Middle School: How I Got Lost in London Read Free Page A

set about terrorizing anyone within flicking distance. As the bus set off, all we could hear was the sound of earlobes being flicked.
    Flick .
    “Oww!”
    Flick .
    “OWW!”
    Each one made me more unpopular. I mean, it wasn’t like anyone had actually ragged on Miller for starting the puke chain. Who would dare? But you know how in war they have such a thing as a pre-emptive strike? When one side launches missiles before the other?
    That was what Miller was doing.
    Flick .
    “OUCH!”
    Pre-emptive strike on Sasha Smallbones.
    Flick.
    “Oww!”
    Really vicious pre-emptive strike on Philip Yanakov.
    All my fault.
    Something needed to be done.
    And so, as we drove down the freeway (or “motorway” as they call it in England), I shuffled forward in my seat.
    “Jeanne,” I said between the seats, “I need to tell you something. I need your help.”
    She ignored me. Just stared straight ahead.
    I plowed on regardless. “I wanted to say sorry about what happened on the plane. I want to explain myself. See, Miller was ragging on me and…” (Wow, nearly made a big mistake then. Nearly went on to admit that I’d been jealous he sat next to her.) “…and I know he was only doing it because I said that weird ‘Here’ at the first roll-call. And, as a matter of fact, he’s still doing it. Did you hear him? Did you HEAR him?! Twice . Twice since we landed. But anyway, I guess I deserve it now. But my point is: I didn’t deserve it then . I mean, maybe a bit, because my ‘Here’ wasn’t exactly the best ‘Here,’ I’d be the first to admit it. But I just thought—and I still feel—that Miller’s ragging was too much. How do you say it? What’s the word again? Disproportionate . And I wanted to teach him a lesson, which is why I came up with the idea of eating the Bolognese out of the sick bag. And if I wasn’t such a doofus I would have realized what was going to happen: chain reaction. And now Miller’s ragging on everyone just out of pure meanness. Because he’s like, well, mean . And listen, well…I just wanted to say sorry. First to you and then to everyone else. So this is me saying sorry. And I’m hoping you’ll accept my apology and maybe help me apologize to the rest of the trip. Perhaps even tell them yourself. You know, kind of spread it around how sorry I am. Or get an idea of how easy or hard it would be.”
    It was one of my longest-ever speeches. It was the hardest, most heartfelt thing I think I’ve said. Leo the Silent applauded by my side.
    Shame she was listening to her iPod the whole time. Didn’t hear a word I said.
    We arrived at our hotel—the Mercury Lodge—checked in, and went to our rooms. Guess who made a mess of getting to their room?
    That would be me.
    Remember number 9? I used the elevator (I beg your pardon, the “lift”) and instead of going up to my floor, managed to go to the floor below.

    They liked that, everyone did. They all thought that was real funny. Especially You-Know-Who. He was still laughing when I got to the room I was going to be sharing with him.
    That’s right: I was sharing with Miller.
    Could this trip get any worse?

SO THAT WAS it. The heartfelt-apology option had failed. Which left the, um…other options. Which of those was it going to be? Justice had the day off, remember? Luck had now packed its bags for a week away.
    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