But The Velociraptor’s happiness didn’t last long.
As the glow from his de-anting faded and he took in the ranks of shocked parents and near-hysterical students, his smile vanished. He groaned and slid back under the water. There was no way this could get any worse.
It got worse.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick stripped to her underwear and dived in. “I’ll save you, boss!” she screeched.
Kasey looked at me as though I was a magician. “Awesome,” she breathed.
I didn’t reply. I was too busy watching Mrs. Fitzpatrick hauling Principal Winton up onto the side of the pool and giving him the kiss of life. I don’t think he needed it because his eyes were wide open. And, call me paranoid, but they seemed to be staring through the electronic scoreboard and right at me.
I swallowed hard and stepped back into the shadows.
There was no way he could know this was because of me.
Absolutely no way.
Right?
“I’M GOING TO ask you one more time, Khatchadorian.”
The bald man sitting across the desk from me stroked the fluffy white cat on his lap. It was a well-known fact that all evil villains love fluffy white cats. Don’t ask me why, they just do. And Principal Winton aka Dr. McNasty aka The Velociraptor aka Ivor Bigbuttski, top-secret criminal mastermind and head of M.U.M. (the Mungonian Ultra-nasty Minions) was no exception.
“Admit your part in this ant outrage, and Mr. Huggleberry and I will show mercy. Your end will be swift and painless. Resist or deny, and things will be rather unpleasant, I can assure you.”
I was in Dr. McNasty’s secret underground lair—fiendishly disguised as an ordinary school principal’s office and (even more fiendishly) not underground. It was a masterstroke. No wonder MI9 had not been able to track him down. They had concentrated their efforts on finding McNasty’s lair in all the usual places—volcanoes, Swiss clinics, abandoned power stations, and so on.
“I’ll never talk, McNasty,” I snarled, struggling against the ropes that held me in place, directly over a pit of bubbling lava. “You’ve got nothing to connect me to the ants! Nothing!”
Dr. McNasty gave Mr. Huggleberry a tickle under his chin and the cat purred. “That’s where you’re quite mistaken, Mr. Khatchadorian.” McNasty nodded to his henchperson, Mrs. Fitzpatrick aka Mustache—famous throughout the henchperson world for her deadly mustache-whipping skills. “Send in the informant!”
Mustache opened the door, and my archnemesis, Coldly Tiptoe-Burp, walked in.
“You!” I gasped.
Tiptoe-Burp bowed in front of McNasty.
“Show Mr. Khatchadorian what you showed me earlier, Mr. Tiptoe-Burp,” McNasty said.
“Of course, Your Nastiness.” Tiptoe-Burp bowed so low his nose scraped the carpet. He pulled a remote from his pocket and pointed it at the large TV on the wall. Tiptoe-Burp clicked and a video clip filled the screen. It was grainy and wobbly but still clear enough to show Kasey and myself collecting the bull ants.
“I realized the prisoner was up to no good,” Tiptoe-Burp said. “So I followed him.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” I argued, fighting against my restraints. “We could have been collecting them for a … a … science project! That doesn’t prove we put the ants in Principal Winton’s budgie smugglers.”
Tiptoe-Burp moved on to another clip. Filmed through one of the dressing-room locker doors, it showed me and Kasey putting the ants in Principal Winton’s swimmers.
My head slumped.
“That will be all, Mr. Tiptoe-Burp,” Dr. McNasty said.
I watched the stoolpigeon leave.
“Now,” McNasty said, “all that remains is for me to decide your punishment.”
“I love this bit!” Mustache yelled.
Everything went black.
“EXPELLED?” MOM SAID. She looked exactly 62 percent worried, 16 percent annoyed, 14 percent angry, 7 percent completely furious, and 1 percent secretly proud. (Although it’s possible that last one was just me hoping.)
It was Monday night and we were in the kitchen at 322 Lorikeet Drive.
I nodded miserably.
“Let me get this straight,” Mom said. “You and Kasey put spiders in Principal Winton’s underwear?”
“His swimming trunks,” I corrected. “And they were ants.”
