Me and the PM

Dear Principal,

I write to inform you of the turn of events that kept me from attending the educational institution of Hannah Beardsley Middle School on the day of September the 29, 2006. It is a long and quite interesting story if you’d care to listen.

It started in the morning with a text message on my cell phone.

I, as I usually tend to do, as not to waste batteries, turned off my cellular phone last night. Only after I had gotten all ready for school and packed my bag for my classes, did I check my text messages. There was one single message, I noticed, glancing at the screen of the phone. It was from a number I didn’t happen to recognize. Was it a wrong number? I asked myself. I decided to check what it said anyway. For all I knew it could have been from one of my friends. I looked. It read simply ms s sdny dawg. meet me at gt 344 ohare asap. need help. Pm

Who was this mysterious PM? What did they want with me? I guess I would find out. I called a taxi, figuring that this person was in trouble. School could wait. PM needed my help. Setting off on the hour or so ride to the airport I pondered the message. What if it was for my mom? No. It was to my phone, and my mom’s name did not begin with S.

Arriving at the gate I realized that this was not the run of the mill airport gate. I had been to O’Hare International Airport many times before, so the drive and the setting was familiar. This gate was different. I burly guard stood at the sleek modern doorway. Inside I could see no American or Delta ticket counters; no this was something else entirely. All I could see was the burgundy carpeting and the maple wood table where a put together receptionist in a crisp black suit sat. The guard pushed me forward, sending me through the doorway as the glass slid back. I stumbled, regaining my balance.

“Welcome,” the woman receptionist said happily. “The PM will see you now. Please proceed to his private jet. Mr. Larry will take you,” she pointed at a man whom I hadn’t noticed before, but had been standing behind the desk when I came in. He was young with dark hair and kept fidgeting nervously as if he was a little kid who was caught in his parent’s study.

“Miss Sydney?” he looked up from his clipboard nervously shifting his gaze so I wouldn’t look him straight in his eyes. I nodded in response. “Good. The PM wants you to come to his air—jet plane. P-please follow me.”

“So,” I asked, “who might this PM fellow be?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t even have to. We stepped out onto the cement of the airport where airplanes were lined up. But these weren’t regular airplanes, these were huge luxury planes. Each stamped with some kind of insignia. We were headed to one stamped with the British royal crest, with the lion and the unicorn and the Latin phrase.

We walked up the stairs and bordered the plane. Low and behold I happened to recognize the man. It was the Prime Minister of Great Britain. Duh, how could I not know PM and Prime Minister were the same. I went up and did our secret handshake with him.

We had known each other for years.

“Why did you call me?” I asked.

“I need a consult,” he replied.

“On what?”

“Which tie do you think I should wear?”