From Hero to Zero - Chris Tebbetts

by James Patterson

  “We will be posting updates to the Hills Village Middle School website every day, effectively creating an informational running blog out of our trip,” Mrs. Stricker said. “We will also post our final report on Living-Learning-Contest.com, so I expect you all to take this project very seriously.”

  “Contest?” Andrea Chin said. “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s another word for a competition,” Alison Prouty said.

  “Duh,” Andrea said. “I just mean—”

  “Quiet!” Mrs. Stricker yelled, not so quietly. “If you will listen, I will explain.”

  She gave us the famous Stricker eyeball for a second. If you’ve never seen it, believe me, you don’t want to. Mrs. Stricker can do more with a single look than most people can do with a laser cannon.

  Then she kept going.

  “Schools from around the country will be participating in this project. One school will be chosen as the Grand Prize winner and awarded ten thousand dollars’ worth of books and supplies. Also, every member of the winning school’s team will be placed in a drawing for an individual thousand-dollar cash prize.”

  I don’t know why Mrs. Stricker waited so long to tell us that part, but here’s what I heard when she said it:

  All of a sudden, this trip didn’t seem quite as bad as it had a minute ago. Even if my chances of winning that money were a million to one, it was better than not having a chance at all. Even at those odds, it’s as close as I’ve ever come to a thousand bucks before. (At least since my dog-walking empire went out of business.)

  So you know everyone was paying attention now. And everyone was going to be taking those reports way more seriously now, too.

  For that kind of cash, I sure was.

  You Can Pick Your Nose, but You Can’t Pick Your Seat

  The airplane we took to London was HUGE. The seats went so far back, it was basically like a football stadium. Each row had three seats on each side and five across the middle, with each section separated by aisles, which just made it look even more like referees were going to sprint out of the cockpit instead of pilots.

  It was all assigned, too, so I didn’t have a choice. I was next to Bobby Flynn, who was next to Martin D’Angelo, who was next to Kadir Fletcher, who was next to… you guessed it… Miller.

  Talk about good news, bad news. It wasn’t like Miller was right on top of me. But it did remind me of the first part of my new favorite movie, Hideous 3. That’s when the “new neighbors” are moving into the house next door, and you just know they’re flesh-eaters, because… well, you saw the first two Hideous movies. So you can’t even relax, even though nothing’s happened yet, because you know what’s coming. First chance they get, those “ordinary” neighbors are going to start chewing people’s faces off.

  That’s basically how I felt with Miller sitting there. We had seven hours to go until we reached London. Plenty of time for the horror show to begin.

  At least I had that three-person shield between me and Miller. Bobby, Martin, and Kadir were all best friends. Bobby was going to be my roommate at the hotel in London, partly because I didn’t have anyone to room with, and mostly because the three of them drew straws, and Bobby lost. So Martin and Kadir were sharing a room, and Bobby was stuck with me.

  Speaking of Bobby, he didn’t look very excited to be there, either. Most of the kids around us were yelling and cutting up, but not Bobby. He looked kind of nervous, and already had his seat belt on really tight.

  I figured I should at least talk to the kid who had to room with me. That’s what Mom would have said. Be friendly, right?

  “You okay, Bobby?” I asked.

  “Bobby’s not so hot on flying,” Martin said.

  “Shut up,” Bobby told him.

  “Just don’t have a panic attack,” Kadir said.

  “I’m not!” Bobby said.

  I kind of knew how Bobby felt, though. I’m afraid of heights, and the last time I got stuck somewhere really high, I felt the same way he looked right now—like he was wishing he could be anywhere else.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said, which sounded lame. But Bobby seemed like he appreciated it.

  “Thanks, Rafe,” he said.

  That was it. Then the three of them went back to talking about how Comic Con in Fort Lauderdale would be the ultimate spring break.

  And I started wondering if maybe Mom had a point. It couldn’t hurt to be nice to people, right? Maybe if I played it right, I could hang out with Bobby and those guys in London. Maybe even make a friend or two while I was over there, I thought.

  But that was before the plane took off and everything went so wrong, wrong, wrong, at 40,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean.

  Worst. Flight. Ever.

  At first, the flight went okay. I drew in my sketchbook for a while. Then they gave us peanuts and showed the new Avengers movie. After that, it was time for lunch. I got this chicken thing with rice and gravy, since the other choice was fish (gag).

  It was right after they handed out the food that things started getting a little bumpy. And then a lot bumpy. Pretty soon, the whole plane was bouncing around like a jeep on an old dirt road.

  “What’s going on?” Bobby said, starting to freak out a bit.

  DING!

  The seat belt lights came on then, and one of the crew got onto the intercom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please be sure you are in your seats with your seat belts securely fastened while we experience a little turbulence.”

  “A little turbulence? What does that mean?” Bobby said. He looked like someone had just told him he had half an hour to live.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Martin told him. “It’s just rough air—”

  But then we hit a big one—ba-bump!

  And then a really big one—BA-BUMP! That one felt like the time my mom drove over a parking block at the grocery store. The brownie that came with my lunch caught a little air off the tray, and I saw an empty Coke can go rolling down the aisle.

