Middle School: How I Got Lost in London

by James Patterson

  A chunderstorm.

  A hurlicane.

  A barfquake registering one hundred on the sick-ter scale.

  And unlike me he didn’t have a sick bag. Instead, he just kept his hand clamped over his mouth. But it couldn’t contain the fountain of cookie-toss that was forced through his fingers.

  His hand acted like a shower head and the vomit sprayed far and wide. It went all over Jeanne next to him and all over the kids who sat in the seats in front. And—in a way—it went all over everyone around him. Because even though it didn’t physically touch everyone…that’s when the chain reaction began.

  Barf!

  Hurl!

  Bleck!

  Rurk!

  A tsunami of spew.

  A tsunami is a big wave, right? And what do waves do but roll right over you. Engulf you.

  “You,” in this case, being all of the passengers in the section. “All of the passengers in the section,” in this case, being the members of the Hills Village Living History trip to London.

  Pretty much all of them lost their lunch.

  Yes, I think I’m right in saying that with the exception of the teachers (who must need strong stomachs to work at Hills Village anyway—probably an essential qualification for the job), all the kids blew chunks.

  Some made it into sick bags. Some didn’t.

  And we were on a plane. You can’t just open the windows and let the smell out. It circulates. It hangs in the air. And, I’m telling you, there isn’t an air-filtration system in the world that can deal with the combined spew-smell of ten puking kids.

  It was a loooong flight.

  YOU’D HAVE FIGURED that zero friends means none to lose.

  If, for example, you were the one responsible for beginning a chunder chain that turned a nine-hour transatlantic flight into a living nightmare, then at least you couldn’t be less popular than you already were. Right?

  Wrong.

  It turns out you can be even less popular than you were. Take my classmates. Not only did they hate me for beginning the chunder-fest, but they hated me because I’d riled Miller.

  Miller’s a bit like a big dog—ugly, vicious, but as long as you did nothing to upset him, you had nothing to fear.

  But I had done something to upset him. And he wasn’t going to take it out just on me. Oohh no.

  “Better get out of my way, turdbreath.” SNARL!

  “I’ve got a Chinese burn with your name on it, snot-for-brains.” BARK!

  He was going to take it out on the rest of the trip too.

  You ever hear the expression persona non grata? Meaning when nobody will talk to you? That was me. Imagine the pecking order of pain: Miller the Killer at the top. My classmates in the middle. Every single one of them looking down on me…right at the bottom.

  So. A mission—Operation: Popularity. I’ll be the first to admit it wasn’t much of a title, but it wasn’t designed to win awards. It was designed to return me to the good books of my fellow Living History trippers. Or at least get me out of their bad ones.

  Now to come up with some half-decent ideas for the operation.

  Some half-decent ideas for Operation: Popularity:

  Banana-eating contest

  You know how we always get bananas in our lunch, right? And you know how the bananas get all soft and sweaty and nobody wants to eat them? So my idea was: Start a banana-eating contest with all the unwanted bananas.

  It would be hilarious. Food-eating contests are always funny and the sight of me eating banana after banana would bring the house down.

  A possible repeat of the chunderstorm on the flight over. Okay, let’s face it—an almost inevitable repeat of the chunderstorm on the flight over.

  Being kind and generous to all my classmates

  Not only would I make friends—I’d make proper friends. Lasting friends. I’d have friends.

  It would take a loooong time. This is like one of those long-term plans. I mean, if I was going to try to make myself popular by being kind and generous, then I really needed to start doing that in the first grade.

  Save them from the merciless taunting and bullying of Miller the Killer

  Bingo! We have a winner! All I have to do is stop Miller’s merciless taunting and bullying and for the rest of my London trip I’d be treated like a god. It’s a great idea! Why didn’t I think of it before?

  I have no idea how to stop the merciless taunting and bullying of Miller the Killer. Okay, that suggestion has to go on ice. If that suggestion calls, put it on hold.

