The Luckiest Kid in the World, page 9
My stomach ached for an hour afterwards and my eyes felt clean from the crying. And I laughed because I was surprised.
Surprises are the best. Not knowing whether you’ll like something and then loving it. That’s life-changing stuff right there.
But, if all your fun is tested out beforehand, well, where’s the fun in that?
If all your fun is carefully measured out, or mixed in a test tube, or handed to you like a doctor’s prescription, or printed out by a computer… well, that’s not real fun. It’s factory-made fun.
And maybe – just maybe – I could make Mr Albert realise this too.
‘Okay, so I’ve given you all the code,’ I say, pressing SEND on my phone and inviting Joe 2, Darren and Mickey to JOIN ALBERT APP. I’d managed to sneak an old phone of Mum’s that still had some credit on it out of her desk drawer. Mickey couldn’t stop giggling about having her own phone now.
Mr Albert had included an INVITE FRIENDS option, and I intended to make good use of it. Mainly because it would be less work for me.
‘So the first thing we need to do is to secretly change our identities,’ I say, pointing my finger in the air importantly as we walk into town: me, Joe 2, Mickey and Darren.
‘That sounds quite difficult,’ says Joe 2. ‘I don’t know how my parents would feel about that. It’s not the sort of thing we normally do.’
But that’s exactly it! None of us should be doing what we normally do!
‘I don’t mean on the app or in real life. I just mean, like, the way we think,’ I say.
‘You mean like an alternative persona,’ says Darren, and I go, ‘Exactly!’
It’s very simple. If we change our identities for the day, we can think like other people. We’ll make different choices and do different things. We’ll be free.
‘Can I be French?’ says Mickey.
‘You can,’ I say, ‘and I will be… Joe the Incredible! The kid who’ll try anything!’
Joe 2 laughs.
‘And what does Joe the Incredible do?’ he says.
‘Incredible things!’ I say. ‘Un-normal, un-average things! And then he logs them in his Albert app and sends the results off to a whole bunch of people who analyse them. And you’re going to help me.’
‘I will be Darren the Unusual,’ says Darren, whose code has been ACCEPTED.
‘And I will call myself Dr Weirdo!’ says Joe 2, whose code has been ACCEPTED.
‘And you can call me Crystal Frenchlady!’ says Mickey, whose code has been ACCEPTED.
‘Oh wow, LOOK!’ says Darren.
I wasn’t expecting that.
With each ACCEPTED friend, the app added a £50 credit.
* * *
Well, now we had money in our pockets and songs in our hearts.
The bus was headed straight to the greatest place on earth.
Not Space Mountain.
Not Disney World.
But Milton Keynes.
Milton Keynes had everything we needed because it has everything everyone needs, so long as they’ve got a few quid a weird man called Mr Albert gave them.
Darren and Joe 2 were jittery with excitement.
‘And we can spend this on anything?’ Joe 2 keeps saying.
All they had to do was tap their phone, and Mr Albert would pay for whatever it was. Because the information would be worth far more than £50 to him.
‘They’ll know we’re on this bus,’ I say. ‘They’ll be watching to see what we eat, where we eat, what we like, where we go next, what activities we do, what shops we go into, what shops we walk past…’
And, when the bus stops, the four of us stand outside and take in this vast and beautiful building in all its glory.
Activi-T Milton Keynes.
‘I’ve heard of this place,’ says Joe 2 in wonder. ‘It is said it contains within it everything the average child could ever need or want.’
It is true.
Inside Activi-T Milton Keynes were arcade games. VR Rooms. Trampoline Parks. Laser Quests. A Snow Zone. A Water Kingdom. Indoor Skydiving. Cinemas with chairs that moved up and down and sprayed water in your face when appropriate, which is never. Everything.
‘Well,’ says Darren. ‘What first?’
I know exactly what.