“Trunks, ants, underwear, whatever. And you put the ants in because he gave you detention?”
I nodded again. “But also because he was going to bulldoze Kasey’s house and I thought that wasn’t right. Ants seemed like what he … deserved.”
“Awesome,” Georgia said. She actually looked impressed.
“Georgia, honey, please don’t encourage him,” Mom said, sighing. She put her hand to her head. “This is serious.”
Mom was right. This was serious. And I was about to discover just how serious.
Mom paced up and down the kitchen. I made sure there were no heavy pans nearby. Even my mild-mannered mom could reach breaking point. Judging by the look on her face, we were at Mom Meltdown Defcon 5 and rising. I had never seen her so steamed.
Mom stopped in her tracks and turned to me. “You know what this means, Rafe?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll have to find another school or maybe go back home or—”
“No!” Mom shouted, making me flinch. “This means we don’t get to keep the house!”
I blinked. What?
“We don’t get to keep the house?” Georgia wailed.
“That’s right.” Mom’s anger had faded and she just looked sad now. Which was, of course, a lot worse. I can cope with her being mad, but when she gets disappointed it burns me up.
“It looks like we’re heading back to Hills Village with absolutely nothing except a few moldy paintings,” she continued. “Uncle Grey’s will only holds if Rafe finishes a term.”
I sagged miserably. How could I possibly have forgotten something so major? The truth was, I hadn’t really forgotten. I just hadn’t expected to be caught or expelled—they were only ants—but the thing is, I wanted to do something. Teenagers are like that, right? We don’t always think things through. Mom should know that. When I looked at it in this way, it was practically all her fault.
Except it wasn’t. It was all my fault. Mom had nothing to do with it.
“But, but, but …” I faltered.
“But nothing, Rafe,” Mom said. “That’s it, game over. No house. No more Australia. No million dollars and back to Swifty’s for me.”
Listen, kids, here’s a warning from Rafe K.: if you ever get the urge to put frozen bull ants (or any other form of insect life) into the undergarments of an authority figure because they want to bulldoze your friend’s house, DON’T.
It might cost you a million dollars.
OBVIOUSLY, I WAS GROUNDED. But I couldn’t just sit there.
I had to find out what had happened to Kasey, who wasn’t answering my texts. So, while Mom was working the phone, trying a million (oops, too soon?) ways to get around this expelling thing, and Georgia was up in her room (most likely making a voodoo doll of me), I snuck out and headed for Golden Blades. The Spitballers had practice and I wanted to make sure the mural was going to carry on after I’d been shipped out. I loved that mural and it looked like it might be the only decent thing to come out of what was turning into a nightmare Australian trip. If Kasey managed to finish it.
Plus, I really did want to check on how Kasey was doing. I’d tried to heap the blame on myself, but if I knew St. Mungo’s, they would do something to punish Kasey.
“THEY SACKED DAD,” Kasey said. “Tamworth-Blythe said if Dad couldn’t control me then he had no place in St. Mungo’s. Fifteen years Dad’s been at St. Mungo’s and he’s out, starting next term. No house, no job. Nothing.”
“Because of ants?” I sat down on the seat next to Kasey. The Spitballers barreled past in a whirl of wheels and pads and elbows. When it was quiet again I looked at Kasey. “I’m sorry. If I hadn�
��t thought this up, none of it would have happened.”
Kasey shrugged. “I was in on it too, Rafe, just as much as you.”
“If it helps, my family lost a million dollars.”
Kasey sat bolt upright. “What?”
I told her about getting expelled and Uncle Grey’s will. Kasey listened, open-mouthed.
“A million bucks? Holy moley, Batman! That is out there! I mean, my dad will find another job and we’ll get somewhere else to live but … A MILLION DOLLARS! Wow! That is serious cash! I mean, losing a million dol—”
“This isn’t making me feel better.”
The Spitballers came around again like a bunch of giant roller-skating wasps. When they’d gone, I saw Frost DeAndrews standing on the other side of the track.
