by Theo Baker
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
CHAPTER ONE
I wanted to puke. I mean, I didn’t really want to puke. No one wants to puke. Not even those hot-dog-eating champions who chow down sixty hot dogs in ten minutes. I bet their stomachs want to hurl, though. My stomach definitely did – but it was empty. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and all I’d had then was a glass of orange juice. And that was eighteen hours ago. Or was it twenty? Or was it … a lifetime ago?
I was a different man then.
I was Old Hank.
New Hank had seen things. Things too terrible to mention at the beginning of a book.
New Hank had done things too. Shameful things. New Hank had crippled an innocent badger – possibly.
And at this very moment, New Hank was on his hands and knees in the mud, rummaging through cowpats. In the middle of the night. With McKelty.
“I’m going to puke,” I said.
“Stop saying that, Zitzer! Not one more word,” said McKelty.
“I’m serious. I can feel chunks moving up my throat.”
“You better swallow them. If you vomit, then I will, and McKeltys do not vomit. Ever.”
“What’s the matter, McKelty?” I asked. “Are you afraid of a little sick?”
“I fear nothing.”
In the distance, beyond the steaming field of cowpats, an animal howled into the night.
“It’s getting closer,” McKelty whispered.
We were silent as we considered this fact. Then we heard thunder rumbling.
“You know what, McSmelty?” I said. “I think we’re bonding.”
“I’m not talking to you any more.”
“I mean it,” I said. “We’re becoming friends. You’re OK, McKelty, you really are.”
I heard those words coming out of my mouth − but could I really think that? Was I telling the truth? McKelty was Champion Jerk of the Universe, and he’d teased and tried to sabotage me at least 3.4 million times, and that was just this week. Could it be that I was starting to like him?
I was so confused. But I guessed that was only natural. After you’ve been crawling through cowpats and touching them with both hands for more than forty minutes, things tend to get a bit confusing.
But this was more than confusing. This was a nightmare!
There was another roll of thunder.
Was this really happening? Was I really on my hands and knees in a muddy field, miles and miles from the nearest drainage system and/or falafel stand? Was I about to be electrocuted by lightning? Were those really my hands poking through cowpats?
No, I wasn’t dreaming. You don’t smell cowpats in your dreams. This was for real. This was as real as it gets.
This was a little too real.
I tried to remember what had brought me to this low point. But things weren’t really connecting in my head. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I remembered reading somewhere that sniffing too many cowpats can make you a little loopy. Or maybe I’d been sniffing cowpat fumes for so long that I was making up memories?
In my cowpat stupor, I started to see flashes of my old life. Waking up in a soft bed. Drinking orange juice for breakfast. Petting friendly dogs. Running water coming out of a tap. Walking down a clean hallway.
Ah, there’s Old Hank now, just hanging out with his two best mates in the world… What were their names again? Frankie and … Ashley. That was it. Just look at Old Hank. He’s such a happy, clean boy. So smiling and carefree. Sure, he’s got small, childish concerns. Old Hank wants to go to the shopping centre with his friends…
No, I tell him. It isn’t worth it, Old Hank. Stay at home. Do not under any circumstances—
A crash of thunder snapped me back to reality. It had started to rain. I shook my fist at the terrible sky and tried, with all my might, to scream, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was partially digested orange juice…
CHAPTER TWO
Three days earlier…
“This Saturday, Hank, are you in?” my best friend, Frankie, asked as we headed to class. “Hank?”
I didn’t answer immediately because I was looking out of the window. Bill the school caretaker was trying to catch a stray cat that had wandered into the playground. It was a cute orange cat, with brown stripes, a white tuft of chest fur and a crooked white moustache. Bill had cornered the poor guy, but Alnor − my name for the cat, by the way − wasn’t going quietly. They’d settled into stalemate. Bill had the broom, and Alnor the Orange had his claws. Bill would poke at Alnor with the broom; Alnor would hiss at the broom. Bill would jump back; Alnor would jump back. Then they’d have a stare-down. Then Bill would take another swipe at Alnor…
Besides the sight of Bill’s bum-crack when he bent over for an attack, it was a beautiful view out of the window. It had rained yesterday, so during the walk to school I had seen sky and clouds in the puddles and smelled that day-after-rain smell.
The air felt great, and on the street, strangers were smiling and saying hi to other strangers. I was feeling good too. This morning I’d woken up before my alarm clock went off. I was wearing my best underwear. All of this gave me the unshakeable feeling that things were going well.
“Did you hear me, Hank?” Frankie asked.
“You bet.”
My other best friend, Ashley, raised her eyebrows and opened her locker. “So what’s your answer?”
“Two weeks,” I said. “Two weeks is my answer.”
Just then, I saw Karen, the prettiest and most popular girl in school, come around the corner, laughing with a friend. I was feeling so good about things that I gave her my best smile … and she smiled back!
“Check out that cat,” I said, and pointed out of the window.
But the cat wasn’t there any more. And I was pointing right at Bill’s bum as he swept the puddles off the tarmac.
“Why are you so gross?” Karen’s snooty friend, Rachel, said as she clutched her snooty notebook. Both of them grimaced before hurrying away.
