The Left Behinds: The iPhone that Saved George Washington by David Potter | Chapter Sampler

8/11/2019 The Left Behinds: The iPhone that Saved George Washington by David Potter | Chapter Sampler

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DP

THEiPHONET

HATSAVED

GEORGEW

ASHINGTON

CHAPTER SAMPLER


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Keep reading for a sneak peek. . .


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3

ONE

Id like to start at the beginningbelieve mebutthe problem is I dont know when it began and I dont

know when it will end. I only know the middle, which is

now, or more specif ically ten minutes ago, when someone

shot General George Washington stone-cold dead.

And today is Christmas Day.

This is not cool, says Brandon. George Washingtonis only, you know, the Father of the Country.

Bev says: Really, Brandon? You think?

Were in a stable, I guess youd call it. This little house

for horses. There are stacks of hay, saddles hanging up

on a wall, bunches of rope, and a god-awful stench.

Were peering into one of the horse stalls, where GeneralGeorge Washington is lying dead. Wearing his greatcoat,


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and under that his buff-and-blue uniform. Black boots

up to his knees. In the middle of his chest is a large red

bullet hole.

I dont have to tell you what thatlooks like, do I?

Its Brandon, me, and Beverly. Beverly is the only Bev-

erly Ive ever met. I know Emmas, Avas, Chloes, Abigails,

and Olivias, but no other Beverly. Its a name thats gone

out of fashion, like Herbert or Phyllis or Marge.

Bevs sort of the smart one, though. And Brandonssort of the dumb one. He speaks with a slow slacker drawl

and brags that hes failing every class, but Brandons no

dummy. He just likes to play it that way, for the laughs

he gets.

None of us are laughing now. Before us, dead as ye

olde doornail, is the guy whos supposed to become thef irst president of These United States.

Theyre even going to name the capital after him.

And the plan for tonight is a little surprise raid on a

bunch of Hessians that are camped out in Trenton, across

the Delaware River. Which theyre hoping will turn the

tide, because up until now, things havent been going sogreat for this little thing theyve been having called a

revolution. As a matter of fact, the whole deal was close

to being a total fail. Washington had lost every battle

hed been in up to this point. The British had taken New

York, kicked the Continental Army out of New Jersey,

and were on their way to conquer Philadelphia. Worst ofall, Washingtons men were set to pack up and clear out


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their enlistments were over at the end of the year, which

was, like, seven days away.

So for Washington, it was one of those now- or-never

kind of situations. Do something now, or get hanged later.

And, as far as the revolution goes, that would be the end

of that. Weve learned all about it at school. Or at least

we learned how things are supposed to turn out. Wash-

ingtons Crossing of the Delaware was only supposed to

be, you know, like the most important turning point ofthe entire Revolutionary War. I mean, if it didnt succeed

the United States wouldnt even exist.But its going to be

pretty tough for anything to turn out rightif the main guy

happens to beyou know. Dead.

Man, Brandon says. Would you check this out? He

leans down to make a closer examination.Brandon, watch it, Bev says. Dont touch . . .

The evidence? Brandon says. What do you think

this is, CSIor something? Then he grabs a strawapiece

of straw, that is, from the groundand dips it in.

In . . . you know. The bullet hole.

Which kind of grosses us out. And kind of fascinatesus at the same time. Brandon holds up the straw. Its red

now. Glistening with warm red blood.

Then he asks the question weve all been thinking.

Is this . . . um . . . body . . . really George Washington?

TheGeorge Washington? Or is it one of those reenactor

dudes? Now this question might not make a bit of senseto you, but it makes perfect sense to us. Kind of.


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I have a very strange feeling, I say. I have the strang-

est feeling Ive ever had in my whole life. I knowthats

not a reenactor dude. Guys, I am one hundred percent

positive we are looking at the realGeorge Washington

himself.

Yeah, well, lets check, Brandon says, and reaches

into his pocket. He pulls out a crumpled dollar bill. He

unfolds, looks at it, and then looks at the face on the

ground. Its gotta be him, Brandon says. Its a perfectmatch. Hes the real deal, all right. But hes also dead.

