Been There, Done That

by Mike Winchell

  “Nothing,” I whispered back. But that wasn’t true. A lot was going on. And what was going on right then was me trying to figure out how to avoid a disaster.

  The good news was: I managed to yank the umbrella out from under the chair.

  The bad news was: As soon as I got it out, the umbrella opened with a big pop!

  Actually, it was more like POP!!!!

  Mr. Williams stopped talking. Every head in the room turned my way. I was sitting there with an open umbrella in my hand, in a classroom full of strangers, in a foreign country.

  “May I ask what it is you think you’re doing?” said Mr. Williams, in a scary “teacher” tone of voice.

  Without thinking, I said the first thing that popped into my head:

  “It looks like rain.”

  Mr. Williams cocked his head, like he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard.

  I felt my face start to burn.

  And then a couple of kids started to laugh. Then more kids. Until pretty soon, the whole class was laughing. At something I had said!

  I felt my whole body relax, for what seemed like the first time in months.

  Of course, I got in trouble. No recess for a week. But it was a small price to pay for the note that Jennifer Welbourne passed me in math later that day.

  It said: What’s your name?

  Tommy Greenwald

  THE STORY

  AMERICAN BOY

  I have wonderful news,” said my mom, which meant one thing—she was about to tell me something completely not wonderful.

  “What?”

  She looked down at me as I lay in bed. “Well, you know how I told you that I might get transferred to England?”

  “No,” I said. My mom had a really important job, I knew that much. She wasn’t home a lot. But England? I wasn’t exactly sure where that was, but I was knew it was far away.

  “Yes, you do, honey. We’ve talked about it several times.”

  “Well, maybe, but I don’t want to go.”

  My mom sighed. “Well, I thought you’d be excited. Moving to Europe! Most kids would be thrilled at the opportunity. And besides, it’s only going to be for a year or two.”

  Only? Only? I was in sixth grade—that’s the big year, where everything matters. Where you make your friends that will last a lifetime. Where you figure out what you’re interested in at school (if anything). And where you kiss your first girl, if you’re superlucky and promise not to brag about it to everyone afterward.

  “What about Dad?” I said. My parents were divorced, but that didn’t mean my mom could just up and take me to another part of the world—did it?

  “Your dad thinks it’s a wonderful opportunity, and he’s going to visit as often as he can,” said my mom. Then she leaned over and kissed me. “I know it sounds hard, but this is going to be a wonderful adventure. Trust me.”

  After she turned out the lights, I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep.

  Trust me.

  When a parent says that, it’s never a good sign.

  • • •

  Forty-three days later, I walked into a classroom in London, England, and about twenty heads turned in my direction.

  The teacher, a man with long white hair who looked like he was about 106 years old, took off his glasses and looked me up and down. “Ah yes, the American boy,” he said, in a way that made me think he wasn’t all that crazy about American boys. “My name is Mr. Tiggle. Welcome to Year Seven, Room Four-A.”

  I was confused. “But I’m supposed to be in the sixth grade.”

  The twenty heads giggled.

  “This is the equivalent of your sixth grade, son,” said Mr. Tiggle. “Now please have a seat.”

  I sat down at the only empty desk, which was next to a brown-haired girl in pigtails.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I said.

  The pigtailed girl looked at me like I had two heads, then turned away.

  “Hey,” whispered a boy with a crew cut. “You play football?”

  Okay, I thought, now we’re getting somewhere.

  “I love football!” I exclaimed.

  “Good,” he said. “Meet us in the yard at lunchtime.”

  After two hours of trying to understand Mr. Tiggle’s incredibly thick accent, it was time for lunch. Everyone streamed outside, the girls going one way, the boys going the other (at least some things were the same as in America). I looked for the boy from class but I couldn’t find him, so I ended up sitting by myself on a bench in the corner, eating a sandwich.

  “Hey.”

  I turned around. The kid from class was staring at me. Three of his friends were behind him.

  “My name’s Nigel,” he said. “You said you play, right? Let’s have a go.” Then he kicked a soccer ball at me.

  “This is a soccer ball,” I told him. “I thought you said football.”

