It was a hot, sunny day. The green grass gleamed under a clear blue sky. Birds twittered in the rotten apple trees.

My pals Feenman and Crench were walking across the Great Lawn with me. We had our cans of Foamy Root Beer raised high. And we were toasting one another and singing the Official Rotten School Song:

"Rah rah Rotten School! I'd rather be in Rotten School -- Than NOT in school!"

I have to admit it. Those tender words always bring tears to my eyes.

I'm Bernie Bridges, and I love my Rotten School. You probably go home every day after school. But our school is a boarding school, and we live here.

Why do I love it so much?

If only I weren't so modest, I'd tell you that I'm the KING here! I'd tell you that it's my PURE GENIUS that makes me the king.

Maybe you've heard other people say this about me. Of course, I'd never say it about myself.

"Rah rah Rotten School!"

We sang and slapped our root beer cans together. Feenman, Crench, and I love Foamy Root Beer. You know their slogan -- "It's So Foamy, It Stays on Your Face for Hours!"

We tilted the cans to our mouths and took long drinks. Then we wiped the foam off our faces and did the Official Rotten School Burp.

Feenman holds the school record for the Three-Minute Burp. Is he proud of it? Does a weasel have feathers?

Crench is a talented burpsman, too. Every time our teacher, Mrs. Heinie, turns her back, Crench lets out loud, disgusting belches -- until the instant she turns around again.

So far, she hasn't caught him once.

Hey, my guys are talented!

"Rah rah Rotten School!"

I turned and saw that Feenman had a devilish look on his face. He shook his root beer can and sprayed foam down the front of Crench's school vest.

"Hey! Why'd you do that?" Crench screamed.

Feenman shrugged. "No reason."

Crench shook his soda can and shot a spray at Feenman. But Feenman ducked, and I got a Foamy Root Beer shower.

"Whoa -- !" I shook my soda and let Crench have it in the face.

In a few seconds all three of us were soaked. We were wrestling on the ground, licking the foam off one another.

"Dudes! Stop!" I shouted, wiping root beer foam from my hair.

I saw my archenemy walking toward us. That spoiled, rich kid, Sherman Oaks. And what was that shiny thing he was carrying?

I jumped to my feet and hurried over to check it out.

And that's when all the fuss about the Heinie Prize began.