Way dead.

Boys, says Bev. This is how Bev always talks to us,

as if were just one blobby entity, not two distinct indi-

viduals. And trust me when I tell you, we couldnt be

more different. We dont form any kind of entity. Werenot even friends,exactly. Weve all just been kind of . . .

thrown together.

The Left Behinds, is what were called. We know thats

what they call us, because we heard them. In the Dining

Hall. One Dining Hall lady said to another Dining Hall

lady, Dont worry about it, well just have leftovers forthe Left Behinds. Then they both cackled up a storm, it

was so funny. They stopped mid-cackle when they saw

me and Bev looking at them, holding our lunch trays,

and ever since then theyve had trouble meeting our eyes,

as if wevedone something to be ashamed of. Lookour

parents are busy, all right? Theyre really, like, successfulpeople, okay? And its not as if we havent been home


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for the Christmas holidays before. Ive been to twelve of

them, all in a row.

Boys, Bev says. I dont think we should be messing

around with this. As a matter of fact, Im beginning to

think we should get ourselves away from here. As fast as

humanly possible.

Away from where? Brandon says. This place, or this

century?

You see? I told you Brandon wasnt so dumb.


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TWO

My name is Mel. Its not really Mel, which would beshort for Melvin, which is even more old- fashioned

than Beverly or Herbert, but thats what people call me.

Ill tell you this much: Its my initials. Mand Eand L.

But Im not going to say my real name. You might have

heard of it, because its the same name my father has,

and Im pretty sure youve heard of him.Hes super busy,remember? And successful. So Ill go by Mel, and lets

leave it at that.

You might have heard of Bevs mom too. Shes a star

of stage and screen. Currently appearing six nights a week

and twice on Sundays in a play in Los Angeles. Which

means Bev has to stay behind with us, because MommyDearest doesnt want her daughter around when shes


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performing. Which, according to Bev, is only morning,

noon, and night.

Her father is a famous actor dude from Argentina, but

hes like completelyout of the picture, and always has been.

I found this out after Googling Bevs mom, but dont tell

anyone, because Googling people behind their backs is

so uncool. Everyone does it, though. Whats even more

uncool is getting caught.

I know all this about Bev because of Google and becauseI tend to overhear her when shes on her cell phoneI

mean, its not like she talks to me at all. Bev, says Bev,

hatesall of it: Broadway, Los Angeles, stardom, paparazzi,

TMZ,ET,the whole celebritything. Its all so totallypoint-

less. And now that her moms on the downslope of her

careerthe plays in Los Angeles,after all, not Broadwaytheres less and less paparazzi, TMZ, andET.So her mom

is now becoming aformercelebrity, which is even worse.

If youre thinking I have a thing for Bev, you would be

wrong. She interestsme is all it is, okay? Its not like Im

obsessingabout her or anything. She just happens to be

the kind of girl whos hard notto notice.For example: do I normally pay attention to what girls

wear?

I do not.

Except for Bev.

Because you never know what shes going to come up

with. Like her attitude is clothes?What could possiblybeless important?


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Shes not consistent,is the problem. So its tough to get

a f ix on her. One day shes Little Miss Preppy. The next,

Miss Slobberina. Kind of like she just throws on what-

ever happens to be handy.

Thats what the guys do, but we always throw on the

same old stuff. Like now, Im wearing jeans, sneakers,

some T-shirt I found on the f loor of my room, and a

jacket. Brandons wearing a red hat that has a picture of a

snarling wolf on it, with its teeth bared. Brandon will tellyou, if you ask, that its not a wolf, its a lobo,which is the

Spanish word for wolfand happens to be the mascot of

the University of New Mexico. Classy, right?

Bev, on the other hand, is wearing some pink jacket

and earmuffs. Just in case it was going to be cold, which

it isnt, but thats Bev: practical. Prepared.Bev is not about looking good, you have to understand.

Oh no.

That stuff is all just so . . . so . . . common.