  Nigel snickered. “Riiiiight. A soccer ball.” He said the word soccer as if it were a terrible disease. “Forget it then. Just give it back.”

  I picked up the ball and threw it to him.

  “Oy, you stupid git!” said one of Nigel’s friends. “You don’t use your hands!”

  Nigel shook his head. “Ah, what does he know, he’s just an American boy,” he said.

  They all started laughing, chanting “American boy! American boy!”

  And just like that, I had a nickname.

  • • •

  Three weeks later, I walked into the same classroom in London, England, and exactly one head turned in my direction.

  “American boy,” said Nigel, “would you mind not dripping all over my shoes?”

  “Sorry,” I murmured. It had been pouring rain all morning, and my windbreaker was soaked.

  Nigel shook his head at me with a sneer. “You’re supposed to put your rain gear in the hall.”

  “Right.” I hurried back out just as Mr. Tiggle rushed by me and said, “Take your seat, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I barely had time to take off my galoshes. As usual, I was the last one in my seat.

  “Today we’re going to be continuing our discussion of iambic pentameter,” announced Mr. Tiggle. “Please open your books to page twenty-seven.”

  As I struggled to get my backpack open, I noticed that the girl with the pigtails—whose name was Anne—was staring in my direction.

  I followed her eyes and looked down at myself. Uh-oh. Somehow, in the rush to get to my seat, I’d forgotten to take off my windbreaker. It was creating a pool of water that was starting to gather and run down the aisle—straight toward Mr. Tiggle.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, a little too loudly. A few kids glanced up. Nigel turned around, saw what was going on, and laughed.

  “What did I say about the rain gear, mate?”

  “Eyes forward,” pronounced Mr. Tiggle, who was not yet aware that a stream was headed his way.

  As the rest of the class went back to their books, I quickly and quietly tried to pull my jacket off over my head and stash it under my desk, where it could drip in private. The only problem was, one of the sleeves got tangled. Before I knew it, the whole thing was stuck on my head, and I couldn’t see a thing.

  I silently cursed my mom for not getting me a zippered windbreaker like I asked for.

  Suddenly I heard a voice—it was my pigtailed neighbor, Anne, saying the first words she’d ever spoken to me.

  “What are you doing? He’s coming.”

  I stopped pulling and listened. Sure enough, I could hear the footsteps of Mr. Tiggle making his way down the aisle.

  SQUISH! SQUISH! The footsteps were a little wet.

  I heard titters, and whispers of American Boy bouncing around the classroom.

  Mr. Tiggle arrived at my desk right as I was giving the windbreaker one la
st yank.

  The good news was, I finally got it off.

  The bad news was, it went flying in a very unlucky direction.

  I looked up at him. There I was, sitting in a strange classroom in a strange city, in a strange country, in a school full of strangers who thought I was strange . . . with my waterlogged windbreaker sitting on top of my teacher’s head.

  It would have been hilarious if it had been happening to anyone else.

  “May I ask what it is you think you’re doing?” Mr. Tiggle hissed, water running down his face.

  “Sorry?” I asked.

  “You heard me!”

  That was the moment I decided, the heck with it—I had nothing to lose.

  “You had a little food on your face,” I said to Mr. Tiggle. “Breakfast, probably. Just helping you wash it off.”

  The room fell dead silent. Mr. Tiggle’s eyes narrowed to little slits. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to whip me or flog me (though I think they might be the same thing). Five seconds felt like five hundred seconds.

  Until a kid in the front of the room started snorting.

  Then a kid in the back of the room began wheezing.

  And then, the next thing I knew, a wave was rippling around the room.

  It was the unmistakable sound of kids cracking up. And Nigel was howling loudest of all.

  Ah, laughter. The greatest sound ever, to a twelve-year-old boy.

  “Silence!” thundered Mr. Tiggle. He threw the jacket down on my desk and headed back to the front of the room, sidestepping the water. For a brief, idiotic second I thought maybe I was going to get off scot-free.

  But no.

  “See me after school, young man,” Mr. Tiggle hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll get this sorted out, you and I.”

