Middle School: How I Got Lost in London (3 page)

ROLL-CALL AT THE
airport.

Miller the Killer got a big laugh with his impression of my “Here.” His sounded like a witch. Mine had sounded like a hiccupping, burping strangled frog but his sounded like a witch. What I’m trying to say is that even though his didn’t even sound like mine, he still got a laugh.

I actually broke out in a sweat when it came to my turn to say “Here” for the second time that day. But I struggled through with no major limbs lost. It wasn’t great but at least it only got suppressed giggles—rather than the unrestrained guffawing that had accompanied my first one.

Roll-call on the plane.

Miller the Killer was doing his bit for the environment by recycling the same joke.

My own “Here”? A masterclass in the art. An Oscar-worthy “Here.” But it was too late: The damage had been done at first assembly.

Why, oh why couldn’t someone invent a time machine, so I could go back and do it again?

The next disaster came when we took our seats on the plane and Miller the Killer ended up next to Jeanne Galletta. Not only that, but he was completely wasting the opportunity.

He wasn’t even talking to her!

I mean, if I’d been sitting next to her…

…well, I probably wouldn’t have been talking to her either. But that’s not the point. The point was, he was sitting next to Jeanne and I was sitting next to Ms. Donatello. Meaning any chance of a sneaky peak at an R-rated movie was dashed for the whole of the nine-hour flight. Great.

Was there no justice?

Was Justice having the day off?

To make matters
even
worse, I then sat down but forgot to take off my backpack. And to try and save face, I pretended I’d deliberately sat down with my backpack on—even though my nose was virtually touching the seat in front and my spine was about to snap.

I probably would have stayed that way but a stewardess insisted I remove my backpack. So I curled my lip and sighed like I thought she was denying me my civil rights—when in fact I wanted to hug her for sparing me the torture of wearing my backpack all the way to London.

And that was it. I sat and fumed. And while everyone else got excited about watching horror movies, I had nine hours of heroic-duck films to look forward to.
Gah!

As we took off, and the journey began, I noticed two things: (a) that Miller the Killer was looking a mite green about the gills and (b) that lunch was being served. And it was spaghetti Bolognese.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” whispered Leo.

I was.

JUSTICE MAY WELL
have been having the day off, but Luck was by my side, because Donatello had fallen asleep. Her head was back, her mouth slightly open, and she was making a strange humming sound, like a wine taster on TV.

Across the aisle Miller the Killer sat beside Jeanne. By now he was sitting stock still with his eyes kind of bugging out of his head, and he hadn’t touched his food. The pleasures of vacuum-packed airline spaghetti Bolognese were lost to him.

In fact, forget about lunch—Miller looked like he was having trouble keeping his breakfast down.

I’d like to say it was all Leo’s idea, what happened next.

So I will.

It was all Leo’s idea what happened next.

In the pocket of the seat in front of me was a magazine full of fascinating features about beaches and hotel rooms. There was a card showing how to inflate your life jacket and a magazine full of duty-free products.

These things were of zero interest to me.

What I wanted was the other thing in the pocket. The bag you’re supposed to grab if you’re feeling like you want to hurl. The sick bag.

You know that bit in
Mission: Impossible
, where Tom Cruise kind of abseils into the secure room? Where he needs to steal the data without setting off the alarms? Where he’s sweating and stuff, and he…

Okay, you know the bit.

That’s how careful I was as I removed the sick bag from the pocket then turned away slightly so Miller the Killer wouldn’t see me. (Not that he was likely to be watching anyway, because he was still doing the eye-bugging thing and staring at the seat in front of him.) Then I poured my Bolognese into it.

Correction: I poured Donatello’s Bolognese into it. But she wasn’t going to mind. Judging by the
yum-yum
sounds she was making, she was enjoying a scrumptious meal in her sleep.

Then I took a spoon from my lunch plate and called across the aisle: “Hey,
Miller
!” And when he turned his head to look at me, I dipped the spoon into the sick bag and started to eat the Bolognese.

THERE’S SOMETHING CALLED
a
chain reaction
. It’s where one action causes a reaction, and that in turn causes another reaction, and so on and so on (and so on). It’s a science thing. And we’re talking about what happened on a Living History trip—which is humanities, but what the heck. It’s all learning, right?

So LISTEN UP, class! Today we’re going to learn all about chain reactions.

It begins with Miller the Killer turning his head to see me eating Bolognese from the sick bag. Only he thinks I’m eating…

Too much information? Too much information. You get the picture.

…So anyway. I munched.

I chewed.

I did a bit of slurping too.

I even wiped Bolognese from my chin. And—inspired by Ms. Donatello—I made a whole lot of
yum-yum
noises.