‘Four child tickets to Milton Keynes Museum, please,’ I say to the old lady, who seems absolutely delighted to see us and has glasses so thick I’m amazed she can see anything.
‘Fans of local history?’ she says, winking with her huge magnified eyes, as me, Joe 2 and Mickey tap our phones on the card reader to gain entry.
But Darren can’t bring himself to do it.
‘This… feels wrong,’ he says, all trembly. ‘What are we doing here?’ But Mickey slaps Darren’s phone down and he accidentally pays the £6 fee.
‘Come on,’ I say, seeing a sign. ‘There’s a lawnmower exhibition!’
I don’t actually want to see lawnmowers. I just want Mr Albert to think that four average kids would go all the way to Milton Keynes, then totally ignore indoor rock climbing and rally karts so that they could go and look at some old green lawnmowers instead.
This will be good for the museums of this world, but also the lawnmower industry, as well as messing with Mr Albert’s computer data.
‘Remember, they’ll be tracking us on a map,’ I say. ‘Keep walking round and round the lawnmowers. They will think kids are totally obsessed with lawnmowers. They will think we have to look at lawnmowers from all angles at least fifteen times.’
And when we’ve done that for ages, and we’ve each rated the museum’s lawnmowers FIVE STARS!, Mickey says, ‘What now?’
* * *
Next was a bus back to Activi-T Milton Keynes where we all got out, but instead of running straight inside, we stood in front of a boring poster for a new probiotic yoghurt that Mr Albert’s helpers would now think all children were naturally drawn to.
‘Keep staring at the boring yoghurt,’ I said, and we all did, until it was burned on to our retinas and we were sure it would have shown up on Mr Albert’s system.
Then I took a picture of it and gave it FIVE STARS!
‘Maybe we can just do one fun thing?’ says Darren desperately. ‘Just one?’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But not until we’ve gone into Burger Joint and had an Ultimate Burger.’
‘Why?’ says Mickey, who since Dad’s peppery Chinese aubergine has decided she’s actually vegetarian, which to be honest is something I’d like to give a go too.
‘Because, Mickey, we’re going to say that actually the burger has not got anywhere near enough ketchup on it, and that we’d prefer two boiled eggs on toast instead.’
‘What?’
‘Then we’re going to walk into the arcades and only play the game that no one else is playing and give it FIVE STARS! And then we’re going to go the ice rink, but instead of going ice skating we’re just going to buy a random milkshake and then not drink it, but give it FIVE STARS! Then we’re going to the ice-cream shop and asking only for rhubarb flavour because rhubarb flavour is the best flavour ever according to us average kids and then we’ll give it FIVE STARS!’
I could tell that Joe 2 suddenly felt this was a lot of work.
‘I feel like we need more kids to be involved. We could always wait until Monday and then tell them at school.’
But I don’t want to wait. I want to do this now. Before Mr Albert gets wind of what’s going on and calls my mum and puts a stop to it.
I knew that already they’d be automatically putting all this weird new information together, sticking it into a computer, sending it out to people, making decisions.
Just then I spotted what looked like a school group or something. About thirty kids with brightly coloured backpacks and little caps. There was a grown-up with them who was holding a French flag on a bendy pole so that they could always see her.
‘French kids!’ says Darren, and I suddenly have an idea.
* * *
Even though we were all kids, these French children were bound to think a bit differently from us. They would know different TV shows, and like different sweets, and have different pop stars.
I didn’t realise just how different these particular French kids would be.
‘We are from the French Vegan Twins Society and we are on a hillwalking tour of your country,’ says one.
‘Oh,’ I say, struggling to work it out. ‘So you’re all French twins?’
‘Oui,’ says another twin, then his twin says, ‘We are all twins.’
‘And vegan,’ says another twin, and her twin goes, ‘We are all French vegan twins.’
‘I’m thinking of being vegan,’ says Mickey.
‘And you all enjoy hillwalking?’ I say.