  By now, Bobby was holding on to the armrests like his hands were made out of superglue. He had his eyes squeezed shut, and he was saying, “Oh no… oh… no… oh no…”

  There wasn’t much I could do, since I was all buckled in. But I wanted to help Bobby if I could. You know, like a friend would do.

  And then I got an idea. One thing I’m good at sometimes is making people laugh. And for this idea, I didn’t even have to leave my seat.

  So here’s what I did: I took the airsick bag out of the little pocket on the seat in front of me. Then I opened it up and dumped the rest of my chicken, rice, and gravy into the bag.

  “Hey, Bobby?” I said. “Check it out.”

  When he looked over, I took a big spoonful out of the barf bag and shoved it in my mouth.

  “Mmmm,” I said. “Even better the second time around.”

  And just for the record—I know, I know—it wasn’t exactly the smartest joke to pull just then. I can see that now. But I’m not exactly a world champion at thinking ahead.

  It was supposed to be funny. In fact, it was supposed to be hilarious and take Bobby’s mind off the turbulence.

  Instead, Bobby took one look at me eating glop out of that barf bag, and his eyes got big. His cheeks puffed out and he put a hand over his mouth. By the time I figured out my own mistake, it was too late. The chunks had already started to blow.

  Bobby tried to jump up, but his seat belt was still on tight. It just jammed into his stomach and made everything fly a little farther, if you know what I mean. Some of it got on Kadir. And even worse, some of it got on Miller.

  There was a big panic then. People were grossed out and started yelling. Mrs. Stricker was coming up the aisle, and the flight attendant was coming down the aisle, telling Mrs. Stricker to get back to her seat. Bobby was looking like he wanted to cry. Kadir looked like he might be the next one to hurl. (He was.)

  And Miller was sitting there with half of Bobby’s breakfast on his sweatshirt, staring me down like
there was no tomorrow.

  Which, for all I knew, there wasn’t going to be.

  Bully for You

  So here’s a real question.

  If you try to do something good and it ends up being something bad instead, what does that make you? A good person or a bad person? Because I wasn’t even sure what to think of myself, even if I did know what everyone else thought of me.

  Between the glares and the whispers, it was pretty obvious.

  Word got around pretty quickly about what happened. Before we even landed in London, I was already more unpopular than I was when we left the United States, which I didn’t actually think was possible.

  Three more people had gone down the spew highway by then, and the whole plane smelled pretty much like you’d expect. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a giant sealed metal tube with a bunch of people losing their chicken-or-fish lunch, but let’s just say the air wasn’t so fresh anymore. Even the passengers who didn’t know me were looking my way like I deserved to go to jail.

  And the worst part was, everyone thought I’d done it on purpose. I heard a bunch of kids saying stuff like “Poor Bobby,” and “What did Bobby ever do to Rafe?” Like I was the bully in this picture. Me!

  Put it this way. If you’re in a group with Miller the Killer, and everyone thinks you’re the problem? You’ve had a bad day.

  I apologized, and apologized, and apologized, but it didn’t do any good. Bobby wouldn’t talk to me, and Mrs. Stricker made me sit next to her the whole rest of the way.

  She wasn’t interested in my side of the story, either. She just wanted to make sure I learned some kind of lesson. And believe me, Mrs. Stricker has a world-class history of doing exactly that.

  Here, I’ll show you. If you know my story, you might even remember some of this stuff.

  And then this:

  And then this:

  So I didn’t know what to expect from Mrs. Stricker this time. All I can tell you is that I never would have predicted it in a jillion years.

  “Rafe,” she said, “I’ve tried everything I can think of with you. So this time, we’re going to do things a little differently.”

  Differently? I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I’ve made a decision,” she told me. “I’m putting you in charge. You are going to be the Editor in Chief for our Living-Learning Report in London,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “What?” I said. “Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?”

  She didn’t even crack a smile.

  “Clearly,” she said with a little shake of her head, “I can’t motivate you to be a better citizen of our school, but perhaps your fellow students can.”

  “But nobody even likes me!” I kind of blurted out. It was embarrassing, but it was the truth. “How am I supposed to be anything in chief?”

  “Great leaders don’t focus on being liked,” Mrs. Stricker told me. “They focus on leading. You should consider this an opportunity.”

  Yeah, sure, I thought. An opportunity to crash and burn faster than a hot-air balloon made out of Swiss cheese with ten anchors strapped to the basket.

  “What about that contest? And those prizes?” I said.

  “You’ll be just one part of the team, which I will be supervising,” Stricker said.

  “But—,” I said.

  “Your other choice is to take an automatic F for the unit,” she said. “I can’t promise what that will do to your chances of finishing middle school on time, but that’s up to you.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” I said, because the only thing that sounded harder was spending a whole extra year at HVMS.

  It was like the apocalypse, only worse.

  Stricker had struck again.

  Welcome to London, Loser

  By the time we landed at Heathrow Airport in London, my brain was ready to explode. There was way too much to figure out now, and we hadn’t even started yet.