Gets in the way of her agenda.Shes announced that

shes going to be a biochemist one day and f ind the cure

for cancer. That, or save the lives of newborns as a pedi-atric neurosurgeon. Maybe both. Anything that is useful,

practical, and as far away from Hollywood as possible.

And as far away from us.

I know shes awfully put-upon to have to spend her

Christmas holiday with the likes of Brandon and me,

but still. You try to talk to her, and it takes maybe threeseconds before she cuts you dead and says, Okay, okay,

whats your point?


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So like right now, Bev doesnt want to stop and think

things through. Or ask any diff icult questions, such

as, how is it that three kids from the Fredericksville

Schoolor should I say the prestigious Fredericksville

School, because no one ever lets you forget ithappen

to be in a smelly stable standing over the most important

guy in our nations history? Who happens to be dead ?

Who, apparently, was shot in the chest like tenmin-

utes ago?And if this is the real George Washington, and not

some lame reenactor dude, that would mean what? That

weve somehow been transportedto 1776?

Which would not be possible. Right? So theres abso-

lutely no way, no how, that this dead guy in the stall is the

real deal. So that should settle it.And yet . . . and yet . . . why do I keep thinking that he

isreal, and Im wrong? All right, I speak up. Its about

time we start freaking out. This is, like, a crime scene, and

youre not supposed to mess with anything. Bev? What

do you think we should do?

We all sort of inventory our surroundings. And we no-tice some deeply weird stuff. Like one, there are no horses

in this so-called horse stable. And two, theres snow out-

side. And theres snow on General George Washingtons

boots. But not on our own boots and sneakers.

There was absolutely, positively no snow where we

came from. We dont have snowy Christmases anymore.Havent you heard about global warming?

So . . . maybe you can forgive us. For having a little


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brain fritz. Its really . . . kind of diff icult . . . to process. . . .

Here. There. Now. Then.

Now is here, but there was then, but now is 1776 and

then was the twenty-f irst century?

Huh?

We should stop and think this thing through. Before

we do anything stupid.

But then we hear something. Trampling through the

snow.People.

Coming our way.

Talking.Which focuses our minds and stops us from

asking ourselves any more dumb questions.

We notice the stable has two entrancesone on the

left and one on the right.It takes us about one-quarter millisecond to decide to

go right, one-quarter to start moving, and the rest of the

millisecond is all we need to get out of there.

And into nothing but snow. A big, vast expanse of

white. Brandon leads the way, like a fullback rushing up

the middle of the line, making a path for Bev and me.The talking people start running after us.

We can hear them, trampling around back there. Run-

ning through snow, in case you didnt know, is a pretty

noisyactivity.

And then the people start yelling at us. Yelling, like,

really, really loud.And then I notice something funny. It f igures that I


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would notice it, since I was the only kid taking German.

Bev takes French, Brandon takes Spanish, but I take Ger-

man, cause my dad told me to.

These dudes are yelling, Diebe, Diebe! Stoppen Sie so-

fort! Stoppen Sie sofort!Since Ive been paying attention

in German class, this means something like, Thieves,

thieves! Stop at once!

But we arent, so we dont.


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THREE

As I said, I take German cause Dad told me to. Lastyear I complied with one hundred percent of what

he said.

This year? Maybe eighty percent. Maybe more like

sixty. I know the compliance factor has been sliding

downhill, but then my dad is a demandingkind of guy.

Its got him to where he is, which is pretty high upthere. And of course he went to the Fredericksville

School himself, back in the day. As did his dad, and his

dads dad.

Its kind of a family thing. Legacyis the term I think

Im supposed to use. So the family legacy is we go to the

Fredericksville School, and while there, we rule. I knowmy dad and my dads dad, etc., ruled, because I can see


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their names up on the captains boards in the Nelson

Field House. This place is humongous and must have

cost twenty million bucks. Its designed so as soon as you

walk in, you say, Whoa. There are pools, ice hockey

rinks, basketball courts, and the main f ield, which is, like,

six acres. All indoors. Two f loors. And lining the walls are

these gorgeous wood boards, with gold lettering, with the

names of all the illustrious captains of yesteryears teams

embossed on them for eternity. My grandfather was cap-tain of the fencing team in 1945. And Dad was captain of

the lacrosse team in both 1981 and1982. He was also in

the choir, the jazz band, the art club, and the debate team,

and he spent a summer in Mali, which is in Africa, on a

mission to help the poor.

