I guess I could have tried to wing it, but… who am I kidding? There was NO WAY I could wing something like that.
“What do I say?” I asked Jeanne while we were walking through the lobby.
“Just…” She was thinking fast, I could tell. “Just say that everyone is going to switch jobs tomorrow. The writers will do photography and the photographers will do the writing.”
“That’s good,” I said. It was something I could actually remember.
“Oh, and if Mrs. Stricker asks, we hit three of our topics today,” Jeanne said. “Isaiah got a bunch of stuff from Sabra and Kadir on the Saatchi, and I asked Mackenzie to focus on the history of the Old Globe—”
“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” I said. “Too much information!”
“Well, she’s going to want to know,” Jeanne said. “And it’s supposed to come from you.”
“I know, I know,” I said, frantically trying to keep everything Jeanne said from leaking out of my brain.
We were heading up the hall now, away from the front desk and right toward the Learning Center.
“I’ve got it!” Jeanne said. “Keep your phone where you can see it. I’ll text you the rest.”
“But my phone’s dead!” I said. “I have to charge it first.”
“There’s no time for that!” she said.
It was like a countdown to disaster, and I was the bomb that was going to go off in about twelve and a half seconds.
“Unless—,” Jeanne said.
“Unless what?” I said.
“Let’s go, you two!” Mrs. Stricker said. She was standing in the Learning Center door, looking like she couldn’t wait to get upstairs, order room service, and watch some TV. Or whatever it is she does for fun.
“Here! Take this,” Jeanne said. She shoved her phone into my hand. “Open the text window and turn it on mute.”
“But…,” I said.
“Just do it!” Jeanne said.
So I did. There wasn’t much choice, anyway. We were already walking into the room and that meeting was about to start in five… four… three… two…
Covert Operations
Ms. Donatello, may I use your laptop to take notes?” Jeanne asked, once we were all sitting at the big table in the Learning Center.
“Of course,” Ms. Donatello said, and slid it over to her.
“Okay, everyone, it’s been a long day. Let’s make this quick,” Mrs. Stricker said.
I still didn’t know where this was headed. Everyone else was getting their notebooks out, but Jeanne was already tapping away on Ms. D’s laptop.
And then a text popped up on her phone.
ARE YOU GETTING THIS?
SCRATCH YOUR HEAD FOR YES.
I scratched my head and kind of glanced over at Jeanne. She just kept typing away, like she didn’t even know I was there.
“All right, Rafe,” Mrs. Stricker said. “What’s our plan for tomorrow?”
At least I was ready for that one.
“I think we should switch what we did today,” I said. “Everyone who did written modules can take pictures tomorrow, and everyone who took pictures can do the write-ups.”
“That’s a very elegant plan,” Ms. Donatello said. “I’m impressed, Rafe.”
“Thanks,” I said. It made me feel good but also guilty, since Jeanne deserved the credit.
Meanwhile, I was hoping like crazy that would be it, because I was already out of stuff to say. But Mrs. Stricker kept going.
“Now remember, you’ll continue posting individual updates to the school website,” she said. “But we need to make sure all topic areas are covered in the Living-Learning entry we submit at the end of the week. How is that coming along, Rafe?”
“Well,” I said, “let me just, uh… check my notes.”
I flipped through a few pages in my notebook and pretended to read them, while Jeanne kept tapping away, eventually stammering, “Uh… hang on two or ten seconds…” And then—
WE HAVE A GOOD START ON HISTORY, ART, AND CURRENT EVENTS
Phew!
“We have a good start on history, art, and current events,” I said.
POLITICS AND SCIENCE WILL GET CAUGHT UP TOMORROW
“Politics and science will get caught up tomorrow,” I said.
AND BY THE END OF THE WEEK WE SHOULD BE FUNNY CORNERED
“And by the end of the week we should be funny cornered,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Stricker said, and everyone looked up.
FULLY COVERED!!! (SORRY!)
“Fully covered!” I said. “I mean… fully covered!”
Stupid autocorrect! I don’t know if Jeanne was sweating like me, but I felt like I was drowning.
Mrs. Stricker just stared back at me. It was like she could smell something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell what it was. (And believe me, she can smell trouble.) Everything else stopped—including my heart, I think.
Then she finally stood up.
“You all have one hour before curfew. Please have your latest materials loaded onto the HVMS site by then. I’ll be checking your progress from my room,” she said, and flipped her laptop closed on her way out the door.
When I looked over at Jeanne, she didn’t look sweaty at all. In fact, I think she was ready for Round Two.
Not me. I felt like I’d just starred in all the Mission: Impossible movies at the same time. And the only reason I’d made it out alive was thanks to Special Agent Galletta.
Also known as Jeanne.
Which, if you ask me, must be short for genius.
Crazy Dangerous
By the time I got up to the room that night, I was beat. I felt like a wrung-out washrag after a double shift at the 24-hour car wash. All I wanted to do was crawl into a nice comfortable bed and go to sleep for eight or twenty hours.
