Middle School: Rafe's Aussie Adventure, Page 3

  Maybe the hail was popcorn. Nothing would surprise me about Australia. For all I knew the hailstones contained exploding poison darts, or possessed claws, or six sets of fangs. Everything else in this country seemed to have unnecessary protective armor.

  Or the chicken possibly had a head made of solid granite.

  Either way, he didn’t seem to notice.

  The chicken’s car, on the other hand, took a beating. I watched a wing mirror get caught by a particularly large hailstone and crash to the ground. Ice rat-a-tat-tatted the roof, and the windscreen cracked in three places. The chicken didn’t seem to mind. Maybe these giant chickens had plenty of spare cars.

  “G’day, you blokes!” the chicken boomed. He lifted his wings and pulled off his head to reveal someone who looked very much like Blitz Coogan. “Biff Coogan’s the name, and I’m mayor of this joint!” Biff Coogan pointed at his chicken suit. “I don’t normally dress like this, but me and Mrs. Coogan have got a fancy-dress party coming up and I’ve been to pick up my costume. Thought I’d leave it on and give you a bit of a laugh!”

  “Ha ha,” I said, doing my best.

  It seemed to satisfy Biff.

  “What about your car?” I asked. “Aren’t you …?”

  Biff glanced at the car. “Oh, that’s not mine. It’s Mrs. Coogan’s. My car had a bit of a run-in with the hailstones, but this car’s a beaut. She’ll—”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “She’ll be right, mate?”

  “You got it, buddy,” said Biff. ‘We’ll make an Aussie of you yet!”

  It was obvious he’d been in Australia a long time. Any trace of an American accent had gone. He sounded more Australian than any of the Australians we had met so far.

  He stepped forward and shook Mom’s hand.

  “Ha!” she said. “I mean, hi. Ny mane’th Rafe and this son is my Jules. I mean, my name’s Rafejools and this son is my. Wait, what I mean—”

  She might have been trying to look like she wasn’t auditioning for a role in a zombie flick, but, sure as sharks have teeth, she wasn’t succeeding. She sounded as if her tongue had been replaced by a drowsy ferret.

  Biff didn’t seem to notice.

  “No worries, Rafejools! Welcome to Australia!” Biff opened the doors to what was left of Mrs. Coogan’s car. “Pity we couldn’t have fixed up some sun for you guys. Okay, let’s go!”

  We made a death-defying leap through the hail and into the relative safety of the back seat. The noise inside the car was even louder than in the bus shelter. Biff looked round at us.

  “You blokes are traveling light!” he yelled.

  I didn’t bother explaining. I was too tired. The bags would turn up or they wouldn’t. After twenty-six hours on the move, plus a sleepless night before that, I didn’t care if the bags ended up in Saskatchewan.

  I sat back and watched as we drove through town. A sign read WELCOME TO SHARK BAY, AUSTRALIA’S MOST FEARLESS TOWN.

  “Most fearless?” I said. “What’s that all about?”

  “Shark Bay surfers,” Biff replied. “We got sharks here in Shark Bay—lots of sharks—but that never stops a Shark Bay surfer!”

  I gulped and exchanged a meaningful look with Leo.

  “Did he say ‘lots’?” Leo asked.

  I nodded.

  “Oh boy.”

  “But don’t worry,” Biff said, “hardly anyone gets eaten. Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “How far to the hotel?” All I wanted was a shower and a bed I could sleep in for, say, three weeks straight.

  “Oh, you’ll be staying at our little beach shack,” Biff said as he swerved round a tree in the middle of the road. He turned in his seat and grinned. “More cosy than a hotel, hey?”

  I sat up and looked at Leo.

  A shack? That hadn’t been part of the deal. I’d thought it’d be some swanky five-star resort, not some complete stranger’s back bedroom.

  “I didn’t know about this!” I hissed.

  “Of course, Rafe,” Mom said. She had a strange, glassy expression on her face and her skin looked a bit green. I began to wonder about those travel pills she’d been popping on the plane. She had mentioned something about side effects.

  “I mean, we don’t know these people!”

