

  The Bevin brothers.

  Those would be Nick and Troy. They’re twins, and they’re both big, although Nick is a little bigger. They’re seniors, but they could pass for college students. Their dad is a super-rich businessman in Miami, and they live in a giant mansion. They drive a tricked-out black Jeep with huge tires and a Miami Heat logo. They’re big stars on the football and basketball teams. Also, in the opinion of a lot of girls, they’re really hot. The Bevins totally agree with this opinion. They’re always kind of posing, like they’re models in a Hollister ad, graciously giving the rest of us inferior beings an opportunity to admire them.

  You probably already figured this out: I don’t like the Bevin brothers. This wouldn’t have been a problem if they hadn’t known who I was. I could have been just another lowly freshman in a herd of lowly freshmen flowing past them in the halls as they stood around being admired.

  Unfortunately, the Bevin brothers knew exactly who I was.

  We became acquainted during my second month at Coral Cove High, the week before Halloween. I took the bus as usual and walked onto the school grounds with Matt Diaz, who’s my best friend even though he’s an idiot (you will soon see why I say this). Before school starts, almost everyone hangs around outside in the big courtyard that’s surrounded by the buildings. You talk with your friends, try to finish the homework you didn’t finish the night before, and try to wake up because it’s way too early. Miami public high schools start classes at seven twenty a.m. This is insane if you know anything about the biology of human teenagers. Our natural wake-up time is maybe one thirty in the afternoon. If you put us in a classroom at seven twenty a.m. and expect us to actually remember anything a teacher says, you are a little insane, or a school administrator.

  Before classes started I usually hung out with a bunch of other freshmen I knew from middle school. We met near the door to the Health Sciences building, which was where they have classes for kids who want to be doctors or nurses or paramedics. They have these creepy life-size dummies in there that students are supposed to use for practicing medical stuff like taking blood pressure.

  Some entertaining things have gone on in the courtyard. There was this one legendary incident a few years ago involving the scariest person at Coral Cove: Arlene “The Stinger” Metzinger, who is the principal as well as the strictest person in the solar system. The Stinger is a short but fierce woman who grew up in New York City and prides herself on not having been born yesterday. Which she definitely was not. She’s been the principal at Cove since like the Roman Empire. But for a person of her age she has amazing eyesight. She can spot violations of the school dress code from seven miles away. It’s like a super power. She patrols the school grounds every morning, and every minute or so she’ll point and yell, “HEY!” She’ll be pointing at some kid way off in the distance who isn’t wearing an approved Coral Cove shirt, or doesn’t have an ID badge, or has shorts that are too short, or whatever.

  “YOU!” The Stinger will yell. “COME HERE.” The kid will be like, Who me? And The Stinger will yell, “YES, YOU.” Then the kid will trudge over, and The Stinger will give him or her a detention. She gives out like twenty-five detentions before school even starts. You never know when she’s going to strike next.

  So anyway, according to the legend, one spring morning a few years ago The Stinger was patrolling the courtyard, and she spotted this kid on the second-floor balcony next to the media center. The kid was leaning with his back against the railing and wearing a tie-dyed shirt, which is definitely a violation of the Coral Cove dress code.

  “HEY!” yelled The Stinger.

  The kid didn’t move.

  “HEY!” yelled The Stinger again. “ON THE BALCONY. TURN AROUND. I’M TALKING TO YOU.”

  The kid still didn’t move.


  The Stinger, looking even madder than usual, started walking toward the balcony. Many people were watching. It was pretty obvious the kid was going to get more than one detention. Probably several detentions, plus the electric chair.

  Now The Stinger was under the balcony.

  “YOU TURN AROUND RIGHT NOW,” she yelled.

  Still nothing from the kid. The Stinger was right under him, glaring so hard it was a miracle the kid didn’t burst into flames. Everybody in the courtyard was totally quiet.

  Then the kid jumped off the balcony.

  A lot of people screamed. Not just girls.

  The kid landed on the concrete about two feet in front of The Stinger, who jumped backward an amazing distance for a person her age.