  I sighed, then put the still-dripping windbreaker under my desk. After two more hours of pretending to study poetry and verse, it was lunchtime. The rain had stopped, so I headed out to my usual spot—the far bench in the far corner—and ate my sandwich, daydreaming of home.

  Just as I was finishing my last bite, there was a tap on my shoulder.

  I looked up.

  Nigel was standing there, with a ball in his hand. Next to him were his friends Graham and Ian, and standing behind him was pigtailed Anne.

  I braced myself for the usual round of teasing, but when I looked at Nigel’s face, I could tell something was different. He was smiling, as usual, but his eyes were different. They weren’t cold. They weren’t distant. They weren’t suspicious.

  They were open.

  “Hey, American Boy,” he said. “Let’s play soccer.”

  Acknowledgments

  Mike Winchell

  The same collection of people who were acknowledged in the first book played a major role in this book, especially my family, and I’d like to thank them again for their continued support. Specifically, my brothers, Jeff and Tim; my sister-in-law Corrine; my mother, Gerrie White; my stepfather, Garry White; my father, David; and, of course, my collection of cool nieces and nephews: Alex, Rhiannon, Luke, Madison, McKenna, Jillian, Vincent, Rhys, and Maya. On my wife’s side: my mother-in-law, Lydia; my brothers-in-law, Mark, Phillip, and Jeff; and my sister-in-law Connie. My wife, Shelby, is my rock and always will be, and my kids, A.J. and Savannah, are our sole purpose in life. Yes, I have an amazing family. Thank you all for everything.

  My agent, Brianne Johnson, is a butt-kicking champion for me and all her clients, and without her no book with my name on it would grace the shelves. My editor extraordinaire, Bonnie Bader, and her trusty sidekick, Renee Hooker, are the best. You two made everything run smoothly. Art director Sara Corbett was accidentally left out of my round of nods in the first book, but without her presence we wouldn’t have the awesome artwork in this book. Speaking of artwork, I lucked out when Eglantine Ceulemans took on the task of designing our cover art for the first book, so a belated “thank you” to her, because I am in awe of her work. And I will continue to say that the entire Grosset & Dunlap team is amazing; I’m incredibly lucky to have found a true home for this project. Francesco Sedita is a visionary who knows how to compose an orchestra of publishing professionals, and I thank him for believing in this project.

  Thanks to the many writing friends and publishing professionals who have helped me along the way: Tracy Edward Wymer, John Zeleznik, Shaun Hutchinson, Mollie Glick, Henry Neff, Rebecca Taylor, Paul Murphy, Amber Lough, Alison DeCamp, Gail Nall, Monica Tesler, David Kazzie, Evelyn Skye, Alan Lawrence Sitomer, Matthew J. Kirby, and Lisa Mangum.

  I’d like to thank my “neighbors” Bruce Coville and Ellen Yeomans for not only being a part of this collection but for their selfless guidance and advice ever since I began my foray into publishing. Bruce and Ellen, we all know you’re talented writers, but I would like to thank you even more for simply being great, genuine, high-character human beings.

  Finally, the late Stuart Scott (1965–2015) was not a close friend of mine, and we corresponded through digital means only, but I want to thank him for his help when I needed it. His brief advice grounded me in the true meaning of life: being the best father you can be, every single day. In turn, I’d like to thank his daughters, Sydni and Taelor, for sharing their father with the world. Girls, your father was a class act. He’s beaming with pride from up above.

  Authors

  SHAUN DAVID HUTCHINSON is the author of The Deathday Letter, fml, The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley, We Are the Ants, and the forthcoming Center of the Universe, and the editor of the school shooting anthology Violent Ends. He lives with his partner and dog in South Florida and watches way too much TV. Visit him at www.shaundavidhutchinson.com.

  HOWARD CRUSE’s comics and cartoon illustrations have appeared in numerous newsstand magazines and underground comic books. His column “Loose Cruse” was a regular feature in Comics Scene magazine; his comic strip Wendel ran in the Advocate during much of the 1980s; and he has enjoyed stints as a cartooning instructor at the School of Visual Arts in New York and at the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts in Massachusetts, where he and his husband, Ed Sedarbaum, have been living since 2003.

