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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020
Published in this ebook edition in 2020
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
HarperCollins Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Text copyright © Tom Mitchell 2020
Illustrations copyright © Euan Cook 2020
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Tom Mitchell and Euan Cook assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008292263
Ebook Edition © Jan 2020 ISBN: 9780008292270
Version: 2020-01-21
To Mum and Dad
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Part One: Tuesday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Two: Wednesday
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Three: Thursday
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Part Four: Friday
Chapter 43
Keep Reading …
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by Tom Mitchell
About the Publisher
Map
Snowmageddon
Heathrow Airport, Greater London
If my journey across America taught me anything, it’s that I’m no hero. I worry too much for one thing.
And so spending the day before the flight watching Top Ten Plane Crashes on YouTube wasn’t the best idea. And, being driven to Heathrow through the gloom, I could’ve done without Amy, my sister, miming explosions and mouthing booms of fiery air.
On the M4, in order to stop worrying about the plane breaking apart over the Atlantic or imagining the view of the endless sea roaring up to my window, I tried reigniting my excitement about what waited for me in America:
FORTUNE AND GLORY.
(For real and for sure. 100 per cent. No sweat.)
Background: I’m not saying I’m mad about Marvel but here are the facts. I’m fourteen and I’ve got a Spider-Man bedspread. (Not many people know this.) My walls are covered in Spider-Man posters and the password to all my accounts is PeterParker62. I’d probably get a Spider-Man tattoo, something subtle on my shoulder, if I didn’t know for a fact that Dad would laser it off himself, Cyclops-style, as soon as he found out.
I’m not one of those obsessives, though, so don’t judge me. Part of the problem is that I live in Somerset, where, according to Google, the last exciting thing happened in 1998.
What I’m trying to do here is help you understand the mind-blowing excitement experienced when I received an email from Marvel Studios saying I (me, Jacob Clark) had won the chance to be an extra in a new movie shooting in Hollywood, and, wait for it, with all my flights and accommodation paid for.
There was a worrying moment when I thought Mum and Dad wouldn’t let me go, like with the Year Seven Adventure Weekend after Mum had read about sheep ticks, but as soon as the local newspaper rang to ask if they could report my success they were sold. We FaceTimed the grandparents and everything.
‘My son in a film,’ Dad said more than once in a weird tone of voice I hadn’t often heard.
This wasn’t all my birthdays and Christmases coming at once but everybody’s birthdays and Christmases for the rest of eternity.
The worry, aside from my plane maybe crashing, was that I didn’t know which superhero the film would be about. Supposedly it was all top secret. Twitter didn’t have a clue. Amy kept saying it’d be ‘Idiot Boy’ but the joke was on her because there’s no superhero called that.
Inside the terminal, a huge screen, listing destinations I’d only heard of in Geography, said my flight to Chicago was on time and leaving from Gate B41. Dad reckoned I’d not been booked on a direct flight to LA because that would have made the ticket more expensive. (He’d not left the country since the disastrous Calais ‘booze cruise’ all the way back when I was in primary school – a fact he was weirdly proud of.)
We headed straight for security because there’d been a crash near Swindon, which left no time for messing about. Dad handed over my suitcase. It was pink and had, in glittery white writing, the word PRINCESS across its front. Back home, pulling the bag from the attic and coughing only slightly from the dust, Mum had said there was no reason why boys couldn’t have pink suitcases and it was perfectly fine and, anyway, there’d be no losing it.
‘It’s 2020, Jacob,’ she’d said, and although she was right I didn’t know what the year had to do with anything.
She’d also said the Princess was exactly the right size; it could hold all my clothes and still qualify as ‘carry-on’. Proper travellers never bothered putting their bags in the hold these days supposedly.
‘It’s the internet for you,’ said Mum.
(She used the internet to explain a lot of things.)
Dad shook my hand and pulled me in for a hug. He ruffled my hair, instructing me to stay safe. Mum had her puppy eyes when she squeezed me and said she was missing her little soldier already.
As she released me she handed over what I thought was a note with emergency numbers and instructions about what to do if I ripped my jeans etc. She closed her hand over mine and put a finger to her lips. As I shifted the paper to my pockets I saw it was American money – a bill with ‘100’ in the top corner. My imagination exploded with fireworks of possibility. How much Marvel merch would that buy?
(Answer: not much. But it didn’t matter because the studio was also giving me spending money.)
