The Blurred Blogger

by Victor Appleton

  “Welcome to Swift Academy,” someone said. To my surprise, it was Sam.

  I stayed in position, focused on Andrew, while Sam and everyone else spun back around to face the front.

  I raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer to her. “ ‘Welcome to Swift Academy?” I whispered.

  Sam adjusted her glasses and shrugged, yet she had a gleam in her eye that I couldn’t quite interpret.

  Like I said—spooky.

  3 The Indifferent Inspection

  FOR THE REST OF MY morning classes—I mean our morning classes—Andrew went through the same routine each time he was introduced to the class, making sure everyone knew that he and I were friends from way back. After the third time, I couldn’t sink into my desk low enough.

  I mean, I get how being the new kid in school can be intimidating. I guess pointing out that you already have a friend makes someone look less like an outsider. I just wished there was someone else he could latch onto. Instead, thanks to Mr. Davenport, Andrew would be in every one of my classes, every day.

  At least I wouldn’t be stuck with him for the entire year. Another cool thing about the academy is how they rotate classes. Need a break from history? How about a block of physics? Need a break from physics? You can ramp it up to astrophysics. It was a great setup for me, since I was interested in all kinds of subjects. My dad thinks I spread myself too thin sometimes, but I just enjoy learning, no matter the topic. At the moment, though, I wasn’t enjoying learning how to deal with Andrew following my every move.

  “Come on,” I finally said to Andrew as we filed out of third period. “I’ll show you where the cafeteria is.” Then I led the way to the second floor.

  “So, do you and your friends sit at a special table or something?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, if no one else is sitting there.”

  “If no one else is sitting there?” he repeated. “They don’t hold it for you?”

  I stopped and spun around. “Why would anyone hold a table for me?”

  Andrew raised his eyebrows. “You know… because it’s your school.”

  I shook my head, confused. “Yeah, so? Apparently, it’s your school now too.”

  “No, doofus. Because you’re Tom Swift. Hello? At the Swift Academy?”

  It took a second for it to hit me, and when it did, I let out a moan and rolled my eyes. That’s why Andrew had made a point of saying he was my friend all morning. He thought I got the royal treatment just because my dad had founded the school.

  “No, Andrew,” I replied, shaking my head. “I don’t get special privileges or anything. I’m a regular student, just like everyone else. And that’s how I like it.”

  Andrew laughed. “Why would you want that?”

  “Why would I want people constantly trying to get me to put in a good word with my dad or the principal for every little thing?” I countered, my lips tightening as I pointed at him. “Why would I want people trying to be my friend just to get special treatment?”

  Andrew shrugged, unfazed. “Sounds pretty sweet to me. My dad was a major donor at Bradley, so I practically ran the place.”

  “Huh,” I said with a nod. “And now you’re here.” With that, I spun around and entered the cafeteria.

  I got in line, grabbed a tray of food, and headed over to our usual table. Yes, we had a usual table, but it’s not like it was behind velvet ropes or anything. I guess we’re all just creatures of habit. Noah, Amy, and Sam were already there.

  “There he is,” Noah said before he popped a tater tot into his mouth. “Where’s your oldest and dearest friend?”

  I jutted a thumb over my shoulder. “He’s here somewhere.”

  “I hear you two go way back,” Sam added with a smirk.

  “You caught that, huh?”

  “Along with everyone else, apparently,” she replied. “There’s always buzz when there’s a new kid in school,” she explained. “Especially when it’s someone who sabotaged everyone’s inventions.”

  My sporkful of corn froze in front of my mouth. “Yeah, why were you so nice to him this morning?”

  “Amy gave me a heads-up that he was here, so I wasn’t surprised when he walked into class.” A devious grin stretched across Sam’s lips. “Besides, I’m just biding my time, Swift. That prank on Amy gave me all kinds of ideas.”

  Okay, that avenue was definitely worth exploring. By then, I had completely forgotten about Amy’s elevator incident. Amy had a way of letting her dark hair curtain her off from the outside world when she was particularly embarrassed. I had failed to notice that she sat at the table a little more curtained than usual.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked her.

  She sighed and glanced around. “Everyone wants to talk to me about it.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you were a target,” I theorized. “I bet it was set for the first person to push the door button.”

  The elevator gag was far from the first prank pulled at the academy. If you get a bunch of intelligent kids who like inventing under one roof, it’s bound to happen. People are still talking about Anya Latke’s catastrophe prank. A while back, she programmed every computer tied to the school server to play funny cat videos for an hour. Some kids are predicting another catmageddon any day now.

  “Yeah, Ames,” Noah agreed. “You were just, you know, lucky!”

  Amy glared at him and shook her head. Then her expression softened. “The worst part is”—she looked around again—“I’m still finding confetti… everywhere.”

  The four of us stared at one another in silence before we all burst out laughing. Even Amy’s shoulders bobbed up and down while her hair completely covered her face.

  As I was trying to catch my breath, Noah held up his phone, where his screen showed a shaky video clip of Amy’s confetti dump. “I think you’re going to have to get used to celebrity status for a while. A bunch of people posted video of you on their blogs.”

