How Lunchbox Jones Saved Me From Robots, Traitors, and Missy the Cruel

  ALSO BY JENNIFER BROWN

  Life on Mars

  For Scott-Bot

  and

  for Team #7223

  We are the ’Shakers!

  The mighty, mighty ’Shakers!

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  CHAPTER 1

  PROGRAM NAME: Clueless

  STEP ONE: Robot grabs paper with pincers

  STEP TWO: Robot eats paper

  STEP THREE: Robo-burp

  Rumor had it that inside the Forest Shade Middle School’s mascot costume was a seventy-two-year-old woman. Coach Verde’s seventy-two-year-old mom, Doris, to be exact. Made sense. While other schools’ mascots tumbled and danced to rocking music, our raccoon was frequently found sitting in a rocking lawn chair knitting toilet-paper-roll covers.

  Not that a real mascot would have made much difference, anyway. We Rallying Raccoons hadn’t won a game in pretty much as long as anyone could remember. In any sport. Not a single one. Soccer, baseball, cheerleading, basketball, girls’ gymnastics, not even a game of air hockey at the skating rink on a Friday night.

  Our football team was so bad, Mrs. Balinski’s classroom guinea pig, Chuck, was on the roster as tight end for two whole seasons before anyone noticed. The trophy case outside the office held only one trophy: a coffee mug with the words WORLD’S BEST SECRETARY printed on it. And the word “best” had been crossed out with marker and replaced with the words “pretty good.”

  In short, we were the losing-est middle school ever in the history of middle schools. It was sort of our thing.

  But that never stopped the raccoon from showing up in the oddest places, trying to whip up school spirit. Waving pom-poms in the parking lot, tossing candy into the bleachers during assemblies, trying to get a conga line going in the science hallway. People mostly ignored the raccoon. Some students made fun of it. Once someone stuck a Post-it on the raccoon’s back—RABID RODENT! RUN FOR IT!—causing a body jam in the cafeteria doorway.

  I felt a little sorry for Old Mrs. Verde, and I tried to be nice to the raccoon. Sure, it would have been cool to have a trophy with my name on it in the trophy case—LUKE ABBOTT, FIRST-PLACE WINNER OF ALL THINGS SEVENTH GRADE—but I didn’t really care about school spirit and winning and stuff. I had my own problems to deal with, mostly surrounding my brother, Rob, and the Greatest Betrayal of All Time. But why take that out on the mascot? I always grabbed the fliers the raccoon was handing out without even looking at them, just so someone would take one and make Old Mrs. Verde feel like she wasn’t wasting perfectly good knitting time.

  Which was why, when I came home from school one day and Dad pulled a crumpled piece of orange paper out of the middle of the wreck that is my binder, I had no clue what it was.

  “What is this?” he asked, smoothing it out.

  I shrugged, heading for the fridge. “I don’t know.”

  He studied it, his brow crinkling, and then read out loud, “The Rallying Robo-Raccoons want you. Join us for an informational meeting on Monday after school, three p.m. sharp. Be there, or be an ill-fitting cog.”

  “That doesn’t rhyme at all,” I said, reaching for the orange juice. “Shouldn’t it say ‘be there, or be square’?”

  Dad looked up from the paper. “Robotics, huh? Sounds like fun. Maybe you should go to that meeting.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have time. I like my schedule as it is right now.”

  “Your schedule is coming home from school and playing video games until dinner.”

  “Exactly. Plus, I don’t want to be the only one there with the raccoon. I don’t know how to knit, and I heard if you show up she makes you try on heart sweaters and owl hats and stuff.” I opened the orange juice and took a big swig directly from the bottle.

  Dad dropped the paper on the counter and turned to get me a glass. “Really, it can’t be as bad as all that. You never know—you might be good at robotics.”