  “Mmm, yeah, apples,” Mom said, nodding. Her eyes wobbled in different directions. “And oranges. Christmas stockings.”

  I looked at her. “Mom, are you okay?”

  “What a strange question, Rafe. Of course I’m Wednesday.”

  And then, before anyone could stop her, Mom leaned forward and puked all over the back of Biff Coogan’s head.

  It was a full-on pedal-to-the-metal puke tornado, too, not a measly quarter or half-hurl. It was the real deal, chunks blown, projectile Vom City to the maximillion. It was messy. It was loud. It was spewtastic.

  It was probably the single most awesome thing I’d ever seen.

  AS YOU CAN IMAGINE, the atmosphere inside the car cooled right down. In fact, the temperature dropped so much that you could have used the inside of the car as a training pod for an Antarctic expedition.

  Everyone froze (I couldn’t resist).

  “Woah,” I said. It seemed to sum up the situation.

  Getting puked on by a complete stranger can’t be much fun. Getting puked on by a complete stranger while dressed as a chicken must have been much, much worse.

  And funnier, too, although a big part of me felt really (like, really) bad for Mom. She couldn’t help herself, I wanted to say. I wanted to explain to Biff that a combination of jet lag, heat, travel pills, and an Aussie Airways tuna bake had combined to turn my polite mom into a walking puke machine, but Biff didn’t look like he wanted anyone to talk to him, least of all me.

  But, I thought, my hopes rising, we’re in Australia. They have a different sense of humor to the rest of the world. They’re used to sharks and snakes and poisonous flowers. Maybe being puked on was regarded as a bit of harmless fun Down Under?

  No such luck. Biff wasn’t giving even the slightest hint that any part of being puked on came within the same solar system of being “fun”.

  And—this is just a hunch—Mom puking on the mayor was probably the wrong way to start a cultural exchange. Right now, the chances of Hills Valley and Shark Bay becoming best buds looked about as likely as me playing football on the moon.

  “I. Am. So. So. So. So. Sorry,” Mom said. “Really sorry, Mayor Coogan. I couldn’t help it.”

  She started trying to wipe the worst of the gunge off Biff’s neck but only managed to squidge a chunky gloop of it right down the back of his chicken suit.

  Biff squirmed out of her reach. He yanked a box of tissues toward him and began wiping the puke off by himself. Disregarding the hurricane outside, I wound down the window to let in some fresh air. I was beginning to feel a little pukey myself. I didn’t think Biff would appreciate a repeat performance. Being puked on once is bad enough.

  “She’s been taking some travel pills,” I shouted above the howling gale filling the car. “That must be it.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” Mom said, “I do feel a lot better now.” Then she closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.

  A low rumbling noise, like someone dragging a heavy anchor over concrete, filled the car. It was loud enough to be clearly heard above the roar of the wind and hail. At first I thought we’d hit something and lost a tire and the noise was the wheel scraping across the road, but I realized it was Biff grinding his teeth. He was the angriest looking giant chicken I’d ever seen.

  He said nothing, but I could tell by the vicious twist he gave the steering wheel to avoid a speedboat resting upside down in the middle of an intersection that he was about a millisecond away from turning round and putting us on the next bus back to Sydney. One more incident and I had no doubt that he’d mutate into a sort of Biffzilla and the whole Shark Bay/Hills Valley experiment would turn into a massive Khatchadorian-related disaster.

 
; I imagined slinking back home, a failure once more. It wasn’t a good thought.

  “Maybe we should take her to the hospital,” Biff said, when he had finally unclenched his puke-spotted jaw.

  “Nah,” I replied. “She’ll be right, mate.”

  I couldn’t resist.

  THE COOGANS’ “SHACK” sprawled across most of the headland that wrapped around one end of Shark Bay. The moment we arrived the hail stopped. It was like someone had thrown a switch and the clouds were split by a beam of sunlight that lit up the place like a stage spotlight. I half-expected a choir of angels to start warbling.

  Being a mayor must pay pretty well, because I’d seen smaller airports than Biff Coogan’s beach shack.

