Mr. Evans was pointing at a pull-down map of Europe with a long wooden stick.
"Spain," Mr. Evans said, tapping the Iberian Peninsula. "Known for its climate, its culture, and its exports. Can anyone name a major export?"
Alex raised his hand.
"Yes, Alex?"
"Midfielders, sir," Alex said. "Very short, very technical midfielders."
The class laughed. Mr. Evans sighed.
"I was looking for olive oil, Mr. Finch. But I suppose you have your mind on other things."
"I am trying to focus, sir," Alex said. "But the flight leaves in four hours."
"Well," Mr. Evans smiled. "Bring us back a souvenir. Preferably three points."
Alex walked out of the school gates.
Mark was waiting.
He was not in a car today. He was sitting on a Vespa. A bright yellow, vintage Italian scooter. He was wearing a helmet with goggles.
"CIAO!" Mark screamed, revving the tiny engine. It sounded like an angry lawnmower.
"Mark," Alex said, staring at the scooter. "We are going to Spain. Not Italy."
