The Worst Class Trip Ever (3 page)

I went back to my seat. Behind me I could hear Suzana and her friends giggling. Now I really did wish I could jump out the emergency exit.

“What was
that
all about?” said Matt.

“Shut up,” I said.

“Listen,” he said, not shutting up, “the guys behind us were watching you.”

“Great.”

“No,
listen
. While they were watching you, I got a look at what they were looking at.”

“Good for you.”

“And get this. They’re looking at aerial photographs.”

“So?”

“They’re aerial photographs of the
White House
.”

I looked at him. “Are you sure?”

He nodded twice really fast, up-down-up-down, and whispered, “Aerial photographs
of the White House
.”

I thought about that for a couple of seconds. “There could be a simple explanation,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like, I dunno, they’re tourists, and they’ll be walking around the White House area, and they want to see what’s around there, from the air.” Even while I was
saying this, it sounded stupid.

Matt shook his head. “Tourists use
maps
. Not aerial photographs.”

I ducked down and snuck a peek between Matt’s and my seatbacks at the weird guys behind us. They were looking at something, and they were definitely hunching over it like they didn’t
want anybody walking past in the aisle to see. But from my angle, I got a quick glimpse. And Matt was right: It was a photo of the White House, taken from the air. I looked back at Matt. He raised
his eyebrows.

“See?” he said.

“What do you think they’re doing?”

“Add it up,” he said. “There’s two weird guys, both carrying things that they’re acting all weird about, right?”

“Right.”

“And now they’re looking at an aerial photograph of the White House, right?”

“Right.”

“Now think about it: What does this airplane practically fly
right over
when we get to Washington?”

I thought about it. I went to Washington with my family in fourth grade, and I remembered that when the plane was landing, it flew over the Potomac River, and my dad was pointing to famous stuff
out the left-side window, really close—the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial…and the White House.

“Oh, man,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Matt. “And you laughed when I said they had a missile.”

“But they can’t have a missile. They got through airport security.”

Matt snorted. “Did you
see
those airport security people? I think you could drive a tank past them, as long as it didn’t contain any liquids.”

“No, seriously, there’s no way they could—”

“Okay, okay, say it’s not a missile. Maybe it’s some other kind of weapon, something that has two pieces, and it’s only dangerous if you put them together. One piece is
in the big guy’s black bag up there, and the other’s in the weird little dude’s backpack. When we get near Washington, they put the pieces together and it forms some kind of new
thing that does something bad.”

“Like what?”

“Like blow up the plane. Or it’s some kind of high-tech gun, or a thing they can use to smash through the cockpit door. I don’t know what it is. But it’s
something
.”

I thought about it some more. Matt can be an idiot, but he’s not a
complete
idiot.

I said, “So what should we do?”

“Maybe we should tell the flight attendant.”

I looked toward the front of the plane. The mean eighty-jillion-year-old flight attendant was glaring around the cabin like she was about to cast a spell and turn everybody into a frog. I
imagined what it would be like to go up to her and tell her that we thought the two guys behind us were terrorists, based on…based on not a whole lot, really.

“Why don’t you tell her?” I said.

“
I’m
not gonna tell her,” said Matt. “Why don’t you tell her?”

“She already hates me,” I said.

“I think she hates everybody,” said Matt.

“Okay,” I said. “We won’t say anything now. But we’ll watch them. If they do anything weird, especially when we’re getting near the White House, we’ll
do something.”

“Like what?”

“Like yell. Or something.”

“That’s our plan? We yell? Or something?”

“Do you have a better plan?”

“No.”

“Then that’s our plan.”

For the next hour or so we just sat there feeling nervous. I was so nervous I didn’t even think about Suzana. Every now and then we snuck a peek back between the seats at the weird guys.
They had put away the photograph and mostly talked in low voices. The little guy kept the backpack on his lap.

Then the pilot announced that we were beginning our descent into Washington. He said there was turbulence and it was going to be “a little bumpy” and everybody should make sure their
seat belts were fastened. They told us to turn off our laptop computers and put everything away. Matt and I peeked back and saw that the weird little guy still had his backpack in his lap. The
eighty-jillion-year-old flight attendant came by and stopped next to him.

“Sir,” she said. “You have to put that away.”

“I would prefer to hold it,” he said.

“Sir,” she said, and you could tell she was about to lose it,
“you have to put it away.”

The little guy looked like he was about to say something. But then he put it away. The backpack was now right under Matt’s seat.

We could feel the plane descending, then turning. We were over the Potomac River now. Matt and I were sneaking a lot of peeks back. The two weird guys were staring out the window. The air
started getting bumpy.
Really
bumpy. Stuff on the plane was rattling and people were making nervous sounds. The plane was really low now. I could see buildings out the left-side window. I
peeked back. The two weird guys were glued to the window, the big guy leaning over into the little guy’s seat, the two of them staring out.

“We’re coming up on the White House,” said Matt.

Right then the plane bumped hard. It felt like we slammed into an elephant in midair. Some people screamed. I was really scared. There was another huge bump and the whole plane lurched sideways.
More screams.

Suddenly Matt grabbed my arm and said, “He’s getting the backpack!” I looked back and saw that the little weird guy was leaning down toward the storage area under Matt’s
seat.

“We gotta stop him!” said Matt.

I was going to ask him how, but before I could say anything he turned around and slid down off his seat onto the floor, into the foot space.

“What are you
doing
?” I said, but then I saw. He was reaching under his seat and grabbing the guy’s backpack, trying to pull it through the opening under his seat.

“No!” shouted the little weird guy, from behind us. “Let go of that! Let go!”

