The Worst Class Trip Ever: Chapters 17–26

While we were talking, the rest of the class trip came out of the Capitol. Miss Rector came over and joined our little group; the rest of them stood a couple of yards away from us and pretended they weren’t eavesdropping, although of course they were.

Everybody started trudging toward the bus.

“...and in all my twenty-seven years of teaching,” Mr. Barto was saying, “I have never seen anything as blah blah blah as the idiotic stunt you pulled, and now thanks to your incredibly irresponsible blah blah blah you have jeopardized the blah blah blah.”

We were in a taxi on the way to the airport, me and Matt slumped in the back seat, Mr. Barto in the front seat reaming us out pretty much nonstop since we left the hotel.

I pointed at a sign off to our left that said EXIT BAGGAGE CLAIM GROUND TRANSPORTATION. “That way.” A minute later we were back outside the terminal.

But this New York taxi driver was a whole different level of crazy, honking his horn, yelling at people, swerving all over the road, and the whole time yakking on his Bluetooth in what sounded like Martian.

...my mom always travels with a major purse containing enough food and medical supplies that if our family got marooned on an uninhabited island, we could survive for months, so when she nailed the taxi driver with it he collapsed like a defective lawn chair.

...my mom always travels with a major purse containing enough food and medical supplies that if our family got marooned on an uninhabited island, we could survive for months, so when she nailed the taxi driver with it he collapsed like a defective lawn chair.

You have probably never heard of hong fo. It’s a martial art, like karate, kung fu, and tae kwon do, except supposedly harder to learn and just generally more martial.

Well it turned out that, in addition to everything else, Suzana was a student of hong fo, and although she was fairly new to it, she had learned an attack move, involving both punching and kicking, named The Raptor, after those really mean dinosaurs with like nineteen thousand teeth that ate a bunch of people in Jurassic Park. Suzana executed The Raptor on the taxi driver, who never saw what was coming.

Despite being Raptored by Suzana, he was still after his fare. Of all the taxis in Washington, I had managed to get into the one being driven by the world’s most determined lunatic.

I was thinking maybe everything was going to be okay after all; maybe I was even going to be kind of a hero. The Kid Who Saved The White House. Maybe I would even get a medal!
This was assuming the big guy didn’t kill me first.

His face was all red and sweaty, and he looked like he was going to pick me up, wring my neck, and punt my lifeless body over the Washington Monument, which I think he could probably do.

A little piece of the ear was missing. It wasn’t much, but it was clear: There was a V-shaped notch.

“At end of press conference,” said Woltar, “assassin will give president a gift. Is ceremonial Gadakistan wooden box. Inside box is Gadakistan mountain snake, deadliest snake in world. Very mean snake. When president opens box, it will bite him, and he will die in seconds.”

It was a heavy-looking fork with two prongs and a long handle.

“You hunt with that thing?” said Matt.
Woltar nodded. “Very deadly. Also efficient. Kill prey with it, then eat prey with it.”

“You are too heavy. Weight makes dragon unstable. Must be somebody same weight as Lemi. Like him.”

I don’t know how to fly a glider. I don’t even like heights. I’ve thrown up on several roller coasters. Also, in case you haven’t already figured it out, I am not the bravest person in the world. So I knew I was totally one hundred percent unqualified for this mission.

In front of me was a small windshield and the glider controls, which consisted of two levers and a red handle.

Then I heard Woltar’s voice in the headset. He was hoarse, gasping for air.

It was so fast that it got from the lawn to the dragon in almost exactly the same amount of time it took my hand to get from the lever to the button.
Almost exactly, but not exactly, or instead of a live human telling this story, I (and the taxi driver) would be several million human smithereens scattered around the general Washington, D.C., area.

It was later learned that one missile came down in the Potomac River; the other one demolished a fortunately unoccupied taco truck in Arlington, Virginia.

He’s standing right in front of it, and he’s in shooting position with both hands on the gun, which (I learned this later) is a Sig Sauer pistol that shoots .357 caliber bullets, which are big bullets.

Secret Service agents, especially the ones around the president, are excellent shots, and there is absolutely no doubt that this agent is going to blow a major hole in the dragon, and probably me. Except that just as he’s about to pull the trigger the taxi driver finally loses his grip and falls, and his momentum carries him forward enough that he lands right on the Secret Service agent.

The only thing the FBI was saying about me was that I had been taken to an undisclosed location for questioning.

They detained everybody—kids, teachers, and chaperones—who was part of the Culver class trip. They also picked up Mr. Barto, who had finally managed to talk the TSA into releasing him from custody at the Washington airport, only to be taken back into custody by four FBI agents and whisked off to an undisclosed location.

He was questioned at length by FBI agents, who ultimately decided that he had not done anything illegal except fall on a Secret Service agent, which was not really his fault.

There was some talk of discipline, maybe even suspension. But in the end the school authorities decided that it wouldn’t look right, punishing what the Miami Herald, in a front-page story, called “The Kids Who Saved The President.”

There was some talk of discipline, maybe even suspension. But in the end the school authorities decided that it wouldn’t look right, punishing what the Miami Herald, in a front-page story, called “The Kids Who Saved The President.”