  I stared at him. “Dad, have you forgotten? We are Forest Shade Middle School. We aren’t good at anything. It’s our thing.” Not true. I was good at some things. Like math and science. And I was really, really good at video games, especially Alien Onslaught. If Forest Shade had a digital-alien-destroying team, we would win every competition.

  Dad took the orange juice and poured me a glass, then held one finger in the air. “You have a pretty good secretary. Says so right in the trophy case.”

  “That’s beside the point,” I said. But before I could finish, the garage door opened and in walked my older brother, Rob.

  “Hey,” he said to my dad as he dropped his car keys on the kitchen table. His eyes landed on me. “Hey, li’l bro. How’s it going?”

  I picked up my glass of orange juice and stomped out of the room as if I hadn’t heard him say a word. I heard my dad say, “Still nothing, huh?” after I’d left, and Rob reply, “Nope, it’s like I’m a ghost to him.”

  I turned on the TV and flopped on the couch. Yep, it was exactly like he was a ghost. My big brother, Rob. My “best buddy,” Rob. My Got Your Back Rob. My Don’t Bother to Ask Your Little Brother’s Opinion Before Doing Something Life Changing and Stupid Rob. I hadn’t talked to him in a whole month. Hadn’t even been in the same room with him if I could help it. He was exactly like a ghost.

  The kind of ghost that made me get a lump right in the center of my chest so big I could hardly even swallow my orange juice.

  I scooted to the floor, picking up a controller and clamping a headset on my head. I curled up into the beanbag chair I liked to call my Ultimate Gaming Zone and switched on Alien Onslaught. Right away, Randy’s voice filled my ear.

  “Yo, Luke, what’s up? Ready to defeat some aliens?”

  “Yep, I left a big green one under the stairs last night after you logged off.”

  Randy’s laughter crackled in the headset. It was loud and made me shut one eye against it, but it was drowning out Dad and Rob the Traitor, so I didn’t mind too much. “What’s so funny?”

  I had to wait for Randy to catch his breath. “A big green one . . . Sounds like . . . you’re talking about . . . a booger.” He paused for more laughter, then took a breath and added, “Did you leave a big brown one in the bathroom, too?”

  He cracked up again—big, yelpy laughs—and I couldn’t help it. I joined him. Big brown one in the bathroom. That was pretty good.

  I’d never seen Randy in person. We met in an epic alien battle online, and while sometimes he had this weird sense of humor, he seemed pretty cool to hang out with, even if it was only a one-eared relationship. Ever since the Rob thing happened, I needed a friend to hang with. And Randy and I had a lot in common. We both loved video games. And we both hated aliens. And . . . well, we really hadn’t talked about much else. What el
se was there, anyway? Life got too complicated when you added other stuff into it.

  We signed in and chose our characters. We played, Randy coming up with booger-related names for every alien we came across (“Look! It’s Dangler!” “Here comes Old Crusty, Luke! Run!” “Uh-oh, Globby needs a tissue”), until I heard Mom’s car pull into the garage and Dad call for me to pick up my stuff so he could make dinner.

  I turned off the game and poked my head into the kitchen.

  “Is you-know-who gone?”

  Dad looked up from the mushrooms he was cleaning in the sink. “Who? Oh, you mean your brother, who you were really rude to? Yes, he’s gone.”

  “Good.”

  I scooped my binder and jacket into my arms and started toward my room.

  “You’re going to have to forgive him sometime, Luke,” Dad said.

  I stopped. “No, I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will. He’s your brother. And he’ll be going off to boot camp in May.”

  I sighed. How could Dad not see that Rob going off to boot camp in May was the problem? How could Mom not see it? How could they just be proud of him and happy for him and not even think about what this really meant? Rob was abandoning us. For what? To be a marine? What about being a good brother who said he would always be around? What about that broken promise? Didn’t that mean anything to anyone but me?

  But I didn’t say any of those things to Dad. He wouldn’t get it.

  Finally Dad just nodded his head toward the crumpled orange paper on the counter. “Don’t forget that. Be there, or be a robot,” he said in a monotone robot voice.