  In the driveway, a tall blond kid about my age stopped doing ollies on his skateboard and stared at me.

  It wasn’t a friendly look. His eyes reminded me of the drop bear.

  “Brad, this is Ralph Katchadoorhandle,” Biff said as he stepped out of the car. “Ralph, this is my son, Brad.”

  “Eew!” Brad said, pointing at Biff’s puke-encrusted neck. “What in the name of Hugh Jackman’s sideburns is that gunk?”

  Biff shook his head and stomped toward the house.

  “That’s, er, puke,” I said.

  “You puked on Dad? Why?”

  “No! My mom puked on your dad,” I said, like that was okay.

  Brad looked at me and then at Mom in the car. “But she’s asleep.”

  “No,” I said. “Well, yes, she is now, so she couldn’t. But, no, she wasn’t then, so she could have. And did. Puked, I mean.”

  If I’m being honest, it wasn’t the clearest answer I’d ever given. Even I could hardly understand it.

  Brad opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. You could almost see his brain trying to work out the sequence of events.

  “Okay,” he managed in the end. A blonde girl who looked a lot like Brad appeared next to him. I guessed she was Brad’s twin sister. I’m quick like that.

  “What’s that?” she said, pointing at me like I was some sort of exotic slug. From the expression on her face I think she may have preferred the slug.

  Brad shrugged. “Some American dude,” he said. “Puked all over the old bloke. Fair dinkum.”

  “Ew, gross!”

  “I didn’t!” I protested.

  “This is Belinda,” Brad said.

  Belinda looked at me briefly again and shook her head.

  I wanted to tell her how tired we were and that it wasn’t me who had puked on her dad, but I didn’t have the energy. Instead, I opened my mouth and, without warning, puked all over Belinda.

  LET’S JUST SAY that Belinda took being puked on a lot worse than her dad.

  For a moment there I thought she was going to beam me with Brad’s skateboard, but her desire to clean my puke off her was too great. Belinda fled into the house, swearing undying hatred and vengeance against me in particular, and Americans in general.

  I didn’t blame her.

  I would have felt exactly the same way if a random Australian showed up at Hills Valley and hurled chunks all over me. The fact that I couldn’t help myself didn’t mean zip.

  Brad, on the other hand, thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

  “Awesome,” Brad said. He jumped onto his skateboard and disappeared down the driveway.

  A few minutes later, after I’d got Mom out of the car, Mrs. Coogan stepped out the door. She must have heard all about the pukey Americans because I noticed she stayed a few paces out of hurl range.

  Barb wasted no time showing us to our rooms and demonstrating exactly how the showers worked.

  “Take your time,” she said.

  Thirty minutes later, showered and changed and feeling more like our old selves, we came downstairs to eat. I was dead tired and, surprisingly, very hungry. I imagined that we’d be eating giant cockroaches cooked on the barbie2 or something, but we had regular steaks and burgers and fries and salad. The only weird thing was the beetroot Mrs. Coogan insisted on putting on the burger. Beetroot—I know.

  Belinda didn’t speak to me. I don’t know if that would have been any different if I hadn’t puked on her. I tried to apologize but got the brush-off.

  A bunch of Brad and Belinda’s friends came round for dinner. They were all just like them—all teeth and hair and tans. They were too good-looking, too tall, too fit, and too pleased with themselves. Going back to my well-established pod-people theories, this could only mean one thing: Brad and Belinda Coogan and all their friends were just too perfect to be human.

  I think Mrs. Coogan thought having Brad and Belinda’s friends there would make it easier for me to become part of their little circle. If that was the idea, it didn’t look like it was going to work. I hated Brad and Belinda’s friends on sight, and they hated me. It looked like Rafe Khatchadorian was not going to be warmly welcomed into the Shark Bay surfer community, but I was so tired I didn’t care. I just hoped that not everyone in Australia would be like Brad and Belinda’s crew.

  By eight o’clock I could feel my eyes closing and Mom must have felt the same. We made our excuses and crawled to our rooms.

