From Hero to Zero - Chris Tebbetts

by James Patterson

  “Man, everyone was talking about you,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’ll bet.”

  I didn’t want to pick a fight, but I was pretty ticked off. I mean, if Miller was actually the one who locked me in the bathroom, that really stank.

  But it didn’t take long for me to find out otherwise.

  “Jeanne made Jared tell Mrs. Stricker about what he did to you,” Miller said.

  “She did?”

  “Yeah. So you’re off the hook.”

  “I am?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Miller said, looking at me like—duh. “I mean, it was a pretty good stunt, if you ask me. But it’s not like they were just going to let that one slide.”

  “Wow,” I said. I guess that meant Jared was the one in trouble now. And I never even had to name names.

  Miller wasn’t done yet, either. Not by a long shot.

  “So, you want to know the funniest part?” he said. “First, Jeanne made Jared tell on himself, and then she turned right around and dumped him.”

  “She… what?”

  “Dumped him,” he said. “Just like that.”

  And I thought—

  So, in other words, the only thing that could have possibly topped everything else that day—did.

  Jeanne dumped Jared.

  Jared had locked me in the bathroom.

  Miller hadn’t.

  “But… wait,” I said. “So, when Mrs. Stricker took roll call—”

  Miller shrugged. “Yeah, that’s on me. Kind of force of habit, you know?”

  “Right, but then why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.

  “I just thought you were sitting somewhere else,” Miller told me. “They figured it out before I did.”

  “Dude!”

  “I’m not your babysitter, idiot.”

  It was like the end of the longest day ever. By now, I just wanted to stop talking, go to bed, and try to figure out what it all meant before my brain turned into potted meat.

  But first, I had one more thing to do.

  “Hey, Miller,” I said.

  He wasn’t paying attention anymore. He was demolishing a bag of chips and watching darts on TV like it was the most interesting thing ever. (It’s not.)

  I kept going anyway.

  “I’m going to sleep out here tonight,” I said, pointing at the other bed. “I’m kind of sick of that bathtub.”

  “Whatever,” Miller said, flicking some salt-and-vinegar crumbs on the floor. “But I get the remote, and we turn out the lights when I say so.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said.

  I could live with that. No problem.

  Brain Strain

  The next morning started off like Christmas. It was our last day in London, and when I got on the bus, Jared wasn’t on it.

  I guess they took his whole prank thing pretty seriously. I heard people talking about how he was being held back at the hotel all day. Not only that, but Mrs. Stricker was the one staying with him.

  So like I said, Merry Christmas to me!

  Mostly, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jeanne. We were on our way to visit an English middle school, and I kept trying to figure out how to talk to her on that bus ride.

  But it was no use. Ever since she broke up with Jared, her friends had been sticking to her like some kind of all-girl security detail. There was no way I’d be busting through that perimeter anytime soon.

  I’ve never been the most confident kid this side of the sun. Still, I kept wondering if Jeanne might be thinking about me at least a little bit.

  I know. That’s crazy, right? A complete waste of brain space (that I could be using on math or something useful). So then why was I thinking it?

  Because I couldn’t help it, I guess. It was like this giant tug-of-war, back and forth, back and forth, inside my head.

  By the time we got to the school, it was like an exact tie, and I still wasn’t any closer to knowing what I should do.

  What I really needed was another one of those signs. Maybe a billboard this time—something to tell me what to say and when to say it.

  But in the meantime, the day was just getting started and my brain was ready for a nap.

  I couldn’t take too much more of this. Something had to give soon.

  And in fact, I didn’t know it yet, but something would.

  Even sooner than I thought.

  The Same but Different

  We walked in the door of Bealing Bright Secondary School.

  “Please proceed to your host group and get to know one another as we begin our day together,” some English guy kept going. “We have a fun morning planned for all!”

  The first thing they did was divide us into smaller groups and show us all around the school.

  That part was just okay, to be honest. We’d already taken about eighty tours that week, and I was all toured out. Also, Jeanne wasn’t in my group.

  After that, everyone got buddied up with one of the English students. I got some kid named Abdullah, and I was supposed to follow his schedule and see what a “typical” day was like for him.

  It was cool at first, just hanging out at the lockers and meeting some of his friends. I learned some more new words, too. Or at least new ways to use them, like brilliant, and wally, and quid. There were some others, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to say them here. (Question: Are bad British words still bad when you say them in the United States? I’m not sure, but I’m not taking any chances, either.)

  After that, I went to Abdullah’s classes with him, starting with history, where the teacher talked for a long time about the causes and consequences of the Industrial Revolution, and… zzzzzzzzzzz.

  See? I can’t even tell you about that part without falling asleep. It turns out that the biggest lesson I learned was that English middle school was just as boring as American middle school.

  But then just before lunch, a bunch of us got to go outside for a while.

  “What do you say, guys?” Abdullah asked us. “Up for a little football?”

  “Yes!” Miller said.

  “You know they mean soccer, right?” I said.