Mum read from her phone a list of things I shouldn’t do:
1 Lose my passport.
2 Miss the plane.
3 Agree to carry things for strangers, especially friendly men with beards.
4 Eat or drink (American) things if I wasn’t sure what they were.
5 Loiter.
6 Flush the plane toilet without the seat being down.
7 Forget to exercise my legs and get deep vein thrombosis.
8 Allow myself to be distracted when leaving the plane.
9 Lose the instructions about the connecting flight.
10 Miss the connecting flight.
‘Understood,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Do you want me to write them down for you? I’ll write them down.’
I told Mum that it was fine and she didn’t need to write them down.
‘What was number five, then?’ asked Amy, suddenly present.
‘Loiter?’ I asked.
Mum beamed. Dad nodded. Amy yawned.
‘And make sure you ring as soon as you land,’ they said in stereo.
I crossed my heart and hoped to die, which I instantly regretted.
It was Amy’s turn to say goodbye.
She chewed gum and Mum told her to take her earphones out, for heaven’s sake.
‘Hope you don’t crash,’ she said, smiling.
‘Amy!’ said Dad.
‘What?’ She shrugged. ‘I do. What’s wrong with that? It’d be bad to say I wanted him to crash.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you seen the weather in Chicago, by the way? It looks intense.’
Suddenly her phone was in her hand and she was holding its blinding screen to my face. I couldn’t take in the detail before Mum had fussed it away but what I did read was a single word: Snowmageddon.
Not ‘Paradise’ or ‘Perfect Landing Weather’.
No.
Snowmageddon.
‘Is that even a word?’ I asked.
‘Ignore your sister,’ said Mum as my chest buzzed with anxiety bees. She brushed my fringe from my forehead. ‘I can’t believe I’m putting my little boy on a plane. On his own.’ She turned to Dad. ‘Why don’t we all buy a ticket? We could put it on the credit card. When was the last time we had a holiday? What about my wellbeing?’
She looked around frantically for someone she could buy a ticket from.
‘Remember Calais,’ said Dad to Mum, before turning his Dad-stare on me. ‘Don’t miss your connecting flight. You hear? Don’t. Miss. Your. Connecting. Flight. I don’t want to have to drive to Chicago to rescue you.’ I frowned. Amy yawned again. ‘You know what I mean.’
I didn’t. But I did know that I wasn’t a kid and that everything would be 100 per cent fine.
‘I’m not a kid,’ I said, sounding about as convincing as a nativity play. ‘Everything will be a thousand per cent fine.’
‘Just make sure you stay safe!’ said Mum, her smile looking like it had been branded on to her face. ‘Speak to a police officer if you get lost.’
‘And don’t miss that connecting flight!’ added Dad.
‘You’re Welcome, Princess’
Chicago, Illinois
I missed the connecting flight.
(But I swear it wasn’t my fault.)
A woman who looked like she sold make-up at Superdrug walked the aisle before the plane landed and wrote out what I had to do. It was all very straightforward, she said. She spoke with a British accent, which steadied my trembling. A bit.
(I’d like to have the power not to get worked up about stuff like this. Maybe ‘power’ is not the right word. Maybe I mean ‘confidence’?)
She said I’d have to go through security again because ‘that’s how they do things in the States’, sigh. I’d also have to pass IMMIGRATION before getting to the connecting flight. Then I should follow the arrows pointing towards … CONNECTING FLIGHTS. I also had a couple of forms to fill out, which she could help me with after she’d tidied the cabin, and had I seen the vomiting baby? What a flight!
‘So, in conclusion, all very straightforward,’ she said, sighing again.
Even though it didn’t sound very straightforward, I nodded and said thanks. She was not only cabin crew but also adult – the combination meant she knew what she was talking about. Also, she smelt like a movie star or, at least, what I imagined one would smell like. Sweet and flowery.
I’ve always trusted nice-smelling people.
(Arrows would be the same in America, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t mean the opposite? Because they drive on the other side?)
The plane descended. The clouds broke. America spread out like a tablecloth. But one from a black-and-white film. Because Amy had been right about the snow – it covered everything and what it didn’t cover was concrete. There were no skyscrapers, no yellow taxis. The US of my imagination had looked more exciting. Here there was grey. And there was white. And that was about it.
Snowmageddon.