  Then she and a bunch of other people ran to the kid, who was lying there absolutely still, like a dead person.

  Except it wasn’t a person. It was a dummy from Health Sciences.

  And the T-shirt it was wearing said APRIL FOOL, because this happened to be April 1. Somebody had put the shirt and a wig on the dummy, propped it against the balcony railing, crouched out of sight, and flung it off when The Stinger got close.

  It was a pretty good prank. A lot of people laughed.

  The Stinger was not one of them. She tried really hard to find out who did it, but she had no luck. She did, however, give out about fourteen million detentions over the next week. So the lesson was: If you mess with The Stinger, everyone pays.

  Anyway, getting back to this particular morning in October: I was walking across the courtyard with my idiot best friend, Matthew Diaz, looking for the group of kids we hung out with. I was especially looking for Suzana Delgado, who’s this girl I really like even though she’s kind of out of my league. She’s pretty and smart and really good at sports and anything else she does. In middle school, she was involved in that insane class trip, and even though I got most of the credit for being a hero, the truth is that she was way braver than me. But we came out of it as pretty good friends; we even went to our middle-school prom together, which was basically—I know how pathetic this sounds—the social high point of my life.

  We were still friends in high school, but not as much as I wanted to be. I saw her sometimes, and she was always nice, but since she was popular and hot she was usually surrounded by a bunch of other popular and hot kids. Also there were more and more upperclassmen noticing her, guys I can’t really compete with, guys with cars.

  But sometimes in the morning she hangs around with the old middle-school clot of kids, and this morning I spotted her as Matt and I walked across the courtyard. Right then Matt said something that is a perfect example of why he’s an idiot.

  “I brought Frank,” he said.

  “You what?” I said.

  I should explain here that Frank is a ferret.

  “He’s in my backpack,” said Matt.

  “Why?” I said.

  “He gets lonely when I leave him at home.”

  “But he’s a ferret.”

  “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings.”

  “You can’t bring a ferret to school!”

  “Nobody’s gonna see him. He has food in there.”

  “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

  Before Matt could answer, we reached the group. Suzana waved at me and smiled, which made this an excellent day so far. I went straight over to her.

  “Guess what Matt did,” I said.

  “Something idiotic?”

  Suzana knows Matt well.

  “Correct,” I said. “He brought Frank to school.”

  “Frank?”

  “His ferret.”

  I expected her to laugh at that, but instead she said, “Oooh, I love ferrets! Matt, let me see!”

  “I dunno,” said Matt, looking around.

  “Nobody’s gonna know,” said Suzana. “C’mon, please?”

  She did that girl thing with her eyes that girls do that makes you want to do whatever it is they want you to do, especially if they look like Suzana.

  “Okay,” said Matt. “But don’t let him get loose.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Suzana. She’s the kind of person who never thinks anybody should worry.

  Matt took off his backpack and unzipped it. Suzana looked inside.

  “Ohmigod he’s so cute,” she said. “Can I hold him?”

  Matt said, “I don’t think that’s—”

  But Suzana was already reaching into the backpack. She pulled Frank out and held him up.

  “OHMIGOD!” she said. “He is SO cute!”

  Frank didn’t look all that cute to me. He looked kind of like a rat. But Suzana was in love.

  By now more kids were gathering around to see what was going on, so our clot was getting bigger. I felt a hand on my shoulder, then it shoved me sideways. I was going to say something—probably a brilliant comeback like “Hey!”—but then I saw who the hand belonged to: Troy Bevin. He was with his brother, Nick. They wanted to see what was going on, and if you’re standing between the Bevins and something they want to see, you’re standing in the wrong place.

  The Bevins shoved a couple more unimportant students aside so they could stand right next to Suzana, where she could be appropriately awed by their awesomeness. My excellent day was suddenly way less excellent.

  Nick pointed at Frank. “Is that yours?” he asked Suzana.

  “No, he’s mine,” said Matt.

  Nick looked at Frank the way my mom looks at cockroaches right before she steps on them. Then he looked back at Suzana.

  “I’m Nick,” he said. He smiled at her, revealing several thousand perfect teeth.

