Million-Dollar Mess Down Under
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When I inherit ONE MILLION DOLLARS, it’s not all good news. Sure, I get another free trip Down Under, but this time I have to go to SCHOOL. Blergh. And not just any school … St. Mungo’s is the snobbiest of snobby establishments and you can bet your bottom dollar that I won’t fit in.
In true Rafe Khatchadorian style, PREPARE FOR THINGS TO GET MESSY!
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1: Breathe
Chapter 2: The Name’s Khatchadorian, Rafe Khatchadorian
Chapter 3: Everyone’s Gone to Sardinia
Chapter 4: Shark, Leech, Ato & Gouge
Chapter 5: Assault with a Deadly Eggplant
Chapter 6: Rabid Koalas?
Chapter 7: There Is One Condition …
Chapter 8: Offenders Will Be Fed to the School Tiger
Chapter 9: The Usual Giant Rabid Bush Turkey Warning
Chapter 10: The House on Lorikeet Drive
Chapter 11: Werewolves of Sydney
Chapter 12: Talking Cockroaches
Chapter 13: Warning! Art Talk Ahead!
Chapter 14: The Worst Day of My Life
Chapter 15: Welcome to St. Mungo’s!
Chapter 16: Say Elephant! Don’t Say Elephant!
Chapter 17: Big Dork Moment Coming Up
Chapter 18: I Am an Omelet
Chapter 19: The Survival Plan
Chapter 20: No Ghosts, No Skeletons
Chapter 21: Bring on the Dancing Unicorns
Chapter 22: The Classic Aussie Animal Name Shimmy
Chapter 23: Nowhere to Run
Chapter 24: Egg Girl Meet Socks
Chapter 25: Oleg Duliatnev
Chapter 26: The List of Kasey Moran
Chapter 27: The Big Spaghetti Splodge
Chapter 28: Go Jump in a Lake
Chapter 29: Paint Me
Chapter 30: Totally Embarrassing Doofuses
Chapter 31: It’s a Jellyfish
Chapter 32: It’s Just a Meat Pie, Dude
Chapter 33: Olden Lads Tadum
Chapter 34: Lola the Roller and Dee Stroyer
Chapter 35: Monday
Chapter 36: What’s a Rugby?
Chapter 37: Chicken Wing
Chapter 38: Sneaky Business
Chapter 39: The Mystery of the Disappearing Name
Chapter 40: Beam Me Up
Chapter 41: Rafe Gets His Mojo
Chapter 42: The Voice of Reason
Chapter 43: A Bigger Parking Lot
Chapter 44: Mr. Frosty Pays a Visit
Chapter 45: Pah!
Chapter 46: A Big Aussie Mess
Chapter 47: When the Sun Shines, Expect Rain
Chapter 48: Insufficient Purple
Chapter 49: Bingo at St. Mungo’s
Chapter 50: I Love It
Chapter 51: Eight Hundred Ants, One Big Spoon
Chapter 52: No Bull Ants Were Harmed During the Making of This Book
Chapter 53: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Chapter 54: Panic is Definitely an Option
Chapter 55: Someone Clean My Eyeballs
Chapter 56: OHSWEETPOTATOPIE!
Chapter 57: Think of the Children!
Chapter 58: A Non-underground Lair
Chapter 59: A Cool Million
Chapter 60: Things Get Worse
Chapter 61: And Suddenly Better
Chapter 62: Recap Time
Chapter 63: Mom Logic
Chapter 64: 1972 and All That
Chapter 65: Just This Once
Chapter 66: Ker-runch!
Chapter 67: Mom? Mom? Mom!
Chapter 68: No Trespassing!
Chapter 69: Captain Exposition Strikes Again!
Chapter 70: Speechless
Chapter 71: Oh, Hills Village Tandoori Temple, How I Do Love Thee
About the Authors
Also by James Patterson
Copyright Notice
To all the messy freaks out there,
and also to the Road Warrior, Mrs. C—M.C.
MY NAME IS Rafe Khatchadorian of Hills Village Middle School (HVMS), USA, and I have something to confess. Earlier this year, for almost two months straight, I got up in the morning and went out in public dressed like this.
Take a good long look.
Go on. Have a laugh. Let it rip. I know you want to. I would, if I were you. This fancy dress is what I had to wear every day for two whole months. Just take a second to think about that.
…
LOOK AT THAT HAT! JUST LOOK AT IT!
And, btw, if this is what you have to wear for school in your universe, then I feel for you. I really, really do.
I’m not that old, but I’ve had some truly embarrassing moments in my life so far. There was the time I lost my swimsuit in the surf and washed up nude on a crowded beach.
That was pretty bad.
Then there was the time I accidentally did The Fart to End All Farts in front of the entire class AND a Hollywood movie star I was trying to impress.
But this school uniform thing is—no contest—the single most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.
Also, this has to stay between us, okay? I’m trusting you not to show it to, say, Miller the Killer (my very own school bully), or Jeanne Galletta (Hills Village Goddess), or, you know, ANY OTHER HUMAN BEING.