“She’ll come round,” I said.
“In two weeks?” Frankie smirked at Ashley.
I was getting the feeling that two weeks was not the correct answer. Two weeks is usually a pretty good answer to almost any question. When is your maths test? Two weeks. When will you pay me back that fiver? Two weeks. When will you grow up, Henry? Two weeks!
“Anyway,” Ashley said, “this Saturday Frankie and I are hanging out at Spitalfields shopping centre. You in?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“You sure?” Frankie asked. “It’s only two days from now.”
“I’ll slot you in.”
Ashley slammed her locker shut and we headed to class. “Awesome. It was amazing last week, and—”
“—And this week,” Frankie said, “they’re setting up a movie screen to show The Slug with Nine Brains.”
“And don’t forget: the new limited edition Tinkodoma Smiley Friend goes on sale at two o’clock,” Ashley said.
“And I bet everyone’s going to be there,” Frankie added.
“Will your parents let you come, Hank?” Ashley asked.
“Of cours
e.”
“They didn’t last time,” Frankie said.
“Or the time before that,” Ashley said. “Why will this time be different?”
“Two weeks.”
Again, not the right answer. Here’s a question that “two weeks” answers perfectly: how long will it take Hank to become the biggest loser in Westbrook Academy?
You see, this Saturday was the second time that Ashley, Frankie and just about everyone else in my year had been allowed to hang out at Spitalfields without adult supervision. Their parents trusted them to look after themselves. My parents barely trusted me to use the microwave. It was so totally unfair. You zapped a magnet in the microwave just the once and you were branded for life with words like “unreliable”, “not trustworthy”, “immature”. Well, starting now, I was no longer a house cat. I was going to be like Alnor the Orange. I was going to fight off the broom of oppression with my razor-sharp claws. I was going to lap up water from the puddle of freedom…
It occurred to me that acting like a stray cat wouldn’t exactly calm my parents’ nerves.
“Focus, Hank,” Frankie said. “Your parents won’t let you come, ’cause they think you’re not responsible, right?”
“They don’t think, they know,” I said.
“So change their minds,” Ashley said. “Prove that you can take care of yourself.”
“How?”
“Do something grown-up,” Frankie said.
“Like, start shaving?”
“Like you have anything to shave, anyway,” Ashley said.
As I paused to stroke my chin − where I could feel the beginnings of the luxurious beard that would grow in three years’ time − I caught sight of Alnor the Orange again. We were at the end of the corridor now, near the noticeboard and the door to the playground, and I could see through the glass that Alnor was just outside. He’d found a kid’s lunchbox and was nuzzling through it. I had to admire the cat’s gritty independence. And then I had it! The perfect way to prove to my parents that I was responsible.
“That’s what I’ll do,” I cried and clapped my hands. “I’ll cook my family a big dinner all by myself. I’ll make beef Wellington and potato gratin, and a spring salad. And for dessert—”
“Stick to something you can handle,” Ashley said.
“Like cinnamon toast,” said Frankie.
“But I hardly ever have accidents any more. I’m as spry as a cat.” I flung out my arms, claws extended. But at that very moment, a very strange and mysterious force in the universe was active, because my right arm slammed into a solid block of Antarctic ice.
“Mr Zipzer,” a voice hissed like a frigid wind onto the back of my neck. The voice belonged to the one and only Miss Adolf.
“Oh, sorry, Miss. I was just showing my mates here my catlike— I mean, I didn’t see you lurking there,” I said.
“Burglars and tabloid reporters lurk, Henry. I was simply checking this.” She pointed at the noticeboard.
“You want to buy Haley Manning’s pet turtle?” I asked.
“What on earth would I want with a turtle?”
“Right there,” I said. “Haley Manning is selling her pet turtle for five quid and—” I stopped talking because Ashley suddenly cried out. Her rucksack had slipped from her hands, and all the blood was draining from her face, like she’d lost her life force.
“Survival Camp,” Ashley gasped as she looked at where Miss Adolf had been pointing.
“Correct,” Miss Adolf said with a firm nod. “I was checking the sign-up sheet, Henry. Would you children care to enlist? Only two days left to sign up.”
Ashley stood, paralyzed, while Frankie, who was all hunched over, tried to hide behind her. “Um, uh, we would,” he said into her jumper, “but we can’t, because … because—”
“Frankie has lice,” I said. “In fact, we’ve all got them.” I started scratching and slapping myself all over. Frankie and Ashley followed suit a nanosecond later. “The itching is not too bad, but we’d hate to spread our terrible affliction.”
A low, guttural sound came from Miss Adolf. It was almost like the sound you hear at the dentist when they’re sucking out your saliva with that suction tube. But grosser. She put her hands in her hair and backed away, wide-eyed.
“It’s this rare breed of Amazonian jumping lice,” I said, scratching my head in obvious torment. “You should see how far they can jump. Or maybe you shouldn’t. Save yourself, Miss. They’re eating us alive!”