  Make a full and frank apology

  It’s what they do on TV! It’s what the President would do (if the President had eaten Bolognese out of a sick bag and caused the Vice-President to barf).

  I’d have to make a full and frank apology. The thing about a full and frank apology is…Wait a minute—how the heck do you make a full and frank apology?

  Okay. Hold those thoughts. For the time being, let’s start with a Popularity Score: 0.

  Zero. Nada.

  Squat.

  Aim: To raise that dismal Popularity Score.

  We landed. We disembarked our puke-smelling plane. That’s what you do, by the way. You don’t “get off” a plane. You disembark it. We assembled. There was a roll-call.

  “Here!”

  Not as good as my Oscar-winning “Here,” but nowhere near the calamity of my disastrous first attempt.

  After roll-call we marched through Heathrow Airport and trooped onto a coach. The coach was big enough for a whole two seats each. Which was good, because it meant I definitely didn’t have to sit next to Miller. But it was also bad, because it meant I didn’t have an excuse to sit next to Jeanne Galletta. And I needed an excuse to sit next to her.

  Instead, I settled into the seat behind her. There was a roll-call. I was about to open my mouth for my latest rendition when I heard Miller pipe up instead.

  “Here,” he said, his lame impression rearing its ugly head again.

  There were titters from around the bus.

  Great, I thought. This is a joke that travels. And now Miller’s got his feet back on the ground—now he’s stopped either puking or worrying about puking—he’s decided to resurrect it. That’s just PEACHY.

  Still, I was thankful for small mercies. At least he wasn’t sitting nearby. He’d elbowed his way on and claimed the whole of the backseat as his own. From there he could launch attacks on the earlobes of anyone unlucky enough to be sitting nearby.

  For a while, all we heard as the coach moved out of the Heathrow parking lot was the sound of ears being flicked.

  I looked out of the window. Hey! We’re driving on the wrong side of the road. HEY, MR. DRIVER! Patrick (that was his name)—we’re driving on the…

  “They drive on a different side of the road in England, doofus,” whispered Leo the Silent, sparing me any new embarrassment.

  Popularity Score: (still) 0.

  HERE’S A BUNCH of stuff I noticed is different in England:

  1 People drive on the wrong side of the road. (Thanks to Leo for pointing that one out.)

  2 The light switches: English light switches are kind of little and weird.

  3 The toilets: If you lift the lid of a toilet in England there’s hardly any water in it. (Go figure.)

  4 When they boil water, they don’t use a stove like at home. They do it in a “kettle.”

  5 They use the kettle to make a drink called tea, which they drink a lot. And they make a dumb face when they drink the tea, like “Aaahhh…” Like this drink that actually looks like puddle-water is the most delicious thing in the world.

  6 They don’t have drive-through ATMs. (I know!)

  7 It’s kind of crowded everywhere, and they have queues and stuff.

  8 They have this spread called Marmite. It’s disgusting. It looks like tar and smells like meat. They spread it on their toast to eat with their tea.

  9 They have weird numbering systems for the floors in their hotels. So when you get into
the elevator—which in England is called a “lift”—and you try to get to your floor…Chaos.

  10 Pants in England are what you wear under your pants. What we call shorts, they call pants. Oh, and they call closets “cupboards.” They call trucks “lorries.” They call flashlights “torches.” They call diapers “nappies.”

  11 When they need to call the emergency services they don’t call 911—they call 999.

  And that last one. Number 11. That’s an important one. You’ll be hearing more about that later. Oh, and number 9? More about that is coming right about…

  …now.

  ANYWAY. LIKE I said, Miller was on the backseat, master of his domain—an evil king ruling over the rear of the bus, as far away from the teachers as he could manage. And there he set about terrorizing anyone within flicking distance. As the bus set off, all we could hear was the sound of earlobes being flicked.

  Flick.

  “Oww!”

  Flick.

  “OWW!”