  Amy groaned.

  Not so long ago, a production company tried to film a reality show at our school. That didn’t go so well, but it inspired a bunch of students to create their own video channels and blogs. Since everyone had their phones at the ready to film all the unusual things at the academy, there was plenty of content to go around.

  “Don’t worry, Amy,” Sam said. “I won’t put you on my blog.”

  In my opinion, Sam’s blog was one of the best. She did a lot more than just show video clips from around school. She interviewed students, talked about their inventions—all kinds of cool stuff.

  “That’s hilarious,” Andrew said as he peeked over Noah’s shoulder at the video. “I didn’t get a good look this morning. You gotta send me that link.”

  Suddenly, lunch didn’t taste so good.

  “Andrew,” I said. “You remember Sam and Amy.”

  Noah popped another tot into his mouth and leaned back. “You know. Sam? The one who caught the blame for all those sabotaged inventions at camp?”

  Amy glared at Andrew while Sam’s eyes lit up. She patted the empty seat beside her. “Why don’t you join us for lunch?”

  “Uh, thanks.” He eyed her doubtfully as he eased into the chair and set down his tray. He started to take a bite then stopped. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry about the whole camp thing. We were just messing around, you know?”

  And the award for least sincere apology goes to…

  Sam gave a giggle unlike any I’d ever heard her make before. Noah actually jumped a little, startled by the sound.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she said, playfully nudging Andrew’s shoulder. “A vindictive person might want revenge and make your life miserable at your new school. Maybe even save the biggest prank of all just for you.” She shook her head. “But I’m not one to hold a grudge.”

  That wasn’t true. Sam was totally one to hold a grudge.

  “Uh, okay,” Andrew muttered. “Thanks.” He slowly twirled his food with his spork. It looked as i
f he’d lost his appetite.

  I tried to hide my smile as I took another bite. Suddenly, my lunch tasted delicious.

  4 The Problematic Proposal

  I WALKED STIFFLY TO THE back of the weight machine and moved the pin down one notch, adding five more kilograms to the load. After making a note of the total weight in my notebook (one hundred kilograms), I clomped back to the bench.

  My dad had been working late in his office ever since we got home. He’d been on the phone most of the ride back. Ever since my mother died, Dad has done his best to be two parents in one, but running a big tech company like Swift Enterprises takes up a lot of his time. I didn’t mind, though. I didn’t have to eat dinner alone very often, and after I finished my homework, I had time to test my latest invention in our home gym.

  That was the reason I was so stiff. I’d built a special exoskeleton for my legs. The frame began with two metal cups for my feet, extended up the outside of both legs, and ended at two thick metal belts wrapped snugly around my waist. The flat steel running up my legs was covered with motors, gears, springs, and pulleys. Wires snaked up to battery packs on my waist.

  I sat down on the bench, grabbed a handle with each hand, and placed my feet on the inverted platform. Then I extended my legs, pushing the platform away. Cables ran from the platform, up to a pulley, and down to the stack of heavy weights, where the pressure from my feet caused the weights to rise into the air.

  Without the exoskeleton, one hundred kilograms was about all I could leg press. But with the exoskeleton, I could press that much weight without breaking a sweat.

  Pressure meters on the soles of my feet (actually track pads salvaged from a couple of old laptops) measured how much pressure I exerted and ramped up the motors to help with the load. I knew I wasn’t the first one to come up with this idea, but I’m hoping that my prototype will lead to a device that can help rehabilitate someone with an injury, or even help someone walk again.

  Thrilled with the results, I sprung off the bench and moved the pin down two more notches. I added the total weight to my notebook (one hundred and ten kilograms) and took my position on the bench again.

  With only a little more effort on my part, the load went up and down like before.

  Perfect.

  I hopped off the bench and added another ten kilograms, made a note, and got back in position.

  “Tom?” my dad called from the hallway.

  “In here,” I replied, getting my feet back in position.

  My dad’s eyes lit up when he came into the gym and saw what I was up to. “Testing the new bionic legs, huh?”

  That was his name for them, not mine. He said it had something to do with an old TV show about a guy who had robotic body parts and fought crime, or something weird like that.

  “I have it set for a hundred and twenty kilograms,” I told him.

  My dad whistled. “That’s almost two hundred and sixty-five pounds.”

  “Check it,” I said as I pushed against the platform. This time, I could definitely feel the weight, but the motors whined, and the weights lifted just as before.

  My father raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

  PING!

  Something snapped off my right leg brace. The motors whirred louder, and I suddenly felt the full weight with my right leg. “Uh-oh,” was all I could get out before the platform slammed down to its resting place. The force pushed me back, making me slide down the bench.

  My dad raced over. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I was startled, but otherwise okay. I glanced around the room. “I think I popped a spring or something.” I didn’t see it anywhere. Glancing up at my father, I said, “I guess it’s back to the drawing board.” It was another phrase he always used.

  “And what did you learn?”

  I shrugged. “I need stronger springs, maybe?” I would have to go over the braces to be sure all the components could handle a bigger load.