  “Oh,” Miller said. “Then whatever.” But he played anyway.

  I’m not exactly a world-class soccer player. I’m not even a Hills Village–class soccer player. But it was all pretty friendly. They didn’t even make us line up and get picked (or not picked) one at a time. Which was cool.

  They put Miller in as goalie on my team. I guess that was because he took up more space in the goal than anybody. He definitely looked ready to tackle whatever came his way, and I wondered if he still remembered it wasn’t regular football.

  I got put at left fullback. That meant I was on defense, which was better than being on the front line. Most of those English guys played like they were born with soccer balls attached to their toes.

  The problem was, I’m not left-footed. So I was always running up to the ball, twisting around, and trying to kick with the outside of my right foot. Which looked just about as goofy as it sounds. I’m pretty sure I was giving soccer and America a bad name at the same time.

  On top of all that, they had another game going on the next field. And that’s where I finally spotted Jeanne again. Once I saw her, it was hard to stop looking over there. I could have watched her play soccer all day.

  But then I realized someone was shouting from much closer by. And they weren’t just shouting near me. They were shouting at me.

  “WAKE UP, KHATCHADORIAN!”

  It was Miller. And when I looked around, I saw why. The other team’s front line was coming our way. They’d just gotten past the midfielders, which left us fullbacks as the last line of defense.

  I totally should have focused then, but I couldn’t help taking one more look at the other field. I wanted to see if Jeanne was watching.

  And this time, she was. In fact, she was looking right at me. That’s when she waved. And even smiled! Which seemed like a good sign.

&
nbsp; A very good sign.

  So at least she wasn’t ignoring me. She probably just had other stuff on her mind that morning. Which I could totally understand. Maybe that even meant—

  “KHATCHADORIAN!” Miller yelled again.

  This time when I looked back, I had the world’s biggest English kid practically on top of me. In fact, he’d just taken a shot.

  The last thing I saw was that soccer ball coming straight at my face.

  The good news? I managed to stop the ball from going into the goal.

  The bad news? I stopped it with my face.

  To celebrate, I spun around, fell over, and hit the dirt like a hundred pounds of dead American weight.

  Recovery Room

  So imagine getting punched in the nose. Got it? Now imagine if your whole head was just one big nose.

  That’s about what it felt like when that ball hit my face.

  I didn’t pass out or anything. It was more like someone shut down the power station that ran my brain for a few seconds. Everything kind of went blurry, then dark, then back to blurry again.

  “You okay?” someone said.

  “Ye-ahh,” I said. I was still facedown, sniffing the grass, and I didn’t feel okay, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

  “Watch out, lads,” some adult called out. Then I felt a hand on my arm. “Not to worry, son. You’re all right.”

  I recognized his voice. It was the guy who made all the announcements that morning, Mr. Covington. He was the assistant headmaster, which I think is British for vice principal.

  “Can you roll over?” he asked me.

  “I think so,” I said. But when I did, it was like suddenly I was the scary movie and all of them were the audience.

  I guess that ball turned my nose on like a faucet, and my face looked something like a cheese-free pizza by then. My shirt was all splotchy red, too.

  “Oh… my,” Mr. Covington said. He handed me a handkerchief from his pocket, but without exactly looking at me. I don’t think he liked all that blood.

  “Let’s get him inside, boys,” he said, and a couple of the other guys got me on my feet. Then they all walked me over to Mr. Covington’s office and put me in a chair with my head back.

  Ms. Donatello was there now, too, and she cleaned me up while Mr. Covington kept busy intensely not looking at me. Instead, he got on the PA and made another announcement.

  “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. Our American patient is doing just fine,” he said. “We expect a full recovery in no time.”

  I could hear some people clapping down the hall then, which was cool. Seriously, these were like the nicest kids I’d ever met. I was starting to think maybe I should move to England and go to school here instead of going back to HVMS.

  “How about some ice?” Ms. D said.

  “Sure,” I said, except it sounded like “Chure” because of all the toilet paper in my nose.

  “I’ll go with you!” Mr. Covington said. “We’ll see about finding Rafe another shirt.”

  That was okay with me. Mr. C was making me nervous, anyway. So I just stayed there, kept my head back, and waited for my face to stop aching.

  I wasn’t alone for long. A second later, I heard the door open, and I thought, That was quick. But when I looked up, it wasn’t Ms. D, or Mr. C, or the ice, or a new shirt, or any of those things.

  Not even close, in fact.

  This time, it was Jeanne.

  Three (or More Like Seven) Little Words

  Can I come in?” Jeanne asked.

  “Chure,” I said.

  I couldn’t say no to Jeanne about anything, even if I wanted to. And I didn’t want to. I was too busy thinking, WOW! IF THIS ISN’T A SIGN, I DON’T KNOW WHAT IS.

  “Rafe, I am so sorry!” Jeanne said. “I shouldn’t have waved like that. I feel like this was all my fault.”

  It totally wasn’t her fault, of course. It was my own fault. I was the one who couldn’t stop staring at her. But try admitting that one out loud. Hopeless!

