9781529120271 by Smakprov Media AB

the No. 1 bestselliNg author

JAMES PATTERSON AND MARTIN CHATTERTON

James Patterson is the internationally bestselling author of the highly praised Middle School books, Katt vs. Dogg, Ali Cross and the I Funny, Jacky Ha-Ha, Treasure Hunters, Dog Diaries and Max Einstein series. James Patterson’s books have sold more than 400 million copies worldwide, making him one of the biggest-selling authors of all time. He lives in Florida.

Martin Chatterton was born in Liverpool, England, and has been successfully writing and illustrating books for almost thirty years. He has written dozens of children’s books and illustrated many more for other writers, including several British Children’s Laureates. His work has been published in fourteen languages and has won or been shortlisted for numerous awards in the UK, US and Australia. Alongside writing for children, Martin writes crime ﬁction (as Ed Chatterton), continues to work as a graphic designer, and is currently working on his PhD. After time spent in the US, Martin now divides his time between Australia and the UK.

Jomike Tejido is an author-illustrator who has illustrated more than 100 children’s books. He is based in Manila and once got into trouble in school for passing around funny cartoons during class. He now does this for a living and shares his jokes with his daughters, Sophia and Fuji.

illustrated by jomike tejido

To the real Mr. Mann and everyone at Bathurst West Public School; Trangie Central School; St Pius X, Dubbo; Glenroi Heights; St Joseph’s Primary, Mungindi; Mungindi Central School; North Star Public School; Pallamallawa Public School; Tingha Public School; Sacred Heart Primary, Boggabri; Boggabri Public School; Dunedoo Central School; Dubbo West Public School; Kinross Wolaroi School; Canobolas Rural Technology High School; St Joseph’s Catholic School, Blayney; Oberon High School; and everyone doing it tough in the drought —MC

YOUNG ARROW

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Based on Middle School: G’Day America, published in Australia by Random House Australia Children’s 2018 First published in the UK by Young Arrow 2025 001

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ISBN: 978–1–529–12027–1

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CHAPTER 1

IT’S A LONG WAY TO THE TOP IF YOU WANNA RAFE AND ROLL

One, two, three, four!

With a noise like a rusty dumpster full of scrap metal and plate glass being dropped into a steam-powered wood chipper, the People—aka the Coolest Punk Rock Band on the Planet—launched into the smash hit anthem “Everything Sucks” from the platinum-selling My Life Stinks album.

The mosh pit at the front of the Hollywood Bowl went absolutely wild. A roar of applause came crashing back at us as I placed one of my silver platform boots on the riser and leaned into the tidal wave of love (like that woman in Titanic…only with a guitar and without Leonardo DiCaprio standing behind me). I brought down my heavily insured hand and smashed out the final chords that led into the chorus.

“Keep your broccoli, homework, your roasted duck! Brussels sprouts, detention, and all textbooks!” I screeched into the mic. “I don’t like ’em ’cause…”

“…EVERYTHING SUCKS!” the crowd yelled as one.

“I love you, Rafey!” a girl screamed from the front.

I winked at her, and she fainted (seeing as how I’m a super-famous, totally cool punk rock god and all). I made sure one of my bodyguards carried her to safety (I may be a super-famous, totally cool punk rock god, but I still care about the fans) and then did a backward scissor kick with a triple jeté.

Behind me, the drummer was laying down a beat on the drums so intense it made your insides wobble. To my left, the magic fingers of Jason “the Changmeister” Chang were flying across the keyboard. The People were on fire, and— “FOR THE LAST TIME, RAFE, TURN THAT MUSIC DOWN!”

Reality, in the shape of my mom, came crashing

into my daydream. It was day one of band practice and, instead of performing to a sold-out crowd of adoring fans at the Hollywood Bowl, we were practicing in my garage in Hills Village. And we absolutely sucked.

CHAPTER 2

I’LL TAKE THE NON-POUNDING OPTION, THANKS

It’s not as if I ever wanted to be in a band. For starters, I couldn’t play an instrument and I’d never been that interested in music. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I listen to music.

I’m just not one of those trendsetters who always seem to know exactly what’s hot and (more importantly) what’s not at all times. Want to find out about the best beats, the next big thing, the catchiest new song? Do not ask Rafe Khatchadorian. By the time people like me know what the coolest thing is—whether that’s music or clothes or movies or whatever—it instantly becomes UNCOOL.

Anyway, back to the story…

So, I hear you ask, seeing as how you aren’t cool and don’t really like music and all, how’d you end up in a band then, Captain Smarty-pants?

The truth is, this whole thing started with the scariest, meanest kid at school, Chuck Thompson. Chuck moved to Hills Village last semester. For those of you who’ve read my books, you know that bullies and I generally don’t get along. This is Chuck:

Scary, huh?

Since then, it’s like Chuck tapped in for Miller the Killer, tag-team-wrestling style, and he zeroed in on their favorite victim: me.

Anytime he gets slightly bored, Chuck thinks nothing of making my life (more of) a misery. Sometimes, he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. It’s just an instinct for him. So, like I said, that was the situation between me and Chuck.

CHAPTER 3

YOU’RE THE CREATIVE GENIUS. RIGHT, GENIUS?