  Each one made me more unpopular. I mean, it wasn’t like anyone had actually ragged on Miller for starting the puke chain. Who would dare? But you know how in war they have such a thing as a pre-emptive strike? When one side launches missiles before the other?

  That was what Miller was doing.

  Flick.

  “OUCH!”

  Pre-emptive strike on Sasha Smallbones.

  Flick.

  “Oww!”

  Really vicious pre-emptive strike on Philip Yanakov.

  All my fault.

  Something needed to be done.

  And so, as we drove down the freeway (or “motorway” as they call it in England), I shuffled forward in my seat.

  “Jeanne,” I said between the seats, “I need to tell you something. I need your help.”

  She ignored me. Just stared straight ahead.

  I plowed on regardless. “I wanted to say sorry about what happened on the plane. I want to explain myself. See, Miller was ragging on me and…” (Wow, nearly made a big mistake then. Nearly went on to admit that I’d been jealous he sat next to her.) “…and I know he was only doing it because I said that weird ‘Here’ at the first roll-call. And, as a matter of fact, he’s still doing it. Did you hear him? Did you HEAR him?! Twice. Twice since we landed. But anyway, I guess I deserve it now. But my point is: I didn’t deserve it then. I mean, maybe a bit, because my ‘Here’ wasn’t exactly the best ‘Here,’ I’d be the first to admit it. But I just thought—and I still feel—that Miller’s ragging was too much. How do you say it? What’s the word again? Disproportionate. And I wanted to teach him a lesson, which is why I came up with the idea of eating the Bolognese out of the sick bag. And if I wasn’t such a doofus I would have realized what was going to happen: chain reaction. And now Miller’s ragging on everyone just out of pure meanness. Because he’s like, well, mean. And listen, well…I just wanted to say sorry. First to you and then to everyone else. So this is me saying sorry. And I’m hoping you’ll accept my apology and maybe help me apologize to the rest of the trip. Perhaps even tell them yourself. You know, kind of spread it around how sorry I am. Or get an idea of how easy or hard it would be.”

  It was one of my longest-ever speeches. It was the hardest, most heartfelt thing I think I’ve said. Leo the Silent applauded by my side.

  Shame she was listening to her iPod the whole time. Didn’t hear a word I said.

  We arrived at our hotel—the Mercury Lodge—checked in, and went to our rooms. Guess who made a mess of getting to their room?

  That would be me.

  Remember number 9? I used the elevator (I beg your pardon, the “lift”) and instead of going up to my floor, managed to go to the floor below.

  They liked that, everyone did. They all thought that was real funny. Especially You-Know-Who. He was still laughing when I got to the room I was going to be sharing with him.

  That’s right: I was sharing with Miller.

  Could this trip get any worse?

  SO THAT WAS it. The heartfelt-apology option had failed. Which left the, um…other options. Which of those was it going to be? Justice had the day off, remember? Luck had now packed its bags for a week away.

  Fate, however, was still with me. And the thing is, I have a good relationship with Fate. Fate has a habit of intervening in the life of Rafe Khatchadorian. And it was about to intervene again…

  It happened the next morning.

  First stop on our itinerary was Tower Bridge. If you get to Tower Bridge at the right time you get to see it open.

  And we were very nearly late because I got the floors on the lift-elevator-whatever-you-call-it wrong again. So by the time I arrived at the bus, Ms. Donatello and Co. were looking furious and Patrick the driver was tapping his watch.

  “RAFE KHATCHADORIAN!” yelled Donatello. She shot lasers out of her eyes and I burned to a crisp there and then in the Mercury Lodge Hotel parking lot.

  Everyone on the trip gave her a round of applause in gratitude.

  Popularity Score: -11.

  I boarded the bus, feeling all hot and flustered. The only spare double seat left was at the back. Right in range of Miller, who sat there like royalty. The Earl of Earlobe-Flicking. The Flick King.

  Flick.

  “OWW!”

  That was me that time. Sasha Smallbones, you’re in the clear.

  Flick.

  “OUCH!”

