The Wish List by Eoin Colfer Page A

war—”
    â€œWhich war?”
    â€œThe World War.”
    â€œFirst?”
    â€œSecond, smart aleck. That’s not important.”
    â€œCouple of French people might disagree with you there.”
    â€œTo the story. It’s not important to the story.”
    â€œGetting a bit cranky, aren’t we, Lowrie?”
    â€œI wonder why? Anyway, just after the Second World War, my dad decided to send me off to boarding school.”
    â€œHas this got anything to do with the war?”
    â€œNo. Not really.”
    â€œI knew that! And here I was, getting all excited about a war story.”
    â€œIt was for reference. Oh, forget it.”
    â€œSorry, Lowrie. Go on.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAh, stop sulking, and tell me the story.”
    â€œAre we going to have to go through this every single time?”
    Meg nodded. “Afraid so. You’re too old for me to be seen getting along with you.”
    â€œI thought as much. Very well, I shall persevere. But only because I know that really you’re dying to hear my story. It’s just your pigheaded teenage mentality that keeps forcing you to interrupt.”
    Lowrie began his tale. As he spoke, images flowed from his pores, swirling around his head like an impressionist’s dream.
    â€œI was a small kind of a lad with no brothers or sisters, so Dad decided that boarding school would toughen me up. Apparently that was the thinking in those days, back before Dr. Spock—”
    â€œWhat does the Starship Enterprise —”
    â€œ Doctor Spock. Haven’t you ever read a book?”
    â€œI have!” retorted Meg, a little too forcefully. She didn’t think it worth mentioning that she had never actually finished a book without pictures.
    â€œSo, at the age of eleven, I was carted off to Westgate College for Boys. A charming establishment packed with sadistic bullies and leather-swinging Christian Brothers.”
    Meg nodded sympathetically. It sounded a bit like her neighborhood.
    â€œIt was porridge for breakfast, and a sound thrashing for dinner and tea. There were only four subjects: Latin, Irish, math, and soccer. None of which were fortes of mine. Being neither rich, nor a Dubliner, I quickly became one of the least popular boys in school.”
    â€œThis is not by Charles Dickens, is it?” interjected Meg, trying to sound literary. In fact she’d seen Oliver about twenty times. It had been her mam’s favorite.
    â€œBut I had my chance to fit in. After six months of hell, an opportunity came my way. . . .”
    â€œLet me guess. You blew it?”
    Lowrie sucked deeply on the unlit cigar. His expression was all the answer Meg needed.
    â€œSo, what happened?” asked his ghostly partner, forgetting all about her target of one sarcastic remark per sentence.
    â€œThe Westgate under-twelves got knocked out of the intercollege championship soccer final in the semifinals. The team never got to play in Croke Park. Every boy’s dream in those days. So a group of us snuck out of the dormitory one night and traipsed halfway across town to the playing fields. The team wanted to climb the fence and have a kick around, just to say they’d played in Croke Park. Anyone could tag along, even poor farmers, like me.
    â€œSo, how did you foul up?”
    â€œI climbed up on the fence, no problem. But I just couldn’t go down the other side.”
    â€œYou chickened out.”
    Lowrie was miserable. “I know, I know. I chickened out. The one time I had the chance . . . the only time I was ever asked to join in. I don’t know, sometimes even I don’t like myself.”
    â€œI suppose none of the other lads would speak to you after that?”
    â€œI wish that was all.”
    â€œWorse?”
    â€œMuch worse.”
    â€œGo on. Tell me.”
    Lowrie took a breath. “I was caught climbing down off the fence.”
    â€œOops.”
    â€œOops is right. The night