When he found out I hadnt taken his orders, I meaninstructions,I mean advice, to go out for soccer, join no

less than three clubs, try to get the lead in the school play,

and f inagle a position on the school paper to make sure

my exploits were duly recordedwhen he found out I

had done none of it, he blew a cork anda gasket.

Son, said Dad. Are you going to be a potted plant,someone who just sits there, for Petes sake, or are

you going to be somebody? Because it s one or the other,

son. Theres no getting around it. Youre either a pot-

ted plant or youre a somebody. And if you want to be

somebody, son, youre going to have to stand up. Raise

your hand. Step forward. Take a chance. Count.You wantto count for something, dont you, son? You want to be


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somebody,right? You dont just want to be a potted plant,

do you?

No, Dad, I said. No, I do not want to be a potted

plant.

He continued fuming and spewing until he was called

away by Something Important. Thats the thing about

Dad and his tirades. They never go on too long because

hes got people always tugging on his shirt to get his at-

tention onto something else. Which is usually okay byme. You see, my dad just happens to be one of those guys

whos a little bit much,you know what I mean? My mom

says he gets in your grill, which is to say he likes to stand

about two inches from your face, like hes arguing a call

with an umpire.

It puts some people off. After a while, it even put mymom off, which is why they got divorced last year.

She did tell me not to take it personally, though, be-

cause, she said, it had nothing to do with me.Then she

decided to take a trip. A two-year trip, up, down, and

around the world.

So this is why, if you really want to know, we werenthaving a family Christmas this year, and why I was stay-

ing at the Fredericksville School with the Left Behinds.

Okay? It really wasnt because Dad is so busy, or so im-

portant. Its because just the two of us, with some sad

little Christmas tree, would have seemed so Loser City.

And the last thing Dad was going to let me witness washim losing at anything.

See, Dad is a well-known guy, like I said. In certain


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circles. Hes been on the covers of magazines, on the front

page of theNew York Timesone time. Hes not an every-

day Peoplemagazine celebrity like Bevs mom, but he is

known,all right.

My dads the guy who lost a billion bucks.

Or maybe it was ten billion.

He used to work for one of those big investment banks.

You know, the ones that are too big tofail.

Which is exactly what he did.I dont know all the particulars. If I knew them, I

wouldnt understand anyway. But somehow his desk

placed all these betsand then they got burned.And what-

ever this desk thing was, he was in charge of it.

He was held up as an example of everythingthat was

wrong with Wall Street, the f inancial system, and theAmerican way. If you Google him, hell come up, like,

about two million times. And hes a guy who used to

think he was the biggest winner that ever walked upon

the planet Earth. So hes having a tough time adjusting.

To losing anything, let alone his own wife. But hes

still chock-full of advice, whenever he does get a chanceto speak to me. Though at the moment, Im not sure what

hed tell me to do: keep running, or Stoppen Sie sofort.

Since he cant weigh in, were running.

Brandon takes a hard right, and we follow. He had

been going straight into woods, where the snow is, like,

three feet high, but he must have seen where it leveledout to the right, and thataway he went.

It does level out. We come to kind of a path. There


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are other buildings arounda stone farmhouse, another

smaller stone building next to that. And right in front of

us, two men in spiffy blue uniforms. Did you hear what

I said?

Spiffy blue uniforms.

Soldiers, in other words.

Real ones. Not reenactor dudes.

Its not hard to tell the difference. They smell,for one

thing. Two, theyve got snow on their boots. Not newsnow like us. Frozen stuff. Like theyve been out here for

days.

Three, they have large white sashes across their chests,

epaulets on their shoulders, and weird gold cone things

on their heads. I know right away who they are: Hessians.