  Me again. Philip Yanakov’s earlobes had the day off.

  Flick.

  “OWW!”

  Yup—me again…

  WE WATCHED TOWER Bridge open then close. After that we turned to walk back along the bank of the Thames, dodging jugglers, dog-walkers, people late for work. All of them, well…English, and therefore fascinating, like we expected to bump into James Bond at any second. Matter of fact, wasn’t that the MI6 headquarters we could see in the distance? The one that explodes in the film?

  I gazed at a line of sidewalk artists. Some were drawing scenes on paper taped to the sidewalk. Others were inviting passers-by to sit for caricatures.

  Farther along we could see the London Eye.

  “Hey, Miller,” I said. My earlobes were still smarting.

  (Big mistake coming up. Wait for it. Big mistake.)

  “What you want, Khatchadoofius?” he glowered. Miller always glowers. Unless directed otherwise, assume Miller is glowering.

  “Just wondering if you might like to go up on the London Eye?” I said.

  (Thinking how green and sick and ill you looked back there on the plane, buddy. Just remembering that. Just relishing that particular memory…)

  He stuck his big ugly face up close to mine. “How about you wonder what the water in the river tastes like, when I throw you in if you don’t zip it?”

  Oh, wooh! Snappy comeback, is what I think. Self-preservation stops me from saying it, though. Instead, I look at the river and imagine Miller throwing me in. There are things floating in it. The shed skin of sea monsters. Barrels of toxic waste. Alien cartilage. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to go in.

  So the result of that particular exchange was that I reminded Miller of his phobia. And like a vicious, rabid dog awakened from sleep, he remembered he had to start persecuting me again. My earlobes began throbbing as though anticipating the trauma ahead.

  We visited a big warship, the HMS Belfast. You know what? There are times it’s handy being unpopular. You can walk round battleships alone and let your imagination run free. You don’t have to think up lame wisecracks to look cool in front of your friends. Away from the rest of the group I did just that—I let my imagination run free. I could picture sailors at war, hear the crash of machine-gun fire, the screech of a torpedo strike. It felt like being in a movie. For the first time, I really got why we were here.

  I’VE GIVEN YOU a break from My Roll-Call Nightmare but it’s the same as Miller and his glowering: Unless I tell you otherwise, just assume we had a roll-call.

  By now Miller was saying my “Here” for m
e. And everyone was yukking it up. Him most of all, but all the other kids too. And I even caught Mr. Dwight smiling. I wasn’t even bothering to say “Here” anymore. What was the point? My archenemy was doing it for me.

  After the HMS Belfast we visited a replica of Francis Drake’s Golden Hind. Then we made our way to the Tate Modern—a huge, cool art gallery, with a giant pink giraffe standing on a piece of grass out front. We joined other sightseers to have our lunch, right by the legs of the pink giraffe.

  We all had bananas in our packs. Like I’d predicted, nobody wanted their soft, warm banana.

  “Should I try the banana-eating competition?” I whispered to Leo the Silent. I sat by myself with my backpack on, nursing my -11 Popularity Score.

  “Uh-uh,” warned Leo.

  I thought about ignoring him. I imagined a scene in which I eat everyone’s bananas, one after the other. My classmates are delighted. My Popularity Score climbs into double figures. But then…disaster strikes! When we move on I feel my stomach churning and the next second I’m regurgitating banana all over the pink giraffe. I get called Rafe Barf-Giraffe for the rest of the trip and my Popularity Score falls back into minus double figures.

  So I took Leo’s advice. There would be no banana-eating competition. Not on my watch.

  Next, we made our way farther up the bank, past the National Theatre, headed for the big event of the day—a tour around Madame Fifi’s House of Wax. Now, it should go without saying that even though we were pretty excited about seeing the main exhibit—Will and Kate! David Beckham! Rihanna!—we were really excited about the basement. Because in the basement was Madame Fifi’s Temple of Terrors, where you could see beheadings, guys on spikes, people on the rack, guillotines…