Of course, I also wanted a lifetime supply of pepperoni pizza, world peace, and Bill Gates’s ATM card, but I wasn’t getting any of those, either.
When I walked in, Miller flicked his light off right away, even though he wasn’t going to sleep. He was still watching TV on top of the covers.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Nnrh,” he said, which I think meant “Nothing.”
“You want some Cadbury?” I asked him, and held up a candy bar I bought in the lobby.
“Nah,” he said.
And that’s when I knew he was feeling worse than ever. Miller likes food more than I do.
I figured he must be pretty depressed about moving to Phoenix, but I couldn’t tell him that.
“Hey, Miller?” I said. “You, uh… you don’t seem so good.”
This time, he didn’t say anything. He just kept watching TV, even though it was only a commercial for something called potted meat (whatever that is).
“Miller?” I said again.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“Talk about what?” I said. “What’s going on?”
I could tell things had changed between us, because I was saying stuff that would have put me in the obituaries back home. And Miller didn’t even pretend like he cared.
So I kept going.
“You just seem like you wish you’d never come to London,” I said.
“Good call, Sherlock,” he said, and turned up the TV.
“Okay, whatever,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
And I was halfway to my bedroom-in-the-bathroom when I got another idea. A big one. Kind of crazy, too. Like, almost Leo-the-Silent crazy. But I figured it was time to try something new.
So I stopped and turned around. I walked over to the dresser, where Miller kept his never-ending pile of junk food. And then I started putting some chips and cans of soda into my backpack.
It felt like I was taking my life into my own hands, because I kind of was. But it snapped Miller out of whatever had him lying there like a zombie. As soon as he saw me going for his food, he launched off that bed like an enemy missile.
“What do you think you’re doing?
” he snarled. “Are you crazy?”
“Yeah,” I said, looking him right in the eye while I dropped another bag of Walkers crisps in there. “A little, anyway.”
I’m pretty sure he pulled back his fist to send me through the wall, but I had my eyes locked on his. This was a do-or-die moment—probably with extra emphasis on the die.
“Come on,” I said, trying to sound at least a little like I wasn’t shaking in my socks. “Let’s hit the roof again. And this time, we’re bringing some supplies.”
Operation: Baby Steps
Believe it or not, it worked. I think Miller liked that first mission up to the roof a lot. In fact, that’s what I was counting on.
So as soon as curfew kicked in and Security Guy was out of the way, we went for it. In fact, it wasn’t nearly as hard the second time around. We got up to that roof faster than you can say “stealth mode.” There wasn’t even any tape on our doors—maybe our group had worked up some sort of trust with Security Guy already. Either that or he was just plain lazy.
This time, we pulled one of those restaurant tables and a couple of folding chairs to the middle of the roof. Then we sat back and relaxed with a table full of Miller’s junk food. He even let me eat a little of it. Which was, frankly, amazing.
And then came Part Two of my plan. If it had a name, I’d call it Operation: Baby Steps.
“Hey, Miller, I didn’t mean to be nosy before,” I said.
Miller finished chugging a can of orange soda and popped a Coke.
“Whatever,” he said.
“You just don’t seem like you’re having any fun,” I said. “None of my friends are here, either. I get it.”
“No, actually, you don’t,” Miller said. He seemed like he was heading down into the dumps again, so I didn’t say anything. I just drank my warm Coke and watched the city lights.
Then after a long time, Miller spoke up again.
“It’s my little sister,” he said.
I didn’t know what he meant, but it felt like something had just changed. Maybe something big. It reminded me of when you see those giant icebergs breaking off from themselves—kind of surprising and scary at the same time.
“What about her?” I said.
“She has to go to this clinic in Phoenix,” he said.
“For what?” I asked him.
Then he named something I’d never heard of. It sounded to me like the biggest word Miller had ever used.
“Does that mean she’s sick?” I asked. Miller just shrugged, but I think that meant yes.
It made me want to tell him about Leo, and how I had a sick brother, once. But then I stopped and thought about it for a second. Seeing as how Leo died, maybe that wasn’t such a good thing to talk about after all. Even if it did happen a long time ago.
“I bet she’ll be okay,” I said instead. “That clinic must be really good or your parents wouldn’t take her all the way down there.”
“Yeah,” Miller said.
To tell you the truth, I still wasn’t sorry Miller was moving to Phoenix. But I was definitely less glad about it than before.
He didn’t say anything else, and I was pretty sure the conversation was over. But I wasn’t done yet. I still had my backpack with me, and I pulled out the assignment sheet for the next day. Then I took out my pencil and erased Miller’s name.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“I’m taking you off the assignment sheet for tomorrow,” I said. “I mean, you probably don’t care or anything, but it sounds like you could use a day off from that stuff.”
All I heard then was Miller swallowing hard in the dark. Which made me feel 100 percent weird—for both our sakes. Or maybe he just had an extra-big chip in his mouth, I don’t know.
“Hey, Rafe?” he said.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. “I owe you one.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him.
And I even meant it. I was supposed to be doing nice things for people. Be friendly, right? Even to Dryden Miller.