‘Correct. We are French vegan twins on a hillwalking trip, walking up hills and enjoying vegan food.’
So I say, ‘What if I told you I could give you free money for vegan things and hillwalking stuff?’
* * *
Mr Albert didn’t seem to have set a limit on the amount of invites I could give out for his app. He probably thought the average kid would have an average number of friends. I doubt he thought the average kid would be hanging out with more than thirty French vegan hillwalking twins.
ACCEPTED. ACCEPTED. ACCEPTED.
The word pops up on each one of their screens.
‘Marcel!’ one French twin calls out to another. ‘Look!’
Marcel and his twin run straight past Burger Joint, past Pizza Palace, past the burrito place and the hot dog place and the curry place, and straight for Tofu Tom’s.
Soon, Tofu Tom’s is packed with the excited chatter of French children ordering various five-star tofu burgers and five-star cauliflower steaks and stuffing them into the pockets of the brand-new five-star cagoules they bought from the usually empty five-star mountaineering store (they’d avoided the packed toyshop, the games shop, the accessories shop and every other shop in a mad dash for new hillwalking equipment).
Me and Mickey give each other a high five. I feel a tiny bit guilty as I realise I don’t remember ever doing that with her before. I should’ve been nicer to Mickey. Everything’s more fun with friends. Having friends with me would have made everything else so much better. I wish I could have done the water slides with them. I wish they could have come in the helicopter with me. I wish I’d shared at least some of the fun with Mickey.
But, right now, it’s back to work.
We go into the toyshop and buy nothing except a single plastic whistle each, which we rate five stars. I get a magazine from the newsagent’s called Freight Trains and rate it five stars. Darren buys a Care Bears book and gives it five stars. Joe 2 takes a picture of a dog wearing a hat and gives it five stars, though I don’t know what Mr Albert is supposed to do with that.
And then we sit on the bus home, eating our extra-large tubs of rhubarb ice cream (the man said it was the first time they’d ever sold any) in our brand-new bright blue hillwalking cagoules.
Next morning, I wake up when I hear a motorbike outside our front door.
I look out my bedroom window and Dad is muttering to the rider and shrugging.
He’s saying, ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and, ‘Doubt it!’ and, ‘Doesn’t sound like him.’
He sounds like he’s defending me. But also like he’s not bothered by this guy. It makes me feel protected. Dad signs a single piece of paper and hands it to the man, who grumpily takes it and roars off on his bike.
I can hear Mum on the phone in the kitchen. I can hear her pacing around. She’s only talking every thirty seconds or so. And even then it’s just to say, ‘I see,’ or, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ or, ‘I’m sure he was as honest as he could be, but if we’re completely straight with you no child is average, are they?’
She’s being quite firm. Much firmer than I’ve ever heard her be before. But to whoever she’s on the phone with right now’s she’s being – and I promise I don’t use this word much – a badass.
‘Well, that’s just the way it is,’ she says, ‘Mr Albert.’
I can feel the blood drain from my face.
I’m in massive, massive trouble, aren’t I?
Whatever I’ve done probably breaks the contract Mum and Dad signed, or is against the rules, or what if it’s against the law? What if Mum and Dad are put in jail? What did Dad just sign?
* * *
They creep into my room a few minutes later. I’m hiding under the duvet.
‘Joe?’ says Mum. ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell us?’
I pull the duvet off me and sit up.
‘I was just fed up of being average,’ I say. ‘And I didn’t think it was fair for other kids to be called average either, or to be judged by a computer or an algorithm or whatever. So I took Mickey and Darren and Joe 2 out and… well…’
Dad puts his hands in his pockets and smiles. He looks at me a bit differently.
‘Shall we take a little walk?’ he says.
* * *
As we head to the high street, Dad hoists Mickey on to his shoulders and Mum gives me a cuddle.
‘It’s his own fault really,’ she says. ‘Mr Albert didn’t think people were people. He thought they were numbers. And he sold the information to people who believed him. People who just wanted to make money as quickly as possible.’