He walked across the boards and hopped over the small fence separating the track from the seats. “You two look rather glum,” he said, yawning. “I’d ask you what was the matter, but then you’d probably tell me and I’m not really the sort of person who does sympathy.” Frost DeAndrews pronounced the last word like you might say “manure” and wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Kasey punched him on the arm. “Shut up, DeAndrews,” she said, and jerked a thumb in my direction. “This guy just lost a million dollars.”
Frost was amazed. “Really?”
I told him the story.
“A million dollars? Must be something about money in the air today,” he said when I’d finished.
“Why?” asked Kasey.
“Oh, well,” Frost DeAndrews said, inspecting his nails, “Dee told me the Spitballers just found out that, if they don’t raise half a million dollars at the fundraiser and give it to Tamworth-Blythe Construction by next month, they’re out. Golden Blades will close and become part of the Great Eastern Sydney Freeway Rotodistributor. A frightful bore, isn’t it?”
The three of us sat in a line with our heads on our hands.
Life sucked.
“Oh,” Frost said, looking at me, “I forgot to mention something about the paintings you showed me at your house. I did some checking around.”
I shrugged. “And?”
“All of them are by your uncle,” he said.
Gee, tell me something I don’t know. I have to admit I was disappointed in Mr. DeAndrews.
“Yes, all except one,” Frost added. “The big one over the mantelpiece might be an Olsen.”
It took a few seconds for the information to sink in.
“Wait,” I said. “That’s an Olsen? A genuine John Olsen?”
“No way!” Kasey gasped. “Really?”
Frost nodded. “Probably. It was signed by your uncle, but I have no idea why he did that. The painting is, I believe, an Olsen. I’ll consult a friend who’s an expert when she gets back from her holiday.”
“Where’s she on holiday?” I said. Information like this needed to be checked RIGHT NOW.
“Antarctica,” Frost said.
“Antarctica? Who goes on holiday to Antarctica?”
“She does,” Frost said. “But she’s back in a week’s time. I’ll check then if it’s genuine.”
“And if it is?” I said. “How much would it be worth?”
“About half a million,” Frost said. “Give or take.”
OKAY, IT’S TIME for a recap.
Everyone get comfortable, take a deep breath, and let’s go over what we know so far. There’s been a lot going on—even by Rafe Khatchadorian standards—and today was proving to be something of a record. To lose a million dollars and then, less than four hours later, maybe find half a million dollars takes some doing. Everything was getting MUCH MORE COMPLICATED … if that’s possible. This whole thing was, like our mural at Golden Blades, turning into a big Australian mess. I need to get my head straight. It’s time for some clear thinking. It’s time for figuring things out. It’s time for a list.
So, here we go:
MOM MIGHT NOT have that many letters after her name (or any letters after her name), and she’s not a rocket scientist or a brain surgeon, she doesn’t work for NASA, hasn’t invented a theory about the space–time continuum, can’t solve difficult math problems or speak eighteen languages while writing computer code, but here’s the thing: Mom knows stuff.
Moms always know what to do and it always seems to work out somehow. It sometimes makes no kind of sense whatsoever, but at the same time it makes perfect sense.
So, anyway, the half a mill was still only a maybe, but it was a maybe from Frost DeAndrews, Sydney’s greatest art critic.
It was a chance.
WHEN I GOT to Lorikeet Drive, I began babbling before Mom had a chance to remember that, technically, I was grounded.
“Rafe, slow down,” Mom said, directing me to a chair. “Here, sit. You too, Georgia. I’ve got some news I need to talk to both of you about.”
Mom had that serious Mom tone in her voice, so Georgia and I sat down at the kitchen table. We had come to a sort of truce because all this grown-up stuff was happening. She did still have that voodoo doll.
“I did some ringing around after you snuck off to the stadium,” Mom said.
I looked at her in surprise. “You knew about me sneaking off?”
“I know everything, honey,” Mom said pityingly. Then she waved a hand and continued. “So, as I was saying, I did some ringing around, checking on the house stuff and I found out a few things.”