  Suzana blushed and said, “I know who you are.” I wanted to puke.

  Nick nodded like Of COURSE you know who I am. “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Suzana Delgado.”

  “You’re a freshman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome to Coral Cove, Suzana Delgado.” He made it sound like it was his personal high school.

  “Thanks,” said Suzana, blushing even redder.

  “I’m Troy,” said Troy. He also gifted her with a smile. So generous, the Bevin brothers.

  “Hi,” said Suzana.

  “You like animals?” Troy said.

  “Yes,” said Suzana.

  “You should come over to our house sometime. We have some amazing animals.”

  “Like what?”

  “Exotic animals,” said Nick.

  “Very exotic,” said Troy. “Way more interesting than a ferret. Mind if I take a look at him?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He just reached out and took Frank from Suzana. Matt started to say something, but decided not to. Matt’s entire body is about the size of one of Troy’s biceps.

  Troy, holding Frank up, looked at Nick. “You know who’d love this?”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” said Nick. “Roxy.”

  “Who’s Roxy?” said Suzana.

  “More like what’s Roxy,” said Nick.

  “Roxy would love this thing,” said Troy, giving Frank a little squeeze. “For an appetizer.”

  “Can I please have my ferret back?” said Matt.

  Troy didn’t even glance at Matt. “So,” he said to Suzana, “want to hang out sometime?”

  Suzana blushed some more and smiled. I couldn’t believe she couldn’t see what jerks these guys were.

  “Really,” said Matt, “I’d like my ferret back.” He touched Troy’s arm. This was a mistake. Puny ninth-grade boys did not touch a Bevin brother.

  Troy looked down at Matthew. “You want it back?”

  “Yes, please,” said Matt.

  “Here you go,” said Troy. He held Frank out. But when Matt reached for Frank, Troy suddenly tossed him toward Nick. The good news was, Nick, being athletic, caught Frank. The bad news was, Frank did not care for being tossed, so he bit Nick on the thumb.

  Nick made a high-pitched noise, something you’d expect more from a third-gr
ade girl than a Bevin brother. He jerked his arm, flinging Frank into the crowd.

  “No!” said Matt. “Don’t throw him!” He plunged into the crowd, dropping to his hands and knees, crawling through people’s legs, looking for Frank. “Be careful!” he shouted. “Don’t step on him!”

  “Go ahead and step on it,” said Nick, looking at his thumb, which was bleeding. “That thing bit me.”

  This is when things started to go really wrong.

  The first thing that went wrong was I decided to say something. What I said, to Nick Bevin, was: “It bit you because your brother threw it.”

  That was a mistake. You don’t criticize a Bevin brother, especially when he just let loose a girlish squeal and needs to get his macho back.

  “What did you say?” Nick said, moving close and looming over me.

  I don’t know what I would have said next—probably something courageous like, “I’m sorry, please don’t kill me, Mr. Bevin, sir”—but I didn’t get to say anything, because just then everybody was frozen by the scariest sound a person can hear at Coral Cove High.

  “HEY!”

  The sound of The Stinger.

  She was stalking toward us, somehow sensing with her supernatural Stinger powers that somebody was violating some Coral Cove rule. As she approached, there were shrieks from the crowd behind me, and people jumping aside. I turned around just in time to see Frank skitter out of the crowd through the forest of legs and scoot straight toward me. Without thinking, I bent over and scooped him up.

  Which meant I was holding Frank when The Stinger reached us. Naturally her Stinger vision zeroed in on me.

  “What is that?” she said.

  “It’s a ferret,” I said.

  She stared at me hard for a second, then said, “You’re that boy, aren’t you. The hero.” The way she said it, it didn’t sound like a compliment.

  “I’m Wyatt Palmer,” I said.

  She nodded. “So tell me, Mr. Palmer. Why did you bring a ferret to school?”

  “Um,” I said. I admit this was not a brilliant answer, but the only other answer that came to mind—“It’s not my ferret”—would have resulted in The Stinger asking me whose ferret it was, and I didn’t want to rat out Matt, even though he’s an idiot.