Of course, this uniform wasn’t at my school. Imagine trying to get Miller the Killer to dress like that! No, I was wearing this uniform because—Wait! Hold on a minute, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start this particular Rafe Khatchadorian adventure back at the point it really began, which was on one rainy Tuesday afternoon in Hills Village …
OKAY. WE’RE ALL agreed that the absolute, most bestest thing about summer isn’t the sun or the ice-cream or sleeping in late (although they’re all totally excellent), it’s the fact that there’s NO SCHOOL, amiright?
You bet I’m right. It’s a no-brainer. A slam dunk.
It’s two months without rules. Two months without living with the fear of getting pounded into mush by Miller the Killer. Two months without Lady Voldemort (aka Vice Principal Stricker).
Two months of messing about doing absolutely zip.
School vacations (leaving out various dog-walking disasters—see Middle School: Dog’s Best Friend) are usually A Good Thing, period. So what I’m about to say will come as a pretty big shock. I’m talking earthquake-type shock here, asteroid-hitting-New-York-type shock, creepy-clown-under-the-bed-type shock. It might be better if you sit down and make sure there are no sharp corners to hit when you pass out.
Ready?
It was day three of the summer vacation. Remember that: Day Three. Not Day Thirty-three. Less than 72 hours had passed since I skipped out of the school gates and I, Rafe Khatchadorian of Hills Village, USA, had to confess that I … actually wanted to be back at school.
There, I said it. I did warn you.
Sit up, put your head between your knees, and eat something sweet.
Feeling better? No?
Then maybe I’d better tell you what happened. There I was, minding my own business, watching TV, when …
“THERE’S A TEENSY little problem in Monte Carlo I’d like you to take care of, Commander Khatchadorian.”
I smiled, adjusted my pout, and tugged at the cuffs of my immaculate tuxedo. I caught a glimpse of myself in M’s shiny silver teapot and pouted some more. I really was rather gorgeous.
M paused and looked out across the rainy London rooftops from her office on the 22nd floor of the brand-new, top-secret spy headquarters that everyone knew about. “I have to warn you
there’s a high chance you will never return to play cricket in jolly old London Townshire again. This mission is extremely dangerous, 0017.”
“Danger is my middle name, ma’am,” I said smoothly.
“Is it?” M said. “I thought it was Herbert? I remember we all had a chuckle about that when we saw it on your MI9 application form.”
“Well, yes. Technically, it is, um, Herbert,” I said. “But what I meant was—”
“We don’t have time for this, Herbert—I mean, Khatchadorian. Evil Professor Spongeface is hiding out in his top-secret volcano somewhere in the Mediterranean, making last-minute preparations to unleash a deadly swarm of giant toxic robot spiders on Paris. You’ve got to stop him by kissing some beautiful women and playing cards in a swanky casino!”
I nodded and pulled out a deck of cards. I shuffled them professionally and flicked them in a smooth stream from one hand to the other. “I never go anywhere without my trusty playing cards, ma’am. And my lips just passed their annual MI9 kissing inspection with flying colors. You can count on me.”
“That’s absolutely super-tickety-boo, 0017. There’s not a moment to waste!”
“We’re not talking $19.99! We’re not talking $15.99! We’re talki—Third and down! Kowalski on the 20, the Cardinals staring defeat in th—For those moments in life when only a hug will d—Yeah, I got the wires in gold put on the Caddy, but kept the Benz real clean, y’know?—More sun than yesterday with the valley hitting the high seventies and—”
For a moment I wondered why M had started speaking American. Then I opened my eyes to see my incredibly annoying little sister, Georgia, doing what she does best: being incredibly annoying. Without even asking me, she was channel-surfing the TV with about a zillion of her annoying little friends.
“Hey!” I yelled. “I was watching that movie!”
“You were asleep,” Georgia replied, without turning round. “And, anyway, we don’t like James Bond. Do we, girls?”
“Yeah? Well, I do. Turn it back on.”
Georgia’s friends all hissed at me. At once. It was terrifying. I don’t mind admitting that I immediately abandoned all hope of seeing the rest of the movie. As Georgia and her crew began screeching along with YouTube singing sensation Devlin Beaver, I rolled off the couch, moved to the window, and rubbed a patch of condensation off the glass.
It was raining hard outside. Hills Village never looks its best in the rain, and today was no exception.
I wasn’t Commander Khatchadorian aka 0017 of MI9, parachuting down to my Aston Martin on the way to do battle with the evil Professor Spongeface. I was plain old Rafe Khatchadorian of boring old Hills Village on Day Three of the summer vacation—and that’s when it hit me: I wished I was back at school.
IT WASN’T JUST Georgia and her gang. There was some other stuff that pushed me over the edge.
For starters, all my friends—in fact, everyone I know who even tolerated me—disappeared with their folks the SPLIT SECOND school was out.
I’m not kidding. One minute we were all sitting in Miss Lowdown’s algebra class, counting the minutes to BLAST OFF, the next I was practically crushed to death in the stampede to the airport and all roads outta town.