  “You might think about beefing up those motors, too,” he suggested. “One of them sounded strained near the end there.”

  “Good idea.” With a sigh, I gave up my search for the missing spring, scooped up my notebook, and limped toward the door. I wasn’t injured, but with one leg brace out of commission, the other one had me off balance with too much bounce in my step.

  “Oh, Tom,” Dad said. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you about the new student at school.”

  I stopped and turned around. “You heard about that, huh?” My dad didn’t know about everything that went on at the school, but he kept up with the important stuff. Or in this case, the things that affected me personally.

  “Your principal wanted my opinion on whether or not to let Andrew enroll,” he explained. “Especially after what he pulled at camp.”

  I shook my head. “Yeah, I can’t believe he got in after that.”

  “Oh, Davenport was against it,” my father said. “But I talked him into it.”

  My eyes felt like they were going to bug out of my skull. “You what!”

  “Well, I didn’t literally talk him into it,” my dad explained. “I just put in a good word. It was ultimately your principal’s decision.”

  “But why?” I asked. “You remember what he was like when we were little?”

  “You two were fast friends once.”

  That was true. We had started off as friends, but near the end, Andrew had become more of a bully. “Remember how he’d get me in trouble all the time?”

  My dad smirked. “Don’t you think you should take some responsibility on that front?”

  “Well, maybe,” I said. “But he always has something rotten to say about everything, and I mean everything. Unless he’s talking about himself, of course. Then it’s all wonderful.”

  My dad crossed his arms. “I’ll tell you what I told your principal: Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  “Really? Andrew?”

  My dad sat on the bench press machine. “Let me give you another example. How do you like Mitchell Osborne?”

  “Our new chemistry teacher?” I asked. “He seems all right.” I didn’t have the heart to tell my dad how we scared him this morning with our robot.

  “Well, up until a week ago, he was one of my researchers. He’s very smart, but he just wasn’t working out.”

  “Why?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” My father waved off the question. “But what does is that Osborne has a family to support, and I thought a good second chance would be working at the academy.”

  My shoulders slumped. “But Andrew Foger? Really?”

  My dad stood and put a hand on my shoulder. “Have you ever wondered why he acts the way he does? My guess is he’s a pretty insecure guy. Add that to being the new kid at school.” My dad shrugged. “He could probably use a friend.”

  “Oh, he’s tried that.” I explained how Andrew had been telling everyone he and I were best buds.

  My father laughed. “Yup. Sounds insecure to me. Why don’t you help him out? Give him a second chance?”

  I let out a long sigh. “I’ll try.”

  After that, I went to my room, stripped off my exoskeleton, and plopped down in front of my computer. I knew that even if I gave Andrew another shot, there was no way Sam would do the same. If I was being honest, I kind of felt bad for the guy. It hadn’t been my dad’s talk that swayed me. It was knowing that Sam had something big planned.

  Thinking of her, I clicked over to her blog to see if she’d posted another video. She hadn’t. Then I searched for video of Amy in the elevator. Just as Noah had predicted, she was on several students’ channels. I watched confetti dumping on her from every angle. She was going to be famous for a while, all right.

  My search turned up a blog that I hadn’t heard of before called the Not-So-Swift Academy. I wasn’t a fan of the name, but still hit play on the one and only video posted there, and was greeted by a host with a blurred-out face. The person was shot from the waist up and sat in front
of an animated background. The blogger must have put up a green screen, then projected what looked like a screen saver featuring dozens of falling squares.

  “The Swift Academy is supposed to be filled with some of the best and brightest,” the host said in a deep, digitally camouflaged voice. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

  The video cut to a tightly edited montage of all the camera angles of the prank on Amy. There were even silly sound effects—boings, buzzes, and whirs accompanied every confetti drop as Amy was showered over and over and over again. The assembled clips took a simple prank and presented it in a vicious way.

  The video cut back to the blogger laughing. “Subscribe to my blog for more examples of educational excellence from the Not-So-Swift Academy!”

  As the video ended, I couldn’t help concluding one thing: Amy was going to be devastated.

  5 The Olfactory Offensive

  WHEN I ARRIVED AT SCHOOL the next morning, I wondered if Amy had seen or heard about the video. I had thought about shooting her a text the night before, but why ruin her night if she hadn’t, right?

  My question was answered as soon as I stepped into algebra. Sam and Amy were already there. I assumed it was Amy. The person sitting at her desk was wearing a hooded sweater, its hood bound tightly around her head.

  “So, I guess you saw the video, huh?” I asked as I slid into my desk.

  “Tell her that the hood only draws more attention to her,” Sam insisted.

  I spun back to look at Amy. Her nose was all that jutted from the cinched hood. “She has a point, you know.”

  Amy sighed and cautiously pulled the hood back from her face. “I guess you’re right.”

  Just then, Noah plopped his backpack down and slid into his desk to join us. “Oh, man. Did you guys see that vid—” My best friend shut his mouth when he realized the three of us were staring back at him. “Oh. I guess you did.”