Especially to Miller, now.
Day Four in London
Hey there, all you readers, and viewers, and listeners, and fans! Welcome to Day Four in London.
Are you READY???? I hope so, because it’s time to play everyone’s favorite game…
Trouble on the Tube
By the time we left the National Portrait Gallery, everyone was pretty much walked out. I’d gotten some great video and some not-so-great video.
I’d also spent nearly the rest of my money on presents for Mom, Grandma, and even Georgia. Plus the biggest Cadbury bar you’ve ever seen (for me).
But the best part was still coming. Our last stop of the afternoon was going to be Madame Fifi’s House of Wax. And to make it even better, we got to ride there on the subway and take a bus back to the hotel afterward. I’m pretty sure if we had to walk anymore, everyone would have been going home on crutches.
I’ve lived in a city before, but I’ve never ridden on a subway. In London, it’s called the Tube, which is a cool name, if you ask me. It’s like a whole huge underground maze that goes everywhere.
When we got on the train, I didn’t fight anyone for a seat. I was still trying to do nice things and be friendly, so I held on to a pole instead, and tried not to stand on my blisters.
Then, when we were almost to Madame Fifi’s, Jared came over to where I was standing. I didn’t know what he wanted, but I had a hunch it wasn’t about starring in my next movie.
“What’s up, Rafe?” he said, flashing that weird smile.
“Nothing,” I said, because he wasn’t really asking.
“You and Jeanne have been getting a lot of stuff done for that report,” he said, “haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s been pretty great.”
“Pretty great?” he said. “She’s not your girlfriend. You know that, right?”
That wasn’t a real question, either, but I knew where he was going.
“Don’t worry, Jared,” I told him. “It’s not like—”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m just saying, you got the help you needed. Now maybe you could stop crushing on my girlfriend and leave her alone. Cool?”
Jeanne was way across the subway car, but I could see her looking at us with this question on her face, like—What are they up to?
Jared just smiled and waved at her. That smile of his was getting creepier by the second.
And I didn’t even answer him this time. We were pulling into our stop at Waterloo Station. Plus, it was starting to hit my brain what was really going on with all the fake smiles and questions. Or at least, what might have been going on.
FACT: Jared was taller than me, better-looking than me, and pretty much better at everything than I was.
FACT: He didn’t have any reason to be jealous of me, but he sure was acting that way.
THEORY: Jared actually WAS jealous.
CONCLUSION: The world had gone completely insane.
Welcome to Madame Fif i’s House of Wax
I’d already seen a brochure for Madame Fifi’s back at the hotel. Not only did the main exhibit of wax figures sound pretty cool—Barack Obama! Darth Vader! Beyoncé!—but I was even more excited about the basement.
Because that’s where they had Madame Fifi’s Temple of Terrors, and all the gory stuff. In other words, all the good stuff. Where else were you going to see beheadings, guys on spikes, people on the rack, and a fully stocked gift shop? It was going to be like walking into a living horror movie with overpriced knickknacks at the end!
Which meant that this video was practically going to make itself.
Our tour guide this time was a lady called Ms. Evelyn. Except she said it like “Eve-Lynn.” She also wore this long dress and a turban on her head, like some kind of really old movie star who over… pronounced… every… word… she… ever… said.
“Welcome… welcome… welcome,” she told us (which took abou
t an hour to say), and I knew right then I was going to have to be patient.
Ms. Evelyn started off by taking us around the ground-floor exhibit. Besides all the movie and sports people, there were a bunch of wax dummies of people from history. And of course, she told us all about them, too.
I got some good video, though. We saw everyone from Prince the musician to the Prince of Wales, and Elton John to Genghis Khan. (Hey, I’m a poet!) Jeanne kept giving me looks when Mrs. Stricker wasn’t watching, so I’d know which parts made sense to focus on.
And Jared kept giving me looks, too, when Jeanne wasn’t watching. I tried to ignore him, and I made sure to keep my distance from him and Jeanne.
The whole time, Ms. Evelyn was gliding around and talking (and talking and talking), while the rest of us were getting as impatient as little kids on Christmas Eve. Either she didn’t know that everyone was goofing off behind her back during the tour, or she didn’t care.
Or maybe she had it all figured out. Maybe she knew all that grinning and goofing off was going to stop the very minute we headed down to the basement.
If that’s what she thought, she was exactly right.
When we finally got to the main entrance for the Temple of Terrors, Ms. Evelyn stopped cold. Like a dead body.
Then she looked at all of us, one by one, and her eyes got really big and spooky.
“I hope you have… prepared yourselves,” she said.
“Yes!” everyone basically yelled at the same time in anticipation. My voice didn’t even crack, which was like a little present, from me to me. (Thanks, voice!)
“Very well, then,” she said, and opened this big door to show us some winding stairs, down into the dark.
But before she could lead us down them, she stopped and turned around again.
“There’s nobody in the group with a… weak heart?” she asked.
From Hero to Zero - Chris Tebbetts Page 7