‘Time is money,’ I say, remembering his catchphrase.
‘I don’t think he even looked at what you did or said properly because he didn’t seem to be someone who understood people,’ says Mum. ‘But I think you understand people, Joe, much better than he ever will.’
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘What do you mean, “it’s his own fault”? What is?’
‘Mr Albert wasn’t very pleased with us,’ says Dad.
‘Is that what he said?’ I say.
‘He used some very different words,’ says Dad. ‘Some very different ones.’
‘And then I started using some of the same words back at him,’ says Mum, starting to giggle. ‘But he said he should have known what was happening when you started giving the odd answer that didn’t quite fit the pie charts and bar graphs and diagrams that so nicely sum up childhood.’
‘He said it had happened before,’ says Dad.
I smile. Mary Jones.
I think she’d be happy, wherever she is.
‘So Mr Albert has decided to stop working in quite the same way,’ says Dad. ‘He says we won’t be hearing from him again. And I don’t think any other kid will. Because his business partners were not happy with the consequences of taking his advice.’
‘Where are we going?’ says Mickey, batting a tree branch from up on Dad’s shoulders.
‘Not far now,’ says Mum, heading for the end of the high street, and, when we get there, the BURGER JOINT that was OPENING SOON suddenly has a sign saying…
On the front, someone has taken down the poster of the Ultimate Burger Now With Slightly Less Ketchup and replaced it with one that says:
There’s a drawing of a kid in hillwalking equipment holding a tofu burger and giving a thumbs up.
‘Well, that sounds different,’ says Mickey.
‘Not your “average meal”,’ says Mum.
It seems Burger Joint did not think their change in direction was one they had much confidence in. And they’d let Mr Albert know very quickly. He’d begged them to look at the data. They’d ripped it up and decided to stick with their normal burgers for now.
‘Does this mean Nico can start his café again?’ I ask, hopefully.
But Dad says no, sadly it doesn’t.
That night, Dad made his own curry.
He said he’d felt inspired by all the new things he’d tried recently.
I am not saying it was bad; I am just saying maybe we should stick to ordering from the Taj.
‘Well, we still got paid a bit of the fee,’ says Mum, with her laptop out. She was rubbing her head, a bit stressed, and looking at the money Mr Albert’s company had put in their account. ‘I guess that means we can still go on a holiday. Though not Spain again! It’s time to do things differently! Take a few risks!’
‘Mum and I were talking,’ says Dad, putting his elbows on the table, which I thought was not allowed. ‘And, seeing as you earned it, we think you should decide where we go.’
‘Me?!’ I say.
‘You. Anywhere you want. You decide.’
‘Ooh,’ says Mickey. ‘Say China. Loads of pandas in China.’
But there’s only one answer, isn’t there?
Mum thinks she sees it coming and is quick to say, ‘Listen, I know you want to go to Space Mountain in Florida. We don’t have quite enough for that. Maybe another year.’
But Mum’s got it wrong. Space Mountain wasn’t my answer at all.
‘I don’t want to go on holiday,’ I say.
‘But, Joe,’ says Mum, ‘that’s been the plan all along, hasn’t it?’
‘It’s been your plan,’ I say. ‘Because you wanted to do something nice for the family. But I want to do something nice for the family too. In my own non-average way.’
* * *
Dad is still ‘friends’ on Facebook with everyone from Samurai!
They’re all accountants now. It didn’t take me long to find them. They still live nearby and were delighted by the idea of getting back in touch properly. So after I’d arranged Samurai!’s big reunion gig – at my school, right after one of Mr Chesil’s talks – all I had to do was buy Dad his new guitar.
A bright red Fender American Stratocaster!
Dad held it like he was holding a long-lost baby.
‘Do you like it, Dad?’ I asked.
‘It’s good enough for me, Joe,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s good enough for me.’