  “Don’t worry aboud id,” I told her smoothly. Oh right, the toilet-paper nose plugs—not a good look when talking to the girl of your dreams. I turned away for a second and yanked them out, hoping the bleeding had stopped.

  “I heard you were doing okay,” she went on with concern in her voice.

  “Yeah, I think everyone heard that,” I said. Jeanne laughed, which made me laugh, but that hurt my nose, so I stopped.

  Then she sat down on the edge of the desk. I could tell she didn’t want to come too close. But she wasn’t leaving, either.

  “What about you?” I said. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I guess that means you heard about me and Jared.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I was sitting up now. My nose wasn’t dripping blood anymore. That was good, even if it wasn’t as romantic as a kiss in the pouring rain or two Shakespearean kids dying in a crypt somewhere.

  “So, um… speaking of all that,” I said. “I kind of wanted to talk to you about something kinda important.”

  “You did?” Jeanne said. “What?”

  Oh man. Here it comes.

  Was I really going to do this?

  Yeah. I really was.

  Really really?

  Yeah. Really really.

  I took a deep breath.

  “It’s just that… you’ve been so great about the whole report and everything. I really appreciate it,” I told her.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jeanne said.

  “Well, it’s not just that,” I said. “It’s more like… I just wanted to say… I think if you liked me half as much as I like you, I’d be pretty amazed. I’d be flabbergasted, actually.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I wouldn’t be helping you if I didn’t like you.”

  “No,” I said. “I mean…”

  My heart was hammering, and it felt like breathing had just gotten twice as hard. But I couldn’t back out now. It was like sitting on a roller coaster right after it takes off, when you know there’s nothing you can do to stop it even if you wanted to—but you’re still scared out of your skull.

  So I just went with it.

  “What I mean is,” I told her, “I think I kind of, uh, love you.”

  So it wasn’t exactly what I meant to say. But it wasn’t exactly a lie, either. At least, I don’t think it was. I don’t really know what love is supposed to feel like. All I know is that when I opened my big fat mouth, those are the words that came out: I think I kind of love you. No taking them back now.

  Two seconds passed by in silence, but it felt like two hours. She eventually had to say something, right? Something that was probably going to change my life forever. Something either really painful or really phenomenal. Something like…

  “Oh,” Jeanne said.

  Oh.

  Which felt like a big fist through my heart.

  “I guess that was a pretty stupid thing to say,” I said in a rush. I didn’t know what else to do besides crawl into the corner and wish I could disappear.

  “No it wasn’t,” Jeanne said just as quickly. “It’s just, I didn’t mean for you to think… I mean, I didn’t break up with Jared because… I mean, I didn’t come in here to—”

  Just then the door opened again, and Mr. Covington came flying in. A bag of ice dropped out of his hand, slid across the floor, and landed under my chair. But he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Excuse me, young lady,” he said, taking Jeanne by the arm.

  “I’m sorry!” she said, getting on her feet. “I know I’m not supposed to be in here—”

  “No, it’s not that,” he said. “It’s that.” And he pointed down at the desk, where the PA system was. With the microphone. And the talk button. The one Jeanne had been sitting on until just a second ago.

  Jeanne’s eyes got huge.

  “You mean…,” she said.

  Mr. Covington kind of sighed, with an expression like he felt sorry for us both.

/>   “I’m afraid so,” he said.

  I could see some people out in the hall now. They were looking into the room and whispering to each other. Some of them were laughing, too. Not in the good way.

  And that’s when I started thinking maybe it was time for me to leave that school, ASAP.

  And London.

  And England.

  And Planet Earth, too, if I had anything to say about it.

  Friends, I Guess

  Mr. Covington gave me the ice for my nose and a Bealing Bright Secondary School T-shirt to wear. Then he kind of backed out the door and said he’d give us “a moment.”

  Jeanne was really nice about the whole thing after that. Of course.

  And it helped. Some.

  But I still felt like I’d made the biggest bonehead move of my life. Which is saying a lot, for me.

  “I’m sorry, Rafe,” Jeanne said awkwardly. She paused and then continued. “Well, I bet you’ll have a girlfriend soon anyway. I know Sabra and Katrina both think you’re cute.”

  “Sure, in a dorky way,” I said.

  “You don’t know that,” she said.

  “Actually, I do,” I said. Now it sounded like I was feeling sorry for myself. “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “Well, please don’t take it personally, Rafe. I mean, I just broke up with Jared,” she said.

  “Yeah, but still. You’re not saying there might be a chance,” I said, weakly smiling to make her feel a little better. “Or are you?”

  “Well… no,” she told me. “I guess not.”

  “That’s okay,” I said.

  Jeanne’s always told me the truth about everything. I wasn’t going to hold this one against her, even if it did feel like my heart had just taken its own soccer ball to the face.

  “So, I hope it’s okay to ask this,” Jeanne said, “but is there any chance you’d want to be friends now? Like, for real?”