  I walked over and snatched it up. “That doesn’t rhyme at all,” I said. Then I took my binder to my bedroom, dropping the crumpled robotics paper into the recycling bin on my way.

  CHAPTER 2

  PROGRAM NAME: Walter

  STEP ONE: Robot squawks and buzzes about its robot wheels

  STEP TWO: Friend robot zones out

  STEP THREE: Robot flips candy into zoned-out friend robot’s mouth—robo-chomp!

  My friend Walter met me by my locker the next day. Walter was a sixth grader, and even though some kids thought it was against the Code of Coolness for seventh graders to be friends with sixth graders, I liked Walter. He and I had one of those unique friendships—the kind where he hung around at my locker every day, waiting for me so we could talk about cars.

  I knew nothing about cars.

  I mean, I knew that riding in one when you wanted to get places was preferable to walking through a blizzard. I knew they had four wheels and that if your car suddenly had fewer than four wheels and you were inside it on the highway, it was probably bad. And I knew that Skittles and french fries had a life span of forever in seat cracks, and . . . Um, yeah, that was pretty much everything I knew about cars.

  Walter, on the other hand, knew absolutely everything there ever was to know about cars. He was obsessed with them. He was supposedly even making something called a kit car with his uncle Reuben, which he said was like a giant model, only you didn’t use glue to put it together and you could actually drive it. Walter was always talking about fuses and carburetors and differential something-or-others and a bunch of stuff that sounded suspiciously made up. Cars were the only thing Walter ever talked about.

  I didn’t mind. Walter was a really nice guy. Plus, his mom sent him to school with candy every day. Car talk was a lot easier to listen to when you had a face full of chocolate.

  “Hey, Walter,” I said as I twisted the dial on my lock. “How’s the exciting automotive world today?”

  “Dude, my uncle got the chassis for our car yesterday,” he said, his black curls bouncing excitedly off his forehead.

  “Awesome,” I said, because I knew that saying what I really was thinking—what the heck is a chassis?—would lead to a car tutorial that would make me late to gym class. Unless a chassis was wrapped in Walter’s mom’s homemade caramel, I would wait to ask, so that it could make me late to something boring, like health class. I tossed my backpack into my locker.

  “Yeah, now we’re just waiting on the clutch assembly and then we can start really putting her together.”

  I was guessing a clutch assembly wasn’t an actual assembly, like the kind where the raccoon mascot tries to get everyone to do the wave. “That’s really cool. I can’t wait to see it . . . uh, the clutch thing.” Assuming a clutch thing was something one would actually see, of course.

  “When the car’s done, I’ll ask my uncle if we can take you for a drive,” Walter said. “We’ll go get burgers.”

  Finally, he was saying something I could understand. “Sounds great. I love burgers.” Bonus: I knew for sure exactly what a burger was.

  We started off toward the gym. Walter didn’t have first period gym, but his classroom was on the way, so we always walked together until he had to split off for the computer lab.

  “Oh, hey, jelly beans?” he asked, digging in the front pocket of his backpack. “My mom sent them. They’re gourmet flavors.”

  “Is one of them chassis flavored?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Just a joke.” Kind of. It was also a way to make sure that a chassis wasn’t some kind of food, because I still wasn’t entirely sure, and it sounded kind of foody. Like a cherry chassis with chocolate sauce and nuts. That sounded delicious, actually. “Thanks.” I took a handful of beans and tipped them into my mouth all at once.

  “Ew,” Walter said, nibbling a red bean in half.

  “What?”

  “All the flavors mixed up like that.”

  I shrugged. “It’s not bad. It’s kind of like fruit salad.”

  Walter grinned and nodded, flecks of red jelly bean wedged in his braces. “Yeah. My mom’s always bugging me to eat more fruits and vegetables,” he said. He grabbed a handful of beans and tossed them all into his mouth as well. He made an mmm sound, but I could see him hiding a grimace beneath it. I think that was what I liked best about Walter. He was up for just about anything.

