Middle School: Get Me Out of Here! (4 page)

He’s right about that too. Once we hit the roof of that skyscraper, I can see for miles and miles in every direction.

“Can’t do this in Hills Village,” Leo says.

The cars below look like baby ants with tiny headlights, and the whole city is spread out in front of me like the world’s biggest game board. All I have to do now is pick my next move.

“Maybe this year isn’t going to be so bad after all,” I say.

“Well, if you like this,” Leo says, “you’re going to love the ride down.”

As we step into our portable hang glider, the sun just starts to show over the horizon. My first night in the big city has flown by already. Mom will be waking up soon, and I’ve got to head back.

But in the meantime—what a view!

O
kay, time out for a second.

If you read the last book, then you already know all about Leo. I mean, especially the part about how he’s not really real. But if that’s news to you, then there’s some other stuff you should probably know too. It’s kind of heavy, but let me get it out of the way now.

The real Leonardo was my twin brother. He got sick and died when we were both three years old. It was really sad, for sure, but it was also a long time ago. I barely remember any of it.

The point is, I’ve always wondered what Leo would be like if he were still around. I guess that’s who I’ve been talking to all this time—like an
idea
of Leo, also known as Leonardo the Silent.

So now, if you’re thinking—

—all I can tell you is, I’m not. Seriously. I’m just… well, I don’t really know what I am. Imaginative, I guess. A loner, for sure. But not cuckoo.

Mom says Leo’s my muse. That’s someone who helps an artist get ideas and think things through, even though the muse isn’t really there. And, yeah, that pretty much describes him. Leo may not be real, but in some weird way he helps me deal with
the things that are. That’s also why he’s my best friend.

Hey, I never said it wasn’t complicated. I just said I’m not crazy.

T
he next morning, Mom made really good French toast for breakfast. It’s Georgia’s favorite, with bananas and maple syrup. And extra cinnamon on mine.

“Rafe, when you’re done, I want you to put on the shirt I left out for you,” Mom said. “And clean pants, please.”

That stopped me with a mouthful of everything. Nothing good ever happens in clothes your mom picks out for you.

“What’s going on?” I said.

She just smiled and slid me some seconds. “It’s a surprise,” she said.

“Where’s Rafe going?” Georgia said. “What’s happening? Can I come?”

“Everyone’s coming,” Mom said, but that’s all she would tell. A little while later, we were piled into the car and headed up Killarney Avenue.

Mom really knew her way around the city. She pointed out the science museum, the IMAX, the ballpark, and a whole bunch of other stuff. I knew she was trying to get us excited about living here.

What I didn’t understand was why my shirt had to be tucked in right now.

Finally, I said, “Mom—please. Just tell me where we’re going.”

“Okay, okay. We’re almost there anyway,” she said. “Now, don’t be nervous—”

“What do you mean?” I said. “Why shouldn’t I be nervous?”

“Well, I know how disappointed you were about not going to Airbrook,” Mom said. “But this morning, we might be able to do something about that. You’ve got an interview, Rafe. At Cathedral School of the Arts.”

I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but that wasn’t it. I kind of thought Airbrook was a one-time opportunity.

“You mean there’s more than one of these places?” I said.

“Cathedral’s even better,” Mom said. “It’s a public school, so it’s free. But you do have to be admitted. That’s what the interview is for.”

And that’s when I realized what she meant about being nervous.

I hadn’t even seen this Cathedral place yet, and I already knew I wanted to go there. If it was anything like I was imagining, it could be the greatest school on Earth.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “How did this even happen?”

“Actually, it wasn’t me who got you the interview,” Mom said.

I looked over at Grandma.

“Don’t look at me, Ralphie,” she said. “I’m as confused as you are.”

“It was Ms. Donatello,” Mom said, and my head snapped back to her like I was watching tennis.

“Wha-huh?”

“In fact”—Mom pointed across the street from where we’d just parked—“there she is right now.”

W
hen we got out of the car, Ms. Donatello was waiting for us on the sidewalk. She had a big smile on her face and an even bigger black leather folder under her arm.

“I’ll bet you didn’t expect to see me again so soon, did you?” she said.

I didn’t expect to see her again at all, but I didn’t say that.

“Here.” She gave me the big folder. “I brought a portfolio of your artwork from last year. Now come on—we don’t want to be late!”

We followed Ms. D. through the front door and up to the main office, where the interview was supposed to happen.

On the outside, Cathedral was just some regular building, but it was pretty cool on the inside, with lots of big windows, and stairs going in all different directions. Ms. D. told us it used to be a brick factory about a hundred years ago, and Mom said things like
oh my
, and
how wonderful
.

Meanwhile, I was bringing up the rear and freaking out while nobody noticed. This was starting to look like a suicide mission. There were paintings and drawings all over the place, and as far as I could tell, every kid who went to this school was a way better artist than me.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come,” I said.

Everyone looked at me. Even Georgia.

“Rafe, you’re going to do fine,” Ms. Donatello said.

I looked at the office door. “What’s going to happen in there?”

“First, they’ll take a look at your portfolio…”