Operation Detention

It all started with a ham sandwich.

Principal Horace Tuttle—universally feared and affectionately nicknamed "The Warden"—had instituted a policy banning all outside food. When he confiscated Simon Fletcher’s lovingly packed ham and Swiss, declaring it a “threat to campus integrity,” something in the senior class finally snapped.

Simon was no rebel. He wore sweater vests unironically and organized the school’s chess club bake sale with military precision. But that day, in the glare of the principal’s office, flanked by an army of “No Fun Allowed” posters, something shifted. As Simon trudged back to the cafeteria sans sandwich and dignity, he locked eyes with three others: Juno, the sarcastic artist with a penchant for graffiti; Malik, the ex-honor student turned hallway legend after he hacked the school’s bell system to play “Never Gonna Give You Up”; and Priya, a quiet robotics nerd who could reprogram a vending machine to dispense revenge.

That afternoon, in the dusty drama storage room, “Operation Detention” was born.

Their mission: pull off the most legendary prank in West Elm High’s history during the principal’s beloved Founders Day Assembly—an annual event where Tuttle delivered a 45-minute speech about the importance of rules, order, and the school’s custodian budget.

The planning was meticulous. Priya built a small army of robotic hamsters (inspired by Simon’s stolen lunch), each programmed to squeak “Freedom!” as they raced down the auditorium aisles. Malik rewired the stage lighting system to flash in sync with the school marching band’s percussion. Juno created a backdrop mural that looked like a tribute to academic excellence—until viewed from afar, when it morphed into a caricature of Tuttle in a tutu.

The day arrived. Students filled the gym, restless and unaware. Tuttle, in a starched gray suit and the same stern expression he’d worn since Nixon, stepped onto the stage and cleared his throat.

Then it began.

At first, just a squeak. Then a stampede. Forty robotic hamsters burst from beneath the bleachers. Malik’s lighting storm kicked in, pulsing with the beat as the school band—who’d been let in on the plan under strict secrecy—launched into a jazz rendition of "Don’t Stop Me Now." The backdrop unfurled. Gasps. Laughter. Phones recording from every angle.

Tuttle stood frozen in the chaos, eyes twitching, mouth ajar. For a moment, time paused. Then—he started to laugh. Not a chuckle. A full-bodied, red-faced, wheezing laugh that sent ripples through the crowd. No one had ever heard it before. Some swore it cracked a window.

Later, in his office—still chuckling—he summoned the misfits. They braced for expulsion.

Instead, he offered them coffee.

“I was going to cancel Founders Day next year,” he admitted, removing his glasses. “Too expensive. Too boring. But this… this was something.”

They weren’t expelled. Instead, they were invited to help plan next year’s “Student Spirit Showcase.” Tuttle even approved outside food. Ham sandwiches included.

Thank you for reading! Sometimes, it’s the rule-breakers who bring a little life to the rules. Stay mischievous, stay kind—and never underestimate the power of a well-timed hamster.