Robots Go Wild!, Page 2

  Anyway, the second Mrs. Kunkel’s gone, Jacob Gorski, who’s president of the Creekside Robotics Club, switches on his latest contraption and, thumbing its remote control, sends the chunky toy robot across the room to me.

  It takes forever.

  I half expect the thing’s batteries to die before it finally slogs its way up two desks and over three.

  When it finally bumps into the leg of my chair and topples over onto its side (with its legs still chug-chug-chugging away), I notice that Gorski’s plastic-brick bot has a note taped to its blocky arm; unlike E, Gorski’s homemade robot doesn’t have any kind of pinchers.

  I tug the note free and read what Gorski has written:

  Great.

  Gorski’s calling me the name that my worst enemy in the known universe, Cooper Elliot, used to call me: “Dweebiac.”

  Cooper doesn’t go to Creekside anymore. He sort of got expelled for robo-napping E back in September. Now that it’s the middle of October, I guess Jacob Gorski has decided he’s going to take Cooper Elliot’s place.

  Yep. I may have lost a robot, but I’ve gained a new, nerdier bully.

  Maddie (that is, E) is now the most popular kid at Creekside Elementary.

  Ever. And the school’s been here in South Bend, Indiana, for decades. It’s even older than my parents, who are ancient. They’re both way over thirty.

  Not only is Maddie fantastic fun during recess, but on rainy days her remote-controlled robot can wirelessly beam movies from his memory chips to the classroom’s Smart Board. Maddie always makes sure that E has a wide assortment of Pixar titles loaded onto his hard drive. And Frozen. Third graders could watch Frozen over and over for a week. They like singing that song. Over and over and over.

  What makes E/Maddie more popular than ever is the fact that now he (or, I guess, she) doesn’t talk like a robot. From eight to three, Monday through Friday, the robot talks and laughs and giggles like a normal third-grade girl. During school hours, E is Maddie. Together, they both just auditioned for the school choir. They also tried out to play Squanto in the Thanksgiving pageant.

  Meanwhile, Trip and I are kind of sliding back to the way things used to be.

  Jacob Gorski’s snarky note was right. Without E, we aren’t so supercool anymore.

  We eat alone in the cafeteria, just like we used to.

  We’re constantly being called “dweebiac” and “the doofus brothers” again.

  Without E’s expert coaching, dodgeball in gym class is back to being murderball. Trip and I have the butt bruises to prove it.

  Plus, now we have Penelope Pettigrew whining at us every day after school when Maddie signs off and E turns back into E.

  “Keep that computerized clodhopper home tomorrow!” she tells me. “He stinks worse than ever. He quit baking toaster tarts and makes pizza rolls now. The ones that smell like they’re stuffed with mushrooms and moldy socks!”

  So, like I said, I’m glad Maddie’s having such a good time at school.

  But, lately, I sort of wish I didn’t have to go there with her.

  But, of course, I keep going to school.

  For one thing, I think it’s the law in Indiana. As a kid, you either have to go to school or plant popcorn.

  But, mostly, I go to school for Maddie.

  After all she’s been through on account of her disease—all the trips to the doctor, all the emergency-room visits in the middle of the night, not to mention the in-home IV treatments, plus just the plain loneliness of being the “girl in the bubble” sealed up tight in our sanitized house—it’s about time she had some fun and a chance to live a semi-normal life with the help of her amazing blue-eyed robot.

  In case I haven’t told you yet, let me just say that Maddie Hayes-Rodriguez is the best little sister anybody could ever have. And even though she’s younger than me, she seems way wiser. She’s always telling me not to worry so much, because “worrying is a waste of imagination.” She’s also been helping me deal with my fear (make that terror) of heights. Last week, with Maddie’s help, I stood on the fourth rung of a ladder for five whole minutes.

  In the old days (like, three weeks ago), Maddie and I would hang out in her room after dinner, and I’d tell her all about my day at school. Now, when we’re done eating, she’s kind of busy with her own homework, and then she needs to gab and instant message with all her new third-grade friends. So we don’t hang out like we used to.

