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

How about if I imagined them dancing together instead? No, because that would still mean them coming alive. How about I just gave my imagination a rest?
    I did that instead.
    Then, after a while, I whispered, “Hey, Miller? You scared yet?”
    There was no reply. I tittered to myself. Browning his britches, I bet.
    “Hey…Miller?”
    The deal was he’d hide behind a Spanish Inquisition exhibit. I stepped out from behind the French Revolution, took a deep breath, and went over to it.
    “Hey, Miller…” I said. I peered behind a man being stretched on a rack.
    He wasn’t there.
    Straightaway I realized what had happened. How could I have been so dumb ? He’d double-crossed me. He’d promised to hide but joined the group and left.
    My imagination woke up. I pictured the group boarding the coach outside Madame Fifi’s. I pictured Dwight taking roll-call and Miller saying “Here” at my turn and everyone snickering. And then I pictured the coach leaving. Without me. Miller back at the hotel, failing to alert anybody to the fact that his roomie hadn’t turned up…
    I dashed to the door. But it was locked. I began banging on it. A thick, wooden door like the door to a dungeon.
    “HERE!” I shouted.
    (A great “Here” it was too. A really meaty “Here.”)

    But nobody came. I was locked in. I was locked in for the night.

“ THIS IS ALL your fault,” I told Leo as I looked nervously around at the exhibits. It wasn’t really Leo’s fault. It was my fault. Even so.
    My gaze travelled past a man in a mask who held an axe. I looked away then quickly back again to see if he’d moved.

    Of course he hadn’t moved. None of the waxworks were going to move. They weren’t going to move. They weren’t going to come alive. And they weren’t even going to start dancing. You know why? Because they were waxworks! There are only two places waxworks come alive.
    One, in movies I’m not old enough to watch yet.
    And two, in my imagination.
    That’s what I told myself. Even as I wandered around looking for another door, feeling like I really needed the bathroom, talking to Leo the Silent as I did so. I told myself, “They’re only waxworks—they don’t come alive.”
    Okay, it was time to bring in the big guns. I reached for my phone, ready to dial 911.
    (Which would have been the wrong number for emergency services, remember? Told you it would become important.)
    But anyway, I had no bars on my phone.
    Okay , I thought, don’t panic . A place like Madame Fifi’s was going to have security. A night watchman. And pretty soon that night watchman was going to discover me. Which meant that pretty soon I’d be back with the group. Truckload of trouble etc., but still—a decent mark on the Popularity Score. No face lost.
    I listened out for the sound of a security guard. What would a security guard sound like? Shiny black boots on the stone floor. The rattle of keys on a long chain. And whistling—because people in England whistle a lot. They drink tea, eat Marmite, and whistle. It’s how they roll.
    In the end, I didn’t hear him approach at all. Which was probably quite lucky, since I would have jumped out of my skin. Instead what I heard was, “And what might you be doing here?”
    Oh, I did—jump out of my skin, I mean. And when I’d returned to my skin I found myself face to face with a very old but kindly looking security guard.

    “What’s your name?” he asked me with a smile.
    I relaxed and told him.
    “You’re American, are you?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Rafe,” he said. “My name is Albert.”
    I certainly appreciated his effort to make me feel at ease. He ushered me to the rear of the exhibit, to a door that I hadn’t seen when I’d been looking around.
    Inside was the night watchman’s office. It was a really simple set-up. A desk with what looked like an old newspaper on it. A fire with a pot of water bubbling on it. No kettle for this guy. He was heating his