Middle School: How I Got Lost in London (2 page)

Yeah?
you’re thinking.

And?
you’re thinking.

Spaghetti Bolognese?!
you’re thinking.
What’s that got to do with anything?
Well, as my homeroom teacher Mr. Rourke would say, “read on Macduff,” which is something to do with Shakespeare. See? You’ve learned something already!

SO, SPAGHETTI BOLOGNESE
. Hold that thought. We’ll come back to it. For the time being, all you really need to know is that the transatlantic flight in question involved me—me as in Rafe Khatchadorian, your friendly neighborhood narrator. And if you know me from
Middle School: The Worst Years of My Life
and/or
Middle School: Get Me Out of Here!
then hi, grab a seat, it’s good to see you again. I hope you enjoyed the other books, especially the bits about me.

And if you liked the bits with Jeanne “love-of-my-life, but-why-oh-why-won’t-she-love-me-back” Galletta, well, the good news is, she’s in this story too. Matter of fact, she was also on the transatlantic flight to London.

And if you really hated the bits with Miller the Killer in, ’cause he’s such a bully…well, the bad news is he’s in this tale too. He was on the transatlantic flight to London as well.

Why? Well, because this story is something that happened during my time at Hills Village Middle School, when I went on a Living History trip to London.

But wait—we’re not in London yet. We’re not even on the flight yet. Our tale begins one Saturday morning in the deserted parking lot of Hills Village school. Deserted apart from a coach about to take us to the airport, and ten kids with backpacks on, moms and dads fussing round them. And teachers saying things like, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Abbott, everything is taken care of. Jason will be fine.” And, “Yes, Mr. Swann. Our insurance is fully up to date—there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

That was Ms. Donatello, who despite having the name of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle isn’t green, definitely isn’t a teenager, and no way is a ninja (although she may well be a mutant. Who knows?). She teaches English and was along for the ride because she’d always wanted to visit England.

Mr. Rourke was there too, and Mr. Dwight the principal. They all had this weird out-of-school look about them. At first I couldn’t work out what it was, but then it clicked: They were all smiling. They all looked happy.

Mom couldn’t stay, not like the other parents. No fussing for me. My sister Georgia had a piano lesson. So Mom dropped me off, straightened my collar, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and told me to be good. And that was it. Off she went. I watched the family SUV turn out of the lot and head back into town. The last thing I saw was Georgia. Or, to be precise, the back of Georgia’s head.

And all of a sudden I felt real lonely. Even though I was surrounded by other kids—kids I went to school with, whose fart smells and body odor I knew as well as my own. Even with Jeanne Galletta there, and Miller the Killer there, and Dylan Stephenson, and Sasha Smallbones and all the rest…

…even with all those guys there, what I felt as I watched Mom and Georgia drive away was lonely. Like I was already miles away from home.

Lucky I had Leonardo the Silent with me.

LEONARDO THE SILENT
. It’s him who draws the pictures. And he’s my best friend. See, I’m not exactly what you’d call popular at school. There’s a reason I stood at the assembly point feeling lonely. It wasn’t just because I was staring at the exhaust pipe of Mom’s SUV. It’s because, well…I don’t have many friends. Or really, to be precise again,
any
friends.

But here’s a secret.

Ready?

[Clears throat. Looks left and right. Leans in close to whisper.]

Leonardo the Silent isn’t real.

Well, I mean, he’s
real
—in the sense that he’s a
real
imaginary friend. And he’s a real
good
imaginary friend too. (See what I did there?) Just that he’s not “real.” He doesn’t have skin and blood and arms and a backside.

He’s my twin brother who died, when I was so young I never even got to be sad about it, and now I keep him around as what you might call a “special friend.” He’s a good special friend. Never lets me down.

Okay,
rarely
lets me down.

And he always tells it like it is. What’s more, he’s the other person in my life with a name like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. He’s not green, he’s not yet a teenager, and he’s not a mutant…

…but when it comes to drawing, he’s a ninja.

And if it wasn’t for art, and for Leo… well, things would be different for me, I guess. I’d find it hard: the problems I have with my classmates, with my teachers, with rules, with reality. I’d find it even harder than I already do.

Anyway, back to the parking lot, back to that assembly. Here’s where the story really began, and in the most innocent and unexpected of ways. A way you could never predict in a million years. It began with a roll-call.

Trust me on this: If you go on a school trip—and especially if you go on a school trip to a foreign country—you have to put up with a lot of roll-calls. You get to say “Here” a lot. Just one word. “Here.” Hardly the Gettysburg Address. Not exactly a Shakespearean speech. And in the privacy of my bedroom I could say the word “here” a thousand times in a row and nothing untoward would happen.

But the one time I had to say it in front of the rest of the trip.
The one time.
Oh, and the first time as well.

It sounded like a frog burping. No. A frog with hiccups burping. A frog with hiccups burping while it’s being strangled by another frog fed up with the first frog’s endless hiccupping.

That, really, was the beginning of all my problems. Like if I’d managed to say “Here” right that first time, then maybe none of what happened would have happened.