  But, like I said, it’s all good.

  Mostly.

  Anyway, another Monday rolls around. It’s a brand-new week at school. A crisp, clear autumn day. Halloween’s just around the corner. Things have got to get better, right?

  Wrong.

  Turns out there’s a new kid in Mrs. Kunkel’s class. A guy named Eddie Ingalls. He and his family just moved to South Bend because his father, Professor Ignatius “Iggy” Ingalls, landed a big job at a local college called Indiana Robotics and Automaton Tech (IRAT).

  And Eddie didn’t come to school alone.

  Eddie Ingalls’s father sent him to Creekside with a robot.

  That’s right. Our elementary school now has two robots zooming around its halls. The new bot is a six-foot-tall, hulking superhero-looking automaton named SS-10K. He kind of reminds me of the Stormtroopers in the Star Wars movies.

  “We saw that girl on TV, the one who has a robot going to school for her,” Eddie explains to everybody in Mrs. Kunkel’s class when he introduces himself. “So I brought one, too. This is the Substitute Student Ten Thousand—SS-10K for short. My father designed him for my brother, Freddy. He’s my twin, but Freddy had an accident and can’t go to school anymore, so SS-10K goes for him. Say hello to everybody, Freddy.”

  “Greetings, children!” says the colossal Storm-trooper. He sounds like a G.I. Joe.

  I, of course, feel sorry for Freddy. He sounds like he’s in the same jam as Maddie.

  I’m also a little jealous of Eddie.

  He has an awesome robot and I don’t.

  When it’s time for recess, Trip and I hurry out the door, chasing after Eddie Ingalls and his shiny new robot just like everybody else in Mrs. Kunkel’s class.

  “That SS-10K has to be the most amazing robotic marvel ever invented!” declares Jacob Gorski. “He’s way better than that hunk of junk E.”

  Then he bops his forehead like he just had a major brainstorm.

  “Hey, you guys! I just had an awesome idea. One day after school, the Robotics Club should sponsor a Rock’em Sock’em Robots boxing match! It’ll be a life-sized version of that game by Mattel. SS-10K and E can go glove-to-glove until one of them knocks the other’s block off.”

  “Fantabulous idea,” gushes Penelope Pettigrew. “It could be a fund-raiser. All the money would go to medical charities—ones that E will definitely need after SS-10K knocks his head off his shoulders!”

  After school, I tell Trip that I want to bike home with E alone.

  “Sure,” says Trip. “I understand. You guys need to talk over strategy and tactics for the Rock’em Sock’em Robots boxing match.”

  “Trip, are you crazy? No way am I letting E step into a ring to go up against a major muscle machine like that. E was built to go to school for Maddie, not to get in fights.”

  “You’re right. He’d get creamed. See you tomorrow.”

  Trip takes off.

  On our ride home, when Maddie’s no longer the one controlling E, I tell him about Jacob Gorski’s wacky idea.

  “An interesting notion,” says E. “I am not averse to boxing a few rounds, if it’s for charity.”

  “But you saw that thing. SS-10K is enormous.”

  “True. But this boxing game would be all in good fun.”

  “I don’t know. The new robot doesn’t strike me as a ‘fun’ guy.”

  E places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “As Maddie might say, don’t worry so much, Sammy. Robots are your friends. We’re only here to help. It’s why we were created. To be helpful.”

  Mayb
e.

  But I can’t help thinking that robots can be hurtful, too.

  Especially if they punch you in your jaw.

  I guess you could say I’m conflicted.

  Or confused. Maybe both.

  On the one hand, I think it’s fantastic that Eddie Ingalls’s twin brother is able to go to school thanks to a robot, just like Maddie.

  On the other hand, I think I’m sort of jealous. Eddie’s robot is bigger and stronger than mine. And my robot isn’t even mine anymore. During the school day, he belongs to Maddie.

  Maybe I should ask Mom to give E more muscles. Less of a smile. More of a sneer.