The captain thanked us for flying British Airways. He suggested we wrap up warm and also made a joke about the runway looking like an ice rink, which didn’t help my nerves. Or those of the suit sitting next to me.
(She swore. And apologised for swearing. And said she’d have had more wine if she’d known about the ice. Because she didn’t want to die sober, she said. And then apologised for saying all this to a kid.)
I cleared my throat. ‘That’s fine. I’m fourteen, so …’
But, anyway, like I said, we survived.
A man with a baseball cap and a huge grin helped me pull my pink suitcase out of the overhead locker. I felt awkward and when I thanked him he said, ‘You’re welcome, Princess.’
(I’d never been called that before.)
After we landed in Chicago, without crashing, I switched to school trip mode. The phone-checking, elbow-pumping crowd guided me to where I needed to go. Even though I’d been in the air for eight hours, the time difference meant it was still early morning. I gripped a dozen scraps of folded paper, all with the same details of the connecting flight: BA 1058, leaving from Gate H15 in Terminal 3.
And I didn’t drop them once.
Not even when pulling my phone out to WhatsApp the family group chat.
I’m safe. It’s snowy.
Dad was first to reply.
What’s America like? You missed the connecting fight yet?
Ignoring the spelling mistake, I looked around.
Bit like England, I replied. Smells weird. Connecting flight not left yet.
Glove you so much. Can’t believe you’re there on your gown, messaged Mum. Remember my glasses. Promise to stay safe.
I didn’t know what she meant about ‘glasses’ but guessed she was hitting the ‘g’ key when she didn’t mean to. Autocorrect did the rest. Classic Mum.
Promise, I replied.
Flights over land get NIGHTMARE turbulence, messaged Amy.
She shouldn’t be allowed to be a member of the group. She should be expelled from the family. I’d make this point when I got back home.
I walked a long corridor. At its end a genuine American police officer took my passport and travel forms. From under a heavy moustache and behind a Perspex screen, he asked why I was visiting the States and where my parents were. His voice sounded like a dog’s bark. An angry dog. A dog that chases children around playgrounds.
‘I’ve won a competition to be in a superhero film and my parents are in England.’ He glanced up from his tiny battered computer screen. I’d caught his focus. And you don’t want to be catching the focus of American cops at passport control. Airport rule number one. ‘Movie.’ I cleared my throat. ‘My parents are probably asleep. The time difference. I don’t know. Dad sometimes stays up late, eating cheese sandwiches and watching violent films. Or is it morning there?’
(When I get nervous I talk too much.)
‘Are you trying to be funny, sir?’
First ‘princess’, now ‘sir’. But the novelty was overshadowed by the 100 per cent American cop stare focused my way. I’d seen this look in films. It wasn’t one that led to something nice like being given a puppy or a burger.
‘No, sir,’ I said, and it was all I could say.
He got me to put my fingers on some kind of scanner. He swivelled something like a webcam and told me to look into it. Did this happen to everyone? Or was I a suspected criminal?
‘Which superhero?’ he asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘Which superhero movie?’
‘They won’t tell me.’
The cop stared a bit longer, and then stamped my passport.
‘You want to know the best superhero to come out of Chicago?’ Was he testing me? Before a word could emerge, my brain shrinking to a walnut, the man answered. ‘Ghost Rider. You get yourself down to Kids on the Fly, you might have a pleasant surprise. You hear me?’ I nodded. I did hear him. I just didn’t understand him … He slid my passport back through the gap in the plastic. ‘Nice luggage, by the way.’
Kids on the Fly? What did that mean?
I pulled the Princess past (regular, English) arrows pointing to the part of the airport with all the shops and restaurants. And when I arrived I let out a long breath. Bright lights and dull travellers surrounded me and my breathing. I was almost there.
Go, Jacob! You can do this! PMA!
Good news: the LA flight was listed on the big screen, even if some later ones had been cancelled ‘due to adverse weather’.
Bad news: I had half an hour to kill before the gate even opened.
But there! A signpost! And one of the arms had ‘Kids on the Fly’ written on it. Wasn’t that exactly what the police officer had said? Hadn’t he also said that I’d have a nice surprise, and, like, immediately after he’d been talking about Ghost Rider, who is, actually, a sick superhero – don’t let the movies fool you.