  Cruse has published nine books, the best-known being the internationally award-winning 1995 graphic novel Stuck Rubber Baby, translations of which have been published in Germany, France, Spain, Italy, and Poland. Visit him at www.howardcruse.com.

  MEG MEDINA writes picture books and middle-grade and young-adult fiction that examines how cultures intersect, as seen through the eyes of young people. Her young adult novel Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass, earned the 2014 Pura Belpré Award among numerous other distinctions. Her most recent books are Burn Baby Burn (Candlewick Press, 2016) and Mango, Abuela, and Me, a Junior Library Guild selection.

  In 2014, Meg was named one of the CNN 10 Visionary Women in America for her work to support girls, Latino youth, and diversity in children’s literature. Visit her at www.megmedina.com.

  BRUCE COVILLE has published more than one hundred books for children and young adults, including the international best seller My Teacher Is an Alien and the Unicorn Chronicles series. His works have appeared in a dozen languages and won children’s choice awards in as many states. He has been a teacher, a toymaker, a magazine editor, a gravedigger, and a cookware salesman. He is also the founder of Full Cast Audio, an audiobook publishing company devoted to producing full-cast, unabridged recordings of material for family listening. Mr. Coville lives in Syracuse, New York, with his wife, illustrator and author Katherine Coville. Visit him at www.brucecoville.com.

  WENDY MASS is the New York Times best-selling author of The Candymakers and fifteen other novels for young readers. They include A Mango-Shaped Space, Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life (recently made into a movie), the Willow Falls series that began with 11 Birthdays, and Every Soul a Star. Just out is Pi in the Sky and a new series for beginning readers called Sp
ace Taxi. She is currently writing the sequel to The Candymakers while building a labyrinth in her backyard in New Jersey. Not at the same time, of course. That’d be weird. Visit her at wendymass.com.

  JACQUELINE WEST is the author of the New York Times best-selling middle-grade series The Books of Elsewhere (Dial/Penguin) and the young adult novel Dreamers Often Lie (Dial/Penguin, April 2016). Her books have been selected by the Junior Library Guild, garnered many awards and nominations, and been published in eleven other countries to date. Her short fiction for young readers has appeared in Spider, the School Magazine, and the anthology Starry-Eyed (Running Press, 2013). She lives with her family in Red Wing, Minnesota, surrounded by large piles of books and small piles of dog hair. Visit her at www.jacquelinewest.com.

  Raised by wolves just outside Los Angeles, BRUCE HALE has written and/or illustrated more than thirty-five books for kids. His popular series include the award-winning Chet Gecko Mysteries, School for S.P.I.E.S., and Clark the Shark.

  When not writing or illustrating, Bruce loves to perform. He has appeared on stage, on television, and in an independent film called The Ride. A Fulbright Scholar in Storytelling and a member of the National Speakers Association, Bruce has spoken at schools, conferences, and libraries from New York to New Delhi.

  These days, Bruce lives in Santa Barbara with his wife, his sweet mutt, Riley, and his massive collection of hats.

  Visit him at www.brucehale.com.

  SARAH PRINEAS is the author of the Magic Thief series, which has been published in twenty languages. In addition to being a 2009 E. B. White Read Aloud honor book and an NCTE Notable book, The Magic Thief appeared on sixteen state reading lists. Her latest books are The Magic Thief: Home and Ash and Bramble, her first young adult book. Sarah has a PhD in English literature and lives in the Iowa countryside with her mad scientist husband, two odd children, two perfectly normal cats, chickens, bees, a bunch of goats, and the best dogs in the world. Visit her at www.sarah-prineas.com.

  C. ALEXANDER LONDON has written books for children, teens, and even a few grown-ups. He’s the author of more than twenty books, including the Accidental Adventures series, the Dog Tags series, and the talking animal epic The Wild Ones, for middle-grade readers. His young adult debut, Proxy, was a 2014 Top Ten Quick Pick for Reluctant Young Readers and has been on several state reading lists. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he can be found wandering the streets talking to his dog, who is the real brains of the operation.