  And instead of a goofy baseball cap, maybe E could wear a mask and a cape, like a superhero or something. It doesn’t matter that E is supposed to be Maddie during school days. Lots of girls are superheroes, too.

  I decide to discuss my redesign idea with Mom.

  I head to her workshop next door to the house because, even though it’s way after dinner, she’s still over there working.

  “Sorry, hon,” she says. “I’m really busy. Mr. Riley and some of the other major Notre Dame donors want to license the research I did to create Egghead to a company out in California that will mass-produce ‘stand-in-bots’ for homebound people all over the country. I have to finish this paperwork, fast. Apparently we have some major competition out there.”

  “You do. A new kid in my class brought a robot to school that does exactly the same stuff for his sick brother that E does for Maddie.”

  “Dr. Ignatius Ingalls’s son?”

  “Yep. Do you know him?”

  “Oh, yes. Dr. Ingalls and I went to the same high school.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Back then, a lot of girls called him Icky.”

  “How come?”

  Mom grinned. “It’s not important, Sammy. I’d heard that Dr. Ingalls was moving here to head up IRAT. I did not, however, know he had a prototype helper-bot already online.”

  “It’s called the Substitute Student Ten Thousand. SS-10K for short.”

  “I guess that means I need to work faster. And harder. Was there something you needed to talk about, Sammy?”

  “No. That’s okay. I’ll just ask Dad.”

  So I go back inside and find Dad crumpling up sketches at his drawing table.

  “This is terrible,” I hear him mumble.

  Uh-oh. This can’t be good. See, my father, Noah Rodriguez, is also Sasha Nee. That’s the pen name he uses for this supercool, bestselling graphic novel series he writes and illustrates called Hot and Sour Ninja Robots. He usually likes the pictures he draws. Tonight? Not so much.

  He sees me kind of lurking near his desk, when he wads up another sketch and adds it to his paper-ball collection all over the floor.

  “Sammy!” he says. “Have you heard any kids at school talking about this new graphic novel Sweet and Spicy Samurai Warriors?”

  I nod because I have.

  My dad looks panicked. “Do they like it?”

  “I guess,” I say with a shrug. “I heard some fifth graders saying they were going to dress up like Sweet and Spicy for Halloween.”

  When I say that, Dad starts tugging at his hair.

  “Gorzzlesnout!” he says, then starts scribbling crazily on his sketchpad. That’s usually something the bad guys say in his comic books. And only when they know they’re totally trapped, with no way out.

  O-kay. Maybe this isn’t the best time to have a chat with Dad.

  But I have to discuss all this stuff with somebody, or my head might explode off my shoulders even without SS-10K bopping me under my chin.

  So I do what I always do when I really need to talk.

  I head to Maddie’s room.

  Most people who visit Maddie’s room have to wear sterile hospital masks.

  Not me. I guess we have the same germs.

  I do, however, always wash my hands real good and squirt ’em with sanitizer from one of the many pumps mounted on the walls all over our house.

  I knock on her door.

  “Come on in!” Maddie cries out. “We’re doing homework! Marvelous, glorious homework! And tomorrow, guess what? We’re having a spelling test! Woo-hoo!”

  Yep. Maddie really, really, really likes going to school. I guess I would, too, if I couldn’t ever really leave my room.

  She sees me sort of slouching in the doorway.

  “Are you okay, Sammy?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  “You look worried. Again.”

  “I am.”

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance,” says E. “Has someone asked you to climb to an elevated height? Logically, we know that things that might trigger a fear of heights—skyscrapers, airplanes, and roller coasters, for instance…”

  Ooof. He’s making me queasy.

  “… are incredibly safe.”

  “It’s not my fear of heights,” I say as fast as I can because my face is turning green. “It’s that new robot in my class. SS-10K.”

  “Are you upset because he’s so popular?” asks Maddie.

  “A little.”

  “I’m not. Now that E isn’t the most famous robot at school, we have more quiet time to study.”

  “But,” I say, “a couple kids want SS-10K to fight E.”

  Maddie giggles. “That’s silly. E’s a scholar, not a fighter.”