  Coach Verde made us stay in our squad lines after calisthenics.

  “Today, gentlemen,” he said, pacing in front of us, “we will be starting our football tournament.” Everyone groaned. Nothing put fear in the heart of a Forest Shade Middle School student like the word “tournament.” Except for maybe “contest,” “competition,” “trophy,” “award” . . . Okay, maybe there were a lot of words that would strike fear in the heart of a Forest Shade Middle School student.

  Coach waved a paper in the air, and the moans died down. “Now, I don’t want to hear any attitudes about it. This is an important unit. Intramural football starts in two weeks, and we need players for our squad.”

  “Did the guinea pig quit?” someone asked, and everyone snickered.

  Coach gave an exasperated look. “There will be no animal entries on the team this year,” he said. “All players will be human.” And everyone cracked up again, because, seriously, only at Forest Shade would you hear something like that.

  “I want you all to try hard out there, men,” he said, pacing in front of our lines with his hands behind his back like a drill sergeant. We rolled our eyes. Everyone knew that Coach Verde only called us “men” when he was about to put the hurt on us. Running laps, we were “guys.” Running laps with high knees and the air conditioner broken, we were “men.” His calling us “men” meant there would be no getting out of this tournament terror. “We need a strong football squad. Rumor has it Goat Grove may have lost its star quarterback to a wrist injury this year. And you know what that means.”

  A spattering of surprised murmurs echoed through the gym. Goat Grove Middle School was our official rival. The second losing-est middle school in all of Kansas City, Goat Grove’s one and only win every year was against Forest Shade teams. What Coach meant was clear—with Goat Grove’s star quarterback gone, maybe there would be a chance that we could finally beat them at something. Personally, I was doubtful.

  He di
vided our squads into teams and matched us up, and we all trooped outside to play. Right away, Brian Blye got a bloody nose and had to go to the nurse. And that was before anyone even threw a ball. On the first play of the first game, three guys knocked heads all going for the same four-leaf clover and had to lie down in the grass for a few minutes. Turned out, the clover only had three leaves, anyway.

  By the end of class, we were all sweaty and tired, our knees bleeding and our elbows grass stained. Jimmy Nathan had managed to sprain every finger on his left hand, Miller Standford’s glasses hung askew on his face, someone broke a mobile-unit window, and Bobby Mintell’s shoe went missing.

  And all teams were tied 0–0.

  Goat Grove had nothing to worry about.

  CHAPTER 3

  PROGRAM NAME: The Mope

  STEP ONE: Robot falls into pit

  STEP TWO: Robot sees monster in pit

  STEP THREE: Robot gets scared and drops cog in its robo-shorts

  Life Skills class was right after lunch. Which stunk because our teacher, Mr. Terry, was a really mopey-sounding guy with a voice that pulled down on the ends of his words and made every sentence he said sound like it was falling into a pit. Even if it was a really happy sentence.

  Not to mention I had yet to figure out what we were supposed to be doing in that class. Dad had told me he thought we’d probably be learning how to make bud gets and balance checkbooks and figure percentages on credit cards and stuff. But so far all we’d done was watch movies and toss pencils at the ceiling tiles.

  There were exactly forty-seven pencils hanging by their points in the ceiling tile above Evan Miller’s desk, and Mr. Terry had no clue. It was our favorite game. We called it Pencil Stick, and the goal was to think up our best pencil-launch move and wait for Mr. Terry to turn his back so we could try it out. I proudly boasted thirteen of those forty-seven pencils myself. It was a small victory, but when you had to keep your cheering to silent pantomime, it felt huge.

  But today Mr. Terry came in carrying a bucket full of jangling things. He reached the front of the room just as the tardy bell rang and dropped the box with a clang on a front-row desk. Jessie Conley, the girl sitting in that desk, jumped, spitting her gum on the floor. She let out a little squeak.