Now, the bad thing about being Chuck Thompson’s victim is that Chuck gets ideas from time to time. And when he gets one of those ideas, guess where he takes ’em? That’s right, straight to me.

Last Tuesday, just after school had finished, my friendly neighborhood bully cornered me with a total doozy. I was practicing staring into space when Chuck stomped over, took off his headphones, jabbed a finger the size of a hot dog (and bun) into my chest, and asked me if I played guitar.

“No,” I said, hoping that I’d just gotten myself off the hook with whatever lousy idea he’d dreamed up. Although I hadn’t exactly been paying much attention to what Chuck had been doing, now that I stopped to think about it, he had started wearing headphones and T-shirts with band names on them. Maybe this guitar thing had something to do with that?

Chuck eyed me suspiciously. “I thought you played guitar,” he said, like maybe I was a secret guitar player who was holding out on him. “You sure you don’t play guitar, Khatchadorian?”

“Yep,” I said, nodding. “I mean, nope. I mean, yep, I’m sure, but no, I don’t play guitar.”

Smooth, huh? Even when Chuck isn’t pounding me, the sheer anticipation of getting pounded has that effect on me.

“Whatever,” Chuck said with a shrug. “You’ll learn. I’m learning the drums. It’s easy.”

So that was it. I was learning guitar.

It seemed that this time Chuck had gotten it into his head that he was going to form a band, plus I was going to be the lead guitarist in that band. He told me he’d already recruited Jason Chang, another one of his favorite victims, on the keyboard, and was looking for a bass guitarist. That’s how he said it—he was “looking”…as if he were a band manager or something.

“By the way, we’re called the Village People,” he added.

A dim memory of my mom singing along to a group of cowboys and construction workers popped

into my head. “Um…aren’t they…already a band?” I asked.

“Well, we’re people and we’re from a village, right?” Chuck said. He cracked his knuckles and stared at me from under that overhanging forehead of his.

“Anything you say,” I said, and raised a fist in the air. “Yay, the Village People!”

Chuck nodded. “And we’re gonna win the crummy Best New Band competition. I already entered us. We’ve got six weeks to get good.”

I should mention that the “crummy” he’s talking about is KRMY, the Hills Village radio station. Their annual Best New Band competition comes with a $5,000 cash prize.

Only thing is, the competition is for bands who can, you know, actually play. We had absolutely zero chance of winning. I didn’t even know what kind of band Chuck wanted us to be. Punk?

Thrash? Grunge? Rap? Hungarian folk metal?

“What kind of band are we?” I asked. I’d realized by now that nothing on the planet was going to stop Chuck from either:

1. making me be in his stupid band; or 2. pounding me into mush.

Unsurprisingly, I opted for (1).

“How would I know?” Chuck growled. “That’s your job, Khatchadorian. You’re the creative genius. Right, genius? Duh.” Yep. So, no pressure.

CHAPTER 4

INVASION OF THE HIPSTERS

On my way home from school, I was still trying to figure out how I was going to get out of Chuck’s grand plan, when I turned the corner and saw something so shockingly un–Hills Village, my lower jaw hit the sidewalk with a CLANG! and bounced straight back up. All thoughts of Chuck and his music dreams blew straight out of my head as I gazed in wonder at a sight never before seen in Hills Village: a man bun.

Yup, that’s right. An actual real-life man bun. A topknot. A—Wait, hold on just a second. Maybe I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

Do you all know what I’m talking about when I say “man bun”? What I’m saying? Of course you do. You guys probably live in cities full of hipsters.

You’re probably knee-deep in man buns and waxed mustaches and oiled beards.

Not in Hills Village. We’ve never been hip. Which was why it was so weird to see a full-blown hipster right in the middle of town.

I’ll begin with the man bun. It was a big one, which meant this dude really needed a man bun, otherwise his glossy locks would come down to his knees. Below the man bun was a face—would’ve been real weird if there wasn’t, right?—which was mostly hidden behind a black beard that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a pirate ship.

This impressive bit of face fur was topped off by a waxed mustache with curly ends.

He was wearing a retro nylon shirt so grungy that it had to be hip, and no shoes.

Don’t get me wrong. If this guy didn’t want to wear shoes, that was entirely his business.

But wearing no shoes in Hills Village? That’s dangerous.

I mean, it’s not like our town is a total dump or anything, but we have our fair share of broken glass, doggy doo-doo, and stuff like that. This dude was committed.

The hipster was standing in front of a hardware store that had shut down last year. There was a fresh coat of paint on the door and newspaper over the windows. A sign that read java haus: coffee. vinyl. yoga. hung from the front. He turned and noticed me staring.

“How’s it hanging, dude?” He shook my hand. “Sidney Harper. From California.”

The hipster was from California? No surprise there. They practically invented cool.

“I’ve been a few times.” I shrugged like it was no big deal, hoping to score some points with Sidney.

He waved a hand at the sign. “What do you think?”

“What are you selling? The coffee makes sense, but where do vinyl and yoga come in?”

Sid grinned. “Glad you asked! Let me show you,” he said, swinging open the front door. “This joint is sick!”

I stepped into Java Haus. If only I’d known that things would never be quite the same again (or at least not until the end of this story).