  “Sleep tight, Rafe,” Mom said as she opened her door.

  I muttered something back but it might as well have been in Swahili. All I could think about was sleep, glorious sleep. I pushed open my bedroom door and looked at the bed with something like love.

  Less than thirty seconds later I slid between the sheets, closed my eyes, and dropped off the edge of the world into the deepest sleep of my life.

  THERE’S NO SLEEP like jet-lag sleep. It was like being under anesthetic. I sank into the soft billowing pillows, which soon turned into soft billowing clouds, and then I was gone. For a time there was just velvety blackness and then I began to dream I was tightrope-walking across a river. It wasn’t a bad dream—the tightrope was wide and fat and warm beneath my feet. I wrapped my toes around the rope and kept walking.

  The only trouble was that the wind started rising and the rope began moving up and down and from side to side. It became harder and harder for me to cling on, so I reached down and wrapped my arms tight around that rope and hung on as if my life depended on it. The rope was moving so much that it was wrapping itself around my legs and—

  “This is not a drill, soldier! Mayday! I repeat, mayday!”

  Leo’s voice cut through my dream like a chainsaw through a meringue. My eyes popped open, but I couldn’t see a thing in the darkened room. After a moment I realized that the tightrope was still moving.

  That’s weird, I thought. The tightrope was in my dream, wasn’t it? How could it still be moving?

  “The lights!” Leo screamed. “Hit the lights!”

  I reached across and fumbled for the bedside lamp. My finger found the switch and I saw that the thing coiled around my feet and legs wasn’t a tightrope.

  It was a giant SNAKE!

  YOU KNOW THE movie Snakes on a Plane? This was Snake in the Bed. Much, much, much scarier. Mainly because it was happening to me in REAL LIFE and not to Samuel L. Jackson on a Hollywood movie set.

  The snake and I stared at one another and time seemed to stop. Then, at incredible speed, a number of things happened all at once.

  It is said by brainy scientists that it is aerodynamically impossible for a human being to fly. The laws of physics do not allow it.

  And what I would say to those scientists is this: Quit flapping your gums, Einsteins. You might know plenty about science and mathematics, but you don’t know diddly squat about what a human is capable of when they find a snake in their bed. But if you wanted to conduct an experiment to find out, all you’d have to do was place one terrified teen (for the sake of argument, let’s call him Rafe Khatchadorian) in close proximity to a giant snake, and you will see unaided human flight take place in about two seconds flat. Guaranteed.

  Once I had computed the impossible information that there was, in fact, a snake in my bed, I levitate
d so fast that I bounced off the ceiling, spun around in midair, and rocketed out of the room at approximately 926 miles an hour without my feet touching the ground once.

  Did I mention I was screaming?

  Well, I was—loudly and without drawing breath and in a voice so high I was surprised the windows didn’t shatter. As soon as I clapped eyes on the reptile in my bed I screamed like a police siren that didn’t seem to have an OFF switch.

  I screamed as I hurtled down the Coogans’ landing, I screamed as I clattered down the stairs, and I was still screaming as I sprinted into the crowded living room, tripped over a coffee table and somersaulted into the TV, which exploded in a totally impressive shower of sparks and smoke. I was left sprawled half over the coffee table with my foot resting in a cake, my butt stuck up high in the air and my face buried in the carpet.

  Even for me, it wasn’t a good look.

  See?

  “SNNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKE!” I howled, lifting my chin from the shag pile. “S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S-S-SNAAAAAAAAAKKKKKE!”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Biff and Barb Coogan looked at me and then at the busted TV.

  “Snake?” I said. My voice went up at the end of the word like I was asking a question (the way Australians speak). Maybe I was turning Australian. Maybe I was asking a question. Maybe there hadn’t been a snake?

  Brad and Belinda and all their surfy-alien-mutant friends laughed. They laughed until tears ran down their perfect cheeks. They would stop laughing for a second and then see my yellow underwear with the space rockets and start laughing all over again.

  “Stop,” one kid gasped, holding his hands up. “I can’t breathe!” And then he rolled over, his shoulders shaking.