  “However,” says E, “as I informed Sammy earlier, I am not averse to engaging in a pugilistic competition if it is for a charitable cause. Boxing has been called the ‘sport of kings,’ although I do not recall ever seeing two kings step into the ring to duke it out.”

  “I’m also kind of jealous,” I admit. “SS-10K is getting all the attention E and I used to get.”

  “There’s room for more than one robot at school, Sammy,” says Maddie. “And being voted most popular isn’t what this is all about.”

  “I guess…”

  “Hey, maybe you should ask Mom to let you take one of her other robots to school with you.”

  “But I don’t need a robot.”

  “All humans need robots,” says E. “We make everything, including education, a little easier.”

  “They also attract quite a crowd,” adds Maddie.

  For the first time all day, I smile.

  Maybe if I have my own robot, I’ll be super popular again.

  I kind of like this idea. Maybe I need a helper-bot, too.

  One to help me be cool again.

  I was going to ask Mom to get permission from school. Honest. I was.

  But the next morning is crazy busy.

  The Breakfastinator is on the fritz, spewing globby oatmeal with blueberries all over Maddie’s not-so-clean-anymore room.

  Hayseed, our gardener-bot, is trying to fix it. With a rake.

  Maddie isn’t really interested in eating her flying breakfast. She’s busy cramming for her spelling test.

  “F-R-I, E-N-D, because I am a friend to the end.”

  Downstairs, in his home office, Dad is on the phone. I think he just got some bad news from his publisher.

  Meanwhile, next door in her workshop, Mom is busy tinkering with E’s video inputs.

  “The monitor in Maddie’s control pod has been flickering,” she says when I poke my head in to ask her about taking one of the other robots to school with me. “I need to reset the system management controller. You go on to school, Sammy. E will be running a little late.”

  “Okay, but I need to ask you something—”

  “Ask your father, okay, hon? I’m kind of busy.”

  She jabs a circuit board inside the back of E’s head with a smoldering solder iron.

  Guess E’s sort of out of it this morning, too.

  So I dash back to our house, where Dad is tugging at his hair and chewing on a pencil like he’s a beaver taking a snack break. There are flecks of yellow paint chips all over his teeth.

  “Dad? Is it okay with you if—”

  “Yes, fine,
whatever,” he answers before I even ask my question, because he’s not really paying attention. “I can’t believe they’re pulling the plug. No more Hot and Sour Ninja Robots? One minute you’re a hero, the next you’re a zero.…”

  I sort of tiptoe out of the room and let him mumble to himself some more.

  Then I head out to the backyard to switch on Blitzen, the linebacker-slash-lawn-mower-bot.

  Quick background on Blitzen: Every year at Notre Dame, my mom’s College of Engineering hosts this National Robotics Week Blue-Gold robot football game—aka the Robot Bowl—featuring the Fighting iBots (instead of the Fighting Irish, which is what ND calls their humanoid football team). Blitzen was the star of the game last year.

  Blitzen retired from robot football so he could cut our grass, but he still has a lot of the game etched into his microchips.

  I can’t wait to show him off at school.

  Maybe he’ll even dive-tackle SS-10K!

  Blitzen is awesome!” says Trip as he locks up his bike on the rack in front of school.

  We both hang there for a minute to watch Blitzen buzz around in a nearby patch of grass, attacking dandelions.

  “Yellow, fifty-two!” Blitzen barks like a quarterback at the line of scrimmage. “Yellow, fifty-two! Omaha. Hut-hut-hut.” Then he rumbles off to gobble up more grass, weeds, and even a few rocks, which clunk around under his cutting deck.

  “Wow,” says Trip. “He’ll eat anything. So instead of E doing it, maybe Blitzen could show everybody how cool I am by gobbling down a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “We’ll see how hungry he is at lunchtime. Come on, we need to hurry inside. Mom might be driving E to school today.”

  “So? She knows you brought Blitzen with you this morning. Right?”

  “Um, not exactly.”

  “Hoo-boy.”