Now there was a tug-of-war going on, with Matt trying to pull the backpack forward and the little weird guy trying to pull it back. The little weird guy kept yelling at Matt to let go, but he
wouldn’t. The big weird guy leaned forward over the seat, also yelling at Matt and trying to grab him, but he had his seat belt on, so Matt was too low for him to reach. People around us saw
what was happening, but the plane was still bumping and shaking pretty hard, so most of the passengers were too busy being nervous to notice. Outside the window I could see the land getting closer,
and then
whump
the plane touched down hard, bounced, and then stayed down. Some people cheered. Meanwhile Matt and the little weird guy were still fighting their tug–of-war, the little
guy still shouting at Matt to let go of the backpack. The big weird guy was standing up now, leaning over into our row.

“Sir! Sit down!” This was the eighty-jillion-year-old flight attendant shouting over the P.A. system. The big guy sat down, but he kept trying to reach Matt. The plane was slowing
down. More people were looking at our row, trying to see what the yelling was about. The eighty-jillion-year-old flight attendant was coming down the aisle toward us, looking very unhappy.

“Got it!” said Matt, pulling the backpack all the way through the seat.

“GIVE IT TO ME!” shouted the little guy, practically diving over the seat, grabbing at Matt.

Matt was leaning over the backpack, protecting it with his body. I could see he was unzipping one of the side pockets. Now both the big guy and the little guy were leaning over him. The big guy
grabbed him under his arms and started lifting him, pulling him right up through the seat belt.

“Wyatt, here!” said Matt. He shoved the backpack at me, and without really thinking about it, I took it. Which meant I was holding it when the flight attendant got to our row. The
plane had just rolled to a stop, and pretty much everybody was now looking in our direction.

“What’s going on here?” said the flight attendant. “Why are you holding that boy?”

The big guy let go of Matt, who plopped back down into his seat.

“That boy has my property!” shouted the little guy, pointing at me.

So now everybody on the plane was looking at me. Not Matt. Me.

“Is that his backpack?” said the flight attendant.

“Um,” I said. Which I admit was not a brilliant statement, but it was definitely smarter than what Matt said, which was, quote: “It has a bomb in it!”

You can imagine what a big hit
that
was, on a crowded airplane. People started screaming and trying to get away, but we were still taxiing on the runway, so the doors were closed, and
there was nowhere to go.

“QUIET!” shouted a deep voice, so loud that people actually got pretty quiet. “Everybody back in your seats
now
.”

The deep voice belonged to a wide man in jeans and a sweater who was coming down the aisle from first class. People were getting out of his way and sitting back down.

“I’m a Federal Air Marshal,” the wide man said. “What’s going on here?”

The flight attendant pointed to me and said, “He says he has a bomb.”

This was not really true, but before I could point that out, the marshal said to me, “What’s your name, son?”

“Wyatt Palmer.”

“What’s in that backpack?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why’d you say it was a bomb?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“I did,” said Matt.

The wide man looked at Matt.

“And you are?”

“Matthew Diaz.”

“Okay, why did
you
say it was a bomb?”

Matt pointed at the two weird guys behind us and said, “It belongs to them and they were acting weird.”

“How were they acting weird?”

“They were looking at aerial photos of the White House.”

The marshal looked at the two guys and said, “Is that true?”

The big guy said, “Yes.” He held up a book. On the cover was an aerial photo of the Capitol. The book was titled
Washington from the Air
. “We are tourists,” said
the big guy. “We are first time coming to city of Washington, so we are reading this book.”

The marshal looked at Matt. “So that’s why you thought they had a bomb?”

“Not just that!” said Matt. He pointed at the little guy. “When the plane was coming over the White House, he was reaching for his backpack!”

The marshal looked at the little guy and said, “Were you reaching for the backpack?”

“No,” said the little guy. “I was reaching for this.” He held up a barf bag. It looked full.

“Ew,” said Suzana Delgado.

The marshal looked at me and said, “Give me the backpack.” I gave it to him. He looked at the little guy and said, “Do you mind if I look inside?”

I thought the little guy hesitated just a tenth of a second before he said, “No, is fine.”

The marshal unzipped the backpack and looked inside. He looked up at the little guy and said, “Mind if I take it out?”

The little guy nodded. “Of course,” he said. “But please be careful.”

The marshal set the backpack down on a seat, reached inside, and pulled out…

A dragon’s head.

It was made out of some lightweight material and painted a million colors. It had big buggy eyes and an open mouth filled with long sharp fangy-looking teeth.

The marshal held it up and looked at it. “Nice,” he said.

“Thank you,” said the little guy. “I made it. I am artist. I make traditional folk art from my country.”

“And what country is that?”

“Gadakistan. Is near—”

“I know where it is.” The marshal put the dragon head back into the backpack and handed it to the little guy. He looked at Matt and me. It wasn’t a friendly look.

“Listen,” said Matt. “I still think…”

I grabbed his arm. “Shut up,” I said.

“But there’s—”

“Just for once shut
up
, okay?”

The plane was at the gate now, and the front door was opening. People were standing and getting their stuff down from the overhead storage. I reached down to get my backpack, hoping that somehow
all this would just go away. But…

“Hold it,” said the marshal, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You boys are staying right here.”

Matt and I sat in our seats while everybody else got off the plane, except Mr. Barto, who stood with his arms folded, staring at us. The worst was when other kids went past us. Some of them were
laughing. Suzana looked at me and just shook her head.

The two weird guys took their time getting ready to leave, so they were almost the last ones off. The big guy got his long black bag down from the overhead, and the two of them headed for the
front of the plane. When they got there, the little one turned and looked back. He made sure the marshal wasn’t looking his way. Then he looked straight at me and Matt, held up his backpack,
and smiled at us.

A really creepy smile.