“Like what?” Georgia asked warily.
Mom took a deep breath and began. “Uncle Grey did leave you the house, but what Mr. Ato—the numbskull—didn’t mention was that, once you’d finished at St. Mungo’s, although we could sell the house, we would have to sell it to the city council.”
“So?” I couldn’t see what the problem was. We’d still get the money.
“At 1972 prices,” Mom added. “Which is exactly two thousand dollars.”
“Two thousand dollars?!” Georgia and I said in unison.
Mom nodded.
“So it didn’t really matter much if I got expelled?”
Mom nodded again. “Exactly. It mattered about two thousand dollars, I guess.”
Wow. Uncle Grey had been seriously weird. 1972 prices? Real John Olsens and maybe fake John Olsens?
“Yes, wow,” Mom said.
“Wow,” Georgia said.
The three of us sat in silence while we tried to figure out if we’d had good luck or bad luck.
“What else did you find out?” I asked. “You said you’d found out a few things.”
“Well, I found out we do own all the stuff in the house.” Mom laughed. “Like it’s worth anything.”
My eyes strayed to the big painting over the mantelpiece and I began to smile.
“What?” Mom said, trying to see what I was looking at.
So I told her.
“WE DID IT,” Kasey said, stepping back with her hands on her hips.
“Not quite.” I dipped my brush in a pot of blue paint and added a tiny dot. “There. Now we’re done.”
Kasey gave me a playful shin-kick for old time’s sake. I didn’t mind; the bruise would be a reminder when our flight took off in a couple of days’ time.
That’s right, the Khatchadorians were heading back to Hills Village. 322 Lorikeet Drive had been sold to the city for $2000, and the best of Uncle Grey’s paintings were on their way to Hills Village. We didn’t know what we were going to do with them, but it didn’t seem right to just sling them onto the trash heap. The Olsen painting was at an art dealer’s gallery, waiting for the arguments about who owned it to settle. Mom was actually there today, supposedly sorting it out once and for all. Georgia was with us at Golden Blades, pitching in almost like a regular human being.
Kasey and I moved way back so we could finally see the whole mural.
It was great, even if I did say so myself. A great big, splodgy, wiggly-wobbly Aussie mess dancing across the wall of the old stadium. It might not have been an Olsen, but it was a giant improvement on what had been there
before. Which, considering there’d been nothing there before, maybe wasn’t saying much.
It was the day of the Spitballers Fundraiser, the last day of the Golden Blades Stadium, if Henry Tamworth-Blythe had anything to do with it. There was a line of bulldozers already parked just outside the stadium fence, waiting for the signal to come in and start knocking things down. Right now, it didn’t look like there was a whole lot we could do about it, but we were determined to go out with a real bang. The posters had been posted all over town for the past week.
A sellout crowd of six thousand had paid more than a hundred thousand dollars for tickets, but it looked like that wasn’t going to be enough, even if we sold a ton of burgers.
“Tamworth-Blythe bought fifty tickets,” Kasey said. “Dee told me he wanted to be here when the full-time siren sounded so he could personally swing the first sledgehammer at midnight. The whole crew will be down there—Cory and his cronies, Principal Winton, Mrs. Fitzpatrick—all gloating.”
“Something will turn up,” I said.
Kasey smiled sadly. “Thanks, Socks, but I don’t think so. Life doesn’t work that way.”
I knew that. Still, looking at our great big Aussie mess dancing along the walls of the Golden Blades Stadium, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe this time it would.
Just this once.
DEE STROYER, LOOKING like she meant business, curved down the bank at one end of the stadium and took out two Potts Point Pirates in one collision. “Go Lola!” she yelled, as a gap opened up in front of Lola the Roller.
Lola pushed hard for the gap, knocking an incoming Potts Point Pirate to one side and gaining ground on the opposing jammer.4
The crowd roared as Lola swept past the Pirate just as the clock ticked down to the two-minute mark. The scoreboard notched up a point and the Sydney Spitballers took the lead for the first time.
Million-Dollar Mess Down Under Page 9