German soldiers for hire, who rented themselves out tothe British. I know who they are because Ive read about

them. I never expected to see any Hessians for myself,

though. Especially not up close and personal.

They dont look overfriendly, these Hessian dudes.

They aint smiling, for one thing.

And two, theyve got muskets, which are raised, ready,and pointed straight at us.


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FOUR

We stop. Behind us, the guys whove been shout-ing, who followed the same swath Brandon made

in the snow, catch up. There are two of them, but theyre

not wearing uniforms. Just regular eighteenth-century

farmer clothes.

You know that time travel idea I had? Which I said

was impossible?Guess what. Maybe Im wrong.

One of the guys dressed as a farmer speaks up. In En-

glish, but with a super-thick German accent. You are

trespassing, this guy says. The f irst thing I think is, He

soundsexactly like Arnold You-Know-Who inThe Termi-

nator. This is private property. You have no business ofbeing here.


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This guy is butt-ugly. Hes also short, which makes

him even uglier. His face is all kind of squashed in, like

he ate something sour and cant get the taste out of his

mouth. Plus his nose is crooked. It leans to his right, our

left. Someone should have told him to wear a hat to hide

his hair, which is scurvy-looking and knotted, like rope.

When he leans in to talk to us, we lean back. Like way,

way back.

Dude, says Brandon. Chillax, will ya? And thenBrandon wipes the air in front of him, like hes trying to

get rid of a stench.

You have no business of being here, the guy says

again. Ve shoot you and kill you if ve vant.

Youre not shooting anyone, Bev says, stepping for-

ward. And shes got an attitude. Her attitude is this: Mymom is a big star, buster. Who the heck are you? Or

should I say youre not shooting anyone else.There hap-

pens to be a dead man in the barn back there. Who we

have reason to believe happens to be a most important

person. Do you know anything about this? If this is your

property, then you are most def initely responsible. Bevpauses, and then points her f inger. Each and every one

of you.

The guy takes a pistol from the pocket of his jacket,

lifts the thing up, cocks it, and points it straight at me.

But he doesnt shoot. Instead he starts to notice things.

Like our clothes. Our jeans. Our sneakers. The snarlingwolf on Brandons hat. Bevs checkered scarf and stylin


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winter jacket. And probably, like, twenty other things. So

we watch as the guy tallies them up and comes to some

sort of conclusion: were different.

Like, waydifferent.

He says something in German to the others. Too fast

for me to catch the words. But I think, by the tone of

his voice, he must have said something like this: Guys,

lets be careful here. Very, very careful. Because these kids

seem awfully strange. . . .


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FIVE

The two uniformed guys in front of us, and thetwo nonuniformed guys behind us, all start talking to

each other at once. In German. So its kind of a standoff

for, like, a really, really, really long time. Like for maybe

f ive, ten seconds.

No one knows what to do. They must be thinking

were way weird, and thats for sure what were thinkingabout them.

Lets just take one thing common to us all. Or thirty-

two things for each of us, and maybe half that for them.

Im talking about teeth.How often do you think about

teeth? You think about your own when you f loss and

brush, and you think about somebody elses only whenyou notice something wrong or funny or weird.


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Oh yeah, one other thing: if you have braces, like I still

do, you think about what a pain in the butt they are and

you cant wait to get them off.

So thats us: two sets of bright-white smiles, plus me,

Mr. Steel Cage Mouth.

Those guys maybe have three good teeth among em.

The rest are rotten little stubby things. Gray, and full of

gunk. And I would bet you f ive million dollars not one

of them has ever swished around a mouthful of Listerineeither, though God knows they could use it.

Then we hear a funny little sound. An electronic

sound, a micro three-chord melody that the three of us

hear a hundred times a day. And think nothing of it.

But a sound the four of them have neverheard. Never,

but never.Its my iPhone. Which Ive been holding this whole

entire time.

Its what we do. Its probably what you do. You hold

the thing in your hand, because you use it so much. God

forbid you miss something, right?

