IT TOOK ALL my powers of persuasion to stop Mom from IMMEDIATELY heading to St. Mungo’s and getting the egg-cracking, shin-kicking girl arrested.

Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t too happy about being turned into an omelet with bruised shins, but coming on top of being named “Elephant Boy” AND with that being my first day, if I came in on Day Two with Mom in tow, my life at St. Mungo’s would be over. And, if that happened, we could kiss the million bucks goodbye.

“I’ll be fine,” I said to Mom. “Let me handle it.”

I sounded confident. I sounded like I knew how to handle myself. The trouble was, I had literally NO IDEA how I was going to force myself back into St. Mungo’s after everything that had happened. Based on Day One, Mrs. Fitzpatrick was probably going to be waiting at the gates for me armed with nuclear weapons.

“Lyle bakes your face off right, old skinhead,” Mom said. “Murders and flies?”

“Huh?” I yelled over the sound of the jackhammers. Had I driven her over the edge?

“I said,” Mom screeched, “I’ll make your favorite for dinner! Burgers and fries?”

I nodded. “Anything except eggs,” I said, and headed upstairs to de-omelet myself.

Uncle Grey’s wreck of a house didn’t have a shower, but it did have hot water and a bath. Okay, the hot water only arrived in the bath after the pipes sounded like they were trying to escape through the walls, but it did eventually arrive. I filled the bath to the brim and got in.

“Ow!” I said, and leapt out of the bathtub. I’d forgotten that bruised shins and hot water don’t mix.

Eventually, though, I climbed into the tub and settled back for a spot of Serious Thinking. If I was going to survive ninety more days in the East Sydney High-security Prison—I mean, St. Mungo’s Very Posh School for Posh People—I was going to have to get creative and quick. I needed a plan. I needed protection. I don’t think I could stand another egging.

The steam rose from the surface of the water and drifted over toward the vintage framed movie posters that covered one wall. They were all from, like, a million years ago: 1940 or 1950 or something. Old. Maybe they reminded Uncle Grey of being young. Who knew? Who cared? The important point is that one of them caught my eye.

I scraped the last piece of egg off my ear and smiled. The siren blew on the freeway construction site and, for the first time since I’d arrived back from St. Mungo’s, 322 Lorikeet Drive fell silent. I stepped out of the bath (which had turned into a kind of revolting egg and cement soup) and got dressed in some non-regulation clothes.

I had a plan.

I’m not saying it was the best plan anyone had ever come up with—or even the best plan I had ever come up with—but it was definitely A Plan and that was good enough for me right now.