Three friends start a secret sandwich club, and their absurd creations quickly drag them into a school mystery involving a levitating mortadella.
“If anyone brings a paprykarz sandwich to school again, I’m filing for lunch exile,” Matilda announced, holding her bun at arm’s length as if it might explode.
“Paprykarz is nutritious,” Kamil said, licking mustard off his thumb. “And, more importantly, it’s artistic. Which means it belongs to our club.”
“What club?” Simon asked without looking up from The Great History of Bread.
Kamil slapped a checkered notebook onto the desk. The cover was already decorated with ketchup fingerprints and one suspiciously mayo-shaped smudge.
“The Crazy Sandwich Club,” he said. “Rule one: every sandwich must be weirder than the last.”
Matilda stared at him, then at Simon. Simon closed his book with the expression of someone already regretting the next ten minutes of his life.
“Fine,” he said. “But if this ends with pickle paste in my backpack, I’m leaving.”
It should have stayed harmless. That was the plan, at least. But after a few days, Room 207 began receiving creations that looked less like lunch and more like science experiments: tortillas with pickles and Nutella, bread topped with crisps and jelly beans, a roll filled with apple mousse and dill. By Thursday, even the teachers had started pretending not to notice.
The rumours spread faster than a dropped tray in the cafeteria.
Then came Tuesday.
Matilda slid into the room during the long break and pulled a sandwich from her backpack so carefully that Simon immediately leaned away.
It wasn’t just pink. It shimmered.
“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Simon said.
Matilda gave him a tiny, guilty smile. “Mortadella with Mum’s special effect.”
Kamil’s eyes widened. “That is either genius or a crime.”
Before anyone could decide which, the classroom door banged open.
Mr Roman, the caretaker, stood in the doorway, breathing hard and carrying a tray in both hands. On it sat a slab of mortadella floating a few centimetres above the metal, spinning slowly in the air as if it had every right to be there.
The room went silent.
Mr Roman pointed at them with the tray. His voice came out low and dangerous. “Whose is it?”
No one answered.
From the corridor, there was a strange sound, half laughter and half a cry for help. The mortadella twitched in midair, turned once toward Matilda’s shimmering sandwich, and then the lights in Room 207 flickered out.