Read Online Middle School: How I Got Lost in London by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Patterson
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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.
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.
…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.
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.
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