Middle School: How I Got Lost in London (11 page)

The point is, I got there. And after worrying it would just be me and a couple of chainsaw-wielding psychopaths, I was pleased to find myself in the company of
other people
. Real people, who weren’t waxworks or security guards who pulled confused faces when you said words like “iPod” or “computer.” Just your average, normal English early birds: yawning men in suits on their way to work, runners, people beginning to set out stalls…

…and now me.

I don’t know if anyone’s ever described me as “resourceful,” but now was as good a time as any to start. Because right then was when I had my Brilliant Idea. I made my way to the spot where I’d seen the sidewalk artists the day before, whipped out my pencil and sketch pad, and said to the first person who came along, “Caricature, sir?”

IT WAS THANKS
to my night at Madame Fifi’s that I had the celebrity images fresh in my head.

My first client wanted a caricature of himself with David Beckham, and I was able to oblige. A pretty good likeness of them both, even if I do say so myself. Off went my first satisfied customer.

Along came another. An older lady who wanted herself with Brad Pitt.

Then came a young guy who wanted himself with a soccer player called Wayne Rooney. Someone I hadn’t even heard of until a few hours before!

And then, when morning had well and truly broken, and the tourists began to gather, I found myself drawing girls with Justin Bieber and One Direction, guys with Angelina Jolie, middle-aged ladies with Princess Diana. The money was beginning to roll in.

I moved farther along the bank until I came to Waterloo Station, where I packed my things away. I checked my money. By now I had enough for the taxi ride to the Mercury Lodge. But heck, I was having a great time. Why return to the relentless torture of Miller the Killer, the indifference of Jeanne Galletta, and the scorn of everyone else? Not only was I reaping money but also the thanks and praise of my customers.

I was, for perhaps the first time since I’d left Hills Village, having an absolutely brilliant time.

So I took the London Underground. I went to Piccadilly and saw the sights. Then to Leicester Square, where I set up stall and drew more caricatures. Across the square there were preparations for the night’s premiere of the new
Transformers
movie, and I could see camera crews setting up.

Moments later, who should come by but David Beckham.

David Beckham!

He spotted a caricature of himself. There was an awkward moment when I thought he might object to it. But no.

“I
larve
it,” he said in his English accent. “Cor blimey, apples and pears, you’ve done a great job, Rafe. In fact, I larve it so much I’m going to buy it off ya for two thahsand parnds, and give it to my wife Victoriah so she can hang it in our bathroom. ’Cause she likes nothing better than looking at pictures of me when she’s on the loo.”

(Which is another thing that English people say that’s different. They say “on the loo” when they mean “using the bathroom.”)

I couldn’t take two thousand pounds for the picture. It was far too generous of him. So instead I accepted one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds. And he was so pleased to get a bargain that he invited me to the premiere of the new
Transformers
movie. So along I went, me and Leo on the red carpet. Where I caught the eye of Megan Fox, who’s even more gorgeous in the flesh than she is in the movies, if that’s possible. And I guess Megan thought I was cute because she insisted on getting our photograph, and…

Oh. It’s
that
unbelievable, is it?

MEGAN FOX WAS
the giveaway, wasn’t it? After all, she left the
Transformers
franchise, so what would she be doing at the premiere of the new movie?
Gah!

Okay, you got me bang to rights. I made some bits up. Yes, the bit about Megan Fox, and the whole
Transformers
routine, and David Beckham and his
two thahsand parnds
. And maybe I kind of exaggerated how popular my caricature service proved to be.

And also how good it was.

But, look, the important thing is that between my (okay,
limited
) artistic abilities and the kind hearts and goodwill of a few English early birds I was able to earn the taxi fare back to the Mercury Lodge. And it was just after 7 a.m. when I eventually arrived.

If I’m honest, I expected to find the place in uproar when I returned. After all, they must have noticed me missing by now. But no. Instead I found the hotel sleepy—more staff around than guests. My absence had gone unnoticed. The truth was, I didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved by that.

I crept back up to my room. The room I shared with Miller the Killer. There I found him sleeping soundly. Look at him there. So cute.

I plugged in my phone. Then I went to my backpack and took from it Albert’s gift—a wax severed head. I placed it on Miller’s pillow, right next to his head. So that this bloody, severed head would be the first thing he saw when he woke up. With the scene set, I took a step back, picked up my phone, aimed it at Miller, and hit “record.”

“
MILLER!
” I called.

The bully’s eyes sprang open, only to be confronted by the gory head on his pillow.

My phone caught every delicious moment. First Miller squealed like a baby. Then he got himself in a mess trying to escape the head—which ended up rolling into his lap so that for a moment he sat with it between his legs.

Then he tried to push the head off his bed. It developed a life of its own and I got some great footage of him juggling the severed head and whimpering at the same time.

Until, at last, some combination of realizing that (a) I was standing there pointing my phone at him and laughing and (b) the head was a wax head—I mean, even in the grip of shock and terror some tiny bit of Miller’s brain must have realized that the wax head felt
wrong
somehow.

And so, eventually, he stopped.

And he looked at me.

He was just about to leap out of bed and give me a beating when I showed him that with one push of a button I could text the footage to everyone. Very slowly… and…patiently…I explained that I was going to make a deal with him. That the footage of him screaming like a baby— not to mention the whimpering—would never see the light of day as long as he stopped ragging on me and the rest of the group.

He agreed, of course. What choice did he have? (And, yeah, not long after we arrived back at school, Miller cornered me in the bathroom after lunch, held my head over a toilet until I gave him my phone, and then deleted all the footage.) But the
point
is that for the rest of that Living History trip he was a pussycat. Not a single cuss escaped his lips, not one wedgie from his fist, not a flick of his fingertips. The bullying stopped. All because of me.

Trouble was, nobody knew I was responsible.

My good deed went unnoticed.

To make matters worse, I didn’t even benefit from winning William’s Wager.

“I’ll tell them you spent all night in your bed,” sneered Miller that morning. And that was it: any chance of glory dashed.

Just you wait till the journey home
, I thought darkly.

You better pray they’re not serving spaghetti Bolognese
.