Middle School: How I Got Lost in London (7 page)

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.