  For one thing, I really wanted someone to know that whole barf-fest on the plane wasn’t on purpose. I tried talking to Ms. Donatello while we were at the baggage claim, but I didn’t get very far with her, either. It went like this:

  “Ms. Donatello, can I talk to you for a sec—”

  “Not now, Rafe.”

  That was it. Then she went to gather some kids that wandered away from the group, and take another roll call, and get everyone moving toward the “motor coaches” outside. I thought I must have misheard Ms. Donatello, because I couldn’t even imagine what she was talking about.

  It turns out, that’s just what they called these little buses we were taking to the hotel. Motor coaches. There were two of them, so I hung back while Miller, Bobby, and a bunch of people got on the first one. Then I just kept my head down, found a seat, and tried to act invisible.

  I didn’t even know I was sitting behind Jeanne and stupid perfect Jared until I heard Jeanne say something.

  “Pretty rough flight, huh?” she said.

  When I looked up, I could just see her through the little crack between the headrests. I checked behind me just to be sure, but I was pretty sure she’d said it to me, and I’m not going to lie… I almost wanted to cry. At least someone was talking to me. And of course it was Jeanne, because she’s awesome. She has friends like the Atlantic has water, but she’s nice to everyone. And not fake nice, either.

  “Yeah, pretty rough,” I said.

  Jeanne didn’t say anything else. Jared was next to her, but he was busy talking to some other kids across the aisle. So after gathering a little bit of courage, I leaned forward and kept talking to Jeanne through that little crack.

  “Hey, Jeanne? I just want you to know something. What happened up there wasn’t on purpose, I swear. I was just trying to make Bobby laugh. And I know what you’re probably thinking—it was still a stupid thing to do. I totally get that. I get why people are mad, and I’m going to make it up to them. I mean, to Bobby. Well, to everyone. Somehow.

  “But I also wanted to say thanks for talking to me. I guess that sounds lame, huh? But I really kind of needed it. So, uh, just… thanks for listening, anyway.”

  Once I started, I didn’t want to stop. I was going to tell her about the whole Editor in Chief disaster, too, so she wouldn’t think I stole her job. But then Jared turned around again, and I sat back fast. The last thing I needed was for him to hear me blabbing my guts out like the Grade A doofus I was.

  “Hey, Jeanne?” Jared said. “Jeanne!”

  “Huh?” she said.

  That’s when Jeanne reached up, pulled back her hair, and took out one of her earbuds.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “Look!” Jared said. He was pointing out the window, and Big Ben was right there. You could also see the London Eye, all lit up at night, and a double-decker bus was just driving by. I guess we really were in London.

  And I’d just given one of the biggest speeches of my life to the back of a bus seat. She must have popped them in while I was trying work up the guts to say something.

  So even though I was there with a whole bunch of other kids, in the middle of a giant city stuffed with millions of people from around the world, I felt… lonely. If that makes any sense.

  Really, really lonely.

  The Helmsman’s Arms

  It was 10:45 p.m. London time when we got to the hotel. That’s six hours later than it was at home. So basically, they wanted everyone to go to bed at quarter to five in the afternoon and not get up until morning.

  Totally fine with me.

  Our hotel was this big place called the Helmsman’s Arms. It seemed like a creepy name to me. Maybe it was supposed to be arms like weapons, but I kept thinking about loose body parts.

  I wasn’t about to push my way to the front of any lines, either. So I waited around while everyone else got their luggage and room numbers and stuff. When I finally made my way to one of the chaperones, Andrea Chin’s dad, Mr. Chin was
all set to help me. He seemed okay.

  “Rafe, you’re in Room 566,” he said, and handed me a plastic card in a little envelope. “You can catch the elevator with that last group over there. Fifth floor, got it?”

  “Got it,” I said.

  I could see a bunch of people waiting for the elevator, so I started walking that way. Then as soon as Mr. Chin wasn’t looking anymore, I took a quick turn and hit the stairs instead. I didn’t like the idea of squeezing into one little box with twelve people who hated me right now.

  So I counted the flights instead, and walked up five levels. I just wanted to get to my room, apologize to Bobby for the hundred and sixteenth time, and get some shut-eye.

  As soon as I came out of the stairwell and into the hall, Mrs. Stricker was standing there with another clipboard. She didn’t exactly look happy to see me.

  “What are you doing here? This is the girls’ floor,” she said. “Boys are on the fifth floor.”

  “But I thought—”

  “You’re already on thin ice with me, Mr. Khatchadorian. Do you really want to try my patience?”

  “No,” I said. “I just—”

  “Go!” she said.

  A bunch of girls were still out in the hall, and all of them were watching me now, like some little kid who had just wandered into the ladies’ room. Like I needed anything else to be embarrassed about.

  So I turned around and went back down the stairs to ask Mr. Chin if he’d made a mistake.

  “Did you count the second floor as the first floor or the second floor?” he asked me.

  I figured I was just tired, because that made no sense at all—right?

  “Huh?” I said.

  “In England, the first floor is known as the ground floor. That’s where we are now. Then comes the first floor. And so on. It should be perfectly well marked in the elevator,” he said, like there was probably something wrong with me.