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“Meeka, is there somewhere we can get something to eat?”

She looked up at him then tripped and fell on her face. Her tour-guide bag slapped down on the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Meeka quickly grabbed the plain brown book and shoved it back inside, along with the dead, smelly fish.

“Are you okay?” Jackson bent down to help her. “Meeka, why do you have a fish in your…hey look at that!” Jackson sat back and stared. “Is that a…a doorknob?”

Meeka looked mystified. “It sure looks like one.”

It was indeed a doorknob.

In the middle of the floor.

Huh.

Jackson debated turning the doorknob. He didn’t see a door there, but why else would there be a doorknob in the middle of the floor? Jackson touched the doorknob. He turned it an eighth of an inch…then a quarter inch…then…

“Oh, look! We’re here!” Meeka cried. She quickly jammed the rest of her spilled items into the bag.

Jackson looked up. Sure enough, there in the corridor in front of them was a big orange door with a sign on it.

THE CAFETERIA

“Come on, Jackson!” Meeka stood up and adjusted her tour-guide bag.

Jackson hesitated. He really wanted to see what was beneath the doorknob on the floor. But he really wanted to see what was in the cafeteria as well. And what was with the dead fish? His stomach argued with his curiosity. Don’t you hate it when your body parts argue with each other?

“Okay, but we’ll have to come back here, though.”

And into the cafeteria they went.

Chapter 18

In Which We Visit the Cafeteria

You think you know what cafeterias are like. With their white walls and faded posters of large, smiling faces eating shiny, red apples. With strange smells seeping from badly scratched dishes making you nauseous and hungry at the same time. And the lunch lady with the huge hairy wart on her chin serving up wilted French fries, congealed baby corn, and perfectly cubed carrots. The crusty-edged, overcooked hamburgers in stale buns are stuck to the pans, and the green-brown pudding seems to be moving. The dining tables have broken benches and their broken wheels always trip you.

That is absolutely nothing like the cafeteria that Jackson and Meeka walked into.

“Wow, this is absolutely nothing like any cafeteria I’ve ever walked into!” Jackson exclaimed in wonder. “Granted, I’ve never been in a cafeteria in my great-aunt’s hair either.”

The walls were painted a warm, inviting yellow. The same color as the melted butter you pour over your hot popcorn before you sit down to watch a good movie.

Instead of broken benches, there were small circular tables with bright red-checkered tablecloths. Black wrought-iron chairs circled them. Each red-checkered table was set for two, with tall, extravagant menus standing up at each place setting. Meeka led Jackson over to a table and they sat down. Jackson picked up a tall, extravagant menu and opened it.

The glossy black pages were blank save for a few words written in gold script:

“Whatever I want?” asked Jackson.

“Whatever you want,” repeated Meeka.

“Meeka, who is this author? Is it Tolkien?”

“Um…” and she was interrupted.

A waiter materialized at their table. (He didn’t actually materialize. He actually came out from the swinging door behind the counter, but they hadn’t seen him.)

The waiter’s head resembled a large potato and had thinning black hair slicked against his pink scalp. His black caterpillar eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead, forming a straight line over his cauliflower nose. He had thick lips and a teeny-tiny black moustache. His tuxedo was very black and very tight. The buttons strained dangerously. His thick sausage fingers held a shiny silver tray.

“An what weel you be ’aving today, sir?” the waiter boomed with a heavy French accent.

“What do you have?” asked Jackson.

“We ’ave whatehvair you want,” the waiter sniffed imperiously.

“Whatever I want?”

“Zat ees what I say. Whatehvair you want.”

“But I don’t know what I want.”

“Zen I cannot get you ennyseeng, can I?”

“Can I