And the herd were off to some serious vacation destinations. They weren’t just tooling up the interstate in an overheated station wagon to see Uncle Randy and the cousins.
We’re talking Florida. We’re talking Hawaii. We’re talking Mexico. Lorenzo Kroc in 7G went to Sardinia! I had to look the place up to find out where it was. I didn’t even know there was a place called Sardinia.
It was like everyone in Hills Village suddenly got rich and decided to splurge on a ritzy vacation. Everyone except for me, Miller the Killer, and a few other losers.
That was Leo butting in back there, btw. In case you haven’t read any of my books before—WHY NOT?—he’s my imaginary brother. He wasn’t always imaginary. He died a long time ago and now I sometimes talk to him, mostly in comic strips. Anyway, apart from the fact that it was raining and everyone I knew was thousands of miles away having a GREAT time and the house was overrun by a plague of cockroaches screaming brats WHO JUST WOULDN’T SHUT UP FOR EVEN ONE LOUSY, STINKING SECOND, everything was terrific.
But that’s not all.
You know I like to draw and paint, right? And usually, if I’m bored—like NOW—I start drawing or doing something artistic. Well, for some completely unknown reason, I’d lost my mojo.
It’d gone. Vanished. It was no more. I was mojo-less.
Since the school holidays started, every time I picked up a pencil or a paintbrush I ended up staring at the blank piece of paper for hours. This was a big problem. All artists need their mojo, and I didn’t know if mine would ever come back.
There’s a little cherry on the top of this too. Grandma, who usually makes sure Georgia doesn’t completely trash the house while Mom’s at work, had gone out with her friends and left me in control. Me!
I mean, that’s just plain irresponsible.
Didn’t she know my history of turning completely simple situations into full-blown war zones?
Q: How selfish can one Grandma be?
A: Very selfish.
I was so freaked out by the idea of wanting to go back to school after only three days of the summer vacation, I wished anything would happen. It didn’t need to be a good anything, just so long as there was a something.
A flaming meteorite landing on Hills Village.
Space aliens.
A zombie invasion.
ANYTHING!
But, let’s face it, nothing was going to happen. Life doesn’t work like that. I’d just carry on in Hills Village until I—
IT TELLS YOU how bad things had got when I reacted to a knock at the door like this:
In the 0.2 seconds it took for me to wrench open the door, a few possibilities flashed through my mind.
A. We had won the lottery. This was extremely unlikely, mainly because Mom never entered the lottery.
B. The government was in trouble and needed a new super spy. (I admit this was probably because I’d been watching James Bond.) It was also extremely unlikely.
C. Jeanne Galletta had come to beg me to go to the movies with her. Off-the-charts unlikely.
D. None of the above.
When I opened the door, all I found was a red-haired man in a gray suit.
“Rafe Khatchadorian?” the man said.
“Who wants to know?” I said out of the side of my mouth while snarling (which is pretty hard—try it). “The last guy who came snoopin’ around looking for the Big K is modeling a pair of concrete boots at the bottom of Lake Maclean.”
I didn’t say that. If I was in a movie, I might have said that. But I wasn’t, so I didn’t.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I’m he—him. I mean, that’s I. Rafe, me, he. I’m he. Rafe is me. Yeah. Totally.”
It had been a long day. You ever get that when faced with conversations with grown-ups? They say something that isn’t a question and you say something majorly dumb right back without thinking about what you’re saying? As if your mouth starts talking before your brain tells it what to say.
No? Just me? Where were we?
“Okay,” the gray man said slowly. He handed me a business card. “My name is Thomas Ato.”
No way.
“Tom Ato?” I said, glancing at his hair and trying not to smile. “Hey, maybe we should ketchup sometime?”
“Yes, very amusing. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone make that joke before. I am a lawyer, Mr. Khatchadorian, representing the firm of Shark, Leech, Ato & Gouge. We have been trying to get in touch with you for some weeks, but our letters have gone unanswered. Is your mother in?”
“No,” I said. “She won’t be back until six.”
“Well, when she does get home, please ask her to call my office for a face-to-face meeting so we can discuss the matter further.” He sniffed and turned to leave.
“Wait, that’s it?”
I said. “You’re going to leave me hanging?”
Tom Ato hesitated. “I’m afraid the parameters of my profession and the legislation thereof legally prevents any officer of the court from divulging anything vis-à-vis the matter at hand at this juncture.”
I looked blankly at Mr. Ato.
“I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news,” he said. “That’s all I can say.”
He walked down the pathway, got into his car (no prizes for guessing the color), and drove away, leaving me doing an impression of a puzzled guppy (see illustration for details).
THE REST OF that day passed even more slowly than it had before Tom Ato had dropped his bombshell. Mom got home bang on time. I’d scheduled a yelling session about the state of my room, so I waited until that was out of the way and Mom was starting to make dinner before I mentioned Mr. Ato.
“Thomas Ato? Tom Ato?” Mom cocked her head to one side. “You’re kidding.”