Its the same deal, by the way, with Brandon andBev. Were holding on to our iPhones, like theyll save

us. Then Brandon does something unexpected. Bran-

dons a funny kid. Hes kind of big, kind of goofy, and

I know for a fact that he had long hairlike, down to

his shouldersbefore he came to school, because I saw

a picture of him once. Hes also the only boy I knowwho wears bracelets. You know, on his wrists. Two on


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the left and one on the right. I think theyre Native

American things, but then Brandons from New Mex-

ico, of all places. Hes a Left Behind because his mom

went spiritual on him and moved to an ashram, where

shes been trying to get in touch with The Universe.

But she sent her boy to the Fredericksville School so

he could have a proper East Coast education with all

the trimmings. His family has something to do with the

oil business, though I think his dad passed away. Andwhile his mom gets to go spiritual, Brandon gets to go

to a fancy school. They made him cut his hair, and they

made him buy new clothes. New packaging, but same

kid. It doesnt work even if you dress him up with a tie

and blue blazer.

Oh yeah, and theres another thing about Brandon.Besides nearly failing every class, he doesnt like to follow

orders. Im sure he squawked about the haircut. He gives

all his teachers a hard time whenever he can. And right

now, he decides to mess around with Mr. Butt-Ugly and

Company. He holds up his iPhone. Then he points it at

Butt-Ugly and snaps off a picture.The German guyssoldiers and farmers alikearent

sure what this is all about, but they dont seem to like it.

They kind of take a step back.

Maybe were on to something. Maybe werearmed and

dangerous, because each one of us has an iPhone of our

very own. Theres just one thing. I hope this isnt goingto be a problem, I say, looking down at my cell phone.


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Of course, I didnt bother to recharge it anytime recently.

But Im running low on power. Im, like, at ten percent.

When did that happen?

Which leads directly to my next question: any chance

of outlets, here in 1776?

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This is a work of f iction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exceptionof some well-known historical and public f igures, are products of the authors imaginationand are not to be construed as real. Where real- life historical or public f igures appear,the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are f ictional and are not

intended to depict actual events or to change the f ictional nature of the work. In all otherrespects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright 2015 by David PotterCover art copyright 2015 by C. F. Payne

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for Young Readers,an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Random House LLC,a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

Visit us on the Web! randomhousekids.com

Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataPotter, David.

The Left Behinds and the iPhone that saved George Washington / David Potter.

First edition.pages cmSummary: Three students, Mel, Bev, and Brandon, left behind at their prestigious schoolduring Christmas break, f ind themselves in 1776 New Jersey with General George

Washington dead at their feet, and twelve-year-old Mel must f ind a way, using his iPhone, toset things right.ISBN 978-0-385-39056-9 (hc) ISBN 978-0-385-39057-6 (glb) ISBN 978-0-385-39058-3 (ebook) [1. Time travelFiction. 2. Adventure and adventurersFiction. 3. iPhone (Smartphone)Fiction. 4. Washington, George, 17321799Fiction.5. Franklin, Benjamin, 17061790Fiction. 6. New JerseyHistoryRevolution,17751783Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.P85173Lef 2015[Fic]dc232014006650

Printed in the United States of America10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1First Edition

Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendmentand celebrates the right to read.

ATTENTION READER:THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT


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Order your copy of

THE LEFT BEHINDS:THE IPHONE THAT SAVED

GEORGE WASHINGTON

by David Potter

From one of the below retailers:
https://play.google.com/store/books/details/David_Potter_The_Left_Behinds_The_iPhone_that_Save?id=ju8CBAAAQBAJhttp://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/the-left-behinds-the-iphone-that-saved-george-washingtonhttp://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-left-behinds-david-potter/1120112519?ean=9780385390583http://www.amazon.com/Left-Behinds-iPhone-George-Washington-ebook/dp/B00LRIU7T8/http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780385390569http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-left-behinds-david-potter/1120112519?ean=9780385390569http://www.amazon.com/The-Left-Behinds-iPhone-Washington/dp/0385390564/

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The Left Behinds: The iPhone that Saved George Washington by David Potter | Chapter Sampler