Miss Adolf took three little packets from her skirt pocket and laid them on the floor. “Put those on at once and keep them on. And when you get home tonight, apply some anti-lice shampoo!” Then she turned around and broke into a trot. “Filthy, filthy children, just filthy,” she muttered.
“That was too close,” Frankie said, once she’d turned the corner.
Ashley ripped open one of the packets. “Shower caps. She keeps spare shower caps in her skirt pockets.”
“What’s really weird,” Frankie said, “is that she has any names on her list for Survival Camp. Who’d be mad enough to sign up for a weekend of torture?”
Here’s what you need to know about Miss Adolf’s Survival Camps: they are legendary. And not the good kind of legendary, either, like Cyclops and magical hammers. Miss Adolf’s camps are so tough that no one’s ever made it through the whole weekend. Most kids need years of therapy after. There was this one kid, Allan Kelley, who went three years ago, and he still hasn’t recovered. He just sort of sits in his room now, looking at his fish tank and laughing softly. Personally, I’d gladly wear a shower cap until the summer holidays rather than enlist. What lunatic would add their name to that list?
“Move, Zitzer,” said a voice.
It was my mortal nemesis. Nick McKelty. And he was headed straight for the noticeboard.
“Watch closely, Zitzer,” he said. “This is how you write your name. Practise hard and you’ll learn to do it too … when you’re twenty.”
“I’ll be living in a rigid airship when I’m twenty, and you’ll still be living on stupid solid ground and writing your name in stupid places.” I tapped the back of his pencil, so he drew a wild squiggly line all over the sign-up sheet. “Have fun at Camp Carnage.”
“Being a man is about more than fun,” McKelty said. “You’d know that if—”
“OK, boys,” Ashley said, leading Frankie and me away. “Let’s hit the showers.” She handed out the caps.
We put them on as we headed to class. We got a few odd looks, but at least we weren’t crazy enough to sign up to Miss Adolf’s camp. Unlike McKelty.
But somewhere between watching Alnor and Bill fight in the playground and arriving at class, I’d lost the good feeling I’d woken up with. Now I had this sinking feeling that I’d be writing my name on that sign-up sheet. Something in me was waking up. Something that sought the wild. Something that wanted to test its strength against all that is unholy!
Then I remembered something crucial. I may have a funky brain, but I’m not mad. Well, maybe I’m a tiny bit mad sometimes. But I will never, ever be mad enough to go to Miss Adolf’s Camp Carnage.
CHAPTER THREE
“Hey, champ,” my dad said as I walked into our flat that afternoon. He was packing up his laptop bag. “Heading out in five to cover a bridge tournament.” In case you didn’t know, Dad’s a sports reporter. He covers all manner of weird and wonderful sports, even sports that aren’t even sports, like card games. “You’ll be OK on your own till Mum and Emily get in from the deli?”
“No problem,” I said and collapsed on the sofa.
“Good. See you for dinner.” He reached over to ruffle my hair. “Should I ask about the shower cap?”
“It’s my chef’s hat. I’m cooking dinner for everyone tonight.”
“Really? Well, just stay away from the micro—”
“I know,” I grunted.
“Cooking dinner shows initiative, son. I like it. I’ll text the girls and tell them to get ready for a f
east.”
Then he left, and I had the entire wonderful flat all to my wonderful self. I stretched out and breathed easy.
School had gone by in a blink. No one had really bothered us about the shower caps. The one and only time somebody tried − this kid named Maurice − I lifted up my shower cap and scratched my head really hard in his general direction. From the look on his face, I’m guessing Maurice probably went straight from school to the barber for a buzz cut. Personally, I think Miss Adolf figured out we didn’t really have Amazonian jumping lice when Ashley took off her shower cap. Eventually Frankie did too. But not me.
It had been my plan all along to start work on my dinner feast first thing after school. I had to prove to my parents once and for all that I could look after myself – and what better way than by cooking a meal for the whole family?
But before I could get busy in the kitchen, I had to look up some recipes online, and I obviously couldn’t go on the Internet without watching that screaming goat on YouTube. I really liked that screaming goat. I had probably watched that screaming goat about twelve times.
Then I threw all the sofa cushions on the floor for no real reason and kind of forgot about my plan. For an hour or two I just sort of rolled around on the floor and practised making goatish noises. Then I started to wonder how Emily’s iguana, Katherine, would react to my goatish noises, so I went to find her. She was hibernating or something in Emily’s wardrobe.
It was really hot in Emily’s room, and all the lights were out. Emily had left a little stereo that played jungle sound effects in the wardrobe. No matter how loudly I screamed, Katherine wouldn’t budge from her spot on top of Emily’s laundry basket.
I’m not really sure what I did after that. I either played mind-piercing notes on Emily’s flute to Katherine or I looked through Emily’s drawers. Either way, by the time I remembered to start on the feast, it was getting dark outside.
There wasn’t enough time to look up a recipe, so I had to wing it, Zipzer style. I put on Mum’s apron, tightened my shower cap, and scoured the kitchen for edible foodstuffs. The pickings were slim. We had some chicken breasts, but they leaked out this gross fluid, and it turns out that touching raw chicken gives me the ickiest feeling.