I walked past huge 4K TVs flashing feeds of worried weathermen and whirling storm graphics. Past travellers wearing the thick coats and the concerned faces of Arctic explorers. And every time I began to worry that maybe I’d missed ‘Kids on the Fly’, there came another sign with another arrow.
Maybe there’d be some graphic novels or a place to buy a baseball cap with ‘Ghost Rider’ written on it or some Metropolis candy or …
By now half an hour had gone: the gate was opening. If the place wasn’t round the next corner, I decided, I’d turn back or else I might as well carry on walking all the way to LA. Giving up was the correct decision, the adult choice.
(Like an idiot, I carried on walking.)
Nicolas Cage
‘Kids on the Fly’ was a soft-play area. A man who looked like he’d be more at home in a wrestling ring rose from a stool. He held up a hand and told me that I was too old by about ten years and he sat back down.
Behind him happy toddlers rolled around in a paddling pool filled with plastic balls.
‘Hi. Yes. But I was told there was something to do with superheroes here, please?’
My voice had never sounded so small. The man stared at me. Maybe staring was more of a thing in the US. There is a lot of staring in American films and TV shows. Think about it.
Slowly he rotated his body, his bum squeaking against the plastic stool, a noise that in any other situation would have me sniggering into my hand. He pointed at the wall.
For a second I thought he wanted me to read the fire evacuation procedures. Then I realised he was indicating the signed picture of Nicolas Cage that hung next to them.
‘Signed,’ he said.
‘That’s fantastic,’ I replied. ‘So sick.’
It wasn’t fantastic or sick. It was a signed picture of Nicolas Cage. He’d played Ghost Rider in two movies. He wasn’t even dressed as the character in this picture. It was his face.
‘I mean …’ said the man.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Really. Thank you.’
The stool man squinted at me like he suspected I was being sarcastic, which is more Amy’s deal.
Back the way I’d come, a black screen of doom was flashing the warning ‘final call’ against the LA flight all of a sudden. Nooooooo. Pulling the Princess behind me, I sprinted for it.
It was at this moment that I first thought I might miss my connection. It didn’t feel great, to be honest. Dad’s last words haunted me. He’d been fairly clear about his preference concerning me catching the plane.
A glance at another passing screen now told me that the gate was closing. They must have been rushing the boarding process because of the snow.
I was so near. I was past all the shops and restaurants. I was in departures proper. People gripping boarding cards queued hopefully in roped-off areas. Huge windows showed tiny vehicles down below scraping the ever-falling snow off everything. There were planes outside. Big ones. Lined up, waiting for something, waiting for me.
My muscles stung, my breathing choked, but the finishing line was in sight – I experienced that final burst of adrenalin you get when the end of double PE is close.
I was the Flash, travelling so fast that I was invisible.
What gate’s that? A square sign stuck out from the wall saying TWO. Push on. I’m already passing THREE. Round the corner will be FOUR. I can do this! Jacob FTW!
A crackling Tannoy announced the cancellation of a flight to Boston. Another message came immediately after – a flight to Seattle was off too. Had I missed an announcement? Had they called my name? I thought they were meant to call your name?
I needed to get to Gate Fifteen. I was at Five. The angles of the pentagonal corridor meant I couldn’t see round the corner, obviously, but I knew my numbers. I’ve always been good at maths. I was headed in the right direction, whether I made it or not was a question of time. So I upped the pace.
And I reckon I was operating at full running capacity.
I turned in the direction of Gate Fifteen. My throat was hot and sore. My heart beat in my ears. The corridor had emptied a little. Maybe everyone who’d needed to get on a plane had got on a plane.
Apart from me.
At Gate Fifteen there was nobody and nothing. I could see this all the way from Gate Eleven. But even if there had been a scrum of travellers, I kind of knew I’d be disappointed. Spidey-senses. The whole experience had been leading up to it. A huge American prank at my expense.
It was Dad’s fault. This was always going to happen from the moment he’d warned me not to miss the flight. Some things are fated.
Gate Fifteen: plastic seats screwed to the ground. And a desk. And behind the desk a pair of grey doors. Closed. The only sign of human activity was an abandoned empty water bottle lying on its side.
A whispered ‘no’ escaped my mouth.
There were windows too. And through the windows there was a huge plane. And snow fell over the huge plane and I felt like I might throw up. Because this was my huge plane. And my huge plane was taxiing through drifting snowflakes and away from the terminal and away from me. Inside, there would be a single empty seat. My empty seat.